Chapter 67


    “Well, I love you, too,” he said, and he congratted himself on having had the foresight to shut the


    door to the drawing room earlier.


    The newspaper flew over his shoulder, and all was right with the world.


    The season drew to a close a few weekster, and so Posy decided to ept Sophie’s invitation for an


    extended visit. London was hot and sticky and rather smelly in the summer, and a sojourn in the


    country seemed just the thing. Besides, she had not seen either of her godsons in several months, and


    she had been aghast when Sophie had written to say that Alexander had already begun to lose some


    of his baby fat.


    Oh, he was just the most squeezable, adorable thing. She had to go see him before he grew too thin.


    She simply had to.


    And it would be nice to see Sophie, too. She’d written that she was still feeling a bit weak, and Posy did


    like to be a help.


    A few days into the visit, she and Sophie were taking tea, and talk turned, as it asionally did, to


    Araminta and Rosamund, whom Posy asionally bumped into in London. After over a year of silence,


    her mother finally had begun to acknowledge her, but even so, conversation was brief and stilted.


    Which, Posy had decided, was for the best. Her mother might have had nothing to say to her, but she


    didn’t have anything to say to her mother, either.


    As far as epiphanies went, it had been rather liberating.


    “I saw her outside the milliner,” Posy said, fixing her tea just the way she liked it, with extra milk and no


    sugar. “She’d juste down the steps, and I couldn’t avoid her, and then I realized I didn’t want to


    avoid her. Not that I wished to speak with her, of course.” She took a sip. “Rather, I didn’t wish to


    expend the energy needed to hide.”


    Sophie nodded approvingly.


    “And then we spoke, and said nothing, really, although she did manage to get in one of her clever little


    insults.”


    “I hate that.”


    “I know. She’s so good at it.”


    “It’s a talent,” Sophie remarked. “Not a good one, but a talent nheless.”


    “Well,” Posy continued, “I must say, I was rather mature about the entire encounter. I let her say what


    she wished, and then I bid her goodbye. And then I had the most amazing realization.”


    “What is that?”


    Posy gave a smile. “I like myself.”


    “Well, of course you do,” Sophie said, blinking with confusion.


    “No, no, you don’t understand,” Posy said. It was strange, because Sophie ought to have understood


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    perfectly. She was the only person in the world who knew what it meant to live as Araminta’s unfavored


    child. But there was something so sunny about Sophie. There always had been. Even when Araminta


    treated her as a virtual ve, Sophie had never seemed beaten. There had always been a singr


    spirit to her, a sparkle. It wasn’t defiance; Sophie was the least defiant person Posy knew, except


    perhaps for herself.


    Not defiance . . . resilience. Yes, that was it exactly.


    At any rate, Sophie ought to have understood what Posy had meant, but she didn’t, so Posy said, “I


    didn’t always like myself. And why should I have done? My own mother didn’t like me.”


    “Oh, Posy,” Sophie said, her eyes brimming with tears, “you mustn’t—”


    “No, no,” Posy said good-naturedly. “Don’t think anything of it. It doesn’t bother me.”


    Sophie just looked at her.


    “Well, not anymore,” Posy amended. She eyed the te of biscuits sitting on the table between them.


    She really oughtn’t to eat one. She’d had three, and she wanted three more, so maybe that meant that


    if she had one, she was really abstaining from two . . .


    She twiddled her fingers against her leg. Probably she shouldn’t have one. Probably she should leave


    them for Sophie, who had just had a baby and needed to regain her strength. Although Sophie did look


    perfectly recovered, and little Alexander was already four months old . . .


    “Posy?”


    She looked up.


    “Is something amiss?”


    Posy gave a little shrug. “I can’t decide whether I wish to eat a biscuit.”


    Sophie blinked. “A biscuit? Really?”


    “There are at least two reasons why I should not, and probably more than that.” She paused, frowning.


    “You looked quite serious,” Sophie remarked. “Almost as if you were conjugating Latin.”


    “Oh, no, I should look far more at peace if I were conjugating Latin,” Posy dered. “That would be


    quite simple, as I know nothing about it. Biscuits, on the other hand, I ponder endlessly.” She sighed


    and looked down at her middle. “Much to my dismay.”


    “Don’t be silly, Posy,” Sophie scolded. “You are the loveliest woman of my acquaintance.”


    Posy smiled and took the biscuit. The marvelous thing about Sophie was that she wasn’t lying. Sophie


    really did think her the loveliest woman of her acquaintance. But then again, Sophie had always been


    that sort of person. She saw kindness where others saw . . . Well, where others didn’t even bother to


    look, to be frank.


    Posy took a bite and chewed, deciding that it was absolutely worth it. Butter, sugar, and flour. What


    could be better?


    “I received a letter from Lady Bridgerton today,” Sophie remarked.


    Posy looked up in interest. Technically, Lady Bridgerton could mean Sophie’s sister-inw, the wife of


    the current viscount. But they both knew she referred to Benedict’s mother. To them, she would always


    be Lady Bridgerton. The other one was Kate. Which was just as well, as that was Kate’s preference


    within the family.


    “She said that Mr. Fibberly called.” When Posy did notment, Sophie added, “He was looking for


    you.”


    “Well, of course he was,” Posy said, deciding to have that fourth biscuit after all. “Hyacinth is too young


    and Eloise terrifies him.”


    “Eloise terrifies me,” Sophie admitted. “Or at least she used to. Hyacinth I’m quite sure will terrify me to


    the grave.”


    “You just need to know how to manage her,” Posy said with a wave. It was true, Hyacinth Bridgerton


    was terrifying, but the two of them had always got on quite well. It was probably due to Hyacinth’s firm


    (some might say unyielding) sense of justice. When she’d found out that Posy’s mother had never


    loved her as well as Rosamund . . .


    Well, Posy had never told tales, and she wasn’t going to begin now, but let it be said that Araminta had


    never again eaten fish.


    Or chicken.


    Posy had got this from the servants, and they always had the most urate gossip.


    “But you were about to tell me about Mr. Fibberly,” Sophie said, still sipping at her tea.


    Posy shrugged, even though she hadn’t been about to do any such thing. “He’s so dull.”


    “Handsome?”


    Posy shrugged again. “I can’t tell.”


    “One generally need only look at the face.”


    “I can’t get past his dullness. I don’t think heughs.”


    “It can’t be that bad.”


    “Oh, it can, I assure you.” She reached out and took another biscuit before she realized she hadn’t


    meant to. Oh well, it was already in her hand now, she couldn’t very well put it back. She waved it in the


    air as she spoke, trying to make her point. “He sometimes makes this dreadful noise like, ‘Ehrm ehrm


    ehrm,’ and I think he thinks he’sughing, but he’s clearly not.”


    Sophie giggled even though she looked as if she thought she shouldn’t.


    “And he doesn’t even look at my bos


    om!”


    “Posy!”


    “It’s my only good feature.”


    “It is not!” Sophie nced about the drawing room, even though there was precisely no one about. “I


    can’t believe you said that.”


    Posy let out a frustrated exhale. “I can’t say bosom in London and now I can’t do so in Wiltshire,


    either?”


    “Not when I’m expecting the new vicar,” Sophie said.


    A chunk of Posy’s biscuit fell off and fell into herp. “What?”


    “I didn’t tell you?”


    Posy eyed her suspiciously. Most people thought Sophie was a poor liar, but that was only because


    she had such an angelic look about her. And she rarely lied. So everyone assumed that if she did,


    she’d be dreadful at it.


    Posy, however, knew better. “No,” she said, brushing off her skirts, “you did not tell me.”


    “How very unlike me,” Sophie murmured. She picked up a biscuit and took a bite.


    Posy stared at her. “Do you know what I’m not doing now?”


    Sophie shook her head.


    “I am not rolling my eyes, because I am trying to act in a fashion that befits my age and maturity.”


    “You do look very grave.”


    Posy stared her down a bit more. “He is unmarried, I assume.”


    “Er, yes.”


    Posy lifted her left brow, the arch expression possibly the only useful gift she’d received from her


    mother. “How old is this vicar?”


    “I do not know,” Sophie admitted, “but he has all of his hair.”


    “And it hase to this,” Posy murmured.


    “I thought of you when I met him,” Sophie said, “because he smiles.”


    Because he smiled? Posy was beginning to think that Sophie was a bit cracked. “I beg your pardon?”


    “He smiles so often. And so well.” At that Sophie smiled. “I couldn’t help but think of you.”


    Posy did roll her eyes this time, then followed it with an immediate “I have decided to forsake maturity.”


    “By all means.”


    “I shall meet your vicar,” Posy said, “but you should know I have decided to aspire to entricity.”


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