Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bar is new; new to Mayfair, new to them. The light is low, made for confidences and company—and, if one were uncharitable, for hiding the fact that the paint is still drying. The walls are freshly painted in a deep, masculine green (a shade Anthony insisted is called “proper green,” despite not a soul asking his opinion.) The floor is dark wood laid in a herringbone pattern, recently waxed and quiet beneath expensive shoes. The furniture still bears the faint shine of recent delivery: club chairs upholstered in dark leather paired with sturdy wooden tables that look prepared to withstand both elbows and bad decisions.

Aromas of freshly polished wood mix with the decadence of cigar smoke and fine spirits. Behind the counter stand three crystal decanters, each more enticing than the last.

First, an amber-hued Armagnac, imported from Gascony; too sweet for Anthony’s taste. The second holds a smoky cognac from the bowels of some minor French distillery—drinkable, certainly, if one has absolutely no better options and has given up on dignity. But it is the third decanter that catches the Viscount Bridgerton’s eye. British brandy. From Somerset, no less. Aged twenty-five years in English oak and bottled in a limited run, it is twice the price of the others and precisely the sort of spirit Anthony prefers.

Because in his mind—and he had said this more than once, to groans and eyerolls—all the truly good things in the world come from England.

Anthony orders the brandy with a snap of his fingers, as though the spirit has been waiting its entire life for this summons.

And perhaps it has. For what nobler purpose could superior English brandy serve than to lay down its very essence—its rich, amber spirit—in noble sacrifice to a Bridgerton?

Which is how Anthony and his brothers Benedict and Colin find themselves sprawled beside the fireplace like heroes returned from battle, each with a tumbler in hand and, between them, one bottle lying empty and utterly martyred.

“I fuck like I fence,” Colin declares, leaning back in his chair, a smug grin blooming across his face. 

There is no preamble. No warning. Just that bold declaration hurled directly at Anthony and Benedict, like a gauntlet thrown at their feet.

“Badly and without grace?” Benedict snorts, taking a scorching gulp of brandy and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Anthony shoots Benedict a withering look and takes a measured sip, the portrait of put-upon dignity. “Your poor wife,” he says to Colin, and raises his glass in a toast of exaggerated sympathy.

Undeterred, Colin’s grin widens. “No, with passion and enthusiasm.” He puffs out his chest. “And efficiency.”

Benedict raises an eyebrow. “Efficiency?”

“Indeed,” Colin says, raising his glass in a toast to himself and his radiant, expectant wife. “Pen is with child.”

“Yes, congratulations, we already knew that,” Benedict replies. “Penelope has been expecting for several months now, yes? Has she not already entered her confinement period?”

Anthony frowns in disapproval. “I would prefer we not discuss our wives and their confinement periods in public.” 

It is the same tone he uses when reminding Gregory not to speak of bodily functions at the dinner table.

With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Benedict gives Anthony a lazy salute. “Yes, sir, Captain Propriety.”

“Indeed,” Colin continues, blithely ignoring Anthony. “Her confinement has begun, and she is none too happy about it. That is why I have a plan.” 

“Now this I must hear.” Benedict leans forward, elbows on the table, delighted by the unfolding spectacle.

“It is simple,” Colin declares. “As you know, Penelope is already with my child. But I have been thinking… I wager I could get her pregnant again within ten minutes of the baby being born. No—scratch that—I could do it right now! While she is still pregnant!” He smacks the table with his palm. “That is how potent my seed is!”

Benedict dissolves into laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Heavens, Colin, do you ever give the poor woman a moment’s peace?”

Colin leans back, placing a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Penelope is the one who doesn’t let me rest. She is insatiable. You cannot imagine how insatiable she is. Eight months along, and yet the moment I sit down—truly, the moment—she is on me.” He attempts to lower his voice, but succeeds only in making it wobble. “I think it is because of my prowess. I am, after all, extraordinarily virile.”

“You are extraordinarily drunk,” Benedict says, grinning.

“My stamina,” Colin continues, swirling what little brandy remains in the bottom of his glass, “is legendary. Ask Penelope. Actually, do not. She would never stop singing my praises.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Benedict mutters.

“Believe what you will, but I jest not. We once went five times in one night,” Colin proclaims. “Five. I nearly died.”

Anthony snorts into his glass. “Amateur.”

Colin turns sharply, eyes narrowing like a general affronted on the eve of battle. “Amateur?”

Anthony leans back in his chair. “Kate and I do not keep count. We transcend numbers.”

“Oh, please,” Benedict groans.

“What? Kate is particularly appreciative of my skills.”

Colin grabs for his own throat, pantomiming a gag. “Oh, for God’s sake, Anthony, spare us.”

“Spare you?” Anthony scoffs. “When have you ever spared me? You may brag endlessly, but I cannot?”

“No,” Colin says immediately.

“We are truly the worst sort of men,” Benedict observes, utterly unbothered. “Sophie tells me this constantly.”

Anthony lifts his glass. “The manliest sort of men. And your wife is new to the family. Give her time to become accustomed to us.”

“I do not believe that is humanly possible,” Benedict says.

Colin nods sagely. “Kate still isn’t accustomed to you.”

“But we are not humans,” Anthony counters grandly. “We are Bridgertons. And that is infinitely better.”

“I have a proposal.” Colin slams his hand onto the bar. “A wager. First man to get his wife pregnant again wins.”

Benedict blinks. “Wins what?”

“Bragging rights.”

“Plus,” Colin adds gravely, “the title of Most Virile Bridgerton.”

“God help us all,” Benedict mutters.

Anthony sits up straighter. “The Most Virile Bridgerton?” He places a hand to his chest. “Obviously me.”

Colin scoffs so loudly a man at the neighboring table flinches. “You? Please. You barely count as a contender.”

“I already have a child,” Anthony argues. “Speaking of which—Colin—do you have any concept of how difficult and painful childbirth is? You cannot simply get your wife with child the same day the babe is born. She will need time to recover. Months, perhaps.”

“Childbirth may hurt some women,” Colin says with a solemn shake of his head, “but not Pen. She is quite strong, you know.”

Anthony smirks into his glass. “She must be, to put up with you.”

“Anyway,” Colin continues, puffed up, “I will easily surpass you in offspring, Ant.” He pats his lower half. “I am a fountain of virility.”

“You are a fountain of nonsense.” Benedict leans back and crosses his arms. “Whereas I—”

Anthony snorts. “You have been married a mere six weeks.”

Benedict shrugs. “I can still father a child.”

“Barely,” Anthony replies, giving him the pitying look he has perfected. “I doubt your… equipment has even unpacked its bags yet.”

Benedict sputters. “My equipment is fully unpacked!”

Colin lifts his glass high, triumphant. “To the wager!”

“To fatherhood,” Benedict adds. “And virility!”

“To the unending superiority of English brandy,” Anthony insists.

They clink. They drink. And then, abruptly, Colin bolts upright, eyes wide with the sort of inspiration only the deeply inebriated ever achieve.

“WE SHOULD FENCE.”

“What?” Anthony’s mouth falls open.

Colin spreads his arms in a grand sweeping gesture that nearly removes Benedict’s head.

“If we are making bets about virility”—he swings again, forcing Benedict to duck—“we should settle this like true men! With FENCING!”

Anthony leaps to his feet. “By God…you are right!”

Benedict slams his palms on the table. “Yes. YES. We must fence immediately!”

“We’ll need our gear!” Colin says.

Anthony nods vigorously. “Let us fetch it!”

All three of them swagger toward the exit, adjusting their waistcoats and puffing out their chests. Quite frankly, each one clearly believes he possesses the largest, most magnificent penis ever to grace the British Isles.

Colin struts. “This is going to be historic.”

Benedict points at him. “Mankind will write books about us.”

Anthony nods sagely. “And ballads.”

Just as they reach the door, Anthony abruptly stops, raises one authoritative finger, and pivots back toward the bar. Benedict and Colin freeze behind him, wobbling like poorly constructed furniture.

“One more bottle.”

The barman raises an eyebrow. “For the road, sir?”

“Yes.”

Colin immediately whoops, throwing his arms in the air. “YES! For the road! THE ROAD NEEDS BRANDY!”

“Glorious! Glorious decision!” Benedict throws both arms around Colin in a bear hug. “Anthony, you are a genius! A hero! A god among men!”

The barman hesitates. “My lord, I really don’t think—”

Anthony cuts him off, straightening to his full, towering height. “I am Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount Bridgerton, and if I wish to take a bottle of the finest brandy out into the London night with my two idiot brothers, I bloody well will.”

Colin gasps. “Oh my God. OH MY GOD. Did you hear him?” He grabs Benedict by the shoulders. “That was beautiful.”

“Bravo!” Benedict cries, applauding wildly. “A speech! A true speech! Give the man a title! Another one!”

The barman sighs, defeated, and fetches the bottle, handing it over with the air of a man who has accepted his fate—and who will most likely be receiving an angry missive from the Viscountess Kate Bridgerton on the morrow.

Anthony smirks, tucks the bottle under his arm, and addresses no one in particular. “Gentlemen.”

They stagger into the crisp London night like three newborn foals. Colin goes first, mostly because he tripped—and the other two shoved him forward to stop themselves from falling. Benedict stumbles after him while Anthony marches behind them like a mother duck desperately herding her drunken ducklings.

The cool air hits their inebriated faces, and all three gasp in dramatic unison.

Anthony pops the bottle open, takes a long swig from the neck, and hands it to Benedict. Benedict drinks and passes it to Colin, who attempts to drink and nearly baptizes himself in brandy.

“Careful,” Anthony snaps, snatching the bottle back. “That bottle is older than you!”

“So am I,” Benedict announces proudly.

They walk—or more accurately, wobble, weave, and occasionally veer sideways as though magnetically drawn to every lamppost. Their conversation is unwavering in its stupidity.

“So,” Colin says, taking another sloshy sip, “about our competition.”

“Our noble competition,” Benedict corrects.

“Our scientific inquiry,” Anthony adds.

Colin nods solemnly. “Yes. The Great Bridgerton Baby Race.”

Anthony lifts a finger. “Now, obviously, I have the advantage, being eldest, most experienced, and possessing—”

Colin cuts him off. “Oh, please. You think age helps? No. Virility is about power. Strength. Endurance. Stamina. Which—need I remind you both—” he taps his brandy-soaked chest, nearly spinning himself sideways “—I possess in spades.”

Benedict cackles. “The only thing you possess is delusion.”

“I possess many things,” Colin says proudly. “Including…” He glances around dramatically and lowers his voice. “Quantity.”

Anthony snorts.

“It is not the quantity of your manhood that counts, brother,” Benedict explains wisely. “It is the quality.”

Colin straightens, offended. “I have both in abundance.”

They all stop walking for a moment, simply to stare at Colin. Then they crack up laughing so loudly that a passing carriage driver turns to watch.

Anthony wipes a tear from his eye. “You? Both?”

“Yes!” Colin insists. “Ask Penelope!”

“I will absolutely not,” Anthony says.

Benedict rubs his chin. “Well, since we are now measuring things, should we—?”

Anthony holds up a hand. “No.”

“But—” Benedict gestures vaguely downward. “For scientific accuracy.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Anthony shouts.

Colin shrugs. “I would win anyway.”

Benedict gasps indignantly. “And how do you know? I am very proportionate.”

“Proportionate is code for small,” Colin fires back.

Benedict stops in the middle of the pavement. “Listen here, you posturing little—”

“LITTLE?” Colin yelps. “Is that a jab? At my stature? At my—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Anthony groans, dragging them both forward by their shoulders. “We are not having this discussion in the middle of the road.”

A group of late-night gentlemen strolls by. They take one look at the Bridgertons and decide to cross the street.

“Good,” Anthony mutters after them. “We must not frighten the populace with our virility.”

Colin nods solemnly. “It oozes from us.”

“Drips,” Benedict agrees.

“Radiates,” Anthony adds proudly.

They resume their swaggering path toward Bridgerton House, passing the bottle between them like a sacred relic. By the time they reach the front gate, the bottle is half-empty.

A lone footman stands on duty outside the front door with perfect posture and a neutral expression, absolutely unprepared for the calamity approaching him.

He clears his throat. “Good evening, sirs.”

Colin gasps, clutching his heart as if beholding a long-lost relative returned from war. “Brother!”

The footman blinks. “Pardon me, sir?” He glances between each Bridgerton like he’s counting potential escape routes.

“Yes, brother!” Benedict crows, flinging an arm around Colin and nearly taking both of them to the marble floor.

Anthony points a dramatic, wobbly finger at the footman. “You have lived in this house for years. Years! That makes you practically a Bridgerton.”

“Essentially family,” Benedict nods sagely, though he is swaying like a ship in a storm.

“Definitely family,” Colin echoes, eyes brimming with earnest drunken affection. They all dissolve into high-pitched hysterics.

“Our brother!” Anthony claps the footman on the back with such vigour that the poor man jolts forward like a spooked horse trying to flee.

The footman, now questioning all his life choices, straightens his livery.

“My lord, how may I assist you?” He looks pointedly to Anthony—the eldest, the master of the house, the only one who might wrangle the others into coherence.

“You may assist us by agreeing with us in all things!” Colin assures him, squinting with deep drunken concentration. “You even look like me. We are practically twins. I’m just a bit more…handsome.” He pauses briefly. “And have a bigger manhood.”

“Naturally, sir,” the younger man says, for what man would dare to disagree with a Bridgerton, especially one in their employ? James, a barrel-chested, wide-eyed young man with sandy blond hair, stands a good five inches taller than all three brothers, all of whom measure exactly six feet.

“He looks nothing like you, brother,” Benedict says. “Nothing at all. He rather looks like…I should not say.”

Colin narrows his eyes. “Like who?”

“Never mind.” Benedict pats James’ massive wall of a chest for emphasis. “But look at him. Strong build. Confident posture. He has the stance of a man with…promise. So I would not be so sure, Colin!”

Anthony nods wisely. “Yes. He does look like a man whose breeches contain potential.”

James gives a nervous laugh, his cheeks turning ruddy in the night air. “I assure you, my lords,” he murmurs, “my potential is not relevant to my duties.”

“Oh, it is quite relevant,” Colin insists. “It is a job requirement.”

Benedict gasps and claps his hands like a small child. “Yes!”

“Yes,” Colin echoes. “Height, experience, moral character…manhood length, minimum four inches, recommended six.”

Benedict nods. “Seven for senior staff.”

James is now as red as a tomato, simultaneously trying not to laugh and not to expire from sheer embarrassment.

Colin thrusts the bottle toward him again. “Brother, based on your measurements, you have unquestionably earned a sip.”

“I think I shall pass, sir,” the footman answers. “I am on duty. But thank you.”

“He refuses!” Colin shouts. “Why does he refuse?”

“Because he has dignity. And duties,” Benedict says. “Unlike you.”

“Dignity is for cowards,” Colin argues. “And I have duties!”

“Tupping Penelope five times a day does not constitute responsibility, brother.”

“Ha! Shows what you know,” Colin retorts. “That night I spoke of earlier was, in fact, a fabrication. It was actually seven. I merely wished to spare you embarrassment.”

Ignoring his brothers entirely, Anthony leans closer to James, eyes narrowed in intense, drunken scrutiny. “You know,” he says, “you look like a man with at least eight inches.”

“Anthony!” Benedict cackles. “Behave!”

“What?” Anthony asks, gesturing wildly. “I am observing.”

“Were you not the one who said we must retain our dignity and avoid terrifying the staff with discussions of our manhoods?”

“I am tired of always behaving,” Anthony pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, sounding more beleaguered schoolboy than Viscount.

The footman’s resolve shatters instantly: a rogue bark of laughter leaps out of him before he slams his spine so straight he looks like he’s preparing for military inspection.

“Apologies, my lord,” he mumbles.

They all clap the footman on the back again—far too hard, far too enthusiastically. The poor man lurches forward, catches himself, and wrenches the door open, stepping smartly aside.

They shuffle deeper inside the soaring  Bridgerton House foyer, giggling and bumping shoulders, arguing all the while in hushed but impassioned tones about whether girth counts more than length. Benedict halts and spins back around, nearly tripping over the umbrella stand.

Holding up the bottle like the Crown Jewels themselves—elevated, shimmering, and entirely too precious for mortal hands—he asks, “You’re absolutely certain you don’t want a sip?”

Fighting his smile, the footman bites the inside of his cheek. “Quite certain, sir.”

“Tragic,” Benedict sighs, before turning and staggering after the others as they careen down the hall toward Anthony’s study—where even more excellent brandy awaits. “Not surprising that he abstains, though. He does bear a striking resemblance to—”

“I thought you weren’t going to bring that up,” Anthony says sharply.

“I’m not. I am merely saying he looks like—”

“Ben.” Anthony’s tone is one of parental warning.

“Who does he look like?” Colin demands, wobbling in the vague direction of the stairwell. He’s hauled himself up three steps before Anthony stops him. 

“The study is this way, fatwit.” Anthony motions toward the corridor with his head, hoping to redirect both Colin and the conversation. “Not upstairs.”

“Right. Forgot,” Colin says, pivoting like a confused soldier. “Now, who did you say he looked like?”

Anthony slaps a hand to his forehead. “Now is not the time to regain focus, brother.”

“You remember,” Benedict insists. “The… planetarium. No—Presbyterian? That’s not it.” He scratches furiously at his head, as though the answer might be hiding in his hair. “Utilitarian!”

“He means vegetarian,” Anthony supplies, slurring only lightly. May as well add his own two pence since Benedict can’t shut the fuck up. “Debling. The one who courted Penelope and nearly married her. Owns vast estates in Scotland, Cornwall, Wales, and London.”

Colin freezes on the stairwell, grimacing as Anthony lists holdings. As if Colin might require a map to recall the blond bastard.

“That blighter?” Colin scoffs, clinging to the banister like a port in a storm. “He should be halfway to Antarctica by now. Good riddance to the smarmy sod. A mouth breather if ever I met one. Now he can blow hot air all over the penguins!”

He guffaws so violently that he nearly drops the brandy and falls down the steps.

“Nevertheless, our brother James does bear a striking resemblance to him,” Anthony muses. “Were he taller. And more manly.”

“Debling was not manly. Never manly. In any way. In any universe,” Colin spits.

“I mean, if Debling were more like James—”

“Take it back!” Colin cries, stumbling down the stairs in a wavy line toward his brothers.

“Take what back?” Anthony looks genuinely baffled at the finger Colin has jabbed at his chest.

“What you said!” A poke.

“What did I say?”

“That Debling was manly!” Another poke.

Anthony slaps Colin’s hand away. “I never said he was manly, idiot! I said James is manly, and they look rather alike.”

“They look nothing alike!” Colin snaps. “Debling is a pasty, mealy-mouthed rotter, and I hope his tiny bollocks freeze and fall off. And then may he be forever unable to find them.”

“Someone sounds jealous,” Benedict sing-songs, grabbing Colin’s elbow and dragging him toward the study.

“Someone sounds stupid,” Colin wrenches his arm free. “Debling probably doesn’t even have bollocks anymore. Or a cock. Penguins don’t need cocks. Their entire anatomy has shriveled away in the cold.”

“With blond hair!” Benedict howls, slapping Colin on the back of the head so hard he narrowly misses the study door.

“Ow! Hell and the devil, Ben!”

“Come on, idiots,” Anthony says, leading his wobbling brothers toward the card table.

“I’m going to tell Penelope you are mad with jealousy over her former lover,” Benedict declares, collapsing into a chair.

“He was not her lover!” Colin yells, falling into the chair beside Benedict’s. “She did not love him. She did not even like him. She only loves me! He gave her a fern, for God’s sake. A fern! What sort of courting gift is that?”

“A really terrible one,” Anthony replies solemnly, then starts laughing too.

“And what, pray tell, did you give her?” Benedict prods. “If you are so clever? Melancholy letters? Piss-poor poetry? Some rock you found on a beach somewhere?”

Colin straightens with the solemnity of a knight swearing fealty. “I gave her all of that. And something better. Something infinitely superior.”

He thrusts an arm out triumphantly, nearly toppling his chair.

“My cock! My cock was my courting gift!”

“How utterly romantic,” Benedict says, shaking his head. “I cannot believe she married you.”

“She married me because I fuck like I fence.”

Anthony groans. “Not this again.”

“Yes, yes.” Benedict waves his hand dismissively. “With passion and enthusiasm. We know, we know.”

“Do not forget precision!” Colin adds.

Benedict laughs. “Precision? I thought it was efficiency? Either way, Colin, you miss the target more often than you hit it.”

“I do not!”

Anthony leans back and smirks. “You know what else you do?”

“Whatever it is you’re about to say, I’m sure I do it better than either of you fatwits.” Colin juts his lower lip out in a pout.

“You finish the match so fast that your opponent barely realises it has begun,” Anthony says.

“Penelope is not my opponent; she is my wife.”

“Thank you.” Ben rolls his eyes. “We had no idea you were married to Penelope. You only remind us five hundred thousand times a day. Let’s call her your…sparring partner.”

“Sparring partner!” Anthony slaps his hand on the table. “Good show!”

“Not that it’s any of your affair,” Colin huffs, “but my sparring partner happens to love the way I fence. She likes to spar with me every day. Sometimes four or five times!”

Anthony and Benedict burst into laughter.

“What?” Colin pours another drink and refills their glasses, too. “You are merely jealous!”

That is when the door creaks open and Gregory peeks his head in, wide-eyed and hopeful. “Are you talking about fencing?”

“Go to bed, Gregory,” Anthony commands.

“But…”

“BED.”

“But I am one of the brothers as well! I want to join you!”

“NO!” Anthony bellows.

“But I—”

“No!” The three of them yell in unison. 

“You never let me do anything!”

“You are a child,” Anthony snaps. “Go to bed!”

“This is unfair!” Gregory shouts. “I wish to join you and learn the secret techniques of fencing!”

“You will learn nothing tonight, baby brother,” Benedict says. “You are far too small, far too sober, and far too underdeveloped!”

“Underdeveloped?” Gregory gasps.

“Tragically so.”

“No taverns, no fencing, no brothels!” Gregory spins on his heel, furious. “You are the worst, all of you!”

“You don’t even know what a brothel is,” Anthony says, nostrils flaring with sudden panic. “Do not pretend.”

“I do.” Gregory crosses his arms stubbornly. “It is…where ladies go to knit together. In groups. For money.”

They attempt and fail to hide their laughter behind their hands. One of them snorts violently. 

Gregory’s face turns scarlet. “Stop laughing at me!” he yells. “All I want is to grow into a respectable man and all you do is treat me like a baby!”

“You are a baby!” Anthony answers.

“I am thirteen!”

“Exactly.”

Gregory makes a strangled noise of outrage. “I loathe all of you!”

He spins dramatically and slams the door with such force that the chandelier swings dangerously.

From the hallway, his voice echoes, muffled but full of passion: “You shall miss me when I’m away at Eton! And when I’m gone, I shall not think of you muttonheads at all! I shall be too busy seeking proportion!”

There is a beat of silence before Colin sighs. “Maybe we should let him in,” he says, always the softest among them. “It is not his fault that Mother and Father had three girls before he came along. He’s starved for the company of men.”

“I’m not talking to the child I have helped raise since he was a babe about…” Anthony drops his voice to a whisper. “Fencing.”

“Actually, you’re exactly the right person,” Ben puts in, sounding far too sober. “That is what a father does. You’ll have to do it for young Edmund one day.” He grins, clearly enjoying Anthony’s discomfort. “Talking to Gregory is good practice.”

“He will join us one day,” Anthony declares, lifting his glass. “And until then, I am profoundly grateful not to have to split my brandy among all three of my brothers. Sharing it with you two arrogant lummoxes is punishment enough.” Anthony takes the bottle and pours more into their glasses anyway. “Drink up, gentlemen.”

Over the next forty-five minutes, the bottle dwindles at an alarming rate. Babbling and laughter bounce off the walls. Glasses are drained, refilled, and occasionally spilled, and Anthony scolds them all with every incident—even himself. 

Eventually, Benedict takes a long pull straight from the bottle and leans back, his head tipping toward the ceiling. “Ahhh…glories of the night,” he says dreamily. “I feel glorious.”

Colin nods sagely while swirling his glass, not noticing that he is swirling an empty one. “Glorious,” he agrees solemnly. “Just like my manhood.”

Anthony snorts. “Yes, yes, glorious. Mine too. Kate will agree. I know she will. She tells me daily. Sometimes twice.”

“Not as glorious as mine,” Colin argues.

Ben suddenly sits upright. “Wait…wait! What were we doing before this glorious discussion?”

Colin furrows his brow. “We were…uh…we were…oh!” He brightens. “We were celebrating my glory!”

Anthony groans. “That I remember.”

“No!” Benedict slams his palm on the table, then winces because it hurts more than he expected. “Fencing!”

Anthony’s eyes widen as the memory returns. “Oh. Yes. Fencing. Right.”

“What are we waiting for?” Benedict cries. “Let us move our glorious bodies!”

“Glorious,” Colin echoes. “So glorious…”

“Indeed.” Anthony nods solemnly. “My legs, my arms…my chest…my chest is particularly glorious.”

Colin’s eyes light up. “By god…If our bodies are glorious…”

With intense seriousness, Benedict leans in close, squints at his younger brother, and hiccups, “Then…why must we be clothed?”

“I concur!”

Anthony blinks. “I see your point.”

“We must fence naked!” Colin declares.

Benedict slaps his knee so hard the echo ricochets off the study walls. “Yes! YES! Naked! Fully liberated!”

Anthony pauses mid-sway in his chair, blinking like a newborn deer finding its legs. Slowly—so slowly—a radiant, drunken grin blooms across his face. “This… this is genius. Nothing will stop us. Nothing shall interfere with our virility, our… our…”

Colin thrusts a finger toward him, wobbling dramatically. “...glorious manhoods!”

“Yes!” Benedict roars. “Our manhoods demand freedom!”

Anthony raises his glass with the grave dignity of a statesman who has absolutely no idea what time it is. “To naked fencing!”

Benedict hiccups with such violence that his entire torso snaps forward like a puppet whose strings have been yanked. He reaches for his glass, misses it entirely, and knocks it clean off the table. It shatters with theatrical finality.

He stares at the broken pieces, nods in solemn approval, then raises a victorious fist. “To naked fencing and eternal glory!”

Colin hoists the bottle like a battle standard. “To naked fencing! To precision!” He stabs the air with his free hand as if dueling an invisible foe. “And the perfect thrust!”

“And,” Benedict adds, beaming with drunken pride, “to our beautiful wives Penelope, Kate, and Sophie, who are so lucky to call us their husbands!”

They clink bottle, glass, and a bare hand together—brandy sloshing like a sinking ship—before tumbling out of the study and into the main hall.

Anthony gestures grandly at the wide space. “Here! Here is where true warriors duel!”

Benedict spins in a slow, dizzy circle. “The arena of glory!”

What none of them realise is that their so-called arena is guarded by footman James, stationed at the main door, very pointedly pretending he does not hear three grown noblemen yelling about naked fencing.

Colin, who has already shed his waistcoat and is engaged in a tragic battle to untuck his shirt, points at the footman with utter, radiant delight. “Brother James!”

“Good evening again, sirs,” James answers.

Anthony throws an arm around the young man’s shoulders, nearly knocking him into the cream stucco wall. “James! Just the fellow we need! We are about to fence.”

“Naked!” Benedict adds proudly.

James blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

Colin steps forward, swaying dangerously. “Yes! Naked! And you—” he pokes James square in the chest “—must join us. You are practically a Bridgerton. And we’ve decided you have…what was it, Ant?”

“An eight-inch advantage!” Benedict laughs.

“Exactly!” Anthony slaps James on the back. “A natural-born fencing prodigy! Why bother with a blade when you’ve already got the equipment?”

“Yes! He doesn’t need steel! He is the steel!” 

James inhales slowly through his nose. “Sir…I do not believe that is—”

“Brother,” Anthony interrupts, gripping his shoulders, “it would be an honour for you to fence alongside us tonight.”

James bites the inside of his cheek. “Sir, I am…extremely flattered…but perhaps—”

“Yes, James!” Colin bellows. “Join us, you magnificent man!”

“No pressure,” Benedict adds with a grin, “but if you refuse, Colin will assume it is because you are afraid he shall out-fence you with his own, um… instrument.”

“I WILL NOT BE OUT-FENCED!” Colin shouts instantly, nearly losing his balance.

“That is not what I said, you fatwit!”

James clears his throat. “Sirs, I truly must decline.”

All three brothers gasp dramatically.

“Decline?” Colin looks personally insulted. “He declines to imbibe, he declines to fence.”

“You wound us, James,” Benedict sniffles, wiping an imaginary tear. “Wound us to our core.”

Anthony nods. “But very well. We shall proceed without you. Prepare the hall! Remove the rugs!”

Benedict spreads his arms wide. “Let the glory commence!”

The three brothers cheer, then begin stripping with fervour: Anthony unbuttoning his shirt with heroic determination, Benedict already barefoot and wiggling his toes like a man greeting long-lost friends, and Colin hopping in frantic circles trying to yank off a boot.

James exhales and backs away quietly before slipping up the stairs at full speed. He finds Kate in an armchair in the nursery, baby Edmund sleeping peacefully in the cradle beside her as she hums a soft tune.

“My lady,” James whispers. “I apologise for the interruption, but your husband has returned.”

Kate raises a regal brow. “Has he?”

“Yes, my lady, and he has been drinking.”

“That is not surprising.”

James clears his throat. “No, my lady. He has been…drinking. He and Master Benedict and Master Colin Bridgerton are currently in the entry hall attempting to… to…”

“To what, James?” Kate asks, in the tone of a woman already exhausted by the answer.

James swallows. “Attempting to remove their clothing.”

Kate blinks once. “I beg your pardon?”

James continues helplessly, “They appear to be preparing for some sort of… um… nude fencing tournament.”

Kate closes her eyes. “Oh dear God.”

A beat.

Then, dry as dust: “And here I thought the evening had been going so well.”

She descends the stairs like a queen approaching her throne to restore order to her kingdom. Unfortunately, her kingdom is the Bridgerton front hall, and her subjects are three drunk Bridgerton brothers in various states of undress.

The sight is breathtaking in the worst possible way.

Benedict is down to his linen shirt and breeches, hair wild, shoes and socks abandoned in different corners of the hall.

Colin is hopping on one leg, red-faced, wrestling a boot and shouting, “Release me, you leathered devil!” before promptly crashing into the newel post with a soft thunk.

Anthony stands shirtless in the centre of the chaos, looking like a drunk Greek hero, one shoe missing, the other dangling from his hand.

“For God’s sake,” Kate sighs. “All three of you are addlepated fools. Deeply beloved fools, unfortunately.”

Anthony whirls toward her with a beaming smile. “KATE! My darling!” He throws his arms wide, nearly smacking Benedict in the face. “We are preparing for a noble fencing duel!”

“Naked,” Benedict adds. “Gloriously naked!”

Colin, still fighting his boot, shouts, “This is all for honour! And glory! And thrusting precision!”

Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. “Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Anthony approaches her with immense pride. “My love,” he slurs, “fear not. We are trained professionals.”

“You cannot even stand upright,” Kate mutters.

Anthony opens his mouth to argue, sways sideways, and catches himself on the wall. “Temporarily.”

Kate watches Anthony wobble like a top and decides she has reached her limit. She inclines her head.

“James.”

The footman, who has been hovering in the shadows, praying not to be involved in one of the stupidest chapters of Bridgerton history, steps forward. “Yes, my lady?”

Kate gestures at the scene before her. Colin has just succeeded in freeing his boot—only for it to fly across the hall, arc gracefully, and land squarely in an arrangement of fresh flowers.

Benedict is standing shirtless in front of a window, admiring his own reflection.

Anthony, meanwhile, stares lovingly at Kate with enormous, shining eyes. “You are so beautiful, my darling wife,” he slurs dreamily.

Kate sighs deeply. “James,” she says again, “please inform Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton and Mrs. Sophie Bridgerton that their husbands are ready to be collected.”

James nods gravely. “At once, my lady.”

“And James?”

He pauses. “Yes, my lady?”

“Tell them each to bring a footman or two to assist. Possibly three.”

James departs, and Kate inhales slowly, gathering every ounce of patience she possesses.

“Right,” she says firmly. “All of you. Stop undressing this instant.”

Benedict freezes halfway through unbuttoning his breeches. Colin, bent over fighting his other boot, looks up in a daze. Anthony straightens, clutching the wall for balance.

“But, my love,” Anthony begins, “the duel—”

“There will be no duel,” Kate interrupts. “Not until you have eaten. Proper warriors require strength.”

“Oh, yes!” Colin agrees fervently. “Kate is right. Food strengthens the body. And the thrust. I will be so powerful. Unstoppable! I must eat immediately.”

He marches upstairs toward the drawing room with surprising balance while Anthony and Benedict stare after him.

Anthony whispers, “If Colin eats first…”

Benedict pales. “He will be stronger.”

Anthony’s eyes widen. “He will have an advantage!”

“We cannot allow that!” Benedict declares, already stumbling after Colin.

Anthony puffs up and follows on wobbly feet. “I will not be defeated by my younger brother because he has eaten all the biscuits!”

Kate shepherds all three of them toward the drawing room, redirecting them every time one veers off course.

Benedict gets distracted by a mirror. “Good God. Look at my shoulders. Why are they so magnificent?”

“They’ve never been magnificent, Ben!”

“I smell biscuits! I need biscuits!”

Anthony leans in toward Kate with softened eyes. “My darling wife,” he murmurs, “did I ever tell you that you are the sun, the stars, the moon—”

She grabs him by the shoulders and spins him toward the drawing room. “Walk.”

Somehow—by the grace of God and sheer force of will—she gets all three into the drawing room, where they collapse onto sofas.

“Stay,” Kate orders, pointing at each of them like misbehaving toddlers. “I will have water and food brought at once.”

“For strength.”

“Yes,” Kate sighs. “For strength.”

Anthony mutters, “Can’t let Colin get ahead…”

Benedict nods gravely.

Kate leaves, and soon a young maid appears, balancing a tray of water glasses and a mountain of biscuits and sandwiches.

Colin sits up so fast he nearly topples sideways. “Food! My glorious ascent begins!”

The three men descend upon the tray under the stern, watchful eyes of the maid and a footman who has joined her. For three blissful minutes, true silence reigns. Colin gnaws on a sandwich like he’s discovered bread for the first time. Benedict chews thoughtfully, squinting at his biscuit as though evaluating its artistic merit. Anthony eats slowly, reverently, pausing only to mutter, “Strength… I feel it coursing through me…”

Then the floorboards creak—a small sound that heralds catastrophe—and Kate sweeps in with reinforcements.

And the reinforcements look exactly like two women who had very much been in bed and very much did not expect to retrieve their drunken husbands from whatever fresh hell this is.

Sophie enters first, wrapped in a pale day gown hastily thrown over her nightdress, her black hair hanging in a loose braid. Her face is bare of color—not out of vanity, but because she clearly sprinted here—and the sight of her half-dressed husband sends her eyes skyward with the force of a celestial event.

Behind her is Penelope: breathless, flushed, visibly out of breath from crossing the street while carrying a very round, very late-stage pregnant belly. She’s wearing a lavender robe thrown over her nightgown, tied hastily under her bust, auburn hair tumbling like she’s just rolled out of bed… because she has.

Kate trails behind them with the expression of a general inspecting a battlefield.

Anthony’s face lights up like a child at Christmas. “My love! An audience! Witnesses!”

The moment Colin sees Penelope, his whole face explodes into pure, radiant joy. “WIFE!”

Before anyone can stop him, he barrels toward her.

“Oh dear,” Penelope mutters just as Colin grabs her face and kisses her like he’s returned from war.

When he pulls back, he looks drunker, dazed, and stupidly in love. “God, you are beautiful,” he breathes, stroking her cheeks. “Have I ever told you? That you are the most magnificent, radiant, utterly divine creature ever to walk this earth?”

“Once or twice,” Penelope says dryly, though her smile gives her away.

“Well then! I shall say it again!” Colin roars. “Because the world must know—!”

“Colin.”

“I adore my wife! She is the most beautiful woman to ever walk this earth!”

“Yes, I think she’s fully aware,” Benedict says. “We all are. Loudly.”

“That is not enough!” Colin insists, charging for the windows so he might open them and scream for all of Mayfair to hear. “Everyone must know how much I adore her!”

Penelope sighs. “Let’s go home, love. I am tired, and your giant child is currently rearranging my ribcage.”

A footman tries to help, blocking the windows with his body. “Please, Mr. Bridgerton, it is very late, and your wife is with child and in need of rest.”

Colin gasps. “Oh! Our child! The child I fathered with my virility!”

“Colin.”

“In fact…” Colin turns to her dramatically. “Penelope, my darling wife, you must do me a favour!”

Penelope braces. “Yes?”

“You must tell them all that I—” hiccup “—fuck like I fence.”

Silence.

Kate closes her eyes and whispers, “Good Lord, please,” like a prayer for immediate intervention.

Sophie slaps a hand over her mouth, wavering between fainting and laughing herself into an early grave.

Anthony and Benedict collapse into hysterics.

Colin throws out his arms. “Tell them, Pen! Tell them all!”

“This is the best night of my life!” Benedict wheezes.

Penelope stares at Colin. Then at Kate. Then at Sophie. Then back at Colin. “I cannot believe—”

Benedict leans forward, eyes shining. “Well? Does he?”

Penelope blinks. “Does he what?”

“Fuck like he fences, of course!”

“BENEDICT!” Sophie snaps.

“My wife will confirm it!” Colin insists. “I am a master of both sword and…sword.”

Penelope places a hand to her chest. “Colin, please—”

“Tell them!”

Penelope inhales sharply. “Colin, I swear—”

Benedict gasps. “She didn’t deny it!”

Colin beams. “See? SHE CONFIRMED IT!”

“I DID NOT!” Penelope yelps. “Absolutely not!”

“My wife proclaims my greatness!”

“I am going to have this child in the foyer of your brother’s house,” Penelope mutters as she rubs her belly.

Colin pats her cheek. “Then I shall deliver the child myself! I am trained in swordsmanship!”

“No, you are not!” Penelope cries.

“I must demonstrate!” Colin declares—and begins undoing his breeches.

Penelope practically lunges at him. “Absolutely not!” She refastens the buttons with the desperation of a woman preventing a war.

“But Pen,” Colin whines, “they need to understand.”

“They understand quite well,” she says firmly. “We are going home now.”

While Pen drags Colin toward the drawing room door, Sophie corners Benedict with her arms crossed.

“Benedict Bridgerton,” she says in a voice that could halt armies.

He looks up dreamily. “Yes, my stunning, perfect wife?”

“Get. Up.”

“Yes, love.”

He tries, instantly tilts sideways, and Sophie snatches his arm before he smashes into the table.

“Stand.”

“You are so commanding,” he says happily. “It’s very attractive.”

Sophie sighs. “Dear God.”

“You know,” he murmurs, “I also fuck like I fence. You know it. You’ve experienced it.”

“BENEDICT.”

“What? It is true! I have proven it countless—”

“BENEDICT BRIDGERTON!”

“That is also what you scream when I—”

“Finish that sentence,” Sophie says through clenched teeth, “and you will be sleeping on the floor.”

“Not the settee?”

Sophie gives him a look that could cut a man clean in half.

He freezes. Then nods rapidly. “Yes, wife. Of course, wife.”

Sophie drags him toward the door.

From across the room, Anthony slumps on the sofa. “You are definitely not as good as I am! My thrusts—”

Kate smacks him on the back of the head. “Open your mouth again, and you’re joining him on the floor.”

“But I am Viscount,” he whines. “Might I not have one of the guest bedrooms?”

“There are twenty, Anthony. You are welcome to look at them as you pass on your way to the floor.”

“But—”

“If you insist upon a bed,” Kate says crisply, “you may have Newton’s. And he shall sleep with me.”

Anthony lets out a wounded groan. “Not Newton’s bed. It’s full of dog hair.”

Kate lifts her chin, eyes narrowing. “And the stables are full of horsehair. If you continue speaking, that is where you will be.”

“You love me,” Anthony says hopefully.

“You’re fortunate you’re a sweet, funny drunk,” Kate says—then leans in, voice low and dangerous. “And even then, you are one sentence away from the stables.”

Meanwhile, at the top of the staircase, Colin nearly pitches forward; thankfully, Pen has brought a footman strong enough to catch an entire Bridgerton mid-fall.

“Colin!” Penelope gasps. “Please be careful!”

Colin guffaws, unaware that he could have broken his neck. Then looks at her with soft, drunken awe. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. “And so small.”

“Mmhmm,” Penelope says, grabbing his arm.

“And yet…” He cups her face reverently. “You carry our child. Our child! You are so strong.”

“Yes, love,” she breathes. “I’m aware. Very aware.”

Colin squints, thinking very, very hard. “I wager,” he says, “I could put another baby in you right now.”

“Colin, please.”

“We’d have twins.”

“For the love of God. One of your massive babies is quite enough.”

“My name is Colin,” he corrects her gently. “But you may call me god…if you wish.”

“Oh, how generous of you,” Penelope mutters. “Come along.”

“We could make another baby right here!” he insists, gesturing to the corridor. “All of society shall witness my prowess!”

“I do not think the staff requires any more proof.”

“You’re right,” he nods solemnly. “They are already jealous… like my brothers.”

Behind them, Kate and Sophie are shepherding their own disasters.

Anthony suddenly grabs Kate around the waist and lifts her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“LET US RETIRE TO BED, MY DARLING! I SHALL SHOW YOU MY TRUE FENCING SKILLS!”

“Anthony! Put me down at once!”

Anthony turns to Benedict. “I am taking my wife to bed!”

Benedict raises a hand weakly. “I shall join you.”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “No, he will not.”

“I meant that Sophie and I will join ourselves,” Ben clarifies. “To bed. Alone. To fence.”

Kate, hanging upside down over Anthony’s back, groans and starts smacking at his backside with both hands. “PUT ME DOWN, VISCOUNT, OR SO HELP ME I WILL TAN YOUR HIDE MYSELF.”

Anthony marches upstairs yelling, “Goodnight, brothers! Sleep well! Fence well! Or whatever you do! I must take my Viscountess to bed to restore my virility before dawn.”

Finally, the wives drag their husbands off, one to the carriage waiting out front, the other to their home directly across the square. 

Silence settles over Bridgerton House.

For exactly two seconds.

A bedroom door upstairs bangs open, and Gregory appears on the landing in a crumpled nightshirt, hair sticking up like a startled hedgehog.

He squints down toward the darkened foyer. “I heard shouting about fencing,” he announces loudly. “And no one woke me?”

He folds his arms, affronted. “I am not a child! I could have fenced too! I fence better than Colin!”

No answer.

“Why are you all ignoring me?” Gregory scowls even harder. “And why,” he continues, voice rising, “do the brothers get all the fun while I am treated like—like Eloise?”

From behind him, Hyacinth’s sleepy voice drifts out: “You ARE like Eloise. Now shut the door!”

Gregory gasps in betrayal. “Take that back!”

“Coxcomb!” Hyacinth shouts and slams her door.

Gregory huffs, stomps once for emphasis, and disappears back into his room, muttering, “someday I shall be the one causing scandals.”

Footman James emerges at the top of the staircase. He surveys the wreckage with a sigh: a discarded sock, a broken vase, biscuit crumbs, a glove, a cravat hanging from a chandelier, and a waistcoat crushed into a potted plant.

Beside him appears Mae, a young housemaid with dark hair and darker patience.

Together, they begin tidying.

“I tell you what, Mae,” James says eventually, brushing off his hands. “The Bridgertons are fools. Pompous, ridiculous fools.”

Mae raises an eyebrow. “And you are not?”

“Me?” James scoffs, leaning rakishly on the banister. “I am the true god of… well…” He pats his breeches. “The true god of fencing.”

Mae snorts. “You are?”

James winks. “Indeed. And unlike the Bridgertons, I require no practice. My… armament… never fails.”

Mae shakes her head. “You talk too much.”

“Perhaps.” James steps closer. “But when I show you later, you will understand the full scope of my power. I do fuck like I fence—and unlike those idiots, I know what I’m doing.”

He kisses her briefly. She laughs and rolls her eyes.

Behind them, the hall gleams once more.

Mae shakes her head. “Honestly, James, you are terrifying.”

James shrugs. “Terrifying… and, unlike the Bridgertons, I finish my matches.”

-fin-