The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,40

for my mother, who is vivacious and outgoing and never at a loss for words, but when they are together it is obvious that they love each other very much. Last week I caught them kissing in the garden. I was aghast. Mother is nearly forty, and Father older than that.

But I have digressed. I was speaking of the Brougham family, more specifically of Mrs. Brougham’s foolish query about not being a twin. I was, as previously mentioned, feeling rather pleased with myself for not having been rude, when Mrs. Brougham said something that was of interest.

“My nephew comes to visit this afternoon.”

Every one of the Brougham girls popped straighter in her seat. I swear, it was like some children’s game with snaps. Bing bing bing bing . . . Up they went, from perfect posture to preternaturally erect.

From this I immediately deduced that Mrs. Brougham’s nephew must be of marriageable age, probably of good fortune, and perhaps of pleasing features.

“You did not mention that Ian was coming to visit,” one of the daughters said.

“He’s not,” replied Mrs. Brougham. “He is still at Oxford, as you well know. Charles is coming.”

Poof. The daughters Brougham deflated, all at once.

“Oh,” said one of them. “Charlie.”

“Today, you say,” said another, with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

And then the third said, “I shall have to hide my dolls.”

The fourth said nothing. She just resumed drinking her tea, looking rather bored by the whole thing.

“Why do you have to hide your dolls?” Penelope asked. In all truth, I was wondering the same thing, but it seemed too childish a question for a lady of nineteen years.

“That was twelve years ago, Dulcie,” Mrs. Brougham said. “Good heavens, you’ve a memory of an elephant.”

“One does not forget what he did to my dolls,” Dulcie said darkly.

“What did he do?” Penelope asked.

Dulcie made a slashing motion across her throat. Penelope gasped, and I must confess, there was something rather gruesome in Dulcie’s expression.

“He is a beast,” said one of Dulcie’s sisters.

“He is not a beast,” Mrs. Brougham insisted.

The Brougham girls all looked at us, shaking their heads in silent agreement, as if to say, Do not listen to her.

“How old is your nephew now?” my mother asked.

“Two and twenty,” Mrs. Brougham replied, looking rather grateful for the question. “He was graduated from Oxford last month.”

“He is a year older than Ian,” explained one of the girls.

I nodded, even though I could hardly use Ian—whom I had never met—as a reference point.

“He’s not as handsome.”

“Or as nice.”

I looked at the last Brougham daughter, awaiting her contribution. But all she did was yawn.

“How long will he be staying?” my mother asked politely.

“Two weeks,” Mrs. Brougham answered, but she really only got out “Two wee” before one of her daughters howled with dismay.

“Two weeks! An entire fortnight!”

“I was hoping he could accompany us to the local assembly,” Mrs. Brougham said.

This was met by more groans. I must say, I was beginning to grow curious about this Charles fellow. Anyone who could inspire such dread among the Brougham daughters must have something to recommend him.

Not, I hasten to add, that I dislike the Brougham daughters. Unlike their brother, none of them was granted every wish and whim, and thus they are not at all unbearable. But they are—how shall I say it—placid and biddable, and therefore not a natural sort of companion for me (about whom such adjectives have never been applied). Truthfully, I don’t think I had ever known any of them to express a strong opinion about anything. If all four of them detested someone that much—well, if nothing else, he would be interesting.

“Does your nephew like to ride?” my mother asked.

Mrs. Brougham got a crafty look in her eye. “I believe so.”

“Perhaps Amanda would consent to showing him the area.” With that, my mother smiled a most uncharacteristically innocent and sweet smile.

Perhaps I should add that one of the reasons I am convinced that mine is the finest mother in England is that she is rarely innocent and sweet. Oh, do not misunderstand—she has a heart of gold and would do anything for her family. But she grew up the fifth in a family of eight, and she can be marvelously devious and underhanded.

Also, she cannot be bested in conversation. Trust me, I have tried.

So when she offered me up as a guide, I could do nothing but say yes, even as three out of four Brougham sisters began to snicker. (The fourth still looked bored. I was beginning