It was not that Angelica had spent her life shielded from every shade of gaiety - it would have been rather hard to do at those minor German courts that her parents tended to find their patrons. But she did not think she had ever seen anything equal to the Vauxhall Gardens.
The endless oil lanterns were lighting the walks - most of them, anyway - like glowing fireflies, drawing paths of light for the guests to follow. Once the latter have paid their shilling of admission, anyhow.
The price was not exorbitant, but not particularly low, either, Angelica realized as she quickly recalculated it into the currencies she came to know better. In other words, it did not scare the highborn guests away by the ghost of mingling with the people from the rookeries of St. Giles, but it did not bar the way for ambitious professionals - and their daughters - either. In other words, it was a perfect sort of place for young women like her, who had aspirations, but could hardly enter the ballrooms of duchesses.
'What do you think?' Her father asked, smiling, as they joined the throng. 'Pretty impressive, isn't it?'
'It certainly is'. Turning her head this way and that, Angelica could not help but notice a few slender shadows in the walks beyond the bright path. It was not hard to guess that these were ladies of the night. Vauxhall Gardens gave these Cyprians some playground of their own.
She knew that her knowledge of the fact would better not be displayed in front of Viscount Bridgerton, if she indeed manages to catch his eye and engage him in a conversation tonight. But she could hardly unknow what she knew, and she knew that not every splendid lady her father had painted was a woman of virtue.
The strains of music in the balmy summer air became more insistent as the Rotherhams drew closer to the heart of the gardens. There was an elegant rotunda, the tables inside lighted with candles. However, on this warm June night, few people went in - some of them wandered towards the open-air offerings of cold supper, while most of them focused their attention on the orchestra and the space set out for dancing.
Angelica's eyes darted across the bejewelled crowd. Suddenly, she felt rather foolish. What even made her think that any man of the prolific noble family she set her eyes upon would be here tonight? The promised fireworks were a fine occasion, certainly, but a man about town such as the Viscount or any of his brothers had a goodly array of amusements available for them. Why, they might be gambling at the legendary tables of White's - or, indeed, some gaming hell - or gracing with their presence one of those ballrooms where Angelica would never be admitted, or they might be at the opera. Why did she -
Angelica's thoughts, which were growing too frantic for comfort with every minute, were interrupted by the sight of a tall, dark-haired man with sharp cheekbones and sharper outfit. Granted, she reasoned, this description probably suited half the men of the ton, or at least the more handsome portion of it. But what if it was indeed her quarry?
She asked her father if they might not enjoy some cold ham before the dancing started, and that allowed her to wander off to the table and thus to take a closer position to the stranger. Her simple maneuvering was rewarded soon enough.
'Bridgerton!' Another gentleman exclaimed, coming up to him. 'I say, I thought you have departed this sinful earth'.
'Then you must be the Prince of Denmark, if you are speaking with my ghost', Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, for it must have been him, judging by the age alone, replied. 'What made you think such a thing?'
'Why, you used to be a veritable aficionado of Italian voices, and now you hadn't been to the opera for many months'.
'I have duties to attend to. There is more to life than amusing oneself with sweet Italian - voices'.
'So I keep hearing, but I am not too eager to test this hypothesis myself. Please, don't tell me you are thinking of settling down and taking a wife'.
'I might take a wife one day, but settling down is overstating the case'.
Angelica has heard everything she needed to hear. She was relieved to learn the Viscount was neither married nor engaged - she did not plan to snare him as a husband, and she was definitely not thoughtless enough to throw her reputation away at a mere liaison, but who knew how a bride or a spouse could react to her planned charm offensive?
She took a few steps forward, fanning herself intensely - it was not much of an acting trick, for the night indeed was a little stifling.
And, as though by chance, the fan slipped out of her fingers, and fell softly to the ground.
The Viscount bent to retrieve it with a quickness that betrayed an almost automatic courtesy.
'Here is your fan, Miss...' He paused. 'I don't believe we had been introduced'.
'Rotherham', she answered quickly. 'Angelica Rotherham'.
'Ah'. His eyes grew colder, and, when she took the fan out of his hand, his fingers were unmoving. 'I believe I have heard the name'.
'You have?'
'My younger brother had mentioned it in one of his letters from the Continent. Your father is a painter, isn't he?'
'An artist', Angelica corrected him, as though it could make a difference.
'An artist with a degree of ambition, I see'.
'I beg your pardon?'
Her indignation was hollow. She understood very well what exactly did VIscount Bridgerton mean. An ambitious portraitist, to thrust his pretty daughter out onto the marriage mart and have her attract the attention of an eligible bachelor with the oldest trick in the book.
To Angelica's later great relief, the Viscount never did get to voice this thought aloud, for she did not know what she would have said or done if he did - likely something that would have later given her cause for regret.
He never did get to voice it, because he was interrupted by someone else:
'Anthony, there is first-rate ham and olives better than whatever Colin is currently tasting in Greece. I believe we have a duty to lay waste to this table before the dancing starts'.
Angelica turned her head, and found herself looking into the eyes of a man who could only have been one of the Viscount's brothers. It was not a difficult conclusion to draw - they shared the hue of their hair, the breadth of their shoulders, and those peculiar Bridgerton cheekbones. However, there was a very notable difference - if the eldest brother was a creature of cold Byronic beauty, his younger sibling, if it was indeed his younger sibling, had a smile bright as silver, and his hair tousled in the most undecorous way.
Angelica couldn't help but gaze.
The Honourable Mr. Bridgerton - that was, as far as she recalled, the correct title for a younger son - looked at her in return. Then, he looked at his older brother:
'Anthony, what in Hades did you tell the poor lady that her eyes are blazing so now?'
'Nothing of note, Benedict. I have merely inquired about her family'.
'Please, do forgive my brother', Benedict Bridgerton asked Angelica with all the pretense of seriousness, even though a spark danced in his eyes. 'He really is a fiend sometimes'.
'You don't even know what I've said'.
'I know you. I am your brother, and I know you have a habit of being a fiend'. There was no rancour his tone, despite the seeming fierceness of the words; if anything, he seemed to be teasing the head of the family. Judging by the lack of any strong reaction from the head of the family in question, it was probably far from the first time in the siblings' lives they spoke to each other like this. 'I believe the dancing is starting soon. Miss...'
'Angelica Rotherham'.
'May I offer you a dance or two in the way of apology for my fiend of a brother?'
Angelica's heart skipped a beat. She knew the fickle goddess Fortuna was on her side right now, and she would have probably done well to agree immediately. However, something in that dazzling smile of the younger Bridgerton provoked her into smiling in return, not without teasing:
'You seem to regard yourself as a magnificent dancer, Mr. Bridgerton, if you think this would constitute a mollifying apology'.
'Magnificent might be overstating the case, but my dancing-master always told me I am a pleasure to have in class'.
'What a coincidence. Mine used to tell me the same. Of course, that might well mean we are both mediocre'.
'In that case, Miss Rotherham, we are well-matched'.
The sound of the violins swelled in the night air, and Benedict Bridgerton offered her his right hand, palm upward:
'It seems they are starting with a waltz. Would you care for it?'
'Another coincidence'. Angelica put her gloved hand in his, and shivered slightly when his warm fingers squeezed hers. 'It happens to be one of my favorite dances'.