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Most of the earl’s wishes were standard fare. He left bequests to loyal servants. He settled funds on Rosamund, Posy, and  even Sophie, ensuring that all three girls would have respectable dowries.
And then the solicitor reached Araminta’s name.
To my wife, Araminta Gunningworth, Countess of Penwood, I leave a yearly income  of two thousand pounds—
“That’s all?” Araminta cried out.
—unless she agrees to shelter and care for my ward, Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, until the latter reaches  the age of twenty, in which case her yearly income shall be trebled to six thousand pounds.
“I don’t want her,” Araminta whispered.
“You don’t have to take her,” the solicitor reminded her. “You can—”
“Live on a measly two thousand a year?” she snapped. “I don’t think so.”
The solicitor, who lived on considerably less than two thousand a year, said nothing.
The new earl, who’d been drinking steadily throughout the meeting, just shrugged.
Araminta stood.
“What is your decision?” the solicitor asked.
“I’ll take her,” she said in a low voice.
“Shall I find the girl and tell her?”
Araminta shook her head. “I’ll tell her myself.”
But when Araminta found Sophie, she left out a few important facts...
Chapter 1
This year’s most sought-after invitation must surely be that of the Bridgerton masquerade ball, to be held Monday next. Indeed, one cannot take two steps without being forced to listen to some society mama speculating on who will attend, and perhaps more importantly, who will wear what.
Neither of the aforementioned topics, however, are nearly as interesting as that of the two unmarried  Bridgerton brothers, Benedict and Colin. (Before anyone points out that there is a third unmarried Bridgerton brother, let This Author assure you that she is fully aware of the existence of Gregory Bridgerton. He is, however, fourteen years of age, and therefore not pertinent to this particular column, which concerns, as  This Author’s columns often do, that most sacred of sports: husband-hunting.)
Although the Misters Bridgerton are just that—merely Misters—they are still considered two of the prime catches of the season. It is a well-known fact that both are possessed of respectable fortunes, and it does not require perfect sight to know that they also possess, as do all eight of the Bridgerton offipring, the Bridgerton good looks.
Will some fortunate young lady use the mystery of a masquerade night to snare one of the eligible bachelors?
This Author isn’t even going to attempt to speculate.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1815
Sophie! Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
As screeches went, it was enough to shatter glass. Or at least an eardrum.
“Coming, Rosamund! I’m coming!” Sophie hitched up the hem of her coarse woolen skirts and hurried up the stairs, slipping  on the fourth step and only just barely managing to grab the bannister before landing on her bottom. She should have remembered that the stairs would be slick; she’d helped the downstairs maid wax them just that morning.
Skidding to a halt in the doorway to Rosamund’s bedroom and still catching her breath, Sophie said, “Yes?”
“My tea is cold.”
What Sophie wanted to say was, “It was warm when I brought it an hour ago, you lazy fiend.”
What she did say was, “I’ll get you another pot.”
Rosamund sniffed. “See that you do.”
Sophie stretched her lips into what the nearly blind might call a smile and picked up the tea service. “Shall I leave the biscuits?” she asked.
Rosamund gave her pretty head a shake. “I want fresh ones.”
Shoulders slightly stooped from the weight of the overloaded tea service, Sophie exited the room, careful not to start  grumbling until she’d safely reached the hall. Rosamund was forever ordering tea, then not bothering to drink it until an hour passed. By then, of course, it was cold, so she had to order a fresh pot.
Which meant Sophie was forever running up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down. Sometimes it seemed that was all she did with her life.
Up and down, up and down.
And of course the mending, the pressing, the hairdressing, the shoe polishing, the darning, the bedmaking ... “Sophie!” Sophie turned around to see Posy heading toward her.
“Sophie, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you think this color is becoming on me?”
Sophie assessed Posy’s mermaid costume. The cut wasn’t quite right for Posy, who had never lost all of her baby fat, but the color did indeed bring out the best in her complexion. “It is a lovely shade of green,” Sophie replied quite honestly. “It makes your cheeks very rosy.”
“Oh, good. I’m so glad you like it. You do have such a knack for picking out my clothing.” Posy smiled as she reached out and plucked a sugared biscuit from the tray. “Mother has been an absolute bear all week about the masquerade ball, and I know I shall never hear the end of it if I do not look my best. Or”—Posy’s face twisted into a grimace—”if she thinks I do not look  my best. She is determined that one of us snare one of the remaining Bridgerton brothers, you know.” “I know.”
“And to make matters worse, that Whistledown woman has been writing about them again. It only”—Posy finished chewing and paused while she swallowed—”whets her appetite.”
“Was the column very good this morning?” Sophie asked, shifting the tray to rest on her hip. “I haven’t had a chance to read  it yet.”