A Pound to a Penelope - FirstLadyJane (2024)

Chapter 1: A Job Offer from a Gentleman

Chapter Text

“Please, mama. I could have a good life there,” Penelope implored, kneeling at her mother’s feet, one hand clutching a letter and the other wrinkling the silk of Portia’s skirt. “It is my third season, mama, and not one caller. Philippa is married, and Prudence is engaged. I do not understand why I must endure another series of insipid balls!”

“Insipid? But you love to dance!”

Penelope scowled. “Yes, which makes it doubly disappointing to have a dance card that is perpetually empty. It is humiliating, mama.”

“Oh, come now, Penelope. Do not be so dramatic. That Bridgerton boy dances with you often enough. Perhaps when he comes home from Italy or India, or whichever godforsaken place, you might bat your eyes a little more so that he may finally come calling.”

Penelope’s scowl deepened, if that was even possible, and she rose to her feet, only to plop back down into the couch, next to her disapproving mother. “It is Colin who has ruined me, mama.”

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington, he’d declared less than a year ago. Not in your wildest dreams, Fife. And then they laughed, he and those horrid, sought-after gentlemen.

The cruel words, proclaimed so loudly and publicly (and in her family’s garden, no less), spread like slow, quiet poison. Conveniently for the apothecary, however, he had departed for his next tour days before the news would have found its way back to him, so he was blissfully ignorant of the damage he had caused.

After attempting to write it into her column once, the very night Colin uttered the words into reality, she had damned her integrity to hell and given up, the words too painful to even think. But when word began to spread, and her own lady’s maid could hardly look her in the eye, she had been left with no choice but to pen her own ruin. Lady Whistledown would be terribly remiss if she had left such a ruinous pronouncement unreported. She would have given herself away or lost her credibility altogether.

She had cried all through her drafts, ruining the ink three times before managing to produce a dry manuscript for her publisher. She wrote two more issues after that and then ceased writing Whistledown altogether, without explanation, leaving the ton to speculate on what on god’s green earth could have happened to the prolific gossip columnist. Most of them simply thought she had taken a vacation rather early and would be back next season.

And as for the unfortunate wallflower, she received enough pitying looks to last all her days. If Penelope’s marriage prospects were dire before, they completely turned to dust the moment Colin Bridgerton proclaimed her un-court-able.

Portia was livid and humiliated, at least at first. The whispering was bad enough, but it was the snide remarks from Lady Cowper and her horrible daughter that finally compelled her to take Prudence and Penelope and leave for Ireland two weeks before their cousin in Kilkenny originally anticipated.

By the time the next season came along, Penelope had been firmly established as an undesirable and taken off the marriage mart.

Only her determined mama remained unconvinced.

“You are not ruined. We have weathered harsher blows to our family’s reputation. What is another one? Once the next scandal comes along, everybody will forget about a few silly words from a drunken boy. They probably have forgotten it already!”

Penelope inhaled in exasperation, unwilling to give up just yet. “Nobody was interested even before that night, mama. I had already taken my place on a shelf. Colin merely… cemented my place there.”

Portia waved her hand, dismissing the issue once and for all. “I will hear no more of this. No daughter of mine will become a working woman—a forgotten governess, no less—in some godforsaken corner of Ireland.”

Penelope said no more after that. Clutching her cousin’s letter even tighter, she stomped off to her room.

There, she dove into her bed gracelessly and let out a frustrated scream into her pillow. Allowing herself to groan and whine for a few moments, she finally turned over to stare at the ceiling.

It had been a month since they’d emerged from hiding, and the rest of the ton had just started trickling back to London to start the season. It seemed like every time she looked out the window, a frazzled mama and a young girl were exiting a carriage. Who is this one, she would think before recognizing the debutante as a taller, more filled out version of a child she once knew.

But if their lowered hems were any indication, they were no longer children by society’s standards, and neither was she.

At almost-twenty, she wasn’t quite so old yet—certainly not old enough to settle for being a governess, as her mother liked to remind her—but she was no naive debutante, not anymore. If one good thing came out of Colin Bridgerton’s public denouncement of her desirability, it was that she had cried out her fears along with all her unrequited love. And as she had wept every night for weeks, by the time she was done, there was nothing left but a clear, steadfast resolution: to make—in spite of him, her mother, and the ton—a woman of herself, one she liked and respected.

It was why she wanted to embrace spinsterhood, and why every single one of Colin Bridgerton’s letters was instantly tossed into the fireplace the moment they reached her hands.

Were it not for the hope of finding a moment to speak with Eloise at the Levitt ball (the first of the season), Penelope would not have left her room that night. The discussion over Ireland had left her simmering in frustration and helplessness. Here was a good alternative to marriage! A real job offer, the promise of a worthy life out of the confines of the ton! But alas, having finally found a match for Prudence, the Featherington matriarch was feeling rather overconfident that she could do the same for her youngest daughter, if only the latter would obey and stop carrying on about the merits of governessing in the Irish countryside.

The matter had been laid to rest for the meantime, but Penelope very much intended to bring it up with her mama, over and over, incessantly and indefatigably, until she was on a horse and leaving Mayfair for good—even if it took all season to convince Portia.

But she could not leave without repairing things with her dearest friend. If she had any news at all that would interest Eloise beyond the kind she published as Lady Whistledown, it’s that she was to fulfill Eloise’s dream of becoming a spinster—and earning an honest income to boot.

Scanning the hall for the Bridgertons—they tended to herd together upon arrival—she was surprised to find one headed straight for her, and not the one she wanted.

Eyes growing wide, she looked around in panic, wondering if she could outrun him if she bolted to the Levitts’ gardens.

It was too late, however, because before she could make a decision, he was standing right in front of her, hands flexing at his side as if to warn her that if she moved, he would throw propriety to the wind and grab her. “Good evening, Pen,” he said.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she tilted her head politely, averting her eyes as she took a sip of wine from the goblet she held.

The cold greeting stung, but he ignored it. “We need to talk, Pen. Where have you been? Did you receive my letters? Perhaps your butler was remiss in forwarding them.”

“Briarly has never missed so much as an ant at the breakfast table.”

“So you did receive them. And ignored them.”

“I did not ignore them,” she said bluntly. “I burned them.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he looked so hurt she had to look away. “I cannot tell you how sorry—”

“Why are you here, Mr. Bridgerton? I thought you would still be in…” She honestly could not remember.

“Italy. I was in Italy,” he replied, sounding a little bitter. She would know if she had read his letters. “I ended my tour early to come and see you, Pen. I enquired after you, but Eloise did not know where you were. I even wrote to your Briarly, but he refused to disclose your whereabouts.” Not that he could blame the man. He would be a terrible butler to betray his employers’ confidences in such a way. Still, Colin did not have to like it. He reached out to gently hold her wrist. “I would have come and found you earlier, Pen. I could not be more sorry for the harm I have caused.”

She jerked her arm free, looking around in mild consternation. “Please do not touch me again, Mr. Bridgerton. I would hate to think of someone mistaking your familiarity for something else.”

He clasped his hands behind him, unsure what to do with them all of a sudden. “One dance, Pen. Please. One dance.”

“No thank you,” she said plainly and walked away, awkwardly striking up a conversation with the first group she encountered, just to punctuate their interaction.

So focused was Penelope on trying to make conversation (a feat she was never particularly good at in the first place) that she did not notice the Bridgerton she did wish to speak with on the opposite side of the ballroom, already chugging down a second glass of champagne.

Eloise frowned at what she just witnessed. She had never seen Colin look so wounded, not even after that whole business with Ms. Thompson. Her first thought was a bitter one: There goes Whistledown again, harming another Bridgerton. However, she had to admit, she was slightly impressed and a little proud of her ex-friend. This was perhaps the first time in his entire life that Colin had ever been subjected to the sting of rejection—and by Penelope Featherington, no less.

“Hello, Ms. Bridgerton,” a slightly familiar voice startled her out of her musings. Prudence Featherington had sidled up next to her, holding an identical glass of champagne.

“Good evening, Ms. Featherington,” Eloise said awkwardly. She didn’t think she’d ever had an actual conversation with Prudence before. Had they ever even exchanged pleasantries?

The woman raised her glass, smiling vapidly. “Have you heard? I am engaged!”

And I do not care. “Oh, yes, yes! I heard from my mama who heard it from your mama. Congratulations are… in order then, I rather think,” she said, trying to sound genuine. Prudence could not have been barking up a wrong-er tree.

“Ah, well, thank you, Eloise. And don’t you worry,” the girl said with infuriating condescension, “I’m sure you will find a match soon. At least this is only your second season. Look at my unfortunate sister, into her third with nary a prospect. Nineteen, and already bound for life as a working woman. Can you believe it?”

Eloise’s eyebrows met. “What do you mean?”

“She has received an offer from our cousin in Ireland. His children need a governess, you see, and they took to Penelope quite well during our stay there, god knows why. She’s awfully dull. She has given up on the marriage mart and is trying to convince our mama to let her go, but mama is determined to give the season another try. I am inclined to agree with our youngest, however. I can’t imagine anyone finding a husband after being so thoroughly and so publicly scorned by a gentleman—a Bridgerton, no less!” Her gloved hands immediately covered her mouth. “Oh, I…” To Prudence’s credit, she realized her blunder without anyone having to point it out to her.

Eloise merely raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips in an awkward not-smile, and turned her head to look anywhere else. She did not feel particularly affiliated with her brother’s actions last season, nevermind that they shared a last name. She would be lying, however, if she said she did not feel just a little bit sad for Penelope, despite knowing who had written the damning column that followed.

Prudence muttered a few excuses and promptly left.

Ireland, was it? Eloise’s eyes scanned the room for her former friend. She would also be lying if she said she did not feel just a little bit envious.

“At least I actually did something,” Penelope had shouted after her the last time they talked. And here she was again, doing something, fighting for the life Eloise liked to claim was better.

Perhaps there was something to be learned from the insipid wallflowers of the world after all.

Chapter 2: A Wager or Two

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Colin had underestimated just how proficient Penelope was at evasion. After their confrontation, he tried to approach her again, but she was either ducking into the crowded veranda, where it was impossible to have a private conversation, or boxing him out of random group conversations. In fact, he had never seen Penelope engage quite so much with so many people! It was hard not to take it as a testament of her disdain for him.

After an hour of this silent humiliation, he finally left for Mondrich’s, his own flask already empty.

“Bridgerton! You’re back!” Chadwick Fife called out, gesturing him over.

Tossing his head in acknowledgment, Colin made a stop at the bar first, ordering a glass of brandy before joining the group of gentlemen. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, taking the last seat.

“When did you get back?” Fife enquired, tossing back the last of his brandy.

“Just this morning.”

“And where had you gone gallivanting about again?”

“Italy.”

“For the better part of a year?”

“No,” Colin sighed. He had just sat down and was already tired of the conversation. He usually jumped on every opportunity to talk about his travels, but tonight, he was rather fixated on a particular audience, and Fife was most definitely not it. Manners compelled him to make conversation, however, so he supplanted his terse response with a half-hearted “France for a week or so, and Spain for a couple more. But mostly Italy.”

“I dearly hope you wet your wick with more exciting company than Mayfair’s offerings this season.”

Colin merely scoffed and swirled his brandy disinterestedly.

“I am inclined to agree,” Lord Debling said, lighting a cigar. “Did you just come from the Levitt ball? I dropped off my mother and sister, but I did not feel compelled to join. This season’s selections truly are quite the disappointment, I’m afraid.” There were grunts of agreement around the table, save for Colin. “The queen has not even named a diamond,” Debling added.

Fife waved his hand dismissively. “How can she when the lot of them hold no unique qualities? These debutantes seem to vary only in the colors of their gowns. Why, even their hairstyles are all the same! And if I have to hear one more compliment about the pattern on my cravat, I think I will beg Whistledown herself to condemn me to a lifetime of bachelorhood.”

Colin scoffed again but this time out of irritation. “You give that gossip monger too much power,” he said, shaking his head.

“What are you complaining about? She calls you charming in every other edition,” Fife replied.

“Ah, but not last year,” Debling said, raising his eyebrows and his glass.

“Oh, right,” Fife chuckled, not noticing how Colin was beginning to bristle. “What was the quote again? I would rather die than court the Featherington girl, or some such proclamation.”

The actual quote was not as bad as that, but Colin could hardly correct the man. “Careful, Fife,” he warned.

There was a series of cajoling oohs that went around the table.

Fife merely chuckled, seemingly unaware of the thin ice he was skating on. “Some men have a penchant for redheads, and the face is certainly pretty enough, but I am not sure if the nervous stammering can sufficiently be compensated even by the generous tit*—”

Colin slammed his drink on the table, red with fury. “That is enough! She is a lady, not some hourly conquest. I was a fool to disparage her last season, but I will not sit here and—”

“Come now, Bridgerton. No one here faults you for speaking the truth. Every gentleman at this table could have said the same.”

“Then every gentleman at this table is a right idiot.” Colin sat up straighter, looking Lord Fife dead in the eye before glaring at the other men. “Penelope Featherington is the wittiest, kindest, and sweetest person of my acquaintance. She is the best of us and certainly deserves a better husband than any she might find in this lot.”

“And where would she find such a husband?” laughed Fife. “In the after-life?”

The laughter that followed clawed at Colin’s skin, and his vision was turning red but not from the alcohol. “She will find someone, I am certain.” He wasn’t, but he would be damned if he lost another opportunity to defend her.

“Certain, are you? Perhaps we ought to find out if you can put your money where your mouth is.”

In the drawing room of the Featherington house, Prudence was embroidering a pillow with peach-colored tulips, occasionally looking up from the task to roll her eyes at the heated discussion taking place between her mother and her sister.

“You said so yourself, mama. Any lady would be lucky to reside in a home such as Cousin Oscar’s.”

The irritation was plain on Portia’s face.

Good, Penelope thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long before she wore her mother down.

“For heaven’s sake, Penelope. Will you never tire of this discussion? If only you could display as much stalwart persistence in ballrooms, then perhaps you would—”

Portia never finished the sentence because just then, Varley entered bearing an enormous bouquet of bright orange tulips, much like the ones Prudence was working on.

“Good god!” Portia exclaimed, physically taken aback, hand flying to clutch at her necklace. “Where on earth did this monstrosity come from?” That even Lady Featherington found the bouquet ridiculous was saying something.

Penelope grimaced at the ostentatious floral arrangement and moved to help Varley, who was attempting to wrangle the thing onto a small table.

“Well,” the housekeeper said, “there’s a card in here somewhere.”

Said card scratched painfully at Penelope’s face as Varley unceremoniously turned the bouquet. “Ow! A little warning, perhaps?” The girl cried, taking the folded piece of paper and reading its contents.

Her scowl deepened even further. She shook her head slowly, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“Well, who’s it for? Who’s it from?”

“Probably for me. From my betrothed,” cooed Prudence, who had scarcely looked up from her embroidery.

“No, I’m afraid. It’s from Mr. Bridgerton,” said Penelope.

That warranted a weighted pause in the room, and Varley took the opportunity to speak. “He is asking to call. His footman is outside, waiting for an answer.”

“Which… Mr. Bridgerton?” Portia muttered behind her lukewarm teacup, one eyebrow raised. She wasn’t sure yet what to make of this situation.

Penelope stuffed the card back into the bush of tulips before half-stomping to the couch. “The one I thought was my friend.”

Portia sighed, setting her tea down with a frustrated clink. “A caller is a caller. You ought to entertain the boy’s attentions, if only to spark the interest of other gentlemen.”

“I am not interested in the interest of any gentleman, mama!” Penelope almost stomped her foot. “I want to go to Ireland!” She turned to Varley then, saying, “Tell the footman there will be no invitation. Tell him I am out, or sick, or dead. I do not care.”

Varley took her leave, and finally, Portia stood. “You wish to subject yourself to a life without children, without protection, without a fortune! And what happens when you are old, decrepit, lonely?”

That is not my future, Penelope wanted to say, I am already wealthy all on my own. I will write and write and write until I am dead. It was a happy, solitary life she imagined, but of course, she could not tell her mother any of it. Instead, she said, “The life you describe sounds no better than a loveless marriage, mama. But that is a moot point, since I. Have. No. Prospects. In love with me or no.”

Portia threw her arms in the air and flopped back down into the couch. “How can any gentleman notice you when you spend every ball on the outskirts of the dance floor? I saw you refuse a dance with Colin Bridgerton, as a matter of fact. Did you think I would not notice? If you believe your marriage prospects to be so bleak, then you must know that you cannot afford to be turning down any gentleman, no matter their… reckless proclamations.” She waved her hand animatedly, her temper reaching a breaking point. “If you were at least trying, then your arguments might hold more water…”

Penelope’s ears perked up. That sounded like a deal, exactly what she’d been waiting for. Wide eyes bore into Portia’s unassuming face. “If I tried?” Penelope said carefully. “And still no suitors?”

Portia sighed deeply, leaning back on the throw pillows, still aloof. “Well, there would be nothing we could do about that, now could we?”

The possibilities rolled around in Penelope’s head. She worried her lip with her teeth. “All right,” she intoned softly.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, unsure what her daughter was agreeing to.

“All right,” the girl said again. “I will take it seriously. I will dance. I will converse. I will flirt.”

Intrigued, Portia raised an eyebrow.

“And if, by the end of the season, I still have not secured a husband, then may I go to Ireland?”

Portia pursed her lips, considering the proposal. Penelope, whether she realized it or not, was much like her mother after all—tenacious, stubborn, and wily. They would be fighting all season if no parameters were set. Finally, she raised her blue eyes to her daughter’s. “You will dance. You will converse. You will flirt. Seriously. Without pretense. I want a genuine effort.”

Penelope nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide with hope.

Portia gave one final sigh. “All right,” she said.

Her youngest daughter squealed in delight, making Prudence prick herself. “For heaven’s sake, Penelope!” she cried angrily, shoving the wounded finger in her mouth.

Just then, Varley re-entered the room, announcing, “Miss Bridgerton is here.”

For a moment, all three Featherington women paused.

“Miss Bridgerton?” Penelope asked. Did Varley mean to say mister? Surely, Colin would not have come after having been outright refused.

“Miss Eloise Bridgerton,” Varley clarified.

Penelope looked at her mama, though for what reason was unclear. Eloise hadn’t been to the Featherington household in nearly a year, and it was hard to imagine why she would come to call now, after all the letters she ignored, all the apologies that went unheeded.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Penelope croaked, “Please let her in, Mrs. Varley.”

The housekeeper bowed to leave and, a few minutes later, returned with a hesitant-looking Eloise.

Nobody spoke a word after Varley left the room. Portia looked from one girl to the other before settling pointedly on Penelope, who looked to Prudence, as if in some vain hope that any member of the Featherington family could display a modicum of consideration. Sadly, Prudence was as oblivious as ever, pushing needle through fabric as if her sister’s ex-best friend, who’d been inexplicably silent for the last eight months, didn’t just enter their drawing room only a few minutes after the most ostentatious bouquet arrived from said friend’s brother.

Failing to drive her mother and sister out of the room with her eyes, Penelope gestured for Eloise to follow her to the veranda, where there was a small breakfast nook. Truth be told, none of the Featherington women ever spent much time there, least of all Penelope as sunlight wasn’t kind to one who freckled so easily.

“What brings you here, Eloise?” Penelope said, taking one of the seats. “Did Colin send you?”

Eloise paused for a moment before taking the other chair. “Colin? Why would Colin send me?”

“Because last night… And the flowers—?” Penelope gestured vaguely towards the drawing room. “Ah, nevermind.”

Eloise looked confused before shaking her head and recalling what she was indeed there for. “I am here because I thought it was about time we talked.”

Not wanting to get ahead of herself, Penelope remained silent.

“Is it true? About Ireland? You are going to work there as a governess?” Much as she tried, Eloise could not help the excitement that colored her words.

Penelope smiled and nodded. “There is a standing offer, yes. And if everything goes according to plan, I shall be on my way to Kilkenny once the season ends.”

“And what is this plan?”

“It is not much of a plan, actually, and more of a waiting game. I need only to simper and dance with a few gentlemen to prove to mama that I am well and truly unmarriageable. She will have no choice but to allow me to become a governess. That was our deal.”

Reaching across the table to take her friend’s hand, Eloise smiled a small smile, the envy in her eyes plain as day. “I am happy for you, Pen.”

“Thank you, El…oise.” It was awkward. Eloise had used her nickname, but she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be as familiar again. “Eloise, about last season—”

“Yes, I know, you are sorry.” Eloise waved her hand dismissively. “Truth be told, I would have done exactly as you did if our roles were reversed. I just did not want to admit that you had played me for a fool.” Eloise raised a hand to halt Penelope’s protest. “You were right.”

“If I had a chance to do it all over again, I would give myself up, Eloise. I would.”

The corner of Eloise’s lip quirked up in a half-smile. “I believe that.”

“You’re probably wondering why I haven’t yet. Given myself up.” Penelope looked up sheepishly, unwilling to allow Eloise to continue questioning her integrity. “I wanted to right after our fight. I even wrote the column. But I had to think of Prudence… And after Cousin Jack and… and Colin’s proclamation—”

“Your family would not have survived it,” Eloise said in realization. Not once did she consider what such a revelation would do to Penelope’s family. She had been so focused on how selfish she’d made Penelope out to be in her own mind. A thoughtless statement could ruin a woman. A scandal could ruin a family. But Whistledown? Something like that would run them out of town.

The redhead nodded, grateful for Eloise’s understanding. “I will publish the column once my sister is wed, and mama’s future is secure. Hopefully, the queen will not care where I render my banishment. I grew rather fond of Ireland while we were there.” Penelope’s smile was sad, and they both tried to ignore what was left unsaid. Banishment was the best outcome they could hope for. The queen had been furious last season. Surely, royal retribution would be harsher than eternal bliss in Kilkenny.

“I am sorry… about what Colin said, Pen. Were it not for his thoughtlessness, perhaps there could’ve been hope…” Eloise reached across the table to awkwardly grasp one of Penelope’s hands.

Penelope shook her head, chuckling ruefully. “No, you cannot put the blame entirely on his shoulders. We were not exactly the ton’s favorite family before… that night.”

Eloise rolled her eyes, leaning back to cross her arms. “I cannot believe you can forgive him so easily.”

Penelope rolled her eyes back good-naturedly. “No one said I had forgiven him.”

“Will you though? Forgive him?”

Penelope sighed and shrugged. “I’m sure I will someday, when I am happier. Today though, I’m more inclined to think that a lesson in humility would serve him better. I had worshipped him for far too—-“ she covered her mouth, looking away.

“Worshipped? Colin?” Eloise paused, wide-eyed. “Oh, I knew it! I absolutely knew it!”

“Eloise, please don’t.”

The vulnerability in Penelope’s eyes gave Eloise pause. She hadn’t realized the wound ran so deep. “I shall tell him nothing. It’s not like I ever tell him anything anyhow. I would sooner confide in Anthony.”

Relieved, Penelope giggled. “Thank you, El, for the loyalty I do not deserve.”

Eloise sighed deeply. “I cannot claim to understand your reasons for writing everything in your column, but I do understand why you wrote what you wrote about me. I even understand now why you exposed Ms. Thompson.”

Penelope merely bit her lip in response.

“On a personal level at the very least, consider us… on the path to healing,” Eloise concluded.

The redhead smiled warmly, feeling like for the first time since they set foot back in Mayfair, she felt truly glad.

Feeling a little out of sorts from such a heavy conversation so early in the day, Eloise was unprepared for the questions that assaulted her the moment she arrived at Number Five.

“So, how was Penelope?”

“Good god!” Eloise gasped, clutching at the fabric on her chest.

Colin looked like he was about to jump out of his skin himself. “Did she mention me at all? How angry did she seem?”

“Do you mind? Is it your hope to see me drop dead from fright?”

Ignoring the statement, Colin simply went on. “How about the flowers? Did she like the flowers? I sent instructions to the florist to use the Featherington colors.”

“Flowers?” Eloise grimaced. “You mean, that orange monstrosity in their living room? You sent those?”

“Orange? They were supposed to be in peaches and pinks!” The colors of her lips and her cheeks.

“It was certainly a sight to behold, brother.” Eloise began to make her way up the stairs, her brother at her heels.

“Forget the flowers then. Did she mention me at all?”

Eloise paused. She almost wanted to tell Colin the truth and put him out of his misery, but then this conversation might never end. And she had promised Penelope her discretion.

“No.”

“Well, what did you talk about?”

By now, they were in the hall on the second floor. Eloise turned to him, glaring. “You’re very nosy today.” And just to torture him a little, she added, “We talked about a great many things—gossip, governessing, Ireland, how to elegantly repair a gaudy flower arrangement…”

“Governessing? What about governessing? And Ireland? Was that where she was the last few months?”

“Her cousin in Kilkenny has offered her the position, and if she fails to secure a husband this season, her mama will let her go. Needless to say, she is hoping to fail,” Eloise said, stepping into her room and blocking Colin from following her inside, “spectacularly.” And she slammed the door in his face.

Penelope, married. He let that thought roll around in his head before a second one swiftly shifted his attention. Penelope, gone. Living in an entirely different country.

Well, he couldn’t have that.

Chapter 3: A Deal with the Neighbor

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The next day found the entire household preparing for an unplanned promenade.

After a satisfying nap and a meal bigger than usual (even by his standards), Colin hummed to himself as he dressed. To Violet’s utter surprise, going out had been his idea. Of course, he conveniently left out just why it was so important that they promenade.

That morning, he had bribed one of the maids to wheedle some gossip from the Featherington household and find out when its mistresses would be out for a stroll. As luck would have it, they would be at Hyde Park that very afternoon.

And so would the Bridgertons. The younger half of them at least. He did not bother inviting Anthony, Benedict, or Daphne on such short notice.

“ Love is a malady worth catching, ” he sang as he shrugged on his coat, then whistled the echoing tune before the lyrics continued, “My love is a lady so fetching. She is fire made flesh, and I couldn’t care less if I burn at her touch…”

“Well, you’re certainly happy to be going on a promenade,” Eloise said from the doorway to his room. “Not suspicious at all.”

“Are you to question me every time I’m feeling chipper? Unlike you, I do not make it my life’s mission to reject every opportunity to socialize.”

“Ah, yes, to socialize,” Eloise said, sauntering into the room and flopping onto his bed like she owned it. “With someone specific? A certain redhead who’s excommunicated you from her home, perhaps?”

Colin turned to her sharply with an unimpressed stare. “Yes, if you must know.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, but promptly turned back to the mirror.

Eloise sat up, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are planning something.”

“And what if I am?”

“What is it? What are you planning?”

Colin merely scoffed in response.

“Colin.”

The worry in her tone made him turn around. “I am not planning anything bad.”

“Are you planning to court her? To keep her from moving to Ireland?”

“What! No!” Colin exclaimed. He felt sweat begin to bloom on his forehead. “Of course not. Penelope is merely a friend—a very dear friend. I have wronged her, and so I shall make amends. It is as simple as that.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow, simply giving him a searching stare.

Colin pulled at his cravat, which all of a sudden seemed too tight. “Leave, Eloise. Or I shall call over every eligible bachelor we find at the park.”

That did it. Muttering counter-threats and curses, she scrambled off the bed and left Colin to his newfound silence.

By the time they were boarding the carriages, Colin’s enthusiasm had returned, and not even the curious stares from his mother and siblings could dampen it.

When they got to Hyde Park, he practically leaped out of the carriage.

“Colin!” Violet cried as the carriage jerked against its wheels.

“Your son is brilliant, mother, brilliant!” he called, briefly walking backward to face her before righting himself and jogging towards the main path.

There, he scanned the park, eyes squinting in the bright afternoon sun, which was hours away from softening.

It wasn’t difficult at all to find his targ—or rather, the centerpiece of his brilliant plan. It always puzzled him how often people overlooked her when she had such striking features. Her bright red hair alone was hard to miss.

She was on her mother’s arm, pretending to pay attention as Portia prattled away. Behind them were Prudence and Robert Huxley, the burly, older gentleman Colin presumed to be Prudence’s fiancé.

He walked briskly towards them, Penelope noticing him first. Panicked, she made to call her mother’s attention and excuse herself, but Colin beat her to the punch.

“Lady Featherington!” he half-shouted from a little too far away, almost jogging to close the distance between them. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Portia responded, taken aback by the volume of his greeting. “G-good day.”

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said in a more reasonable tone, tipping his imaginary hat (a real one would have deflated his hair, and he had worked so hard today to get it just so). “I was hoping to run into you today.”

“Ah, yes. You were asking to call.” Portia gave her youngest daughter a pointed look. “Thank you for the flowers. They were… a sight to behold.”

Sauntering up behind Colin, Eloise snorted; she had used those exact words the day before. Their mother was close behind, pausing to greet a few other members of the ton. Gregory and Hyacinth, having boarded another carriage, were a ways off, waiting for the footmen to finish setting up their tent.

Colin was hoping to approach the Featheringtons by himself, but if Eloise and his mother wanted to meddle, then so be it. He didn’t know when he would get another opportunity to set his plan in motion.

“I had hoped to apologize to you and Penelope yesterday, but my footman told me you… were otherwise engaged.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Penelope muttered. Her mother pinched her arm, and she stifled the cry it elicited.

“I want to apologize to your entire family, Lady Featherington, but most especially to Penelope. I know my careless words last season carried more weight than they ought to have, and I am so sorry to have hurt you all.”

Penelope glared at the ground.

Portia raised an eyebrow, sighing deeply. “What’s done is done, Mr. Bridgerton. We can hardly un-ring a bell, but the sound does dissipate eventually. I’ve even managed to find Prudence a husband in the midst of all the tragedies that have befallen my family in recent years.”

It was then that they all realized that Prudence and her intended had continued walking down the path and were now well out of earshot.

“Nevertheless, I feel that I must make amends, my lady,” Colin said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I hurt your daughter’s chances at finding a good match, and I intend to rectify that.” And if he managed to put Fife in his place in the process, well, he could not be faulted for that.

Penelope’s eyebrows knotted in concern. She gave Eloise a searching look, but the other girl merely shrugged in ignorance. It was then that Violet caught up to them, curiously scanning their faces for any clue as to what she had walked into.

“Amends?” said Portia.

“Yes. I can help find Penelope a husband.”

Penelope’s mouth opened in a silent, infuriated gasp. “That won’t be nec—”

“And how might you do that?” Portia replied, intrigued.

“Miss Featherington is beautiful and witty, and I believe we only need to bring these qualities forth in order to gain the interest of other gentlemen. I already have a few prospects in mind, in fact.”

“Oh, do you?” Penelope remarked between grit teeth, blue eyes wide with restrained fury and indignation. Not even the compliments could quell her rage.

“Yes,” he turned to her, “I do.” He grinned that smug, boyish smile that used to make her heart race.

Well, her heart was indeed racing now, but for entirely different reasons. She was about to turn to her mama to protest the ludicrous idea, but the next utterance sealed her fate.

“I believe that’s a marvelous idea!” Colin’s mother exclaimed, elegant hands clapping lightly.

Penelope had always revered the woman, often regarding her as the paragon of grace and maternal virtue (in stark contrast to the model she had grown up with), but in that particular moment, as the spring sun failed to warm the chill in the air, Penelope really wanted to strangle Violet Bridgerton.

It took work to get her breathing back under control, but, Penelope was proud to say, her composure remained intact.

“Should anyone like to know what Penelope thinks?” Eloise piped up loudly enough to dampen their mothers’ enthusiasm.

Penelope never loved her friend more, but before she could speak, her mother interjected again.

“Why, of course! My dear, you do want to exhaust all means to find a match, do you not?” Portia’s eyes bore into her daughter’s, the underlying threat dousing the flames of Penelope’s defiance and reminding her of their agreement.

Eyes on the ground, the girl muttered under her breath. “I thank you for your most generous offer, Mr. Bridgerton. I shall need all the help I can get.”

Delighted, Portia tapped her daughter’s arm, almost affectionately. “There you have it! It is settled!”

The girls exchanged a look, Eloise shrugging as if to say, I tried.

“Then I shall call on you tomorrow, Pen, to inform you of my… strategy,” Colin said.

“Looking forward to it.” The redhead smiled with her mouth and glared with her eyes. “I think all this excitement has gone to my head. I should like to return to our tent.”

Portia gave no protest, and the Featherington women bid their goodbyes. Colin and Eloise followed their mother to where their tent had been erected, Hyacinth and Gregory already fighting over who got to sit on the biggest pillow.

Looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, Colin strolled down the path, all but whistling in smug delight.

Eloise rolled her eyes. “You know,” she said, crossing her arms. “For someone who is just her friend, you are certainly determined to insert yourself into her affairs.”

Colin stumbled on the smooth pavement. Satisfied, Eloise walked briskly past him, leaving him feeling unsettled. Again.

By the time they got home, Penelope’s rage had devolved into suspicion and defiance.

What was Colin doing? What did he want? If it was merely her forgiveness he was after, surely there was a less… involved way he could have gone about it. A chaperoned meeting arranged and mediated by their mothers, perhaps, or even a letter on Colin’s behalf from the duch*ess, whom Penelope had always admired. She always felt rather humbled by Daphne, who was a diamond, the kind of girl Penelope knew she could never be.

She was past indulging that insecurity now, however. Penelope had come to terms with who she was. She was no diamond. She was a writer, a brilliant one at that. And if her time with her Irish cousins was any indication, she suspected she was a teacher, too, which would make her the perfect governess.

When the season began, her mother was the only thing standing between her and freedom. She did not anticipate that she would have to contend with Colin Bridgerton too, much less that he would be her biggest obstacle.

She scoffed at the notion that he was doing this to make amends. No, he was angling for something; she could feel it in her Whistledown bones. And she would be damned if he played her for a fool again.

If he thought he could simply waltz back into her life and upend it, if he thought she would simply concede to his whims as she used to, well, he was in for a rude awakening. She had real ambition now, one so tangible she could almost grasp it. No immature, shallow, flighty, disloyal… suspected rake would keep her from it.

She needed to stop thinking about him, right this minute. She had better things to do, a future to start building.

Plopping down at her desk, she took out her quill and the journal she used for drafts and notes. There were no Whistledown entries in there, of course. It was much too risky to keep evidence like that just lying about. Nevertheless, the journal was halfway filled with seemingly random scribbles only she could decipher. Turning to an empty page, she tapped the fluffy end of her quill against her cheek and prayed for inspiration.

She had used what remained of her surreptitious connections to land another opportunity to write, managing to secure an introduction with a book publisher the Monday after next. The problem was that she hadn’t the faintest idea what to pitch.

A murder mystery? A grotesque thriller? A comedy of horrors?

She grimaced a little but wrote down each terrible idea anyway. They were certainly better than a romance.

Chapter 4: The Villain Next Door

Chapter Text

The Thames Times

Where is Whistledown?

Editorial, 7 May 1815

We are several weeks into the season, and not a word from the Mistress of Scandal. Rumors abound! Is she dead? Married? Spooked by the smaller and smaller circles drawn about her last year?

Or has she simply grown a conscience? After the damage wrought to several young women’s reputations last season, this assumption could very well be the reason Lady W seems to have given up the reins to her infamy.

Even the royal company is stumped by this two-year mystery. We have it on good authority that our dear queen is vexed, discomfited, perturbed by the silence. With the amount of exotic cheeses being shipped into the royal house of late, it seems that Her Majesty is seeking culinary comforts as she laments that her greatest adversary and source of entertainment has vanished into the tiresome mist of high society. Fear not, unsettled readers. Our dear queen maintains a sylphlike countenance.

We share in her sentiments, of course. As fellow journalists, we grudgingly and secretly held a torch for Whistledown. She wrote not a handbook of morality but rather held up a mirror, that we may look upon our flaws without the fog of privileged imperviousness.

We dare not speak for our brilliant, illustrious queen, but surely, we are not alone in our melancholy. We write to encourage speculation once more, that we may draw her out of hiding.

Whistledown, you will be found. And when you are, we shall endeavor to study your singular mind and shake your hand, emphatically!

“Very good authority indeed,” said the Queen of England as she set down the newspaper on the low coffee table of her parlor. “Though I do not think my recent fondness for cheeses warranted a mention.” She nibbled on a thin slice of Manchego. “Last month it was persimmons, and nobody thought that had anything to do with my alleged pining for Whistledown.”

“It did preface that bit about your sylphlike countenance,” Lady Danbury replied, mirth dancing in her eyes.

“I suppose we ought to let them lick my boots, Agatha. Flattery is one of the few advantages to my station. There is little else to be entertained by these days.” She took a sip of tea, shaking her head. “I almost wish I had not pursued the wench so aggressively.”

“Is that regret I hear, your highness?”

The queen shrugged. “A semblance of it, perhaps,” she admitted. “I did not realize my… spirited efforts would be enough to drive her into hiding. She was certainly insolent enough in her writing.”

“I can understand your disappointment.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow at her companion in a silent demand to expound.

“I exposed my underbelly once to an opponent and learned a valuable lesson.” Lady Danbury brought her cup to her lips, smiling at the memory. “One of feminine formidability.”

Familiar with the anecdote, the queen allowed herself a smirk. “Ah, yes. My mother-in-law was a force to be reckoned with, was she not?”

Agatha nodded her assent. Over the years, she and the queen had traded stories over the late Dowager Princess of Wales. Loath as Charlotte was to admit it, Augusta had for them both been the greatest teacher of a woman’s place on this earth and what one must do to mitigate the fact.

“What was it she used to tell us?” The queen continued her reverie.

Lady Danbury set down her tea. “Cover your bruises and endure.”

“Endurance,” Charlotte scoffed. “A value I once thought Whistledown possessed. She has proven herself unworthy of my ire and respect after all.”

“Ah, well. There is still a chance she will resurface.”

Charlotte shook her head, raising a finger to highlight her point. “No, no. We are well into the season. I’ve named a diamond—average as that Levitt girl may be—and if there were ever a time to criticize my selection or publish some impertinent commentary, it would have been then.”

“If she were to publish again, we would have not one but two female authors challenging our notions of civilized society.”

“Ah, yes, Jane Austen. She should serve as inspiration for Whistledown.”

“You did not hunt Austen like an animal.”

“Austen did not question my choices publicly.”

Agatha merely chuckled in response.

“If she did not retreat into whatever hole she came from, I would have said Whistledown had more stones than Austen. Shame, really.”

Penelope was pacing. Colin Bridgerton was due to arrive at any second, but he was not the reason for her agitation.

The Thames lay on the coffee table, mocking her. If it would not have seemed suspicious to light the fireplace on such a warm day, she would’ve thrown it there already.

Until that morning, she had not realized that one could feel both flattered and threatened at the same time. The congratulatory tribute stroked her ego and ignited her paranoia. She had not anticipated that there would be others with the means to unmask her, people with more investigative prowess than the queen. People whose job it was to pry.

What if they decided to do more than try to draw her out with compliments? What if public speculation indeed led to the right conclusions?

If she lost control of her narrative, she might never write again. She had little to lose in the eyes of the ton (and frankly, she cared less and less each day), but no publisher would touch a ruined author, especially not one denounced by the queen.

And Ireland! Beautiful, quiet, healing Ireland might forever be an unrealized dream.

She counted the weeks until Prudence’s wedding, and the resulting sum only served to heighten her anxiety.

She was spiraling, and she knew it.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Colin Bridgerton chose that very moment to enter the parlor. She jumped in surprise, clutching at the pendant of her necklace in an attempt to refocus her nervous energy.

“Colin!”

And his lips instantly lifted into that charmer’s grin that had always let him get away with everything, including the farcical deal he had struck with her mama. “I am glad to be Colin again, Pen,” he said so sincerely that she almost forgave him. Almost.

Shaking her head, she made her way to the couch. She wished she’d put away the paper or at least turned it over such that the editorial would not be openly staring at her as she faced the current bane of her existence.

“Mama must have forgotten that you would be calling. She left with Prudence. There is no one around to chaperone. I suppose we should postpone—”

“Nonsense,” he said, strolling in as if he owned the place. “I ran into your mother, in fact, as I was making my way here. She said we could just leave the door open. Mrs. Varley will check in on us periodically.”

“Of course.” After all, it was public record that Colin Bridgerton would never see her as someone with whom to take liberties. Not in anyone’s wildest fantasies.

Only a few months ago, the implication of this unchaperoned visit would have reduced her to tears, but not anymore. As she was quickly learning, there were bigger threats in the world than unrequited loves and presumptuous, spoiled men who unfairly got through life on charm alone.

“Before we start,” he said bashfully, “might I ask for some sandwiches? Biscuits? Anything, really. Even a piece of cheese would settle my stomach.”

She almost laughed, if she weren’t so determined not to be endeared. As it was, she had to purse her lips to avoid the smile breaking through.

She could have rung for a maid, but instead she used the opportunity to exit the room and go to the kitchen herself to ask for the snacks. She used the time to stamp down whatever absurd feelings were coming to the surface.

When she got back, Colin was setting down the newspaper, editorial down. There. At least she wouldn’t have to keep glancing at the title.

“Cook is preparing some sandwiches,” she said, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

“Thank you.” There was an awkward silence before he spoke again. “A conversation is in order, I rather think.”

Stone-faced, she looked him dead in the eye and said without preamble, “What are you doing, Colin? Why are you doing this?”

“I only wish to show you that you are not a lost cause, Pen. You deserve love. You deserve admiration. You deserve someone’s sincerest regard.”

“Not yours, however,” she said coldly.

Colin looked down at his hands in shame. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

He cringed every time he was reminded of what he’d said. He had gone through countless bouts of self-flagellation to get to a point where he could look himself in the mirror and acknowledge his shortcomings.

It was difficult to accept the ugly truth behind his words, that he had been embarrassed to be associated with her, a girl whose family seemed to always be mired in scandal, a girl whose fashions were publicly criticized in Whistledown, a girl who was two stone heavier than she ought to be, a girl everyone else subjected to mockery.

And now everyone included him. He had put himself among the ranks of Cressida Cowper and Chadwick Fife. In one night, he had gone from being Penelope’s protector to one of her tormentors. He was the villain in the situation.

Penelope’s eyes bore into his, and he had to marvel at the way she refused to flinch in the face of his rejection. “You gentlemen never do,” she replied with a quiet dignity, and it was a lot worse than when she was making snide comments. In fact, he wished she’d yelled at him instead.

So he asked for exactly that. “Pen, if you want to shout at me, or hit me, or spit on me, I implore you to do so.”

She only looked away in response, and it made him want to die right there.

“You are so angry with me,” he said so sadly it almost made her cry.

Fortunately, Briarly broke the tension at that moment, opening the door wider for a maid, who was bearing a tray with tea and the requested sandwiches. They left soon after, and silence reigned once again.

“You said you would share your strategy. Get on with it,” Penelope said, pouring herself some tea and refusing to do the same for him.

She couldn’t even look at him, not even out of courtesy. He felt like crying himself, so he cleared his throat and answered. “I think you’re wonderful, Pen—” she rolled her eyes. “Truly, I do. I don’t know a sharper person. But you’re no good with new people, especially gentlemen. Your nerves get the better of you, and then you forget how to be yourself. Your witty, charming self.”

Sandwiching criticism between compliments, feh. She saw right through the trick and knew him well enough not to be swayed by it, and if her heart skipped a little at the kind words, well, she would just have to ignore it in favor of her brain. “So that’s it? That is your brilliant plan? To have me be myself ?”

He straightened his collar, almost as if in indignation. “Well, yes. If it were so easy, you’d have done it already, wouldn’t you?”

He had her there.

Triumphant, he picked up one of the bite-sized sandwiches and popped it into his mouth. It annoyed her to no end. How could he eat with all this awkwardness in the room? She was getting rather hungry herself, but she couldn’t figure out how to pick up a single bite without it feeling out of place. Eating, it seemed, was just one more thing that came all too naturally to Colin Bridgerton.

“Fine,” she said. “When do we start?”

“No time like the present!” he said, clapping his hands together in a swishing motion to get rid of the crumbs.

“Right now? Did you simply assume I would have no prior commitments today?”

“Do you? Have prior commitments?”

Her resentful face told him no, and he had to suppress a chuckle. While he did not wish to diminish any of the pain he had wrought on Penelope’s life, she did look rather like an angry kitten when she was upset.

“Perfect,” he said, popping another sandwich into his mouth and quickly downing it with some tea. “Lady Danbury is hosting a ball tomorrow night, and it will be the perfect opportunity to practice what you’ll learn today.”

“You seem entirely too delighted by this situation, but I do not think I enjoy these new roles where you are my teacher and I your student.”

“Are you questioning my qualifications?”

She took a moment to answer. “I suppose the many years you’ve spent as a massive flirt ought to serve some sort of purpose, and this is as good as any.”

She meant for it to sound cruel, but he laughed all the same.

The following evening, Penelope all but stomped her way into Lady Danbury’s ball. Be yourself indeed, she thought begrudgingly as she scanned the crowd for her self-styled instructor. If anything, the added pressure of having to apply his ‘pointers’ made her even more nervous.

It did not help that she could hear mentions of Whistledown and the Thames article from the groups she passed. Her paranoia over the editorial had waned over the last few hours as clarity replaced it. If they truly wanted to unmask her, they would have tried it sooner. Besides, there were so many more pressing matters than revealing the identity of a gossip columnist, and if they were truly her admirers, as they claimed, surely they were not aiming for her ruin.

The speculation they had succeeded in inspiring, however, renewed her anxiety.

On the bright side, she rather liked the way she looked tonight, and it was refreshing to have her appearance be one less thing to worry about. To Colin’s credit, he had masterfully convinced Portia to allow Penelope to dress herself. Comfort begets confidence, he had said, winking at her when her mother wasn’t looking.

And so it was that tonight she was wearing a lilac dress with silver beading. It originally came with a bright pink ribbon tied around the waist—her mother’s unique touch, of course—but after Penelope had her maid unstitch it from the bodice, the dress itself turned out to be rather pretty.

It was not difficult to find Colin in the ballroom. Not only was he taller than most people, but he was already on the dance floor, giggling with none other than Fiona Levitt, the diamond of the season.

Penelope rolled her eyes. Trust Colin Bridgerton to try and get the diamonds for himself whilst proffering the wallflowers to less deserving men.

She shrugged off the thought, which was entirely too bitter for her taste. In her heart, she knew she was being unfair. She was entitled to a fair amount of anger, of course, but she did not want to mete out more judgment than was warranted. She wanted her fury to remain righteous.

She was on her way to Eloise when the song ended, and Colin bowed his thanks to Miss Levitt before intercepting his “pupil.”

“Good evening, Miss Featherington,” he said with mock formality. His smile relaxed as he took account of her appearance, eyes beginning to drift down before darting back to hers. Clearing his throat, he reformed his grin. “You look exquisite in lilac. I am sure the gentleman I’m introducing you to will say the same.”

“I am so glad that my attire is to your satisfaction, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, tilting her head to the side.

Her sarcasm amused him, but a part of him, he realized, missed their old interactions. She had always had a smile ready for him, and her eyes used to light up every time they landed on him.

And now… Now her scorn was plain as day. Her knife of a tongue intrigued him, to be sure, but he did find himself wishing he were not on the receiving end of its sharp edge so often.

But no matter. Once he found her a husband, he would have righted his mistake, she would remain in Mayfair, and he would have all the time in the world to get back in her good graces.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he offered his arm (which she accepted without protest, thank goodness) and began to walk her casually about the room.

“I have narrowed the list down to two candidates, one of whom is in attendance tonight.” Subtly, he tossed his chin in the direction of a gentleman whom one could only surmise as having originated the expression tall, dark, and handsome. Penelope followed his gaze. Said gentleman was speaking animatedly with the Duke of Hastings. “Marcus Anderson,” Colin bent down to speak quietly, “the only son of Baron Wyndthorpe. He was Lady Danbury’s ward for a time, much like Simon.”

“Brother, Miss Featherington,” the Duke greeted as they approached.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” replied Colin. “Penelope, I would like you to meet Mr. Anderson.”

“Miss Featherington, I have heard much about you. Though I must say, neither Mr. Bridgerton nor His Grace mentioned your most striking feature. I have never seen redder hair.”

She smiled genuinely. He could not have picked a better feature to flatter as she had always liked her hair, nevermind that it wasn’t considered fashionable amongst the ton. “Is that a good thing?” she said, even though it was clear from his tone that it was.

“Better than good, my lady,” he bowed congenially. “I rather hope you will not object to me signing your dance card?”

Shifting awkwardly, Penelope responded by extending her arm towards him. He took a pen from his coat and gently held her wrist.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked.

“I am partial to the gavotte—”

“The gavotte?” Colin exclaimed in mild incredulity. “Since when?” He had always thought Penelope’s favorite dance was the quadrille.

“Since forever,” she said between grit teeth. Then, she turned back to Mr. Anderson. “Do you know it, my lord?”

“I do, in fact,” he said, signing his name. “A surprising choice, Miss Featherington. I was beginning to think that all those wretched French dance lessons I was made to take would never come to be of use. They did somewhat sully my memories of summers in Lyon, I must admit.”

“Oh, I did not mean to bring forth such sour memories, m-my lord,” she began to stammer, grasping for something to say to repair her blunder. What had Colin said? Conversation is about listening. Rather than trying to think of what to say, pay attention. Right.

“Not at all, my lady! Forgive me. I was being hyperbolic. Those French summers were some of my fondest memories, truly.”

There now. You see? It is not so bad. She tried to ignore how the voice in her mind sounded suspiciously like Colin.

“You must tell me about them then,” she replied. “It is most gracious of you to indulge me. I’m afraid the ton prefers waltzes and quadrilles, and I do not get to dance the gavotte very often. I do hope you gain a better opinion of it tonight.”

“I already have,” he smiled graciously.

She stole a glance at Colin, who was grinning smugly back at her.

Huh, she thought to herself. Qualified indeed.

Chapter 5: Lovely Attributes

Chapter Text

“A dance lesson? I will admit that I have many… points for improvement, but I’m a competent enough dancer, I rather think.” Penelope crossed her arms defensively.

It was the afternoon after the Danbury ball, and Colin Bridgerton had taken over her drawing room yet again, this time bearing an insulting proposition. While she was no swan, Penelope took pride in her dancing. She had always kept time rather well and, as awkward as she was, had managed never to step on anybody’s toes in her nineteen years of existence.

“You’re more than competent. You are, in fact, my favorite dance partner,” said Colin truthfully.

Now that she openly resented him, she noticed that complimenting her came more easily to him. He was buttering her up, to be sure, and she refused to succumb to any of his pandering.

“So what do I need a dance lesson for then?”

“Well, from my observations last night, you tend to avoid the very point of dancing—to make a connection. You look down on the floor a lot, and you behave as though you’ve never touched another human being in your life.”

Against her will, her mind replayed the times she had danced with Colin. It was always easy keeping her eyes off the floor with him; she didn’t even have to think about it. And she certainly never had a problem touching him.

But that was the past. Today, the last thing she wanted was to touch him. Or be touched by him.

“I do not see why this proposition should upset you so. We have danced countless times. Besides,” he added coyly, “your mama would think me remiss if your courting lessons did not include at least one dance class.”

“Courting lessons? Courting lessons! Remiss…” So aghast was she at his audacity that she could hardly find her own words. “Are you threatening me now?”

“Yes,” he said simply, biting into a biscuit and then brushing off the crumbs from his vest.

It was hard to argue with that, so finally, Penelope slammed her lips shut and waited for him to finish snacking, so they could get on with this dance lesson.

He stood up suddenly, dusting off his sugary hands on his breeches. “All right then, get up.”

Scowling, she did as she was told. He didn’t waste any time, reaching for her hand and gently pulling her by the waist.

A year ago, she might have swooned. Today, she just wanted to get this nightmare of an afternoon over with.

“Let’s pretend this is a minuet,” he said.

They began to move across the room, circumventing the furniture as they went.

After a few moments, Colin commented, “Gentlemen are made of sturdier stuff, Pen. Do not be afraid to get close.”

“I am executing the dance properly, am I not?”

His hand moved hers to his chest, and finally, she blushed. An entirely physical reaction, really, one she could not help.

“What are you—?”

“Slide your hand up until it reaches my shoulder,” he said, a little too quietly. There was a rasp in his voice that he hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Unnecessary touches are what distinguish a mere collection of movements from an intimate dance.”

She did as she was told, swallowed the lump in her throat, and kept her eyes locked over his shoulder.

“You see? You are missing the opportunity for connection.”

“You told me to keep my eyes off the floor. They are off the floor. What more do you want?”

Just then, Mrs. Varley entered the room, bearing more biscuits. Bending forward, she set the plate down and began loading her now empty tray with the cups and dishes scattered about the low table.

“Look at me, Pen. Don’t be shy,” Colin continued patiently, unperturbed.

“I am not avoiding you because I am shy. I am avoiding you because you make me angry, and I think this is a doomed endeavor.”

“You may say that, but Marcus Anderson was utterly charmed by you last night.”

“I do not care,” she lied. She wanted Ireland more than Marcus Anderson, but that did not mean she was impervious to these types of attentions. One did not spend two years of their life gazing longingly from the fringes of ballrooms and not feel glad to finally be noticed.

“Look at me, Pen,” Colin said again.

And finally, their eyes met. Stormy cobalt to defiant sky blue.

The clinking of silverware and ceramic echoed in the back of Colin’s mind, sounding unnaturally distant. How strange. Wasn’t Mrs. Varley tidying but a few feet away?

Blink, he told himself.

Just then, someone cleared their throat, and they sprang apart. “Mr. Marcus Anderson, calling for Miss Featherington,” Briarly announced. Beside him was the said man, whose brown eyes were darting between the two dancers.

“Mr. Anderson!” Colin exclaimed, a little too jovially. “I was just giving Miss Featherington a few dance pointers.”

Mrs. Varley gave Penelope a look then, but what it was supposed to mean, the girl could not fathom. She guessed it was relief. If the housekeeper had not been there, it would be a difficult task indeed to explain why she was dancing in a room with Colin Bridgerton, unchaperoned.

Setting her tray back down, Mrs. Varley took a seat near the window facing the street. The dirty dishes could wait. Leaving a young girl alone with the neighbor she grew up with was one thing, but leaving her with two unmarried gentlemen was another.

Smiling gratefully at her chaperone, Penelope finally turned her attention to Mr. Anderson, relieving him of the flowers he had brought for her. She set them down on one of the side tables for the maid to take care of later.

“Dance pointers, you say? If I may be so frank, I do not think the girl needs it, Mr. Bridgerton. I could not have asked for a better partner for the gavotte,” Mr. Anderson said, looking right at Penelope.

She smiled prettily, and Colin fidgeted. “Nevertheless,” he replied, “perhaps you shall profit from today’s instructions in the next ball.” Feeling suddenly like an intruder, he gave a small bow and made to follow Briarly out the door. “I shall take my leave now. I am due for a more substantial meal at my mother’s.”

As he left, he tilted his head toward Mrs. Varley in gratitude, though for what exactly, he was not entirely certain.

Two days hence, Colin, his reluctant pupil, and her mother were traversing the pop-up market beside the River Thames. Walking beside Penelope was one Harry Dankworth, Marquess of Holloway and an old friend of Colin’s from Eton.

The man was a little on the daft side, but there was no one whose character Colin could have vouched for more. As he had told Penelope, the Marquess was a conscientious lord, a good sport (it helped that half the time, when he was the butt of the joke, he did not realize it), and a true gentleman despite the fact that he was devastatingly handsome.

Colin had seen it time and time again, women forgetting their own names around Harry, and the man merely responding with a good-natured, boyish grin. It was for this reason that the Marquess avoided the London season year after year, preferring to consider prospects from neighboring families in the rural district surrounding his estate.

When those options were exhausted, however, he finally agreed to give the marriage mart a try but only on Colin’s request that he entertain a specific young lady.

To Colin’s mild consternation, that young lady, like all the others, seemed to find it difficult to keep her wits about her in such attractive company. The difference, however, was that she was actually making the man laugh.

“Oh, dammit!” Penelope cursed as her shoe caught on a crack in the pavement. Having lost control of her limbs, she dropped her still open umbrella, over which she tripped again.

“Penelope!” her mother admonished. “What has gotten into you?”

Red-faced, Penelope winced. “I-I… I apologize, my lord,” she stammered to her escort, who was laughing, but not unkindly.

Good god, Colin thought, wincing behind his fist. It seemed that all progress they had made over the last week had all but disappeared.

“Not at all, Miss Featherington. I find breaches in propriety rather refreshing,” Mr. Dankworth said, smiling kindly as he bent down to pick up her umbrella.

Penelope’s eyes lingered a little too long on the particular body part presented to her, mouth forming a small O . Eyebrows meeting in disapproval, Colin nudged her, and she responded to his glare with a helpless one of her own.

“Ah, excuse me, Dankworth, Lady Featherington. Might I have a quick word with Penelope?”

The Marquess righted himself and returned the umbrella, uttering his assent and turning his attention to Portia.

Colin waited until the two were well ahead of them before renewing his scowl and rounding on his pupil, whose eyes had drifted back to… the backside in question. “Will you get a hold of yourself?” he admonished, lightly pulling on one of her curls. “You’re ogling the man!”

Her response was entirely without regret. “I cannot help it! You failed to warn me that he would be so… pretty. I did not even realize that any man could have such…” she swallowed, “lovely attributes.”

“Penelope Featherington!” he exclaimed, scandalized. And a little annoyed.

“Oh, god,” she said worriedly, hands flying to her temples. “This is all wrong. Could you not have chosen a less intimidating prospect? This one is… is... I mean, just look at him!”

“Are you telling me to choose someone uglier?”

“Not a difficult task, I should think. Everyone is uglier than… than that.” She gestured up the path.

Colin crossed his arms, affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you know what I mean! You have no reason to take offense. You have your own…” She rotated her wrist in a searching motion.

“... Lovely attributes?” he finished, laughing soundly.

She turned as red as her hair and slapped his shoulder with the back of her fingers, finally succumbing to the humor of the situation. Eyes crinkling with mirth, she choked through an embarrassed smile, “I am being serious! I can hardly look at the man, let alone have a meaningful conversation with him.”

Still laughing, Colin managed to respond. “Trust me. That may very well be for the best.”

It wasn’t long after that first meeting that Penelope began to see the man beneath the pretty face, and she found that she quite liked Mr. Dankworth. He did not understand most of her quips, but while others found her nervous tics off-putting, he seemed rather amused by them. It was easy, too, to impress him with her intellect. He knew none of the books she spoke about, but he allowed her to discuss them at length and asked enough questions that she was convinced of his genuine interest.

As for Mr. Dankworth’s opinion on Penelope, it seemed that the positive sentiments were returned. “I have never met anyone more guileless,” he had told Colin.

Guileless was not exactly the word Colin would’ve used to describe his dear friend, but he figured Harry would learn that soon enough. The important thing was that they were off to a good start.

In fact, by the night of the Smythe-Smith musicale, Penelope could finally be in Harry Dankworth’s presence without making a complete fool of herself. It helped that he had been visiting her almost daily, often running into Mr. Anderson.

Both suitors would be in attendance tonight, but Mr. Anderson had graciously stepped aside to allow the Marquess an equal turn at escorting Miss Featherington.

Pleased that his plan was going well, Colin helped himself to the salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches on the grazing table. He could feel Penelope warming up to him again, and more and more, whether or not she realized it, she was bantering with him as she used to.

On the other side of the room, he spotted Mr. Anderson in conversation with Lords Fife and Debling, and Colin’s mood immediately soured. Before he could approach them, however, Fiona Levitt sauntered to his side.

“Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, fanning her chest despite the room being comfortably cool.

He tilted his head politely. “Good evening, Miss Levitt,” he replied and then said nothing else.

“You promised you would tell me more about your travels, last time we talked.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I presumed you would have little time for my rambling, what with your numerous callers this season.”

Miss Levitt giggled prettily, pushing a lock of hair behind her ears. “If you keep speaking with me in such a manner, others may start thinking you jealous, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“I am sure there are many who would be,” he replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red and spotted Penelope on Mr. Dankworth’s arm, shuffling toward the center seats. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Levitt,” he said absently, not even sparing her another glance as he hurried to his friends.

Mr. Anderson was already seated a polite distance away, and Colin only noticed Eloise when he was shuffling between the satin-covered chairs himself.

“That is a question for Penelope, I think,” his sister was saying.

“What question?” Colin remarked, sitting beside Eloise and directly behind Penelope.

Mr. Dankworth turned back to them, resting his arm on the back of his chair. “I have never been to a Smythe-Smith musicale before, but to my understanding,” he looked around before whispering, “it is a most… offensive affair to one’s ears. So I am wondering why on earth Miss Featherington insists on sitting in the very center, where one might hear everything and have little hope of escape.”

Penelope bumped his shoulder before answering cheekily. “Perhaps it will be better this year, and you will all be thanking me by evening’s end.”

They all chuckled at the lie, save for Colin, who kept his eyes on Penelope as he gave the more truthful answer. “There is always one Smythe-Smith girl, you see, who is well aware of the quality of their performance and is mortified to be in front of all these people. If somebody less tolerant were to take these seats—“

“Someone like Cressida Cowper,” supplied Eloise.

“—and they laughed or made faces… Well, that is an injustice our Pen could never abide.”

Penelope stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. Our Pen. There was something like pride in his voice, maybe even awe. And the look on his face was so… tender?

She looked down and turned to the stage, unsure how to respond.

Pursing his lips into a smile that felt odd, Colin wordlessly looked straight ahead and sat back in his chair, ignoring Eloise’s questioning gaze.

Chapter 6: An Interlude of Suspicions

Chapter Text

Colin,

My apologies for the rather late response. It has been a terribly busy month, as you can imagine. According to mama, our father’s passing has left all our accounts pretty much in disarray. I am not privy to any of it, but I know that she is trying to make sense of it all. With her preoccupied, I find myself making many of the household decisions as Prudence is wholly unreliable regarding these matters. If you ask me, between the two of us, it is she who should be practicing being lady of the house as she will assume that role soon enough.

I must say—and don’t tell Eloise!—I have gained a new appreciation for these domestic duties. Our mamas make it look so easy, but managing staff and family, and keeping everyone clothed and fed and everything beautiful and shiny are worthy tasks that deserve acknowledgment and respect.

And to accomplish all this in the midst of grief… well, your mother would know. Embrace her upon your return, will you, Colin? It is the least she deserves.

I have received three of your letters, each one more comforting than the last. I thank you for the condolences and even more for your vivid descriptions of Greece. Do you know how well you write? There were times when your sentences took my breath away.

I especially enjoyed your account of The Acropolis. It was almost as if I were there with you, counting the columns of the Parthenon, freckling in the sun, and tasting olives in… everything, I suppose.

I dream of experiencing these firsthand someday, somehow. But for now, your words shall take my imagination to places my feet cannot.

Your grateful friend,

Penelope

Colin held the two pages of the letter up towards his bed canopy. It was the very first letter Penelope had written to him, and he had read it so many times that the paper was beginning to feel soft and worn. He had the words memorized, but her handwriting made them come to life, like he could hear her voice speaking them.

Of all the letters she had written to him that year, this one was his favorite, and not only because it was the first.

He had sent his condolences immediately after finding out about her father and then sent another two letters in quick succession, almost sick with worry and desperate to comfort her from so far away. He’d then spent the following weeks anxious that he’d said the wrong thing, wondering if she was all right, and praying that she was.

Some days, he even forgot that he was supposed to be tending to his own broken heart over his disastrous engagement to Miss Marina Thompson.

So when he’d read Penelope’s reply, his relief was immeasurable. He had given her some comfort after all, and she was doing well enough to jest, express strong convictions about the value of domestic labor, and encourage him all in two short pages.

Grinning, Colin studied the flourishes beneath her A’s and Y’s. It was an odd thing to be glad about, but he reckoned he was only one of very few people who knew what her handwriting looked like.

A knock had him sitting up straighter, though he was not necessarily startled. His door was already ajar, so he knew not to expect Eloise, who never knocked if she could help it. Instead, it was Benedict who sauntered in.

Resting the letter on his chest, Colin adjusted the pillow behind his head. “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you here, brother?” He hadn’t seen much of Benedict since his return from Italy, save for a few random dinners at Number Five.

“Nothing, really. I found myself with a free day, and here I am.”

Colin raised a disbelieving eyebrow. While Bridgertons tended to enjoy the company of family, it was the middle of the season, which meant that Benedict was avoiding their mother. It was unusual indeed that he would stop by for no particular reason.

“I’ve heard much about this project you’ve undertaken,” the man stated plainly, bouncing on the mattress as he sat and rested one shoulder on a bedpost.

Ah, Colin thought. There’s the truth. “Eloise?” he said. It wasn’t really a question. The two were spending too much time together if their younger sister’s nosiness was rubbing off on Benedict. Or perhaps, the latter was simply bored out of his mind. It was a little odd that their mother wasn’t pestering her sons more. Granted, she had Eloise and Francesca out this season, but such a thing had never stopped her from at least gently nudging her boys in the direction of potential matches.

“Yes, but not just. The entire ton seems to be invested in this endeavor of yours. Shame there’s no Whistledown to chronicle the whole affair. She’d be making a killing!”

Colin scowled. “This is not some spectacle designed for everyone’s entertainment. This is Pen’s future we’re talking about.”

“Of course, of course,” Benedict said, sincerely contrite. He paused for a few moments, carefully forming his words. “Why are you doing this, Col? Is it truly just to make amends?”

“There is that. But also, I want my friend to be happy. Is that so hard to believe?” He meant it wholeheartedly, and if he could rub her victory in Fife’s and Debling’s faces, then two birds with one stone and all that.

“And marriage will make Penelope happy? She’s quiet, but she’s always had a singular mind. It’s why our sister likes her. What if she wants to do something else with her life?”

“She wants independence, to be sure. Why do you think I introduced her to Anderson and Dankworth? They are kind, progressive men who will allow her to be exactly who she is and do what she wants.” He shrugged. “And she will not have to compromise her security.”

“And what of Ireland? Eloise says the girl wants to be a governess there.”

“Ireland is a consolation prize, a contingency plan. Penelope is not like Eloise, Ben. She’s a romantic. She has always wanted to marry, run her own household.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about Penelope Featherington.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “So does Eloise, but she isn’t constantly questioned about it,” he muttered. True, a friendship like his and Penelope’s was rather unconventional (maybe even a little inappropriate), but he didn’t feel like he should have to defend it.

“How do you even know for certain what kind of life she wants?”

“Because,” he held up the letter he was just reading, “she’s said so herself.”

“What is that?” Benedict reached for the two yellowing pages. After a moment’s hesitation, Colin handed them over. Following a quick perusal, Benedict pursed his lips and nodded his head in partial assent. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, handing the papers back to his brother. “But here’s another question. This letter is from two seasons ago. Why do you still have it?”

Colin snatched it back defensively. “I keep many letters.”

“Even ours?”

“Ours? You’ve never written me!” It was a diversion, to be sure, but he was wholly uncomfortable with what Benedict was implying.

The fact that he hadn’t saved a single letter from a fellow Bridgerton meant nothing more than that they had never written him anything that warranted a second read. It wasn’t that Colin didn’t treasure his family. Truly, he could not have wished for a better and more loving one. But they didn’t write back to him as much as he did them when he was traveling, and when they did, their correspondences were little more than factual updates and the occasional morsel of gossip.

Penelope’s letters were… different.

Benedict laughed briefly at his younger brother’s face, but the chuckle soon dwindled into a worried smile. “And what of you?”

“What of me?” Colin replied, confused.

“What will make you happy?”

The question brought Colin back to a conversation he once had with Penelope about finding one’s purpose. He considered sharing it with Benedict, but it didn’t feel like the kind of thing they could talk about.

So instead, Colin shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m perfectly happy.”

In the very same gym that the boxer Will Mondrich used to frequent, the Duke of Hastings was sparring with the heir to the Wyndthorpe baronetcy.

Simon’s third jab nearly caught his opponent in the jaw. Parrying the next one, Marcus returned the strike, pulling it just as his knuckles connected with his friend’s cheekbone.

“Lucky point,” Simon teased, raising his fists to reposition his defense.

“Think it will bruise? I do try to go easy on you. I want to stay in your wife’s good graces.”

Simon scoffed and jabbed again in response. This time, Marcus held up both hands to catch the Duke’s fists, turning their sparring match into a cool-down exercise.

“Speaking of wives, how goes your courting of Miss Featherington?”

Marcus shook his head once and shrugged. “She’s intelligent, kind, nice to look at. We even have a few things in common. Nothing wrong with her, really.”

The Duke paused for a moment to give his friend a questioning stare. “So what’s the problem?”

Marcus shrugged again. “We get along just fine, but it certainly won’t be a love match.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were looking for a love match.” Simon brought his fists up and resumed lightly punching into his friend’s palms.

“Well, I’m not. But one of my rivals seems to have a leg up on me in that department. I’m entirely unhappy about it, in all honesty. I don’t appreciate having been summoned here only to—”

The Duke of Hastings paused again, gesturing in confusion. “Wait, wait, wait. Rivals? Plural?” Simon wasn’t aware that there was a third suitor, but then again, the indication was only one extra letter. Perhaps Marcus simply misspoke. “Surely, you mean the Marquess of Holloway? He has bested you?”

“Not exactly,” the man replied. When the Duke continued to look stumped, Marcus simply shook his head, as if to clear it. “Never you mind. You up for another round, Basset?”

Not one to pry, Simon simply positioned his fists in front of his face and waited for his friend to strike first. The man looked a little like he could use the violence, and Simon was nothing if not considerate.

The modiste usually did not take appointments this early, but the circ*mstances of this particular visit were unorthodox, to put it mildly. Genevieve could count on one hand how many times gentlemen had accompanied their sisters, wives, or mothers to her shop. There was the occasional mistress, but those were clandestine appointments better suited to late evening hours.

It was morning, however—a good hour and a half before she usually opened shop—and Penelope Featherington was neither family nor mistress to Colin Bridgerton, as far as Genevieve knew.

“I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience, Madame Delacroix. My companion is plagued with a disease of extraordinary audaciousness, you see,” said Penelope.

“Hey!” Colin exclaimed, feigning offense. His smoky blue eyes were laughing, however. “I simply wielded the power of asking. But truly, Madame Delacroix, thank you for the accommodation.”

“It is no trouble at all, Mister Bridgerton. My motivations for allowing this meeting are not entirely selfless, I must admit. Miss Featherington has such lovely coloring, and I have always wanted to dress her in something that is not yellow… Unless, of course, you wish to maintain this signature color—”

“NO!” the two said in unison.

“Ah, well, it is Penelope’s decision, really,” Colin amended. Truth be told, he didn’t even realize how much yellow Penelope wore until Whistledown began publishing her opinions on it. He hardly noticed her frocks… save maybe for how low the necklines were sometimes. But surely he could not be faulted for where his eyes naturally wandered. He was, after all, very tall, and Penelope was very short.

Whatever he did or did not notice about his friend’s wardrobe, he knew for a fact that she detested the way her mother dressed her. And he was tired of people picking on her for fashion choices she was never even allowed to make.

“No yellow,” Penelope said resolutely. “To be quite honest, the last thing I need is another dress—”

“Four,” Colin interjected.

Her eyes widened. “Four!?”

As much as Portia had tried to shield her and Prudence from the matter, Penelope was well aware that her family’s finances were unstable at best. She’d been funneling some of her Whistledown savings into the household account, but even without these indulgent trips to the modiste, she would be left with barely enough to secure a new life for herself by year’s end. She had yet to ensure her next source of income, and even with an advance from her potential publisher, she certainly couldn’t afford four dresses. Even one was hard to justify, but she wanted to indulge her so-called courting coach, if only to shut him up.

“Colin, I cannot afford—”

“He has prepaid for four dresses, mademoiselle,” Genevieve explained.

Penelope turned to glare at her companion, who was lifting a piece of fabric from a rack and trying to look innocent. “Colin, thank you, but I cannot accept—”

“Would you have Madame Delacroix refund me? After she so kindly accommodated this aberration in her schedule?”

Penelope sighed in resignation. She really should’ve known he would do something like this. To her private consternation, however, there were butterflies in her stomach, and she couldn’t help feeling slightly pleased that he would give her such a generous gift. Only slightly though.

“Colors, Pen?” Colin said, cheekily holding up the corner of an unknown fabric in seafoam green. “I’m no expert—”

“There’s a first,” Penelope chuckled sarcastically.

He ignored her quip and continued, “but this would be such a lovely contrast to your hair, don’t you think?”

She shook her head.

“This one then?” He moved on to a lilac-colored satin. “You did look lovely in a similar shade at the last ball.”

Again, she shook her head, her eyes scanning the bolts of fabric lining the walls.

There was a longish pause before his next suggestion. “How about this one?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed with some effort. It was a semi-matte silk in Bridgerton blue, and there was something about picturing her in it that quickened his breath.

They stared at each other for a few moments before Penelope frowned. The amenability drained from her face, and she turned towards the door, seriously considering bolting from the shop.

“Why are you dressing me like some doll? I already have two suitors who like my clothes just fine! Dressing me like a Bridgerton will not make me one!”

He responded gently, “I’m not trying to make you a Bridgerton.”

Tears filled her eyes. It was absolutely the wrong thing to say, though she made sure to keep her face turned away, so he wouldn’t realize it. The kindness in his voice only served to make it worse.

She’d gotten over her silly infatuation with him—an excruciating process, in fact— and she knew he didn’t mean the words the way she took them, but they hurt all the same. Inhaling through her nose, she forced the tears back down. It helped to remember that Madame Delacroix was watching. Her anguish was gone by the time she looked back at him and crossed her arms haughtily. “I happen to like the way I look. If my appearance is so offensive to you—“

“Let me stop you right there!”

The genuine anger in his voice was enough to give her pause. For all their sniping at each other the last few weeks, Colin had never raised his voice at her. She wasn’t aware that he even had a temper. He was the type of person who responded to jibes with self-effacing laughter and maneuvered awkward situations in similar stride. And if you well and truly insulted him, he was rather like a hurt puppy dog on most days and simply irritated on others. Irritated and vexed perhaps, but never angry.

Almost immediately after his outburst, however, his eyes softened contritely, and the next time he spoke, he was firm, like he’d never been so sure of anything in his life. “It would not matter to me if you wore rough wool or a barrel, Pen. You will always be beautiful, and I will like you just the same.”

Genevieve’s gaze bounced from one to the other. Penelope looked thoroughly confused, not flattered, and the Bridgerton boy… She was entirely too familiar with the way he was looking at that moment. Now I see the resemblance, she surmised, thinking of Benedict.

When neither of the two said anything further, she cleared her throat and straightened her back the way she did when her customers were being a little too indecisive. “Your beauty is certainly not in question, Miss Featherington. But… May I speak freely?”

Genevieve knew that she could, of course, but Penelope was grateful that the woman had the presence of mind not to let on that they were more comfortable with each other than they ought to be. The young girl nodded for her to continue.

“I have observed that you do not particularly enjoy your visits here when you are with your mama. Could we not use this opportunity to have a little fun? What say you, Miss Penelope?”

Penelope thought for a moment, examining why she was even fighting this and quickly realized the petty reason for her defiance. She simply didn’t want Colin to win. At anything.

Loath as she was to admit it, he and Genevieve were both right. She did detest her citrus-colored clothes. What they didn’t know was that she knew exactly what she wanted because a girl did not grow up as Lady Featherington’s daughter without fantasizing about better frocks.

Finally, Penelope allowed herself a small smile. To her companions’ surprise, she confidently maneuvered somewhere well behind the racks heavy with whites, silvers, and pale blues, and wheeled out one that Genevieve had forgotten she even had.

Untouched yards of deep purple, navy, even black emerged from a sea of pastel.

“I want a dress that looks like the midnight sky,” Penelope said with a cheeky grin.

“Marvelous choices,” Colin said, impressed, happy, and wide-eyed.

Genevieve was at the girl’s side immediately, pulling out fabric options from Penelope’s rack and excitedly rummaging in drawers for trimmings and appliqués that had gone unutilized for entirely too long. From a small room in the back, Genevieve retrieved a sketchbook, all too happy about designing for a more adventurous customer.

Finding no opportunities to be of use, Colin found an armchair and watched in satisfied silence as the ladies discussed designs and took measurements.

An hour later, a much happier Penelope was searching the store for the reticule she had misplaced in all the excitement. Colin stood to help her, but to his surprise, the modiste stilled him with a hand on his elbow.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” the woman said softly, looking away briefly to make sure Penelope wasn’t paying attention. “I make it a point never to meddle in my customers’ affairs, but I shall speak out of turn just this once.”

He turned slightly towards her, his gaze questioning.

“Miss Penelope is unlike any lady I have ever met. Brilliant and wily, but also so very sweet. I have never wanted to see someone succeed more.”

Perhaps it was just the woman’s thick French accent, but the statement sounded rather like a threat. Dumbfounded, Colin could only nod in acknowledgment.

“Ah, there you are!” Penelope cried from deeper inside the store, apparently having located her reticule.

Releasing him, the modiste approached Penelope, making final arrangements on fittings and estimated delivery dates. Colin exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Minutes later, they were bidding their goodbyes. Colin held the door open for his companion, who was frantically looking up and down the street.

“Goodness, I’ve lost track of time!” she exclaimed.

“Got somewhere to be?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly, “I have an appointment.”

“My footman has spotted us and will be around shortly. Perhaps I can accompany you—”

“No!” she said, oddly panicked.

Before he could question her further, she was leaning forward to look past him down the street.

“Oh, is that your carriage? I think it’s coming from around the corner.”

He craned his neck to look for himself, but neither his footman nor his carriage was anywhere to be seen. By the time he turned back to her, she was on the opposite street corner, one glove dangling from her left hand as she used two bare fingers from her right to hail a hired hack.

One stopped immediately, and with another cheeky grin, she mocked him with a salute and hurried inside. “Goodbye, Mr. Bridgerton! Thanks for the frocks!”

“Penelope!” he called after her too late. “That sneaky little—!” Helplessly clutching at his hair, he stared after her in shock and disbelief, frantically looking about for his still-missing carriage. By the time it came around, however, Penelope was long gone.

Chapter 7: What a Burn

Chapter Text

When Colin had volunteered to accompany Eloise to the bookstore, the latter had merely rolled her eyes. A love of literature was one of the very few interests they shared, but Eloise knew her brother well enough to recognize an ulterior motive when she saw one. Nevertheless, Colin made for good conversation when it came to books, and she would much prefer his company to her maid’s bored silence, so she made no protests.

The small bookshop Eloise liked to patronize was called Hubert’s, and it had opened only two years prior. Unlike its more established counterparts, Hubert’s featured a hard-to-find selection and was unafraid to carry books by independent authors. Many of the titles lacked an editor’s eye and were in dire need of proofreading, but Eloise seldom left the store without finding at least one hidden gem.

Upon entering, she and Colin naturally drifted to their sections of interest (philosophy and politics for her, and travel and history for him), though the shop was tiny enough that they could still carry on a conversation without raising their voices.

Lost in the foreword of Cut Up My Lease— a humorous, pun-filled indictment of England’s real estate industry and how it unfairly favored the aristocratic few—Eloise had all but forgotten that she was there with company when his voice interrupted her chuckling mid-paragraph.

“How was tea with Penelope, by the way?” he said, pretending to be engrossed in the book he was holding upside down. “I would have joined you, but Anthony took me to see a few properties. A poorly veiled attempt at thwarting my travel plans this year, no doubt.”

“No need to fret. The things ladies discuss at tea are of no concern to busy gentlemen such as yourself.”

He rolled his eyes at the sarcasm and adopted a more direct approach. With Eloise, one never fared well with subtlety. He shut his book and returned it to its place on the shelf. “She disappeared after a fitting with the modiste a few days ago. Got into a hired hack, no less! Did she tell you?”

Penelope did, in fact, tell her. She had run off to her second meeting with her new publisher, and they’d finally come to an agreement about the book she was writing.

In their first exploratory meeting, Penelope had pitched a coming-of-age drama about a debutante whose short-lived tryst with her maid’s brother brings her to ruin. It was an idea that was met with resounding apathy.

To Penelope’s disappointment, the publisher was less interested in her writing than capitalizing on the Whistledown name, which was the very thing she wanted to leave behind. Hers and her family’s coffers were running low, however, and Eloise was entirely sympathetic that her friend would have to face the hard truth that she would have to pay her dues if she ever wanted to have full creative control over her work.

It would have been easy to simply publish a compilation of the most titillating Whistledown issues or to write more gossip about the ton, but Penelope did not much care to profit by repeating past mistakes. Instead, after days of mulling it over, she’d made a daring proposition, one that Colin would just have to discover along with the ton.

“Eloise, this is no time to trifle with me. I will ask you only once more. Do. You. Know. Where. She. Went?”

A threatening Colin was a comedic one, especially with his fists all balled up like that. He was certainly no Anthony. “Oh, yes,” Eloise replied honestly, patting herself on the back for not laughing in his face.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Where did she go!” he demanded, looking like he was about to strangle her.

“If you do not know, then Penelope did not want you to know, and I would be a poor friend indeed if I betrayed her confidences, do you not agree?”

Colin took a deep, restraining breath. “I shall pay for all your purchases today.”

She glared at him, indignant. “Whom do you think I am? Hyacinth? My honor is worth more than all the books in this shop, I assure you.”

He could do nothing but pull at his hair in frustration and growl when words failed him, knowing he’d lost whatever game his sister had him playing. Soon after that, Eloise was at the counter, paying for her purchases. He, on the other hand, left the store emptyhanded.

The brandy burned its way down Colin’s throat as he rested his elbows on his knees. He was seated at a gentleman’s club, waiting for his brothers. The couch he’d chosen was much too low for his long legs, but he suffered the slight discomfort in favor of its location, which was tucked into a large-ish nook in the far end of the room. The space was not exactly private, but at least it was separate enough to discourage strangers from simply joining in their conversation. He usually enjoyed socializing more than his brothers, but lately, he just couldn’t seem to muster his usual enthusiasm for it.

Currently, an American merchant was charming half the room, no doubt to make some surreptitious business proposition later on. Having had experience with slick Americans, Colin was grossly uninterested.

He was more concerned with the boulder in his gut that he was hoping the brandy would burn off. These days, he was in a perpetual state of anxiety, the source of which he was yet to determine.

By all accounts, he was doing rather well. He and Penelope were well on their way to complete redemption, and their complicated friendship was on the mend. With the heir to a baronetcy and the Marquess of Holloway both vying for her attentions, the ugly whispers about his friend had taken a more positive turn. Even Cressida Cowper’s cruel jibes had been replaced by envious glares as the youngest Miss Featherington ignored her in favor of dancing or conversing with either of her suitors.

Swirling the amber liquid in his cup, Colin pondered the state of his plan and found no real cause for the sinking feeling he woke up with every morning.

It was true that Marcus Anderson’s visits to Featherington House had lessened over the last few weeks, but he hadn’t exactly taken himself out of the running. As far as Colin knew, the man wasn’t calling on any other ladies, and at balls, he was as attentive to Penelope as he was in the beginning of their courtship. He’d even made arrangements with her to attend the opening of a new gallery on Saturday.

But whether or not Mr. Anderson’s interest was waning did not actually concern Colin because as far as contenders for Penelope’s hand went, everyone and their mother knew that it was Harry Dankworth who was closest to the finish line.

And Penelope liked the Marquess, goddammit. Beyond the obvious, which was his famously good looks, Colin was surprised to find that she actually enjoyed spending time with him. What Harry lacked in wit, he made up for in patience and earnestness. He was always happy to let her steer the conversation, a change that Penelope welcomed after a lifetime of being dismissed as a wallflower.

He even made her blush sometimes, though, of course, nobody else was privy to what exactly was said that elicited the reaction.

Colin took a large swig from his glass. He was a fine matchmaker indeed, and his mother would be proud. He was starting to feel like he ought to start a matchmaking business with her. Bridgerton Betrothals, it would be called. Love Matches for Your Entire Brood.

Chuckling at the absurd turn his thoughts had taken, he failed to notice his brothers approaching until Benedict joined him in the settee and Anthony made himself at home in the large armchair perpendicular to it. Both were already holding glasses of their own.

“Apologies, brother. I came from My Cottage and was waylaid by a particularly muddy stretch of road,” said Benedict.

“And you? What’s your excuse?”

Anthony opened his mouth and took a moment to formulate a lie. “I had… business to attend to,” he said lamely, picking at an imaginary loose stitch in his breeches.

“With the Viscountess, it seems,” chuckled Benedict.

Anthony cleared his throat and straightened his cravat. “One day, preferably soon, it will be both of your turns to be mocked for enjoying marital bliss.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “My god, you are your mother’s son. Not a year ago, you were rejecting the very notion of romance, and now here you are, one pelisse short of throwing debutantes our way.”

“He’s right, Ant. It’s been months. How long must we endure this honeymoon period of yours? For love of our siblings, I’m quite glad that Mother decided to hightail it out of Bridgerton House as soon as you were wed. Your servants must find you and Kate positively insufferable these days.”

Anthony was getting rather red in the face, and he’d barely touched his brandy. “Is this how the night is to be henceforth? And here I thought you two were here for sage advice.”

“When have any of us ever sought your advice?” Benedict chuckled.

When Colin did not pile on, Anthony raised an eyebrow, speaking in a more serious tone, “Perhaps you ought to be speaking for yourself. Our little brother looks like he could use a wise word or two. What ails you, Col? Spit it out. It makes me nervous when you are serious.” The Viscount wasn’t exaggerating. The last time his little brother was this serious, he was plotting to elope with a woman pregnant by another man.

Colin lifted his eyes from his drink as if only just then remembering that he was expected to take part in the conversation. “Nothing. All is well in my world, in fact. Couldn’t be better.”

His older brothers exchanged looks.

Colin rubbed the back of his neck and bent it this way and that, like he’d had a long day. “I’m thinking of leaving for my next tour next week.”

Anthony sat up, the displeasure clear on his face. “Already? This little arrangement you have with the Featheringtons, I thought you’d want to see it through.”

“I’m confident that Pen will secure a proposal soon. I’ve provided her with two excellent choices, both of whom she has successfully charmed,” he said, though the words sounded oddly bitter when he meant for them to be self-congratulatory. The statement inspired an image in his mind of Penelope in a wedding dress, but he found himself ill-prepared to explore that scenario just yet, so he simply distracted himself by downing the rest of his brandy. “I see no reason to stick around until the end of the season,” he said, once the warmth settled in his stomach.

Benedict tilted his head and leaned back on his side of the couch. “Shame,” he tutted, affecting disappointment.

Anthony hid his smile behind his glass, tipping his head back to sip at the amber liquid.

“Huh?” Colin raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Our sister-in-law has arranged for us all to spend a week at Aubrey Hall, concluding with the Hearts and Flowers Ball. It’s for mother’s sake, really. Apparently, she’s been feeling rather melancholy that we’ve not spent that much time together since the season began.”

“And Eloise has made a special request,” Anthony added. “She’s asked to invite Penelope, seeing as they haven’t had much opportunity to rekindle their friendship, a situation which is largely your doing, in fact.”

Colin’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of his friend, but he was careful not to take the bait. Instead, he grabbed his and Benedict’s empty tumblers from the low table. “I’m going to get these refilled,” he said.

“Smart man,” Benedict replied, slapping him on the shoulder.

Moments later, Colin was at the bar, waiting to be served. Not keen on rejoining his brothers for another round of ribbing, this time directed at him, he wasn’t particularly asserting himself in the fight for the barkeep’s attention.

He was imagining himself teaching Penelope how to play pall-mall when a hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts.

“Bridgerton!” Lord Debling exclaimed, jostling him in greeting.

Sometimes Colin wondered where all of his patience for social niceties had disappeared to. These days, he found conversations so tedious, except when he was having them with… He banished those thoughts and forced himself to focus on the man, annoying as he might be.

“Debling.” He gave a cursory nod, his body already tensing to go on the defensive. He already knew he wasn’t going to enjoy this exchange.

“I must say, I’m entirely impressed by how well your project is doing. Fife is already saving his coffers in anticipation of your victory, and Lords Cho and Bulwick regret not placing their bets at all.”

“Anyone with a lick of sense would never bet against Miss Featherington for anything. She is a formidable lady, if there ever was one.” Colin could have called her Pen, but he went with the formality just to underline his deference.

“Well,” Debling shrugged, unconvinced, “you did tip the scales in her favor. I dare say, ‘twas a brilliant move on your part, molding her into something your gentleman friends might tolerate.”

Colin’s fingers desperately clung to the glasses he was still holding. If anything, he found Marcus and Harry to suit Pen’s specifications, not the other way around. Was it really so terrible of him to try and draw out her best qualities?

“Neither Fife nor I could have anticipated it,” Lord Debling continued, oblivious to how very close he was to getting a fist planted in his face. “Perhaps we ought to have set clearer parameters for our wager, but well, I try to live without regret. Your strategy has made things more interesting.”

Colin fidgeted. There was nothing untruthful about these statements, but Debling made it sound like he was an enthusiastic participant in the wager when Fife had goaded him into it. He never wanted to be lumped in again with the likes of these men, but for now, he would swallow his contempt and continue with his task of making them regret ever underestimating Penelope Featherington.

He was so angry, he was afraid to speak. He prayed for one of his brothers to interfere, and fortunately they had been keeping curious eyes on him the moment Debling had approached. One glance at Anthony, and then the man was silently tossing his chin at Benedict in a silent command to rescue their brother. Or Debling, for that matter.

But before Benedict could reach them, Debling was ending the tense interaction. “The season is far from over, however. I wouldn’t be celebrating just yet, Mr. Bridgerton.”

The underlying threat was not lost on Colin, and he made a decision right at that moment to stay until Penelope was safely ensconced in either betrothal or marriage, whichever cracked his tolerance. Besides, Aubrey Hall was lovely this time of year.

Between Colin’s “lessons,” entertaining her suitors, working on her novel, and helping Prudence with wedding preparations, Penelope had little time to spend with Eloise, save for an hour-long tête-à-tête over tea last Monday. Outside of running into each other at balls and the occasional promenade, they barely interacted and still had much work to do in regard to their still-fragile friendship.

So when Eloise had sent a note inviting her to spend a week at Aubrey Hall ahead of the annual Hearts and Flowers Ball, which the new Viscountess would be hosting for the first time, Penelope did not waste a single second before asking her mother’s permission. For a brief moment, Portia had considered how the invitation might work to her greater advantage—Penelope could see the wheels turning right away—but with Prudence’s wedding fast approaching, the woman had no choice but to resign herself to allowing her youngest to go without her.

Penelope could hardly contain her excitement. An entire week unsupervised with Eloise not only meant that they would have a chance to work through any lingering ill feelings but also that she would have someone to rally with regarding ideas for her novel.

Wanting to make the most of the opportunity to workshop what she’d managed to write so far, she was deep in her character studies as she sat al fresco at the quaint bakery café just around the corner from the modiste’s studio. Her mother, Prudence, and the maid they all shared were there for another “final” fitting, likely testing Madame Delacroix’s infinite patience yet again.

Penelope was lightly gnawing on the blunt end of her pencil when a voice roused her from her musings.

“That’s not very ladylike,” a boy of about ten said, leaning on the railing separating the café from the sidewalk. He had on a lopsided newsie cap and two rolls of parchment tucked under his arm.

“Who asked you,” she said, feigning irritation. “What have you got there? It’s a little late for newspapers, I should think.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “It’s hardly news. Just some made-up gossip about rich folks. No offense,” he said, though he didn’t look like he truly cared. “Everyone wants to take on Lady Whistledown’s mantle these days, and the results are absolute sh*t.”

Rather than chastise him for the expletive, Penelope raised both eyebrows, impressed. “What makes them sh*t?” she replied, her curiosity piqued.

He returned her expression in mutual respect. “Buy one and find out,” he said cheekily, handing her one of the rolls and extending his other arm to demand her payment.

Penelope chuckled, digging into her reticule. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll buy both if you answer my question.”

They made the exchange, and the boy hoisted himself onto the bottom part of the railing to lean closer. “Lady Whistledown was a proper truth-sayer. These imitators, they’re all just scribblin’ co*ck and bull stories. Half of it’s not even about toffs, just regular folk.” He shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes dropping down to the pastry on the lady’s table.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Oh, for godssake,” she said, taking the small plate and offering it to him. He popped the mini éclair into his mouth, and she giggled, exclaiming, “Good choice! That’s my favorite,” even though it was the only one left.

Just then, two gentlemen strolled up, giving the unlikely pair incredulous looks.

“Penelope!” Harry exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide smile once he’d gotten over his surprise.

The boy scampered off before she could say another word.

“Harry, Colin!” she said, smiling as she raised a hand to shade her eyes and look up at the two men standing against the bright sun.

“How serendipitous to find you here, Pen. Who was that boy?” Colin asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously. He sounded almost angry.

“The newsboy? I bought the last of his papers, so he could go home.” She was taken aback a little by his tone, but when his eyes softened at her answer, the moment was instantly forgotten. “You boys out for a promenade?” she teased. “You make lovely escorts for each other.”

“Oh, no,” Harry said, giving her a boyish grin that made heart flutter just a little. “Gentlemen don’t usually need escorts.”

Penelope had the grace to giggle even though he’d missed the opportunity for a joke. “Well, if they did, you certainly chose one who would not give you the singular attention you deserve. Mr. Bridgerton’s eyes tend to wander when there are skirts swishing about.”

“Shall I send you flowers then, Harry? To demonstrate my contrition?” Colin played his part perfectly, putting his arm around the other man’s shoulders in jest. He was suddenly very glad for the advantage of his height.

Penelope rolled her eyes at his antics. “I question the effectivity of any bouquet that comes from you, Col. What message do you try to send with those things? That what you lack in taste, you make up for with gallantry?”

There was a brief moment where they were just staring blankly at each other, and then they were both laughing uncontrollably, tears springing to their eyes. Colin had to clutch at the back of a chair to keep himself upright.

“I shall never live down that hideous bouquet, shall I?” he managed to squeeze out between guffaws. The other patrons of the café glanced fondly in their direction.

Accustomed to missing the humor in such exchanges, Harry smiled politely and excused himself. “I find myself rather envious—” his eyes darted briefly towards Colin “—of Miss Featherington’s fare. And I would be terribly remiss to allow Mr. Bridgerton to go on another moment without a biscuit in his maw, so I shall see what offerings they have inside.”

Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with a gloved finger, Penelope watched the Marquess make his way into the store. Her laughter finally slowed into uneven bursts of watery chuckles.

Sniffling away the last of his mirth, Colin took the seat next to her, the one facing the street. He straightened his jacket and leaned back, giving her his full attention. “So what are you doing here, Pen? Alone once again. I am beginning to think that you detest chaperones even more than pompous young men who fancy themselves courting tutors.”

“I was at Gen… the modiste’s for a fitting. Prudence and my mother are still there, probably terrorizing poor Madame Delacroix.”

“And are the dresses we commissioned ready yet?”

She nodded. “Almost, I think. I would have fitted them today if it weren’t for mama. Madame Delacroix had the good sense to hide them. My mother is certain to disapprove.”

Colin gave her a kind, tight-lipped smile, and she hated the pity in his eyes, so she quickly uttered another quip. “Such somber colors, Penelope,” she said, her voice deepening to mimic her mother’s, “Should you wish to go suitor hunting at funerals instead of balls?”

Laughter danced in his eyes. Much better than pity.

He reached forward to tug at an errant curl on her forehead before propping his elbow up on the table and resting his jaw in his hand, looking at her with that small, content smile that never failed to confound her. “You are very funny, Miss Featherington,” he said before his eyes finally alighted on the small notebook in front of her. “What are you writing?”

She shut it immediately. “Are you Bridgertons always so nosy?”

“It’s in our blood, I’m afraid. Eloise seems to be the most terribly afflicted.”

“With Hyacinth a close second?”

“Certainly.”

She tapped her pencil on the leather cover of her notebook before once again bringing the butt of it to her mouth, like she was contemplating a clever response. “Hnggghhh…” she hummed through the obstruction, and the sight of her white teeth on that blasted piece of wood set his ears on fire and did unholy things to his—

“Strudel?” Harry said, returning with a tin of various pastries. “No biscuits, I’m afraid,” he said, taking the seat across from Penelope and opening the box to share with his companions.

“That container suggests that you think you’re going to go home with some sweets, Harry. I regret to inform you that you most likely will not. Not with Mr. Bridgerton in your company.”

“Ah, well, no matter,” the man responded graciously, waving a hand in the air. “I myself am not overly fond of sweets. I only keep them around in case I find myself in the company of beautiful young women who might enjoy them.” He looked at her pointedly.

“Keep talking like that, and I will start to think you’ve likewise employed Mr. Bridgerton as a flirting coach.”

Were it not for the shortbread he’d already stuffed in his mouth, Colin would have defended himself. Or told her there was just something wrong about the idea of him teaching someone how to flirt with her. Perhaps gluttony was a virtue after all.

“Should you think I need lessons, Miss Featherington?” Harry smirked, raising an eyebrow.

She blushed prettily. “N-no… I mean…” She shook her head and took a sip of her tea. Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. “What are you two doing here anyway?”

“I had to send word to Holloway House, and Mr. Bridgerton accompanied me to the post office. I am returning to Madden next week to attend to some business.”

“Oh,” Penelope said, trying not to sound disappointed. Mr. Anderson was traveling to France next week as well, and if Harry wasn’t done with his affairs in time, she would be left without an escort at the Hearts and Flowers Ball. Not that she was all that broken up about it, but she so loved dancing, and she was not particularly excited about going right back to being a wallflower after having gotten used to being treated like a lady.

“I promise not to take too long, my lady. I should be able to escort you to the Hearts and Flowers Ball,” Harry said, as if reading her mind. “Remember to leave room for me on your dance card.”

She smiled, brighter than sunshine. “Have you ever been to Aubrey Hall, my lord?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Bridgerton has never invited me.”

Colin rolled his eyes as he downed the tepid tea left in Penelope’s cup. “That is because you don’t like leaving Madden.”

Harry shook his head. “Not true! I do not enjoy the London season, that is all,” he said, and they all knew why. There certainly were downsides to being so good-looking when you were a titled, unmarried gentleman. “But,” he continued, “if I had a marchioness to hold my hand through it all, I imagine it wouldn’t be so bad.” He was careful to keep his eyes on the tin of pastries (half of which had already disappeared into Colin’s mouth).

Penelope fidgeted in her seat, and for the first time, her resolve wavered. Ireland was her dream now, she reminded herself. Marriage and family were for waifs and diamonds, not retired gossip columnists in ugly yellow dresses.

“Well, my lord, misery does love company,” she said, feeling foolish. She chanced a glance at Colin and was surprised to find him frozen with his eyes downcast. He was still holding a half-eaten jumble, and his jaw was tense. “Something wrong, Colin?” she asked.

He jumped a little at her voice and shook his head. “N-no. Ah, one need not be miserable to love your company, Pen.” She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Eloise is looking forward to spending an entire week with you.”

Penelope turned to Harry to explain. “Eloise has invited me to spend the week at Aubrey Hall, you see. Hijinks are sure to ensue. I shall tell you all about them when I see you next.”

Harry grinned. “I can hardly wait.”

Chapter 8: Tit for Tat

Chapter Text

Marcus Anderson inspected the painting in front of him, a tiny portrait of an androgynous figure set in a deliberately too-big frame such that it floated in a blank sea of white. “Is it a man or a woman?” he asked his companion.

“I think the point is that we can’t tell. It is called A Waste of Time. Perhaps Sir Granville is trying to tell us that we ought not be wasting time on such superficial things as gender,” Penelope said.

“Huh,” Mr. Anderson intoned. “Very insightful, Miss Featherington. Perhaps you’re right.”

She chuckled, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. “Or perhaps I am merely very good at feigning scholarly conviction.”

“Ah, yes, it is your confidence that sways me.”

“Here we go with the flattery,” she said in a sing-song voice, rolling her eyes and grinning up at him.

“I’m supposed to be courting you, am I not?” He grinned back at her.

“You’re supposed to be looking for a wife.”

“And you’re supposed to be looking for a husband.”

He clasped his hands behind him and looked up at the new gallery’s high ceilings, observing them for the first time. Caged candles hung down from them and floated above the visitors’ heads like ghostly lanterns. The space was no feat of architecture; it was a typical chamber with hardwood floors and white walls that sometimes sectioned off isolated nooks designed to showcase key pieces of a collection. The gallery was smaller than its older, more popular counterparts, but its size also meant that its contents were more carefully curated, and artists would not have to create so many works to complete an exhibit.

Marcus appreciated the very quaintness of the space. He tended to tire rather easily of looking at pictures, and the less of them there were, the more likely they would keep his interest. It helped that his escort had interesting insights, which was why he’d brought her in the first place. Now that she was more comfortable with him, she made for very good conversation and had a knack for making tedious gatherings a little more tolerable.

She began slowly walking to the next portrait, and her companion followed absently. “Right, well,” she said, “I’m beginning to feel bad about occupying you when the ton is rife with potential baronesses.”

He waved a hand in the air. “I am but two and thirty, and my father is strong as a mule. I think I can put off the responsibility of inheritance a little longer. My need for a wife is not as pressing as your Harry’s,” he teased.

“He is Colin’s friend. It only seemed natural to begin addressing him as casually as I address my best friend’s brother.”

Mr. Anderson raised an elegant eyebrow. “I am sure Mr. Bridgerton appreciates how readily you have embraced the Marquess into your exclusive circle.”

There was something odd in the man’s tone, but before she could ask about it, Cressida Cowper and her gaggle of sycophants sauntered up to them.

“Mr. Anderson! How positively serendipitous to find you here. I heard you were a patron of the arts, as is my father. I have been meaning to ask your opinion on the works of Sir Arnold Hummell. Have you heard of him? People are calling him the new John Linnell,” Cressida said, fluttering her eyes.

Penelope rolled hers. This was Cressida’s third season as well, and the woman seemed never to learn that her cheap tricks and simpering ways could land her a husband no better than a wallflower’s stammering.

“I’m afraid you have been misinformed, Miss Cowper,” replied Mr. Anderson graciously. “While I am often in the company of artists, I could no sooner tell a Rembrandt from a Goya. My patronage of the arts, as you say, is limited to purchasing whatever I am told to purchase.”

“And whose authority do you conform to, my lord? Who has taste exquisite enough to deserve the liberation of your coffers?”

Mr. Anderson’s hand came up to rest on the center of Penelope’s back—a polite gesture, but one that clearly communicated where his loyalties lay. “Well, tonight, I am utterly dependent on my lovely escort’s persuasion.”

“Oh, Penelope! I did not see you there!” Cressida exclaimed unconvincingly. “That… gunmetal gray suits you so well. It blends almost perfectly with the shadows.”

The dress was one of the ones Colin had commissioned. Genevieve was so proud of them that when she had delivered them earlier that day, she had stayed to see her client’s reaction as each piece was taken out of its package and shaken out to reveal each unique design.

This one was a deep gray number with long sleeves, a square neckline, and a sparsely beaded bodice. The shoulder seams were flat, which was a rare departure from the usual capped sleeves.

Penelope knew for a fact that the fabric brought out the red in her hair and the blue in her eyes, but such a remark was nothing she didn’t expect from Cressida. The woman was as predictable in her cruelty as she was in her vain attempts to land a husband.

“No harm done, Miss Cowper,” Penelope replied. “It’s almost a virtue, really, to be so singularly focused on a target that everything else simply falls away. Not everybody can boast of such… determination.”

Cressida sneered and lifted her chin haughtily, and she never looked more like herself.

Penelope turned her attention to her escort. “I’m afraid you’ve chosen a poor advisor, Mr. Anderson. I am woefully unfamiliar with this Hummell’s work, and all I can say about Mr. John Linnell’s is that his landscapes are entirely too grim for my liking. Though I will admit that their somber quality is what makes them fascinating.”

“Grim?” Cressida could no longer keep the edge out of her tone. “I suppose that is what it would seem like to a less sophisticated audience. Penelope has always had other inclinations, you see,” she said to Mr. Anderson. “Gastronomic pursuits, for example,” she continued, looking at Penelope from head to toe.

The young ladies that surrounded her giggled behind their gloved fingers. Penelope felt her face warm, hating how her fair skin was sure to be displaying her consternation. Suddenly hyper-aware of her surroundings, she could feel Mr. Anderson trying to find the right words to salvage the situation.

Cressida looked so triumphant.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Colin materialized beside them, and if the look on his face were any indication, he’d heard enough of the conversation to have gotten there already poised to defend his friend. “Well, Miss Cowp—”

Penelope stopped him with a hand on his chest. “We do have very dissimilar interests, don’t we, Cressida? You enjoy art, conversation, fashion. I do so enjoy food. And manners, of course,” she said with a small, almost sweet smile, staring the other girl dead in the eye.

Colin ducked his head and turned his lips inward to hide a pleased grin. Glancing up briefly, he saw Mr. Anderson doing much the same thing, and their eyes met in mutual delight.

Cressida was livid, her serpentine neck turning red. Penelope thought it was rather fascinating how the blush never reached the woman’s face.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Cressida could do nothing else but glare and stomp off, her uncertain minions trailing quickly after her.

It felt like a bravo was warranted, but before either of the gentlemen could say it, Penelope was already moving on to the next painting, as if nothing happened. With an odd sort of awareness, Colin looked down at his chest, having immediately felt the absence of her hand the moment she’d lifted it from his lapel.

From dusk until dawn, the restlessness would not subside.

Colin was doing everything he could to distract himself, even going so far as to unceremoniously bang at Benedict’s door to insist upon a painting session of all things—an imposition that his normally easygoing brother found endlessly irritating, especially because it was too early even for breakfast. When they had finished hours later, however, Benedict had thought the whole thing a worthy endeavor after all because the results of Colin’s toiling were worse than the random smudges Hyacinth used to call artwork; she was five the last time she had created such a masterpiece. Benedict had laughed for a good five minutes, lifting his mood significantly. Apparently, ridiculing his younger brother was good enough compensation for that morning’s rude awakening.

It was a landscape that Colin had painted—or at least it would have been, had the colors not bled into each other, resulting in little more than a brown blob that looked more like smeared horse dung than the serene terrain viewed from the highest window at Aubrey Hall.

After that, he’d stuffed his face with stale bread and cold bacon at the breakfast table at Number Five, earning disgusted looks from Eloise, Francesca, Hyacinth, and even Gregory.

Then, as in the days prior, he’d taken a walk, wandering about aimlessly until the soles of his shoes began to dig into his feet, at which point he returned home to his mother’s questioning looks and avoided her concerned needling by locking himself in the bathroom.

There, he dropped peppermint and lavender oil in the tub, submerged himself in the too-hot water, and violently scrubbed himself clean, ruining a new bar of the good soap.

Still, the restlessness did not leave. It never did anymore. It woke him up before sunrise and followed him into his dreams.

Resting the back of his head on the lip of the tub, he closed his eyes in resignation and reached between his legs. He had no choice, really; these days, he could find no respite from his frustration but in this.

Smooth skin. Blue eyes. Red hair.

He sighed into the steam.

Surely he wasn’t the first man to have been aided by thoughts of a beautiful friend as he took himself in hand. Colin felt no shame in the preferences of his imagination—he could hardly command it to select safer women (like Miss Marina Thompson, who, he was surprised to find, did not feature in his fantasies as often as one might expect of an ex-fiancée)—but he was perturbed by the recent increase in the frequency of his agitation.

Granted, the youngest Featherington had been particularly magnificent the previous night. He was shamefully delighted at the concise yet thorough way she had put Cressida Cowper in her place. No verbal retribution had ever been so well deserved, and were it not for how competently she did it herself, he would’ve defended his friend, nevermind that her bully last night was a lady. After all, somebody needed to stand up to these people, something that he had to give Lady Whistledown credit for, despite his resentment over the whole debacle with Miss Thompson and his foolish pronouncement last season being committed to ink.

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. And he didn’t. Just because she featured in his male fantasies sometimes did not mean he was looking to marry her.

Desperately, he tugged two more times before taking his hand off his hardness and leaning back to allow his arms to hang limply over the sides of the tub. He looked at his arousal and could only groan in frustration. Even this activity could not appease him today.

He wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to tear out his hair.

He wanted to see Penelope, though that was nothing new.

The season had been so odd for him. He’d thought that once he’d fixed the damage he had wrought on his dearest friend’s life, he could finally go back to feeling like the carefree Colin who lived for nothing but indulging his desire to explore the world.

But still, after everything he’d done to redeem himself, nothing felt right. Nothing had felt right since that blasted article revealed him to be the shallow, flighty, childish hypocrite that he was.

And he only ever felt better when he was with Pen. She made for an excellent distraction to his petty anxieties. She was funny and smart and good, and she always had the ability to make him feel greater than his privilege and his fruitless search for purpose. He supposed he ought to feel grateful to have someone in his life who had that effect on him, and he wondered if she had the same influence on Eloise.

The water was only beginning to feel tepid when he rose from the tub and got dressed to take yet another walk. He went through the motions of getting himself presentable again and made his way downstairs, bumping into his mother.

“Oh, Colin!”

The letter P on the folded note his mother was holding caught his attention.

“Is that for Penelope?”

“What—oh, yes. Of course. Just a reminder that she’ll be riding with me and the girls to Aubrey Hall. I was going to ask Eloise to take it to her—“

“I can do it!” he exclaimed a little too loudly.

“Your hair is still damp, my dear,” Violet said, eliciting an eye-roll from her son.

“It will be dry by the time I get there. Besides, it’s only Pen. She has seen me covered in mud. She will hardly care.”

Violet waved one hand in resignation, surrendering the letter with the other. “Oh, fine, fine. I suppose you’ll do,” and she finally brushed past him to go upstairs.

Stuffing the note into his jacket, he ran a hand through his hair and began the walk to the Featheringtons’.

On the way there, he ran into Lord Cho and Lady Trowbridge, but save for a polite smile and a nod, he did not stop to exchange pleasantries. The air had warmed since he’d woken Benedict that morning, and he’d even gained enough romanticism to appreciate a passing butterfly as he trudged down the street.

By the time he was at the Featheringtons’ front step, he was feeling significantly better, and—his mother would be happy to know—his hair was all the way dry. He had just finished running his fingers through it when Briarly answered the door.

“Good…” Colin had to look up at the sky to determine if it was past lunch, “day, Briarly.” He quickly realized that he had no ability to determine the eleven o’clock sun from the one o’clock, and his stomach rumbled a little, as if in response to his ignorance and failure to bring a pocket watch. He’d had a late breakfast, but walks always seemed to make him ravenous, no matter how recently his last meal was. “My mother has a message for Miss Featherington. Is she available?” He could’ve apologized for not sending word of his arrival, but it would have been entirely pretentious as he had been showing up unannounced since the season began. He reckoned the butler was used to his lack of propriety by now.

Briarly looked uncertainly over his shoulder. “My… apologies, Mr. Bridgerton. Miss Featherington has a caller.”

“Ah, well. I am sure neither Mr. Anderson nor Lord Dankworth will mind my company seeing as they have me to thank—“

Before Briarly could respond, Penelope emerged from the parlor and almost immediately caught Colin’s eye. She gave him an expression he didn’t quite understand, and then she shrugged, confusing him even more. Male laughter followed her into the hall, and then out stepped Lady Featherington on the arm of none other than Lord Debling.

The blood drained from Colin’s face, and the world was wronger than it had ever been.

“Ah, Mr. Bridgerton!” Debling called out genially, arms extended to welcome him as a host would a guest.

Colin straightened his spine and responded icily. “Lord Debling. How… surprising to find you here.”

Portia clapped her gloved hands gleefully. “As usual, you have impeccable timing, Mr. Bridgerton. Lord Debling—“

“Samuel, please,” the man interjected, and it infuriated Colin to no end.

“—Samuel here was just leaving. We still have some biscuits. It seems my cook has gotten used to making mountains of them in light of the… healthy appetites of our recent guests.”

She only meant Colin, of course, and he would have chuckled apologetically at that, but Lady Featherington looked so pleased that he was fairly certain she actually did not mean to be cutting.

“They are still warm if you would like them,” Portia continued.

“Such delectable biscuits in this home, indeed. I could not help but want to partake,” said Lord Debling, looking pointedly at Colin. The greasy quality in his voice indicated that he wasn’t at all talking about biscuits.

Not for the first time that season, Colin wanted to strangle the man. His chest felt tighter and his breathing was becoming shallower by the second.

Penelope shot him a concerned look before addressing Lord Debling. “Well, my lord, thank you for the lovely visit. I shall see you at the Hearts and Flowers Ball.”

“I shall take my leave then,” Debling said, donning his hat. As he passed Colin, he leaned in close to whisper, “What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

Colin looked straight ahead, afraid to move for fear of losing his restraint in front of the Featheringtons. Debling smiled, tapping him on his shoulder before finally departing.

“Colin?” Penelope said, her voice taking him out of his furious trance.

“I…”

“Come, come, Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Featherington took his elbow, leading him into the parlor. “You can have all the biscuits you want! What a marvelous job you’ve done this season. I always knew my girl was just waiting to blossom. Three fine suitors, can you imagine? And she wanted to exile herself to Ireland, bah! What poppyco*ck…”

Chapter 9: A Daisy for a Rose

Chapter Text

In the carriage to Aubrey Hall, Penelope was already feeling quite at home with the Bridgertons. It had warmed her heart how giddy Eloise was to meet her outside Featherington house, and both of them were glad to be seated next to each other, Violet and Francesca smiling fondly at their renewed friendship.

”I am so glad for the very happy season you seem to be having Penelope,” said Violet.

”Thank you, my lady. It has been busy as much as it has been productive. I am sure Francesca has been similarly occupied, especially with the Earl of Kilmartin?” she teased goodnaturedly.

Francesca blushed, looking down on her lap. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but yes, I do hope a proposal is imminent.” The girl meant it, too. She and John Stirling were utterly besotted with each other.

Violet rubbed her daughter’s back. “You’ll have an offer by season’s end, I’m sure of it. I can feel it in my motherly bones.”

Penelope wondered if that sort of intuition was something that all mothers possessed and if her own ever felt such a thing. Her mama had her faults, to be sure, but to her credit, she did see to her daughters’ every need, and Penelope had never wanted for anything—at least in the material sense—not even when both Lords Featherington sank them deeper in financial ruin.

”And what of you, Penelope? Is it true that Lord Debling has thrown his hat in the ring as well? How ever did that come about?” Violet continued. She thought back to the day before, when Colin had arrived back home at Number Five, looking even more perturbed than when he’d left. He’d said nothing more after mentioning Lord Debling’s suit, and Violet wondered if it was the only thing troubling her son, seeing as he did not even try to weasel his way into Pen’s carriage. Instead, he’d gone ahead to Aubrey with Benedict that very night.

“It was the strangest thing, my lady,” Penelope replied, fiddling with the seams of her gloves. “He simply showed up yesterday with flowers. He’s never so much as asked me for a dance, and then suddenly he was asking to court.”

“Interest begets interest, my dear. The attentions of Mr. Anderson and Lord Dankworth must have spurred him to action.”

”It’s highly suspect, if you ask me,” said Eloise.

Penelope tilted her head in agreement and gave the girl beside her a look that promised further discussion later.

“Eloise!” Violet admonished. “There is nothing unusual about a gentleman noticing when a lady comes into her loveliness.”

Penelope smiled politely at Lady Bridgerton but was too engrossed in her own thoughts to fully appreciate the compliment. Eloise’s sentiments were more than valid, and Penelope herself was more inclined to be suspicious than flattered.

Besides the odd timing of his suit, the kind of company Lord Debling kept left much to be desired, and he had a reputation for being a ruthless hunter and taxidermist. Those alone could be easily overlooked, but the man was also unfathomably wealthy and a bachelor by choice. Mamas had been throwing their daughters in his path for years, and before yesterday, he had never courted a single one. So what was he doing courting a veteran wallflower?

Alarm bells began to ring from the moment Briarly announced him at the Featheringtons’ parlor. It was obvious that some sort of game was afoot, and Colin’s reaction all but confirmed it. She didn’t get the opportunity to question him the day before, and as incensed as he was, she needed to reassure him that she was taking Lord Debling’s suit with a grain of salt.

They probably ought to include Eloise in the discussion. While Penelope wasn’t exactly afraid of Lord Debling, speculating on these petty affairs with her two dearest friends sounded like a whole lot of fun and harkened back to seasons past, when one or both of them approached her specifically to ridicule the deserving. She couldn’t wait to get to Aubrey Hall, which was about an hour’s ride more.

The rest of the trip was exceedingly pleasant, and Penelope found that she quite liked the young lady Francesca had become. Of all the Bridgerton siblings, it was Francesca she knew the least, and Penelope found her to be rather reserved, like Daphne in one of her moods, but more perceptive and with an edgy sense of humor, like Eloise.

“We shouldn’t be much farth—oh!” the younger girl said as she lifted the window curtain. “We’re here.”

Eloise sighed in relief. “Good. I could use a biscuit or two, if by some miracle Colin hasn’t eaten it all.”

”He has his magnanimous moments,” Franny said in mock defense of their absent brother.

Penelope giggled. It truly was a wonder how much the boy could eat and still maintain his physique. She, on the other hand, could eat like a bird for weeks, and it wouldn’t make a difference. She’d reconciled with the unique workings of her body, however, and had come to appreciate it for carrying her through the world rather well. After all, she didn’t have to be slender to be a good dancer, and as it turned out, there were men out there who found her pleasing enough to look at—to court, even.

Penelope lifted the curtain next to her and watched the road curve toward Aubrey Hall. She smiled delightedly, noting with interest how the Bridgertons’ ancestral home never quite loomed , despite its enormity. No, if she could ascribe human character to it, it always seemed delighted to be welcoming inhabitants.

Before she knew it, they were on the front steps, and she was being ushered into the guest wing, where she had a room all to herself. She took her time exploring the furniture, opening and closing the empty drawers of a beautiful satinwood desk, peering into the mid-sized wardrobe opposite the bed, and running her hands over the sage green sheets that covered what would be her bed for the entire week.

Delighted with her accommodations, she removed her pelisse with a relieved sigh and hung it in the wardrobe. Later, she would have to ask Lady Bridgerton to spare her a maid, if only to help her dress, but for now, she was glad that she had chosen a light day dress that she felt comfortable moving around in.

Without warning, the door opened and Eloise came stomping inside unannounced. “Penelope? Penelope, I have come bearing refreshments.” In fact, it was a maid who was bearing them, and Eloise instructed her to set the tea tray down on the small table beside the bed. “Thank you, Honey. Penelope, this is Honey. Honey, Penelope. She’ll be helping us dress and whatnot.”

Honey and Penelope shared an amused grin over what had to be the most haphazard introduction ever given. The girl, who couldn’t have been much older than Eloise, bent into a perfect curtsy, as if to compensate for her mistress’ disregard for propriety. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Penelope.”

“Likewise,” Penelope replied, returning the courtesy.

“May I come back later when you are gone to unpack and put away your clothing?”

“I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

Honey excused herself and shut the door behind her as she left.

Grabbing a biscuit, Eloise plopped down on the bed and leaned against one of the pillows. ”All right, they have barely started preparing lunch, and as far as I know, Colin has not been told that we have arrived. That leaves us with at least an hour to satisfy my curiosity. What do you think about Lord Debling’s suit? I smell a rat.”

Joining her on the bed, Penelope lightly jostled Eloise’s knee in assent. “So do I. But then again, the man has always discomfited me.”

“Well, if he is serious in his suit, and you, by some impossibility, actually choose him, at least he won’t bore you to death. Geraldine Mason has been to his manor, and she says it is like a museum of horrors. He’s even got a room dedicated to petrified bugs.”

“I do not trust this man, El. And neither does Colin. You should have seen your brother yesterday. He was like a different person.”

”How do you mean?”

“He didn’t stay long, but he was obviously displeased that Lord Debling was there.”

Eloise shrugged. ”Well, of course he was. He keeps bragging about how well he chose suitors for you. Were you to choose someone else, he would have to eat his words.”

Penelope shrugged back, reaching for a biscuit herself. “I suppose.”

Eloise paused, mid-chew. “But you will disappoint him, regardless. And Lord Dankworth too. Will you not?”

Penelope stayed silent.

”You are actually considering marriage again, Pen?” Eloise tried valiantly to keep the judgment out of her tone.

”I do not know… I was certain that he would have abandoned his suit by now, but lately… I think he has been hinting at a proposal, and I…” Penelope sighed, trailing off. “Harry is… He is such a good person, El. He is sweet and attentive and…”

”He is a man . How well will he take to you being a working woman? You still want to be a writer, do you not?”

”Yes, of course. And I think if there were any man in the world who would allow me to follow my dreams, it is him.”

”But he still must allow you.”

Penelope bit her lip. She so hated disappointing Eloise. Earlier this season, Eloise was looking at her like she hung the moon, with admiration, respect, and even envy. And the look she was giving her now… Insipid wallflower .

“And what of Ireland?” Eloise continued.

“My Cousin Oscar wrote me a few days ago. He has found a governess, and she will be arriving in a month’s time, but his offer still stands. There is no rule that says a household can only have one governess,” she shrugged. “He says I will always have a place in Kilkenny.”

Eloise was silent for a moment and then began shaking her head slowly. “Do you realize how fortunate you are to have options?”

That took Penelope aback. At the end of the last season, she felt that she had anything but opportunity. And now, the world was hers to conquer. It was the very first time she had ever felt like she had an advantage that Eloise did not.

Eloise shook her head again—but this time resolutely—and straightened her spine, like she had come to a realization. She leaned forward to look her friend straight in the eye. “Not entirely fortunate, I suppose. You have fought for your place in this world, Pen.” She reached for her friend’s gloved hands, grasping them tightly.

Penelope swallowed, trying not to cry. There weren’t many moments in her life in which she felt seen so wholly and so accurately. “And so shall you,” she said sincerely, her voice breaking.

Eloise responded with one of her rare smiles, the kind that made you feel like whatever you were, you were more than enough, and the world did not deserve you. Resolute, she said, “If there is anything the last year has taught me, Pen, it is that we are very different people.” She leaned back on the pillow again. “I cannot very well preach about liberty whilst stifling another woman’s, can I? I have decided, just now, that whatever you choose to do, I shall be right beside you, fighting for your right to do it. Or at least screaming profanities at anyone who gets in your way.”

Penelope could do nothing after that but throw her hands around the other girl’s neck and sob gratefully for how fortunate she was, indeed.

The country air did wonders for Colin’s disposition. He had spent nearly the entire morning on horseback, covering the grounds without any particular purpose. Kate, Simon, and Daphne had joined him for the first half of the ride before they were all pulled away for one domestic duty or another. Then, he was on his own, marveling at the estate’s quiet beauty and, for the first time in months, calm enough to be alone with his thoughts without wanting to drown them in whisky.

He’d returned to the manse smelling of horse and in desperate want of refreshments. Unwilling to chance Penelope seeing him in his current state, however, he prioritized hygiene over hunger.

It wasn’t until he’d bathed and dressed that he was informed of his mother’s and his sisters’ arrival. That meant Pen was already here, and he wasted not another moment before going off to find her.

She was at the piano in the common room, her head a bright aberration in a sea of dark-headed Bridgertons. Francesca was beside her, helping her recall a tune.

“Oh, yes, right!” Pen exclaimed, playing the last two bars of the song cautiously. From there, she and Francesca started over together, each playing on a different octave.

Recognizing the song, Colin grinned from his spot near the door. “Now we are met, let mirth abound,” he sang, arms crossed as he leaned on the wall.

Penelope faltered a bit, startled at his voice, and Francesca expertly covered up the mistake. Returning the cheeky grin he was giving her, Penelope quickly recovered.

”And let the catch and toast go ‘round. And let the catch, and let the catch, and let the catch and toast go ‘round,” he continued, eyes fixed on her red curls, which were bouncing slightly as she played.

On the other side of the room, a delighted Hyacinth began dancing her knights on the chessboard. This was all to the great annoyance of Gregory, who was trying to teach her how to play. “You’re ruining it!” he exclaimed.

Ignoring the bickering, the duch*ess of Hastings narrowed her eyes at the look on her older brother’s face as he sang. She glanced unconsciously towards her mama, who was across from her, embroidering a pillowcase. They both paused in the activity to share a meaningful look before their gazes were inexplicably drawn to the couch, where Eloise was reading.

Or at least, she was supposed to be reading. She was rather focused on Colin’s face as well and sporting a perturbed expression of her own. As if sensing the gazes on her, Eloise shifted her attention away from her brother, glanced at her mother and her sister once, and then scrambled for her forgotten book, which she lifted to hide her face.

There were chuckles and greetings that went around the room as the song tapered to an end, and then Penelope barely had a chance to give Colin a proper greeting before Hyacinth was all but forcing her into a seated position on the carpet directly across the fireplace.

”What about chess!” Gregory had exclaimed.

”It is a tiresome game, and you are a sore loser,” replied Hyacinth, climbing into the couch behind Pen and taking off the pins holding it in place. The redhead complied graciously and bent her neck to give the younger girl better access.

”Hyacinth!” Violet chastised.

Penelope smiled, waving a hand in the air. “It’s all right, my lady. If none of you mind my lion’s mane, then neither shall I.”

Gregory, who had not moved on from the argument, plopped himself at the other end of the couch and crossed his arms petulantly. “You’re simply deflecting, Hy, and you know it. I was winning.”

”Fine.” The youngest Bridgerton rolled her eyes. “You’re the grand champion.” Finally taking off the last pin, she ran her hands through Penelope’s curls. “There is no head brighter than yours, Penelope. Not even your mama’s or your sisters’. How do you keep it so red?”

”I don’t. It just looks like that, I suppose.”

“Lucky,” Hyacinth said, beginning to arrange the locks into thin braids. “With your hair down like this, you could have jumped right out of a painting. You look like a nymph.”

”She looks like an angel,” said Gregory dreamily, one hand cradling his chin.

Still in his spot near the door, Colin couldn’t agree more with his siblings, but when his besotted, fourteen-year-old brother scooted over to test how soft Penelope’s hair was, he felt compelled to intervene.

”All right,” he said, pushing off the wall and striding towards them. “Leave the lady alone. Especially you,” he pointed loosely at Gregory. “You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

The boy only grinned in response. “I’m a threat now, aren’t I, brother?”

Colin turned red, both embarrassed and inexplicably irritated. “Only so far as you’ve exceeded me in height.”

”But… I haven’t,” said Gregory, confused.

”That’s right,” the older brother replied smugly.

Gregory rolled his eyes and resumed moping at the other end of the couch, a safe distance away from Penelope.

Just then, a maid called them for lunch, and Colin extended an arm to Penelope to help her up before relinquishing her to Eloise. As everybody else filed out the door, Violet gently held her son back by the arm, glancing towards the others to make sure they were out of earshot.

”What are you doing, dearest?” Her voice was deceptively agreeable.

Colin’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Mother?”

”Penelope is this close to getting a proposal. So what, my dear, are you doing ?” she said more sternly.

”I haven’t got a clue what you’re asking me, mother.”

“Oh, don’t you try that with me, Colin Bridgerton.” She sighed. “I have suspected… Since last season… But then you made that foolish proclamation, and then you were trying to make things right. But these last few months, you have been acting like you’re…” She looked at him pointedly, and heaven knew what she wanted from him, but he could only stare back in confusion. Lady Bridgerton shook her head and continued, “I had hoped I was wrong, but my dear, you are playing with fire, and I do not want to see that girl hurt again. I do not want to see either of you hurt, for that matter.”

“Then we are in agreement. I am trying to protect Penelope, mother. I am trying to secure her future.”

Frustrated, Violet shook her son by the shoulders. “In the interest of time and that bottomless pit you call a stomach, I shall get straight to the point. You are taking liberties with the girl, and unless you plan to do something about it, I suggest you commit to the mantle of gentleman matchmaker and disengage from this very special friendship you have with Penelope.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Why is it so hard to believe that a gentleman and a lady may have a friendship at all? I found her a husband for godssake. What else must I do to convince everyone that there is nothing going on between me and Penelope?”

”Is that what you have been trying to do all season? Convince everyone that you have no feelings for her? Or is it yourself who needs convincing?”

There was a pebble in his throat that he seemed to have trouble swallowing. He forced himself to look his mother in the eye and willed his voice not to waver as he said, “Penelope is important to me, mother. All I want is for her to be safe and happy, and I do not appreciate my intentions being constantly in question. I will not lose her friendship to anyone’s suspicions and assumptions—not even yours, mother.”

Finally, Violet let her son go, but as he walked away, she called softly after him. It did not matter that he was well and grown; he stopped in his tracks at his mother’s voice, which sounded magnified in the empty hallway. “Perhaps you ought to explore, my son, why it is you insist on seeing a daisy where everybody else sees a rose.”

For the next four days, Colin was careful not to be alone with Penelope, if only to prove a point to his mother. The endeavor presented little challenge as Eloise had all but glued herself to the girl’s side, and if they weren’t holed up in Penelope’s room, they were exploring the grounds, arms linked.

Colin was glad that the two were finally, thoroughly reconciled, but he was starting to feel rather left out. He knew it was only fair for Eloise to have her time now as he had all but monopolized Penelope all season, but nevertheless, having his favorite person around and being unable to have a meaningful conversation was its own type of torment.

Unwilling to suffer the neglect any longer, he volunteered to get them downstairs for the annual pall-mall bloodbath and made his way to the guest wing, where the girls were once again in their own private little world.

“Oh, that is brilliant!” he heard Eloise exclaim. His hand was already poised to knock, but curiosity gave him pause.

”Really? I suppose I ought to thank Cressida for the inspiration.”

Eloise cackled. “Hardly. You’ve made Gertrude rather sympathetic, actually. I think it’s brilliant to have your villain be both a victim of social pressures and the worst perpetrator of the same.”

”Exactly! Thank you! Honestly, I’m tempted to simply write her exactly as I see Cressida—a vapid snake with no other purpose than cruelty, but I thought it would be more interesting for Gertrude to have some semblance of humanity.”

Colin grinned at the description of Cressida. Truly, Penelope did not receive enough credit for her wit. Or her accuracy.

With his knuckles, he rapped on the door thrice and heard the rustle of parchment as the girls scrambled to put away their secret project. He rolled his eyes and cracked the door open without waiting for them to welcome him inside.

“There is no point in hiding.” He pushed inside and crossed his arms. “I’ve eavesdropped enough to know what you ladies are up to,” he said shamelessly.

Penelope, who was at the satinwood desk that he had begun to identify as hers, paled more than he expected. “H-how much did you hear?” she stammered.

His eyes narrowed at her, and there was a slightly too-long pause before he spoke again. “Enough,” he said, and there was a dangerous quality in his voice that Penelope was wholly unfamiliar with. She looked into those blue eyes she’d loved so much and wondered where her Colin went, the one who’d danced with her simply to show up Cressida Cowper, the one who’d talked to her about purpose, the one who’d taken her hand and said so earnestly, you really are very good, you know that?

There was a tense, cloying sort of silence in the room as they stared each other down. Meanwhile, Eloise wrung her hands together, eyes wide and bouncing between her brother and her best friend.

Then, his expression relaxed, and the Colin they’d known forever was back. “Enough to know how you really feel about Cressida Cowper,” he jested, crossing his arms.

Penelope bowed her head, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “It’s… just a little story I’m working on. Eloise is a marvelous sounding board.”

”I am too, you know. What is it you ladies have been tittering about? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were purposefully excluding me.” He hoped his teasing tone hid the truth in the statement.

”I did not realize you had been inducted into our tittering club,” Eloise said, raising an irritated eyebrow.

”I should be! I could provide a gentleman’s perspective. Pen would attest to its value, wouldn’t you, Pen?”

Eloise interjected before her friend could answer. ”You are not half as charming as mother tells you. Was this the sole purpose of your intrusion? To vex us?”

Penelope giggled. “Speak for yourself. I am not vexed. Perhaps I’m charmed,” she said prettily.

”Traitor!” Eloise cried, half-heartedly throwing a pillow at her. “You two can flirt on your own time. We are supposed to be working.”

At the mention of flirting, the two had the decency to blush.

Colin cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I do have to cut your session short. I’m here to escort you both to a game of pall-mall.”

That perked Eloise right up. “Pall-mall, you say?”

The girls’ interest in literary pursuits dissipated immediately at the promise of war. Penelope had heard enough about the game to know that the Bridgertons took it entirely too seriously, and she had always wanted to see why it inspired such passionate competition. From what she heard, the new Viscountess was just as bad as the rest of them, though with her pregnancy—only recently announced—she was bound to sit this one out. Penelope was only too happy to take her place.

Mere minutes later, they were in the shade of a tent at the pall-mall field, sipping on lemonade and gossiping about Lord Debling as they waited for the Viscount to appear.

”You are right not to trust the man, Pen,” Colin said with a self-assured tilt of his head.

”Well, I know why I don’t trust him. But why don’t you?” she replied.

”The man is friends with Fife. That never bodes well.”

” You are friends with Fife,” Eloise pointed out.

Sometimes, Colin really wanted to strangle his sister, though with his mother watching from the other tent just a few meters away, he was effectively discouraged from doing so. “Fife is no friend of mine,” he said, swirling his drink as if it were brandy.

Penelope looked away, wanting to say so many things to that. Could’ve fooled me, she thought. Last season, you were happy to laugh with him at my expense.

Colin must have known what she was thinking because he sounded a little desperate to change the topic. “He is, however, an excellent source of gossip. Scandal attracts scandal, it seems. I overheard him at White’s saying that Lady Trowbridge is on the prowl for a second husband.”

“What for? I can think of no father figure more excellent than her footman.”

In a most impressive spray, Colin spit out his lemonade in a loud guffaw, shakily setting his glass down on the tray of refreshments for fear of spilling the rest of its contents. His mother was looking at him in surprise and mild disapproval, but he was helpless as the laughter continued to bubble forth. It was a miracle that the lemonade didn’t come out of his nose instead.

The mirth was infectious, and soon Penelope was laughing too, albeit in a more ladylike manner, with her gloved hand covering her mouth.

“Oh, oh! You mean that… quite… quite literally, too!” Colin managed to get out as he struggled to pull oxygen into his lungs, tears springing from his eyes.

Eloise could only look on, knowing that she was missing something. Before she could demand an explanation, however, a voice called out from behind them.

“I see that the fun has already begun without me,” Anthony said, pregnant wife in tow.

“And now it ends with your arrival.” At three months along, the Viscountess was hardly showing, save for the glow on her skin.

Anthony pulled her by the waist, and the woman gave a little shriek. “You ought to be nicer to the father of your child, you know.”

“I will do no such thing,” she laughed.

Having had enough of the flirting that she’d had to deal with for the better part of the hour, Eloise brought it upon herself to put an end to it. “Oi, niceness indeed has no place here. This is a battlefield,” she said.

“Your sister is right,” Kate said, stepping away from her husband. “I’m surprised, actually, that you are wasting precious time on banter rather than ensuring victory for us.”

“Huh?” the Viscount furrowed his eyebrows.

“You must secure the mallet of death, you fool!” she yelled.

The Bridgertons in the other tent perked up at that, and then there was a mad dash for the mallets, which were across the field, in a bucket under a tree.

Unfortunately, Colin, who wasn’t quite done laughing, and Penelope, who had no prior knowledge of the importance of one’s mallet choices, were last to understand what was happening. They were still quite a ways off when Anthony, Daphne, Eloise, Benedict, and an overeager Gregory grabbed their mallets and immediately dispersed for fear of getting theirs stolen.

The green, mauve, and yellow were gone, along with the black mallet of death, which the Viscount had successfully obtained. That left the pink one and the cream. Neither were particularly assertive colors for such a violent game as pall-mall, but of the two, the pink was at least a shade of red.

Colin found himself impressed that Penelope, who was in a fine dress and little satin shoes, was managing to keep pace with him, nevermind that he was still quite out of sorts from laughing so hard. They reached the tree and grabbed the pink mallet at the same time, both pulling in opposite directions.

“Ladies first!” Penelope cried, mirth coloring her voice.

“What do you think this is? A ballroom? There are no ladies and gentlemen in pall-mall! This is warfare!”

A lock of hair had come loose from her chignon, and it blew in the wind. Without a maid to fuss over complicated updos, she had taken to styling her hair that way.

“Is it now, Mr. Bridgerton?” she said. “Well, I’ll have you know, I am very stubborn, and we shall remain here until you yield.”

Somewhere between arguing and that errant curl blowing in the breeze, Colin momentarily forgot where he was and what he was doing, and lost his grip on the mallet. Penelope stumbled back, surprised that he would give up so easily. Quick as a flash, he grabbed the mallet again to pull her forward, catching her by the waist.

Anchoring herself on his chest, the mallet between them an uncomfortable but necessary barricade, she looked up at him, suddenly worried. “Colin?” she asked, all humor lost to the breeze.

There was laughter somewhere in the distance, and the leaves above them rustled as their shadows painted a mosaic on the grass. As chilly as the wind was, the sun was impossibly warm on their skin. Nevertheless, goosebumps formed on Colin’s skin, and he was suddenly all too aware of the heart beating in his ribcage and the warm, yielding flesh beneath his hands.

His feet inched closer to her somehow, even with that blasted mallet between them, and he bent over her, watching in fascination as her pupils dilated.

“Your eyes,” he said breathlessly. “In this light, they are Bridgerton blue.”

Said eyes widened in response, and her chest rose and fell like ocean waves. A blush rose from her neck like a sunset in reverse, giving the freckles peppered across her cheeks a deep, pink background. He watched in rapt attention as the wind softly blew a strand of red hair back and forth before the tendril caught in her eyelashes and lifted again to rest behind her ear.

And then she was stepping back, clearing her throat. “Yes, well, you will be Bridgerton black and blue by the time this game is over.”

As if snapping back to reality, he gave her an indulgent, one-sided smile. The joke was far from her best, but it was adorable all the same.

Daphne was giving him a look when they walked over to join them, and he pretended not to notice his mother’s stern gaze. Anthony, who had been too exhilarated at being reunited with his mallet to notice the tense interactions, was reading a note that a messenger had just delivered.

“It’s from the Marquess of Holloway,” the Viscount said when he finished scanning the missive. “He is asking if he might join us ahead of the Hearts and Flowers Ball. If you are so inclined, Penelope, I shall send him an invitation at once. Far be it for me to deny the request of an earnest suitor missing his object of affection.”

Penelope blushed a deep red and smiled. “If it would not be too much of an imposition, Lord Bridgerton, I should like that very much.”

Colin schooled his face into a stoic expression and willed it to remain that way as Daphne stepped close enough to him to whisper.

“Isn’t Harry Dankworth your friend? It’s rather odd of him to write Anthony directly, is it not?” his sister said. “Why. Not. You?” she concluded in an infuriating staccato.

His only response was a twitch in his jaw, and then he was picking up the cream ball, suddenly in the mood for bloodshed.

Chapter 10: Pissing Contests

Chapter Text

“There you are,” Colin said from the open French doors that led to the porch overlooking the lawn.

Penelope looked up from the book she was reading to offer him a soft smile. He took a moment to observe the way she was splayed out on the chaise lounge, her feet not even close to reaching the end of it. Her hair fell over one shoulder, haphazardly gathered in a baby blue ribbon several shades lighter than her eyes. It was not very often that he saw her this way, utterly relaxed instead of skittish and on high alert against a stray insult or yet another awkward interaction.

Colin found that he quite liked this change, and in that brief moment, his mind took her and that chaise lounge to a different time of day, sometime closer to dusk, when a man and a woman might do things they could only do under the protection of the failing light.

”Here I am,” she replied indulgently. “Eloise was just here. She left a few minutes ago to retrieve a book.”

”I’m afraid she won’t be returning. She has gotten embroiled in a verbal battle in the sitting room.”

”A verbal battle?”

“Well, that is the polite term. I’m more inclined to call it an inane pissing contest prefacing a most violent game of charades. You are to be on our team, apparently,” he said, though his plopping into the armchair near Pen’s feet rather communicated that he was not quite as invested in the competition as his siblings.

He waited for her to protest their lack of a chaperone, but all she did was shuffle to a more proper sitting position, scooting so that her back was resting on the arm of the chaise and her feet were on the floor.

”Did you know,” she said in quite a leisurely way, “charades were originally just riddles?”

He brightened at that, straightening his spine in hope and surprise. “I… I wrote that to you. While I was in France.”

“Oh,” she said, face falling. Her posture tightened a little, like she was crawling back into her wallflower self. “I must have read it elsewhere,” she continued, looking down at her lap.

He deflated, the back of his neck burning in embarrassment. He pursed his lips in disappointed acceptance. “Ah, well… I suppose we ought not keep Eloise waiting. My sister is not known for her patience.”

She took the hand he offered her, and he tried not to think about how this was the first time that he had touched her without the encumbrance of gloves. How warm her palm was and slightly pink in the fleshy places. Wordlessly, she stood, unable to meet his eyes.

She did not keep her hand in his for longer than necessary, letting go immediately as she stepped around the low table bearing hers and Eloise’s forgotten tea.

”Did you really burn them, Pen?” he asked quietly. He had poured his heart out in every single one of those letters. In between what he thought were poetic descriptions of all the new things he saw and heard and smelled and tasted, he had apologized to her, over and over, so earnestly that if a stranger had read his words, they might have thought he was forming some sort of unhealthy attachment or even that he was outright falling in—

“Yes,” she said simply, stepping through the doors without looking back at him. “At the time, I needed to do it. For me.”

He stared after her for a moment, breathing deliberately because he’d momentarily forgotten how to do it, and his heart was breaking, just a little.

They walked in silence to the sitting room, where Francesca, who was a mere spectator in pall-mall the previous day, had taken it upon herself to lead charades as game mistress. Gregory, Eloise, Colin, and Penelope formed one team, and Hyacinth, Kate, Anthony, and Benedict formed the other. Penelope enquired after the Duke and duch*ess and was told that they were currently shackled to a sleeping August.

Kate was the first to take a turn, and she did so enthusiastically, threatening her husband with violence if his performance fell short of her expectations. It was rather surreal how the Viscount could only swallow nervously in response.

Francesca started them off with an easy phrase, which Hyacinth guessed in a mere ten seconds. Kate had barely gestured in front of her growing stomach and put her hands around her mouth to draw attention to an exhale before her youngest sister-in-law was shouting out, “Baby’s breath, Baby’s breath!” So delighted was the Viscountess at having secured their first point that she forgot to mind that it wasn’t her husband who had given the answer.

Taking her turn, Eloise acted out “mum’s the word,” which Gregory guessed in an impressive thirty seconds.

Francesca doled out increasingly more difficult phrases after that, inciting fiercer competition, especially within the ever tighter bounds of a ninety-second time limit. Even Benedict’s exclamations were getting more impassioned with every round, and there was an equal abundance of laughter and heated exchanges as the game progressed.

As the phrases became more obscure, the points also became scarcer. Oddly enough, however, Colin and Penelope seemed to be the only ones impervious to difficulty levels as they hit an odd sort of stride that had them guessing each other’s assigned phrases almost as soon as they began to act them out.

Penelope made as if she were twisting the ends of a mustache, and Colin immediately exclaimed, “civil whiskers!”

At their next turn, the phrase was “cutting shams,” and all Colin had to do was rapidly move two fingers together and then apart before Penelope successfully guessed it.

Penelope pushed an imaginary cart, and that was enough for Colin to answer “drunk as a wheelbarrow.” That round earned them incredulous stares from around the room.

In a comically feminine affectation, Colin put the back of his hand to his forehead, eyes rolling to the back of his head in an unconvincing swoon.

”CRESSIDA COWPER!” Penelope exclaimed correctly, and everybody roared with laughter.

They were all clutching their stomachs or wiping tears from their eyes when the butler arrived to announce the arrival of a visitor.

“Pardon me,” Harry Dankworth called from the doorway.

Penelope straightened immediately, nervously brushing at her hair, mortified that he had probably heard her outburst from the corridor.

The room’s occupants, however, were caught in a similar state of informality, and none were more determined to recover their dignified demeanors than the Viscount and Viscountess.

”Lord Dankworth,” Anthony said, straightening his cravat. “I apologize. You caught us in the midst of a very spirited game of charades.”

”Which my team won,” Eloise could not help but declare.

Still either chuckling or smoothing out their clothing, the other players could not even find it in themselves to dispute it.

The Marquess smiled graciously. “Congratulations, my lady. I wish I had a trinket with which to reward you. I did bring some wine from Madden.”

Eloise perked up at that. “Oh, I have always wanted to try Madden wine! Is it true that it is blue in color?”

”Well, it is noticeably bluer than other reds, my lady. It is the grapes themselves that are quite an interesting indigo, and our vineyards are magical during harvest season.”

”Could we come visit once you and Penelope are wed?”

“Hyacinth!” Kate chastised, feeling compelled to do so in the absence of her mother-in-law, who was out speaking with suppliers for the Hearts and Flowers Ball on her behalf.

“You and yours will most certainly be welcome, Miss Bridgerton, no matter the circ*mstances,” Harry replied.

There it was again, that awful, sinking feeling that started in Colin’s throat and ended in his stomach. Once Penelope is wed. He pictured her walking between grapevines heavy with indigo fruits, the fallen ones crushed under her heels and staining the hem of her dress purple as she followed Harry back to Holloway House. How beautiful she would be. And how happy.

“I apologize for my early arrival. I made a grave miscalculation.”

A seven-hour difference was a grave miscalculation indeed, and Colin was tempted to make a quip about the Marquess never having been very good with numbers, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, uncertain that he had enough charm at the moment to soften the edges of the barb. Even just thinking it made him feel excessively cruel.

“That’s quite all right. If you are so inclined, Lord Dankworth, perhaps you might join Eloise, Colin, Penelope, and I for a short visit to My Cottage—that is, my country home. We are scheduled to leave in half an hour, as a matter of fact. I anticipate we’ll be back by late afternoon,” Benedict said with a twinkle in his eye. He really did enjoy torturing Colin a little too much.

Loath to put a wrench in Penelope’s plans, especially because it was he who arrived ahead of schedule, the Marquess enthusiastically agreed, and after some refreshments, he was back in a carriage, this time seated across Penelope and Eloise Bridgerton. With too many long legs to fit in one cab, the Misters Bridgerton took a phaeton instead.

It was an easy ride at first, but then there was a long, muddy stretch of road that forced the horses to sidestep it. Off the path, they made slow and bumpy progress that gave Eloise a massive headache. She was nearly green with nausea by the time they finally arrived at My Cottage, and Benedict practically had to carry her into the sitting room before asking Mrs. Crabtree to have a surgeon brought in.

”That’s rather unnecessary, don’t you think?” groaned Eloise from the couch she was reclining in. “The way you’re overreacting, one could mistake you for mother.”

”My actions are purely for self-preservation, dear sister,” replied Benedict. “The same mother would have me flayed if you perished on my watch.”

“My brains just got a little knocked about. In the meantime, don’t hang around on my account. Why don’t you able-bodied youngsters begin the tour?”

”I do not mind waiting for you, El,” Penelope said, half-sitting on the arm of the couch to put the back of her hand on her friend’s clammy forehead.

Eloise waved her away immediately. “Go, go. There is nothing you can do for me here. I could use the peace and quiet in my state. I can catch up the moment I feel better. Urrrrggggghhhhh,” she punctuated the statement with another groan.

With a wince, Benedict said, ”I… think I should stay here and wait for the surgeon. Or make sure you truly don’t expire. Only…” He gestured towards Harry and Penelope. “I have no maids here at the moment, and I’m not sure we can pull Mrs. Crabtree away from her duties to chaperone.”

Without missing a beat, Penelope shrugged and said, ”Colin will suffice,” and an uncomfortable silence descended in the room. Even Eloise stopped groaning.

Colin, who was in quite a mopey mood, sat up in his armchair, looking both perplexed and horrified. “M-me? As chaperone? I… I’m not so sure… I…” It was wrong, just so wrong. On so many levels he couldn’t yet enumerate. He looked helplessly at his brother.

Benedict was sporting the biggest grin Colin had ever seen, looking positively delighted at the miserable turn the conversation had taken. The younger Bridgerton tilted his head and widened his eyes in a silent bid for rescue.

“We gentlemen are not much good for many things, Miss Penelope, least of all chaperoning,” Benedict chuckled. Let it be said that he tried to help his kin.

The young lady raised her chin in defense of her friend’s honor and competence. “This one is an exception.” She pointed a thumb in his direction. “After all, he has been chaperoning all season, haven’t you, Colin?”

The young man in question paled even more, beginning to resemble his incapacitated sister. “Well, that’s not quite… That is to say, I was merely… Is… is that what I was doing?” His voice was rising in pitch and becoming somewhat hysterical.

It took everything that Benedict had to contain his laughter.

Eloise had never passed on the opportunity to torment one of her siblings, so she fought through her headache to say mercilessly, “Not even I could do a better job. And you’re already familiar with the estate. You can be both chaperone and tour guide!”

”Yes!” Benedict agreed, the traitor. “Show them to that spot where we pick berries.”

Colin glared in response, but for the life of him, he could not come up with a single excuse.

Harry, who looked nearly as discomfited by the suggestion, could have perhaps protested the idea, but when Penelope clapped her hands in excitement and exclaimed with those big blue eyes of hers sparkling with anticipation, “Ooh, I have never picked berries before! Or any fruit, for that matter,” he too was reduced to an acquiescent puddle.

And so, with one arm hooked around her suitor’s and the other carrying a small wicker basket, Penelope led the three of them out into the woods. Keeping a leisurely pace, they followed a winding path that, according to Benedict, led to a small river. Colin fell back at a reasonable distance, not so much to give them privacy as to maintain his own sanity for there was nothing in this world he wanted to hear less than the things Harry and Pen might deign to whisper in each other’s ears.

The couple walked ahead, and Penelope was glad that the path was fairly free of bramble. She was wearing her riding boots, but they were made to be shown off astride a horse and not really for actual walking.

”How is Holloway House, my lord? Is everything in order?”

”Ah, yes. Nothing my steward and I couldn’t handle between ourselves. The berries were a little behind this year, and my tenants grew concerned. But a bit of sun should repair the issue.”

Penelope’s eyebrows met in apprehension. “Are you sure it is all right that you are here with me—”

Harry shook his head, smiling kindly. “There is nowhere I would rather be. I assure you, my lady.”

Penelope blushed, biting her bottom lip. “Harry, there is something I wish to talk to you about…” She took a breath before continuing. “I do not mean to be presumptuous, but… but I think you ought to know… before you make any decisions. Oh, I’m not making sense.” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “There are… There are things I wish to do… besides managing a household and raising a family. I… What you expect out of a marchioness…”

Harry paused, gently turning her to him. “Why do you think I like you, Miss Featherington?”

She fidgeted and chuckled nervously, resuming her steps. Reflexively, she hid behind a joke. “Because you like rubenesque women in hideous dresses? Red hair? Vertically challenged wallflowers?”

He did not join in her mirth but instead remained in his spot, forcing her to look back at him. “Because you are kind ,” he said in all seriousness, looking a little horrified that she wouldn’t already know this. “And intelligent. And funny. Beautiful too, yes. Needless to say, I do not wish you to be anything other than what you are, Miss Penelope.”

His words knocked the breath right out of her, and she could say nothing else but a soft “thank you, my lord.”

Behind Harry, Colin swallowed yet another lump in his throat. He tried to be happy for them, he really did, but something seemed to be squeezing the joy out of his heart, and he resented himself for being unable to overcome it.

The two came together again and resumed walking.

Playfully bumping his shoulder against hers, the Marquess said, ”You promised me tales of hijinks, didn’t you, my lady?”

”Right!” Penelope chuckled, grateful for the diversion and genuinely excited to share the last few days with him. It wasn’t all hijinks, of course, but she was happy to tell him about her observations (which she had listed in a little notebook specifically to commit them to memory and impart them to Lord Dankworth later) and recount the bloodbath that was pall-mall the day prior.

“You cannot tell him that it came from me, but the Viscount must be the sorest loser I have ever seen. Daphne was very good, but it was Benedict who edged her out in the end. And apparently the man is an insufferable victor as well.” And then under her breath, she said, “Colin was rather morose through it all. I do not think any of these Bridgertons take very kindly to being bested.”

”Ah, yes, I have seen this game wreak havoc upon many a family. I even know of one that’s been outright torn apart by pall-mall.”

”Are you in earnest? Which family was that, my lord?”

”The Lowes. Mr. Bridgerton would know them too, in fact. Killian Lowes was a classmate of ours at Eton. Do you remember, Bridgerton?” They slowed down, looking behind them to allow Colin to close some of the distance.

”Ah, Killian Lowes? The massive one with the even more massive brother?”

”Yes! We called them the giants of Eton, Pen,” Harry said. “Apparently, the two have not spoken for years over an unresolved game of pall-mall.”

Colin liked Harry, he truly did, but hearing the man use the nickname made him bristle. Stamping down the feeling, Colin focused on the conversation and thought for a second, trying to recall a piece of gossip that was niggling at him.

Snapping his fingers in realization, he said, “The story I heard was a little more scandalous than a game of pall-mall. Yes, that’s right. It was a young woman that ultimately came between them. Lady Catherine.”

”Lady Catherine? Of New Trent?” Penelope said, confused.

“The very same. The old one, I mean. She didn’t end up with either of the Lowes, apparently.”

Harry looked between them, suddenly feeling lost. “The old one?”

”The old Catherine,” Penelope struggled to explain. “I mean, she is the younger one… That is…” Here, she began to sputter with laughter. “Help me!” she beckoned to Colin, who was also beginning to laugh.

”It is the younger one we speak of, the first wife of Lord Fulton of New Trent. She is younger than the new wife, you see, whose name is also Catherine.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, still struggling to understand.

”So the… the younger Catherine, whom he divorced, is the old Catherine of New Trent!” wailed Penelope, dissolving into laughter.

“And the older Catherine… is the new. Oh, good god!” Colin cried, succumbing to the absurdity of the conversation.

Harry scratched behind his ear. “The new… Catherine…” he murmured, still not quite following.

When they were finally able to let the matter go, the three of them continued the short trek to the river. It wasn’t long before they could hear the sound of rushing water, and Colin led them off the path to make a detour.

”The berries should be around here,” he said under his breath.

They came upon a clearing, and sure enough, there were bushes rife with little red berries that Penelope had never seen before.

”Are you sure they are safe to eat?” she said apprehensively.

Colin merely popped one in his mouth and chewed in response.

They picked a few handfuls and placed them in Penelope’s basket before making their way to the river once again. There, Harry and Penelope sat together (but not too close—Colin made sure of that), and their chaperone perched himself on a flat boulder, gorging on berries and thanking the heavens that rivers were perfectly made to drown out flirty little conversations.

Save for agreeing to take off his shoes and stockings to dip his feet in the water at Penelope’s behest, Harry was of course nothing but a gentleman. Nevertheless, watching them draw circles in the water with their toes made Colin feel just about as sick as Eloise. After all the innuendoes and indirect, unsolicited advice that had been meted out to him over the last few days (months, really), he was not so simple as to not realize exactly what he was feeling—cold, sharp jealousy. It was why his triumph fell short of giving him any satisfaction, why there seemed to be a boulder that had made its permanent home in the pit of his stomach, and why he felt like tearing his hair out at the thought of Penelope saying yes , Penelope saying I do , Penelope saying good morning, Harry, I love you .

But just because he knew the feeling didn’t mean he was ready to acknowledge it. This was only Penelope, after all, and perhaps he had gotten so used to being the only man in her life, her friend, her protector, that of course it was hard for him to cede that role to someone else. Of course.

Penelope jerked her leg and kicked at the water, splashing an amused Harry, though she only managed to wet him below the knees. Colin watched her foot descend back into the clear water, noting how pale it was and how small. How inappropriate it was for ladies and gentlemen to show such an appendage, he was not quite certain, but chastising them for such a thing felt too much like something a father or an older brother would do, and those titles felt so much worse than chaperone, so he left them alone.

When their toes had pruned sufficiently, Penelope pulled her stockings back on behind a bush that had served the same purpose earlier.

By the time they got back to My Cottage, just a little over an hour later, Eloise was looking only slightly better, and the surgeon still had yet to see her.

”I am well, truly,” Eloise insisted, albeit a little weakly. “Who knew that Benedict had the makings of a mother hen?”

Benedict rolled his eyes. “Make all the jokes you want. I’m not having you vomit in the coach. Anthony will have my head for the mess, and mother will demand the same for letting you travel in your disposition. And I’m rather fond of this noggin.” He knocked on the side of his head with his knuckles and turned to the rest of their companions. “The three of you ought to return to Aubrey. We will wait for the surgeon and then decide if we need to stay the night.”

”I suppose we ought to take the phaeton. It would not do for Eloise to ride back to Aubrey Hall exposed if she has not completely recovered,” said Colin. Riding out in the open would also pose less questions than if Penelope were to emerge from an enclosed carriage with two bachelors.

With their travel plans settled, the three partook in some sandwiches and tea before wishing Eloise better health and departing for Aubrey Hall.

They were halfway to their destination, right at the muddy part that forced them off road, when one of the horses lost its footing and slipped, along with one of its smaller wheels, into the wet earth. Penelope gave a little shriek, one hand clutching the side of the lopsided phaeton and the other at Harry’s coat.

When the wheel had firmly lodged itself in the mud and the phaeton jerked to a stop, the driver hopped down to separate the fallen horse from the rest of the vehicle. With barely another word, Harry removed his jacket and cravat and followed suit, mud sloshing around his boots as he went around the phaeton to where the driver was. He waded into the deep part of the muck, which went well past his boots and reached just above his knees.

“We need to get off too, Pen,” Colin said, jumping out the swinging door and holding a hand out to her.

Gathering her skirts, she set about trying to exit the phaeton with as much grace as she could manage, though the added task of keeping her dress clean was limiting her success. She was trying to find a good position in which to jump off when a strong arm slid under her knees and another one caught her shoulders as gravity pushed her back.

“Forgive me, Pen,” Colin muttered, cheeks flaming as he hoisted her from the cart and tried not to notice how her hands had instantly flown to the back of his neck, like they had always belonged there. They pointedly kept their eyes away from each other as he took two large strides to safely deposit her on the side of the road, where the ground was dry. His bleached leather boots had sunk at least ankle-deep in the muck and would probably be forever stained, but her dress remained pristine.

Colin turned back to pull the phaeton from its back as Harry and the driver, whose name was Red, pushed from the opposite end. At first, their efforts seemed to be an exercise in futility, but without warning, the wheels gave way, and Colin had to take a clumsy step to the side to avoid being knocked back. Red managed to keep his balance, but Harry did not fare as well. The Marquess lurched forward, arms waving in the air as he fell to his knees. Nearly the entire front of his linen shirt dipped into the mud and came away in a brown mess. Red helped him get to his feet, and he grinned sheepishly at Penelope.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, eyebrows drawn in embarrassment. “There is still the horse to contend with.”

For a moment, Penelope thought that he was apologizing for the clumsy display, but in the next second, her brain stopped working entirely as the Marquess grabbed a fistful of his ruined shirt and pulled it off his head, chucking it over the side of the phaeton—all in one smooth motion. Penelope’s eyes widened, taking in the fine lines of his chest, the dips and curves that made up his shoulders, the trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his breeches. Her mouth watered, and her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Had someone asked her right then what her name was, she would not have been able to give it.

Beside her, a displeased Colin was deciding whether to cover her eyes or rip off his own clothes in a primal (and petty) urge to get her to look at him too, even if it meant joining Harry in the valiant but sticky endeavor of getting the frightened horse out of the mud. That point was moot in no time, however, as the two mud-covered men quickly managed to haul the animal off the path. Heaving, they collapsed on the ground with little care now about propriety.

Penelope’s eyes roved over Harry in unabashed desire before she caught herself and finally mustered the grace to look away. Beside her, Colin seethed.

”Must you always look at him like a piece of meat?” he demanded.

Face as red as her hair, Penelope kept her eyes locked on a tree somewhere in the distance. “What do you expect me to do? I have never seen a naked man before, much less one so fortunately sculpted.”

He was getting rather sick of her clever little descriptors for Harry, so he simply rolled his eyes, grabbed the man’s abandoned clothing from the carriage seat, and threw it at him somewhat unceremoniously.

”Cover yourself, man. We have a lady in our midst,” he said.

After using his soiled shirt to wipe off as much mud from his body as he could, Harry donned the jacket gratefully, apologizing profusely to a flustered Penelope. He positioned himself next to the driver the rest of the way for fear of dirtying Penelope’s dress after all, so she had no choice but to sit in silence as Colin avoided her eyes and simply glared into the distance.

That night, Penelope sat at her satinwood desk, unable to write a single sentence for her new chapter. The events of the day wore on her and made her eyes feel heavy, even though she was too restless to sleep.

Harry was going to propose. She could feel it in the tender way he looked at her and the expectant, wistful note in his voice every time they spoke. She owed him a conversation, and soon, but the problem was that she still found herself unable to let go of the dream of Ireland, so thoroughly formed out of her hurt, her spite, and her convictions.

And then there was Colin, who had not said a single word to her from the moment they got back in the phaeton and set off once again for Aubrey Hall. Upon arrival, he had all but jumped out and run away from her and Harry, avoiding them for the rest of the afternoon, and seating himself as far away as possible at supper. He barely said a word to anyone else for that matter, except to occasionally explain why Eloise and Benedict stayed behind at My Cottage.

As mortified as Penelope was for having been caught staring openly at a half-naked man, she felt as though Colin was being a little unfair. Surely admiring one’s own suitor, whom one might marry, did not warrant such ire, much less from the very person who had orchestrated the courtship.

Besides, it wasn’t her fault that Harry was gorgeous—all hard lines and smooth planes, which she could see even beneath all that mud. And the way he’d flung off that shirt, like he’d hated shirts all his life…

Good god, Colin was right. She was treating Harry like a piece of meat, and that made her no better than the kind of women the Marquess detested. Perhaps that was why Colin was so irked with her. His friend was more than a pretty face and a large living. Harry was kind and sweet and honest, and he deserved to be appreciated for the entirety of his person.

To be fair, he never seemed to mind how much she stared at him, and it was a little hypocritical of Colin to be offended now on the Marquess’ behalf when not so long ago, it was he who enjoyed such attentions from Penelope, and he had never once expressed discomfiture. Despite his obliviousness to her true feelings at the time, surely he had noticed the special attentions she had always bestowed on him, even though they were under the cloak of friendship.

Surrendering for the night, she blew out the candle, leaving the one on the bedside table the only source of light. In the sudden darkness, her eyes were drawn to a slight flicker outside her window, which overlooked a pocket garden. Stepping around the desk, she pushed the edge of the curtain aside to get a better look.

As if sensing that she was there, Colin stopped in his tracks and turned his face up to her window, the lantern he was carrying illuminating his face from the chin up and blinding him momentarily before his vision adjusted. He watched her silhouette gesture almost wildly to him, palms coming up to ask him to wait. It would have been rather awkward to try to mime no, stay there, do not follow me, but before he could attempt to do just that, she had ducked back into the dark room, presumably to leave it.

He should have left then, he really should have, but manners and something else lurking just beneath the surface of his restraint nailed his feet to the ground. He used the time to think of things he could say to her to make her go away.

This is improper.

I do not wish to speak with you.

You make me feel things I shouldn’t.

Before he could decide on a sufficiently dissuasive remark, however, she was emerging from the side door, all copper and silver as moonlight bounced off her loose braid and the unforgiving white of her skin and nightclothes. She hurried to him, grinning even as she pulled the neckline of her shift tighter against her chest to protect herself from the bite in the air.

Perhaps he ought to have felt offended at her lack of modesty. One did not behave so casually with someone of the opposite sex unless one had decided that the latter did… not… count.

I am a woman.

You do not count. You are my friend.

How many stupid things could come out of one mouth anyway? He was in for a most unpleasant life if they were all going to come and bite him in the arse. He winced inwardly at this predicament.

“What are you doing out here, Col?” she asked, concerned.

The nickname softened him a little, but rather than answer her, he turned and forced his legs to move, leading them deeper into the garden and then out the gate on the other side. The pocket garden opened into one of the larger ones, and he found himself a bench flanked by the only two standing lanterns left burning. He set the one he was carrying on the ground and sat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Colin, what is wrong?”

“You should go back inside. This is highly improper, Pen.”

It was infuriating how she chuckled at that and even more so when she casually seated herself at the other end of the bench.

“Now, you’re concerned about propriety? I hardly think anybody would so much as raise an eyebrow at this point. Colin, you have done so much for me and my family. You’re practically my bro—”

“DO NOT finish that sentence,” he cried, eyes wide with something akin to alarm. “ Don’t, Pen, I beg of you.”

You do not count.

She tilted her head at him, eyebrows meeting in concern. “Colin, what is wrong?” she asked again. “What can I do?”

Come here.

“What can I do to help?”

Straddle me.

“You need only ask.”

Kiss me.

“Tell me, Colin.”

“Just leave, Pen!” he shouted instead. He had never raised his voice to her in that manner, and it felt so wrong, so foreign, but a dam was breaking, and he was becoming more and more helpless to stop it.

Her face fell then, and she began to bristle, hackles rising to match his angry energy. She took a deep, steadying breath. She had come to apologize after all, and even though he was overreacting at her supposed transgression, she did not want the awkwardness to continue into the Hearts and Flowers Ball the following night.

“If this is about this afternoon, I’m sorry, all right?” she said through grit teeth. She didn’t sound quite as contrite as she wanted to be, but he could take it or leave it.

“What?” he said, uncomprehending.

“Harry is your friend, and I was… I was behaving inappropriately. I should have looked away. I should have—”

He chuckled mirthlessly, rubbing his palm up and down his face in exasperation. “You really ought to leave,” he groaned.

All remorse left her body, and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? Over a little flirting and some unintentional gawking? For god’s sake, all I did was appreciate god’s gift—”

“STOP!” he finally shouted, jumping to his feet. “You will stop right now, Penelope, or so help me god, I’ll… I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” she challenged him, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms in defiance. “You can’t seriously be this angry about today,” she said, a little more softly. “I suppose we had to have this conversation at some point. So have at it, Col. Let it out. What are you really angry with me for?”

“Where do I start?” he scoffed, taking his seat again and mirroring her impudent posture. He was beginning to feel rather childish but was well past caring.

Penelope pursed her lips in restrained fury. She kept her silence, daring him to continue.

“You left me, Pen. You left me alone,” he said quietly, bitterly, despondently.

Her face softened a little, and she closed her eyes in regret.

“I wandered the streets of Rome, touched the pillars of the Colosseum with my very hands, and none of it gave me pleasure. None of it. All I wanted was your forgiveness. Your friendship. And I put it all down on paper, baring myself to you like I had never done with anyone else, and in return, you tormented me with silence.”

“And what of my torment?” How dare he turn this around on her. Everything she did, she did out of self-preservation. Having lost Eloise and then him all in the same night, she had barely come out of that season alive. She did what she had to do. “You have no idea—”

“I know I hurt you! I was being stupid! What I said was stupid—”

“You know nothing! Do you know I have your exact words memorized? I used to say them to myself to fall asleep, unable to retire until I indulged the bitterness. Are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest— ”

“Stop! I know what I said! The entire ton knows what I said.”

“But you do not know that it was not the words that hurt the most,” she spat. “It was the laughter, yours and theirs. I hear it in my head, so clear and persistent, like a lullaby sung to you as a child and that you never forget.”

He was tired, so tired of apologizing. It was all he had done for a year, even to his own detriment, in fact. This whole endeavor of trying to get back in her good graces had cost him much more than ink and parchment, and not even his infamous charm could get him out of the sticky situation he had put himself in because apparently, Penelope had become impervious to it.

“You will never forgive me, will you? Marina was wrong about you after all,” he sneered resentfully, unable to stop, not even to hide his vulnerability. “You have forsaken me.”

He had crossed the line, and they both knew it. She closed her eyes in disappointment. After all this time, after everything that had happened, he still expected her to perform the role she had been playing all her life, and she was done. She had not the time nor the tolerance for it anymore.

“Perhaps she was,” she said defiantly, “I am not loyal. Or obedient. Or good.” She spat out the last word like it left a bad taste in her mouth. Shaking her head at him in disappointment and disbelief, she got on her feet, leaving him with what she intended to be powerful parting words. “You and Marina do not know the first thing about me.”

Something settled in his eyes, turning them to steel. “And what is there to know?” he drawled, voice low, arrogant, menacing. He couldn’t help it; the insinuation was insulting to him. He knew more about her than everyone else put together, including Eloise.

She turned and began to walk away. Undeterred, he continued his tirade. “That you detest yellow? That you are secretly afraid of butterflies?”

She scoffed—they seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight—and lifted her skirts to step over a wayward branch. In any other circ*mstance, she would have been flattered by this exhibition of Penelope trivia, but not tonight.

“That you love eclairs but wish they were filled with less cream?”

She stomped off with more determination, leaves, branches, and rocks crackling painfully under her too-delicate indoor slippers.

“That you are Lady Whistledown?”

Silence reigned as Penelope stopped in her tracks. His voice was barely above a whisper, but he might as well have shot a gun into the night for the power in that one utterance.

She turned slowly towards him. He was still on the bench, one long leg crossed over the other and arms resting casually on his thighs. He made for the very picture of somebody both smug and scorned. She was breathing heavily now and clutching at her shift like her life depended on it.

“What… What did you say?” she whispered, afraid for the first time that night, oddly enough.

When next he spoke, his voice dripped with bitterness and the cold sort of anger that Penelope had been seeing glimpses of all season. “You think I did not know?”

“How… How did you…?” His courting lessons seemed to have drifted away with the breeze, for all the stammering she was doing. Hell, she could barely finish a sentence.

He crossed his arms and glared at her. “I had suspected. Since last year. You wrote me so very steadfastly, Penelope. I hung on to your every word so much that they began to ring so familiar. How clever you were. How witty. And your virtues were so magnified when they were committed to ink and parchment.”

Whoever this person was, it could not be her charming, happy-go-lucky Colin. Somebody had taken him and replaced him with this… this man who shouted and held grudges and kept secrets.

“But I couldn’t hate you,” he said. He let some of his hurt color his voice, and she almost felt relieved that his tenderness was still there, her kind, vulnerable Colin. “I thought to myself, no. A friend does not think ill of another friend. Shaming her cousin, exposing her own family to ruin, humiliating me… No, she couldn’t do it. Not my Pen.”

The lanterns above them sputtered and died, and the only light now was the one by his feet. It made him look ghastly in a beautiful sort of way, like an edgy piece of art that was too precious to touch. The flame bounced off his tear-filled eyes, the blue having long surrendered to the black night. She gasped, clutching at the layers of fabric above her heart.

“And then you wrote about Eloise, and soon after, you two had a falling out. And my questions fell silent.”

Afraid and hurt, she wasn’t quite ready to abandon her pride. “Good for you. You have unraveled the mystery. Is that what you came to Lady Crane for? Did you wish to impress her with your brilliance? Even if you had to betray me to do it?” She had no leg to stand on; she knew that. She was being jealous and petty and illogical, but she couldn’t submit to him, she just couldn’t.

He got up then, shaking with rage, and he began to walk towards her, his strides large and sure and attempting to make her cower. “You unrepentant, impertinent little…!” He couldn’t even get the rest of the words out; he was so angry.

And as he closed the distance between them, she knew what was going to happen, what he was going to do. She had never seen it before, that singular look on a man’s face, but perhaps it was instinct that identified it for her.

His arms reached out, and suddenly his hands were on her face, pulling her towards him, and he was growling, and his head was tilting slightly to the side to angle his mouth just so.

And Penelope shoved him back with all of her strength, shouting in surprise and horror, “Colin!”

He stumbled backwards and froze, eyes wide as he watched her pant. “Pen… I… I… I am so sorry.” Just like that, his anger was gone, replaced with mortification and the remnants of desire.

She shook her head slowly, like she was questioning reality, and ran back inside, the hem of her nightgown tearing as it caught on a thorny branch.

He could only watch her disappear into the gate, and he clutched at his hair in shock at what he had done, what had almost happened, and why.

Oh, no, he thought. sh*t.

Chapter 11: Cake

Chapter Text

Not entirely eager for another ball, Eloise and Benedict took their time leaving for Aubrey Hall, where they arrived to a familiar madness. Everywhere, there were maids and footmen scuttling about, rushing to finish flower arrangements and icing cakes and decorating the ballroom with round paper lanterns that would glow softly with candlelight come evening.

The pregnant Viscountess was only too happy to share the reins with her sister- and mother-in-law, who had both ushered her into her chambers for a nap by early afternoon.

“But this is my first ball as Viscountess. Aren’t I supposed to—“

“You shall have next year and the year thereafter, and so on and so forth, my dear,” Lady Bridgerton had insisted. “The child in your belly will thank you for the respite.”

Kate had not needed much convincing after that.

Upon arrival, Eloise, much recovered from her nausea the day before, went off immediately to find Penelope and press her for details about her time with the Marquess. She felt almost bad for the role she played in making her brother chaperone them, but she reckoned the situation was not anything Colin hadn’t brought upon himself. He had created the situation for which he needed to atone; he had cococted this whole plan of marrying Penelope off; he had paired off the woman he was clearly pining after with another man.

By Eloise’s account, the fool deserved to watch Penelope be romanced the way she had always deserved. At the very least, she was hoping that her brother would finally come to his senses and do something about his feelings. The man was practically bursting at the seams for all the jealousy he was trying to keep under wraps, and he was doing a pathetically poor job of it.

It was great fun to watch, to be sure, but the moment Colin, Penelope, and Lord Dankworth had departed My Cottage the day before, she and Benedict had shaken their heads at the sorry state their brother was in and agreed that the boy had better get his act together because it couldn’t be much longer before the Marquess proposed.

She planned on telling Colin exactly that after she had spoken with Penelope, who was fairly animated as she recounted her lovely time with Harry. Blushing as red as her hair, Penelope had even told her about the whole debacle with the horse in the mud.

”And goodness, El, I could barely remember my own name. If he proposes, I may have to spend the rest of my life utterly catatonic.”

Eloise laughed. “Yet another reason to choose spinsterhood then. Or is it the opposite?”

Penelope sighed goodnaturedly. “I still do not know what I’m going to do, Eloise. I must speak with Harry soon, but…” She hesitated.

”But what?”

”He has endeared himself to me, you see. Not just as a suitor, but as a friend. And I do not know how he will react…”

”You are afraid of disappointing him.”

Penelope nodded. “I have never had anyone look at me the way he does. If he knew about Whistledown, I might never enjoy such attentions again,” she sighed. “Is this to be our lot in life as women? It seems that no matter what I do, I will end up disappointing somebody.”

”The trick, my friend,” Eloise said cheekily, “is not to care at all if you do.”

”Trust me, I wish I didn’t,” Penelope replied, hugging a throw pillow tight against her chest. “I find myself wishing I were a little more like you, El.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Funny. I have been wanting to be more like you.” And because that was a little too much vulnerability for the moment, Eloise changed the subject. “I suppose my brother had much to say about Lord Dankworth’s rather ungentlemanly display yesterday?”

Penelope’s face turned to ice then. Odd.

”Your brother ought to reconsider the things he deems ungentlemanly,” she said stoically.

Before Eloise could ask what she had meant by that, said brother walked into the sitting room to grab one of the travel journals he had left behind that morning.

”Eloise, Penelope” was all he said before striding out just as quickly as he had walked in. Penelope remained silent through it all, and it was enough for Eloise to know for sure that she was missing something. Just the day before, the two were thick as thieves, sharing inside jokes and practically reading each other’s minds at charades, and now, they couldn’t even exchange pleasantries?

“What was that?” she asked Penelope, who was feigning blissful ignorance.

“Hmm?” the redhead replied.

Eloise narrowed her eyes, knowing that if Pen were ready to share, she would. The woman had just admitted to lusting after the Marquess, for heaven’s sake. Surely, it was fair to say that years of friendship, including months of silence following a serious case of betrayal, had pretty much eradicated the need for inhibition and shame between them.

After that small, tense interaction, it did not escape Eloise’s notice how her brother and her best friend were using anything and anyone at their disposal to avoid each other. When Daphne and Simon naturally moved to give them space to sit together, Colin pulled someone else beside him to force Penelope away. When Benedict questioned them about their stellar performance at charades, Penelope masterfully credited Eloise for the team’s harmony.

The two were about as warm to each other as winter was to water.

The afternoon found Penelope, Eloise, and Francesca on the veranda, having tea and little squares of lemon cakes, and the moment Harry Dankworth joined them there, Penelope glued herself to his side. Her instincts were right on point because barely a minute later, Colin made the mistake of wandering there to find a solitary place to read. One look at the couple, and he would not be seen again until the ball that evening.

As she watched her brother scurry away, Eloise thought to herself, Aubrey Hall had never felt so small.

Portia Featherington had arrived with Prudence and Robert Huxley, managing to insert her girls’ success at the marriage mart that season into every conversation she participated in.

“What better dream for a mother to have realized than to see her daughters happily secured in love matches. I can’t even find it in my heart to begrudge Philippa’s absence in these things anymore for how so very glad she is in the arms of her Mr. Finch. And Prudence will be soon to follow in the path of wedded bliss. Her wedding is but days away, you know,” she prattled on to Lady Trowbridge and Lady Cowper. “And then there’s Penelope of course. Who needs the title of diamond when one can be a ruby with three suitors this season. Goodness, my poor girl can hardly make up her mind with such fine choices, but of course, were any one of them to propose, I am sure Penelope will make the right decision. The girl is bright as a summer day after all—a credit to her lineage…” And on and on she went to anyone who would listen.

Harry Dankworth, on the other hand, was quiet as a deer and uncharacteristically jittery. With Lord Debling also in attendance, he was gracious enough to go around the room instead of staying by Penelope’s side and silently disallowing other gentlemen from signing her dance card.

Truthfully, Penelope was grateful that Harry was giving her some space. They had, after all, spent nearly the entire afternoon together, in addition to yesterday’s trip to My Cottage. She was unaccustomed to such lengthy interactions and was feeling rather talked out.

It didn’t help that she couldn’t get the previous night out of her mind nor could she make sense out of any of it. Colin had seemed so angry with her, but then he had… He had almost…

For years, she had fantasized that he would, but not once did she imagine that it would happen the way it did. First kisses were supposed to be gentle and cautious and kind, were they not? What did it say of their relationship that he had almost kissed her whilst they were in the middle of dressing each other down (and not in the literal sense)?

She had never seen Colin that way, so resentful and hurt and furious. He hadn’t even been like that when he had found out that Miss Thompson was pregnant by another man and had manipulated him, like the naive child that he was, into proposing to her. If anything, it seemed that all that had been hurt was his pride, and after a few months away from the mockery of the ton, he had returned, a little less trusting but well intact.

But last night, he was completely unraveled, almost to the point of unrecognizability. For all that they had screamed their darkest feelings about each other, she understood him less.

And wanted him even more.

The heat in his gaze was borne out of passion as much as it had been out of rage when he strode towards her, and she didn’t think she would ever forget that expression now. She would carry it to the end of her days, no matter how many layers of walls she built around her heart, no matter whom she married or didn’t, no matter how far she ran away from London.

“How you must have missed lurking at the fringes of ballrooms,” said an all-too familiar voice.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Good evening, Cressida. I suppose you must feel the exact same way about exchanging barbs with me.”

“ Exchanging ?” Cressida scoffed. “That’s a recent development, and I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to grow endeared to it. You used to simply run away and cry. I will say, however, that this newfound audaciousness of yours was an entertaining surprise this season, as were your less garish frocks.”

Penelope ground her teeth and closed her eyes, praying for restraint. Really, this was beneath her. It always was. “You know what, Cressida?” she said. Then, she took a breath, watched Cressida’s eyes narrow in anticipation of a battle, and then turned, walking away without so much as a goodbye.

It was a greater insult than if she had given the woman something to cry about, and Penelope felt rather like she had finally learned how to get the upperhand without exerting much effort. She giggled to herself in delight as she stopped at the long table on one side of the room to enjoy a slice of cake, after which she picked up a glass of lemonade. There was a time when she would have been too self-conscious to be seen eating at a ball, but if Cressida Cowper wanted to have an opinion about it, she could just shove it up her skinny little—

“What are you giggling about?” Lord Dankworth’s voice startled her, and Penelope almost dropped her beverage.

Grinning in relief, she put a hand to her heart. “Good God, Harry. You gave me a fright.”

The man chuckled, and she took a moment to appreciate his countenance. He seemed a little nervous but never more debonair in his dark blue coat and silver-ish cravat. Save for the purple at my hem, we match , she thought to herself, feeling rather silly and pleased.

“I am sorry, my lady. I was just coming to claim my dance, but if you are in need of refreshment—”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, returning the glass to the tray on the table. “There is only one gavotte this evening, and I would be damned if I miss it.”

Harry grinned at the expletive and took her hand, leading her to the dance floor. The music started almost immediately, and they spun their wrists, laughing when the first leap came about.

By the time the song had reached its halfway mark, Penelope had long forgotten about Cressida Cowper. The gavotte was a spirited dance after all, and it left no room for anything less than joy; it was why Penelope liked it.

“My lady, Penelope,” Harry began as they passed the part where they skip around each other. He was a little breathless, but it was unclear whether he was blushing from exertion or something else.

“My lord, Harry,” she replied cheekily.

He smiled nervously and continued as they switched positions. “I would like to invite you to the gazebo in the main garden in about an hour’s time. Lady Featherington is to chaperone, of course. I would like to speak with you about something. I… suppose you knew this was coming.”

Penelope gulped. She had known this was coming, but she foolishly thought that Harry would wait until they were back in Mayfair. Or perhaps she had merely hoped that he would. That was the consequence of avoiding thinking about something; you were never prepared for it no matter if you were shown a clear path.

“A… a conversation is in order, I suppose,” she said, even though she didn’t know what she was going to do or say to him yet. She had an hour to figure it out.

They linked arms with another pair, laughing as Harry nearly missed a step. Without her meaning to, Penelope’s mind drifted to Colin and how in all the years his mother had made him dance with her, she couldn’t remember a single time he’d made a mistake. It was a rather unfair comparison since Harry didn’t attend half as many balls and could not have been expected to have had as many opportunities to practice. She supposed she ought to consider that a good thing. Of course, Colin was a magnificent dancer; who wouldn’t be after charming half the young women at every ball?

Come to think of it, it was rather strange that she had not seen him on the dance floor already. The ball was well underway, and he was usually in his cups by now, emboldened even more as he flirted with every debutante thrown his way.

Instead, Colin was across the room, trying to disappear behind a pillar and brooding as he watched Penelope dance with his good friend Harry.

He wanted to weep. Or punch a hole through a wall. He felt like an idiot, like he had unknowingly been digging his own grave for months, and now he couldn’t claw his way out of it, crippled by fear, indecision, and, more benevolently, the genuine desire to see his friends finally happy.

“They look happy, no?”

The voice startled him out of his wits, and he whirled angrily towards his sister. “Goddammit, Eloise!” he exclaimed.

“Good lord, you and Penelope are so jumpy today. Almost like you’re hiding something.”

He merely rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in response.

They took a moment to observe Harry and Penelope once again. The two leapt apart and then back to each other before linking arms, eyes sparkling with the kind of delight only physical activity could bring about.

“He is going to propose, Col,” said Eloise quietly, leaning slightly towards him. “Probably tonight, as a matter of fact. He’s decorated the gazebo.”

Colin closed his eyes, as if in pain. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and when he turned towards Eloise, she was looking at him with such pity that he couldn’t bear to keep her gaze.

“We have all been hoping you would realize your own feelings on your own, but there is no more time.” He looked away, and she reached up to grasp his shoulder quite forcefully. “Colin, it is now or never.”

He shrugged and stepped away to dislodge his sister’s grip, eyes drifting towards the pair again, almost as if his blasted organs had a will of their own. The song had transitioned into a minuet, and Debling was with them now, presumably negotiating with Harry for Penelope’s next dance.

Without sparing his sister another glance, he began swiftly walking away, calling briefly out to her, “Never then.”

“Your gown is astonishing, Miss Featherington. Quite an unusual style,” Lord Debling said, pulling Penelope a little too close for comfort.

The girl widened her step, trying to correct their position. “Th-thank you, my lord. I cannot take credit, however. My modiste is exceedingly talented.”

“Talented indeed. You look ravishing.”

Penelope did not like the way Debling’s eyes kept drifting towards her bosom before jumping back up to her eyes, like she wouldn’t be able to catch the momentary glances. She had never hoped for a shorter minuet.

“I see now what your numerous suitors see in you,” he continued.

Penelope schooled her expression into a stoic one, a skill borne out of years of practice. “And what is that, my lord?”

“Gorgeous skin. You are so pink and soft all over.” He bent down to whisper in her ear, and she moved her head away from his hot breath. “And great tit*.”

She gasped in shock, pushing away from him as far as she could. “I think I may have worn myself out from the dance earlier—”

“My dear, have you no appreciation for such attentions? I suppose a wallflower like yourself cannot be expected to be familiar with the appropriate ways to respond.”

Penelope allowed her scowl then and tried to pull away. “Pardon me—”

“The dance isn’t over, girl,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand and arm, just enough that she didn’t cry out. The mask he was wearing slipped for a moment, and she saw the insulted sneer beneath it. He kept up with the steps of the dance, forcing her to continue.

“It is for me.”

“Do you know, I’m not so fond of the minuet either. Perhaps we can move our activities elsewhere, and I shall teach you another dance altogether.”

Penelope felt sick to her stomach, wanting nothing more than to slap this man in the face. But the ton was watching, and Prudence’s wedding was mere days away. They couldn’t afford a scandal. Lord Debling knew it too, judging by his boldness.

“I would sooner cut off my leg than explore this dance with you. Let me go, my lord,” she said, keeping her voice low so as not to attract attention. Whether she was brave for saying it or merely stupid, she didn’t know. If he wanted to, he could ruin her right now, and not even her handsome Marquess would be able to do much about it. Desperately, she searched for Harry, praying for rescue, but he was nowhere to be found. She supposed he was preparing for their “talk.”

“Do not be so prideful.” All pretenses were gone now, and he skipped right past his innuendoes in favor of blatant spite. “I should think that plump little wallflowers have to be singular in some fashion to be desired these days. I’m paying you a compliment, my lady. I assume not many people do.”

“I assure you, sir, even if I were the kind of girl who needed compliments, I would not be trying to acquire them from you.”

He sighed, like he was disappointed in her. “Perhaps Dankworth’s attentions have given you false impressions. He is young, and he is handsome, Miss Featherington. None of these gentlemen courting you will render a proposal, least of all your Mr. Bridgerton.”

Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe it was providence, but the song ended right then, and his momentary distraction allowed her to somehow wrench her limbs away from him. With a clumsy curtsy, she practically ran away.

Lord Debling’s smirk followed her as she disappeared behind the entryway. He wouldn’t go so far as to ruin a young woman and his own reputation just to win a bet, but no one else had to know that. He chuckled at the thought of ravishing the girl at the Bridgertons’ own ball and then refusing to marry her; it was almost comical how she thought he might actually do it.

“Aww, was it not a good match, my lord?” Cressida Cowper said, stepping in to fill the space Miss Featherington had left behind. “Very ornery, that one,” she tutted.

He grinned, almost charmingly. “Ah, well, perhaps you’ll do better.”

In less than an hour, Penelope was to meet Harry in the main garden. She had that much time to get herself together and decide whether to divulge her secrets and say yes.

But first, she had to calm her racing heart and remember how to breathe normally.

Lord Debling’s touch still lingered on her skin, and it felt like ants crawling all over her arms and inside her clothes. She didn’t understand why he was targeting her this season when he, like everyone else, had ignored her all her life. She gained a sudden understanding of Harry’s disdain for attention; no matter how positive it was, people found ways to ruin the good in it.

She had never been spoken to that way before. She had no qualms about the kind of conversations gentlemen had amongst themselves of course, but she had never been disrespected like that to her face. Not even Cressida had ever singled out any of her body parts to insult.

Feeling her eyes grow hot with tears, she walked swiftly out the receiving hall and into the country night, pacing for a few moments before a group of guests passed behind her, and she realized that she needed to be somewhere more private.

She ran down the many steps, ducking behind the corner at the bottom of the concrete stairs and sat there on the ground, bringing her knees to her forehead and taking deep, steadying breaths. Fortunately, hours into the ball, no other guests were expected to arrive, so there was not a footman or maid in sight to receive them.

Her breath would not steady. It did not help that she was trying to force her tears back down, refusing to waste them on the likes of Lord Debling. How long she sat there hyperventilating, she did not know, but the sound of horse hooves finally made her look up and then into the dark sky.

Thick sheets of rain began to fall just as the carriage pulled up, and Penelope scrambled to her feet. There was no warning—not a droplet or the sound of thunder—before the sky released its torrent. She was drenched in seconds.

“Pen?” The carriage door swung open, and there Colin was, dressed exactly like a storybook prince and beckoning her inside.

There was no chance in hell that she would comply, of course. She looked around wildly, trying to decide what to do. She could run inside, but it would have been wildly inappropriate in her state—Madame Delacroix’s delicate fabric had plastered itself to her skin, and good god, her nipples had hardened instantly under the cold water—or she could run to the coach park, which had to be somewhere near but was probably also unroofed.

“Goddammit!” she stomped her foot in childish frustration, the now damp earth beginning to soften under her satin shoes.

“Get inside, Penelope!” Colin called again, “Or so help me, I will go over there and pick you up myself.”

“Of course, of course you would be here!” she chuckled mirthlessly to the black sky, which was devoid of stars now.

“Pardon me, my lady,” a less familiar voice yelled into the rain. It was Red, who was under a large hood in the driver’s seat, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. “I can circle around to the stables, and you can wait out the rain there. I’ll call for a maid once it lets up.”

Loath to cause Red any more discomfort than he was already subjected to, she shook her head ruefully and finally ran to the carriage to hoist herself inside, refusing to take Colin’s hand and wincing as her skirt made a sloshing noise against the leather of the seat.

He pulled the door shut, and the carriage began to move.

She had expected a cloying silence to reign until they could be free of each other, but her companion had other ideas.

“What in bloody hell were you doing out there? What were you thinking, Pen, running around without a chaperone? Do you truly not know what can happen to young ladies who wander about alone?”

If he was afraid that a man would accost her and treat her like a whor*, that had already happened with the entire ton in attendance. But of course she wouldn’t say that. She would rather shave her head than admit that someone of Lord Debling’s ilk had gotten under her skin.

“Can’t I step out for a breath of fresh air without you being ready to criticize me at every turn?” she exclaimed.

He looked taken aback, but he let the matter go in favor of other subjects. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to talk,” he sighed.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“You know just as well as I that there are many things that have been left unsaid between us, and I will not play these games with you, Penelope. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, and I have not the patience for wiseacres right now.”

She remained silent in her seat, crossing her arms petulantly. The candle that was in a mounted sconce was the only illumination in the cabin, and its light danced wildly across her face as the carriage moved. It was an odd sentiment, but Colin missed seeing the sky blue of her eyes.

It was only then that she noticed the small travel bag beside him. He followed her gaze and then looked back up at her.

”I was going back to London.”

”Tonight?”

”Yes. I… have some urgent business there,” he lied. The truth was that he did not want to be there the next day, presumably when she and Harry would be celebrating their engagement.

“I want… I want to apologize for last night, Pen,” he said, changing the topic. “I was… I was not myself.”

“Of course,” she spat bitterly. “If he were himself, Colin Bridgerton would never deign to court me, much less kiss me.”

“That is not what I mean! I wish you would stop twisting my words!”

“Perhaps if you were clearer, I would not have cause to misinterpret you!” she yelled back.

He growled then, covering his face in helplessness and exasperation. “Have you always been this incorrigible? My god, sometimes you put Eloise to shame for how stubborn and obstinate you are, do you know that?”

“And you are presumptuous. And smug. And condescending.”

“That’s rich coming from Lady Whistledown. What do you call it again when you prescribe your own brand of morality to the entire ton? Preaching about honesty whilst hiding behind a pseudonym the entire time? Ah, that’s right, holding a mirror up to society. Though I’m more inclined to call it hypocrisy, in your case.”

Her voice was quiet when next she replied. He might as well have slapped her for the hurt that his insult had caused, but she choked down the sob and managed to say, “She is not perfect, but she is mine .”

Colin’s face fell. Tears stood in her eyes, but she was refusing to let them fall. How did they come to this? Why were they hurting each other? She was his best friend.

He rested his elbows on his knees and shook his head sadly. “I do not understand you anymore, Pen.”

Her valiant efforts finally failed, and the tears were falling freely now. “When did you ever?”

He looked up then, breathed deeply, and couldn’t help but reach out to caress her cheek and brush the tears away with his thumb. “God, now I’ve made you cry,” he said regretfully.

She looked up at him, her bright eyes reflecting the gold of the candlelight. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she sniffed.

He left his seat to kneel in front of her, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of her seat and placing the other on the side of her neck, running his thumb back and forth against the shell of her ear in an attempt to comfort and reassure. I’m here. I will not shout anymore. I promise.

Her skin and hair were cold and damp, goosebumps subsiding where the warmth of his hand permeated. It was an odd thing to wish at that moment, but he wanted the rain to stop, wanted to get her back in the house, into some dry clothes. It wouldn’t do for her to catch a cold.

He met her gaze, and then all the anger, all the resentment simply dissipated. In its place settled a deep, novel tenderness that felt both fragile and stalwart in the close quarters of that carriage, the rain beating heavily on its roof such that they could hear nothing else from the world outside. Her damp hair was darker in this light, the curls limp between his fingers, and he watched the shadows move back and forth like a curtain over the freckles that had probably been there for years but that he had only recently noticed.

They both leaned forward, foreheads touching, already forgiving each other in the next sigh. Colin nudged his nose against hers, asking for permission, and their eyes fluttered open. She saw the plea in his, plain as day even in the dancing shadows.

Her hands rose to his face, his stubble catching on the smooth silk of her gloves. She nudged his nose back with hers in silent acquiescence.

They kissed, sighing in relief at the collision of skin and warmth.

It was tender only for a brief moment, and then Colin was straightening his spine, lips seeking hers in want and desperation. She had nowhere to go but the corner of her seat, where her back landed, and it would have been painful were it not for its thick leather cushion. Needing to breathe, she broke away from him momentarily, and he gave a whiny little grunt before she placated him by sighing into his mouth and then kissing him again. Her arms slid past his shoulders to tangle behind his neck, forcing him even closer.

One of his hands fisted in her skirt, and then he was hiking it up, his fingers climbing from her calf to the outside of her thigh. He was close, so close to her center, and she thought about how, earlier that night, Lord Debling’s touch had made her skin crawl even with the many layers of fabric between them; Colin’s was setting it on fire. The last thing she wanted to do was run away.

Distracted, she almost didn’t notice when his other hand, the one grasping her waist climbed up to pull on her bodice. Still heavy with rain water, it clung to her skin and resisted him, so he managed only to reveal her shoulder and the swell of her breast. She gasped as he palmed the soft mound, groaning into her mouth as he ran a thumb over her still-covered nipple.

Then, it was his turn to pull away, but whatever protest she would have uttered died instantly on her lips when he moved his mouth to her neck and licked . Slowly. Like he was savoring the salt on her skin.

He made his way down to her mostly exposed chest, alternating between nibbles and kisses as he reached his destination and raked his teeth against her pebbled nipple. She moaned, and unable to resist, he abandoned her breast for her soft mouth once again, pressing his arousal against her leg and then sucking on her bottom lip before pushing his tongue inside.

He groaned, hips pushing harder against her in a primal need to eliminate any distance between them, no matter how minuscule. He tasted the inside of her mouth and felt compelled to verbalize his worship.

“God, Penelope,” he groaned, rubbing his erection against her, savoring the intimacy of it even if it was only through their clothes, “you taste like cake.”

Cake.

The word echoed in Penelope’s desire-addled brain. It morphed from Colin’s voice into a softer one, more wistful.

Cake.

His hips moved to thrust against her lightly, and her eyebrows furrowed with the effort to remember.

May I ask… how did it happen?

Cake , Marina had answered.

The word rang forlornly within the walls of her skull, echoing a warning.

Penelope could not have pushed him away more violently. The force of it put him on the floor of the carriage in an undignified heap, a tent still in his breeches and his gray blue eyes still misty with lust.

”P-Pen?” he said almost fearfully, clambering to the seat behind him.

Chest heaving, lips swollen, she breathed, ”This was a mistake.” This was how babies were made, somehow. She didn’t know the specifics, but she knew enough to realize that wherever their indiscretion was leading them, it would be nowhere good, at least not for her.

”Pardon? A mistake is the last thing—“

“I… No, I… I do not want to be with child. Not like this,” she said, shaking her head. “God help us, what have we done?”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Pen, listen to me. It is all right. We have not—“

”And we will never!” she exclaimed, pulling roughly at her clothing in an attempt to right it. “Not if I have something to do with it.”

Colin clutched at the fabric covering his chest, sucking air in through his teeth. That hurt. Literally. Like she had stabbed him in the heart.

”How can you say that?”

Penelope shook her head, her resolve strengthening with every second. “I must go,” she said.

“For god’s sake, Penelope! We need to marry!” he blurted out, and he watched her pause in her task of unlocking the door. It was only then that he’d realized that the carriage had long since stopped. He thanked the heavens for Red, who was probably sitting quietly in the stable, mortified at what his master was doing with the nice young lady he was chaperoning just the day before and probably wondering if he ought to disturb them.

Trembling fingers pushed the lock open, and for the first time in her life, Penelope knew, with astonishing certainty, who she was—overweight wallflower, fearless gossipmonger, and a bloody phenomenal writer—and no globetrotting rake was going to diminish any of it or own a single decision in her life.

For the first time since Colin Bridgerton had accosted them at Hyde Park and offered to find her a husband, Penelope knew exactly what she had to do.

“Red?” she called out. The man quickly emerged from behind a stack of hay. She blushed at his proximity, knowing how likely it was that he had known exactly what was happening inside the carriage. She wasn’t afraid, however. The Bridgerton staff were known for their discretion and their loyalty to their benevolent employers.

“Red… I am in need of your help, sir,” she said.

The man raked the fingers of one hand through his rain-damp hair and put on his cap. “Of course, Miss.”

“I know it’s raining something awful, but will you fetch Honey and have her bring me a fresh gown? I need to get back to the ball.”

“Pen—”

“Mr. Bridgerton will go back to the house with you, and then you will ferry Honey here to help me.”

“I will not!” cried Colin from inside the carriage.

“You must!” she demanded. “I will be fine here for a few minutes. Nobody will come, not in this weather.”

“What makes you think that I will do as you say?”

She ducked back inside to address him, and he had never seen her more serious. “Please, Col. I need to get back to Harry.”

And that broke his heart a hundred times over.

“Are… Are you in earnest?” he said, eyes wide in despair and disbelief.

She held his gaze and merely pressed her lips together in response. He didn’t need anything else from her after that. The door swung open, and she jumped out somewhat gracelessly, without even waiting for Red to assist her.

Chapter 12: For Something Good

Chapter Text

There had not been any announcements of a Featherington-Dankworth engagement, and Colin didn’t know whether to allow himself to hope or use the time to disavow himself of whatever had possessed him to ravish Penelope in the manner that he did.

After Red had delivered her back to the ball two nights ago, Colin had lain awake in his room, waiting for the weather to calm before forgoing a carriage entirely and hightailing it out of Kent on horseback in the wee hours of the morning. It had been a stupid and dangerous thing to do, but he found that he could not stay one more minute within the walls of Aubrey Hall, and he would sooner ride off a cliff than be there the next day to feign happiness for Harry and Penelope. He could barely even stand to think their names together like that. Harry and Penelope . It had a ring to it that made his brain itch.

Once again, he had accosted Eloise as soon as she, along with their mother and younger siblings, had gotten back to Number Five late that afternoon, but for once, his sister was silent save for one cryptic response. She had glared daggers at him, saying, “I know what you did, and it does not make you privy to Penelope’s business.”

Just by the very fact that no one else had mentioned it, he was pretty sure that Harry and Penelope had not announced an official engagement. Perhaps they had decided to put it off until after Prudence’s wedding, which was tomorrow. After all, it would be just like Penelope to be considerate of her sister’s want for attention.

Nevertheless, the uncertainty was almost worse than if they had thrown a party right then and there. He had been on tenterhooks since that heavenly, infernal carriage ride, agitated, insecure, and completely heartbroken that she had shooed him away after what for him was an earth-shattering encounter.

Taking a break from an unusually spirited round of fencing, he downed an entire pitcher of water and wished it were whiskey. He wiped his mouth violently and wasted no time whirling around, back to his position en garde.

“What is it with you today, brother?” Benedict panted, chest heaving as he rubbed at an abused spot on his arm. “You’re usually a worse fencer than I, but you seem to be out for blood—not my blood, might I remind you.”

“It’s about Penelope, isn’t it?” offered Gregory helpfully from his relaxed position on the bench. Anthony bopped him lightly on the head, but the boy merely grinned wider in response.

Colin was beginning to resent just how perceptive his youngest brother had gotten. At the mention of her name, his jaw twitched, and he quickly advanced towards an unprepared Benedict, Gregory rolling his eyes at the masculine display.

Moments later, Benedict was on the ground again, glaring up at his attacker. “All right, that is enough. This no longer feels like sparring. Perhaps we ought to have gone to the market and picked a fight. Bare-fisted combat would better suit your taste for violence this morning.”

“No announcements have been made, Colin,” Anthony said in a misguided attempt to placate his brother.

“No thanks to you,” the younger man responded with a glare. The Viscount had facilitated Harry’s proposal after all, and that betrayal had not gone unnoticed.

Anthony scratched his cheek, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “What was I supposed to do? Refuse the Marquess on Penelope’s behalf?”

Colin knew that he was taking his frustrations out on the wrong people, that he had no one to blame but himself, but after what he had just put his heart through, he felt like he was entitled to some degree of petulance.

He grabbed a tumbler and poured water out of the second pitcher, handing the glass to Benedict, who had dusted himself off with a grudging sort of slowness. Colin poured himself another glass, and then they both made their way to the other bench, where he dejectedly let his head hang forward as he rested an elbow on his knee. He swirled the water in his other hand like it was a spirit.

”I thought they’d be making an announcement, if not at the ball then at breakfast the next day. Hy did see them laughing and crying in the gazebo. Perhaps they’re just waiting for the right time to make it official,” relayed Gregory, who felt a sense of duty to inform his moping brother, even though it wasn’t necessarily good news.

“Doesn’t matter.” Colin shook his head. “She chose him.”

His three brothers exchanged meaningful looks.

When Colin didn’t elaborate, Benedict felt compelled to press him on the matter. “Should she have chosen Debling instead then? Or Marcus Anderson?”

”She should have chosen me!” Colin threw his tumbler against a tree, the glass splintering with an angry, high-pitched sound. “I thought she had already chosen me.” There was no point in pretenses now; he was well past the point of mincing his words and trying to hide his jealousy. He was furious with her—for haunting his wildest fantasies and for turning them into reality, only to abandon him for another man—but mostly, he was furious with himself.

”And what made you think that she had?” Benedict asked.

Anthony narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Unable to conceal his guilty expression, Colin merely sat up and groaned at the sky.

The Viscount echoed the sound, though it was more of a long-suffering rumble than a heartbroken one. “I’m not even going to ask what you did. But Colin, perhaps it is not too late. You ought to tell her how you feel.”

”I do not know what I feel. If this is… It just feels so different from Miss Thompson.”

”That was not love,” Gregory said, sounding infuriatingly certain of the word despite his brother never having said it. “It was mere infatuation.”

It was one thing for his mother and his brother and his married sister to needle him about his feelings, but Gregory was all of four and ten. “I’m getting rather tired of people telling me what I feel,” Colin said.

”You just admitted to not knowing. We’re only trying to help,” Gregory shrugged, and it was even more annoying that he was right.

Advice was coming; Colin could feel it. Unfortunately, he was not in the mood to listen nor to talk about how he had made a bigger fool of himself this season than when he had almost eloped with a woman who was trying to con him into raising another man’s child.

”Only one person can help me, I’m afraid,” he said, getting up to leave. “And I made her fall in love with someone else.”

In a little house for rent in Mayfair, Harry Dankworth sat by a window, watching the specks of dust floating in the beam of orange light streaming in through his window. In one hand, he twirled a long stem, at the top of which was a very yellow rose.

There was a grandfather clock in one corner of the room, and he found himself taking comfort in its deep, steady ticking. Outside his window, London was just beginning to come to life, and he could hear more and more horse hooves pounding the cobblestone streets. He found himself missing the fragrant, quiet mornings at his vineyard. Even the boisterous energy of Aubrey Hall was better than the melancholia he had woken up to.

He had less than an hour before he had to get ready for the Featherington-Huxley wedding, and he almost regretted having promised Penelope and her mother that he would be in attendance.

The door opened, and his butler peered inside, calling out into the silence, “Shall I call for some wine, my lord?”

It was a suggestion more than it was a question. He had been sitting there in silence for hours, and it was no surprise that the staff were getting concerned, so much so that they were offering wine so early in the day.

The Marquess shook his head politely, and managed a reassuring smile. The butler bowed his head and left him to his peace.

The fingers of his free hand were tapping a piece of parchment on the table beside him, and he closed his eyes, remembering the note’s contents:

My dear Harry,

Perhaps I will regret it someday.

But please forgive me, and no wounds shall fester.

Penelope F.

He thought he had made it clear that he had forgiven her, and perhaps the fact that he had so easily done so spoke volumes about the merits of her decision.

He smiled ruefully at the thought of her. What an odd creature she was. He found many things in this world unfathomable, and he was never much good at anything other than farming and fermenting grapes, but Penelope Featherington was her very own brand of complex, and perhaps that was another thing that had made them a mismatch. He was a simple man, after all, and perhaps what he needed was a simple wife, and simple was the last word he would use to describe the woman he had been courting the last few weeks.

She had been a quarter of an hour late to their meeting, and he and Portia Featherington had sat uncomfortably in the gazebo, wringing their hands in silence as the little lanterns hanging from the ceiling illuminated the flowers covering each inch of space. He had thanked the Viscount profusely for indulging his request to decorate, and as the minutes ticked by, he had begun to feel rather foolish for it.

For a moment, however, it had all been worth it. Penelope finally arrived, gorgeous blue eyes looking up in awe at what he had done.

Alas, his triumph was entirely short-lived as the girl had almost immediately dismissed her mother to a league away, so they could talk privately without her eavesdropping. Lady Featherington grudgingly took a seat in a bench, near enough to see them but not to hear a word.

Penelope’s confession had impressed more than horrified him. After all, he had not been there to fully appreciate the consequences of the many scandals Lady Whistledown had exposed.

Admittedly, the fact that she had earned the queen’s ire enough to have triggered a witch-hunt was a compelling enough reason not to marry. As the sole heir to Holloway House, there were people who relied on him, and he had good, selfless reasons to watch out for his own hide.

In the end, however, it was not the danger that had ended it all. It was her . Her want of a life of her own. Her determination to achieve her dreams of being a writer on her own merit. Her desire to find out who she was without a man, searching for a man, or wanting a man. Simply her. Penelope Featherington was brilliant and self-reliant and quite possibly the bravest person he had ever met.

And now that he was out of the running, he hoped to god Colin Bridgerton finally did something about it.

Eloise held Penelope’s hand throughout the ceremony, which was more difficult to get through than the latter expected.

The youngest Miss Featherington had been so close to the dream of becoming someone’s wife, and watching Prudence squeal in delight as Robert Huxley slipped a ring onto her finger made it a little difficult for Penelope to remember why again she had passed on the chance to be a marchioness.

Harry was several pews away behind her, and she was relieved that he had honored his promise of attending. Perhaps other women in her position would have wanted to avoid the suitor they had just disappointed, but Penelope owed Harry more than that. It was not just his time that she’d wasted after all; it was his fervent hope for someone to love and help him go through life a little less alone, and no matter what she had decided for herself, she could empathize with that hope.

They could have been that for each other, truly, and Penelope’s heart broke every time she turned her head towards him and found him with a kind, sort of yearning smile. Can’t you, Penelope? it seemed to ask.

But she couldn’t. She had seen enough of this world, enough of men, and enough of women to know what she did not want her life to be and what she no longer wanted to be complicit in. Eloise was right; a ton marriage was a gilded cage and could only ever provide the illusion of freedom. A woman’s achievements could never be her own, and her dreams would always come second to her responsibilities as wife and mother.

Once upon a time, Penelope had dismissed that idea as the radically saturnine ramblings of her rebellious friend, but after what happened in the carriage and the cold, clammy fear that had immediately gripped her when the haze of desire had cleared, she finally understood Eloise like she never had before. She realized she never wanted to feel afraid of the ton’s judgments ever again, and if freedom meant hard work and no more pretty dresses, it was a trade she was willing to make. She would write, goddammit, and Colin Bridgerton and her mother and the ton could all hang.

But first, she had to set the stage for her ruin.

Her publisher was on tenterhooks, waiting to see what tomorrow would bring. Meanwhile, Penelope could hardly even think beyond what was going to happen that afternoon.

“How much longer do we have to stay?” Eloise muttered as the post-wedding tea at the Newlawn Garden began to wind down. “The bride and groom have gone. Are they not the only audience that matters?”

Penelope sipped at her tea distractedly.

”Pen, everything is going to be all right,” Eloise said, rubbing her friend’s forearm in an uncharacteristic attempt to comfort.

Tears sprang to Penelope’s eyes. “El, if something happens to me, you must stay silent, no matter how much you want to speak in my defense,” she said. “She has suspected you before, and she will do so again, this time simply for your association with me.”

”The queen does not frighten me.”

Penelope gave her a disbelieving stare.

”All right, perhaps she’s a little… terrifying, but I’ll be fine, Penelope. And so will you.”

She shook her head. “My mother… You will take care of her, yes? Just make sure she is all right.”

Unwilling to acknowledge the fear that Penelope’s words finally inspired, Eloise crossed her arms defiantly. “Enough of this. Nothing is going to happen.”

The redhead sighed, knowing that the request had been heard regardless.

It was then that their mothers approached to collect them, their family carriages already waiting out front. They made their way there, Penelope waving an awkward, hasty goodbye to Lord Dankworth as they passed.

“Does he know what is to happen?” Eloise bent down to whisper.

Penelope shook her head. “I wish I could have told him, but he might have tried to rescue me somehow. By trying to convince me to marry him beforehand, for example.” It would be just like Harry to try to do something kind like that.

When they got to the front, they said their goodbyes. Eloise hated the way Penelope had embraced her tightly, as if this were the last time they would see each other, but before she could chastise her friend yet again, they were being ushered into their respective coaches.

Penelope climbed inside, her anxiety momentarily forgotten as memories from that night took over. She blushed every time she rode a carriage, unable to keep herself from remembering all the wicked things she had done in a similar environment. Colin’s kisses were phantoms that tickled at her neck and chest, and heat pooled below her belly every time she remembered how tightly he had clung to her thigh, how his hand had traced her torso to reach her breast and thumb her nipple.

Every night since, her body had betrayed her as it lit up in reverie. Not even her grief over Harry had been enough to quell the fire Colin had ignited within her, and she had explored herself in ways she’d never done in a vain attempt to banish her desire.

What a relief it was that Colin had not attended the wedding. For days, she had been on the precipice of combusting, and she feared that he was the last spark her body needed to complete her utter ruin.

She shook her head, telling herself that time was her ally, that eventually, their brief tryst would be a sweet, passing memory that would simply blend into the fabric of experience. Nothing special, nothing utterly life-changing.

“Oh, what a perfect match they made,” said Lady Featherington as she climbed aboard. “Did you notice how they couldn’t get out of the reception fast enough? They’re probably halfway to the country by now. Their honeymoon is sure to be an absolute dream, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they popped out a child before their first anniversary. But oh, the wedding itself was mine and Prudence’s masterpiece! For was that not a stunning affair?” Portia Featherington sighed contentedly as she settled deeper into her seat. “Ostrich feathers instead of flowers for the arch—sometimes I do not give your sister enough credit for her imagination,” she sighed.

“I am glad months of work finally came to fruition, mama,” Penelope replied.

The footman shut the door, and moments later, they were on their way home.

Portia raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “And had you accepted Lord Dankworth’s proposal, you would have been next to indulge in one of the most fun a woman can have—planning her own wedding.”

Penelope sighed. It had only been days since she’d made the painful decision of turning down the kindest, most gorgeous man she had ever met, and she didn’t expect her mother to be over it quite so soon. Nevertheless, she did not particularly enjoy the constant reminder that the woman who had brought her into the world would never understand her.

“I do not understand you,” Portia said, unknowingly echoing her daughter’s thoughts. “You refuse to marry a perfectly suitable gentleman, but you were positively pale with envy today.”

While her mother was not entirely wrong—she had to admit that a small part of her wanted nothing more than to take back her decision—it was not envy that had drained the blood from Penelope’s face. It was not heartbreak over Harry (though that was certainly making her lose sleep). It was not even the fact that she was being hypervigilant, expecting Colin Bridgerton to accost her at every turn, demanding either marriage or an explanation.

No, something else had been occupying her thoughts for days, and the only respite she had found was in Eloise’s hand, which she had clutched nearly all throughout her sister’s nuptials.

There was no Eloise now, however, and Penelope began to feel her chest tighten at what she knew was about to happen.

She and her mother sat in silence for the rest of the ride home, and in less than half an hour, they were back in Featherington House, Portia immediately recounting the day’s events to an enthralled Mrs. Varley.

They made their way to the sitting room, and Penelope followed slowly behind them, walking like someone who had been sent to the gallows.

“Anything good for me, Mrs. Varley?”

“Oh, ma’am, it arrived an hour ago. I could hardly believe it!”

Penelope swallowed as her mother picked up a familiar-looking pamphlet from the low table.

“Bloody hell, it’s Whistledown!”

“I’ve not had a chance to read it, but it’s got to be good. The woman hasn’t written in a year! I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Varley said, giving Penelope a strange look as she passed. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Penelope could only nod as she watched her mother read, Mrs. Varley giving her another perplexed look as she left.

8 July 1815

Dearest gentle reader,

Did you miss scandal? If so, I am happy to report perhaps the biggest one yet, starring yours truly.

Over two years ago, this column debuted to your enthusiastic fanfare. It was the very first time perhaps that many of you had seen yours and your neighbors’ names in a publication, and I imagine it was rather flattering at first.

And then, scandal by scandal, you began to realize the danger you were all in. If Lady Whistledown reports the truth, then certainly, not all of it will be pretty.

I wanted to be beholden to no one—a first for me, you see, and what a potent, heady potion autonomy was—so I honored no friendships, held no loyalties, and recognized no one’s authority. I called that journalistic integrity. I printed the truth, and if the ton did not want its unflattering tales revealed, it ought to behave better, I told myself.

What integrity! What courage! What a beacon of morality I had thought I was.

It wasn’t long before it all began to crumble, however. Not even a year into the endeavor, and my quick-won success was already corrupting me.

You were not alone, dear readers, in the enjoyment of seeing others forced to reckon with their inadequacies and hypocrisies. This author will admit to taking macabre pleasure in writing them. Years of being deprived of kindness tends to make one gluttonous over power once one has had a taste.

For there is so little of the substance to go around amongst the women of the ton. We have been raised to believe that the table has only one seat for which we must fight, and without swords and pistols to do it, we must do it with cruelty.

Take Cressida Cowper, for example. You have her to thank, in fact, for the origination of this column.

It was a garden party at the Twombley estate when, in front of a group of gentlemen, she first spilled her wine on my flower-encrusted dress. I still remember how much like blood it looked as it soaked into the yellow fabric of my bodice.

We were a week away from our debut, and already she was playing gladiator in the marriage arena. I went home that day and wrote my very first journal entry in the voice of the woman you’ve come to love and loathe.

Back then, I saw Miss Cowper as the enemy, and Lady Whistledown was born out of my spite, my insecurity, and my desperation to be heard. Now, I see Miss Cowper for what she is—a victim of circ*mstance, just as all of us young ladies are.

Only the prettiest and most self-possessed survive in the ton, and I am far from either.

Instead, I am observant, non-threatening, and quiet, and those qualities made you all think I was also meek. I took the sheepskin coat you sewed for me, dear reader, and I donned it happily in order to speak my truth.

What I have learned, however, after the many distasteful things I have done, is that not all truths warrant speaking. Some of them inspire neither change nor introspection; some of them merely stoke our egos and entertain.

Today, I speak my most important truth. Lady Whistledown is my greatest pride and my darkest shame. I am the cautionary tale I wish for you to share with as much gusto as you spread gossip, and perhaps then it will all have been for something good.

Yours,

Penelope Featherington

With shaking hands, Lady Featherington set down the pamphlet, collapsing into the couch behind her. At the door to the sitting room was her youngest daughter, whose face was already lost to tears.

“I… I made sure Prudence would be secure, mama,” she said in a small voice, still in the gown she had worn to her sister’s wedding.

“Well thank you, Lady Whistledown ! How so very considerate of you!” cried Portia.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Penelope continued, wringing her hands, “As you said, she and Robert are already on their way to—”

“I do not care!” her mother yelled, standing to her full height.

The woman was trembling from head to foot, and Penelope watched in horror as tears gathered in her mother’s eyes.

“My daughter… my own daughter.” Portia shook her head slowly, raising a glove to dab at the tears that were already beginning to fall, the shock and hurt beginning to dawn completely on her.

Penelope ran to her mother, dropping to her knees in abject contrition. “Please forgive me, mama. Please—!” She clutched at the woman’s skirts, resisting as Portia tried to disentangle her daughter’s hands from the fabric.

“First, you turn down the Marquess, and now you reveal yourself to be Lady Whistledown, the woman who has humiliated me, who has put your family on the brink of ruin, who has made a mockery out of you ! You have no idea what I have done to keep us afloat, what I have done to take care of you, you ungrateful, insolent child!”

Penelope could only sob in response.

“If you think I will simply banish you to Ireland, think again. You will be Mayfair’s best dressed prisoner, unless the queen gets to you first,” Portia spat. “Good god, the queen,” she said in realization, collapsing once again into the settee. “What have you done, Penelope? What have you done?”

Chapter 13: Fifty Pounds

Chapter Text

“The queen is in the sitting room.”

Penelope, who had been unceremoniously awakened by a loud banging at her door, rubbed her eyes, struggling to comprehend what was happening. “The queen… Mama… What?” She squinted at her mother, who was silhouetted against the too-bright light of the hallway.

Portia tapped her feet, more out of anxiety than impatience. “We are already in very hot water. I suggest you get your behind downstairs promptly. I would not test this woman’s patience,” she said coldly, skirts swishing as she turned to hurry downstairs.

A beat later, Penelope was scrambling off the bed, throwing on a shawl because she couldn’t find her shift in the haze of her drowsiness and panic, and almost tripping over the slippers she was trying to get on her feet. She was already on the stairs when she remembered her hair, but there was nothing to do about it now, so she simply prayed that whatever punishment the queen was about to dole out, bad grooming would not make it worse.

Her house was crawling with guards, and she squirmed underneath her shawl, both out of embarrassment for her state of undress and the anticipation that soon, one of them was going to take her away in chains.

She could hear her mother’s voice as she neared the parlor.

”I beg you, Your Majesty… the words of a foolish, lonely girl… ‘twas a misguided attempt… My girls knew nothing…”

The words were muffled, but what she was able to make out brought fresh tears to her eyes. Already, her mother was bartering for leniency for the rest of their family, selling out her youngest daughter for the benefit of the others. The betrayal hurt more than Colin’s last season. Wasn’t there a special place in hell for mothers who gave up their children for slaughter?

In the few moments before she pushed the door open, she hardened her heart, already prepared for the consequences that awaited her beyond the threshold.

The Dowager Baroness Portia Featherington was kneeling in front of the Queen of England, hands clasped in a plea, nightclothes rumpled and reddish brown hair loose about her shoulders.

The Queen, on the other hand, was fully clothed, her elaborate wig and gown looking entirely appropriate in the Featheringtons’ gaudily decorated parlor. She turned her head towards Penelope, eyes narrowing in recognition. Bright hair, blue eyes, baby face.

”There. You. Are,” the Queen said in a predatory staccato.

”Here I am, Your Majesty,” she replied, oddly proud of the most perfect curtsy she had ever executed in her life and surprised that her mouth was able to make sounds at all.

”Not her. It was never her, Your Majesty,” Portia pleaded.

Without looking at the Baroness, the queen lifted a hand to stay any further commentary.

“I knew Lady Whistledown would be a mere girl. Only youth would lend itself to such impudence.”

”Your Majesty, it was I,” Portia insisted.

The queen’s head, wig and all, whipped around to address the woman. “Are you saying that your Queen is mistaken?”

”Y-Your Majesty… She is a mere girl who has implicated herself for love of a mother.”

”Mama—!” Penelope cried, finally understanding what the Baroness was trying to do.

”Lady Featherington, after fifteen children, your queen is positively incapable of mistaking a mother’s love for her offspring’s. We spawn such selfish, ungrateful creatures who do not learn to be otherwise until they themselves become parents.”

Portia’s panicked eyes drifted to her daughter.

The queen reached for the tea cup on the low table and sipped. “I admire the display of self-sacrifice, my lady, but do not lie to me again, or I will send both you and your insolent daughter to the Americas.”

Lady Featherington kept mum after that, standing awkwardly from her position on the floor and clambering onto the nearest armchair.

”Come here, girl,” the Queen beckoned to Penelope, who approached with a skittishness that nobody would ever have attributed to Lady Whistledown. “Speak. Explain yourself.”

”I… I… I am deeply sorry for offending you, Your Majesty. I never meant to… I only ever meant to speak the truth.”

”The truth!” Charlotte scoffed. “And the truth is that my diamonds are… What did you say in that one issue…?” She rotated her gloved fingers. “Bludgeoning tools used to punish debutantes for being less beautiful.”

Penelope winced but surprised herself with her response. “Well… yes, my queen.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Penelope—!”

”I can only speak to my experience, Your Majesty,” she soldiered on. “By naming a diamond, you diminish the rest of us. Even the rubies and golds and emeralds sparkle a little less brightly in the shadows, and it stops mattering that we are kind or bright or exceptionally good at the piano forte; we shall always be somebody’s second choice if a gentleman should choose us at all.”

The queen looked taken aback but straightened her spine and raised an eyebrow. “How dare you speak to me this way.” It was wearisome to have to play the petty royal sometimes, but with this particular opponent, Charlotte found that she rather enjoyed making the girl squirm. After all, the chit had claimed the upperhand in their little cat-and-mouse game for two years; it was about time Lady Whistledown took a lesson in trepidation.

”Would you rather I pander to you, Your Majesty? I’m quite adept at that, too,” Penelope replied brazenly instead.

Ah, but perhaps Charlotte shouldn’t be crying victory just yet. It seemed that the girl wasn’t ready to cower in the face of monarchic splendor, and good god, the wench reminded her of another foolish young woman who had no business taking on the matron of an entire country.

It was minuscule, but there it was—an intrigued smirk from the Queen of England. “Get up, and stop pretending to be afraid.”

As cheeky as she was being, Penelope’s fear was entirely genuine, but something told her that the Queen would not appreciate being corrected on that point. She took a seat in the armchair opposite her mother.

”You have committed treason with your little gossip column, and you’ve evaded capture for long enough. People have been executed for much less, I’m sure you know, and were it not for how positively distasteful it is to have one’s hands sullied by the blood of the likes of you, perhaps you would be marching to your death by now.”

Penelope swallowed nervously.

”But I can lock you up. Or put you on a ship that will deliver you to your living nightmare, wherever that may be. I have guards outside, fully prepared to put you behind bars where you belong and which are the least you deserve. So give me a reason to be magnanimous, girl.” Her royal head tilted like it did when it was in want of entertainment.

The girl took a breath before replying. “If there was anything in my column you found compelling at all, Your Majesty, that is the only reason to spare my life. For what do we live for except to love and ruin and have it all committed to ink like gospel? Whatever temerity I displayed, Your Majesty, it was all a rebellion against ennui and a foolish attempt to become a woman who was…”

The Queen raised a curious eyebrow.

“... a woman who was worth something, Your Majesty.”

And Penelope Featherington could not have said anything that would have resonated with the Queen more.

Tapping a gloved finger on her cheek, Charlotte did not bother trying to hide her smile this time. “Smart girl.” She sipped her tea and sighed in contentment, like she had finally found somebody she deemed entirely correct. “I can’t say the same for the version of you who outed yourself, however. Your dalliance with a Lord Dankworth set the ton abuzz this season. You were about to be engaged, to my understanding. Why have you done this to yourself?”

“Secrets weigh heavily on one’s shoulders, Your Majesty. I have done many things I’m not proud of as Whistledown, and as I’ve learned, if you don’t take control of your own story, someone else will do it for you, someday, somehow. There are people out there who continue to hunt Whistledown, and I am not so arrogant as to think that they will never prevail. You almost did, Your Majesty.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “No. Not enough.”

At this, Penelope smiled shrewdly. “I’m also sparking interest for a book I’m writing, Your Majesty.”

Charlotte raised an impressed eyebrow. “Presumptuous of you to think I would not have had you hung for your impudence.”

”I was prepared for both outcomes, Your Majesty. It was a calculated risk. You have never had anyone executed before, Ma’am. Some people might think you are more benevolent than you make it seem—“

”Penelope!” her mother cried, horrified at the way her daughter was speaking to the Queen of England.

”—but it will be our little secret, Your Majesty,” she grinned.

”You’re cheekier than I imagined you to be. I was told you were a wallflower.”

“I am, Ma’am. And so much more.”

Charlotte nodded in approval. “Tell me. What is your plan now, Lady Whistledown? I assume you know that I can’t abide your scandal sheet any longer. I have an intolerant image to uphold.”

“All I know is that I will write, Your Majesty. Frankly, in my fantasies, you would banish me to Ireland.”

The Queen scoffed. ”You ought to live up to your claim of self-possession. If you want to reside somewhere, I shan’t be doing your work for you. But why Ireland, of all places?”

”I fell in love with the countryside, Your Majesty. And London… does not agree with me, as you might imagine.”

“You will fare very badly in this life, Miss Featherington, if you spend your life trying to find places with which to agree . Nobody belongs anywhere, really. We’re all born strangers, and if we manage to make friends of each other, well then, we call that kismet.”

The Queen stood up then and beckoned to Brimsley, who, Penelope noticed for the first time, had been standing in one corner of the room. It had startled her when the man first moved; it was rather comical how still he must have been for him to have escaped her attention so absolutely.

Without another word, Queen Charlotte of England strode out of Featherington House, a bevy of guards trailing after her.

Portia Featherington stared wide-eyed after them from the hallway, curtsying belatedly when the Queen looked back to give her and Penelope a parting glance.

The door shut. Mother and daughter breathed heavily in unison. The grandfather clock chimed, as if to punctuate the oddest meeting Portia had ever had in her life.

”Did we just…?”

”I think we just made a friend of the Queen of England, Mama,” Penelope grinned.

Portia merely raised an eyebrow at her and said sternly, “You’re still not going to Ireland.”

Penelope sighed in response, watching her mother ascend the stairs. She hadn’t lost hope. Cousin Oscar would never give her employment against her mother’s wishes, but his wasn’t the only family in Kilkenny who might have need for a governess. She could also keep writing until she’d saved enough to somehow find her own lodgings.

She steeled her resolve. She could and would write anywhere, even amongst an unfriendly ton. She would write in hell if she had to.

“Bloody hell, Miss Featherington! It’s good to see you with your head still firmly attached!” exclaimed Mrs. Helberg jovially.

Penelope grinned, pushing back the hood of her coat to run her fingers lightly through her hair.

“You’ve made the front pages, young lady, and everyone wants a piece of you. Surely you didn’t expect that a midnight visit from a queen and her entourage would go unnoticed?”

Penelope took a moment to look around as she claimed a seat in the empty tavern. It had still been dark when she left Featherington House, but now she only had about an hour before the sky began to lighten, and she would have to return to Mayfair.

“You speak for me now, do you not?” she said. “I want nothing to do with what anybody else writes. They can say what they want about me. It does not matter now.”

Mrs. Helberg chuckled. “All right. The deal stands. I have your down payment right here.” The woman rummaged in her coat and produced a small roll of banknotes, which Penelope secreted in her reticule.

“Thank you, Mrs. Helberg.”

“I reckon the Queen did not enquire too much into your business partnerships, seeing as no one has been accosted.”

There was a note of worry in the woman’s voice, and Penelope saw it fit to reassure her. “I think she’s rather looking forward to my future writings, in fact,” she grinned again.

“Good, good. Now, speaking of future writings, I’ve gone through your pages, and while you’re off to a good start, you’re a long way from getting this done in time.”

Penelope blanched. “What do you mean? I have sent you over half—”

“And it’s not a very good half, if I may be frank. At least not up to Whistledown standards. We’ve got a lot of work to do,” the woman said. When Penelope’s expression fell, Mrs. Helberg continued, “This is the process, Miss Featherington. This is what it’s like to have an editor. There will be critique, much more of it, and much harsher.”

“Well, fine, what is wrong with my work?” the girl said almost haughtily, crossing her arms and looking very much like the spoiled daughter of a baron that she was.

“It’s got no soul, Miss Featherington. Your character, Ulrika… She’s cold. At this point, I sympathize more with Gertrude.”

Penelope paled even more. She had designed Gertrude after Cressida, and Ulrika was practically a fictionalized version of herself.

“Cold? Cold! How can she be cold? It is Gertrude who is cold.” She was taking it a little too personally, she knew, but in no universe—not even one of her own creation—would she ever admit to being second to Cressida in kindness or warmth.

Mrs. Helberg shrugged. “I told you. We have a lot of work to do, and more importantly, I don’t think we’ll be done in three months’ time, like we originally planned.”

“But… But you said we had only a small window of time before people lost interest.”

“I know. But with a few strategic mentions in the papers, perhaps we can buy ourselves a few more months. We can publish some of your short-form pieces, too, until the book is ready. The trick is to keep ‘em wanting more.”

Penelope brightened at that, and Mrs. Helberg chuckled at how pleased the girl looked at the idea of more work.

“We’ll have to see what the papers will accept, but looks like everything’s coming up roses for you, Miss Featherington.”

The Lady Whistledown column set the ton ablaze, and Harry Dankworth’s departure added fuel to the fire. It had been two days since any of the Featherington women had been seen in public; even Philippa had made a hasty retreat for her husband’s country home in the wake of the exposé.

Everywhere Colin went, they were talking about Penelope, and from what he could tell, no issue was more polarizing.

Some spoke of her with admiration and curiosity. How could a girl of seven and ten have managed to set up an underground publishing infrastructure? How could she have amassed such a huge following, one that extended beyond London? How could it have been Penelope Featherington?

Others, however, were less gracious. The Cowpers, for example, had not been seen either, and Colin imagined that Cressida was furious for having been singled out, nevermind that the column had actually been rather empathetic of her plight as an unmarried woman.

After overhearing one too many insults hurled against his friend, Colin had decided to remain indoors as well, warning Eloise of the jungle of spite that Whistledown had turned Mayfair into.

Not even the Queen’s pardon stifled the gossip that ran rampant. There were rumors that Penelope had mobilized a network of spies and planted them in the households of the nobility. There were conspiracy theories of a conglomerate being behind Whistledown because it was entirely implausible that a young girl could have single-handedly enthralled the ton. Yet others surmised that it was Portia Featherington who must have masterminded the whole affair.

It would probably take days—weeks even—for people to get used to the idea that the wallflower they ignored and the gossipmonger they had revered was one and the same.

But none of it signified because as soon as he had read the column, Colin Bridgerton made up his mind.

Having successfully corralled their mother, Anthony, and even Eloise into the study, he rubbed his palms together in nervous anticipation. The Viscount poured all four of them a glass of brandy each, which said a lot about what kind of conversation they were all expecting.

Unable to withstand anymore suspense, Violet began the discussion. “Seeing as Eloise is also here and in light of recent discoveries, I can only surmise that this meeting is about Penelope?”

Colin nodded. “Yes. As you well know, she has gotten herself into quite a bit of trouble.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “That’s an understatement if there ever was one. The Queen went to her house, Colin. With an army of guards.”

”And yet she left empty-handed.”

”Perhaps she is on house arrest,” insisted Anthony.

It was Eloise’s turn to roll her eyes. “She is not on house arrest. We have been sending notes.”

”You have been doing what?” Anthony whirled on their sister angrily. “Are you seriously corresponding with the ton’s most prolific pariah—“

”Hold your tongue,” Colin said, his voice eerily steady and frighteningly stern.

As odd as it was to see Colin chastise their eldest brother, Eloise focused on defending her friend. “Are we to side now only with those the ton deems worthy, brother? For if that is the measure of your friendship, I rather think I’m in the wrong room.”

“You knew, didn’t you? She wrote about you last season, and that is why the two of you had a falling out,” concluded the Viscount.

Eloise merely shrugged casually. “She was trying to shake the Queen off my trail. The woman thought I was Whistledown. Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now.”

It wasn’t though. Sometimes Eloise still thought about Theo and how things might have worked out if Penelope hadn’t endangered their friendship. But then again, if Penelope could take ownership of Whistledown, Eloise ought to be able to admit that she hadn’t tried very hard to remain friends with Theo either. Maybe someday, she would put that to rights, but today, she had another friend to defend.

“And what of Daphne? She endangered Daphne’s prospects,” Anthony continued.

“She rescued Daphne, too,” Violet pointed out, “from Lord Berbrooke.”

To the woman’s credit, she didn’t point out that it was Anthony who had promised Daphne to Berbrooke in the first place.

“And what about you?” he whirled on Colin. “Lady Whistledown has chronicled every foolish decision you’ve made—”

“Come now!” cried the younger brother.

“Well, she was just as much a part of the solution. Your brother would have run off with Miss Thompson if it weren’t for Whistledown,” added their mother.

Anthony took a deep, steadying breath, trying to remember why they were gathered. He then realized that Colin hadn’t actually said yet.

“All right,” the Viscount said, resting his elbows on his desk and rubbing his temples wearily. “Lady Whistledown has saved us as much as she has put us in the middle of scandal. Fine. Now what has she to do with this little meeting?”

Colin straightened his cravat and cleared his throat.

“I would like to marry her,” he said plainly, like he was talking about what he wanted for supper.

Anthony and Violet stared blankly at each other for a moment before grinning knowingly. Soon, they were both chuckling, like there was an inside joke that the other occupants of the room were missing.

Before Colin could take offense, however, Eloise made it clear exactly what she thought of the idea.

“Absolutely not,” she said indignantly.

That silenced the Viscount and their mother, who shared yet another look.

“She may not be marrying Lord Dankworth, but that does not mean she will be marrying anybody. ”

“I’m not just anybody, Eloise,” Colin reasoned, “I’m her best friend.” His sister raised an indignant eyebrow, so he quickly amended his statement, “Next to you, of course.”

“We’ll bicker about that later. Did you not read her column? The last thing she wants is a man, Colin. Is it so hard to understand how a woman might want to be her own person?”

“And she can’t be if she’s married?” said the affronted Viscount, who was married to perhaps one of the most self-possessed people Eloise had ever met.

The girl sighed. “You and Kate are different… You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly, El,” Colin said, “and if Pen does not want me, she is free to turn me down as well. But I would regret it forever if I did not at least present her with the option.”

“All season… Nay, all these years, she was right there, across from this very house, and not once did you present yourself as an option. At the Hearts and Flowers Ball, I told you to make your move before she was lost to you forever, and even when you… the… the…” she stammered, unwilling to reveal to Anthony and Violet what had happened before Penelope was ready. “The carriage. Even then, you squandered your chance. She has been giving you opportunities at every turn, Colin, and every time, you have failed to step up to be the person she needs. Now that she is putting Lady Whistledown behind her, now that she knows for certain what she wants out of her life, now that she is trying to build a clear path to Ireland, you want to just come barreling in and make her have your babies and keep her in miserable London! You can’t just decide—”

Colin left his seat to drop to his knees in front of his sister, whose tirade immediately waned at his expression. He took her hands into his own, looking up at her with eyes that glistened. They were red, Eloise observed, like he hadn’t been sleeping, and his voice was heavy with emotion when next he spoke.

“I would follow her to the ends of the earth, Eloise.”

And as she looked into her brother’s desperately wide, earnest eyes, every single protest in the room finally died.

Pulling her hands away, she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at her brother. “I suppose it’s not for me to decide anyway. At the very least, perhaps your vile friends will finally leave her alone.”

Colin’s eyebrows met in confusion.

“That Lord Debling. He propositioned her, you know, and I don’t mean he offered her an investment opportunity.”

Her brother’s face turned red in an instant. “He did what?”

Eloise waved a hand in the air. “Yes, at the Hearts and Flowers Ball. It’s why she disappeared for awhile.” She gave him a knowing look, silently letting him know that she had not forgotten what he and Penelope had done that same night.

Furious, Colin sat back on his heels. He remembered how distraught Penelope was when he’d found her hiding at the foot of Aubrey Hall’s steps, how she had chuckled ruefully at being found in so undignified a position, how entirely spent she’d seemed when they’d fought in the carriage. He hadn’t realized that someone had shown her such disrespect.

All throughout the season, he had been underestimating just how far Lord Debling was willing to go to either win their bet or simply have his fun. Whatever the man’s motivations were, it was time to put them to rest, and Colin resolved to do just that.

Nobody expected the Featheringtons to attend Lady Danbury’s annual ball, but apparently, the hostess never rescinded the invitation, and Portia deemed it a good opportunity to test the shark-infested waters of the ton. After all, they couldn’t stay indoors forever.

Chin up in the air, she entered the ballroom on the arm of her infamous daughter. It was hard not to turn tail and run back to the safety of Featherington House, especially when the whispers started, but Portia soldiered on, more for Penelope than anything else. The girl had made an enemy of half the ton, and for all that Lady Featherington was still hurt and furious, she could respect how much courage it took for her daughter to be present that night.

After all, Portia reckoned, thanks to the scandals their cousins had wrought in recent years, there was little she hadn’t heard, and if the ton expected her to cower in shame, well, they all could simply hang.

Besides, what a waste of a party it would have been had a little scandal not been invited. It was a magnificent setting, even though it wasn’t exactly to Portia’s tastes. Lady Danbury had outfitted her impressive ballroom with eggshell-white silks hanging from the ceiling, sparsely situated lanterns that lent the place an intimate glow, and garlands of eucalyptus on the walls. Sprigs of lavender were on every surface, and the air was sweet and herbal. It smelled heavenly.

Glancing down at her daughter, however, Portia wasn’t certain that the girl noticed anything beyond the immediate vicinity of her shoes.

“Look up,” Portia said, punctuating the command by lifting Penelope’s chin with her closed fan. “You made your bed, and you must learn to lie in it.”

The girl nodded silently.

“I’m going to find our hostess and thank her profusely for allowing us to attend tonight. Go and find Eloise Bridgerton. Let her hold your hand through this. I shan’t be doing it for the entirety of this infernal night.”

As her mother left her to fend for herself, Penelope fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The thought that somewhere in this party was Eloise provided some comfort, however; she had never needed the crutch of her friendship so badly.

Inhaling deliberately, she scanned the room for a dark head and a splash of Bridgerton blue, and she certainly found both but not in the person she intended to find.

Her eyes landed on Colin and Marina, who were sharing a laugh like they were still courting.

As she tried and failed to avert her eyes, Penelope reminded herself that a brief romp in a parked carriage did not afford her the right to be jealous, but old insecurities died hard. Nevertheless, she thought, if she wanted to live up to the kind of woman she had made herself out to be in her column, then she really ought to extinguish whatever remained of her feelings for Colin Bridgerton.

Stormy blue eyes watched the Featheringtons from the moment they entered the ballroom.

Colin contemplated running over there to escort them, but it had taken him a few moments to gather his wits about him as he was entirely unprepared when Penelope emerged from the half-open double doors wearing one of Madame Delacroix’s creations—the one that looked like the midnight sky. With her red hair gathered on one side and draped softly over her shoulder, he found himself struggling to find the regular rhythm of his breath.

Every time they passed a lantern, its glow cast a halo around Penelope’s fiery head, and he thought, with some amusem*nt, that she looked rather like a cherub. It was not the first time he had described her as such either. It was one of the things he’d thought when he first met her one fateful day so many years ago, when her airborne bonnet had knocked him off his horse.

But his Pen wasn’t a little girl anymore, and she was certainly no angel.

”You’re staring, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Irritated at the interruption, he was surprised to find none other than his former fiancée standing beside him.

”Miss Thompson!” he exclaimed. “I mean, Lady Crane. I did not realize you were in town.”

Already, heads were turning in their direction, and he was almost grateful for the interruption. If he and his once-fiancée would distract them from whispering about Penelope even for a few moments, then he could abide the discomfort.

”My husband and I arrived a few days ago for Prudence’s wedding. I had expected you to be there, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah, yes. I was… feeling rather ill that day.” Lovesick was more like it, but he felt no need to explain that he simply had no interest in being forced to watch his two friends making moon eyes at each other for an entire afternoon.

“And are you doing better?”

”Oh, yes. Much, much better,” he smiled sincerely, already anticipating his conversations with the Featherington ladies that very night. “There is much to look forward to. What about you, Lady Crane? The country agrees with you, it seems.”

”Of course it does. I’ve always been a country girl,” she said, a little offended that he had seemed to forget. “The children are healthy. My husband is healthy.”

“Might I enquire as to the whereabouts of Lord Crane?”

“Oh, he is here somewhere,” she looked around briefly, trying to spot her husband. “Playing chess outside, most likely. Perhaps I should feel slighted that you’re more interested in talking to my husband about olive bushes again.”

They laughed together, and he scratched the back of his head, embarrassed and displaying great restraint as he refrained from correcting her that olives, in fact, grew on trees.

As for his waning interest in the conversation, she was not entirely off the mark. He did want to escape the awkward encounter, except it wasn’t to talk flora.

He craned his head to see where the Featheringtons were. He had lost the baroness, but to his surprise, Penelope was standing only a few meters ahead of them, looking away almost immediately when their eyes met.

”Pen!” Colin called out, unable to keep from smiling.

Left without a choice, the redhead approached warily, like a deer being forced to enter a lion’s den. ”Marina, Colin.”

Lady Crane scowled but tilted her head in acknowledgment.

”Penelope. I can’t say I expected you to be here,” Marina said, dark eyes flashing with thinly veiled contempt. “I suppose you are rather masterful at doing unexpected things.”

”If there is anything I regret, Marina, it is that I hurt you and Mr. Bridgerton.” Penelope’s eyes watered, but her expression remained fierce. “It was not my objective, for what it’s worth. I only meant to protect a friend, truly.”

”Pen—“ Colin tried to interject.

“Do not insult me by pretending it was all some benevolent gesture on your part. You revealed it all as Whistledown and not as yourself because you wanted none of the blame.”

”Yes, I chose myself,” Penelope stated firmly even though her voice was shaking. “As did you. Hypocrisy runs in the family, it seems.”

Marina straightened her spine, her frown deepening. “I had suspected it was you. I suppose a part of me already knew. No one else was privy to everything.”

”Perhaps we all should talk about this somewhere more private.” Already, curious eyes were watching them, and Colin was loath to give the gossip more fodder.

”There is no need, Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope lifted her chin in challenge, and Colin had to marvel at her just a little more. “I have nothing more to say on this matter. Lady Crane and I have had more words about this than you would care to know. It would be entirely childish to rehash all of it now.”

Your love is an unrequited fantasy.

You do not count.

Penelope stepped away then, pale as a ghost even with the rouge on her cheeks. She turned quickly, taking large strides to put as much distance between them as fast as she could.

He was back to Mr. Bridgerton, Colin thought ruefully . He moved to follow her, but Marina’s voice distracted him.

”She and I will forgive each other someday. I certainly hope the same for you.”

“Excuse me, Miss Thomps—Lady Crane,” he said, bowing absent-mindedly.

He felt silly and perhaps more than a little pathetic chasing after Penelope in the middle of a busy ballroom, but all he could think was how much better they would both feel by the end of the night once they had talked through their misunderstandings and had a word with Lady Featherington.

But my god, was Pen a brisk walker. It took him a full minute to catch up, and by then he had worked himself into a nervous frenzy.

“Bloody hell, Pen, will you stop for a moment,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder to halt her.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise, whirling around to shrug him off.

He almost rolled his eyes at her insistence on formalities. “Penelope, a dance.”

“Pardon?”

“A dance. Let us dance. I mean, I know it is not the gavotte, but it is a waltz, one of our favorites. And I would be honored to dance with you.”

Penelope merely stared at him like he had three heads.

Not knowing what else to do, he stepped toward her, and she looked down briefly before meeting his eyes again.

“You look beautiful tonight, Pen,” he said sincerely. Encouraged by her silence (at least she hadn’t turned him away yet), he continued in a low voice, “I have been meaning to speak with you.”

He turned slightly away from her to feign a more casual conversation. Meanwhile, his hand was reaching for her, like it had a mind of its own, like it couldn’t stand to be deprived of her warmth for one more moment. He extended a gloved finger, finally finding one of hers as they both stood, pretending to observe the other partygoers, trying to remain upright even through weakened knees.

And it was enough. Even through the fabric of their gloves, the small touch had them sighing, had their hearts racing, had them forgetting every ill feeling that had led up to that moment.

“What about?” she breathed.

“P-pardon?” he replied, cheeks aflame.

“You said you wanted to speak with me.”

“Oh! Ah, yes.” His finger stroked hers, and the movement was minuscule, but he thought it might have been the tenderest touch he had ever imparted on another person. “I wanted to clarify my intentions.”

The fabric of his glove caught on the lace at her knuckle, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. She struggled to focus on the conversation but managed to ask, “Your intentions?”

“Yes, I—”

The sentence was interrupted by Lady Featherington, who marched towards them with a suspicious glare. Following at a more leisurely pace was Lady Danbury.

Reluctant fingers scurried away from each other.

“There you are. Come, pay tribute to our magnanimous hostess,” Portia said. “Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton,” she added as an afterthought.

“Lady Whistledown,” drawled the hostess as she approached the group, cane first. “My most illustrious guest.”

”Lady Danbury,” Penelope replied, dropping to an awkward, clumsy half-curtsy. “We are most grateful for the invitation, in light of the circ*mstances.”

”Circ*mstances? Do you mean when you outed yourself as the ton’s most influential woman, next to our Queen?”

The girl’s breath hitched, unsure whether an insult was coming or if she was being paid a compliment.

”If I have offended you—“

Lady Danbury waved a gloved hand in the air. “My dear, at my age, one would fare very badly if one took offense to something so entertainingly inane as gossip. You called me a cane-wielding tigress once, but I took it as a compliment,” she shrugged.

Penelope almost wept with relief. She happened to like Lady Danbury, and it would have been a shame if she had made an enemy of the woman.

”I was just telling your mother, she must be in shock at what her daughter has accomplished.”

Portia sighed, an eyebrow momentarily quirking upward. “Among other things, my lady.”

“And what of you, Mr. Bridgerton? Did you have at least an inkling of the talents of the woman of mystery you call your friend?”

Colin smiled almost proudly. “That’s between Lady Whistledown and me, I’m afraid,” he responded.

“I suppose some mysteries are better left to the imagination. But has anyone ever told you, Mr. Bridgerton, that you could get away with murder? I don’t usually tolerate cheekiness, but on you, it’s rather fitting.”

“Was that a compliment, my lady?” Good heavens, Benedict and Anthony would never believe it.

The woman merely shrugged. “Take it as you will. And in return, I shall take your companion.” She hooked an arm through Penelope’s elbow and walked away, Lady Featherington following close behind.

“But I…” Colin tried to protest, but the women had already turned their backs, engrossed in their conversation.

Beside him, someone tutted. “Damn. Did you miss yet another opportunity to ask for her hand, brother?” Benedict teased. Beside him was Daphne, who was hiding a smirk behind her fingers in an attempt to remain ladylike.

Colin sighed. “I will not be asking for her hand until I’ve properly courted her.”

There was a ring burning a hole in his pocket. It was a gorgeous indicolite set in a gold band that his jeweler had fashioned into a looped feather. Before he’d had it melted down into a woman’s style, the ring used to belong to him; he’d found it during his first tour in Greece.

The clear, light blue stone had been the exact shade of Pen’s eyes, and he’d circled back to the little stall three times before finally relenting, telling himself that the color was a coincidence and that the ring would have called to him regardless.

He’d worn it religiously, lifting the stone in different lights, imagining Pen’s eyes changing color in similar situations. He only took it off when he set foot in London, like he was afraid somebody would somehow realize its meaning.

He should have known then how he’d felt about her.

”Breathe, brother,” Daphne said, rubbing his back, and it was only then that Colin realized that he hadn’t quite remembered how to inhale and exhale properly.

“I seem to have a hard time doing that every time she’s near me,” he said.

”Is that a good thing?” Benedict asked, genuinely concerned.

”It sounds like a love thing,” Daphne grinned.

Benedict chuckled, “You two rival me in sentimentality and romance. Perhaps we inherited these virtues from Father. I wonder what happened to Anthony.”

Colin laughed then, for the first time in days, and all he could think was that he wouldn’t mind never breathing normally again if it meant a lifetime with Penelope.

Having found an ally in Lady Danbury, the Baroness was taking a turn about the room, presumably scoping out friend from foe at the arm of their hostess.

That left Penelope free to venture off on her own, though it wasn’t as appealing a concept as it usually was. She failed to find Eloise in the ballroom, however, so she decided to try her luck outside.

Hurrying to the grounds, she had to pass through the balcony, where she found Cressida Cowper, lounging al fresco, a table of spirits next to her.

”Penelope!” the woman called, though the menacing quality was strangely absent in her voice.

”Cressida.” Penelope tilted her head and paused for a moment before attempting to walk past her.

”Penelope… Miss Featherington… Please, will you join me?” Cressida rose to her feet, beckoning the redhead to the waiting armchair.

”I think not.”

”Please, Penelope. I mean you no harm.”

The redhead paused for a few moments to regard the woman who’d tormented her from the moment they had been introduced. It was so odd, but for the first time ever, Cressida looked perturbed—humbled, even.

”What do you want, Cressida?” Penelope crossed her arms.

”A conversation, that is all. I should think you owe me at least that after singling me out in your column, do you not agree? I haven’t had a caller in days.”

Penelope swallowed, pursed her lips, and finally complied, making her way to the chair on the other side of the table.

Cressida mirrored the gesture, swirling her wine as she settled back in her seat. “Your column had me doing a lot of thinking.” She watched the red substance in her glass, jumping as she swirled a little too violently and nearly spilled it on herself. “And the conclusions I arrived at were not particularly pleasant, I must say.”

”And what conclusions might those be?” Penelope asked, eyes narrowing warily.

”That I have treated you atrociously all these years, and I suppose it was all because… well, I saw you as competition. You intimidate me, Penelope.”

The redhead scoffed at that. “I intimidate you?”

”Yes! I have many gifts, Penelope, and one of them is judgment of character. I took one look at you and realized you were a threat. I heard you once, speaking with Colin Bridgerton, and you were bright and funny, and he was utterly delighted by you. No one had ever responded that way to me—no man or woman.”

Perhaps Cressida had already overindulged on Lady Danbury’s fine wine. Penelope didn’t think she had ever said a kind word to anyone before, least of all to a chubby wallflower. It was an entirely surreal moment.

”Cressida, Mr. Bridgerton and I are friends, and friendship affords one the comfort of being oneself. Have you never tried to simply be yourself with a gentleman? Perhaps you might try that instead of all these games you play.”

Cressida sighed forlornly. “Do you know, it took my mother three seasons to find a husband? And it looks as if it’s going to take me even longer. I am her worst nightmare.”

Penelope bit her lip, uncertain of what to say. She didn’t really know Cressida well enough to formulate an appropriately comforting response.

”I suppose that is where you and I differ,” the woman continued. “You simply do not care if you disappoint your mama, do you?”

Penelope leaned forward then. “Of course I care, Cressida. It’s natural for children to want their parents’ approval. I suppose I just want my freedom more.”

“Therein lies the difference then. The problem is that I want the same thing that my mama wants for me—status, security, a family to call my own.” She sighed again and smiled sadly, gesturing to the tray of spirits between them before deciding to pour Penelope a glass of wine herself.

”Pen!” a voice called from the gardens below, where Lady Danbury had set up a mini cricket field, card games, and, closer to the labyrinth, chess tables. The entire place was lit up with little lanterns that hung from strings and lent romance to the evening ambience.

”Eloise?” Penelope said, squinting in the direction of the voice.

Eloise, who was at one of the betting tables and scandalizing her mother with her uninhibited shouting, beckoned her over. Penelope grinned and raised three fingers to signal three minutes.

She turned back to Cressida, taking the proffered drink.

”I suppose you’re right… about adopting a more natural countenance,” Cressida said. “It’s my third season, and I haven’t received a single proposal. You, on the other hand, had three suitors this season, and you made the decision to turn them down.”

”Well, the other two didn’t exactly propose anything for me to turn down,” Penelope said, taking a large drink from her glass. Cressida had poured a little too much for her, and she really wanted to end this conversation as soon as possible.

”How lucky you are, nonetheless, Penelope. Truly,” Cressida smiled almost wistfully.

”I am sure the wind will blow in your favor soon, Miss Cowper, as it did for me. You are beautiful and smart, and that is much more than other young ladies can say for themselves.”

Cressida’s smile widened. “That is very kind of you to say, Penelope.”

The other girl took another long sip of her wine before setting her glass down on the tray. “If you’ll excuse me, Cressida, I must go to Eloise.”

”Of course, of course,” Cressida said, waving her off.

The woman looked so forlorn that Penelope almost invited her to join them, but another shout from Eloise reminded her that the two did not get along either, and whatever common ground she had found with Cressida, it might crumble to dust in light of her friend’s disapproval.

She made her way to the cards tables, and as soon as she reached Eloise, they linked arms and commandeered one of the benches off to the side.

”What are you looking at?” the redhead asked, lifting her hands and turning them over.

”Oh, nothing,” Eloise replied, eyes finally leaving her friend’s glove. “I thought you were going to let things die down before reentering society.”

Penelope shrugged. “What difference does it make, truly? There is no love lost between the ton and me, I’m afraid.”

”Were you speaking with Cressida? What did she want?”

”To make amends, if you can believe it. I’m beginning to think that outing myself as Lady Whistledown was the best thing I could have done. The queen has pardoned me, I’ve secured my book deal, and now Cressida Cowper seems to be shedding her snakeskin and showing that she is, after all, human.”

Eloise laughed at the barb. She jostled Penelope’s knee as she stated with a grin, “Things are looking up, Pen. Perhaps Ireland is the last frontier. Perhaps you and I can live there someday.”

Penelope sighed, looking up into the evening sky, feeling a little dizzied by all the stars. She shook her head to clear it.

“Mama certainly will not let me go now. I think she will be punishing me for the rest of my life. The things I have written about her… It is beyond the pale to write about your own mother like that.”

”You were lashing out.”

Penelope nodded, pursing her lips. “It felt like power.”

Eloise shifted in discomfort. Reassurance was Daphne’s domain, not hers. “She will forgive you someday. That’s what mothers do.”

”Yours, perhaps,” Penelope replied sadly.

Eloise rubbed her hands together and moved to stand. The night was young, and she reckoned it wouldn’t be long before Colin would take Penelope aside. It was, perhaps, a more bitter thought than was warranted, but she wanted to make the most of her time with her friend before the latter became too busy with yet another courtship.

“Come, Pen. Let us drown your sorrows in lemonade and card games.”

Penelope grinned and followed suit, but a wave of nausea had her clutching at the back of the bench.

”Are you all right?” Eloise said, grabbing her shoulder.

”Yes, I’m fine,” Penelope said. “I just got up too fast.”

Portia Featherington had never felt like she belonged in the ton, but before her daughter had blown what reputation they had to bits, her title had at least allowed her to enjoy duplicitous friendships and vicious games of who could impart the most scandalous news.

But tonight, she and her daughter were the news, and she found that it was a rather lonely role to play when everyone else was invested in their downfall. Not even Lady Danbury could sufficiently repair the damage that had been wrought, and Portia could not very well have kept the woman at her side the entire time.

Yes, kindness was scarce at tonight’s ball, and by the time she had finished her second glass of scotch, the Baroness was beginning to feel naked without anyone to exchange barbs and gossip with. It didn’t help that people stared at her with impunity, like she didn’t even deserve the pretense of courtesy.

She found herself wandering outside, where she assumed her daughter had fled to find the Bridgertons. They were, after all, good company for when one was in want of kindness.

Penelope and Eloise were at a cards table, playing what looked to be rummy and giggling together like the former had never published that her friend was consorting with radicals. Her daughter looked a little pale and clammy, and it was a terrible thought for a mother to have, but she felt a little relieved for the girl’s countenance. It would give them a good excuse to leave the ball early.

“It’s easier for them,” a soft voice interrupted her musings.

“Lady Bridgerton,” Portia said cautiously, unsure yet where the woman stood on the issue of Whistledown. On the one hand, the Dowager Viscountess had always had a soft spot for Penelope, but on the other, Portia wasn’t certain if that benevolence could withstand the publishing of the Bridgerton siblings’ multiple scandals over the last two years.

A genuine smile from the woman stayed Portia’s worries, and she relaxed her neck, which felt like she’d been craning it the entire night.

“They’re young, and they think they have all the time in the world to repair everything—mistakes, friendships, reputations. And it is all we can do to watch them learn, with every painful regret, that sometimes, done is done. There are no second chances.”

Portia scoffed. “She’s certainly not getting a second chance with the Marquess.” She shook her head, the weight of disappointment heavy on her shoulders. “Three perfectly respectable suitors this season. Three! And she chose to throw it all away. I still do not understand for what.”

“Perhaps, my lady, our children’s decisions are not for us to understand.”

“So I simply must accept her foolishness?” Portia couldn’t help it; she began to bristle. “Must I accept that she is throwing away her future?”

“I apologize, Lady Featherington. I do not mean to be doling out parenting advice to a fellow veteran,” Violet said, clutching at the pendant of her necklace. “But if I may continue speaking out of turn, our children do not turn out the way they do by accident.”

“Oh, so it is my fault?”

“Oh, no, no! Not your fault. Your legacy, perhaps, at least partially.”

“My legacy!” exclaimed Portia, hackles rising. “Why, I never—!”

“Your girl, Lady Featherington, is brilliant,” Violet clarified, “and enterprising. Sharp, and witty, and brave, Portia. She is so brave.” She said the last part with a small shake of her head. “And she must have gotten that from somewhere.”

Certainly not her father.

These descriptions were nothing Portia didn’t already know about her own daughter, of course, but to have someone else point them out gave her mother’s heart beat with pride for once, instead of worry. Of all her girls, it was her youngest that had always troubled her precisely because the girl had a secret, quiet wildness to her that made her difficult to predict, much less control. Whistledown was proof of the girl’s stubbornness, but it had never occurred to Portia that someone might see that as a virtue.

It had never even occurred to her that she was hardest on Penelope because the girl was the most like her. That Violet Bridgerton had recognized that in the midst of yet another scandal felt like a small miracle.

Unaccustomed to such compliments, Lady Featherington could think of nothing to say, so she simply stood with the Dowager Viscountess, listening to the soft crooning of the string quartet on the dais and watching their girls laugh as they played the cards they were dealt.

Unbeknownst to Penelope, Colin had been trailing her through the party, waiting for an opportunity to pull her aside. He had almost growled in agitation as she hurriedly left Cressida for Eloise. Knowing that his sister could talk up a storm, he was certain he wouldn’t be able to talk to Penelope for at least an hour.

Bypassing the gambling stations, he looked longingly at the redhead before heading towards the chess tables, where most of the other gentlemen had gathered.

Lady Danbury had outdone herself. Everywhere he turned, there was something to do and a detail to marvel at. Lanterns hung strategically from the branches of trees, and nestled in the bushes were little mirrors in the shape of flowers, which reflected the light every time the wind blew.

The small area that had been sectioned off for chess was in an alcove created by tall hedges that eventually led to the labyrinth. It was open enough for the matches to attract a small crowd that applauded every time somebody won.

Just as he thought, Fife and Debling were there, poring over a game that was halfway done, from what Colin could tell.

”Debling, Fife,” he greeted.

”Bridgerton!” Lord Fife exclaimed, disturbing the relative silence of the alcove. “Come, join us.”

Colin left momentarily to retrieve one of the stools lining one of the hedges and positioned himself beside their chess table. His blood was boiling just from seeing Lord Debling’s smug grin, but he reckoned there was no reason they couldn’t move forward as gentlemen. Besides, he had big plans for the night, and it would not do to start a brawl.

”How is our little project, Bridgerton?” Lord Debling said. “That’s two for three now that she’s turned down. Hard as it may be to believe, it looks like I’m the last man standing.” He would never propose of course; he only needed to wait the season out to win their bet. He almost wished another gentleman would enter the game; it was entirely dull without any other contenders.

”Marcus Anderson is yet to bow out officially, I believe, but have you come to award us our winnings already, Bridgerton?” Fife said.

”Marcus Anderson is not marrying her,” Colin replied resolutely. “But I am. If she will have me.”

“Ooh…” the two men jeered in intrigued amusem*nt.

“Ah, but this isn’t entirely fair now to us, is it?” Lord Debling said. “Your interventions were a clever tactic, but proposing to the girl yourself would certainly be against the spirit of the competition.”

“You did do the exact same thing,” Fife pointed out.

“My strategy did not assure my win. I only meant to have a little fun with the girl, and I haven’t even done much of that. While the season is coming to a close, I still have a few weeks, and I would not appreciate my fun being cut so short.”

”As much as I hate to deprive you of your entertainment, I’m afraid you’ll have to find something else to amuse yourself with. Perhaps taxidermy will suffice.”

”Taxidermy is a way of life, my friend, not a mere hobby.”

”Penelope is not a hobby!”

Lord Debling chuckled, unaffected by the younger man’s outrage. ”Of course not. But she is the subject of our wager, and wagers must be seen through to the very end.”

”I am no longer interested in our bet.”

Lord Debling frowned, genuinely displeased. “I’m afraid a gentleman’s word is binding, Mr. Bridgerton. I’m sure you’ve heard, a man is only as good as—”

”I understand you’re a man who likes games, Lord Debling. But Miss Featherington has a life to live, and it was wrong of us to have made sport of her marriageability. It stops right here right now, and I’m fully prepared to make you whole,” Colin replied. “I’ll pay you the entire pot if you and Lord Fife bow out.”

”And how much would that be, my lords?”

Colin whirled around, knocking over both his chair and the chess board as he got on his feet. Knights and pawns scattered soundlessly onto the ground.

He would recognize that voice anywhere, and in the split-second that he turned to face her, dread that Colin had never known before settled in his chest.

In a sick repeat of last season’s debacle, Penelope was catching him at his worst, except this time, she remained, staring them down fearlessly despite the hurt he could already read in her eyes. He wondered how long she had been standing there, how much she’d heard.

”Penelope, I can explain.”

”I’m sure you can, Mr. Bridgerton. You can start by telling me how big the pot was. Or how small,” she said, blue eyes in the exact shade of the center of a flame—nothing like the jewel in his pocket every time he held it up to the sun. Even in the dim lighting, he could tell.

”Penelope, come, let us find somewhere to speak,” he said desperately, eyes drifting momentarily towards his sister, who was standing in shocked silence behind their friend.

”Here is just fine,” Penelope replied mercilessly. “After all, this wager was between all three of you, was it not? Or were there more gentlemen who wished to partake in what I presume to be this season’s most enthralling game?”

”Penelope, please!”

”How much, my lords?” she demanded, voice finally rising above the din of the party. “How much!”

Silence descended on Lady Danbury’s lawn in the wake of her rage, and all eyes turned to them. Even the card dealers and musicians paused to watch the drama unfold.

”Fifty pounds apiece, my lady,” said Lord Fife, who had the decency to look abashed, albeit only slightly.

Colin closed his eyes in shame. His fists were frozen at his sides, clenched so hard that they had paled for lack of blood, his nails digging into his palms.

Nobody moved. Or spoke. Even the air stopped rustling the leaves on the trees. Around them, the ton was listening in rapt attention, their own conversations forgotten.

Penelope stepped back, and Eloise caught her bicep in steady support.

”Fif… Fifty pounds,” Penelope repeated breathlessly, rolling the words around in her mouth and having trouble getting them out. Briefly, she closed her eyes in pain, like she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “Fifty pounds. Good heavens!” she exclaimed, voice shaking uncontrollably now. “That’s a hundred and fifty altogether! Well now, that is no amount to scoff at.”

The gentlemen, including Lord Debling, kept their silence.

”How sobering it is, my lords,” Penelope continued quietly, “to know, in such quantifiable terms, how much one’s dignity is actually worth.” Her head was spinning, and there was a throbbing behind her eyes that grew more persistent with every minute, but she kept her feet valiantly steady.

If Colin weren’t watching his life crumble to pieces at that very moment, he would have felt proud of her. He had never seen her so sure of herself, so comfortable chastising a group of gentlemen.

”Pen, please, we need to talk. I implore you,” he begged, eyes hot with the threat of tears.

Something happened then that sealed his fate.

Marina Crane, who had come to watch her husband play chess, dropped her fan.

The movement caught Penelope’s attention, and a narrative took shape in her head, its pieces fitting together like a puzzle. In her mind’s eye, she replayed the events of the last two years—Colin fleeing Mayfair to heal the heart Marina had broken, his laughter as he assured his friends that he would never court her, his insistence that she marry after finding out about the job offer in Ireland, the palpable fury in his eyes every time Whistledown was mentioned, how she’d insulted him by burning his letters, him yelling at her and then attempting to kiss her one day before Harry was to propose…

All season, Colin’s actions had confounded her, but now it all made sense.

Theirs wasn’t a story of friendship or redemption.

Theirs was a story of revenge.

”Your offer to help me find a husband… You were trying to destroy my dream of going to Ireland…”

”Pardon?” Colin said, genuinely stumped by the words coming out of her mouth.

Even Eloise let go of Penelope’s arm in surprise.

”You were so angry when Harry and I began to get along. You didn’t think anyone would really want to marry me, did you?”

”Penelope! That is not—“

”And the carriage! You were… you were trying to ruin me,” she gasped in realization.

“Penelope, I was trying to… I’m trying to court you.”

“And now you’re trying to court me, so you can still win your bet!”

Colin stepped forward then, hands raised to placate her, trying to stop her runaway thoughts. “No, Pen. Please. You’ve got it all wrong.”

”You knew who I was. This whole time, you were trying to get back at me for Marina, and win a bet while you were at it.” She didn’t know the terms of their wager, but in her mind, it no longer signified. “You are good, Mr. Bridgerton. Too good,” she spat, sounding almost impressed.

Pieces of the puzzle were missing, and maybe they weren’t all fitting perfectly together, but her heart had been wrung out, hurt so many times that contempt seemed safer than logic. She was tired, and contempt was easy. Contempt was power. Anything else left her open to more humiliation.

”You are wrong. Penelope. You are wrong,” Colin made to go to her, his voice sounding watery and small. God help him; all they needed was a touch, and she would know the truth. She would feel it, that what they had between them was real and always was. It was the one thing he knew for certain, the one thing the erratically beating muscle in his chest insisted on.

Before he could advance, however, Portia Featherington was suddenly there, pulling her daughter behind her.

”Enough!” the woman cried as Colin tried to approach, raising one hand to halt him.

For the first time since she was a little girl and hadn’t yet learned that it was unbecoming of young ladies to cling to their mother, Penelope threw her arms around hers and finally wept. “Oh, my god, Mama! Oh, my god,” she wailed.

Lady Featherington tightened her hold on her daughter, turning her away slightly, mere inches farther from Colin Bridgerton. She would welcome any space she could put between them, no matter how small.

Eloise rushed to her brother and put a hand on his shoulder, but the movement was entirely unnecessary because Colin was frozen to the spot, entirely dumbfounded as to what to do and already in the throes of grief because in the midst of the mess he’d made, he still had enough awareness to know that this was a hole he could not dig himself out of, not with all the charm in the world.

Remembering where she was and that half the ton was watching, Penelope shook off her mother and attempted to run away, but the world was spinning, and her vision was darkening at the edges. She clung to one of the high co*cktail tables, rattling it before the wine glasses and cake plates clattered dully to the ground. Her enthralled audience gasped in shock.

Among them was Cressida Cowper, and on her face was a familiar sneer. And Penelope knew instantly what the woman had done.

“The… the wine,” she gasped through the tightening of her chest, the unnaturally rapid beating of her heart.

“Did you overindulge so early in the party, Miss Featherington?” Cressida drawled. “How unbecoming of a young lady, especially one so esteemed in her profession.”

“What did you do?” An outraged Eloise nearly marched over there to slap the woman, but this time, it was Colin who stopped his sister. “You drugged her?” she cried in rage and disbelief.

“Drugged her? Like with opium? Where on earth would I get such a thing, Miss Bridgerton?” Cressida replied, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “That is a terrible accusation!” She deliberately let her eyes drift to Lord Debling, who hid a smirk.

Colin did not miss the exchange.

“You!” he shouted, trying to lunge for the man. Benedict and Anthony had made it to his side, however, drawn by the commotion, and they kept him from reducing Lord Debling into a bloody heap, which they were both sure their brother fully intended to do.

“Stop this, all of you!” the Viscount roared.

Penelope’s vision spun, but nevertheless, she kept trying to leave, clinging helplessly onto Lady Danbury’s perfectly manicured bushes as she stumbled forward. Bile rose in her throat, and she did not have enough fight left in her to keep it down. To the mortified cries of the ton, she vomited into a bush and fell to her knees.

“Pen!” Colin and Eloise cried in unison.

Cressida Cowper stifled a laugh behind her fingers. A few others did not display the same restraint.

Portia ran to her daughter’s side, eyes wild with worry and horror. “Good god, somebody help us!” she cried, trying to help Penelope to her feet.

Colin stepped forward to help, but Penelope screamed for him to stop, “No! Not you!” And it was the worst thing she had ever said to him.

Anthony held him back, tossing his head to signal to Benedict instead, and the latter immediately rushed to the Featheringtons.

Colin was about as pale as Penelope now, and as Benedict gathered her into his arms, the younger man made one last attempt to salvage the situation.

“Penelope, I… Penelope, I love you! I love you, PLEASE!” He didn’t even care anymore that half the ton was watching or that his own brother was holding him back, like Anthony was protecting Penelope from him.

“Love?” the redhead looked up at him, eyes red and face white as a sheet. ”This feels like the furthest thing from love,” she murmured before burying her face in Benedict’s jacket.

Finally, she succumbed to whatever it was that Cressida had spiked her drink with, and the world went black.

“Miss Featherington!” Benedict exclaimed, lifting the girl, who had gone limp, into his arms and taking her away, her weeping mother following close behind.

Eloise made to follow them but not before turning to his brother and his so-called friends for a final rebuke.

“And you call yourselves gentlemen,” she spat, and the words echoed in Colin’s head long after he watched them depart.

Chapter 14: For the Best

Chapter Text

The Thames Times

5 July 1815

DOWN WITH LADY WHISTLEDOWN!

In the wake of her sudden revelation last Saturday, members of the ton have been at odds with each other regarding the merits of a gossip pamphlet created by a girl barely out of her leading strings. The vehemently opposed half, however, seems to have made their feelings known at last night’s scented soirée, hosted by the ton’s most distinguished dame, Lady Danbury.

Reports state that a conspiracy involving Lord Chadwick Fife, Lord Samuel Debling, and Mr. Colin Bridgerton culminated in a most unfortunate spectacle featuring Lady Whistledown herself. It is unclear what the exact terms of the gentlemen’s wager were, but it does explain Miss Penelope Featherington’s sudden and inexplicable popularity this season. What we know is that the lady’s marriageability was called into question, and the aforementioned gentlemen had attempted to settle the matter once and for all with a winner-take-all scheme that inspired Mr. Bridgerton’s weeks-long matchmaking activities.

In an unexpected twist, witnesses report that the young man, known for his charm and classic Bridgerton good looks, had professed his feelings for Miss Featherington, no doubt in vain penance for the humiliating wager, but the girl was too intoxicated to take heed. Apparently, our resident gossip monger had overindulged in her hostess’ very fine wine and retched into an unlucky, innocent bush.

Whether Mr. Bridgerton wishes to withdraw his impassioned proclamation in light of the embarrassing display, the ton is waiting in rapt attention to discover.

Anthony was livid.

Pacing back and forth in his study, his wife and his mother both attempting to provide a voice of reason in the middle of the chaos that was the Day After, he poured himself a second glass of brandy and threw his head back to down it in one gulp.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what’s gotten into him,” he said, hand on one hip as he continued to pace. “What is it with him and the Featheringtons anyway? Does he intend to court and stir up scandal with every female Featherington relation?”

“Anthony, do you not think you’re being a little unfair—” Violet interjected.

“He destroyed a young lady’s reputation, which is tantamount to her future in these parts, not once but twice. Seeing as I haven’t whipped him or sent him to the gallows myself, I think I’m being rather mild.”

“To be fair, Ant,” Kate said, “your brother’s participation in that despicable wager was out of loyalty to Miss Featherington. He thought he was defending her honor, not besmirching it.”

“It is not his intentions that I am calling into question. It is his foresight, if I am being kind, and his wits, if I am being honest. Truly, I do not know whether I can continue to blame his absolute inability to anticipate consequences on his age. For god's sake, how much wisdom does it take to realize that making a game of a young lady’s marriage prospects can result in nothing good?”

Violet was disappointed in Colin, too, but that didn’t mean it was easy for her to listen to such harsh commentary about her son’s actions, however misguided they were.

“And what about this rant of yours will result in anything good, pray tell?”

“Well, mother, if anything, at least I will feel better. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for Miss Featherington, whose humiliation last night has already made it to the tabloids, no doubt thanks to an audience that were not all adoring fans of Lady Whistledown.”

Kate felt a surge of pity for the girl. She did not know Penelope very well, but according to Edwina, she was sweet as meringue, secret identities not withstanding. And what had happened to her was nothing short of horrific. Nobody deserved to be drugged and then have their dignity priced like a bauble, not even scandal writers.

”How is she? Lady Whis—I mean, Miss Penelope? Perhaps Eloise has received word? Or enquired after her well-being?” Kate asked.

Violet shook her head. “Eloise called on her this morning, and not a word has come out of her mouth since she returned home. That alone is cause for concern.”

That was not entirely true. Eloise had said, “Keep him away from me, Mama. I do not know if I will be able to restrain myself,” and she had locked herself in her room at Number Five since. Somehow, that did not seem like a helpful contribution to the conversation at hand, so Violet held back from sharing it.

“And Francesca?” Anthony asked.

“Francesca? What about Francesca?” Violet replied, a little taken aback by the shift in topic.

“Is John Stirling’s suit intact? I hope the man’s opinion on our family hasn’t changed after last night’s debacle. Francesca would be heartbroken if she loses his affection when he is so close to a proposal. The man asked me for her hand yesterday. He was planning to propose at the ball, but Colin made that impossible.” Anthony massaged his temple wearily and lamented, not for the first time, that his father was no longer around to manage his and his siblings’ penchant for spectacle. How hard was it, truly, to court a lady and marry her without any dramatic preambles? Was scandal some sort of inherited quality?

His mother certainly had a gift for taking it all in infuriating stride.

“Oh, how wonderful for Francesca!” the woman exclaimed, hands giddily flying to the pendant on her chest.

“Yes, wonderful, if the Earl has not changed his mind, which, considering our family’s colorful history, I would not completely blame him for.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know,” his mother continued, delightedly smug, “that he sent flowers this morning—oh, now it all makes sense! Pink flowers for promise and happy beginnings.”

“At least there is that.” Anthony sat back in relief. “I expect a delay in the proposal, nevertheless. Being embroiled in a scandal involving Lady Whistledown doesn’t exactly lend itself to an atmosphere befitting a romantic proposal.”

“Let us not fret about Lord Stirling and Francesca,” Kate added. “It is only a matter of time before they are wed. The more pressing concern right now is how we can make things right for Miss Featherington.”

Anthony shook his head. “Unfortunately, I do not think there is much we can do in that regard. I doubt even Colin can fix this colossal mess.”

Violet’s heart sank. She knew the Viscount was right, and mentally, she was already preparing to nurse yet another broken heart in her household. Before last night, she had wholeheartedly believed that her children would find their way to love, sooner or later, and hurt was an inextricable part of the journey. But what happened betweeen Colin and Penelope—not even the Dowager Viscountess could fathom how it was to be overcome. How did one come back from betting on a young lady’s desirability and future, and then having it all come out the way it did?

Violet had gone back to the ballroom when the confrontation occurred. She and Lady Danbury did not realize anything was amiss until Benedict came running through the French doors with an unconscious Penelope in his arms and a sobbing Lady Featherington at his heels. He had yelled for the Baroness’ carriage and ridden home with them.

Throughout the party, news traveled fast of what had transpired on Lady Danbury’s lawn, but it wasn’t until Violet arrived home with her daughters that Eloise had tearfully told her the full story.

Meanwhile, Kate had made Anthony usher his nearly catatonic brother into their carriage, ferrying the distraught bloke to Bridgerton House. Colin was dazed and out of his mind with grief last night, and they hadn’t seen him all morning.

Violet’s heart broke for her son but also for Penelope, whom she had always had a soft spot for, even when the girl had revealed herself to be Lady Whistledown. And in the midst of it all, she was so very disappointed in Colin, so much so that she hadn’t yet sought him out to ask for his side of the story. She planned to do just that later today, but if she was to impart any wisdom at all, she needed to make sure she wouldn’t simply mirror Anthony’s rage the moment she laid eyes on her wounded son.

The Bridgerton matriarch sighed tiredly, shaking her head and at a loss for what to do, how to help. “I suppose all we can do is hope for the best,” she said.

Anthony sighed his agreement. “Where in the bloody hell is my brother anyway?”

It was almost anti-climactic how perfect the weather was the day after Colin’s world felt like it had crumbled to dust. The sun was out, and the breeze was cool on his skin as he adjusted his cravat and rubbed his eyes, hoping that he at least looked presentable. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror and shave that morning, but his valet had at least delivered a top hat and one of his better jackets to Bridgerton House.

As if to emphasize the stark juxtaposition of the weather and his mood, a butterfly flew past him as he waited on the Featheringtons’ doorstep.

He had scarcely lifted his hand to knock before the door was already opening. To Colin’s surprise, it was the Baroness herself who met him at the threshold. She took a half-step out the door, more to bar him from entering rather than with any real intent to leave. There was a lift to her chin that made Colin feel sheepish, like he was a child asking for sweets. He had never particularly liked the Featherington matriarch, but neither had the woman intimidated him the way she did in this very moment.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said coolly.

Everything about her posture told him he was neither welcome nor wanted on her property, and as much as he had traveled to exotic places, he had never felt so out of place in his life. He took his hat off immediately, clutching it to his stomach with one hand as he tightened his grip on the bouquet in the other.

“G… good afternoon, Lady Featherington,” he replied, swallowing nervously. “I am here to call on Penelope,” he continued bravely, the tulips in his hand suddenly seeming hopelessly inadequate.

“It is not a good time, I’m afraid.”

“I will wait. I can wait. As long as it takes, my lady,” he said, breathless, earnest, and aware that he sounded pathetic but too desperate to care.

“Well then, Mr. Bridgerton.”

The edge to the woman’s voice made Colin wince. It sounded like a warning as much as it was a rebuke.

Portia Featherington took a deep breath, feeling her nostrils flare in preparation for a good, thorough dressing down. It had scarcely been a minute since she’d opened the door, but her patience was already exhausted, and all pretense of courtesy dissipated into the chilly spring air as she lifted a haughty eyebrow.

“You shall be waiting on this doorstep. Forever. After everything that has occurred, I rather think you should spare both of our families the embarrassment.”

“Please, Lady Featherington. I must speak with Penelope, or… or at least see to her well-being. I beg you, my lady.”

Portia would be lying if she said that having a Bridgerton grovel at her doorstep did not give her some measure of satisfaction. For once, it was neither her nor one of her girls who was having to kneel at someone else’s feet. However, any enjoyment she might have taken from the moment was absent in the face of her rage.

“Mr. Bridgerton, your despicable friends drugged the girl.”

Colin paled, stammering as he squeezed the life out of the flowers he still held. “Is… Will she be all right? May I see her? If not today, then… then tomorrow? Or the day after? I cannot rest until I know she is well. Please, my lady?”

“My lord,” she began, her voice dangerously steady. The boy raised contrite eyes that did not move her one bit. “I am not a particularly kind woman. I am not warm, affable, or generous. As I am sure you are aware, any member of the ton—my daughters included—will tell you the same. I should think it is fair to say that I am not a woman whose presence is particularly enjoyed in any corner of Mayfair.”

The woman took a step forward, and Colin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He moved back slightly in response.

“What I am, Mr. Bridgerton,” she continued with deadly confidence, “is a mother.”

“My lady, I—” he stammered.

“And what you are, my dear,” she continued ruthlessly, “is the little boy who has broken my daughter’s heart one too many times.”

“Lady Featherington, I—”

“Humiliated her, ruined her, destroyed her future,” she went on. “My sweet, brilliant, witty child, who, by some miracle, turned out to be a rather kind person, despite her parentage. Truly, no one is more astonished than I that Penelope is the person that she is. I have made many missteps in my parenting of my three young ladies, Mr. Bridgerton, but my greatest failure thus far has been to allow my daughter to pine after you, despite your flightiness, your utterly childish notions of chivalry, and the naive cruelty of your reckless actions.”

Colin’s eyes fell to the ground in shame.

“My daughter—who, hard as it may be to believe, is the light of my inconsequential, unpleasant life—deserves peace and quiet and time to lick her wounds, I think you would agree.” She took a deep breath, rising to her full height to deliver the killing blow. “Truly, boy, you have done enough. We have nothing left for you at this house, I’m afraid.”

“I only wish to apologize, my lady,” he said quietly, unable to lift his eyes from the ground.

“And even that is a most burdensome request.” She did not even waste any more words to dismiss him. She merely turned and headed back inside, shutting the door behind her.

From his station on the street, Benedict went to collect his despondent brother. “Come on, Col,” he said tenderly, honestly believing that a sharp word would be enough to break him.

Gently, he took the flowers from his brother’s hand and walked him back to Bridgerton House, shaking his head at the questioning looks from Violet, Anthony, and Kate, who had just emerged from the study.

Colin couldn’t stand to meet their eyes and had no wish to confirm what he already knew he’d find there—anger, pity, disappointment.

And love… He knew he would find so much love in his family, but as raw as he felt, even the tender warmth of their affection would sting. Besides, he wasn’t ready to accept that which he did not deserve after what he’d done to Penelope.

Catatonic, he made his way to his room, took everything off save for his underthings, and buried himself under the covers, where he would remain for days.

Steeling herself for what she knew was beyond the door, Portia pulled down the latch and pushed her way into the darkness.

Her daughter’s room was eerily silent, and not a thing was out of place, save for a small table they had moved to her bedside. On it was a basin of tepid water infused with peppermint, orange peels, and ginger. The small towel with which Mrs. Varley had wiped the girl’s forehead hung over the side of the basin, dripping onto the silver tray underneath.

The surgeon had confirmed that Penelope had consumed some sort of drug, possibly opium. The dose hadn’t been high enough to be dangerous, so there was nothing else to do but wait until it cleared out of her system, but to hasten the process, he prescribed tea as a diuretic and as much water as the girl could consume.

It did not take long for Penelope to come back to sobriety, but Portia almost lamented the fact because as the girl’s faculties returned, so too did the full force of what had happened.

For the first few hours after she woke up, she was delirious and numb, moaning in discomfort but hardly conscious enough to remember what had occurred. But as she came back to her senses, sobs replaced the moans, and after a few hours of continuous crying, there was finally silence—a cloying, unforgiving silence that concerned Portia more than if Penelope had flooded the entire house with tears.

Even Eloise Bridgerton had been frightened by the quietude. She had stood at the threshold to Penelope’s bedchamber that morning, wringing her hands and at a complete loss as to what to say to someone her kin had thoroughly wounded. She had moved into the room cautiously, like she was approaching a skittish doe in the wild, and without any other recourse for comfort, she had gotten under the sheets with her friend, putting lanky arms around the latter. And there they lay, Eloise holding Penelope in the dead quiet until the muffled summons of Mayfair began to creep through the closed window, telling them there was nothing else to be done and that it was time to part.

Even then, Penelope had hardly moved or made a sound, so that afternoon, as Portia’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she expected less of her daughter and more of a Penelope-shaped ghost ensconced in the yellow sheets, mute and frighteningly still.

The girl was on her side, facing away from the door. Most of her red mane was gathered into a mussed braid, and her pale skin glowed in the scarce lighting. She was awake, Portia observed, and though she made nary a sound, her red, swollen eyes continued to leak into her half-soaked pillow. Did it still count as crying if there was no evidence of the activity except tears? For not even Penelope’s breathing seemed the slightest bit disturbed; her chest rose and fell steadily, like a tide in an eerily calm ocean.

Portia sat at the foot of the bed, rubbing the tops of her thighs and feeling woefully incompetent. She was the kind of mother who needled and schemed and criticized to protect her girls and bring what she presumed to be the best out of them, not the kind to impart sage advice or words of comfort. Nevertheless, it was her lot in life to deal with situations that were constantly outside the realm of her expertise, and so she had to take a breath, dig through the rubble, and somehow find some wisdom amongst the ruins of her daughter’s so-called friendship with Colin f*cking Bridgerton.

Well, those were what she had to do. How she was to accomplish them remained a mystery.

“Was it him?” Penelope murmured, startling her mother. It was the first time she had spoken since she lost consciousness the night before.

Portia stilled her hands and sat up straighter. “Yes. I sent him away.” And he would never darken their doorstep again, if she had something to do with it.

Silence.

Portia leaned on the bedpost, placing an awkward hand on her daughter’s ankle, hoping the touch was motherly enough to provide some comfort.

“Do you know, when you were four years old, your sisters locked you in a wardrobe and pretended not to know your whereabouts as we searched for you for hours? When we found you, you were sitting in the dark, playing quietly with the garments you had found there, twisting and turning them, unraveling loose threads, and tearing delicate lace as you pushed your little fingers through them.

The moment you hopped out, you threw your arms around your sisters, and you said, ‘There you are, you goosewits!’ And you kissed Philippa on the cheek. Your sisters were infuriated at having failed to make you cry, and before I could remember to be angry about the frocks, Mrs. Varley and I stood there, aghast at your reaction.”

Portia sighed, remembering the sweet, poisonous kiss tiny Penelope had planted on her wicked sister.

“You have always been a sharp, fierce little thing, weathering offenses the way a capybara affects gentility and then strikes when forced to defend itself.” Portia smiled at the thought. “And do you remember, Penelope, how, right after you left the room, you were happy to relinquish your favorite doll to your sisters, and you did so before they had even asked.

For that is how you love, is it not? You give what you have even though you have not forgiven, even though you know that no gratitude will ever make its way back to you.”

It stood to reason that the Featherington accounts remained inexplicably afloat the last few months, despite the proceeds from Cousin Jack’s con having already dwindled significantly. Portia knew her daughter had been funneling Whistledown money into household affairs; the modiste pretended to give significant discounts, and the market men always gave them generous amounts of foodstuffs despite their meager orders. By the end of it all, there was somehow always enough to pay the staff’s wages and even scrounge together a decent dowry for Prudence.

“That is how you love, my dear,” repeated Lady Featherington, “So bravely. So dangerously. It is why I fear for you the most, despite you being the most capable of my daughters.”

It was as close to a compliment as Penelope had ever gotten from her mother.

“The world does not reward such courage, I’m afraid. Sometimes, you even get punished for it. And most people would bend to that fact, love a little less fiercely, shine a little less brilliantly. But you—”

Portia slid off the bed to kneel in front of her daughter, whose bright blue eyes still glimmered with tears.

“You’ve never been one to yield, have you?” She wished to tuck a lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear, but that was not her; it was not them. “You will stop crying at some point. Even rivers run dry, my dear.”

They sat with the silence for a long time, pondering how much more of each other there was to know.

Penelope closed her eyes, and more tears fell onto the pillow beneath her ear.

“Let me go to Ireland, Mama,” she said quietly.

And Portia sighed a simple “All right,” for there was truly nothing for mothers to do but hope for the best.

Chapter 15: A Cold Pint and Another One

Chapter Text

The biscuits on Colin’s bedside table had gone stale. Cook had made them specifically to entice him to eat something, anything, but it had barely even registered when the maid had delivered the tray. For this precise reason, they had stopped sending up milk because it always remained untouched, and by mid-afternoon, it would be curdled and sour-smelling.

The Bridgertons had exhausted all possible means to get him out of bed, but neither patience nor threat could stir him to action. Violet had even sanctioned Benedict’s intent to bring his brother to Mondrich’s and get him thoroughly pissed, but between mother and son, they could not very well force all 183 centimeters of Colin to his feet. Benedict had contemplated pouring whiskey down his brother’s throat, but that was where Violet drew the line.

After all their individual efforts failed to so much as get their once-vain sibling to rinse his face (or, heaven help them, wash his armpits), the Bridgertons had taken to holding weekly gatherings at Number Five specifically to air out their deepening concerns. The first time they had done so, Anthony had displayed some newfound emotional wisdom—no doubt gleaned from wedded bliss—and said, “He simply has to feel it. Let him feel it,” but when the nights began to grow colder and the leaves to turn golden, and Colin remained glued to his bed, the Viscount’s patience inevitably wore thin. “Let’s just tie him up and send him off to Ireland after Penelope,” he’d proposed, not even entirely in jest. “We won’t even have to rent him a cabin. He can lay with the cargo exactly as he does now.”

Colin was aware that his family was racked with worry. Their muffled bickering every Wednesday carried to his room after all, and perhaps they didn’t realize, but so many Bridgertons in one enclosure tended to leave little room for manners and politeness. Even Daphne had it in her to scream like a banshee if one pushed her enough.

Well, today, they were all fairly even-tempered, so far as he could tell, and what little of their voices he could hear was moderate. It almost perked his curiosity. Almost. Certainly not enough to pull him out of bed.

He closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him once again, but there was a knock on his door that forced him awake.

Before he could shout for whoever it was to go away, the door creaked open and in popped the head of the duch*ess of Hastings. It was shrewd of his family to have sent the only person in the house he (almost) couldn’t refuse.

“It’s me, brother,” Daphne said, shutting the door behind her.

”If you are here to make another offer to host me at Clyvedon, I thank you, sister, but neither I nor my limbs are up to it yet,” he said stoically, though he did give her the courtesy of sitting up.

Daphne sighed, sitting on the other side of his bed. In that motherly way of hers, she rubbed his sheet-covered knee briefly. “I hate seeing you like this.”

Colin merely leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry to worry all of you,” he said sincerely. “I know everyone is just trying to help, but I miss her. I will miss her for the rest of my life. And I do not know if there is anything anyone can do about it.”

”There isn’t,” Daphne replied honestly. “And I am not here to pontificate about the merits of getting out of bed when you are so clearly heartbroken. I am merely here to ask you how I might offer some comfort.”

He straightened at the opportunity. ”Do you… have news? From Eloise?”

Daphne stared at him for a moment, measuring her words. “Are you certain…”

”Please, Daph?”

”Eloise arrived in Kilkenny a fortnight ago. We received letters just this morning.” Their sister had written to everyone except Colin, but Daphne wisely omitted the fact. “She is well… and Miss… er… that is…”

”It’s all right, Daph. I like hearing Pen’s name,” he smiled kindly, almost wistfully.

”Penelope,” Daphne concluded, like she’d steeled herself for having done so, “is doing rather well from what I gather.”

Colin pressed his lips together and nodded. “At least there is that.”

The duch*ess nodded. “At least there is that.”

“Will you tell me more, Daph?”

The duch*ess hesitated, but she couldn’t refuse his pleading eyes. “Miss Featherington has her very own cottage on her cousin’s estate. Eloise has been shadowing her and playing assistant governess to his children—a dream come true for our dear sister, to be sure.”

Colin smiled and remained silent. As much as it felt like the life being squeezed out of his heart, he liked imagining Pen happy in Ireland—teaching her little cousins how to love books as much as she; tucking a shamrock flower behind her ear; losing track of time as she wrote her novel by candlelight, the tip of her quill tickling her cheek every time she bent a little too low to inspect her writing (his Lilliputian Pen!).

He missed her. So much it hurt.

“Do you think, Daphne, that she and I will ever find our way back to each other?” he said, breaking his sister’s heart with how childlike he sounded.

“I do not know, Col. Love… Love is wanting the other person to be happy, whatever that means to them, even if it means being without you. That is, in fact, how I know you truly love her.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, his eyes warming. After Lady Featherington had turned him away, his mother had said much the same thing, and it felt like whatever light lay in his chest had been extinguished.

“She will forgive you someday, that much I know, but perhaps not much else,” Daphne said, regretting the hurt her words would cause but knowing that it was better for him to hear the truth now than keep his hopes up and prolong his suffering.

Colin nodded. The bitter truth was not one he didn’t already know, and even though it hurt, he was glad Daphne refused to placate him with false hopes.

“There is more in the world to love, brother. Don’t forget. Do you not wish to travel again?”

“I thought you weren’t here to convince me to get out of bed?” One corner of his lips quirked up in a small, forced smile. “But yes, I have been thinking about it. Perhaps I will. All in good time.”

“Yes, perhaps some exotic location will have you forgetting about all this. How about India?”

Colin shook his head. “I could go to hell and still remember, Daph.”

The duch*ess had nothing to say to that, so she merely tilted her head and pressed her lips together to commiserate.

“Is Benedict downstairs?” he asked. “I think I could use a drink right about now. Or seventeen.”

Daphne nodded. She wished Colin found some other recourse to try to heal, but after weeks of inertia, she could only be glad that he was at least going to do something different.

“I’ll call for him, but Col?”

He raised sad eyes to her, and she grimaced before continuing.

“Take a bath, will you? A long one?”

Colin gave her a half-smirk, and she took that as a good sign.

Dear Harry,

I thank you for the well wishes in your letter, though I do regret the circ*mstances that inspired them. Truly, however, you need not worry about me. I am doing splendidly these days.

My Cousin Oscar’s estate lies on the outskirts of the city of Kilkenny, such that we enjoy country living whilst still being conveniently within reach of urban comforts. I invited Eloise to experience an “Irish Independence,” as we have dubbed it, and she arrived—

A loud crash from the kitchen made Penelope wince. She lifted her head from the letter she was writing, assessing if her intervention would be needed, and then chuckled to herself when she heard Eloise swearing at the “possessed cupboard” not for the first time that day. Rolling her eyes, she kept writing.

—over a fortnight ago. Surprisingly, she is more grateful to be so close to the city than she would like to admit. As they say, you can take the girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the girl.

“I AM GOING TO MURDER YOU AND TAKE YOU OFF YOUR BLOODY HINGES, YOU STUPID DOOR!”

Penelope laughed, almost ruining her letter as she forgot to immediately raise the tip of her quill. Violet Bridgerton would have an absolute fit if she knew how much worse Eloise’s language had gotten since the girl escaped the confines of London propriety. Apparently, an unencumbered Eloise cursed worse than a sailor.

“Gently, El!” Penelope called from the room they shared.

“I’m TRYING, but this fatwit of a door will not budge!”

Of course a small cupboard door had no wits to speak of, but that hardly seemed to be the point of the conversation.

“I am bloody thirsty, and if I do not have my tea in the next five minutes, I AM ABSOLUTELY GOING TO BURN THIS COTTAGE TO THE—OH. OH! Oh, it’s all right now. Cheers and good tidings!”

Penelope heard the loud creak of the cupboard’s door swinging open and muffled her laughter on the sleeve of her shirt, which was crisp and delightfully new. Having found a tailor who agreed to make them for her, she had taken to wearing men’s shirts and breeches within the comfort of her home as they were infinitely more comfortable and easier to don without a maid. It was a hard lesson learned when she first moved into the cottage and realized that she could neither wear the clothes she had brought nor take them off by herself. She’d slept in her day dress that night and gone back to the main house, embarrassed to be employed now and still have to request assistance like someone too high in the in-step to wear dresses that buttoned at the front or side.

For fear of ruining her new shirt, she dipped her quill in the ink with extra care and continued her letter.

Her maid spends her days trying to find ways to make herself useful in the main house. Meanwhile, Eloise has taken up residence in my cottage. All we need is an ornery cat, and we will have truly fulfilled our childhood dream of being spinsters together.

She made it to the end of the paragraph before Eloise was bursting in, visibly rattled from her battle with the evil cupboard.

“I cannot find my mug,” she declared, red-faced and sweaty despite the chill in the air.

“There are other mugs.”

“You know I’m attached to that one.”

“Perhaps you ought to use this opportunity to rid yourself of this unhealthy attachment then,” said Pen cheekily. She knew she was perhaps being a little cruel, especially because neither she nor Eloise had had a thing to eat since they woke up that morning, and they were not due at the main house until after lunch. Penelope would have made them breakfast, but one could only have so many potatoes until one simply chose to starve over eating another starchy concoction.

“Tell me where my mug is, Penelope, and none of your freshly written pages shall burn,” Eloise threatened.

“You would sooner burn me than my pages.” It was true. Sometimes Eloise seemed far more invested in the success of her novel than she. Or even her publisher.

Huffing in exasperation, the brunette turned to leave.

“Did you check the cupboard below ?”

Eloise gasped and ran out, her friend’s laughter following her into the kitchen. Still giggling, Penelope returned to her writing, shaking her head.

Cousin Oscar’s children—Aiden and Rory (6 and 8, respectively)—are sweet little ragamuffins that have a wretched penchant for pranks. Unfortunately for Eloise, they adore me and love getting a rise out of her, so ever since her arrival, she has found frogs in her reticule, whiskey in her tea (the resulting spray was magnificent to behold), and a hilariously forged love letter from a fictitious Irish gentleman to whom Lady Violet Bridgerton had supposedly promised her hand.

The childish handwriting and misspellings were a dead giveaway of course, but I found it endlessly entertaining to realize how quickly the little hellions had identified what precisely would have spooked my dear friend.

A triumphant yell from the kitchen assured Penelope that said friend would have something warm in her stomach soon enough. It would settle the girl’s mood too, she thought, relieved.

When we are not with the children, and I am not working on my novel, Eloise and I amuse ourselves with a great many things. We like to go to the orchard and terrorize the apple pickers by attempting to help, and sometimes, we sneak off and avail ourselves of the Irish ale in town.

(Please do not divulge these scandalous anecdotes to anyone. I will flay you myself if the Viscount storms into my cottage wanting a drink demanding an explanation as to his sister’s newly learned methods of debauchery.)

All jokes aside, you would like it here, Harry, and I imagine you and Cousin Oscar would bond over the differences between managing vineyards versus orchards.

You would like the weather, too. While summer is gone and it is cooler now, the leaves on the trees have begun to turn golden, and it is so lovely to walk anywhere and everywhere the muted sunlight touches.

I can almost picture you here, my dear Col—

Her hand froze. As quickly as she’d struck through his name, the parchment had torn, and there was now a jagged hole in her otherwise neat letter. Thankfully, she’d set the other pages aside instead of below the one she was working on, so everything else remained intact.

Grabbing another sheet from one of her drawers, she started the page over.

I can almost picture you here, my dear Harry, perhaps with a wife? I am happy to hear that your courtship of Miss Mann is going well. I suppose you will be forced to brush up on your German now that you are trying to convince one to marry you.

Not that you should have too much trouble. You are kind and handsome and earnest, and only a fool would refuse such a man.

Your friend,

Penelope F.

Colin was already more than half-drunk when he meandered into Mondrich’s one Friday night, brotherless, friendless, and feeling rather unhinged. Will had complied with his first drink order and refused to serve him anymore, but it was no matter. The one glass of scotch had been enough to tip him over the edge into the numb, loose kind of inebriation he craved.

He hardly noticed when a group of men took up one of the larger tables across the room and didn’t even bother looking up to see who they were, but when a voice grew deliberately loud, as if to call his attention, he finally raised his head from the table.

“A pity, really. I would’ve won.”

”Perhaps it is you who has not moved on from the girl, Debling.”

The men laughed.

Colin clung to his cup for dear life, red with both drunkenness and rage.

Debling replied to Fife in his slightly too-loud voice, designed just for Colin’s ears. “Any man would grieve an opportunity lost, do you not agree? I was close to bagging that hen. Nothing works better than being straightforward.”

”What ever do you mean, Debling?” Lord Cho asked, leaning in.

”A lady likes to feel desired . Surely, you know this.”

He propositioned her, you know. Eloise’s voice rang in Colin’s head. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor in warning.

Undeterred, Debling rested his elbows on the table, as if to whisper, but he did the opposite and nearly yelled instead, “I simply told her everything I wanted to do to those big, bountiful ti—“

And he never finished the sentence because Colin had charged him from across the room and planted a fist right in his face. The men scattered, and Colin and Debling fell to the floor, exchanging blows like they’d been wanting to do all season.

By the time Fife and Mondrich managed to pull them off each other, both were a bloody mess. They were each kept at opposite ends of the establishment until Debling’s carriage was called, but Colin, who had walked there, had no choice but to wait until one of his brothers was summoned.

To his surprise, it was Simon who arrived to collect him an hour later. Grateful to have avoided yet another lecture from the Viscount, Colin gave Mr. Mondrich a solemn nod and settled his accounts, which included his one drink and damages from his regretful show of boorishness.

In the carriage, Colin slid down in his seat.

”Are you taking me home?”

Simon shook his head. “Much as I detest the idea of my wife seeing you like this, your mother and the Viscount would react worse.”

Remorseful, Colin rubbed his eye—the one that wasn’t beginning to swell up. “I am sorry to have pulled you out of bed this time of night, but I am grateful it was you who came.”

The Duke nodded. “I’ve been where you are. I understand,” he said simply.

“I’ll be out of everyone’s hair soon, I promise,” Colin said. “I’m going on tour.”

“Where will you be off to this time?”

The younger man shrugged. “That I do not know. Germany perhaps. Or Turkey. Or maybe somewhere in Asia.”

“Asia? Is that far enough?” Simon asked, knowing the answer.

Colin’s eyes darted towards him briefly. “No. Not nearly far enough.”

Eloise absolutely adored Ireland, or rather, the freedom of waking up slowly as the gentle rustle of leaves sang her back to the world of the living. Allowing her body a leisurely, feline stretch, she yawned and threw her arms over her head. She rubbed her eyes open and stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the quiet.

The light was brighter than usual, which meant that Pen was probably already in the backyard, writing under her favorite tree. The redhead always woke up first, and she was usually clinking about in the kitchen, trying to put breakfast together as quietly as possible. On mornings when she wasn’t in the house, Eloise knew that the sun was already high in the sky, and her friend was likely to be outdoors, enjoying its warmth.

This morning was exactly as such, but the lateness did not bother Eloise, and she took a moment to appreciate that there was no modiste to visit or a promenade to get primped for. Swinging her legs off the bed, she mentally ran through what they had planned for the day.

Luncheon at the main house.

History and maths with the children.

A meeting with the senior governess, Mrs. Connor, so she could prepare Pen to take over Rory’s piano lessons before leaving to vacation with her family in Dublin.

It was going to be a rather light afternoon, Eloise thought, and if she and Pen could get back home before supper, she would have time to finally finish Cut Up My Lease, the hilarious book she had purchased at Hubert’s that one time Colin had accompanied her.

Colin.

She had been furious with him—even more so when she realized that Penelope was not. If there was anyone who had a right to be angry with her brother, it was the redhead, but, as it appeared, Penelope couldn’t be bothered to feel anything more about the matter than she did that very first day after Lady Danbury’s ball. Beyond that, the girl wasted no time picking up the pieces of her life. Her reputation was in tatters, but from Ireland, she had continued writing short pieces, which her publisher distributed to news pamphlets who were more than happy to print anything they could from the infamous Lady Whistledown. Penelope refused to use the pseudonym, however, so everything was published in her name. Writing in short form under P. Featherington wasn’t as lucrative as scandal pamphlets, but there was enough to send pin money to her mother and more to save for a rainy day.

If Eloise didn’t know her better, her friend’s life would have seemed perfect.

But she did know better, so she looked behind her to gaze at Penelope’s pillow and reached over to slide her hand underneath.

It was soft and cold and wet, as it was every morning.

Eloise sighed and paused for a long moment before making her way to Penelope’s desk to retrieve a quill and a piece of parchment. Sliding into the chair, she began to write.

The scab above Colin’s eyebrow was beginning to flake off, though he worried belatedly that it seemed to be leaving a small scar. For that alone, he almost regretted that he’d let Debling get under his skin, but truth be told, he could not muster enough remorse for the man’s swollen lip. It was a more temporary souvenir than Colin had walked away with, but it certainly was a satisfying sight the day after, when Anthony made him escort the Bridgerton ladies on what Benedict dubbed the Punishment Promenade , and Debling and the Cowpers happened to cross paths with them. Violet was horrified at the apparent injuries both men were sporting, but when Cressida lifted a haughty eyebrow, the Dowager Viscountess remembered what they’d done to Penelope and couldn’t find it in herself to make nice. Cut directs were exchanged, but thankfully, in the sober light of day, neither gentleman saw it fit to add to each other’s injuries, and both groups moved on and went about their day.

Since then, Colin had stayed out of trouble, if only to avoid more of his mother’s worried stares and his siblings’ silent, pitying glances. Everyone walked on eggshells around him, and he was getting rather tired of it, so much so that he finally felt compelled to leave.

Today, he was bound for the docks, where he would book a cabin on the first ship out of England, no matter where it was headed. He had no trunks to fill, only a large portmanteau and a crossbody satchel that held his money and sundries he could not part with. He always packed light, opting to acquire articles of clothing and other essentials from the places he visited. The habit made for a more interesting wardrobe after all and allowed him to indulge in more exotic frivolities on his travels.

From his desk, he retrieved a brand-new journal and contemplated bringing his old ones, all of which contained drafts of his letters to Pen. Deciding that keeping such mementos on his person would be rather counterproductive to the whole point of him going away, which was to find some way to move forward, he stuffed them in a drawer and tried not to think about them as he stood over the bags on his bed, taking inventory of everything he was bringing and wondering if he’d forgotten something important. Satisfied, he began securing the clasps on his luggage.

A soft knock on the door had him looking up, and he called out for whoever it was to enter.

“A letter for you, sir,” said the footman.

“Thank you, Laurie,” Colin replied, taking the piece of parchment, which was folded and secured with a wax seal he recognized instantly. After all, it was he who had bought Eloise the stamp. He dismissed the footman with a polite nod and wondered why, after all this time, his sister was writing to him.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel just a little bitter that she had written to everyone but him, and his hands shook slightly as he held the missive, which felt all too light in his hand. Anxiously wondering what she might have deemed important enough to report after months of silence, he ran his tongue over the backs of his lower teeth and separated the wax from the paper as gently as he could.

Eloise’s letter contained but one word:

Come.

Chapter 16: Ireland

Chapter Text

“It’s missing something, and you know it.”

Penelope groaned. The most vexing thing about the feedback was that she knew Eloise was right.

“Don’t you give me that look. Mrs. Helberg tells you the exact same thing, and I know you feel it in your writerly bones.”

They were in the sitting room of the main house, waiting for lunch to be served, and the children were in the middle of the floor, engrossed in an odd game of “chess,” where the rules were completely made up and arbitrary. It wouldn’t be long before they would inevitably begin to argue over said rules, so Eloise and Penelope were making the most out of the rare moment of peace. They each had an open book in their laps, but neither could ever really concentrate on reading when they were in the other’s presence.

“What am I to do? My manuscript is months late. Mrs. Helberg will have my head if I do not produce anything good soon.”

“Your problem is that you’re forcing it. You’re trying to make your characterization of Ulrika work when that’s the very thing that’s fundamentally flawed.”

A hand flew to Penelope’s chest, her jaw dropping in an affronted gape. Eloise merely replied with an unimpressed look.

“Come on. You’ve made her out to be ambitious and fierce, but she has no warmth, no vulnerability. Pen…” Eloise hesitated.

“What?” the redhead replied warily.

“Pen, you’ve written her to be the person you wish you were. Fearless and impervious. But you aren’t like that.”

“Stop.”

“No one is. You are brave, yes, but—”

“Stop.”

“—you are also sweet and vulnerable and kind—”

“Stop!”

“—and absolutely-out-of-your-wits terrified, and— ”

“Eloise! You must stop!”

Eloise paused, but she wasn’t done.

“Your novel is practically a biography, except you’ve written out all the romance out of it. But Pen, it is all right to be in love. Love does not diminish a person.”

It was more than a little odd to hear those words come out of Eloise Bridgerton’s mouth, and Penelope shot her a disbelieving glare. “Of course it does. That is all it does, in fact.” The tears in her blue eyes finally stayed her friend’s tongue, and there was a long moment before she continued, trying and failing not to sound accusatory, “Anyway, you’re one to talk.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You say it is all right to be in love, but that is the one thing you do not give yourself permission to do.”

Eloise merely looked at her, taken aback because the statement was not something she could convincingly refute.

“I wrote to Mr. Sharpe—“

“You did what!” cried Eloise.

“I have not sent it! I wasn’t going to without your express permission.”

“What does it say?”

“That I am sorry for my part in the dissolution of your friendship. That perhaps I can arrange a meeting.”

“No.”

“No? After what you just told me?”

Eloise stood up and began to tidy the children’s books and drawings, which were still scattered on the low table in the middle of the carpet.

“That is different.”

“How?”

“Because that ship has long sailed!”

The children looked up briefly from their bickering, and Aiden took the opportunity to swipe one of his sister’s pawns. Rory noticed, of course, and then they were bickering under their breaths again.

“Has it?”

Eloise sat back down in the settee she was sharing with Pen. “Yes, actually,” she said. “I could have gone to him, Pen. I could have written. I could have stolen away in the middle of the night to see him. I could have spoken with my mother, and she would have understood. The woman is love-obsessed; we all know she, of all people, would’ve understood. But I didn’t.” She sighed, but not in the wistful way Penelope expected. “I think Theo was right,” Eloise continued. “I was feeling lost, and there he was—handsome and kind and bright and different. But he feels like a memory, Pen, not an inextricable part of myself the way Colin is to—”

“Enough. You do not know how I feel.” Penelope shut her book and straightened her spine.

“I know all too well how you feel, actually. You think I do not know that you weep every night? Every single night since I arrived, Pen.”

The redhead pressed her lips together. It did little to dissuade Eloise, but before either of them could begin an actual argument, Cousin Oscar entered the room, his white shirt a little dirty from a trip to the orchard.

“Father!” the children greeted, welcoming him with embraces.

“Ah, I’m going to miss this when the two of you are grown,” he said. “How were your lessons?”

“We finished early, and Peneloise let us play chess,” said Rory, who invented the portmanteau as a more efficient way to refer to their governesses. After all, the women were practically attached at the hip.

Chess was a quiet game, even for two children, and Cousin Oscar threw said governesses a knowing look. They merely grinned in response; after all, it was a trick they’d learned from the father himself.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, retrieving a rather crumpled up note from his pocket and handing it over. “Lady Featherington wrote you.”

Penelope nodded gratefully, breaking the wax seal to open the one-page letter. Her eyes quickly moved over the brief message. Her mother was never one to write lengthy correspondences.

“Oh,” she said, her face breaking out into a huge smile. “Philippa is pregnant! I’m going to be an aunt!”

She gave a little skip, and Eloise hugged her, their almost-fight all but forgotten in light of the good news.

It was a lovely walk back to their cottage, and Penelope was grateful that Eloise did not decide to revisit their conversation. Neither of them enjoyed fighting, and it would’ve felt like an even bigger waste as Eloise was due to leave in just over a week. Violet had summoned her to Aubrey Hall, where they were to convene with Francesca and her new husband for the first time, and Eloise was rather looking forward to pall-mall with John Stirling and teasing Francesca over their displays of affection.

So whatever time they had left in Kilkenny, Penelope and Eloise would much rather spend it laughing together than brooding in separate corners.

Besides, if there was a day to ruin on petty arguments, it was not this one. Ireland was always beautiful in autumn, when the rolling hills turned from green to golden, but today was particularly enchanting as the trees had begun to shed, and every once in a while, they would see little tornadoes of leaves form before scattering in the wind. It was easy to forget the sharp chill in the air when one was witnessing such a spectacle.

Immediately upon arriving at the cottage, Penelope changed out of her day dress and moved to the backyard, where she began to work on her novel. She often stayed there until her stomach began to rumble or the sun began to set, whichever came first, so Eloise expected a quiet afternoon to herself. Anchoring her bare feet on the edge of the low table in the sitting room, the brunette propped her book up on her lap and picked up where she left off.

Dear England has its charms, but it’s vexing that no one’s alarmed
That while lords sip their teas, their tenants pay fees,
And gentle ladies are banned from the farms!

Soon, she was lost in the pages and laughing to herself, trying to commit the limerick to memory. She vowed to pay Hubert’s a visit the moment she was back in London to see if she could find anything else the author had written.

An hour and three chapters later, she almost failed to notice the soft knocks on the front door, but when she finally did, instinct told her immediately who was at the threshold, and she took a deep breath, suddenly unsure that she had done the right thing. Perhaps she ought to have left it alone, allowed Pen to grieve just a little longer. But that was exactly it. What was grief but love with nowhere to go? And this love, it seemed to her like it still had somewhere to go.

Leaving her book on the settee, Eloise opened the door and wordlessly let her brother inside. He had to duck under the door frame, and he almost seemed ridiculous in Penelope’s little cottage, his head too close to the ceiling as he looked around like he was trying to commit everything he was seeing to memory.

A small kitchen to the left, which displayed nothing but a small pan and an even smaller pot.

A dark blue settee on the right, adorned with jacquard throw pillows and a soft, pale yellow blanket with a fringed edge.

An overfilled rosewood bookcase in the far corner, and across from it, the door to the bedchamber.

Colin smiled softly at the Penelope-ness of it all. When he turned back to his sister, the look on her face was one he’d already gotten used to, that infuriatingly compassionate gaze that said I wish nothing but the best for you, you pitiful idiot .

”She’s out back,” Eloise said, tossing her chin towards another door beside the fireplace.

He moved slowly, like he was afraid to break something, and he left the one valise he was carrying at the foot of the settee.

The door opened to the most Irish thing he’d seen thus far—a backdrop of a sprawling, golden countryside and a redhead under a sessile oak, whose leaves waltzed off its branches every time the wind blew. It was a mild shock to see her after months of pining, especially when he realized that she was wearing breeches, but the way she just fit into her surroundings tempered his surprise. He smiled at the way she had propped her legs straight up against the trunk of the tree, such that her body formed a nearly perfect L. Her red hair was spread out on the ground, wild and unbound, and she was holding a journal above her face. If he shouted and gave her a fright right now, she would drop it right on her little nose, and the thought of it made him grin.

But he hadn’t earned back the right to mischief just yet, so he merely approached and stood from a short distance, unsure how close he could come without earning her instant ire. She sighed and then attempted to write in the journal, except her odd position made the task impossible. She twisted her wrist awkwardly, the notebook flopping closed as she grumbled in frustration.

And he couldn’t help it; he chuckled.

The sound made her look up, and she jerked her legs down, scrambling to right herself. When she was finally sitting up, she clutched at the hem of her shirt, blinking up at him with those gorgeous blue eyes he’d missed so well.

He knew he had no right to feel even just a little bit jealous, but he couldn’t help but wonder whose shirt it was she was wearing. Nevertheless, he took a moment to take in her unbound hair and the freckles that seemed more pronounced in the diffused autumn sunlight. Even as she stared at him with a wariness that bordered on fear, she looked rosy and bright, like she’d been happy here. Wild. Free.

”Hello, Pen,” he said in a small voice that sounded unfamiliar even to him.

Penelope remained silent, watching him with uncertainty. Had she been any less acquainted with his countenance, it would have been difficult to recognize him. He must have lost at least two stone, his cheeks sunken in, his clothes hanging a little too loosely. His eyes seemed larger in his narrower face, and it gave him an almost haunted appearance.

”What are you… Why are you here?” she asked softly, and he closed his eyes briefly to cherish the sound of her voice.

When he opened them again, they felt hot with the threat of tears. Already, he could feel his ears burning with emotion.

”To beg, of course,” he said, “and to hope.”

”And what exactly are you hoping for?”

He gave her a sad, earnest little smile. “Your love, at best. But I will settle for your fury.” He wondered briefly if he was desperate enough to settle for her disdain, should she choose to impart it. Could his heart survive such a thing?

“I do not know if I can give you either,” she replied.

He nodded in acceptance, bending to his knees, as if to plead. “I know that my being here is entirely selfish of me. But I can’t… I couldn’t not try.” He tried not to let them, but the tears began to fall. “Tell me to stay. Tell me to go. I would give up heaven if you asked and follow you to hell if you’d let me, Pen. I would do anything you wanted.”

Her lower lip trembled, but she refused to cry, not in front of him, not even to reciprocate. “I want nothing from you.”

“I know. And yet I am yours. Wholly yours.”

In his wildest fantasies, he had played this moment out a hundred different times. Perhaps she would slap him or scream at him or throw her arms around him, and every time, it would end in a tearful kiss.

But he knew right then that fantasy had no place in the current situation. Here she was, a real person who did not need him, could survive without him, had found home away from him. He would have no place in her life unless she bestowed it, and after how much he had hurt her, could she? Would she? He had but one thing left in his corner—hope.

“I do not know what to tell you,” she said honestly.

“May I…” he cleared his throat, wishing he had a hat to occupy his hands, “May I stay until you do?”

And the sad truth was that she did not want him to go.

The sadder truth was that she wanted to kiss him. So badly.

But the saddest truth was that she did not know if he was good for her or if he ever would be.

“We have no messengers here to send word to Cousin Oscar,” she replied, her voice stern and business-like. “You may spend the night in my couch, and tomorrow morning, we shall go up to the main house. My cousin would be happy to host you.”

Colin nodded gratefully and stood to head inside, that delicate little spark of hope blooming in his chest.

I do not know was not no. He could work with that.

That first night was tense. Supper had been bacon and potatoes, and much as Eloise had tried to elicit conversation, Colin and Penelope had little to say.

The next morning, they had indeed gone up to the main house, where, to the ladies’ surprise, Cousin Oscar had spoken privately with Colin before agreeing to host him.

The Irish lord was the most affable man Eloise had ever met, but when he’d learned who Colin was, a calculating frown quickly replaced his easy smile. The family resemblance between him and Lady Featherington was suddenly apparent, and up until that point, Eloise had thought that the only trait the man shared with his cousin was hair color.

When they’d emerged from the study, Colin looked properly chastised (or warned), and Cousin Oscar looked more fatherly than either Eloise or Pen had ever seen him.

After the difficult introduction, Colin fell into a routine of staying out of Penelope’s way. The first two days were spent at the orchard, where Cousin Oscar put him to work raking leaves and taking inventory of the crates of apples. There, he learned how to chop wood, a skill he then put to use at Penelope’s cottage, where, beginning on the third day, he would stay until the girls returned from the main house.

Not knowing how else to serve his penance or show his affection, he did various other things in the house, always when Pen and Eloise were with the children. Learning to clean and tidy was easy after he’d found the pails and the brooms and the rags. He’d even learned a bit of carpentry after tinkering for hours with an errant cupboard door until he successfully repaired it.

Tending to the garden surrounding the house, however, was a bit more challenging as he’d had to reference the botanical books in Cousin Oscar’s library and interview the apple pickers on preparing the remaining plants for winter. It took two days of working with his hands, but he took pride in having learned how to winterize different plants.

Insulate the crown of the rose bushes by mounding soil ten to twelve inches around the base.

Bring the pots of daffodils indoors.

Cover the ground with mulch to protect the cowslips.

It was hard work, but the thought of Penelope in the springtime was ample motivation, and maybe he wouldn’t be there to see her wake up to a lovely garden, but perhaps she would think of him, and he thought that was a good enough reason to break his back and dirty his hands.

One day, a package arrived for Penelope along with a note from Harry. Old jealousies tempted Colin to tear open the letter, but he forced himself to look away as he set the accompanying bottle of blue wine on the kitchen table.

That afternoon, Peneloise (Rory’s amalgamation still made him chuckle) came home early, presumably to allow his sister some time to pack. She was to leave for Aubrey in two days, and the mood had been somber all week.

“Oh, you’re still here,” Penelope said as Colin wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I… I apologize. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve put the firewood away.”

Penelope looked away, face flaming at the current state of her strange guest. His axe was anchored to the ground, and he was leaning on it, chest heaving from his exertions. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his shirt was scandalously unbuttoned right down to the middle of his chest.

“Aren’t you cold?” she said, unable to meet his eyes. “Come inside.”

Buttoning up his shirt, he grinned secretly at the pretty blush on her cheeks, leaned the axe against the outside wall of the house, and followed her to the kitchen, where Eloise was already pouring herself a glass of the wine.

“Right,” Colin swallowed with some effort. “It came with a letter from Harry,” he added, rather unnecessarily as Penelope had already taken the note from the kitchen table and was already opening it with an excited grin.

“He is celebrating his engagement,” she said, and to Colin’s relief, she added, “to Miss Mann.”

“A drink to Lord Dankworth then!” Eloise exclaimed, raising her glass.

Unsure if he had overstayed his welcome, Colin remained rooted to his spot. “I suppose I should go,” he said and made to leave.

Penelope worried her lip, looking at him with an unfathomable expression. “You have never tried Madden wine before, yes? Have a glass, at least. Harry was your friend first, after all.”

So he sat down and raised a glass to the Marquess.

One glass turned into two, but he sipped slowly, wanting an excuse to stay longer. Meanwhile, Penelope was getting rather red, laughing more easily as though she’d forgotten he was there, and oh, how he missed the sound.

“Well,” his sister said, two hours later. “I’m properly sloshed. I need to rest my eyes.” She stumbled to the couch and instantly passed out there.

Colin supposed Eloise would just have to pack tomorrow, and he made a mental note to send her maid over to help.

Awkwardly, Penelope stood. “That’s our cue, I suppose. You ought to leave now. It will be dark soon,” she slurred.

He would have done exactly as he was told, except when Penelope took a step, her hip slammed against the table, Colin barely catching the empty wine bottle as it rolled off the edge. She clung to the back of her chair, one hand flying to her forehead.

“Good god, how much did I drink?”

“More than Eloise,” he replied.

She tried to take another step, but her legs felt wooden.

“You won’t make it to your room,” he decided, and then he was lifting her into his arms and, to her horror, walking into her bedroom.

There, he set her down on her mattress and bent down beside it to say goodbye. Her eyes were glassy, blinking sleepily at him.

His gaze fell to her lips, but he wouldn’t kiss her, not like this, so he settled for tugging on the lock of hair falling across her forehead and then pushing it behind her ear. His heart was racing again, his breathing becoming more difficult as he became aware of their proximity.

“You hurt me,” she whispered into the silence.

He allowed himself to touch her cheek then, rubbing his thumb back and forth against her smooth, warm skin.

“I know,” he said sadly, like it was hurting him, too.

And as Penelope’s eyes drifted shut, her last thought was that it sounded an awful lot like an apology.

Chapter 17: Samhain

Chapter Text

Samhain, Colin had learned, was the Irish name for November as well as a Celtic tradition that marked the end of the harvest season and signaled the beginning of winter. While most of Ireland had converted to Christianity, the pagan celebration of Samhain persisted, especially in more rural communities, such as the ones surrounding bigger cities like Kilkenny.

Cousin Oscar’s house had come alive with preparations. Penelope and the children spent days working on their masks and costumes, and Colin’s mornings were relegated to the orchard, where he helped pick the best apples to serve during the celebration. His afternoons were free, but he chose to maintain his routine of trekking to Penelope’s cottage and performing household chores.

He sometimes wondered what his brothers would say if they saw him washing floors and pulling out weeds, but it hardly signified. The work felt like penance, and it was as close to Penelope as she currently allowed him to get.

It broke his heart that she still couldn’t look him in the eye, even flinching sometimes when he called her name unexpectedly. Cousin Oscar and his staff had gotten so far as to adopt the same pitying glances Colin thought he’d left in Mayfair.

But she hadn’t told him to go away, so the little spark of hope in his heart continued to sputter alive.

“I don’t know if she will ever forgive you,” Eloise had said to him as her maid boarded the carriage behind her a week earlier, “but I know she wants to, brother.”

So he cleaned Penelope’s charming little house and cared for her plants and loved her with his eyes, expecting nothing and hoping for everything.

It was two days before Samhain, and Penelope had been at the main house since dawn, putting the finishing touches on the children’s costumes and lending a hand wherever she could. She was sure to be exhausted by the time she came home, and Colin didn’t want her to have to worry about supper.

That led to his current predicament. He was staring at what he could only describe as the stove’s fire pit, entirely stumped. He wanted to try his hand at cooking, but the cast iron contraptions intimidated him, and he couldn’t figure out how one was supposed to work the confounded things. He was determined, however, and he kept turning his head this way and that to try and decipher how one went about making a meal.

In his travels, he’d learned a few culinary basics—potatoes were to be boiled before one was to do anything with them, and chicken was to be cooked until its skin was golden brown. Well, he’d peeled the potatoes and acquired a well-butchered chicken, but he didn’t know how he was to connect the turnspit to the crank attached to the stove, and, for the life of him, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how one was supposed to start the fire.

After an hour of glaring at inanimate objects and cursing himself for his privileged ignorance, he finally ventured to the orchard, which was closer to Penelope’s cottage than the main house, to acquire instructions from one of the workers.

It was half past six by the time he returned, but it did not take him very long to finally get the stove working. By seven, his chicken was happily roasting in the fire pit, and his pot of potatoes had come to a boil. Satisfied, he retrieved a book from the bookcase in the sitting room and whiled away the time, reading.

So engrossed was he in his literature that he didn’t notice the sky beginning to darken, even with all the windows of the house open to let out the smoke.

Smoke.

There seemed to be an inordinate amount of it filling the cottage.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, running to the kitchen and grabbing his hair in sheer panic.

Just then, Penelope ran into the cottage, screaming, “Water! I’ve got water!” It was entirely fortunate that Colin had left a filled bucket right by the front door, so she was able to take it inside immediately to douse the fire.

It subsided quickly, and when the smoke cleared, Colin simply had to accept that his chicken was ruined. Even his potatoes had blackened bottoms as all the water in the pot had evaporated.

Relieved, he and Pen fell into the kitchen chairs at the same time.

“Good god,” he said, heart still racing.

“What on earth were you doing?” she asked once she had caught her breath. “I saw the smoke a ways off and ran here.”

“I was trying to make supper. I understand that I may have put the pot on too long, but what happened with the chicken is a mystery.”

“Were you turning it?” she said, bending forward to inspect the remains of the chicken without leaving her seat.

“Turning it?”

Penelope’s hands flew to her forehead in exasperation. “You’re supposed to turn the spit, you dunderhead. That’s why it’s called a turnspit.”

“Oh. I did not think of that,” he said, cheeks turning pink. “Do you think we might perhaps salvage portions of it?”

They both turned their heads to look at the fire pit again, and the poor blackened chicken chose that very moment to detach from the spit and tumble to the floor.

“Well now,” Colin said, “that wasn’t very well done of me, was it?”

Penelope stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, and then she burst into laughter, Colin following suit.

Samhain found the countryside buzzing with activity. There were endless deliveries to the main house, and not a pair of hands was idle as decorations were put up, costumes were sewn, and food was prepared.

Four whole pigs were being roasted in the courtyard since dawn. They were to be brought just outside of Cousin Oscar’s estate, where there was an empty lot, in the middle of which was a large fire pit that was to hold the community bonfire come evening.

The heavenly smell of slowly rendering fat had been drifting into the house all day, and it made Colin’s mouth water every time he walked past an open window.

Come afternoon, everyone was nearly ready to head to the bonfire, and the halls of the main house were noisy with the pitter-patter of rushing feet and last-minute orders. Seeking a brief respite from all the activity, Colin made his way to the library, which was smaller than the one at Aubrey Hall but featured a more curated selection that he appreciated. There, nestled in the settee was Penelope, who apparently had the same idea.

His smile was automatic.

“Hey,” he said, blushing at the thought that they were alone together, even though it was hardly the first time. He wondered briefly if he ought to leave or call for a chaperone, but truth be told, it seemed a rather silly thing to do. The rules had always felt different for the two of them and virtually nonexistent in Kilkenny. Even Cousin Oscar, when he’d insisted on a private meeting that first day, never required chaperones for them. The man had been more concerned about his intentions—his very character, really—rather than abiding by the rules that often seemed to make up the ton’s flimsy foundation.

As far as the use of a chaperone, it seemed that Penelope did not feel the need for one either as she sat up in quite a leisurely manner, retrieving something from a basket at the foot of the settee.

“Samhain can get a little overwhelming, no? I spent an inordinate amount of time in this very library last year, too,” she said, turning over the strange object in her hand.

“What is that?” Colin said.

“Your mask,” she replied, holding it up to show him.

He tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to decipher what he was looking at. He could make out what was supposed to be a snout but not much else.

“It is supposed to be a pig. Rory was entirely tickled by the idea that you would be a pig cannibalizing another pig tonight,” she explained.

“Oh,” he chuckled, taking the grotesque thing from her. “I shall make sure to eat in front of her then. Always happy to provide macabre entertainment for the little ones.”

Penelope smiled, and Colin thought he would never want for summer sunshine again.

“What about you?” he asked. “What horrific creature will you be tonight?”

She retrieved another object from the basket and quickly pulled it over her head. It was nothing but a small sack with two small holes for her big blue eyes.

He laughed, full and rich, and it sounded scandalous in the library.

“I did not have time to make mine!” she chuckled defensively.

Butterflies awakened in his stomach at the realization that she had made his mask first.

“Well, at the very least, it certainly inspires objection, Miss Featherington. Anything that covers your pretty face can incite no less than my dismay.”

She blushed inside her sack mask, pulling it down as if a nonexistent wind were threatening to blow it away.

There was a knock on the door, and then Aiden called out, “It’s time to go!” His costume was entirely made of layers of straw, and a matching cone was on his head.

“You look like a broom, sans the handle,” Colin said.

The child looked pleased, his small hand flying to where his chest would have been. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton. That’s what Pen and I were going for.”

And off they went, quite literally into the sunset. Soon, they were joining the costumed staff in a pilgrimage to the bonfire, where Cousin Oscar was warning Rory not to come too close to the flames for fear that his daughter would make for very good kindling in her outfit, which was an exact copy of her brother’s.

Colin looked around in wonder at all the costumes, and even with his monster-pig mask on, he felt rather underdressed amongst the townsfolk, who were wearing all sorts of tattered capes and elaborate frocks altered specifically for the occasion. So far, he had spotted four leprechauns, two banshees, and several ghosts, which, Penelope explained to him, were called Thevshi in Irish. She was supposed to be one, in fact, but the ridiculous sack on her head was a rather hilarious interpretation amongst the others.

“Why are some of the men wearing women’s clothing, and why are some of the ladies wearing men’s?” Colin bent down to ask.

“For the same reason we wear costumes,” she said through the rough fabric of her mask. “It is believed that the change from one season to the next is when portals to the Otherworld are open, and we wear costumes to dissuade any ill-intentioned spirits who wish to do harm. Brothers and sisters often switch clothing to confuse them.”

Colin nodded, and they situated themselves on a low bench, Penelope scooting to the far end to make sure their knees wouldn’t touch. It was a small movement, given how small the bench was, but it broke Colin’s heart all over again.

It wasn’t long before the sun finally dipped into the horizon, leaving behind golden streaks in the sky. A man went around lighting the candles ensconced within the carved turnips that served as funny-looking lanterns strategically placed around the camp, and Colin marveled at the eerie effect.

“It’s bloody beautiful here,” he said under his breath, “in an odd sort of way.”

His companion sighed, taking off her sack mask to take a breath and shake out the tendrils of hair surrounding her face. “I wish Eloise were here.”

Watching the fire light dance in Penelope’s light blue eyes, Colin couldn’t honestly say he shared the sentiment.

Just then, Cousin Oscar approached, bearing two round pieces of shortbread.

“Soul cakes. For my Cara,” he said, his accent sounding heavier somehow.

Lady Cara was Cousin Oscar’s wife, who had passed away of an illness not long after Rory was born. Colin and Penelope each took a cake, the former looking sideways to his companion for what to do.

“We say a short prayer,” Penelope explained.

Satisfied and not wishing to make them feel uncomfortable, Cousin Oscar gave them his leave and strode off to find his children.

Colin pulled off his mask out of respect and bowed his head solemnly as he and Penelope shared a moment of silence for Lady Cara, and then they were biting into the spiced shortbread, watching the sky darken.

As soon as the last wisp of sunlight disappeared into the horizon, the games and the dancing began. A man dressed as some sort of hare-and-chicken hybrid swept a laughing Penelope up from her seat, and then they were jumping about the bonfire. Colin would have protested, but it all happened so fast, and the redhead looked happy enough to indulge, so he reckoned that the lack of propriety was all part of the festivities. Unwilling to be left behind, he watched a growing number of people join in the fray, concluding that there were no predetermined steps and wondering how he would fare with an unstructured dance.

Feeling challenged, he got up and asked a young lady to partner him (he wasn’t quite ready to unceremoniously pull one to her feet the way Pen had been), and soon, he was laughing and spinning in his absurd pig-mask, thinking to himself, This is what she gave up so much for.

He saw Pen out of the corner of his eye, her afterthought of a mask long gone, her curly red hair escaping from the braided updo that now seemed in danger of completely unraveling.

“Bloody beautiful,” he whispered to himself, not meaning the countryside this time.

The fiddler played a series of notes in quick succession before nodding to the other musicians, and then the song ended to an explosion of cheers.

“She is,” his partner leaned forward conspiratorially.

It was only then that he’d realized he’d spoken the words out loud, and he felt his cheeks warm.

“You’re the sassenach who’s installed himself as her manservant, aren’t you?”

It took him a moment to understand what she said through her thick accent, and he didn’t know what a sassenach was, but then he was sputtering. Manservant!?

“Everyone agrees you’re properly gone on her.”

Again, he didn’t know exactly what she meant, but from her teasing expression, he could certainly guess.

“Well, sir,” she said, beginning to pat him on the back, “ ádh mór ort .”

She left him with that, and Colin made his way to Penelope to claim the next dance before anyone else got the chance. To their mutual delight, the musicians began to play in reel time.

“Ah, this one I know!” Colin exclaimed, and he and Penelope immediately fell into the steps, laughing.

“I must say,” she said in between hops, “I have never danced the reel with a pig-man before!”

“Are you suggesting,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “that you have perhaps waltzed with a pig-man?”

She laughed and hooked their elbows together. Soon, their arms were linked with those of strangers, so that everyone was shouting “hey, hey, hey” as they all danced around the fire. It was exhilarating, and by the time the song ended, he and Penelope were properly winded and red in the face from both exertion and sheer, unadulterated gladness.

They wandered back to their bench, where someone passed them two shallow dishes, each laden with apple wedges, Irish cheddar, roasted hazelnuts and chestnuts, a small portion of the pork Colin had been fantasizing about all day, and a thick slice of barmbrack.

They thanked the stranger, and Colin all but threw his mask to the ground in his excitement. They began to eat quietly until he nearly lost a tooth biting into something hard in the bread. He groaned in pain, his hand flying to his mouth.

“Oh, no! Sorry, I forgot to warn you. They bake objects into the barmbrack! The object is supposed to foretell your future. You are lucky to get one. What is it?”

Colin knew exactly the answer to the question as he could quite clearly feel what the object was in his mouth, but he spit it out, immediately closing his fingers around it to stuff it hastily into the pocket of his trousers. “Never you mind,” he said.

She gave him a perturbed look and repeated with more urgency, “What is it?”

He only shook his head in response, and that was that.

They finished eating in silence, and then they participated in the many games, sometimes as spectators and sometimes as players. Colin lost a sack race—it was a bad idea to have partnered with a much shorter man, who stumbled trying to match his much longer strides—and Penelope won a storytelling contest, for which she quite cleverly invented The Tale of the Cursed Porridge , which was funnier than it was fear-inducing and had the children rolling on the ground, laughing.

The night wore on quite quickly, and soon, it was time for apple bobbing, which was one of the main events, and Colin immediately volunteered to play.

“Make a wish, boy, and if you catch an apple with a carved circle, it will come true,” said the game host.

Colin did not know that apple bobbing was used for divination, and he filed the trivia away in his mind for logging in his travel journal later. There was only one wish on his mind, of course, and he caught Penelope’s eye in the audience, holding her gaze for a slightly too-long moment before taking a deep breath and dunking his head into the large water-filled basin, trying to catch an apple like his life depended on it. It was harder than it looked, and soon, his lungs were burning for air, but finally, finally, he opened his mouth wide and caught one against the side of the basin, his teeth digging into the fruit as he lifted his head. Cold water dripped from his hair and drenched his shirt, and for the first time in ages, he wished he’d worn a cravat to catch at least some of the wetness. His shoulders and nearly his entire torso were drenched, and he could feel the chill in the air even through his damp jacket.

But looking down, his apple had a small circle carved into it, so he thought the endeavor more than worth the discomfort. He looked towards Penelope, but she was no longer in the audience. Instead, he spotted her by the bonfire, extending a torch towards the flame and walking away as soon as it was lit.

Absentmindedly leaving his apple beside the basin, he hurried after her down the path and called out her name. She turned towards him, surprised.

“Colin! I’m… I’m feeling rather tired, and I must reignite my fireplace with the flame from the bonfire. It’s tradition. You ought to stay with Cousin Oscar and get the full Samhain experience. The party lasts until dawn.”

“I can’t let you walk alone in the dark.”

“My cottage is closer than the main house is. It’s only a few minutes’ walk.”

He stepped closer, tilting his head curiously, like he was trying to decipher her expression amidst the shadows dancing on her face.

Even though it was ridiculous, he said, “Without a chaperone?”

Her expression soured, and she glared at him. “Spinsters do not need chaperones.”

“Is that what you are, Pen?” he said, half in earnest and half in challenge. Away from the bonfire, his teeth were chattering from the cold now, and he blew into his hands to warm them, keeping his eyes locked on hers.

Ignoring his question, she stepped forward, studying him in return. She couldn’t be sure with just her torch as the source of light, but she thought his lips were turning a little blue.

“Come then. You can dry yourself by my fireplace.”

Pleased that she didn’t further the argument, he followed her into the dark, fanning the collar of his shirt every so often in vain attempts to get the wet fabric off his cold skin.

They made it to the cottage in about ten minutes, and Penelope ushered him in, carefully bringing the torch inside to light the fireplace with it. When she stepped out to kill the torch’s flame, Colin used the time to quickly take off his jacket and shirt, laying both by the furnace and retrieving the throw on the settee.

He was in the middle of tossing the blanket around his shoulders when Penelope returned. From the doorway, she paused at the sight of him, blue eyes roving over the flat planes of his chest as he stretched his arms to cover himself. Their eyes met, as they were wont to do, and he watched the slight shift in her expression as a decision was made.

Something had been brewing the entire night, and she was done denying it, done keeping her hands to herself, done walking on eggshells. Her heart was so strong; it had survived everything life and the ton and Colin had thrown at it. What had she to fear?

Kicking off her shoes and closing the door behind her, she strode over to him, her steps sure and even. The moment she was in front of him, she placed her hands on his chest, pushing him so that the back of his knees hit the edge of the settee. He all but fell into a sitting position.

“Pen?” he said with uncertainty, and the fireplace crackled in response as he pulled the throw tighter around his chest.

She stilled him with her eyes, and he knew that tonight, he would keep the promise he’d made her. He would do absolutely anything she wanted. Anything.

She stepped forward, his knees falling open as if to welcome her home, and then, good god, she knelt and reached for the buttons at the center of his waist.

Eyes wide with shock, he put a gentle hand atop hers and said firmly, “Pen.”

She looked up at him, like she was daring him to stop her, but god help him, he simply didn’t have it in him to do so. Swallowing heavily, he lifted his hand from hers and leaned back on the settee. She made quick work of his buttons, and in no time, he felt his waistband give. Almost by instinct, he lifted his hips slightly to allow her to pull down his trousers and drawers.

He wasn’t hard yet, and her curious inspection of his manhood was making him feel self-conscious. She raised an eyebrow at him in question, and he swallowed yet again, his Adam’s apple betraying his nervousness.

But then she took him in her hand and, without preamble, lifted his co*ck to run her tongue along its underside.

”G… gah! Pen!” His eyes rolled to the back of his head as she engulfed him in her mouth. He hardened almost instantly, feeling himself grow between her lips.

She moved her head back, his co*ckhead exiting her mouth with a wet, tantalizing pop. She studied him from base to tip, marveling at how swiftly he’d gone from soft to full mast.

”It’s called an erection,” he half-groaned in response to the question in her eyes.

Suddenly uncertain, she let go of him. ”What does it mean?”

“Pleasure,” he responded, bringing her hand back to wrap her fingers around him. “Desire.”

She moved her hand up experimentally and then back down, moving her thumb to where she felt a ridge along one side of his length. He groaned in response, throwing his head back again when she began pumping him slowly, rhythmically. Then, she stopped, looking up at him with such a complex mixture of innocent curiosity and self-assured seduction that he felt singularly privileged to be the recipient of her attentions.

A moment later and she was taking him into her mouth again, more confidently this time, bobbing her head and sliding her tongue every which way, her technique unlearned but oh, so earnest. His neck was arched back, straining, the fingers of one hand burying themselves in her hair as if with a mind of their own, and then his co*ck left her mouth, the tip grazing her teeth on its way out. She kissed the bulbous head lovingly and then sucked on it, her gaze never straying from his face.

It felt like power, the way she held his pleasure quite literally in her hand. She was drunk on her new discoveries; tug a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut; suck harder, and he groaned; swirl her tongue around him, and it had him clutching harder at her hair. Even the slight pain at her scalp was a satisfying sting.

He began to leak. She lapped him up, and Colin was in heaven, but it somehow wasn’t enough. As gently as he could, he directed her by pushing her head down, wanting the warmth of her wicked mouth around him again. Thankfully, she gave no resistance, indulging him immediately and moving her head faster than before, forming a vacuum with her lips every so often to give him delicious, unexpected bursts of pleasure.

”Pen, no…. I’m going to… You must…” He was losing his words along with his breath and his mind, the last shreds of his control relegated to directing her as gently as he could while she worked him into a frenzy. “Pen, Pen, Pen!” he cried out, unable to utter any other word and spending himself in her mouth.

She gasped in surprise, choking a little before instinctively spitting out the warm, slippery substance. It dripped down her chin and onto the tops of her breasts, some of it disappearing into the valley that led into her bodice. The little that remained in her mouth, she swallowed.

Colin was gasping for breath like he’d just run a mile, but f*ck , what a sight she made when he finally opened his eyes. In his passion, he had almost completely unraveled her hair, and it lay about her shoulders in random curls and two half-braided pigtails. Her wicked little mouth glistened in the firelight, her chin and chest growing sticky with his spend.

How could he let her go now? He wholly believed that it would kill him, were she to ask him to leave her be.

His eyes followed her every movement as she stood, using one sleeve to wipe herself clean, the light from Samhain’s fire setting her red hair aglow from behind her and casting her face in shadow. She stepped back until the backs of her legs reached the edge of the low table, and he watched her hand reach for the buttons on the front of her bodice.

He reached out to stay the action, swallowing hard in an attempt to fortify his restraint. The blanket fell from his shoulders to pool around his waist. “Pen—“

“If you stop me now, Colin Bridgerton,” she warned, shaking her head, “so help me god, I will.”

Well, who was he to stymie her pleasure? This was a woman who had made up her mind.

Plus, he’d wanted her for so long, fantasized about her lips, her eyes, her body. Dreaming of her kisses as he lay on a beach in Santorini. Imagining her hands on his co*ck while he leaned on a pillar in Rome. What did anyone expect from him, really? Restraint?

So he stood up, good and obedient even as he towered over her, leaving the throw blanket crumpled on the cushion and stepping out of the clothes that still lay at his feet. She bent back slightly, both intimidated by the sheer big-ness of him and uncertain about what he was going to do next.

He pulled her by the waist, and then he whispered in her ear. “Take me to your room, Pen.”

It was her turn to do as she was told, she supposed, so she held his hand and kept her eyes on his as she walked backward until her shoulder blades landed against her door. With the hand that wasn’t holding hers, he fumbled with the latch right beside her waist, and a moment later, they were half-stumbling into the bedchamber.

The only illumination was from the moon beaming in through her window, so she turned away from him to light the two candles on her desk. Patiently, Colin sat on her bed and waited, naked as the day he was born yet too stimulated to feel an ounce of shame.

It wasn’t long before she was standing before him, her hands returning to the buttons on her bodice and undoing them deftly until the fabric loosened and gaped open to reveal jumps instead of the stiff stays he expected. The show made Colin’s mouth water with anticipation, and he was suddenly so very grateful that no maids were around to allow for more complicated clothing.

Unable to keep his hands idle for a second longer, he helped her shrug out of her dress, perhaps using more force than was necessary, his disdain for clothing growing with every second his skin was not touching hers. Then, he was moving her hands gently to her sides, so he could pull on the ties holding together her jumps, unraveling each ribboned knot with an awed kind of haste, like he was opening a present. She shrugged it off, and in just her chemise, she looked raw and soft and vulnerable, and maybe it would hurt tomorrow if she decided to put her walls up again, but for now, she was choosing him, allowing his love, agreeing to be just a little bit his, and it was all he could do not to ask for more than was being offered.

There wasn’t enough light for him to see through her knee-length chemise, but that was a problem easily remedied. He lifted the hem, , which hung just above the tops of her stockings,and she raised her arms, his breath coming out in shorter and shorter bursts with every inch of skin bared. He was as tall as she was short, so even sitting down, his head came up to her neck—the perfect height from which to pull her down for a kiss.

He wanted to knead her breasts, slide his finger in her c*nt, spread her legs and take her, but first, he wanted that kiss. He reached up to touch her face, thinking how odd it was that as far as they had gone, it was a kiss that seemed so difficult to acquire.

He tilted his head and leaned forward, but she didn’t move, just looked briefly down at his mouth and then back into his eyes. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer, and she rewarded him by leaning her forehead against his. He nudged his nose against hers, exactly the way he did a lifetime ago, in a carriage warmed with their bodies as it rained in the world outside.

She smiled, as if to say she was remembering the same thing, and then she was kissing him in a way that was both tender and demanding. He responded in kind, his skin coming alive, his nerves singing, his heart trying to beat out of his chest. He licked inside her mouth; she bit his lower lip; he sucked on her tongue.

He fingered the lace that lined the upper edge of one of her knee-high stockings, and then his hand traveled from her waist to her breast, thumbing her nipple. He grinned at the privilege. In the next moment, he had wrapped his arms around her and flipped her onto the bed, and she gave a surprised little squeak before scooting up to the headboard. Her curly hair had completely unraveled by now, and it spilled over her white pillows in a lovely red mess.

He took a moment to appreciate the view before finally pulling her stockings off with greater haste than he expected of himself. But for the need burning at the base of his stomach, he would have done it slowly, savored divesting the last of her clothing.

“You’re beautiful,” he said as he climbed up her body, deliberately sliding his skin against hers and groaning when his chest reached her breasts.

Her hands rose to the back of his neck, where she linked her fingers and pulled him down for another kiss. He happily obliged, and as his mouth descended on hers, his hands groped her everywhere, like he couldn’t touch her enough. They squeezed her thick thighs, her soft waist, her heavy breasts, sliding down her arms only to revisit the same path.

He was hard again, and with nowhere else to go, he allowed his hips to rest against hers, her legs opening wider to make room for him. His erection against her wetness was like a jolt of lightning, and her eyes flew open. She pushed on his shoulders lightly so that he hovered above her, worried that the dream had shattered.

She searched his eyes, looking for something to mistrust, but all she saw were hope and desire and the familiar blue-gray that had always felt like home.

What had she to fear?

She had money. A livelihood. A home. He could leave her with a baby, and she knew she would survive it.

There was nothing left to fear.

Just as he was going to tell her that it was all right, they could stop, he would wait, she pushed against her elbow to flip them over. She hovered above him for a moment, and then she reached for his co*ck and sank onto him. She had to adjust him a few times, rising and wiggling as she did so, but once she found the right angle, he slid into her more easily than she thought he would, even with his girth, and she took deep breaths to temper the slight pain.

He opened his eyes to see her slight grimace. Ignoring his own pleasure, he managed to croak out, “Are you all right?”

She leaned down to rest her palms on either side of his head. “Yes. Just getting used to you,” she said and lifted her head again, this time anchoring herself against his chest. Slowly, experimentally, she rolled her hips. When it didn’t hurt, she did it again, repeating the motion, faster and faster, until they were both panting, eyebrows furrowed, pupils blown black.

“Pen! Pen!” Once again, his vocabulary had been reduced to her name, and his neck arched upwards, sweat beading on his forehead. Were it not for their earlier activities, he would be coming already, and even though Penelope did not seem particularly interested in taking her time, he did want to give as good as he was getting.

So when he felt his muscles contracting, warning him of an imminent, earth-shattering climax, he grabbed her by the waist and began driving up and into her, hard and quick, biting his lip to concentrate on her pleasure and hold his at bay. Finding his rhythm, she began to move her hips to meet him, thrust for thrust, and the friction had her moaning, the sound etching itself in Colin’s memory.

When he moved his hand to rub her cl*t, she all but screamed, and he took the opportunity to flip them over again, so he could properly f*ck her into the mattress. With more leverage, he pumped into her with wild abandon, without a care as to how he must look or if he was following any sort of rhythm. All that existed were Penelope’s wet warmth around his co*ck and her half-lidded eyes watching him make love to her the way both of them had imagined.

He lifted one of her ankles onto his shoulder, and she began to keen, “Yes! Oh, my god! What are you doing to me? Colin! Colin!” And then she toppled over into the abyss, her body arching up and stretching like a bow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

He drove into her then, reveling in the hot, delicious friction and watching her breasts bounce with every thrust. Groaning loudly, he followed her into climax, forgetting to pull out of her in the intensity of the moment. He fell on top of her, limp and panting, feeling her shake beneath him. After a few moments, she pushed him off, and he kept himself from protesting, his cum spilling out of her as he withdrew his co*ck. She turned away, still trembling with aftershocks, her hand between her thighs. When the pleasure subsided, she lay on her back, shimmied into the blanket beneath her, and looked up at the ceiling.

“Pen…” he said worriedly, tired but wanting answers.

“Hush,” she murmured. “Tomorrow.”

He watched her close her eyes, and soon, his own were drifting shut.

“Tomorrow then,” he whispered before finally giving in to his exhaustion.

Chapter 18: Under the Old Oak Tree

Chapter Text

Dawn was just breaking when Penelope began to stir, the blue light of evening slowly fading into morning gold as Colin watched the change happen on the smooth skin of her face. He wanted to count the freckles sprinkled prettily across her cheeks and nose, but even with her curtains half-way drawn, it was too dim to make them all out.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, still heavy with sleep, and she rubbed them self-consciously, pulling the sheet higher on her chest. He, on the other hand, did not seem the least bit abashed about his state of undress. He lay on his stomach, the blanket low on his back and bunched just below his buttocks. His head was turned toward her, one ear buried deep in her pillow.

“Hello, Pen.”

There were worse ways to wake up than to have Colin Bridgerton smiling softly at her.

“Hello, Col,” she murmured back.

His smile grew as he closed his eyes, like he was savoring a particularly delicious biscuit. “I missed that.”

“Missed what?”

“Col. Colin. My name on your lips.” His hand reached up to touch said lips, and she blushed at the intimacy of it.

“Had I not been saying it?”

He shook his head, creating a swish-swish sound against her pillowcase. “It has been a lot of yous and Mr. Bridgertons. ”

“Oh,” she breathed, “I did not notice.”

His hand had moved to her jaw, his thumb brushing back and forth along her cheekbone.

“We need to talk.”

“We need to talk,” she agreed in a small voice, knowing this conversation would come and still wholly unprepared for it. She couldn’t even begin to describe what had come over her the night before. All she knew was that her heart beat faster when he was near and that whatever limbo they had been in, she wanted out of it.

“How… How was it for you?” he said with an endearing sort of diffidence. “Last night, I mean.”

It certainly wasn’t the first question she expected, and she blushed an even deeper red. “It was… I have no words,” she said, and it would have worried him were it not for the pleased, lethargic smile she wore.

“You? Without words?” he teased.

She chuckled good-naturedly. “It is hard to describe, would you not agree? Though perhaps you might do better at the task since you have…” she looked away awkwardly, “more experience, I suppose.”

He smiled patiently. “I’m no rake, you know,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She looked up at him in curiosity. “B-but… you travel. A lot. And you’re a massive flirt.”

It was his turn to blush, but he laughed all the same. “Flirting and intercourse aren’t quite the same thing. At least in practice, I did not know much more than you, I promise.”

“So what was that? Beginner’s luck?”

He laughed again and would have been happy to continue doing so but for the questions burning in his head. He allowed himself a few hearty chuckles, and then he quieted, beginning to play with her hair.

“You tell me, Pen. What was that?”

“I… I wanted you,” she sighed and licked her lips, pausing to look into his eyes. “I want you,” she corrected.

And his lips broke out into his biggest smile yet. He touched her eyebrow, her eyelid, her cheekbone. He traced the outer part of her ear, ran a finger down to her chin, felt his eyes water.

“I’m so in love with you, Pen. I hardly know what to do with myself.”

She responded by tilting her head up to kiss him, one hand coming up to cradle his jaw, which was covered in day-old stubble and rough against the soft skin of her palm. He kissed her back, slow and soft, and then he twisted to lie on top of her, nuzzling her neck before nipping his way to her breast.

“Mm… Colin…” she moaned as he captured a nipple between his lips.

His hand crept down her side, one finger tracing the seam between her hip and thigh before finding the one between her legs. She wasn’t wet enough for him yet, but a little dip into her entrance, and he discovered that there was more slick there for him to spread up and around her cl*t.

“Like that, Pen?” he asked, wanting to make sure he was doing right by her.

“Yes,” she said as he applied more pressure on the hard bud. “Yes, just like that.”

Soon, she was panting, moaning, and then finally, screaming his name into her clenched fist. Watching with satisfaction as she trembled from the climax, he braced one hand beside her head and lifted the other to stroke himself into hardness. It only took a few moments, and then he was guiding his co*ck into her still-pulsating c*nt, slowly, so slowly, afraid to hurt her.

Despite his caution, however, she was wincing when he chanced a look at her expression. He stopped immediately.

“Pen, are you all right?” he asked, voice heavy with concern.

“Yes… It’s just… I think I’m a little sore from last night. No, don’t!” She grabbed his hips when he began to pull away, the motion dragging him deeper into her.

“Ah…” he groaned. “But… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just… go slow,” she asked, and after a moment’s hesitation, he obliged.

It was more like a dance this time. Moving his hips, every stroke languid, he found a good, sensuous rhythm, managing to push against her in a way that hurt little, if at all, and soon she was purring beneath him, pulling him down to kiss her and touching him anywhere she could reach.

When he came with a loud, drawn out moan, clutching at her hip and holding on for dear life, she watched his face tense for a few moments before it relaxed into bliss. He collapsed on top of her, his ear right above her heart, and by the time he lifted his head and slipped out of her, they were both crying.

“I am so sorry for all the hurts I have caused you, Pen,” he said in a broken, watery voice, raising himself to kiss his apology onto her forehead. “I will spend the rest of my life making up for—“

She shook her head. “No, I don’t want that. Remorse and regret have taken up too much of our time, don’t you agree?”

He nodded.

“Can we just be in love now, Colin?”

He nodded again and replied, “Yes, I should like that. I should like that very much.”

Outside of Cousin Oscar’s sitting room, a tense discussion was at hand.

”Perhaps he did not notice.”

”Our departure could not have been any more abrupt! How could he not notice?”

”It was a big party. With many people. He couldn’t have known you brought me home. For all he knows, I’m still in my bedchamber, sleeping off whatever poison he imagines I might have drunk.”

”We really ought to have taken proper leave. Had we done so separately, he would be none the wiser.”

”Penelope, I fully expected to go back to the bonfire. Had you not distracted me with your—“

Cheeks aflame, she swatted him on the shoulder.

”Owww… What are you so worried about anyway? We are unchaperoned all the time, and the man hardly bats an eye.”

”It is one thing to be alone together and another for you to spend the night in my cottage doing god knows what.”

”Oh, I think we know what.” He tilted his head, giving her a cheeky grin.

”Will you stop! This is serious! We—“

”Penelope, Mr. Bridgerton,” Cousin Oscar called from inside the sitting room, his voice muffled by the double doors. “We can hear you bickering out there. You might as well enter and face the music.”

We?

Cautiously, Colin opened the door. And what a horrific sight they came upon.

In the settee across from Cousin Oscar, Portia Featherington sat, hands primly poised on her lap. Everything else about her countenance screamed ready for battle, and a chill went down Colin’s spine.

”M… Mama!” Penelope exclaimed. “When did… When did you get here?”

”I was supposed to get here yesterday in time for Samhain, but there was a mishap with my carriage, and I had to spend the night in an inn. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my cousin’s house to news of Colin Bridgerton’s extended visit and his apparent absence from his bedchamber all of last night and this morning.”

Penelope looked helplessly to Cousin Oscar, who merely shrugged and took a long drag from his cigar, as if to communicate the disclaimer that no, he had not been informed of her mother’s imminent arrival.

“We were—“

“And before you come up with some half-baked fib, I will tell you now, Penelope, I have been your mother all your life, and Whistledown was your very last deception. I suggest you do not insult me with yet another lie. I am not even enquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr. Bridgerton last night, but I will ask, what in heaven’s name were you thinking letting this man, presumably, into your bed! After everything he’s done!”

Colin momentarily shrank back in shame before straightening and strengthening his resolve. “Lady Featherington, I know I’ve hurt your daughter and your family. But I assure you, Ma’am, I have only the best intentions. I always have done, despite my foolish attempts to convey them.”

“And yet. No. Proposal,” the woman spat, quick as a snake.

Colin opened his mouth helplessly, but before he could utter a word, Penelope interjected.

“Don’t,” she turned to him. “I will not have a proposal simply derived from my so-called ruin.” She turned to her mother. “The ton is not here, Mama. I fear nothing.”

“Then you are a fool!” cried Portia. “This is what they do, Penelope! They bed you but won’t wed you, and I shall never understand—”

“Enough,” Cousin Oscar said in a voice so stern as to silence even Portia Featherington. “I cannot say that I am happy with the circ*mstances, but here we are, and as vexed as I am to say it, this is the worst time to make any decisions. Lady Featherington, I offer my heartfelt apologies for this… indiscretion that occurred under my watch. I shall offer no less than my steadfast attention to this matter until such time as we determine consequences or these two idiots make an adult decision, whichever comes first.”

Portia raised an eyebrow at the errant fools and then swished regally out of the room without another word.

Cousin Oscar sank back into his armchair, rubbing his temples in a way that reminded Colin of Anthony.

“I hired two governesses, not even counting Eloise Bridgerton, to manage my children. How is it that I feel as though I have gained two more spawn?”

Penelope and Colin looked at each other, wincing at the chastisem*nt. They muttered embarrassed apologies, which Cousin Oscar received with a raised eyebrow before shaking his head and calling a maid to chaperone them until Rory and Aiden arrived to perform the same function.

Their alone card now revoked, the couple read quietly on opposite ends of the sitting room until the children woke up to replace the maid. Penelope went about business as usual, except she was now shadowed by a most willing assistant. Months of pining had evidently created an overeager suitor who was reluctant to leave her side even for hesitant trips to the chamber pot, and to Colin’s credit, he went about his flirting in so sweet and earnest a manner that neither Penelope nor the children could begrudge him for it.

Lady Whistledown had, on several occasions, proclaimed Colin the charming Bridgerton, but being the subject of his singular attentions apparently gave new meaning to the epithet. In fact, he seemed to have taken their agreement to be in love that morning quite literally for the man was not one bit shy about displaying his affections.

When he poured her a cup of tea, he said, “Here you go, Pen.” And then he added, “I love you.”

When the children drew pictures, he praised them, “Splendid use of color, isn’t it, Pen?” And then tagged on at the end, “I love you.”

And when Penelope was on the piano forte, teaching Rory and Aiden how to sing a round, Colin exclaimed from his position on the settee, “Marvelous song choice!” The children snigg*red, knowing what was to come. “I love you,” the man finished shamelessly.

Penelope reckoned her face was going to be red all day, but sometime after lunch, Colin disappeared, claiming to be in dire need of a nap after the busy night that was Samhain. He left her with a face dyed an even deeper crimson, and then he was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the afternoon. It was just as well, Penelope thought. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, after all.

She kept the children’s lessons light, forgoing grammar and maths for art and music as they all recovered from the previous night’s festivities, and before Penelope knew it, it was time to go home.

The walk back to her cottage was a welcome solitude, and she took her time observing the trees—most of which were now practically free of leaves—and taking stock of where she was in her life.

Only a few months ago, she was a ruined woman—the ton’s biggest serpent, who trafficked in scandal; a virtual spinster from a penniless family; a leftover, laughingstock of a girl, twice spurned by an eligible bachelor.

She was still all of those versions of herself, but she felt big enough to contain them now, and there was pride and comfort in knowing just how much she could survive and what she was capable of.

The ton held no power over her destiny anymore, and perhaps it never did.

She entered her cottage and marveled at its interior as if for the first time. A kitchen built just for her, a bookcase filled with novels she loved, and, folded neatly in her couch, Colin’s throw blanket from the night before. She supposed it was his now as she would never be able to look at it again without thinking of him.

Reveling in the quiet, she made her way to her bedchamber and changed into her usual shirt-and-breeches. It was too cold now to be without an outer layer, and she felt a little strange donning one over her masculine outfit, but she had yet to commission a matching jacket, so she made do with her lavender pelisse.

Retrieving her writing implements from her desk, she made her way out to the backyard, only to find that her favorite spot had already been claimed by another.

Colin abandoned his reading and looked up from under the sessile oak and beckoned her over with a tilt of his head. He looked entirely comfortable with his long legs stretched out before him, one on top of the other.

“Do you desire for a slow death under my relatives’ hands?” she asked teasingly, putting a fisted hand on her hip, the other balancing the journal and pencil under her arm.

He grinned. “This one is sanctioned, I promise,” he said. He raised his own journal, as if to entice her to come.

She approached, and he scooted slightly over to give her space. She sat, and he cleared his throat. He opened his journal and began to read out loud.

“ Dear Pen,

This trip had been lacking until today, and not only because I can hardly appreciate the sights when I am so disturbed by your silence.

Apparently, when one is missing a dear friend, one does not simply waltz into a new country expecting to feel their absence any less. The foods in Italy began to taste bland the moment I realized you would not be writing me, and the romance of France seemed just that bit duller when I stopped writing you.

So here I am, back to penning you my narrations, except this time, I shall eliminate the mystery of whether you will receive them or not, since my words will be confined to this journal, never to be mailed to you.

I visited the Gothic Quarter today—a place one is never to leave Barcelona without seeing, according to the tourist-tolerating locals—and it was entirely enchanting, with its labyrinthine, cobblestone streets and the beautiful architecture around which they wind.

In the middle of the quarter is a bustling open space called the Plaça de Sant Jaume, which is surrounded by stately buildings, like the Palau de la Generalitat and the Barcelona City Hall. There is also an al fresco market, where I was able to commission stamps for my siblings.

I imagined you inspecting the trinkets on display, especially the quills and inks, your bright hair an aberration in a sea of brown heads. You would marvel at everything here, Pen, observant as you are. You would delight in the many hidden squares one is wont to find when one dares to explore the maze-like streets.

I wonder how your writer’s mind might describe the Barcelona Cathedral, which is arguably the heart of the Gothic Quarter. Its multiple peaks remind me of fingers perpetually reaching skyward, or stalagmites formed over millions of years. Inside, it is quiet and chilly, and I imagine us finding some random observation to titter about, our voices scandalously bouncing off the walls and up to the vaulted ceiling. You would shush me, or I would shush you, whoever was more intimidated by the basilica’s solemn splendor.

Gothic architecture tends to be imposing, especially when there is a bite in the air, but my fearless Pen would sooner imagine lovers attempting to find each other in the many unexpected nooks that characterize this place than cower at the idea of a gargoyle lurking in every corner.

I still check with the innkeeper for your letters.

Your steadfast friend,

Colin"

“Th-that’s beautiful, Colin,” she said tearfully. “It was like I was there with you.”

“You were,” he replied. “I could have sailed to the farthest region of the planet, and you would still have been with me. My family thinks I’m dim for not having realized how madly I have been in love with you.”

She shook her head. “Nobody thinks you’re dim. How can anyone? When you write so beautifully?”

He blushed at the compliment, lowering his eyes bashfully. “You thought it was good?”

“Brilliant, Colin. If these are the types of writings contained in your journals, you should publish them! Sans all mentions of me, perhaps. We wouldn’t want the world to think that the charming Bridgerton was pining , now would we?”

He chuckled, casting his eyes downward again to partially hide his delight.

“Thank you, Penelope.”

She gasped, an idea coming to her. “I could talk to Mrs. Helberg! She might be interested! She ought to expand her repertoire from fiction anyway. Or if she’s not the right person for travel, perhaps she might introduce you to a publisher friend who is. Oh, I am so glad! I think you have found your purpose!”

He could almost see the wheels turning in her head, and he grinned at the giddy pride in her voice, taking both her hands in his.

“I have found my purpose, Pen. More than one, in fact.” She looked at him questioningly, and then he continued, “While I appreciate the excitement, publishing is not what I came to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” She leaned against the tree trunk, settling in to listen.

“Samhain was incredible. Perhaps the best festival I’ve ever experienced in my life.”

It was the last thing she expected him to say, as serious as he looked.

“Now you understand why I love it here.”

He nodded, beginning to rub circles on the back of her hand. She smiled in contentment.

“The food was delicious. Especially that pork! With the apples!” he exclaimed.

She laughed.

“It was the barmbrack that was my favorite though,” he said wistfully.

“The barmbrack?” It had been delicious, but of all the things they had eaten the night before, bread was rather a strange choice to have as a favorite. “You never did tell me what you had bitten into.”

He let go of her hand to retrieve the object from his trouser pocket.

Opening his hand, he presented her with a plain iron ring. She stared at him for a moment and then took it, holding it up to the muted winter light. It was entirely too many sizes too big for any one of her fingers.

Her expression turned teasing as she turned the ring this way and that.

“I hope you’re not proposing to me with a man’s ring that you found in a piece of bread.”

When she looked back at him, he had changed positions so that he was on one knee, an elbow resting on it as he held another ring between his fingers. A cyan stone set in a gold band shaped like a feather. This one was gorgeous.

“Where did you get that?” she breathed.

“I’ve had it since Greece, but it was always yours. I’m glad I brought it with me.”

“Well, that was presumptuous of you,” she teased even as her voice shook.

He shook his head. “Not presumption,” he corrected. “Hope.”

She smiled at him, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. Gently, he took the iron ring from her and replaced it with the one he held. She lifted it closer to her face, reading the inscription inside.

Assuredly. Fervently. Loudly.

“If the ring is to your liking, Pen, I should like very much to see it on your finger. But the caveat is that you would have to marry me.”

She chuckled through her tears.

“Will you, Pen? Marry me?”

She put the ring, perfectly sized this time, on her own finger. “As there would be no limit to my sorrow were I to be parted with this beautiful piece of jewelry, I suppose I shall have to marry you.”

Barely had the words left her mouth, and then he was kissing her, deeply and joyfully, the last of the sessile oak’s leaves breaking free from its branch to dance in the winter breeze.

Chapter 19: Wallflower

Chapter Text

“PENELOPE! YOU MUST. MAKE HASTE!!!!” Eloise Bridgerton yelled from the bottom of yet another staircase.

Beside her, Benedict was wincing, hands over his ears. “Must you do that?”

“How else will she hear me?”

“It is not a big house. You could have just gone and fetched her.”

“It is more efficient this way,” Eloise shrugged.

A moment later, Penelope finally emerged from the bedchamber, twisting her hair into a chignon and trying not to trip as she descended the stairs.

Benedict stretched both arms in preparation to catch her. “Good gracious, Penelope. Our brother will have our heads if you fall to your death today of all days.”

“Is he there already?” the redhead asked.

“Yes, yes, now come on. We are already running late!” Eloise said, snapping her fingers repeatedly.

“I’m there, I’m there! Good god, Eloise. No need to get hysterical.”

Finally, they were filing out the door.

“Congratulations, Ma’am,” the butler said, grinning as he bowed his head.

Penelope turned her head to grin back at him. “Thank you, Dunwoody.”

They boarded the carriage, and soon, they were making their way through the streets of Bloomsbury.

“When Ulrika Seeley fell in love in 1810, it was with two things: writing and Halpert Paice.

The first happened quietly. After spending an entire weekend reading a magnificent book called Writings on the Wall, she was feeling rather inspired, so she picked up a quill and began her first novelette. She discovered right then and there that sentences and paragraphs were like puzzles that required specific turns of phrases, just the right word choice, and when they all clicked into place, a warm sort of satisfaction settled in her belly.

It did not even matter that said belly was softer and more expansive than those of other young ladies’. Literature, apparently, did not concern itself with such trivial things as a creator’s corpulence.

So that became her favorite thing about writing. She did not have to starve herself to do it.

Unfortunately, her affection for Halpert Paice did not spark into being in quite the same gracious manner.

She and her mama were at a garden party (though it was arguable if it counted as one when it was held in a poorly ventilated tent, and there was not a single flower in sight), suffering the sweltering heat and trying to maintain elegant affectations through multiple layers of clothing.

Half-deranged from the infernal conditions, Ulrika’s eyes had narrowed into the punch bowl, and she was stumbling towards it when a gentleman got in her way. She barreled into him, and they both fell to the ground in an undignified heap, managing to shake the table and upend the unfortunate punch bowl on their way down.

Through a hydration-deprived haze, she could hear her mother’s chastisem*nts rising above the horrified chatter of the ton, and soon, she was stammering her own apologies to the poor gentleman she had just assaulted.

But Halpert Paice did not reply with more rebukes. Not even an irritated exclamation. Instead, as he took stock of himself and discovered that he was covered in sweet, sticky punch from head to toe, he began to laugh. Not in an unkind way, mind you, but in a truly mirthful, joyful way that elicited a lovely sound Ulrika would remember for the rest of her life.

‘We bowled over the punch bowl,’ he said cheekily, and she was lost.”

Penelope shut the book and concluded her reading, “From Chapter One of Wallflower .”

Hubert’s erupted into applause, and she scanned the crowd of mostly familiar faces. In the next moment, Mrs. Helberg was accosting her with a too-tight embrace. Behind the woman was Colin, who contented himself with more applause, a big grin, and pride in his eyes.

“Marvelous, marvelous work, sister!” Anthony approached, bearing a small bouquet of tulips. “Pity that Kate could not be here.”

Penelope chuckled. “I will do a private reading for her and the baby tomorrow.”

“Aubrey Hall awaits. The Stirlings and the Bassets wouldn’t miss it either, I’m sure,” Anthony replied, tilting his head indulgently before stepping aside to allow others to congratulate her.

The small crowd consisted of Lady Featherington, the Finches, the Huxleys, Cousin Oscar, Lady Danbury, and Lady Bridgerton, who all smothered her with hugs, kisses, and praises. Somewhere in the madness, Marcus Anderson, the new Baron of Wyndthorpe, emerged and handed her another bouquet, this time of sunflowers.

“Sunflowers for a summer launch,” he said.

“Mr. Anderson, I was not expecting you. Considering the circ*mstances, your presence means a lot to me.”

“My father valued both friendship and literature, Miss Feath—that is, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he corrected, and she couldn’t help but giggle at his mistake. He smiled cordially and continued in a more somber tone. “He would have wanted me to come.”

She smiled kindly at him and sat at the desk that had been prepared for her, opening one of her books to sign it.

To Marcus Anderson. May you find friendship and comfort in this novel as I have found the same in you.

Penelope B.

She handed him a book, and he smiled back gratefully, stepping aside for the next well wisher.

Penelope gave a little gasp, and then her face broke into a grin. “Harry.” And she couldn’t help it; her eyes welled with tears even though she had seen him earlier, standing in the back.

Just for a moment, a very brief one, she imagined herself amongst the grapes of Lord Dankworth’s vineyard, tasting their sugar in the air, her fingers forever stained an otherworldly blue from the summer harvests. She took that thought and allowed herself a last moment of grief.

And then she let it go.

“Penelope, I am so proud of you,” he said as a blonde woman stepped forward. “I would like to introduce you to my wife—“

“Miss Mann!” she exclaimed and then instantly realized that she had made the same mistake as the baron. “I mean, Lady Dankworth! I have heard so many wonderful things about you. Your husband is besotted with you, Ma’am.”

The Marchioness blushed a deep red, and Penelope thought it made her look even more becoming.

“Harry speaks very highly of you as well, my lady. And I must admit, I have been a fan since your Whistledown days.” Her speech was only faintly accented, and it gave her voice a charming quality. “Even in Leipzig, copies of your pamphlet occasionally circulated in parties, and they were considered precious rarities.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in awe. “Are you in earnest? I did not know that!”

Harry chuckled. “I may have dropped your name to gain her favor in the beginning of our courtship. For that reason, it was important that we make it here today. My wife needed to know that I was not fibbing when I told her I knew Lady Whistledown herself.”

Penelope grinned at that. “Well, whatever your reasoning, noble or less so, I am glad to have you here.” She signed another book and handed it to them.

There was a commotion as the crowd parted like the sea to let in none other than the Queen of England. A number of people had to exit the bookshop to make room for Her Majesty and her faithful attendant, Brimsley.

“M-my queen!” Penelope exclaimed, rising from her seat only to descend into a curtsy, which was clumsier than she would have liked given that she hadn’t had to perform such formalities since she ceased teaching Rory and Aiden.

“You did not think I would miss this book launch that you promised me, did you, girl?” Charlotte stated regally, wanting everyone to know that she had been the first, save for Penelope’s publisher, who found out about this book that she had written.

“I should not have expected any less, Ma’am.”

“Why, of course. Far be it for me to miss the pleasure of seeing a wallflower in bloom. I already missed your wedding, after all. Hard to pull me away from my royal duties, you understand.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Penelope. “We knew it was a big ask for you to come all the way to Kilkenny, but my husband and I were more than appeased by the generous gifts you sent. Truly, Ma’am, I am humbled by your presence here today.”

“Well of course you are. Now sign me a copy of this book of yours, and I shall expect a private reading when you get back from Aubrey Hall.”

From his post in the corner, Colin interjected, “Actually, Your Majesty, we are returning straight to Kilkenny after Aubrey Hall. We are renovating a home there, you see.”

“Ah. I suppose I can wait another month or so. I will expect your return to London at least for when the season is in full swing.”

Colin and Penelope exchanged a look. The truth was that neither of them were particularly fond of the idea of participating, especially when they were both off the marriage mart, but then again, they did want to spend time with their families. Plus, Penelope would probably receive more opportunities to promote her book before the day was done, and they needed to be in London to, as they say, strike whilst the iron was hot.

“I suppose it’s a good thing then that our home in Bloomsbury has already been outfitted with furniture and staff,” Colin replied.

“Bloomsbury? How fitting for a writer.”

“ Two writers, Ma’am,” Penelope said before Colin could stop her. “My husband has secured publishing as well for his travel journals.”

Colin colored.

“How marvelous! Lord and Lady Whistledown! Who would’ve thought? Well, I’m looking forward to reading your work as well, young man.” And with that, the Queen picked up her book and swished out of Hubert’s.

“My god,” Eloise, who had been staring in disbelief at the exchange, whispered to her brother. “The Queen attending a book signing. How surreal.”

Colin chuckled, and they stood in silent support as Penelope sat through a flurry of even more signing and congratulations. It was only when the crowd began to thin that Eloise noticed a dark figure in the farthest corner of the bookshop. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Cressida Cowper! The nerve of her to show up here—”

“Hush,” Colin whispered. “I had her invited.”

“What!? Why on earth—?”

“I want her to see Penelope in her triumph,” Colin gave her an evil sort of smirk that on any other person would have given Eloise a chill down her spine.

“Huh,” she acquiesced. “You’re right. She can choke on it. What on earth possessed her to come, however? They must have found out that the queen would be in attendance.”

“Or Lord Debling.”

Eloise’s head swiveled so fast that it was a wonder she didn’t get whiplash. “Lord Debling? What did you do?”

Colin shrugged. “Not my fault, really. Our messenger may have let it slip, erroneously, that he had been invited. No one ever said he would actually arrive.”

“Oh, you are evil . Lord Whistledown indeed.”

“Lady Whistledown may have integrity, but nothing is beneath Lord Whistledown when it comes to serving some well-earned retribution for his wife.”

“Don’t tell me you had something to do with Lord Debling’s exile as well.”

“Ah, that he did to himself. I certainly had nothing to do with him allegedly impregnating Lord Pearwin’s wife and then escaping to his animal corpse-filled home in the country. He can rot there, for all I care.”

“That Cressida Cowper would still pine for such a man,” Eloise shook her head, “How the mighty have fallen.”

Just then, Penelope approached them, bending her tired fingers as the last of her books left Hubert’s. Awkwardly, Cressida Cowper passed them to leave as well, and Penelope spared her but one glance before turning her attention to her best friends in the whole world.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“Yes, but Eloise is to go home to Number Five,” said Colin.

“What! Says who?” Eloise protested.

“The master of the Bloomsbury house, that’s who,” replied her vexed brother.

“Ha! Well, it is the mistress who has the final say. What say you, Penelope? Might I, your dearest friend, stay in your guest room tonight, as I have done for the last week, since you encroached upon my personal time to prepare your home for you?”

“Well, I don’t see any reason why not—”

Trust his wife and his sister to gang up on him every chance they could. “Eloise, I promise you, for the things I am planning to do to my wife this evening, you do not want to be around.”

Eloise blanched and let out a disgusted sound.

Penelope blushed a deep red. “Colin!” she exclaimed, slapping his arm.

“What? I tried to be subtle! And what can I say? I am in love, and a very wise person once told me that were I to find myself in such a position, I should declare it—assuredly, fervently, and very loudly.”

Eloise turned from white to green at that and promptly left to find her mother’s carriage.

“I don’t remember there being a ‘ very’ anywhere in that statement.”

“There is. I recall it perfectly,” he insisted.

He bent down and took her by the waist, suffering the slight discomfort, so she could link her fingers behind his neck, as she was fond of doing.

“Would you place a wager on that?” she teased, rubbing her nose against his.

He replied with his signature cheek, “I’d bet on it, a pound to a penny.”