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 he laughs.”

“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’s laughing, 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 bosom!”

“Posy!”

“It’s my only good feature.”

“It is not!” Sophie glanced 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 her lap. “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 has come 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 eccentricity.”

“I wish you the best with that,” Sophie said, not without sarcasm.

“You don’t think I can?”

“You’re the least eccentric person I know.”

It was true, of course, but if Posy had to spend her life as an old maid, she wanted to be the eccentric one with the large hat, not the desperate one with the pinched mouth.

“What is his name?” she asked.

But before Sophie could answer, they heard the front door opening, then it was the butler giving her her answer, as he announced, “Mr. Woodson is here to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

Posy stashed her half-eaten biscuit under a serviette and folded her hands prettily in her lap. She was a little miffed with Sophie for inviting a bachelor for tea without warning her, but still, there seemed little reason not to make a good impression. She looked expectantly at the doorway, waiting patiently as Mr. Woodson’s footsteps drew near.

And then…

And then…

Honestly, it wouldn’t do to try to recount it, because she remembered almost nothing of what followed.

She saw him, and it was as if, after twenty-five years of life, her heart finally began to beat.

Hugh Woodson had never been the most admired boy at school. He had never been the most handsome, or the most athletic. He had never been the cleverest, or the snobbiest, or the most foolish. What he had been, and what he had been all of his life, was the most well liked.

People liked him. They always had. He supposed it was because he liked most everybody in return. His mother swore he’d emerged from the womb smiling. She said so with great frequency, although Hugh suspected she did so only to give her father the lead-in for: “Oh, Gertrude, you know it was just gas.”

Which never failed to set the both of them into fits of giggles.

It was a testament to Hugh’s love for them both, and his general ease with himself, that he usually laughed as well.

Nonetheless, for all his likeability, he’d never seemed to attract the females. They adored him, of course, and confided their most desperate secrets, but they always did so in a way that led Hugh to believe he was viewed as a jolly, dependable sort of creature.

The worst part of it was that every woman of his acquaintance was absolutely positive that she knew the perfect woman for him, or if not, then she was quite sure that a perfect woman did indeed exist.

That no woman ever thought herself the perfect woman had not gone unnoticed. Well, by Hugh, at least. Everyone else was oblivious.

But he carried on, because there could be no point in doing otherwise. And as he had always suspected that women were the cleverer sex, he still held out hope that the perfect woman was indeed out there.

After all, no fewer than four dozen women had said so. They couldn’t all be wrong.

But Hugh was nearing thirty, and Miss Perfection had not yet seen fit to reveal herself. Hugh was beginning to think that he should take matters into his own hands, except that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to do such a thing, especially as he’d just taken a living in a rather quiet corner of Wiltshire, and there didn’t seem to be a single appropriately aged unmarried female in his parish.

Remarkable but true.

Maybe he should wander over to Gloucestershire Sunday next. There was a vacancy there, and he’d been asked to pitch in and deliver a sermon or two until they found a new vicar. There had to be at least one unattached female. The whole of the Cotswolds couldn’t be bereft.

But this wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. He was just arriving for tea with Mrs. Bridgerton, an invitation for which he was enormously grateful. He was still familiarizing himself with the area and its inhabitants, but it had taken but one church service to know that Mrs. Bridgerton was universally liked and admired. She seemed quite clever and kind as well.

He hoped she liked to gossip. He really needed someone to fill him in on the neighborhood lore. One really couldn’t tend to one’s flock without knowing its history.

He’d also heard that her cook laid a very fine tea. The biscuits had been mentioned in particular.

“Mr. Woodson to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

Hugh stepped into the drawing room as the butler stated his name. He was rather glad he’d forgotten to eat lunch because the house smelled heavenly and-

And then he quite forgot everything.

Why he’d come.

Who he was.

The color of the sky, even, and the smell of the grass.

Indeed, as he stood there in the arched doorway of the Bridgertons’ drawing room, he knew one thing, and one thing only.

The woman on the sofa, the one with the extraordinary eyes who was not Mrs. Bridgerton, was Miss Perfection.

Sophie Bridgerton knew a thing or two about love at first sight. She had, once upon a time, been hit by its proverbial lightning bolt, struck dumb with breathless passion, heady bliss, and an odd tingling sensation across her entire body.

Or at least, that was how she remembered it.

She also remembered that while Cupid’s arrow had, in her case, proven remarkably accurate, it had taken quite a while for her and Benedict to reach their happily ever after. So even though she wanted to bounce in her seat with glee as she watched Posy and Mr. Woodson stare at each other like a pair of lovesick puppies, another part of her-the extremely practical, born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-blanket, I-am-well-aware-that-the-world-is-not-made-up-of-rain-bows-and-angels part of her-was trying to hold back her excitement.

But the thing about Sophie was, no matter how awful her childhood had been (and parts of it had been quite dreadfully awful), no matter what cruelties and indignities she’d faced in her life (and there, too, she’d not been fortunate), she was, at heart, an incurable romantic.

Which brought her to Posy.

It was true that Posy visited several times each year, and it was also true that one of those visits almost always coincided with the end of the season, but Sophie might have added a little extra entreaty to her recently tendered invitation. She might have exaggerated a bit when describing how quickly the children were growing, and there was a chance that she had actually lied when she said that she was feeling poorly.

But in this case, the ends absolutely justified the means. Oh, Posy had told her that she would be perfectly content to remain unmarried, but Sophie did not believe her for a second. Or to be more precise, Sophie believed that Posy believed that she would be perfectly content. But one had only to look at Posy snuggling little William and Alexander to know that she was a born mother, and that the world would be a much poorer place if Posy did not have a passel of children to call her own.

It was true that Sophie had, one time or twelve, made a point of introducing Posy to whichever unattached gentleman was to be found at the moment in Wiltshire, but this time…

This time Sophie knew.