Chapter Text
Bridgerton House looks splendid. Garlands of holly and ivy drape from the mantle, their scent mingling with the scent of pies, biscuits and tea. A grand Christmas tree stands near the window, twinkling with candlelights and decorated with hundreds of glass baubles and ornaments. Beneath its boughs, many brightly wrapped presents lie scattered, the paper of some already torn and ribbons discarded.
It is Christmas morning once again.
Gregory is sprawled out on the rug on the floor like a very well-fed cat, unapologetically working his way through his fifth mince pie of the morning.
From her place on the settee, Hyacinth watches him with disdain. She tilts her head, raising a perfectly arched brow at her brother. “Really, Gregory? Is it your goal to consume all the mince pies before the clock strikes noon?”
Gregory does not even flinch. Instead, he grins broadly and pats his stomach. “Someone has to uphold the noble Bridgerton tradition of shameless gluttony,” he announces, as if he is accepting a great honour. “Now that Colin has decided to be boring and respectable, the responsibility falls to me. And let me assure you, it is a burden I bear with immense pride.”
Hyacinth rolls her eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You excel at very few things, dear brother. Truly, it is a wonder Mama has not disowned you yet.”
“Disowned me? Why? I am her favourite,” Gregory announces. “Her youngest son, her pride and joy. The golden child of the family.”
Hyacinth barks a laugh so sharp it turns a few heads across the room. “Oh please. If you are the golden child then I am Queen Charlotte herself.”
“Long may you reign, your Majesty,” Gregory says and bows dramatically.
This causes Eloise to glance up from her spot on the armchair, where she is reading a new book. “Golden child? You ?” She shakes her head. “You were literally dropped on your head as a baby. Repeatedly. If anyone is the golden child, it is obviously me .”
“Ah, but who is to say being dropped on my head did not knock in my entire brilliance?”
“Brilliance?” Eloise repeats with a sharp laugh. “Is that what you are calling it? Because I would call it something else entirely.”
“Careful, sister,” Gregory retorts. “Your jealousy is showing.”
“As the golden child I do not need to be jealous.”
From his spot against the wall, Benedict raises his glass of scotch, and chimes in, “Oh yes, Eloise, you are certainly the golden child. Because what Mother truly cherishes above all is your endless crusade to dismantle everything she holds dear about society. You are the golden rebel, perhaps.”
Eloise turns to glare at him. “Better to be the golden rebel than the golden disappointment.”
“I am the most charming disappointment this family has ever had the privilege of raising.”
“If anyone is the golden child, it is me,” Hyacinth states dryly from the settee, crossing her legs. “Obviously. I am the youngest, and therefore, the most precious.”
Benedict lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Oh, of course, Hyacinth. Because nothing screams golden child quite like arguing with Mother about every single thing since the day you learned to talk. Yes, you are absolutely her pride and joy.”
“I am her pride and joy,” Hyacinth says smugly, unbothered. “And I always will be.”
“Please,” Francesca interjects, shaking her head. “We all know Daphne is the golden child. She is the first born daughter after all.”
“It has always been Colin.”
“Colin is boring!”
“Anthony as the first born.”
“Definitely not Anthony!” a collective chorus comes in unison.
“Why not?”
“The golden child is Francesca.”
“Daphne.”
Daphne, who has been helping her daughter untangle a particularly stubborn ribbon, does not even glance up. “Well, if we are seriously doing this, then my vote is for Colin.”
“Colin?” Gregory scoffs. “Why? He is boring.”
Daphne laughs. “Because he is the one who actually bothers to visit Mama for tea almost every day, promenades with her, invites her for dinner, brings her flowers, and listens to her tales without falling asleep.”
“Only because he lives across the street!” Gregory retorts indignantly. “If I lived that close, I would visit all the time as well.”
“You live in the same house, you pine cone,” Eloise points out with a roll of her eyes. “And you have never once brought Mama flowers.”
“I have a different kind of charm,” Gregory counters indignantly. “More rugged. Less… floral.”
Anthony eventually clears his throat. “You are all delusional,” he announces. “It is obviously me. I am the one keeping this entire family from falling into complete anarchy.”
“Oh, dear brother,” Benedict sighs. “You try, yes. But you fail. Consistently.”
“It is a noble effort, brother,” Colin chimes in with a grin. “But entirely futile.”
“You are all insufferable,” Anthony mutters. “Remind me again why I invite you all to these gatherings?”
“Because you love us.”
“And because Mama would never forgive you if you did not.”
“Also because deep down, you are afraid of missing out on all this.”
“You need us, Anthony.”
“Exactly. We are the spice in your otherwise bland, orderly life of a Lord.”
“If we are the spice, then Anthony’s life must be truly miserable.”
“I hate you. All of you.”
In that moment Violet sweeps into the room with grace, gives them all a fond smile and announces, “I have never had a favourite child.”
“Oh please, Mother,” Benedict retorts with a grin. “Lying is a sin.”
Violet chuckles lightly. “If anyone, I favour the one who causes me the least trouble,” she counters with a wry smile. “And that changes daily.”
Gregory smirks. “Then today must be my day.”
Suddenly Hyacinth clears her throat and sits forward. “You are all wrong,” she declares and all the heads turn to look at her. “The real favourite has always been—” she pauses for dramatic effect, sweeping her gaze around the room, “—Penelope.”
For one brief, glorious moment, the room falls completely silent—a very rare and precious thing in the usually boisterous Bridgerton household. Then, as if choreographed, every head turns toward Penelope. She stands near the Christmas tree, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink. She lets out a startled, shaky laugh, lifting her hands as if to wave off the absurdity. “Oh, stop. That is absolutely not true.”
Hyacinth leans back with a knowing grin. “Oh, it is true. They might all be fools,” she says, sweeping her hand dramatically across the room, “but even they must agree. Do you not?”
“Hyacinth!” Penelope says, half-scolding.
Before anyone can say anything further, Colin moves closer to his wife. Quietly, without a word, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her gently against him. He looks at her and feels as though his heart might burst right out of his chest. His Penelope. His brilliant, kind, beautiful, endlessly patient Penelope. His Pen. His wife. His best friend. The mother of his children. The glue that holds his family—and at times, himself—together. How could she not be the favourite?
“Do you accept the title, Penelope?” Benedict eventually asks, his playfulness gone. “The golden child of the Bridgerton family. It is only fair.”
“You have certainly earned it.”
“It is true,” Daphne adds warmly. “You have always been one of us, Penelope. Long before you married Colin.”
“You have brought more joy to this family than the rest of us combined,” Eloise adds. “And frankly, I am a little jealous.”
“To Penelope, the favourite, and the only sane one among us.”
“To Penelope, the true golden child of this family.”
“To Penelope!”
Gregory, who has been remarkably quiet during the toasts finally clears his throat and leans back with an exaggerated sigh. “While I agree with everything said,” he begins, “I must point out that Penelope is not entirely without flaw.”
The room collectively freezes, many pairs of eyebrows shooting upward in unison. Colin’s posture stiffens, his back straightening and his jaw tightening. He takes a measured breath, silently telling himself to stay calm, at least long enough to let his little brother finish whatever absurd comment is about to leave his mouth.
“Oh?” Penelope asks, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “And what flaw might that be?”
Colin watches Gregory warily, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to leap to his wife’s defence, depending on how his younger brother chooses to answer.
Gregory shrugs, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Well, you married Colin.”
The room bursts into loud laughter then and Colin groans, rubbing a hand down his face, though even he cannot suppress the chuckle that escapes him.
“Ah, yes,” Benedict quips, raising his glass. “A grievous mistake, truly. Imagine tying yourself to such mediocrity.”
“Rude,” Colin mutters, though there is no heat in it.
“Oh, please, Colin,” Gregory continues, leaning forward now, clearly reveling in his moment. “Penelope is perfect in every way. Brilliant, charming, kind, beautiful—honestly, the list goes on. And yet, somehow, she chose you. It is baffling, really.”
“I shall have you know,” Colin retorts sternly, “that Penelope happens to think I am delightful.”
“Do you, though?” Gregory teases, looking at Penelope.
Penelope laughs. “Marrying Colin was the best decision I have ever made,” she says warmly, looking up at her husband.
Gregory opens his mouth, likely to deliver another cheeky retort, but Colin does not give him the chance. Instead, he pulls his wife to him, and kisses her full on the mouth. Firmly. Possessively. Unapologetically. Claiming. And utterly defiant of propriety with his entire family watching.
The room erupts into a mix of gasps, laughter, and groans. Gregory, predictably, is the loudest. “Oh, come now!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air. “Must you flaunt your happiness so aggressively?”
Colin finally pulls back, but his hand lingers on Penelope’s waist, his fingers firm against the fabric of her dress. He meets his brother’s stare with an unrepentant smirk. “I just wanted to make sure you know that Penelope is mine.”
Gregory lets out a dramatic groan, flinging himself back dramatically. “And there it is! Heartbreak for Christmas. I shall never recover.”
Eloise huffs. “You are both ridiculous.”
“Just know, Penelope, that if you ever wake up one day,” Gregory declares grandly, “and realise the grievous error of your ways, I shall be here, waiting. With flowers. And far more charm than Colin could ever muster.”
Colin snorts, pulling his wife closer. “Keep dreaming, Greg.”
“I shall never stop. One must always hold on to hope,” Gregory replies wistfully, earning another round of laughter from the room.
And then they all drink and Colin pulls Penelope even closer, his smile so wide it feels like it might split his face in two. “Merry Christmas, love,” he murmurs against her temple.
“Merry Christmas, Colin.”
The moment is sweet, quiet and peaceful. But Bridgerton moments rarely stay that way for long.
“Papa!” comes a soft voice at Colin’s feet a moment later, pulling his attention downward just as he presses a kiss to his wife’s temple. Penelope turns and runs her fingers through her daughter’s curls before she joins the other women on the settees.
Little Jane totters toward him, beaming, her dark curls tousled, big ocean blue eyes shining, her tiny hands clutching a piece of yellow ribbon.
“Well, what is this, darling?” Colin says warmly, as she holds out the yellow ribbon like a present. He crouches down to her level and holds his arms open as she stumbles the last step and lands safely against his chest. “Have you brought me a present?”
“Present!” Jane giggles, holding the ribbon out in front of his face. “Papa!”
“For me?” Colin asks softly.
“Yes!” Jane nods and Colin takes the ribbon from her small hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says. “I do not think I have ever received a finer present.”
Jane giggles again, her small hands patting his cheeks before she throws her hands around his neck and clutches him tightly. Her weight is barely anything against him, but the force of her love is overwhelming. Colin’s chest fills with warmth as he tugs his youngest daughter close, burying his face in her soft curls and pressing a kiss there. She smells faintly of lavender soap and Christmas sweets, and his heart swells with a fierce, protective pride. How much she had grown. He remembers when she was no more than a bundle in his arms, all coos and tiny fingers, so fragile and small. Now, she was her own little person, bright and curious, with a laugh that never failed to light up a room.
The quiet sweetness of the moment lingers for just a beat before it shifts back into the usual chaos. Across the room, Elliot lets out an excited shout and eagerly dives into his stack of presents. Wrapping paper flies in every direction, while Agatha carefully peels back the corners of her gift with an almost comical precision. Colin stands up and adjusts Jane on his hip, taking in the scene around him. The sight of his children, his beloved family, fills him with a happiness so profound it feels almost too much to bear.
His gaze shifts to Penelope, and he finds her watching their children with the same affection in her eyes. She smiles at him, and they silently exchange the little secret only they know—that next year, there will be two more little feet around the Christmas tree. But before the thought can fully settle, Jane squirms in his arms, breaking the moment with an impatient wriggle. Colin lowers her to the ground and watches as she toddles off to join her siblings.
It is then that Benedict steps up beside him, a glass of scotch in hand. “You look absurdly happy.”
“I am,” Colin admits.
His eyes drift inevitably back to Penelope. Despite her laughter and the glow of the firelight on her face, Colin notices the slight pallor to her cheeks and the faint shadows beneath her eyes. It has only been four weeks since they discovered the news, and while the joy has been overwhelming, so too has the worry. The morning sickness this time is brutal, much like it was with Jane, and seeing his wife so worn down makes his heart ache. Yet as he watches her now, she looks genuinely happy, caught up in the festive chaos of their family, and the sight eases the sorrow, if only a little. Still, part of him longs to go to her, to take her hand and quietly suggest that they retreat upstairs where she could rest. But he knows she would only laugh and reassure him—as always—that she was fine. She loves this family too much to miss a moment of it.
“Careful, brother,” Benedict’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “If you stare at her any longer, you might set her aflame.”
Colin huffs a quiet laugh. “Can you blame me? I have the most beautiful wife.”
“Though, if you allow me to mention it, she does look a touch pale.”
Colin’s eyes remain fixed on his wife. Her smile is bright, but the signs of fatigue are hard to conceal. Benedict’s gaze flicks between the two of them before his brow arches in realisation.
“Good God, Colin,” he says in a hushed voice. “You have done it again, have you not?”
Colin stiffens, tearing his gaze away from Penelope. “Done what?”
Benedict leans in closer. “Knocked her up. Again.”
“Well…”
“Honestly, Colin, four children in five years?!”
“Keep your voice down!” Colin hisses, casting a furtive glance around the room to ensure no one else has caught on. “You cannot simply say such things aloud!”
Benedict chuckles, utterly unrepentant. “Ah, but it is true, is it not?”
Colin sighs. “Well…yes.”
“Congratulations!” Benedict declares, clapping him on the back.
“Thank you,” he mutters, but his eyes narrow in suspicion as Benedict’s smirk shifts into something far more devious. “If you value your life, Ben, you will say no more.”
“What is life without a little risk?”
Colin groans. “You are impossible.”
“You call me impossible,” Benedict counters, “yet you are the one incapable of keeping your hands to yourself. Honestly, Colin, do you ever allow the poor woman to rest? She only just put down the last baby!”
“I do let her rest,” Colin defends himself, though the words sound feeble even to his own ears. He cannot deny that keeping his hands to himself is a futile endeavour—a battle he has long since lost. How could he not when Penelope looks like a Greek goddess at every waking moment? But, to his defence, she is just as complicit as he is. More often than not it is her hands tugging him closer, her lips leaving him breathless, her touch making him feel as though he has ascended to heaven itself. It is not one-sided, not in the slightest, and the unspoken truth of it brings a small, secret smile to his face.
Benedict arches an incredulous brow. “Do you ever simply sit with your wife? Because it does appear you have spent every single day since your wedding devising new ways to expand the Bridgerton population.”
“Do you plan to stop any time soon, or shall I arrange for you to be drowned in that glass of scotch?”
“Four children under five, Colin. Four!”
“Keep your bloody voice down!” Colin hisses, glancing around the room in alarm.
Benedict only grins wider, thoroughly entertained. “Why? Are you afraid someone might ask you publicly how you have managed such feats of—what shall we call it?—determination?”
“Benedict…”
His brother ignores him entirely. “How, Colin? How? With three little ones, how do you even manage to—” He pauses, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. “— find the opportunity?”
Colin lets out a deep, drawn-out exhalation. “You are absolutely insufferable.”
“I am simply curious!” Benedict protests, feigning innocence. “Do you lock them in their chambers? Or do you sneak off behind the nearest door and pray to all the saints above that you are not interrupted mid—”
“Enough!” Colin cuts him off, though his groan of exasperation also sounds slightly amused. “You are the worst.”
Benedict leans closer, his grin widening even more. “You do know there are ways to, ah, avoid these situations, do you not?”
Colin’s next groan is loud and full of suffering. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“I mean—” Benedict continues.
“Stop it!”
“—you are aware that you can simply… withdraw before the moment of truth, yes? It is quite effective, or so I am told.”
“Benedict!”
“What? I am simply trying to be helpful. You clearly need some sort of strategy, brother.”
Colin lowers his voice to a near hiss. “This is not an appropriate conversation for Christmas morning.”
“But it is necessary,” Benedict counters with a light chuckle, clearly revelling in his brother’s discomfort.
Before Colin can retort, however, a sudden, high-pitched scream cuts through the air, dragging his attention away from his brother’s teasing. His head whips around to see Elliot holding up a shiny brass trumpet, his face alight with unadulterated glee. A breath later, Agatha squeals in matching delight and pulls out a second trumpet from her own pile of gifts. Colin’s heart stutters, and just as he begins to process what is happening, Jane rips open another present with Gregory’s help, revealing a tiny, toy trumpet of her own.
The room falls into a stunned silence. Colin’s vision blurs, everything slowing down as he tries to make sense of what he is seeing.
Trumpets.
Three trumpets.
Three.
Trumpets.
Three trumpets.
Colin stands frozen, his gaze darting between his children, who have now begun testing their new instruments with a series of off-key, ear-splitting blasts. For a moment, everything falls away, and he feels like he is standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into an abyss that stretches to infinity. His vision tunnels, the edges of the room blurring and the noise seems to compress into a single, vibrating pitch.
He cannot move, cannot see, cannot breathe.
The universe, in all its cruel, ironic glory, has decided that today, Christmas morning, is the day it would smite him down. He had been content. He had let his guard down, allowed himself peace and joy. But now, all of that feels like a distant memory. And this—this cacophony of brass hellfire—is his punishment.
And then, from a distance, Benedict’s laughter erupts and slices through the fog of Colin’s disbelief. “Oh, this is magnificent,” Ben manages between uncontrollable fits of laughter. “I cannot believe it. Someone has gifted you a full brass orchestra!”
Colin turns slowly and his eyes lock with Benedict’s, his brother’s face the picture of smug satisfaction. It is the look of a man who has just executed the perfect crime and knows he will get away with it.
How could he have fallen for it? How could he, Colin Bridgerton, a supposedly grown man, have been so foolish as to think his brother’s cruelty had ended with the broken drums? It had all been a setup. A grand, orchestrated trap, designed to lull him into a false sense of security. Benedict has played him like a fiddle—or rather, like a trumpet—and now he is paying the price.
He had forgiven Benedict. He had decided to let go of his murderous impulses, convinced himself he could be the bigger man. But now, standing in the centre of what sounded like a brass section being violently assaulted, he can only think of one thing: he had been right all along. He should have killed his brother when he had the chance. He should have followed through with every single deranged fantasy he had entertained. He had made a terrible mistake.
“Papa! Papa, look!”
The call snaps Colin out of his trance, and he turns to see Agatha, her small face glowing with uncontainable pride. Her wild, fiery ginger curls bounce with every movement, and her wide, icy blue eyes gleam with pure joy.
“Look, Papa!” Her voice rings out again and she beams at him, utterly unaware of the havoc she is contributing to. “A trumpet!”
“Wonderful, darling, wonderful,” Colin manages to choke out, trying to offer her a smile but it comes out more like a grimace. His gaze then flickers back to Benedict who blows into a mock trumpet, his hand clenched into a fist and held triumphantly before his face, his mouth moving dramatically. He is fully committed to the spectacle, standing there as if he is part of the performance itself.
Of course, the arse is enjoying this.
Benedict notices Colin watching him and ceases his mock performance to leisurely sip from his scotch, and winks at Colin over the rim of his glass.
“Merry Christmas, my beloved brother,” he states casually. “I do hope these trumpets bring you as much joy as the drums have brought you last year.”
And as the trumpets continue to blare around them, Colin’s mind begins to reel, contemplating how best to use a trumpet to commit fratricide with the utmost cruelty.