Chapter 13


    Sophie couldn


    ’t quite bring herself to nod. Some things were simply too demeaning.


    Araminta marched over until their faces were quite close. “You didn’t answer,” she hissed. “Do you


    understand me?”


    Sophie nodded, but just barely. Every day, it seemed, brought more evidence of the depth of Araminta’s


    hatred for her. “Why do you keep me here?” she whispered before she had time to think better of it.


    “Because I find you useful,” was Araminta’s low reply.


    Sophie watched as Araminta stalked from the room, then hurried up the stairs. Rosamund’s and Posy’s


    hair looked quite eptable, so she sighed, turned to Posy, and said, “Lock me in the closet, if you


    will.”


    Posy blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”


    “I was instructed to ask Rosamund, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.”


    Posy peered in the closet with great interest. “May I ask why?”


    “I’m meant to polish your mother’s shoes.”


    Posy swallowed ufortably. “I’m sorry.”


    “So am I,” Sophie said with a sigh. “So am I.”


    And in other news from the masquerade ball, Miss Posy Reiling’s costume as a mermaid was


    somewhat unfortunate, but not, This Author thinks, as dreadful as that of Mrs. Featherington and her


    two eldest daughters, who went as a bowl of fruit—Philippa as an orange, Prudence as an apple, and


    Mrs. Featherington as a bunch of grapes.


    Sadly, none of the three looked the least bit appetizing.


    LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815


    What had his lifee to, Benedict wondered, that he was obsessed with a glove? He’d patted his


    coat pocket about a dozen times since he’d taken a seat in Lady Penwood’s sitting room, silently


    reassuring himself that it was still there. Uncharacteristically anxious, he wasn’t certain what he


    nned to say to the dowager countess once she arrived, but he was usually fairly glib of tongue;


    surely he’d figure out something as he went along.


    His foot tapping, he nced over at the mantel clock. He’d given his card to the butler about fifteen


    minutes earlier, which meant that Lady Penwood ought to be down soon. It seemed an unwritten rule


    that alldies of the ton must keep their callers waiting for at least fifteen minutes, twenty if they were


    feeling particrly peevish.


    A bloody stupid rule, Benedict thought irritably. Why the rest of the world didn’t value punctuality as he


    did, he would never know, but—


    “Mr. Bridgerton!”


    He looked up. A rather attractive, extremely fashionable blond woman in her forties glided into the


    room. She looked vaguely familiar, but that was to be expected. They’d surely attended many of the


    same society functions, even if they had not been introduced.


    “You must be Lady Penwood,” he murmured, rising to his feet and offering her a polite bow.


    “Indeed,” she replied with a gracious incline of her head. “I am so delighted that you have chosen to


    honor us with a call. I have, of course, informed my daughters of your presence. They shall be down


    shortly.”


    Benedict smiled. That was exactly what he’d hoped she’d do. He would have been shocked if she’d


    behaved otherwise. No mother of marriageable daughters ever ignored a Bridgerton brother. “I look


    forward to meeting them,” he said.


    Her brow furrowed slightly. “Then you have not yet met them?”


    st. Now she’d be wondering why he was there. “I have heard such lovely things about them,” he


    improvised, trying not to groan. If Lady Whistledown caught hold of this—and Lady Whistledown


    seemed to catch hold of everything—it would soon be all over town that he was looking for a wife, and


    that he’d zeroed in on the countess’s daughters. Why else would he call upon two women to whom he


    had not even been introduced?


    Lady Penwood beamed. “My Rosamund is considered one of the loveliest girls of the season.”


    “And your Posy?” Benedict asked, somewhat perversely.


    The corners of her mouth tightened. “Posy is, er, delightful.”


    He smiled benignly. “I cannot wait to meet Posy.”


    Lady Penwood blinked, then covered up her surprise with a slightly hard smile. “I’m sure Posy will be


    delighted to meet you.”


    A maid entered with an ornate silver tea service, then set it down on a table at Lady Penwood’s nod.


    Before the maid could depart, however, the countess said (somewhat sharply, in Benedict’s opinion),


    “Where are the Penwood spoons?”


    The maid bobbed a rather panicked curtsy, then replied, “Sophie was polishing the silver in the dining


    room, mydy, but she had to go upstairs when you—”


    “Silence!” Lady Penwood cut in, even though she’d been the one to ask about the spoons in the first


    ce. “I’m sure Mr. Bridgerton is not so high in the instep that he needs monogrammed spoons for his


    tea.”


    “Of course not,” Benedict murmured, thinking that Lady Penwood must be a bit too high in the instep


    herself if she even thought to bring it up.


    “Go! Go!” the countess ordered the maid, waving her briskly away. “Begone.”


    The maid hurried out, and the countess turned back to him, exining, “Our better silver is engraved


    with the Penwood crest.”


    Benedict leaned forward. “Really?” he asked with obvious interest. This would be an excellent way to


    verify that the crest on the glove was indeed that of the Penwoods. “We don’t have anything like that at


    Bridgerton House,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying. In all truth, he’d never even noticed the pattern of


    the silver. “I should love to see it.”


    “Really?” Lady Penwood asked, her eyes lighting up. “I knew you were a man of taste and refinement.”


    Benedict smiled, mostly so he wouldn’t groan.


    “I shall have to send someone to the dining room to fetch a piece. Assuming, of course, that infernal girl


    managed to do her job.” The corners of her lips turned down in a most unattractive manner, and


    Benedict noticed that her frown lines were deep indeed.


    “Is there a problem?” he asked politely.


    She shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “Merely that it is so difficult to find good help.


    I’m sure your mother says the same thing all the time.”


    His mother never said any such thing, but that was probably because all of the Bridgerton servants


    were treated very well and thus were utterly devoted to the family. But Benedict nodded all the same.


    “One of these days I’m going to have to give Sophie the boot,” the countess said with a sniff. “She


    cannot do anything right.”


    Benedict felt a vague pang of pity for the poor, unseen Sophie. But thest thing he wanted to do was


    get into a discussion on servants with Lady Penwood, and so he changed the subject by motioning to


    the teapot, and saying, “I imagine it’s well steeped by now.”


    “Of course, of course.” Lady Penwood looked up and smiled. “How do you take yours?”


    “Milk, no sugar.”


    As she prepared his cup, Benedict heard the tter of feeting down the stairs, and his heart began


    to race with excitement. Any minute now the countess’s daughters would slip through the door, and


    surely one of them would be the woman he’d met the night before. It was true that he had not seen


    most of her face, but he knew her approximate size and height. And he was fairly certain that her hair


    was a long, light brown.


    Surely he’d recognize her when he saw her. How could he not?


    But when the two youngdies entered the room, he knew instantly that neither was the woman who’d


    haunted his every thought. One of them was far too blond, and besides, she held herself with a prissy,


    rather affected manner. There was no joy in her aspect, no mischief in her smile. The other looked


    friendly enough, but she was too chubby, and her hair was too dark.


    Benedict did his best not to look disappointed. He smiled during the introductions and gantly kissed


    each of their hands, murmuring some nonsense about how delighted he was to meet them. He made a


    point of fawning over the chubby one, if only because her mother so obviously preferred the other.


    >


    Mothers like that, he decided, didn’t deserve to be mothers.


    “And do you have any other children?” Benedict asked Lady Penwood, once the introductions were


    through.


    She gave him an odd look. “Of course not. Else I would have brought them out to meet you.”


    “I thought you might have children still in the schoolroom,” he demurred. “Perhaps from your union with


    the earl.”


    She shook her head. “Lord Penwood and I were not blessed with children. Such a pity it was that the


    title left the Gunningworth family.”


    Benedict could not help but notice that the countess looked more irritated than saddened by herck of


    Penwood progeny. “Did your husband have any brothers or sisters?” he asked. Maybe his mysterydy


    was a Gunningworth cousin.


    The countess shot him a suspicious look, which, Benedict had to admit, was well deserved, considering


    that his questions were not at all the usual fare for an afternoon call. “Obviously,” she replied, “myte


    husband did not have any brothers, as the title passed out of the family.”


    Benedict knew he should keep his mouth shut, but something about the woman was so bloody irritating


    he had to say, “He could have had a brother who predeceased him.”


    “Well, he did not.”


    Rosamund and Posy were watching the exchange with great interest, their heads bobbing back and


    forth like balls at a tennis match.


    Material ? N?velDrama.Org.


    “And any sisters?” Benedict inquired. “The only reason I ask is that Ie from such arge family.”


    He motioned to Rosamund and Posy. “I cannot imagine having only one sibling. I thought perhaps that


    your daughters might have cousins to keep thempany.”


    It was, he thought, rather paltry as far as exnations went, but it would have to do.


    “He did have one sister,” the countess replied with a disdainful sniff. “But she lived and died a spinster.


    She was a woman of great faith,” she exined, “and chose to devote her life to charitable works.”


    So much for that theory.


    “I very much enjoyed your masquerade ballst night,” Rosamund suddenly said.


    Benedict looked at her in surprise. The two girls had been so silent he’d forgotten they could even


    speak. “It was really my mother’s ball,” he answered. “I had no part in the nning. But I shall convey


    yourpliments.”


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