The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,42
in color, actually.
She tells me that she was never considered a beauty when she was young. No one thought she was unattractive, and she was in fact quite popular, but she was never designated a diamond of the first water. She tells me that women of intelligence age better.
I find this interesting, and I do hope it bodes well for my own future.
But at present I was not concerned for any future outside that of the next ten minutes, after which I was convinced I would perish from the heat. “The afternoon,” I repeated. “When would you say it ends? Four o’clock? Five? Please say it isn’t six.”
She finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Brougham. We did say the afternoon, did we not?”
She looked at me blankly.
“I may stop waiting for him once the afternoon passes into evening, may I not?”
Mother paused for a moment, her quill suspended in air. “You should not be so impatient, Amanda.”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “I’m hot.”
She considered that. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “My habit is made of wool.”
She grimaced, but I noticed she did not suggest that I change. She was not going to sacrifice a potential suitor for anything as inconsequential as the weather. I resumed fanning myself.
“I don’t think his name is Brougham,” Mother said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I believe he is related to Mrs. Brougham, not mister. I don’t know what her family name is.”
I shrugged.
She went back to her letter. My mother writes an inordinate number of letters. About what, I cannot imagine. I would not call our family dull, but we are certainly ordinary. Surely her sisters have grown bored of Georgiana has mastered French conjugation and Frederick has skinned his knee.
But Mother likes to receive letters, and she says that one must send to receive, so there she is at her desk, nearly every day, recounting the boring details of our lives.
“Someone is coming,” she said, just as I was beginning to nod off on the sofa. I sat up and turned toward the window. Sure enough, a carriage was rolling up the drive.
“I thought we were meant to go for a ride,” I said, somewhat irritably. Had I sweltered in my riding habit for nothing?
“You were,” Mother murmured, her brow knitting together as she watched the carriage draw near.
I did not think that Mr. Brougham—or whoever was in the carriage—could see into the drawing room through the open window, but just in case, I maintained my dignified position on the sofa, tilting my head ever so slightly so that I could observe the events in the front drive.
The carriage came to a halt and a gentleman hopped down, but his back was to the house and I could see nothing of him other than his height (average) and his hair (dark). He then reached up and assisted a lady down.
Dulcie Brougham!
“What is she doing here?” I said indignantly.
And then, once Dulcie had both feet safely on the ground, the gentleman aided another young lady, and then another. And then another.
“Did he bring all of the Brougham girls?” my mother asked.
“Apparently so.”
“I thought they hated him.”
I shook my head. “Apparently not.”
The reason for the sisters’ about face became clear a few moments later, when Gunning announced their arrival.
I do not know what Cousin Charles used to look like, but now . . . well, let us just say that any young lady would find him pleasing. His hair was thick and with a bit of wave, and even from across the room I could see that his eyelashes were ridiculously long. His mouth was the sort that always looks as if it is about to smile, which in my opinion is the best sort of mouth to have.
I am not saying that I felt anything other than polite interest, but the Brougham sisters were falling all over themselves to be the one on his arm.
“Dulcie,” my mother said, walking forth with a welcoming smile. “And Antonia. And Sarah.” She took a breath. “And Cordelia, too. What a pleasant surprise to see all of you.”
It is a testament to my mother’s skills as a hostess that she did indeed sound pleased.
“We could not let dear Cousin Charles come over by himself,” Dulcie explained.
“He does not know the way,” added Antonia.
It could not have been a simpler journey—one had only to ride into the village, turn right at the church, and it was only another mile until our drive.