The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,38
“She says my secret was bigger than hers.”
“It was.”
“She says she’s owed a boon.”
Colin pondered that. “She probably is.”
“To even the score.”
He patted her hand. “I’m afraid that’s how we Bridgertons think. You’ve never played a sporting game with us, have you?”
Penelope moaned. “She said she is going to consult Hyacinth.”
Colin felt the blood leave his face.
“I know,” Penelope said, shaking her head. “We’ll never be safe again.”
Colin slid his arm around her and pulled her close. “Didn’t we say we wanted to visit Italy?”
“Or India.”
He smiled and kissed her on the nose. “Or we could just stay here.”
“At the Rose and Bramble?”
“We’re supposed to depart tomorrow morning. It’s the last place Hyacinth would look.”
Penelope glanced up at him, her eyes growing warm and perhaps just a little bit mischievous. “I have no pressing engagements in London for at least a fortnight.”
He rolled atop her, tugging her down until she was flat on her back. “My mother did say she would not forgive us unless we produced a grandchild.”
“She did not put it in quite so uncompromising terms.”
He kissed her, right on the sensitive spot behind her earlobe that always made her squirm. “Pretend she did.”
“Well, in that case—oh!”
His lips slid down her belly. “Oh?” he murmured.
“We had best get to—oh!”
He looked up. “You were saying?”
“To work,” she just barely managed to get out.
He smiled against her skin. “Your servant, Mrs. Bridgerton. Always.”
To Sir Phillip, With Love
Rarely have I written such meddlesome children as Amanda and Oliver Crane, the lonely twin children of Sir Phillip Crane. It seemed impossible they could grow into well-adjusted, reasonable adults, but I figured if anyone could whip them into shape, it would be their new stepmother, Eloise (née Bridgerton) Crane. I had long wanted to try my hand at writing in the first person, so I decided to see the world through the eyes of a grown-up Amanda. She was going to fall in love, and Phillip and Eloise were going to have to watch it happen.
To Sir Phillip, With Love:
The 2nd Epilogue
I am not the most patient of individuals. And I have almost no tolerance for stupidity. Which was why I was proud of myself for holding my tongue this afternoon, while having tea with the Brougham family.
The Broughams are our neighbors, and have been for the past six years, since Mr. Brougham inherited the property from his uncle, also named Mr. Brougham. They have four daughters and one extremely spoiled son. Luckily for me the son is five years younger than I am, which means I shall not have to entertain notions of marrying him. (Although my sisters Penelope and Georgiana, nine and ten years my junior, will not be so lucky.) The Brougham daughters are all one year apart, beginning two years ahead of me and ending two behind. They are perfectly pleasant, if perhaps a touch too sweet and gentle for my taste. But lately they have been too much to bear.
This is because I, too, have a brother, and he is not five years younger than they are. In fact, he is my twin, which makes him a matrimonial possibility for any of them.
Unsurprisingly, Oliver did not elect to accompany my mother, Penelope, and me to tea.
But here is what happened, and here is why I am pleased with myself for not saying what I wished to say, which was: Surely you must be an idiot.
I was sipping my tea, trying to keep the cup at my lips for as long as possible so as to avoid questions about Oliver, when Mrs. Brougham said, “It must be so very intriguing to be a twin. Tell me, dear Amanda, how is it different than not being one?”
I should hope that I do not have to explain why this question was so asinine. I could hardly tell her what the difference was, as I have spent approximately one hundred percent of my life as a twin and thus have precisely zero experience at not being one.
I must have worn my disdain on my face because my mother shot me one of her legendary warning looks the moment my lips parted to reply. Because I did not wish to embarrass my mother (and not because I felt any need to make Mrs. Brougham feel cleverer than she actually was), I said, “I suppose one always has a companion.”
“But your brother is not here now,” one of the Brougham girls said.
“My father is not always with my mother, and I would imagine that