Chapter Text
Reverse culture shock after his year abroad in Greece set in almost immediately when he encountered the dreary London weather, but the bigger shock for Colin Bridgerton was seeing Penelope Featherington dancing with some blandly handsome man at the Danbury ball shortly after his return home.
"Who in blazes is that?" he asks Anthony and Benedict, his voice sharp for a reason he can't identify.
"Who?"
"The man Penelope is dancing with."
"Edward Lancaster," Anthony says, looking to where Colin is rudely, openly pointing. "No title, and his father's a merchant, but he's fairly wealthy."
"She can do better," Colin says, sipping his punch, which doesn't have enough gin in it for his liking. Someone at this bloody cotillion must have a flask he can take a nip from.
"You don't even know the man," Benedict says.
"He looks like a git," Colin says. His stomach feels weird. Tight. Twisty.
"What do you care?"
"She's my friend and her father's dead, someone has to look out for her." Yes, that was it. This new feeling is protectiveness. Naturally.
"Eloise has already vetted him," Anthony says. "She approves."
"Is he open-minded? He'll let her read and write her novels or whatever she's always scribbling?" He knows how important it is to Pen that she nurture her mind, even though he knows she also wants to marry and have children, unlike Eloise. Colin doesn't know why, but the idea of Pen marrying this Lancaster character makes him angry. She's smiling at him and Colin wants to hit him and get his hand off her waist. Fashion has changed enough that her (unfortunately hideous) pastel pink dress accentuates her waist more than the other dresses women wore last year. The neckline is lower too, revealing a more ample bosom than was strictly fashionable, but he's certainly not going to complain about it. She looks curvy and soft. He'd always been drawn to thin women, but he must admit, plump women had their attractions.
"Eloise says he's called her a bluestocking, in a teasing way. It bothered Eloise but not Penelope."
"She's not a bluestocking," Colin says. "Eloise is, but not Pen. She's just,"--he searches for the correct word--"less traditional than other women. More forward-thinking."
"I didn't realize you were close enough to have political discussions," Benedict says, looking at him curiously.
"Got to talk about something when dancing. Mama always made me do it," Colin says, a tad uneasily. That wasn't true. He rather enjoyed hanging out with Penelope at these balls. She livened them up and kept the scheming mamas at bay. When he'd been in Greece, he had eagerly awaited every letter from home, missing his annoying siblings dreadfully, and it hadn't been lost on him that whenever Eloise or Francesca mentioned the Featheringtons, he'd smiled fondly at the memory of his friend. His brave friend, who'd been on the verge of confessing her crush on him before he'd interrupted to tell her he was leaving. She'd tried to cover it up, but he knew, and he stopped her. No need to embarrass her. She'd been breathless, building up to something huge, and though Colin was thick, he wasn't that thick. He fully put it together a month later, after he made room in his brooding schedule for something other than Marina's ill-usage: he was her first crush. It was flattering. A result, surely, of being the only one to pay her attention, but still. She was a nice girl, and it's a good ego boost to be admired.
"You should go dance with her now, then," Anthony says. "Catch up. You haven't seen her since your return, have you?"
"No," Colin says, tossing back the rest of his punch. "I haven't. Good idea, Anthony."
He makes his way across the room, his glass now in Anthony's hand, a sly expression on Anthony's face. Now that he thinks about it, it wasn't like Penelope to go three days without visiting the Bridgerton home, and that's how long he'd been back. Surely she'd known. This Lancaster prick had probably been squiring her around town and she hadn't had time. Selfish bastard. Colin runs fingers through his hair and pulls out his watch chain, ostensibly to check the time but really to study the effect of his ministrations in the crystal's reflection. Fashionably rumpled, possibly even rakish. Other women he'd been with had liked his hair just long enough to pull. He was rather proud of his hair, consequently.
Did Penelope like his hair? He liked hers. A beautiful auburn shade, it was. Brighter than he remembered. Longer, too. A few tendrils had come loose and flew behind her as she whirled around in Lancaster's stupid, oafish arms. Why was she dancing with him anyway? She's in love with me, he thought. Am I that easy to get over? The thought hurt in a strange, unexpected way.
She sees him over Lancaster's shoulder, and her face lights up in a way that makes Colin's heart skip a beat. He smiles back at her.
"I didn't know you'd be here!" she says as he reaches for her hand to bring it to his mouth and kiss it, something he's actually never done before. She blushes prettily. He wants to embrace her, as he'd done with his sisters upon his return, but settles for squeezing her fingers. "I thought you'd be recovering from your trip."
"I couldn't in good conscience deprive the ton from my dazzling company," he says, and she laughs.
"You didn't want to deprive yourself from Lady Danbury's hors d'oeuvres, I think you mean," she replies. Her pink cheeks are rather fetching, a more vivid color than the pale pink of her dress. She should wear stronger colors to match her personality, he decides.
Perhaps he didn't want to embrace her quite like he'd done with his sisters after all.
"You know me so well," he says, realizing it's true.
"Ahem," Lancaster says, like a cunt. Colin bristles.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, how rude of me," Penelope says, slightly flustered. She turns to Lancaster. "Edward Lancaster, this is my good friend Colin Bridgerton. Colin, this is Mr. Lancaster. Colin--Mr. Bridgerton, rather--and I are neighbors and practically grew up together. I've had nearly as many dinners with his family as I have with my own."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Colin says. Lancaster just nods his head. Prick.
"Are you free for the next set?" Colin asks Penelope. "It's been so long since I've had a good dance partner."
"She's spoken for, Colin," Lancaster butts in. Penelope looks put out at his curt tone.
"The one after that is open," Penelope says, meeting his eyes hopefully.
"Then I'd like the honor of signing your dance card," Colin says. "For old time's sake."
She hands it over to him, her blush deepening. She is far prettier than he remembered, though her looks have scarcely changed. She seems shapelier, but that's it. Perhaps he'd just never noticed before. He'd always been thick. But why was it suddenly so important that Penelope smile at him?
The next dance starts up, a quadrille, and he wishes he were dancing this one with Penelope, as it's his favorite. She enjoys it too, and laughs with Lancaster and not at him. It feels wrong. Across the room, Benedict catches his eye, looks at Penelope and Lancaster dancing, then back to Colin, and makes a face at him. Colin makes sure no one's watching and throws a vulgar gesture his way. Uh oh. His mother saw. He tries smiling impishly at her, and she shakes her head fondly.
*
Oh, dear, Penelope thinks, trying not to fret, trying to focus on Lancaster's face rather than searching out Colin whenever the dance turns her in his direction. The problem is that he always seems to be looking at her. Not even at any of the other, more attractive women that are here tonight. The old feelings had surged within her the second she saw him. She thought she'd gotten over him, especially after he'd rejected her before she'd even gotten anything important out, but that was not the case. She swore inwardly even as she plastered on a smile for Lancaster. She needs to stop being a silly little lovestruck girl, she knows this. But she can't. It's Colin.
She'd done a lot of soul-searching while he'd been away. She's ashamed at how she responded to his and Marina's engagement. Even if Marina had tried to entrap him, it hadn't been fair for Lady Whistledown to expose her secret like that. But she couldn't apologize to Marina without exposing herself as Lady Whistledown. It's been eating at her for the entire year. She's still in touch with Marina, and knows she's relatively happy with her new husband and darling little boy. She's also ashamed at how relieved she is that Colin didn't go through with it, and that she's able to hold onto that tiny, absurd kernel of hope she's always tried to squash down. She'd never be able to land a Bridgerton. She's too awkward and plump and yellow. She should get over her crush and find someone attainable. Colin didn't even like brainy girls. He was always chasing some blonde, frivolous girl, before Marina came along and broke his heart. Pen understood why she did what she did, and can't really resent her for it. She'd been desperate. And Pen had still betrayed her confidence, all for a selfish wish that would never come true.
"What are you thinking about?" Lancaster asks.
"Trying not to trod on your feet or my hem," she says, laughing. At the next turn, he grabs her by her waist and lifts her up a few inches so that her toes only graze the floor, and sets her down, as if she weighed no more than a small child. She squeaks in surprise.
"No need to step at all," he says. "We'll just float down the line."
In all honesty, it leaves her breathless. His muscles are nothing to sneeze at. "Oh, my goodness. Don't break your back," she says.
"Nonsense," he replies. He does it again.
"Please, stop," she says, looking around. This kind of familiarity is unexpected, something she's never experienced. She hopes no one is watching. It's not the manhandling that bothers her, per se, but the public nature of it. They're in a ballroom, for god's sake. That's no place to get handsy.
At the next turn, he does it again, and she's starting to get annoyed. "Mr. Lancaster," she chides.
"I was only teasing," he says, trying for an ingratiating smile. It strikes her as pompous, which is odd. She's never had such a negative thought about him before, not even when Eloise had disapproved of him the first time he'd come courting and tried to talk her out of their relationship before it even began.
"Of course, I'm sorry," Penelope says out of habit. She does hate disappointing people.
Thankfully, the dance ends, putting an end to the awkward silence that had ensued.
Colin appears out of nowhere and touches her elbow, offering her a glass of punch.
"Thank you, Colin, how thoughtful. I'm parched," she says. She drinks it down, wishing it were stronger. Maybe if it were stronger, she'd be stronger too. She could use some fortitude before her dance with Colin, which will be a waltz. Waltzes were far more intimate than any other dance. She's all discombobulated, she doesn't need Colin's hand at the small of her back right now. No matter how much she wants it.
"Shall we?" Colin asks, offering her his arm. She takes it. He hands their empty glasses to Lancaster, who looks like he wants to throw them in Colin's face. It perplexes her. Surely he's not jealous? No one's ever been jealous over her attentions before.
"But of course," she says. They get into position, and her heart speeds up just a little as she takes his hand and puts her other on his shoulder. It's not a high enough reach to be uncomfortable, but she's cognizant of their height difference. He must have gotten taller since he'd been in Greece, along with getting more tan. She wishes she'd gotten taller too, but alas, she was destined to be short and stocky. She looks up at his jawline, cleanly shaven, and more prominent than she remembers. He might be thinner, too, shedding the last of his teenage softness as he grows into adulthood. She feels the absurd impulse to lick the edge of it, right where his jaw meets his ear, and blushes. He's dabbed cologne there, though. She can smell it. It's a new scent. He'd probably picked it up on his travels. It's manly but not overpowering.
Lancaster's cologne was often strong enough to clear her sinuses.
"How was Greece?" she asks as they begin to whirl. He's an excellent dancer, though inclined to miscount the time signature of the music, but in a charming way, as if he doesn't care about society's idea of refinement and would rather be horsing around, his limbs barely contained. He's always been as full of energy as a coil springing about. Penelope matches his pace the best she can.
"Marvelous, Pen, you'd have loved it."
"Perhaps I'll get to go, someday," she says. She's always hoped to have a Continental honeymoon, silly as the thought of her being married at all seemed.
"The ruins, wow. They're massive. The Acropolis is just...it's indescribable. I swam nearly every day, the seas are so blue there, it's astounding. And the food!"
"Of course the food," she says, smiling at him.
"Grape leaves, olives. The most remarkable cheeses. And the tomatoes! You were right, Pen, they were heavenly."
He waxes poetic about food for a while, and Penelope smiles. He was a glutton more than a gourmet, which his brothers ribbed him about. They never made food jokes around her, though, perhaps feeling awkward about her weight. Their mother probably told them to be kind about it. Even now she bats away feelings of insecurity. She's beyond that now, no matter what her mother thinks about her figure.
"I'm glad you had a good time," she says when he's finished.
"I'm glad to be back," he says. "I shouldn't have been away so long." He pauses for a fraction of a second. "I missed you."
"I missed you too," she says quietly, avoiding his eyes. He looks completely sincere. Her heart is in her throat. "We all did."
"You're one of my best friends, Pen," he says softly.
"I...value your company, too" she says, like a moron. She wants to kick herself. What an inane thing to say.
"You must come to family dinner tomorrow," he says. "I'll tell Mother, she'll be delighted to have you."
"I'd love to," she says, and falls silent, drinking the moment in, trying to make it last. She'll play it over in her head all night while she's trying to sleep. His hand is warm against her waist. She never wants him to move it.
Well, that's not strictly true. She wants him to move it upward, for him to feel her breasts, take them in his palms. Another absurd thought. Far more carnal a thought than any she's ever had before. Far different from the innocent, chaste kisses she'd imagined with him as a foolish child. Her face feels hot. She sneaks a glance upward, hoping her lust isn't visible on her face. He smiles down at her. That perfect, dashing smile.
Oh, dear, she thinks again.