Chapter Text
This was Penelope’s favorite part of the day. After dinner had been served and the children had been put to sleep, she and Colin would sit in the drawing room. Penelope would sit at the end of the long sofa sipping tea while Colin would read whatever writing he had worked on that day. In those moments, his green eyes would flash and although he was past thirty (ok, well past thirty) he became a young man again. The young man she had fallen in love with.
Tonight was particularly lovely. Penelope and Colin had spent the previous week visiting Colin’s brother Benedict at their home in the countryside. Penelope loved Colin’s big loud family, Colin’s younger sister Eloise was her dearest friend, but at the end of the trip Penelope had found herself longing for the quiet solitude of her own home.
It was just past eight O clock and the late summer sun had begun to set. Although it was August, there was a slight chill in the air and a fire burned low in the hearth
“And yet, although perhaps it doesn’t boast the breathtaking scenery of the Mediterranean”. Colin made a sweeping motion with his hand as if gesturing to the white sand beaches of some far-off shore. As he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, his eyes took on a dreamy, distant quality. Penelope had always admired the way Colin was transported when he wrote. She had only ever written about the happenings of the ton, but Colin’s writing could make you feel as if you truly stood on that Mediterranean beach, the afternoon sun beating down on your neck as the cool waves lapped at your feet
“There is a quiet beauty to the English seaside that escapes description.” Colin continued, barely looking at the journal in his hand. “There is something in those gray seas and windswept shorelines that, although even now I struggle to put it into words, I always find myself missing. So when I return from my travels, from jungle rivers and winding streets in foreign cities, I find myself feeling, in some deep part of my body, that my body is unknotting itself. I breathe in the salt air, and think, at last, I’m home.”
Colin closed his notebook and placed it on the table. He looked expectantly at Penelope.
“Did you like it?”
“Colin, I thought it was wonderful!” Penelope exclaimed. She stood up from the couch and took his hands in hers. “I always think your writing is wonderful.”
“Really? I thought the ending might be a bit too trite? Oh, but you really liked it?”
“Yes! Really Colin, you’d think after eight years of marriage.”
“nine.” Colin interjected.
“after nine years of marriage you’d believe me when I say I like your writing”
“I don’t know.” Colin said. He pulled Penelope closer to him and wrapped his arm around her. He had one hand on her waist and one hand sliding devilishly close to her breast. “I might need some more convincing.”
“Colin!” Penelope exclaimed. She wrapped her arms around him as he nuzzled her neck. She pushed her hips forward, coming dangerously close to the swelling in his trousers.
“Shall we retire for the evening?” Colin whispered, beginning to pick Penelope up off the ground.
“wait!” Penelope said, “There was something I wanted to do first.”
“Anything, my love.” He leaned forwards and whispered in her right ear. Then he gave the ear a nibble for good measure. Penelope opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. She cast her eyes to the floor. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
“Well, maybe tonight you could… Or at least I was hoping…. That perhaps tonight you could listen to my writing.” Penelope’s cheeks flushed. She looked up at Colin with such a look of earnestness that Colin felt compelled to lean down and kiss her forward. “I’ve been working on a story.”
“Of course I’ll read your writing. You know, I’ve read your writing before.”
It took Penelope a moment to realize what Colin was talking about. You see, she had always thought of the Lady whistledown part of her life and the Colin part of her life as being rather like two completely separate books in a series. When she had begun the Colin part of her life, she had closed the cover on the lady whistledown part of her life. (If this was not quite true in the strictest sense, well, Penelope did not think about it too much). It was not that she was not proud of all that she had accomplished as Lady Whistledown. Rather, she felt that the woman she was now was completely different from the shy wallflower she had been when she first started writing. It was strange to realize that Colin had been there during that period of her life. While she had been longing for him to notice her he had unwittingly been reading her column.
“Penelope Featherington-Bridgerton, would you do me the honor of reading me your writing?” Colin got down on one knee, and took her hand.
“Well, the thing is, I’ve been writing about us…”