It was official, Newton loved Sir Sloane Beckett.

Almost too much, Winnie observed privately, as Newton had hardly paid her any attention since the man had entered the sitting room at the Sheffield House. At first, she thought it cute the way that Newton scrambled over to Sloane on his short legs, but then the dog wouldn't leave his side. Sloane did not care, of course, as he liked Newton and enjoyed playing with him and riling him up. However, Winnie did care.

There were few things in this world that made Winnie Sheffield jealous and not having most of Newton's attention was one of them. It was silly, but she didn't care.

Sloane, of course, did not catch onto Winnie's slightly sour mood as she stared passive aggressively at Newton, who sat on his lap without a care in the world, smiling smugly toward his mistress. They had been chatting about his history with violin and when she wasn't thinking about Newton's newfound hatred of her, she found his stories quite entertaining.

After she called Newton over to her and he settled on her lap, she asked Sloane, "What has been your favorite piece to play?"

Winnie admired the way his face lit up as he spoke about his favorite ballad. It was a good pick, as she quite enjoyed the piece he described, though she wasn't one hundred percent positive that they were speaking of the same song. She softly ran her fingers through Newton's hair as he laid dutifully on her lap, starting to snore as he was lulled to sleep by the repetitive movements.

"No, no, it's this one," Sloane corrected her when she asked. He started humming and she instantly recognized where she had gone wrong.

Even his humming is dreamy, she thought wistfully. She couldn't help it! No, she wasn't interested in Sloane as more than a friend, but she could admit that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

"Oh, right, I see!" she laughed as she joined him, humming. She didn't have a terrible voice, but she was nowhere near the caliber that Sloane was at. Still, being the gentleman he was, he applauded her.

They laughed together and when they settled down, Sloane steered the conversation toward her.

"Please tell me if I am overstepping, but I was wondering about your dress making."

Apparently, Sloane didn't beat around the bush. Winnie's stomach twisted nervously, but she laughed it off.

"You know, the first question I asked you was your favorite color," she pointed out.

"I apologize," Sloane smiled and gestured to her purple day dress. "Is it purple? You wear a lot of it."

"Purple looks best with my skin," Winnie told him, lifting her chin slightly. He was close, though, as it was her second-favorite color. "Blue–light blue, that is–is my favorite."

"Ah, I see," Sloane took a sip of tea and quickly popped the rest of his biscuit into his mouth, chewing thoroughly. "But the dress making...?"

"What is it that you want to know?"

"How'd you get into it?"

"Well, I was young..."

Winnie started the tale of the events that led to her love of dress making. It started, of course, with her mother taking her to the modiste for the first time.

Six-year-old Winnie had never been more excited in her life. Though she had met the modiste, Madame Delacroix, and her daughter, Miss Delacroix, before during fittings at the Sheffield House, she had never been into the modistes' store itself. As the carriage pulled up to the small shop, she squeezed her mother's hand.

"Mama!"

"Patience, my darling," Elizabeth Sheffield chided lightly as the footman opened the carriage door. She gave him her hand and once she was steady on her feet outside of the carriage, she turned to help Winnie out. The little girl hopped out excitedly, almost tripping in her haste, and Elizabeth had to hide her laugh. "Careful, Freddie."

"Sorry, Mama."

Chastised, Winnie settled her anxious movements and let her mother lead her into the small store. She gaped in awe at the two dresses on display in each of the store-front windows, beautiful, soft, and flowing. She wanted one just like them.

A bell rang when they entered the shop and instantly Winnie's attention went to the row of fabrics hanging on the wall across from the front counter. There had to be more fabrics than all of her mama's wardrobe!

She reached out to touch a roll of what looked like some kind of fur, but her mother clicked her tongue. "Freddie."

Thankfully, her mama sounded more amused than upset. She retook Elizabeth's hand and continued to look around the front part of the shop. Within a minute, a familiar young black woman hustled into the room.

"Ah, Lady Sheffield, hello!" The lady spoke with a French accent. "Hello again, Miss Sheffield."

Winnie shuffled closer to her mother, hoping to hide behind her, and waved at Miss Delacroix. They had met a few times before, but Winnie was shy with everyone who wasn't her mother, father, lady's maid, or governess. When her mama softly squeezed her hand, she spoke quietly, "Good afternoon, Miss Delacroix."

Miss Delacroix was only ten and seven years old, and though she worked under her Mama–the Madame Delacroix–she made a very fine modiste, indeed. Usually, when Miss Delacroix came to Sheffield House, she was with Madame Delacroix and while she and Elizabeth would chat about fabric, color, and dress design, Miss Delacroix would measure her. She was quiet, much like Winnie, but she was not shy. Winnie quite liked the older girl and wished she could spend more time with her; it would be like having an older sister! Even Daphne didn't have one of those.

Miss Delacroix smiled at her which made Winnie want to smile too. She showed off her missing teeth in a beaming grin and when her mother and Miss Delacroix started chatting, she sneakily slipped her hand out of her mother's and wandered over to the wall of fabric.

There were so many! There was pink silk, purple tulle, white lace, blue chiffon, and many others that Winnie could not even begin to know the names of. She only knew as much as she did because she paid attention when her mama and Madame Delacroix had their chats about her dresses.

For a second time, she reached to touch the roll of fur and this time, her mama didn't disturb her. The fur was luxurious and soft and Winnie couldn't help but wonder what the coat made out of it would look like.

"It is soft, no?" Miss Delacroix had snuck up on her when Madame Delacroix came out of the back room and took over the conversation with Elizabeth. Winnie quickly let go of the fur and nodded. "Feel this one."

Miss Delacroix guided her further down the wall, until they were well inside one of the fitting rooms. The wall of fabric continued and Winnie dutifully reached toward the light purple fabric that Miss Delacroix showed her. It was a soft, sheer fabric that she didn't know the name of, and it shimmered slightly in the glow of the candlelight. It was beautiful.

"It is called organza. It is made from silk and is quite expensive."

"I love it," Winnie told Miss Delacroix, who watched her with a knowing look on her face. "Is it hard to sew?"

Winnie did not like to boast about her accomplishments, but she was very proud of how far she had gotten with her needlework. Making patterns or words had been something she'd mastered for a year already, and since she turned seven, her mama had begun to let her experiment with sewing some of her dolls' clothes. She wasn't the best, but her mama said that she showed great promise.

"One just needs a gentle hand," Miss Delacroix told her. "Your Mama has told me that you like to make dresses for your dolls."

Winnie nodded and then winced softly. "I'm not good."

"Well, I should not expect you to be. You are just beginning," Miss Delacroix giggled. "Would you be interested in some lessons, then? Your mama and I have spoken and we think that you could have a real talent in dressmaking."

"Really?" a swell of hope rose in Winnie's chest, making her heart thump faster.

"Really."

Winnie turned to her mother and saw that Elizabeth was already looking at her, a knowing smile on her lips. An unspoken question made its mark on Winnie's face and all Elizabeth had to do was nod for Winnie to know that her mama was completely serious in letting her take dressmaking lessons with Miss Delacroix.

Tears of happiness welled in Winnie's brown eyes as she turned back to Miss Delacroix. "It would be an honor for you to teach me, Miss Delacroix!"

The older woman smiled. "Please, call me Genevive."

-

"That is amazing that your mother allowed you to pursue such a talent," Sloane smiled genuinely, politely ignoring the way that Winnie dabbed the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief. "Does your father know?"

"No," Winnie laughed, slightly bitter. "If Papa knew I was making my own dresses, let alone selling them to Madame Delacroix, he'd murder me," she deepened her voice to imitate her father. "'Tis not a woman's job to earn for her family!'"

Sloane smiled sadly, seeming to sympathize with her. Winnie knew that he did; his father was horrid about his violin playing and saw it as too soft a job for a man. It was ridiculous. Almost all of the notable violin players in society were men, excluding, of course, the Smythe-Smith Quartet, who were notable for reasons other than their ability to play the violin.

Winnie was starting to get upset on Sloane's behalf, her eyes stinging again, so to calm herself, she busied herself with petting Newton again. His soft snores were soothing to her and he often helped with her moods, even whilst he was asleep.

"Well, I think that Lord Sheffield should be rather lucky to have such a talented daughter," Sloane stated and took a sip of his tea.

Winnie smiled. "Yes, I suppose he should be."

-

It had been a horrid morning for Winnie after an even worse night.

The storm had blown into Mayfair without any warning. After the first boom of thunder that shook the house and woke Winnie from her sleep, she did not close her eyes again until the rain ebbed and the first rays of sunlight appeared. She spent the night trembling under her desk, knees to her chest, forehead to her knees, one hand clutching her aching chest and the other holding onto Newton.

Wiinnie hated thunderstorms. She hadn't grown up hating them; in fact, when she was young, she loved when they came around, lulling her to sleep and keeping her there until she was woken up by her ladys' maid the next morning. It was only when she was ten and seven years old when her love turned to hate and sleepiness turned to fear.

Five years prior, on the night that George Sheffield was born, there had been a thunderstorm. It was one of the worst in years and the thunder was so loud that night that despite the deafness in her right ear, she had no trouble hearing it. Even louder than the thunder that night, however, was her mother's screams.

She didn't remember much about that night, admittedly. She knew that she had been in the room when George was born and that she stayed with her mama as the baby was carried out to her papa. She had been told that she was holding her mama's hand as she bled out, and that she sobbed hysterically when Elizabeth's hand fell limp and her breathing ceased. She didn't remember seeing her mother die, but she did remember the screams, the thunder and lightning, and the fear, panic, and grief that flooded her body. Unfortunately, she couldn't forget that if she tried.

From that night on, thunderstorms led to bad nights and worse mornings. That morning was no different. Thankfully, she had Anna and Matilda to help her through it. After downing a tonic for her throbbing headache, the curtains in her room were drawn closed and Winnie was allowed to sleep for a few more hours, missing breakfast with George and Thomas, but regaining the hours of sleep she had missed out on due to the storm.

Unfortunately, her head still ached when she finally woke around lunch time. She was fed more medicine whilst she bathed and dressed, and her lunch was prepared. A tray of sandwiches and fruit had just been delivered to her by one of the kitchen maids when Anna popped her head into the room.

"Lord Bridgerton is here to see you."

Winnie turned away from Newton, who she had been feeding a slice of apple to, and raised an eyebrow in Anna's direction. "The Viscount, Lord Bridgerton?"

"Yes."

"What on Earth could he want?"

"He said that you had a meeting."

"A meeting about what?"

"He did not say."

"He did not say?"

Anna nodded. "He did not."

Winnie pursed her lips and rubbed her temple as it throbbed suddenly. "Then I shall not see him today."

Anna hesitated for a few seconds but ultimately nodded and left. Winnie bit into a sandwich and started on some red grapes when she came back, looking irritated.

"Miss, he will not leave," she reported, audibly annoyed with the man. "He insists that you meet."

He's so stubborn, she cursed him privately. "Did he say why he wanted to meet?"

Thankfully, Anna had pried the answer from the Viscount. "He said it was about Miss Bridgerton."

Admittedly, she had forgotten that she had promised to help Anthony find Daphne eligible bachelors for the rest of the season. Really, she saw no reason for them to dwell on it; Daphne was handling it all on her own with the help of the duke. From what Daphne and Lady Whistledown had reported, she had no shortage of suitors proposing to her.

Winnie popped another grape in her mouth and stood. "I shall meet with him. Would you mind bringing down the food? I'm still rather starved."

Anna nodded and picked up the tray, following Winnie out of the room.

"Newton, come!"

-

Anthony was having a rather pleasant morning. It was nothing special, of course; he woke up, refreshed after a rare good night of sleep, ate breakfast, did some paperwork that needed his attention, and then set out to meet with Winnifred. He was hesitant, of course, about meeting with her, but it had been his idea for them to work together.

And he did honestly think that they would work well together, especially where his siblings were concerned.

However, the longer he sat in the Sheffields' sitting room, he started to become annoyed. Already Winnifred's lady's maid came and went and came back again, claiming that Winnifred wasn't taking visitors. He had to, rather stubbornly, insist that she see him; he was not about to let her back out of their agreement, especially when he had a hard time coming to her for help in the first place.

He was not leaving.

"...Well, Lord Bridgerton, if you shall not leave, I believe Miss Sheffield should want to know the reason for your visit."

He didn't like the way that the maid glared at him, nor the way she spoke to him.

"Then you shall tell her that it is about my sister," Anthony matched her hostile energy, raising his brows into an expectant expression. "I shall continue to wait here until her arrival. Thank you."

The maid did not like him dismissing her, he could tell. To be fair, though he did not like the woman, he did feel bad for being rude. Nevertheless, he was here to see Winnifred, not her maid and, he checked his father's watch, he was running out of time before he was expected back at home for afternoon tea.

The maid left the room to fetch Winnifred and within a few moments he heard the tapping of her dog's nails against the floorboards as they came down the stairs. The dog, Anthony couldn't remember his name for the life of him, hustled into the room first, a huge grin on its furry face.

Anthony had not even known that dogs could smile like that.

He cleared his throat and ducked down, smiling back at the dog. "Hello...dog," he grimaced at his greeting and tried his best to make the dog like him. He tapped his thigh and clicked his tongue invitingly. "Here, boy!"

In an instant, the panting dog's smile fell and he tensed up, letting out a rough bark at Anthony. Anthony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering what he did to offend the dog so much.

The dog continued to bark until Winnifred's voice floated into the room. "Newton, quiet!"

Newton stopped barking and Anthony sighed in relief. That relief fled when Winnifred stepped into the room. She looked...horrible. Well, she was still beautiful, of course, but she looked haggard, or sick.

Tired, she's tired, he realized. There were shadows under her eyes, where the whites were pink. There was a scab forming on her lower lip, probably from her biting on it, and she wasn't smiling like she usually was.

"Are you alright?" he asked instantly, stepping forward. When Newton growled warningly at him, he ignored the dog and reached up, touching her cheek with the back of his hand. She was warm, too warm. "You're not well."

A feeling of unease started swirling around his stomach, through his chest, and up to where his heart was beating unsteadily.

Winnifred looked up at him with wide brown eyes before they flitted toward where his hand still touched her face. Anthony didn't want to pull away, but he did.

"I shall call for a doctor," he said firmly, raising his voice over the dog that was now full-on barking at him. He ignored the dog and looked toward her maid. "Please, have one of your men call for Dr. Wiseman."

"Lord Bridgerton, I am fine," Winnifred spoke up and even her voice sounded off. "I slept horribly last night and it's resulted in a headache. Newton, please!"

Troubled by the desperate tone of Winnifred's voice, Anthony turned back to the maid, who hadn't left to call for a doctor like he had asked, and ordered her, "Take the dog outside."

There must have been something in his tone or a look on his face that made the maid take him seriously. She picked up the dog, who was now growling uneasily, and swept out of the room. They heard the backdoor open and close a second later and the dog's barking ceased.

"Let me help you sit," Anthony offered, holding out his arm for Winnifred. Surprisingly, she took it. He had thought that she wouldn't, so she must have been feeling horrid. He glanced at the tray that the maid had sat down on the table upon their arrival and grabbed the plate that already had food on it, assuming that it was hers. "Here, eat. I shall see about that doctor..."

"Please don't," Winnifred grabbed his hand before he could get far enough away. "The doctor cannot help me. The headache should go away soon. Matilda gave me a tonic and it is starting to help."

Anthony hesitated but nodded and sat in the seat next to her, his hand slipping out of hers.

"Eat then," he cleared his throat, his eyes lingering on the hand that had held him for mere seconds, her skin so soft and delicate.

"Only if you start talking," Winnifred countered. She was already reaching for her food, though, so he knew that he had won without even having to do as she asked. He was going to, anyway, as that was the whole reason he was here in the first place. "It is true that Daphne's turned down three proposals?"

"Yes, it is," Anthony confirmed. "None of them seem to satisfy her, so I thought that I would bring you a list of men that I find acceptable."

Winnifred raised an eyebrow at him. "Are they men that Daphne would deem acceptable?"

Anthony gave her an annoyed look, his lips pursing until the dimples at the corners of his mouth appeared, and pulled a piece of parchment from an inside pocket of his jacket. "That is why I am bringing the list to you." he cleared his throat. "Now, where to begin...Sir Emmett Stewart."

He looked at her expectantly. It was her turn to purse her lips as she thought about Sir Emmett Stewart. "He is fine, I suppose. I did not think much of his allowance, but I know that Daphne will find it a bit meager."

"He wouldn't be able to provide for her?"

Winnifred hesitated. "I do not think it would be a good fit for Daphne, no."

Anthony nodded and took a small pencil from his pocket now, crossing out Sir Stewart's name. "Next is Mr. Wellington. Now, he is the second son, but his allowance is rather large."

"Mr. Wellington could be a good fit," Winnifred approved, pausing as she took a bite of her food. Once she swallowed, she added, "He is rather good at archery, I had heard."

"Wonderful." Truly, Anthony did not care. As long as he was a good man who could take care of Daphne and not be a complete dickhead like Berbrooke, he could introduce Daphne to him and let her take it from there.

"Who's next?"

"Mr. Gerard, he–"

"No," Winnifred interrupted him before he could go on. "His sister has nothing but bad things to say about him."

"What should that have to do with anything?" Anthony demanded. Lots of siblings had bad things to say about one another.

"Daphne has heard the same gossip and will therefore have nothing to do with Mr. Gerard," Winnifred insisted. "Next."

"Lord Weaver."

Winnifred nodded approvingly. "He is a fine dancer."

"Lastly, Lord Hardy."

"Lord Hardy? I don't believe I've met the gentleman properly. Do you know him?"

"Not well," Anthony admitted. "We've had a couple of drinks together at White's. He's loud, but a good man nonetheless, a tad bit boastful for no good reason."

"And you think that he would treat Daphne well?"

Anthony paused for a moment to think. "Yes, I think he would. I wouldn't have named him if he wouldn't and I quite like the man...He can hold a conversation at least, and I know that Daphne would enjoy that."

Winnifred smiled prettily. "She would, indeed."

His visit with Winnifred lasted a half-hour longer than he had intended. He knew that Winnifred was a very smart woman and she was beautiful, but he never knew her well enough to get along with her, especially after the pall mall incident. That being said, she was a fantastic conversationalist, even whilst she was nursing a headache. She asked him more about the gentlemen that he approved of for Daphne, better in-depth questions that he found hard to answer because he simply did not know why it mattered.

The thing was, however, that it did matter to a woman, Winnifred taught him. That was another thing about Winnifred that he was familiar with already, but it was still something he greatly appreciated; she taught him new things. Things about women and the treatment they receive, about how fucked up the social season actually was for eligible debutantes and bachelors. She brought up things that he hadn't even thought about; how women were raised to only talk about certain things, which was why some of them couldn't hold a conversation about subjects that men were interested in; that looking at an eligible woman of suitable age just for childbirth was demeaning; that the high-heeled shoes that women wear hurt their feet more than they let on.

It was rather fascinating, having such a normal conversation with her. He made her laugh more than once and he found that he quite liked it! She made him laugh, too, and it was one of the silliest jokes that he had ever heard, a joke that Gregory would absolutely adore.

It was easy. It was...frightening.

Anthony abruptly checked the time on his father's watch. He was late for tea.

"I shall have to go home now," he stood, chuckling awkwardly. "Thank you, Winnifred, for your help. I owe you."

"Well, then, please call me Winnie."

Anthony bit the inside of his lip to hide his grin, pointedly ignoring her request. "I must go now, but I suppose I will see you soon for the ball tonight." he bowed his head. "Have a good day, Winnifred. Get some rest, hmm? We don't want your pretty little head to be hurting too much."

With that, Anthony left the sitting room, ignoring the look that Winnifred's maid sent him, obviously having heard what he said. He tried to ignore what he said, because if he didn't he would die of embarrassment on the walk across the street to his home.

Why? Why on earth did I say that? What the fuck made me say that! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

He continued cursing himself long after he entered his home, tossing his discarded top hat at one of the doormen with a quiet thank you. He went straight up the stairs and to the sitting room, hoping that something was going on in his family that would distract him from the fact that he was a fucking idiot.

Everyone, except, of course, Franscesca, was already there. Benedict and Eloise sat in the two loveseats by the fireplace, with his mother and Daphne seated on the couch across from them. Gregory and Hyacinth sat on the floor with their marbles, and Colin was at his usual spot by the food table.

He gathered a plate full of food and a cup of tea before sitting down. "Sorry I'm late. I had...business."

He dutifully ignored the amused look that Benedict gave him.

"That's quite alright, dear," Violet waved him off rather abruptly before turning her focus back to Daphne, who had gotten up to retrieve a biscuit. Anthony let it go and picked up the newspaper that rested on his table, opening it up to glance through the headlines. "Daphne, have you thought about with whom you would like to dance at tonight's ball?"

Anthony peeked his eyes over the top of the newspaper, interested in Daphne's answer.

"I have some ideas," Daphne tapped on Benedict's leg, motioning for him to sit up. He did so and she sat next to him, continuing, "Lord Weaver is a fine dancer."

Just what Winnifred said, Anthony thought. Now is my chance.

"Lord Hardy was asking about you at White's last night," he informed Daphne.

"Lord Hardy?" His mother very clearly disapproved of his suggestion. "What about the duke?"

Anthony opened his mouth to remind his mother about Simon, but before he could, Daphne spoke up.

"The duke has not proposed, Mama," she said pointedly. For a moment, Anthony was distracted by Gregory, who stole the orange from his plate. He moved quickly to trick the boy and Gregory jumped away from him, laughing as he joined Hyacinth by the marbles once again. "I am still considering my best course."

"Wise girl," Anthony nodded in approval, folding his newspaper to a new page.

"And Lord Hardy is a fine option," Daphne told him, glancing at him briefly. "Although, he is rather boastful."

Anthony grinned behind his newspaper. He had said the same thing.

"My dear, why ever do you complicate matters, so?" Violet asked, bewildered. "You must simply marry the man who feels like your dearest friend!"

"Oh? Oh, is that is, Mama?" Daphne asked sarcastically. It made him smirk again, wanting to laugh desperately. "Well, how every simple indeed!"

His mother did not catch onto the dryness of his sister's tone. "Yes, quite!"

Anthony sipped his tea to hold back his laughter. As he swallowed and set it back down on the table, he found himself wanting to tell Winnifred of his mother and Daphne's conversation. In fact, he decided that he was quite looking forward to telling her all about it that night at the ball.