“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?”
Blast. 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, my lady, 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 place. “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, explaining, “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 tune.”
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 the last 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 clatter of feet coming 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 young ladies 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 gallantly kissed each of then-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.