The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,23
might say unyielding) sense of justice. When she’d found out that Posy’s mother had never loved her as well as Rosamund . . .
Well, Posy had never told tales, and she wasn’t going to begin now, but let it be said that Araminta had never again eaten fish.
Or chicken.
Posy had got this from the servants, and they always had the most accurate gossip.
“But you were about to tell me about Mr. Fibberly,” Sophie said, still sipping at her tea.
Posy shrugged, even though she hadn’t been about to do any such thing. “He’s so dull.”
“Handsome?”
Posy shrugged again. “I can’t tell.”
“One generally need only look at the face.”
“I can’t get past his dullness. I don’t think he laughs.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it can, I assure you.” She reached out and took another biscuit before she realized she hadn’t meant to. Oh well, it was already in her hand now, she couldn’t very well put it back. She waved it in the air as she spoke, trying to make her point. “He sometimes makes this dreadful noise like, ‘Ehrm ehrm ehrm,’ and I think he thinks he’s laughing, but he’s clearly not.”
Sophie giggled even though she looked as if she thought she shouldn’t.
“And he doesn’t even look at my bosom!”
“Posy!”
“It’s my only good feature.”
“It is not!” Sophie glanced about the drawing room, even though there was precisely no one about. “I can’t believe you said that.”
Posy let out a frustrated exhale. “I can’t say bosom in London and now I can’t do so in Wiltshire, either?”
“Not when I’m expecting the new vicar,” Sophie said.
A chunk of Posy’s biscuit fell off and fell into her lap. “What?”
“I didn’t tell you?”
Posy eyed her suspiciously. Most people thought Sophie was a poor liar, but that was only because she had such an angelic look about her. And she rarely lied. So everyone assumed that if she did, she’d be dreadful at it.
Posy, however, knew better. “No,” she said, brushing off her skirts, “you did not tell me.”
“How very unlike me,” Sophie murmured. She picked up a biscuit and took a bite.
Posy stared at her. “Do you know what I’m not doing now?”
Sophie shook her head.
“I am not rolling my eyes, because I am trying to act in a fashion that befits my age and maturity.”
“You do look very grave.”
Posy stared her down a bit more. “He is unmarried, I assume.”
“Er, yes.”
Posy lifted her left brow, the arch expression possibly the only useful gift she’d received from her mother. “How old is this vicar?”
“I do not know,” Sophie admitted, “but he has all of his hair.”
“And it has come to this,” Posy murmured.
“I thought of you when I met him,” Sophie said, “because he smiles.”
Because he smiled? Posy was beginning to think that Sophie was a bit cracked. “I beg your pardon?”
“He smiles so often. And so well.” At that Sophie smiled. “I couldn’t help but think of you.”
Posy did roll her eyes this time, then followed it with an immediate “I have decided to forsake maturity.”
“By all means.”
“I shall meet your vicar,” Posy said, “but you should know I have decided to aspire to eccentricity.”
“I wish you the best with that,” Sophie said, not without sarcasm.
“You don’t think I can?”
“You’re the least eccentric person I know.”
It was true, of course, but if Posy had to spend her life as an old maid, she wanted to be the eccentric one with the large hat, not the desperate one with the pinched mouth.
“What is his name?” she asked.
But before Sophie could answer, they heard the front door opening, and then it was the butler giving her her answer as he announced, “Mr. Woodson is here to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
Posy stashed her half-eaten biscuit under a serviette and folded her hands prettily in her lap. She was a little miffed with Sophie for inviting a bachelor for tea without warning her, but still, there seemed little reason not to make a good impression. She looked expectantly at the doorway, waiting patiently as Mr. Woodson’s footsteps drew near.
And then . . .
And then . . .
Honestly, it wouldn’t do to try to recount it, because she remembered almost nothing of what followed.
She saw him, and it was as if, after twenty-five years of life, her heart finally began to beat.
Hugh Woodson had never been the most admired boy at school. He had never been the most handsome, or the most athletic. He had never been the cleverest, or the snobbiest, or the most foolish. What he had been,