‘I am charting a more venturesome course outside this society and in doing so I am being true to myself!” snorts Benedict Bridgerton (Luke Thompson), flaring his philandering nostrils as Lady Violet (Ruth Gemmell) looks on aghast. “But you still have two sisters who must marry and their fate depends on the family reputation,” she snaps, bustle crackling with maternal indignation. “This requires you to be a gentleman and not … a rake!”
At this point, when faced with such period-specific umbrage, it is customary for the casual viewer to insert her monocle and refer to her dog-eared copy of The Crashingly Inevitable Downton Abbey Comparisons Companion. And in many ways Bridgerton, bless its ridiculous socks, continues to invite such comparisons with open arms. There are costumes. There is a house. There are scones (pronounced “scones”, of course, not – heaven forfend – “scones”) and scrunch-faced toffs clearing their throats at news from the shires. There are scullery maids a-titterin’ an’ a-gossipin’ and footmen with calves like bowling balls plotting to relieve dignitaries of their britches. There is a string-heavy score that becomes aroused at times of narrative tension and actively tumescent at the sight of a poorly secured cravat.
