Chapter 9: The Dinner Revelation
The silence after the toast was a physical thing, a thick, tasting silence that filled the mouth like spoiled wine. The only sound was the collective, shuddering breath of the Bridgertons themselves, their bodies still humming from the swift, shocking penetrations. The guests—Lady Featherington, the Duke of Hastings, a few lesser baronets and their wives—sat as if carved from ice. Their spoons hovered over untouched vichyssoise. A drop of condensation slid down Hastings’ water glass like a slow tear.
Colin dabbed his lips with his napkin, the linen stark white against his fingers. He surveyed the table, his expression one of benign contentment. “The lamb, I am told, is exceptional.”
It was Benedict who broke the spell, a soft, ragged chuckle escaping him as he adjusted his waistcoat, his body still remembering the blunt, possessive fullness of his brother inside him. He picked up his spoon.
Lady Featherington, her face the color of old parchment, made a small, choked sound. “I… I believe I am unwell.”
“Nonsense, Portia,” Violet said, her voice steadier than her hands, which she willed to stop trembling as she lifted her own spoon. The sensitive flesh between her legs throbbed with a delicious, empty ache. “It is only the heat of the room. Eat. It will settle you.”
The Duke of Hastings, Simon, turned his head slowly toward his wife. Daphne met his gaze, her blue eyes clear and untroubled. A faint, beatific smile played on her lips. She leaned toward him, her whisper carrying only to his ears. “It is a great honor, my love. To be invited to witness. Do not look so stormy. You are part of the family now.”
“What in the everlasting fuck,” he hissed back, the words ground out between clenched teeth, “did I just witness?” His mind refused to process it: the sight of his elegant wife, her gown hoisted, impaled on her brother’s cock right there on the dining room rug. The wet sound. Her sigh.
“You witnessed grace,” she murmured, and took a delicate sip of wine.
At the foot of the table, Anthony sat perfectly straight, his jaw a hard line. The ache in his arse was a brand, a secret he carried under his fine clothes. It humbled him. It thrilled him. He caught Colin’s eye and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Thank you.
Colin returned the nod, then glanced at the ducal end of the table. “Hastings. You have a question.”
It was not a query. Simon felt every eye upon him. The family’s looks were not hostile, but patient, as if waiting for a child to comprehend a simple lesson.
“A question?” Simon’s laugh was short, harsh. “I have a hundred questions, Bridgerton. Starting with what manner of sickness grips this house.”
“Sickness?” Colin tilted his head, his curls catching the candlelight. “You saw health. You saw unity. You saw a love so profound it must be expressed in the most primal, truthful way. The body does not lie, Duke. My cock,” he said, the obscenity landing in the formal room like a hammer blow, “is the binding agent of this family. It is our communion. You watched us take it.”
“I watched you violate your own blood in front of company!” Simon slammed a hand on the table, making the silver jump. Daphne placed a calming hand over his wrist; he shook it off as if scalded.
“Violate?” Eloise spoke up, her chin lifted. Her voice was steady, though her legs still felt weak. “I begged for it. Silently. He knew. He always knows what we need. It is a blessing to be filled by him, even for a moment. You could never understand.”
Simon looked at their faces: Violet’s placid authority, Benedict’s wry acceptance, Anthony’s stark devotion, Daphne’s glowing tranquility. A cold dread seeped into his bones. This was not a momentary madness. It was a creed.
Colin stood again. The room froze. He didn't move toward Simon, but around the table, his steps slow and measured. He stopped behind Lady Featherington, placing his hands on her rigid shoulders. She squeaked.
“You are shocked,” Colin said, his voice smooth as honey. “Your hearts race. Your blood is up. This is the natural reaction to a divine truth. It feels like terror. But it is awe.” His hands squeezed her shoulders, then released. He continued his circuit.
He paused behind Simon’s chair. Simon could feel the heat of him, smell the faint, unmistakable scent of sex and feminine arousal that clung to his brother-in-law’s trousers. His stomach coiled.
“You are an outsider looking in,” Colin murmured, his breath disturbingly close to Simon’s ear. “You see the act, but not the meaning. You see flesh, but not the sacrament.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a intimate whisper that slithered into Simon’s brain. “You saw me slide into your wife’s cunt. You saw her take me, so wet, so ready. Did it anger you? Or did it… excite you? To see the woman you claim, gaping for another man? To know her deepest worship is not for you?”
Simon shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He faced Colin, taller, broader, his fury a palpable wave. “You disgusting, twisted bastard. I’ll kill you.”
Before he could move, Anthony was there. Not as a challenger, but as a shield. He placed himself between Simon and Colin, his back to his brother, his eyes on the Duke. “You will not,” Anthony said, his voice low and deadly. “You will sit down, or you will leave. But you will not touch him.”
The raw, protective fervor in the Viscount’s eyes was more terrifying than any threat. This was not a brother defending a brother. This was a zealot defending his god.
Colin simply stepped around Anthony, unperturbed. He stood before Simon, close enough that their chests almost touched. He looked up, utterly fearless. “Kill me, then. Plunge your knife into the heart of this family. See what happens to your wife. See what happens to the peace you know. She is already mine, Hastings. In a way you can never fathom. Her moans at your touch are courtesy. The cry she gave tonight was liturgy.”
Daphne made a soft, yearning sound from her seat.
Simon’s fist clenched. He looked past Colin, to his wife. Her eyes were not on him. They were locked on Colin, wide with adoration. That look, more than any strange ritual, broke him. It was the final, devastating proof.
Colin saw the fracture. He smiled, a small, tender thing. He reached out and, with shocking gentleness, adjusted the lay of Simon’s cravat. “Sit. Eat. The lamb is exceptional. And later, if you wish… we might show you more. You might learn the taste of true devotion.”
Defeated, hollowed out, the Duke of Hastings sank back into his chair. He did not look at his soup. He looked at his hands.
“Excellent,” Colin said, returning to his seat. He picked up his knife and fork. The sound of silver slicing through tender meat was the only sound for a long moment.
Then Violet spoke, her voice weaving the normalcy back together with seamless grace. “Benedict, do tell us about your latest painting. I understand the light in your studio has been particularly fine.”
And just like that, conversation, stilted and surreal, began to flow around the table. The Bridgertons talked of art and weather and politics, their voices overlapping, their faces animated. Their bodies, underneath the fine linen and silk, still pulsed where Colin had been. They were connected, a circuit of sublime completion, orbiting the radiant, quietly chewing man at the head of the table.
Simon watched them, a castaway on an island of sanity that was shrinking by the second. He understood now. They weren’t hiding their secret. They were sharing it. They were feeding it to him, one bite of lamb, one sip of wine, one whispered prayer at a time. And he was beginning, terribly, to digest it.