Chapter Text
The week between Christmas and New Year always teetered into a haze of timelessness. Even Aubrey Hall, stately and still in its blanket of snow, seemed caught in a holiday hangover. The December air carried a sharpness that turned breath to mist and made every sound echo brittle across the countryside.
The house sat waiting. Quiet—for now.
“We made excellent timing,” Anthony announced triumphantly, pulling the black SUV into place as if shaving two minutes off the satnav estimate were a personal victory.
Kate arched her brow. “You refused to let Newton use the bathroom.”
“He went before we left. We both know that he was only trying to detour us to the dog park. Plus, it was only a two-hour drive.” He checked his watch, smug. “An hour and fifty-eight.”
Kate rolled her eyes and opened the door, her boots crunching against fresh snow.
“Do not move,” Anthony said firmly. “I’ll be right around to help you.”
“I can manage—”
“There’s snow on the ground.” He was already popping the hatch, hauling out two matching suitcases with tactical precision.
“A dusting!” Kate countered, releasing Newton, who bounded happily toward the door, tail a blur.
Anthony gathered the bags under one arm and extended his free hand. Kate hesitated—her independence prickled—but she reminded herself this was his way of caring, maddening though it was, and slipped her hand into his.
The scent of cedar and polish wrapped around them as Anthony pushed open the front door. Home.
“I need to check the locks, test the heating, ensure the guest rooms are ready,” Anthony rattled off, already scanning the entryway.
“Anthony,” Kate drawled, “it is not an invasion. It’s a family gathering.”
He ignored her, adjusting the thermostat with the solemnity of a general. Newton barked, and Anthony sighed but bent to scratch behind his ears, the faintest smile betraying him.
Kate noticed the other thing too—the way his hand brushed her stomach every time he passed close by.
“You’ll have to stop that,” she said, catching one of the suitcases and trailing after him.
“Stop what?”
“Hovering.”
“I’m not hovering.”
“You are most definitely hovering.”
At the top of the stairs, he nearly collided into her. His hands landed at her waist instinctively, pulling her in.
“Fine,” Anthony admitted. “I am…remaining purposely nearby. I can’t help it.”
Kate’s eyes softened. “We could tell them. I’m nearly three months—”
Anthony froze, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “Soon,” he promised. But in his mind: When it’s safe. When I know you’re both well.
“Not this weekend?”
“This weekend will bring its own chaos,” Anthony said, voice low. “Let’s let this be ours a little longer.”
“I thought I heard voices!” Violet’s head appeared around the doorway of the upstairs sitting room. In a moment she was sweeping them both into a warm hug, her perfume faintly floral, her smile bright.
“It is good to see you,” she said, kissing Kate’s cheek before turning to Anthony. “And on time, no less.”
“Ah, well, the ETA is but an object to beat,” Kate teased, sending her husband a pointed look.
“And you’ll be happy to know, I beat it,” Anthony replied, as smug as when he’d said it the first time.
“It’s going on his CV,” Kate said dryly.
Before Anthony could retort, a blur barreled into Kate.
“Kate!” Hyacinth squealed, hugging her with such enthusiasm that Newton barked in alarm.
“Hyacinth—” Anthony began, only for Kate’s warning glance to silence him.
“It is good to see you too,” Kate said warmly, hugging the younger girl back. “How was your holiday? I hope you haven’t been hiding away studying the whole time.”
“Hardly,” Violet snorted. “She’s been tormenting Gregory instead.”
As if summoned, Gregory appeared from the stairwell with the self-satisfaction of someone who had overheard just enough to make trouble. “I’m her favorite sparring partner. Keeps my reflexes sharp.”
Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “He’s simply jealous because I’m faster with a retort.”
Anthony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Kate caught his hand before he could say anything more and smiled. Home. Chaos and all.
The crunch of tires on gravel carried through the frosted windows, moments before the front door burst open with a gust of cold air and Colin’s familiar laugh.
“Gosh, it’s freezing! I told you it would be,” he declared, stomping snow from his boots. The scent of sharp winter air and damp wool came in with him, swirling into the warmth of the hall.
Penelope trailed behind, cheeks pink from the wind, her scarf slightly askew. She dragged a suitcase far too large for her frame, each step an effort against the lip of the entryway.
“You were the one who insisted we walk up from the car park instead of waiting for Gregory to help,” she said, puffing as she tried to haul the bag up the step.
Colin plucked it from her hands with infuriating ease. “It builds character, Pen. Besides, I didn’t want the Uber driver to have to fuss with the turnabout.”
“I’ll transfer you my half—” she began.
“No you won’t,” he cut in smoothly.
“But I should make it up to you.”
Colin’s breath caught. For the briefest instant, his mind conjured the memory of Violet’s birthday—her lips against his, the heady shock of it—and how very easily he could imagine such a payment. He forced the thought down, his smile tightening as he shifted her suitcase to one arm.
“You can start,” he cleared his throat, “by explaining why you thought you needed half of Mayfair for a two-day trip.”
“That’s rich,” she said, arching a brow, “coming from the man who packed three suitcases for Greece.”
“Two,” he corrected, dragging her luggage toward the stairs. A pause. “Fine. Two and a half.”
Hyacinth, perched dramatically on the banister, gave a little squeal. “Penelope is here!” she announced to the entire household as though she were the town crier. She darted down to fling her arms around Penelope, nearly tripping over Newton, who barked excitedly at her heels. Gregory, meanwhile, lounged in the doorway with a grin that promised nothing but mischief.
Colin let the chatter wash over him, though his gaze kept wandering back to Penelope: the way her laughter rang out as Hyacinth linked arms with her, how the lamplight caught in the copper strands of her hair. Familiar. Too familiar. And yet—different. Something had shifted.
“What?” Penelope caught him staring, her lips still curved from laughter.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, though heat prickled up the back of his neck. He hoisted her suitcase up the first step, pretending the sheer bulk of it demanded his full attention. “Just trying to figure out whose body you’ve hidden in here.”
Her eyes narrowed, though amusement softened them. “That’s my secret, Mr. Bridgerton.”
His grin faltered—just a beat, almost imperceptibly. But the teasing words lingered, carrying a weight he couldn’t quite explain.
“Colin!” Violet appeared at the top of the stairs, her smile lighting the hall as she descended to greet them. She embraced him tightly before pressing a kiss to Penelope’s temple. “And Penelope! I wasn’t expecting you two to arrive together.”
“It was efficient,” Colin said, the excuse ready on his tongue.
“Yes,” Penelope agreed lightly. “Very convenient.”
Violet’s eyes flickered between them—fond, but searching, as if trying to place something she couldn’t yet name. She let it pass with a warm smile, ushering them down the hall. “Well, never mind that now. Colin, I’ve put you in your usual room. Penelope, you’re just next door.”
Colin nodded, forcing a polite smile as he lifted her bag once more. Next door. Of course. That was convenient. Perfectly ordinary.
Two days, he told himself firmly. You can handle being in the room next to Penelope for two days without doing something idiotic.
The chime of the doorbell echoed through the hall, softer than Colin’s boisterous arrival had been, almost cautious. Where Colin had blown in on a laugh, Benedict and Sophie slipped quietly through the door as though careful not to disturb the air.
Newton, however, was not fooled. He barked a string of alerts and bounded forward, nails clicking against the polished wood.
Sophie, cheeks pink from the cold, carried a single, neat bag. Benedict followed, his coat collar turned up against the wind, three bags balanced precariously in his hands—one of them suspiciously lumpy with the shape of canvases.”
Anthony’s eyebrow arched as he greeted them. “Please tell me you didn’t pack art supplies.”
Benedict adjusted the strap of the bulging bag, as if the quick movement might disguise it. “Just a few. Inspiration strikes anywhere.”
Sophie shook her head, though the fondness in her expression softened her words. “A few? You packed more brushes than shirts.”
“Clothes are optional,” Benedict countered smoothly. He leaned closer, voice pitched for her alone. “Art is not.”
Her blush deepened, though she turned the moment neatly by passing her coat to Gregory with a warm thank-you.
“Benedict!” Violet descended the steps with arms open, drawing her son into a quick hug before kissing Sophie’s cheek. “And Sophie, dearest, it is always such a joy. I was so sorry to hear Posy wouldn’t be joining us.”
“She wanted to,” Sophie replied. “But she and Hugh are visiting his family this week.”
“Ah.” Violet gave her hand a squeeze. “Another time, then.”
Hyacinth peered around from the banister, eyes narrowing at Benedict’s suspicious luggage. “You really did bring the paints again, didn’t you?”
“Just in case,” Benedict replied, aiming for nonchalance.
“Just in case what?” Gregory piped up. “You get bored of us?”
“Entirely possible,” Benedict said with a grin that earned a laugh.
But as Sophie linked her hand through his arm and led him deeper into the house, she felt the subtle tightness in his grip on the satchel. To everyone else, his art was a charming quirk, a novelty. Only she knew the truth—that the weight of those sketchbooks was heavier than his family could guess, heavier than even he sometimes let himself admit.
The slam of a car door broke the temporary lull, followed by the unmistakable chorus of a toddler’s protests. Within moments, the front door heaved open against a gust of wind, bags thudding against the frame as Simon and Daphne staggered inside.
“Doggy!” August shrieked from his perch in the stroller, chubby hands reaching for Newton, who was already circling like a soldier welcoming a long-lost comrade. The corgi barked so loudly that Violet appeared at once, sweeping down the hall in a rustle of determination.
“August!” Her voice warmed the air as she plucked her grandson from the stroller with the ease of long practice. “My darling boy, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Grandmama! I missed you!” he cried again, clapping his fists together as Newton leapt at Violet’s legs. “We flew on a big plane!”
Colin appeared next, swooping in with an exaggerated cry of “There’s my Auggie man!” He tried, unsuccessfully, to wrest the boy from Violet’s arms.
“Colin, help your sister,” Violet said briskly, pivoting away from his grasp without loosening her hold on the toddler.
“Right, of course.” Colin obeyed, already scooping up two abandoned suitcases. “Though I’ll note you somehow managed to pack more than Penelope, Daphne,” he added, grinning.
“Let it go, Colin!” came Penelope’s voice from the sitting room.
Simon’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, even as he shouldered the remaining luggage. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t join in the chorus of welcome,” he muttered. “Three hours in a tin can of a plane, piloted by what I can only assume was a drunken fool…”
“Oh, hush,” Daphne cut in, though exhaustion softened the edge of her voice. She stepped forward to embrace her mother quickly, her eyes darting to her son who was already giggling in Violet’s arms. Relief unfurled in her chest, but it tangled almost instantly with guilt.
How will I manage another when one already leaves me breathless?
“You’re here now,” Violet said firmly, as if she could read her daughter’s thoughts. “That’s all that matters. I remember traveling with little ones—it's not for the faint of heart.”
Daphne smiled weakly, grateful for the words, though they didn’t quite dispel the knot in her stomach. She pressed her temple, letting the din of Newton’s barks, Colin’s chatter, and her son’s squeals swirl around her. For a moment, she let herself sink into the sanctuary of simply being home.
The house had only just begun to recover from the storm of Daphne’s arrival when the front door opened once more, this time without fanfare. No clatter of luggage, no chorus of greetings. Just the whisper of cold air and the faint thud of a suitcase being set down with care.
Francesca slipped inside first, her scarf tucked neatly around her throat, cheeks pink but not flushed. John followed at her shoulder, two modest bags in hand. Even Newton, who had barked himself hoarse at every previous arrival, gave only a token wag of the tail before settling back onto the rug.
“Good boy,” Francesca murmured, crouching to give him a pat as though rewarding him for his discretion.
From somewhere down the hall came Colin’s booming laugh, Simon’s lower grumble, and Violet’s unmistakable coo at her grandson. John’s lips quirked wryly. “Sounds like the chaos is well underway.”
“Likely in the dining room,” Francesca replied. Her eyes slid toward the stairwell instead. “Perhaps we might unpack first. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”
John shifted his grip on the bags. “You know where I hear has very reliable quiet? Scotland.”
Francesca’s mouth twitched, half exasperation, half affection. “You do enjoy reminding me.”
“I only mean,” he said gently, lowering his voice as they moved past the entryway, “that the sooner you tell your mother, the easier it will be. Secrets don’t tend to thrive in this house.”
Her hand brushed his arm, a fleeting anchor. “I’ll tell her,” Francesca promised softly. “At some point.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Some point before we actually move?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she sighed, though her fingers lingered in the crook of his elbow. For all her reluctance, there was something steadier about her when he was near, as if she drew calm from his quiet certainty.
They disappeared up the staircase, their presence almost swallowed by the chatter below. If the rest of the Bridgertons were sparks and noise, Francesca and John were the hush between. And for now, that suited them both.
The sun was already sinking, casting a bruised gray light across the fields, when the crunch of tires signaled the final arrival of the day. A rental car pulled up the drive, its headlights briefly cutting across the frost-slick stone of Aubrey Hall before winking out.
Eloise tumbled out first, stretching with exaggerated relief as her boots hit the ground. “See? That wasn’t too terrible.”
Phillip shut his door more deliberately, lifting their bags from the back with a muttered huff. “The train was delayed two hours. Then the satnav lost signal four times. I’m fairly certain we circled the same village green on three different occasions.”
“I didn’t say it was perfect,” Eloise countered, brushing hair from her eyes as the wind whipped it loose again. “I only said it wasn’t a complete disaster.”
His lips tugged at the corners, soft despite himself. “Next time, I choose the mode of transport.”
“Fine,” Eloise allowed, slipping an arm through his as they started toward the door. “As long as you’re prepared for me to complain about it regardless.”
Phillip chuckled, though his hand tightened briefly at her waist, as though drawing courage from her nearness. Eloise, ever attuned, caught the tension and produced her phone from her back pocket like a talisman. “Look,” she said, holding the screen up between them.
On it were Amanda and Oliver, nearly lost behind a mountain of ice cream, their grins smeared with chocolate.
Phillip’s face softened instantly. “They look…happy.”
“Elated,” Eloise corrected, though a small ache pulsed in her chest as she tucked the phone away. “We’ll be back with them soon. Just two nights.”
“Two nights,” he echoed, his voice quiet now as they stopped in front of the heavy wooden doors of Aubrey Hall. His gaze lingered on the towering façade, and for the first time all day, Eloise saw nerves flicker at the edges of his calm.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” she asked, keeping her tone light but searching his face all the same. “Meeting the Bridgertons?”
“I don’t believe I have much of a choice.”
“No, you don’t,” she admitted, mischief in her eyes, though the honesty of her next words softened it. “But it would make me feel better if you were sure.”
Phillip’s laugh rumbled low, quiet enough only for her to hear as he leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. “If you’re asking whether I regret this,” he said, nudging at the slim diamond ring on her left hand with a finger, “then the answer is never.”
Eloise’s breath hitched in spite of herself. She quickly covered the moment by slipping the ring from her finger and dropping it into Phillip’s palm. “Here. You’d better hide yours too.”
Phillip obediently slid his own band into his pocket, though his thumb brushed it once before letting go. Together, they stood for a moment longer on the threshold, conspirators in a secret that could unravel everything before the weekend was through.
Phillip’s hand brushed the door handle, but it was Eloise who seized it and pushed forward, her usual impatience disguised as confidence. Warmth and the hum of voices spilled out into the cold, carrying the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon.
“Right,” she declared, more to herself than him, “let’s get this over with.”
Before Phillip could summon a reply, Newton’s bark rang out like a bell announcing their arrival. A second later, Hyacinth’s voice followed, shrill with excitement: “They’re here!”
Phillip shot Eloise a look that was equal parts apprehension and resignation. She arched an eyebrow in response and murmured, “Welcome to the lion’s den.”