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He’d disseminated the gifts he’d returned with relatively quickly, yet personally.
Hyacinth had been first, the very evening that he’d returned, predominantly so she’d stop her less-than-subtle hints. The something blue or white - a blue and white enamelled brooch, gold flowers encircling the panel of sea blue - had been one of the easier trinkets, given the Grecian flag of blue on a field of white. After supper, he retrieved it from his bags and watched as Hyacinth tore the paper from the box, thrilled to be doing so. She‘d worn it pinned with prominence on her palest spencer jacket the next afternoon, brimming with pride.
Gregory was next, given that he was the one to ask for gifts initially, and only failed to be first to receive his gift by sheer determination on their youngest sister’s part. On his travels, the Napoleonic wars throughout Europe raging on yet again, he’d come across a collection of painted pewter toy soldiers. The red of the uniforms of the military band stood out, bold, and the minuscule instruments gleamed in the candlelight in which Gregory played, having barely left the small metal men since he’d unwrapped them.
Whilst Hyacinth had all but demanded (and really, she had demanded) her gift, his other three sisters were a little less easy to purchase for, his eyes having roamed over many a stall for something that truly fit them.
Given her new status as a duchess, the nymph carved onto a carnelian pendant was likely not one of the showier items within her collection. Ever amiable, Daphne had still beamed as though he had presented her with the missing French Blue when she’d joined them at Aubrey Hall. He didn’t fail to notice she’d attached it to a ribbon around her neck and worn a similar shade to dinner that same evening.
For Fran, he’d found a fan illustrated with a view of the ocean on both sides. She’d always favoured blue, and whilst it wouldn’t necessarily be entirely useful for the next year, at least a small part of him would be able to be with her as she attended her first balls in society. He’d taken it out to the bench facing the trees that she frequented when they were much younger, knowing that she’d have retreated from the festivities at the end of their time in Kent. Sure enough, he found his younger sister there, allowing herself to rest her back rather than perching on the edge as was proper. Whilst she’d said little, Fran’s embrace after she carefully unwrapped her gift had meant more than any words ever could.
Eloise hadn’t been easy to buy for until he’d spotted it in Athens - a silver pen, gilded elements snaking around the cap. Given that she was one of his most frequent correspondents, and would be making more social correspondence than ever before in her first season, it seemed only right that she have a pen up to the task. And besides, aside from almost anything else - his bed, mostly, but perhaps there were a couple of other things - he had missed his sisters more than he’d anticipated, and each of those letters from home had only reminded him of that. Knowing that Eloise was quiet on occasion in a similar way to Fran - where each word carried the weight of a hundred - he’d left the wrapped gift on her desk to open when she felt it right to. The thank you note - no other words needed - carefully illustrated with nothing in particular he received the next day found its way into his top desk drawer to be treasured when he missed his sister most in future.
Benedict was more difficult - he didn’t want for anything, covet anything; he wasn’t particularly sentimental in a useful way. In Greece, he’d spent so much time staring out at the blue water, the almost white sand smoothed across a tiny cove like paint across a canvas when it struck him. He was an atrocious artist, really. He could never mix the colours to be just so, not in the same way his brother could. But he could paint a picture with his words, if nothing else. He’d spent ages down at the shoreline, little else to do in his day other than just be. The pages of his journal were soon blotted in ink, his handwriting covering the ivory paper like the rays of sun sinking into his skin. Whilst it wasn’t quite the same as gifting something physical, he knew the mutual respect they shared in regards to their own branches of art. And if, a few months later, Benedict wordlessly gifted him an oil painting that brought him back to that very day as he knew he would, that would mean everything.
He kept hold of his mother’s present until her birthday, and that was rather a feat. He’d wanted - in that middle child sort of way - to have his gift take pride of place, yet had so wanted to gift it sooner. Luckily, Violet Bridgerton’s birthday was mere days after he had returned (an intentional choice), and so keeping hold of the third jewellery box had not been too much of a chore. It had especially not been a chore to see the joy on her face as she declared she would wear the enamelled gold laurel leaf hair ornament at the next ball, nor had it been a chore to see the eyerolls of his siblings as he radiated pure smugness.
It wasn’t necessarily that he was nervous to give his eldest brother his gift. Except, in a much more real way, he was. Part brother, part father, Anthony had proved to be a little difficult to impress at times - particularly when he’d come to realise that the next two brothers were more interested in alternative paths for their lives. Travel and art may have once been on his cards, but Anthony’s whole hand had been replaced in an instant all those years prior. And so, rather than presenting him with a physical gift, he toyed nervously with the box of cigars on the morning of his eldest brother’s nuptials, having carved out time for them to talk - just them. Because, really, nothing was more precious to Anthony than time.
He hadn’t really anticipated the purchase of any other gifts. Once he’d bought the last of the gifts for his family, he hadn’t expected anything else.
And then he’d seen it, purely by chance, a chain of gold and peridot, gleaming in its box in a window in Paris. Through his travels through the French Empire, the Kingdoms of Italy and Naples, and - finally - the Ottoman Empire, nothing had called to him like this had.
Before he’d even realised what he was doing, he had purchased the necklace and packed the box into the bottom of one of his bags, the gift joining the rest of his purchases in safety, wrapped in linen shirts that desperately needed replacing.
He absolutely had not forgotten the gift, however it was much easier to procrastinate in the gifting part when the recipient didn’t live in the same house, even if she was not an infrequent visitor there.
By the time the beginning of August had arrived, the Glorious Twelfth mere days away, even he had to admit that he had left it as long as humanly possible, too, although there hadn’t seemed to have been a suitable moment. It seemed every time they were in each other’s company, they were also in company with so many others, too. He didn’t know, nor did he want to, if that was by design or by coincidence.
It wasn’t as though he could just whip it out at a ball, or a musicale, or - heaven forbid - the races, and any other time they’d met had been entirely by chance. Without holding onto the box every waking minute, there simply was no opportunity.
Which is why he found himself, at the last ball of the season, once again held by one of his newly married siblings, dancing with as many people as it would take to satisfy his mother as early as possible, waiting impatiently to cross the floor to her.
She wouldn’t be his first or his only, but she’d be his last, and that was what counted.
Miss Cowper, Miss Mander; the dance cards of ladies he wouldn’t particularly care to remember were dutifully signed, and whilst he enjoyed La Triomphe and the Cameronian Rant, he knew that Anthony and Kate were fully embracing the popularity of the Waltz following the visit of European dignitaries and royalty just weeks prior.
And so as the band started up with a tune he’d committed to memory, he crossed the floor to where she wasn’t paying attention to much at all.
The surprise on her face as he asked her to dance the waltz would have been all the sweeter if not for the way she seemed to be hedging to decline - whether or not doing so was entirely proper.
He reached to grasp her hands, to keep her grounded there and not slink off to the sides of the ballroom.
In his heart, he knew the lack of gloves on his hands would surely be worth a mention in the next edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, but the way he could feel everywhere the warmth that radiated through her silk gloves as he grasped her hands was worth it.
They exchanged small talk through the dance - it was awfully difficult not to, given the close proximity and the lack of swapping partners - but they didn’t discuss anything of import. A bit of bemoaning the newlywed bliss that their respective siblings insisted on sharing with the rest of their families. A couple of beautifully executed - if he did say so himself - puns about his time in Greece that she rallied straight back. All in all, nothing to write home about, not like he’d done so many times since the previous summer, and mostly to the woman in front of him.
And then, the dance had come to an end, and she was curtseying in front of him before he could so much as register it.
At that point, in any other ballroom, she would have made her excuses and retreated to safety. However, this time, he knew he needed to intervene, blinking his way back into the room - candlelight twinkling off the jewels adorning every woman there, but creating a glow of radiance especially from the woman in front of him.
Without thinking - or, perhaps, with too much thought over too many years entirely - he reached out to capture her hand in his, again, Whistledown be damned.
“Come with me,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head, both pairs of feet already moving away before she could agree or otherwise.
He’d stashed the case in his new sister-in-law’s drawing room, an entire corridor from the state rooms, and safe from even the nosiest of his siblings - in part because he was quite sure even the new chatelaine had yet to explore the rooms fully. The box, nonetheless, was hidden under some cloth, and under a chair, just in case.
As he led her into the room, he became rather aware that closing the doors behind them could be considered rather improper. And yet, letting her hand go with a pang of loss, he did exactly that.
Though echoing his thoughts, always knowing his next word before he himself knew it, she gave a soft gasp, clutching her hand to her middle, as though to calm herself. “Colin, it could be thought quite scandalous for the two of us–”
Already on his knees, searching with his hand under the chair, Colin wished that he could care more about the scandal that they could provoke, and yet the particular scandal they were tempting did not seem like such a bad option. Instead he waved her words away, as though batting them off their course to his ears.
With a satisfied hum as his hand met with the hard case covered in smooth cloth - clearly he’d pushed it further underneath than intended - Colin stood, uncovering the box with a little more flourish than was perhaps necessary. It was worth the airs he’d given himself, however, to see the mildly confused smile and small chuckle that crossed her lips.
“Pen, I can only apologise that it has taken until the end of the season,” Colin began, sheepish at the lack of any real excuse other than he hadn’t simply just called on her. “However, I purchased gifts for all members of my family on my travels, and could simply not leave you wanting.”
If Penelope’s smile faltered, Colin was sure that it was just the flickering of the lone candle he had left burning in the room.
“It seemed to demand that it be yours,” he continued, reaching with one hand for hers, clasped in front of her waist in that way women about the ton seemed to default. Cradling her silk-covered hands in his own for just a touch longer than he ought, Colin transferred the warm orange box - the one that reminded him of her curls from hundreds of miles away - into her ownership.
He stepped back a fraction, not so far that he couldn’t still feel the gentle breaths that she hadn’t quite regained control over following their dance, but just far enough that she had space to open the box in the very least.
Penelope’s thumb smoothed over the button, hesitating to press it open. If he were less observant when it came to changes in those around him, he may not have noticed the way her bottom lip slightly curled inwards, teeth worrying it.
If he were less of a gentleman, he might have removed it for her.
Colin cleared his throat, gaze dropping as he pulled more chivalrous thoughts together. “The amber for your hair, you see, although the box was open when I saw it, and thus a happy coincidence.” He allowed himself a smile, nerves seeming to overcome him more with each additional second she paused.
What he’d have given to be able to read minds in that moment.
When, eventually, her thumb pressed the catch, the lid springing free, he felt as though he could breathe again.
Penelope curled her thumb under the circular lid, gently lifting until the box was open, the circlet of the necklace fully visible, when her breath became just a soft gasp.
“Colin…” She murmured, moving a white finger across the smooth surface of each green gem, the gold chains holding each section together, right around to the tongue clasp at each end of the chained jewels. “It’s so beautiful.”
An honourable man might have accepted the look on her face as reward enough, but the words were a nice addition for a slightly less honourable one.
Still staring down and tracing her finger around the gems, Penelope’s lips were slightly parted, as though she couldn’t find it in her to be the lady that she’d been so carefully crafted into. “Thank you,” she breathed, an intensity that the volume shouldn’t have afforded her.
Colin paused before responding, though his smile didn’t falter.
He’d been about to proclaim it as nothing, but it wasn’t nothing.
She’d filled his thoughts more than he’d anticipated between letters, and it seemed only fitting that he bring back a part of his travels, just as she’d somehow become a part of home that he carried with him throughout his travels.
“You’re most welcome,” he nodded, rocking slightly on his heels.
Still not breaking her gaze, Penelope’s hand reached up to her collarbone, feeling the weight of the necklace she currently wore. “Would you-” she began, eyes moving from one green to another as she met Colin’s eyes. “Would you put it on for me?”
“I do not profess to know much of female fashions, but would it not look… misplaced?” Colin edged, hands twitching in something akin to anticipation - but absolutely could not have been.
Penelope mused that for a full three seconds, before responding tartly, “Limes are a type of citrus.” Colin was rather stunned by her brazenness, and so she continued with a rather impish smile. “I dare say my mother would be too impressed at my having received jewellery to find fault in any case.”
She waited for him to return her smile before turning to offer him the clasp of the necklace that rested at the nape of her neck.
Colin’s hands - usually steady, usually calm and collected - seemed to develop a tremor from their journey from his sides to her neck, the simple knot and bow becoming rather less simple as he tried not to let the ribbon fall from either hand.
Rather than risk dropping either end and causing a pool of ribbon and pendant on the floor, Colin lifted the necklace over her head, having to silence a gulp as - just seconds too late - he realised doing so pulled him closer to Penelope than he ever had been, and certainly ever ought to have been.
What anyone would have thought, had they been interrupted, he dreaded to think.
Colin stepped away to place the yellow ribbon on a sideboard, taking the opportunity to replace breaths he hadn’t realised he’d not been taking. By the time he turned around, Penelope’s gaze had dropped again to the presentation case.
Whilst he knew that he didn’t want to bite the hand that fed him, for the second time in what had to be as many minutes, Colin was left wishing he could know what thoughts were running through her mind.
He hoped they might be as beautiful as his were.
“Allow me,” he murmured, having somehow found himself in front of her again, like a moth drawn to the flame of her hair. Penelope blinked a number of times, as though she hadn’t been entirely present, before turning the case to face him so that he could take the jewellery.
Colin swallowed, keeping his eyes fixed on the gems. If he looked up, he knew that he’d only get more nervous - although nervous about what, he did not know.
Clearing his throat for good measure, he unclasped the necklace in the case, freeing it, and realised once again his error as he raised his arms to attach the jewellery around her.
If removing a necklace whilst standing behind a person involved proximity that would be considered scandalous, replacing one standing in front of them was downright obscene.
Penelope gazed up at him - he could feel her eyes even if he kept his own on the stones - and once again he could feel the shaky breaths she exhaled. He could smell the perfume - vaguely floral, he thought, but very Penelope - and he could see the goosebumps that had appeared despite the well-stoked fire.
Keeping his eyes away from her face had been a brilliant idea until the cool metal rested against her chest, and his view became almost sinful.
He let his vision flick up as he fastened the clasp with a small but satisfying click; looking at her parted lips seemed to be the lesser of many, many evils.
And then, as he moved his hands away from her neck, resting gently on her upper arms as though he couldn’t let go, Colin heard the first bang.
“Oh!” Penelope yelped, twisting to face the noise. Fireworks lit the sky, and Colin could forgive a person for thinking it daylight again from the sheer quantity that filled the space outside. Penelope remained enchanted by the display, the burst of different colours filtering through the window and reflecting on her eyes, brown becoming shades of blue and green and red.
“Trust Anthony,” Colin chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure marrying Kate has only made him more dramatic.”
With the moment past, and Penelope distracted, Colin remembered himself and stepped back a few spaces. By that point in the evening, he knew that he needed to return to playing host (or host adjacent).
“I trust you have had a good evening, Pen,” he smiled, earning her attention once more.
“The best. Lady Bridgerton seems to live up to her predecessor in terms of hosting, does she not?” Penelope mused, eyes dancing until she sobered. “However, I am quite sure that even my mother will have noted my missing the show.”
He allowed himself a small huff of laughter; she had a point.
“Enjoy your time in the country,” Colin nodded a bow. With the Featherington estate north in Suffolk and the Bridgerton estate south in Kent. “Perhaps we could host you for a stretch, I believe Eloise will require another person to irritate with the Lord and Lady soon to be on their travels,” he smiled. To any other, it could seem insincere, teasing, even. But he knew she knew he meant it.
And, if he smiled more than he ought when seeing Penelope at the first ball of the 1815 season - dressed in a more muted shade of citrus than he’d expected, the peridot necklace matching perfectly - then, well.
No one else needed to know why.