The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,87

had nothing about which to complain. In the past six months, Napoleon had escaped Elba, a massive volcano had erupted in the East Indies, and several hundred British soldiers had lost their lives at the Battle of New Orleans—mistakenly fought after the peace treaty with the Americans had been signed. Violet, on the other hand, had eight healthy children, all of whom presently had both feet planted on English soil.

However.

There was always a however, wasn’t there?

This spring marked the first (and Violet prayed, the last) season for which she had two girls “on the market.”

Eloise had debuted in 1814, and anyone would have called her a success. Three marriage proposals in three months. Violet had been over the moon. Not that she would have allowed Eloise to accept two of them—the men had been too old. Violet did not care how highly ranked the gentlemen were; no daughter of hers was going to shackle herself to someone who would die before she reached thirty.

Not that this couldn’t happen with a young husband. Illness, accidents, freakishly deadly bees . . . Any number of things could take a man out in his prime. But still, an old man was more likely to die than a young one.

And even if that weren’t the case . . . What young girl in her right mind wanted to marry a man past sixty?

But only two of Eloise’s suitors had been disqualified for age. The third had been just a year shy of thirty, with a minor title and a perfectly respectable fortune. There had been nothing wrong with Lord Tarragon. Violet was sure he’d make someone a lovely husband.

Just not Eloise.

So now here they were. Eloise was on her second season and Francesca was on her first, and Violet was exhausted. She couldn’t even press Daphne into service as an occasional chaperone. Her eldest daughter had married the Duke of Hastings two years earlier and then had promptly managed to get herself pregnant for the duration of the 1814 season. And the 1815 one as well.

Violet loved having a grandchild and was over the moon at the prospect of two more arriving soon (Anthony’s wife was also with child), but really, sometimes a woman needed help. This evening, for example, had been an utter disaster.

Oh, very well, perhaps disaster was a bit of an overstatement, but really, who had thought it a good idea to host a masquerade ball? Because Violet was certain it had not been she. And she had definitely not agreed to attend as Queen Elizabeth. Or if she had, she had not agreed to the crown. It weighed at least five pounds, and she was terrified it would go flying off her head every time she snapped it back and forth, trying to keep an eye on both Eloise and Francesca.

No wonder her neck hurt.

But a mother could not be too careful, especially at a masquerade ball, when young gentlemen (and the occasional young lady) saw their costumes as a license to misbehave. Let’s see, there was Eloise, tugging at her Athena costume as she chatted with Penelope Featherington. Who was dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.

Where was Francesca? Good heavens, that girl could go invisible in a treeless field. And while she was on the subject, where was Benedict? He had promised to dance with Penelope, and he had completely disappeared.

Where had he—

“Ooof!”

“Oh, my pardon,” Violet said, disentangling herself from a gentleman who appeared to be dressed as . . .

As himself, actually. With a mask.

She did not recognize him, however. Not the voice nor the face beneath the mask. He was of average height, with dark hair and an elegant bearing.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said.

Violet blinked, then remembered—the crown. Although how she might forget the five-pound monstrosity on her head, she’d never know.

“Good evening,” she replied.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Again, she wondered at the voice, and again, she came up with nothing. “Several someones, actually,” she murmured. “Unsuccessfully.”

“My condolences,” he said, taking her hand and leaning over it with a kiss. “I myself try to restrict my quests to one someone at a time.”

You don’t have eight children, Violet almost retorted, but at the last moment she held her tongue. If she did not know this gentleman’s identity, there was a chance that he did not know hers, either.

And of course, he could have eight children. She wasn’t the only person in London to have been so blessed in her marriage. Plus, the hair on his temples