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Chapter Text

October 1814, Livorno, Italy

Colin looked at the stack of freshly arrived letters on his desk and could not help but deflate in his seat.

One of the envelopes carried his mother's handwriting, inside which he was sure he would also find a separate letter from Eloise, and perhaps even some lines from Gregory and Hyacinth. Francesca's neat little parcel contained a small, illustrated book of poems on Bath, where she had been staying the past six months. Anthony had written from Aubrey Hall directly after he and Kate had returned there from their honeymoon, and Colin smiled as he read through his brother's account of marital bliss, pleased to see an additional note at the bottom of the last page from Kate, written with all the sincerity, sisterly affection, and sharp wit that his new sister was known for. Benedict's letter had already arrived the week before, and Daphne was not so regular with her correspondence as to make him expect a letter from her so soon after her last.

He shuffled through the remaining letters—no Penelope.

He let out a sigh as he looked out the window at the small Livorno beach where he had just spent his morning.

During his time in Greece, Penelope had been his most faithful correspondent. He had sent her a letter every week without fail, and every week she had written back.

And her letters did not ever disappoint. Penelope was an excellent writer, in part because she was extensively well-read, especially for a person her age. It put Colin to shame, who loved both reading and writing, but could never apply himself quite as well as she did.

But there was something else in her letters beyond her usual eloquence and her subtle humor that gave him such immense joy while reading them. It was her passion, her excitement, her genuine interest in everything he had to say.

It was contagious. He found himself thinking of her with every new experience, seeing things with her eyes, already constructing the witty and elegant descriptions in his mind that he would put down in his next letter to her—or at least he hoped that she was finding them witty and elegant. Eventually, he started copying out excerpts from his travel journals and enclosing them in his letters. Soon, he found himself intending his journals for her even as he wrote them.

Now, he had been in Italy for several months, and Penelope was only writing back once to every three or four of his letters. She would inquire after his health, express her wishes that he was enjoying himself, but she would barely address the specific contents of his letters, the adventures he related or the scenery he described. Her letters were spare, short, kind, but almost formal in nature. Colin would feel a pit in his stomach whenever he'd finally receive a new letter from her and open it only to find a single sheet of paper.

Something was not right. He poured over every letter from Eloise, looking for any mention of Penelope, but to no avail. Eloise had not made a single mention of Penelope in any of her letters.

When he finally grew impatient and ventured make direct inquiries after Penelope, his attempts were completely ignored. Eloise seemed adamant on avoiding the topic of Penelope altogether. He finally resorted to inquiring with his mother, but Violet had not heard anything of Penelope, except that she and Eloise seemed to have fallen out, and that Penelope had not been to visit them at No. 5 for several months.

The tranquil beach he had had all to himself in the morning was now filling up with visitors—locals and foreigners alike. Colin looked at the people outside, laughing, idling, sunbathing, and felt utterly alone.

No one here knew him, no one loved him. The truth of the matter was perfectly captured in the letters piled on the desk in front of him: Colin had his mother, his siblings, and he had Penelope. He was liked by many, and loved by a precious few who truly knew him, and that was enough on most days. Except today he was reminded once again that the friendship he relied on most in his life, the friendship that provided him with the drive, the reassurance, the inspiration he needed to move forward, was also the most fragile.

Penelope was not only besotted with him, a fact he tried very hard not to think about too often—he could only assure himself she would grow out of this childhood infatuation without developing any resentment towards him for not reciprocating it, she was also Eloise's friend first and foremost. If the friendship between Penelope and Eloise were to break, Penelope could disappear from his life as quickly as she had appeared in it many years ago.

He finally stood up, headed for the bath to wash the salt water off and cool his suntanned skin. Tomorrow, he would make his way back to London. The western coast of Italy which had held so much promise and excitement for him a mere few months ago had nothing to interest him now.

Chapter Text

October 1814, London, England

He walked out of the Featherington house feeling in desperate need of either a stiff drink or an excessive amount of cake. He shook off the urge—it was far too early for a drink, and he did not like this increasing reliance on alcohol he seemed to be developing of late.

Penelope had been from home, and he had to endure the awkward visit with her mother and one of her sisters instead, having absolutely nothing to say to either. How different the energy was in that house when Penelope was not in it!

He had almost plucked up the courage to ask her mother where she was, with half a mind to go out and find her, but checked himself. There would be plenty of opportunities to see her in the coming weeks. The season was not officially starting until January, but several families were already in London for the little season, and his family had responded to invitations for more than one upcoming event. He was sure to see Penelope at one of them, if not before then at his own house for Monday tea. After all, she and Eloise could not stay mad at each other for much longer.

After casting several glances towards the drawing room door, and seeing that Penelope was not to come through it any time soon, he had begged his leave.

As he made his way back across the street to No. 5, Colin thought back to the last time he'd seen Penelope. He was sure he had not seen her since the night of the Featherington ball last July. It had been a thrilling night, marking the end of a strange and eventful week.

Just a few days before that ball, everything seemed to be falling apart. His brother's wedding was in shambles, his sister had been outed in the gossip columns as a political radical, and he himself was close to getting robbed of a significant amount of money by none other than Penelope's cousin Jack. But on the night of the ball, everything seemed right in the world again. Anthony and Kate were finally engaged, their engagement endorsed by the queen herself and no less. Colin was able to expose Jack Featherington and force him to give back the stolen money.

Colin was walking on clouds as he and Penelope danced that night. He felt larger than life. He felt "astonishing", as she had called him—he still blushed now as he remembered the admiration and gratitude in her eyes. He had single-handedly saved her and her family from ruin. Well, not entirely single-handedly—it was Will Mondrich who first alerted him to Jack Featherington's deception—but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he had done something important, for someone important.

He hadn't managed to see Penelope again before he left for Italy. He had tried to call, but had been told she was indisposed and unable to receive guests. He decided he would write to her once he'd arrived in Florence. Now he understood that Penelope was avoiding him, likely on account of Eloise.

"Colin, dear. Back from the Featheringtons' already?" His mother said as he walked into his family's drawing room.

"Yes," he replied briefly, shooting a glance at Eloise who was laying on the sofa with her face buried in a book, feigning complete disinterest.

"How did you find Penelope?" She asked. Eloise perked up her ears.

"I didn't. She was from home."

"Well, you've only just arrived yesterday. I am sure we shall see her out and about in town soon enough. Wouldn't that be nice, Eloise?"

"I neither know nor care," Eloise responded, without looking up from her book. Colin plunged into the armchair opposite, examining her with an ever growing sense of irritation.

"What a perfect little summary of your sentiments, sister, towards everyone who cares for you. Whatever happens to them, you neither know nor care."

At that, Eloise finally looked up. She would have shot back with a glib remark, but there was real bitterness in his voice, and sadness in the way he looked down at the floor, away from her, that she was forced to take what he said in earnest, and she found herself on the verge of tears.

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Penelope could hardly believe her ears when Varley entered the family's upstairs drawing room and announced, "Miss Penelope, Miss Eloise is here for you."

Miss Eloise is here for you.

Three months, three miserable months. Three months without her only friend. Three months of cycling between anger, guilt, shame, indifference, and regret.

But now she felt nothing but remorse. Eloise had her faults. She had a tendency of being single-minded and self-absorbed at times. But the love she had for Penelope was pure and complete. She never kept any secrets from her, even when sorely tempted. In return, Penelope had not only kept from Eloise a secret of monumental proportions, she had also used Eloise's own confidences against her in the worst possible way.

Her legs trembled as she walked down the stairs. She hardly even knew if Eloise came here ready to forgive her, but it did not matter. She would make it right. She was determined to make it right.

She entered the main drawing room, still trying to decide on a suitable greeting, on the right things to say to earn Eloise's forgiveness, but in the end it did not matter, because once Eloise stood up to face her, all Penelope found she could do was fling herself into her arms, breaking down in tears.

The girls lost all sense of time in that drawing room. Eloise needed to hear everything. She needed to know every single detail behind Whistledown. How it had started, why it had started, how Penelope had managed to keep it a secret, and why she had chosen to keep it a secret from her closest friend of all people. Penelope obliged, eager to explain and provide every detail.

For hours, Eloise did nothing but ask questions, then listen carefully to the answers. Penelope understood. Eloise's trust in her had shattered, and she could only hope to rebuild it through full disclosure and honesty.

Finally, when it seemed like Eloise's curiosity was satisfied for the time being, she looked at Penelope and asked, "how have you been?"

"Miserable," Penelope said with a smile. "What on earth was my life like before we became friends?"

"Miserable, I daresay."

Penelope laughed. "And how have you been?" She asked back.

"Oh, having a blast. Happiest three months of my life."

Penelope laughed again, and Eloise simply reached out and pressed her hand briefly before letting go with a smile.

"Are we friends again?" Penelope ventured to ask.

"Only if you promise to start coming to tea on Mondays again. Everybody is asking after you incessantly, and I have no more energy to create excuses for your absence. In fact, it's my main motive in coming here. I need my peace."

"I promise," Penelope responded, with the widest smile she managed in months.

"And my annoying brother seems exceedingly vexed with me for having you turn on him."

"Which brother?" said Penelope, cautiously, knowing full well she meant Colin.

"The idiot one."

"Ah," she said with a nod, pursing her lips. "Eloise, while we're on the subject of idiots, there's something else I need to tell you. I don't think I can bear for there to be any more secrets between us."

Eloise tilted her head.

"I'm in love," she said slowly. "I'm in love with your brother. The idiot one."

She examined Eloise's reaction, who paused for a long moment before she said very slowly, "You're in love… with Colin," looking at Penelope as though she had gone mad. "Colin Bridgerton."

"Yes." There was another long pause.

"The Colin Bridgerton whom I witnessed consuming five pieces of cake this morning with his mouth half open. That Colin Bridgerton. And you're in love with him."

"Yes. Well, I was. For many years. Nothing will come of it." She related the exchange she had overheard between Colin and his friends last season at her family's ball. They had ridiculed him over his association with her, and he had laughed with them, teasing that he would not dream of courting her even in their wildest of fantasies. It had earned him quite the laugh.

"I'm learning to move on," she continued. "And I'm learning that there are more important things in life."

Eloise took a moment as she understood, for the first time, the depth of the friendship between Colin and Penelope. How had it managed to escape her notice before? She had always considered Penelope as her friend and hers alone, and Colin as her older brother who would occasionally annoy her by interrupting their time together. Now, it was becoming clear to her that Colin and Penelope had a friendship in their own right, and that that friendship was important to Colin, despite everything Penelope seemed to think. She doubted that even Colin realized how important Penelope's friendship was to him. What an idiot.

"And that git has the nerve to blame me for your falling out. Poor brother. Poor, oblivious, brother."

"I doubt he's oblivious. I think he knows of my feelings for him. I'm sure everyone does, at this point. I was so afraid I was going to have to make a mention of it in the column, but the gossip seemed to die down quickly enough, and the season was over soon after."

"I did not know, and I am closest to you both."

"I'm sorry," Penelope said, but Eloise shook her head. Her remark was not meant as a jab at Penelope, but rather at herself. Eloise knew she should have noticed that her best friend had feelings for brother. She would have noticed, if she wasn't constantly preoccupied with her own thoughts.

"What a summer we've had," was all she could say.

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He skipped up the stairs, two at a time, his shirt half unbuttoned and still sticking to his chest with sweat from fencing. Without Anthony to keep them on their toes, he and Benedict tended to waste too much time chatting and lingering about between rounds, and now he had fifteen minutes to make himself presentable for tea.

"Sorry I'm late, mother," he said as he finally made his way into the drawing room, not looking at his family, his eyes instead fixated on the refreshments table like a dog on a hunt. "I hope you haven't eaten all the good biscuits. I'm warning you all, I'm feeling quite ravenous..." He stopped in his tracks as he caught a glimpse of fiery red from the corner of his eye.

"Pen." He had aimed for a much stronger "Pen!" and with a much wider smile, but he was looking at her face for the first time in months, and it created a little lump in his throat.

Was he blushing? He thanked God his face was still red from the exercise, although he cursed himself for not giving his hair enough time to dry after the bath. He must look ridiculous.

"Colin," she responded with a smile that left Colin wanting something more, but he was not sure what that something was.

"Cook only makes good biscuits, dearest," his mother responded to his earlier comment, and Colin welcomed the interruption. He needed to stop gawking like a complete fool and find himself a seat. The only free seat in the room was the one farthest from where Penelope was sitting, but Colin found himself grateful for the distance.

"What a shameful way to treat your friends, Miss Featherington," he shot from across the room. "I'm surprised you dare show your face here, after three months of utter neglect."

"You were away for most of them."

"Yes, indeed I was. And I assure you your neglect was felt more keenly a thousand miles away on the sunny shores of Italy than it was right here in London. Four letters I received from you, each one shorter than the one before. Have you no honor?"

"You forgot to fix yourself a plate, brother," Eloise said with a smirk. Colin had forgotten about the food. Come to think of it, he felt too nervous to eat. He got up and fixed himself a plate anyway, just to keep up with appearances. After all, he had just declared how ravenous he was to the entire room mere minutes ago.

It was just as well that he did, because he did not get a chance to speak with Penelope again for the rest of tea. Penelope's attention remained divided between Eloise and the rest of the family, until it was time for her to beg her leave. Colin stood promptly.

"Shall I see you out?" He asked.

"Oh, that's hardly necessary," Penelope replied. "Eloise will see me out." Eloise took this as her cue to stand up.

"Eloise Bridgerton, sit back down," Colin said, aiming for a lighthearted air to hide his annoyance. Eloise never saw Penelope out. In fact, Penelope usually saw herself out. Penelope was trying to avoid him. "Weren't you just boasting of the five hours you spent in each other's company only yesterday?" He said, then touched Penelope's arm lightly, hoping it was enough to quiet any further protest on her side. "Come, Pen."

As they walked down the stairs, he almost wished he had let Eloise see her out instead. Upstairs amongst his family, the atmosphere was all happiness and ease. Now, she seemed tense. Or maybe he was tense. And they were both so uncharacteristically silent.

He knew he must have a thousand things to say to her, but somehow did not manage to utter a single word, and they were almost at the landing. And his body was reacting to her closeness in a way that was new to him. Everything seemed wrong.

As they reached the front door and she turned to say goodbye, he had finally formed a coherent sentence with which to break the silence. "I hope next time you have a row with Eloise you won't deem it necessary to turn your back on your other friends," he said, his mouth tilted, with a playful smile.

"I never turned my back on you," she answered kindly, "nor on Eloise, for that matter."

"So I have your word that on my next trip I shall receive enough pages from you to fill at least an entire book?" He joked—he had no plans of going away again soon—but instead of laughing, she paused, giving him an earnest look.

"Friendships change over time, just as people do," she said finally, and his eyes shot up at her, unsettled. "Well, perhaps a short pamphlet," she continued, but her attempt at humor did little to alleviate the pain and confusion that were intensifying in his chest. "Goodbye, Colin." And with a brief curtsy, she was gone.

Chapter Text

Penelope looked out her bedroom window at the ever so familiar house across the street. She could probably describe every brick, every architectural detail from memory. For so many years, her very existence revolved around it. Every feeling she experienced, of joy or pain, hope or heartbreak, had Bridgerton at its very center.

Her time of banishment from that house might have been the darkest in her life, but she now acknowledged how crucial that time had been to the formation of her character.

Deprived of everything Bridgerton, she had to learn to be a Featherington, and to put worth in that. She resolved to look inwardly for the first time, not to feel sorry for herself, not to deprecate herself, not to blame her mother, or society, or Colin Bridgerton for her situation in life, but to take accountability, to assess her strengths and her weaknesses, to make changes; to make an effort where she can, and learn to be content with the outcome, whatever that may be.

At only eighteen, she had made something of herself without even realizing it. She had written. She had published. She had run an entire business operation under her mother's nose. In two years, she had earned herself a sum of money that others would be lucky to make in two decades. If she was no longer satisfied with the sort of stuff she was writing, if her conscience no longer condoned the amount of power her popular gossip column placed in the palm of her hand, she now believed in her ability to start other endeavors, endeavors she could truly be proud of. She had forged real and lasting friendships, and learned a hard lesson in how to break them, and how to repair them. And while she might have not traveled the world yet, or seen Greece or Italy, she at least knew what it was like to love.

She did not know if she would get to experience being loved, being seen, having the little moments of her life witnessed, shared. But she realized now that if this were ever to happen to her, she needed to be generous with herself. To make friends. To open herself up to others without the constant presumption that they would ridicule or reject her. To devote time and attention to people instead of their gossip. Penelope would have love in her life. Whether or not romantic love would be part of that was yet to be seen, and she had time.

"Penelope, are you ready dearest?"

"Coming, mama."

She drew the curtains. Today had been a good day. Today was the first day her novel started looking like a novel. The random, disconnected thoughts and bits of dialogue she had been jotting down the past several weeks finally formed themselves into a story. She had managed to commit her final thoughts neatly to paper and clean up her desk just in time to get ready for the Danbury ball tonight. 

She smiled as she brushed down the beautiful sage green fabric of her gown, made some final adjustments to her hair in the mirror, then reached for the book of verse Lord Lumley had loaned her. It fit perfectly inside her little purse. She would likely see him at the ball shortly—she would return the book then and share her thoughts on the contents.

Chapter Text

It was only November, but enough of the ton had already arrived in London to fill Danbury house to the brim. Colin only realized he was automatically scanning the room for fiery red and citrus yellow when his eyes landed on his object, fiery red—and an exquisite shade of green.

Colin had never seen Penelope standing with three people at once, but there she was, talking with relative ease to none other than Lady Danbury herself, Lady Macclesfield, and a pleasant girl whom Colin recognized as the youngest Miss Macclesfield.

He made his way towards the group, realizing full well that this was the first time in his life that he was willingly placing himself in the way of Lady Danbury.

Penelope and Eloise were friends again, and yet something was still amiss. Penelope was different. She looked at him differently, spoke to him differently, and the words she had left him with the last time he had seen her gave him an ominous feeling that he was losing her, that their friendship was changing.

He was determined to prevent that from happening. By the end of tonight, he would be her friend again. He would win her over.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Penelope was clearly trying to keep him at a distance, to establish a boundary between them. And if her reasons for doing so had nothing to do with Eloise, then they had something to do with him. She was trying to protect herself from being hurt. And he was adamant on breaking through her defenses out of his own selfish interest in keeping her as a friend.

He shook it off. Penelope would grow out of her feelings for him eventually. She was intelligent, and she understood him. She knew he did not return her feelings. And she was too good to resent him for it. She would move on, perhaps once he married—or even she might marry. But, for now, they were friends, and it was important they remained friends.

"Lady Danbury, Lady Macclesfield, Miss Featherington," he greeted with a bow at each name.

"Mr. Bridgerton, may I introduce Miss Elizabeth Macclesfield?" said their hostess. "Miss Macclesfield, this is Mr. Colin Bridgerton, the third of the Bridgerton sons."

"Pleasure," he bowed.

"Mr. Bridgerton, of course. My new friend, Miss Edwina Sharma, is your sister in law. We were both guests at Brunswick Manor last month."

Colin nodded with a polite smile.

"She mentioned your tour of Greece last year," Elizabeth continued, blushing slightly. "I have to admit how I envy you that tour. I am a faithful student of all things Greek, and I have yet to set foot outside of England. How I would have loved to walk the ancient streets of Plaka, and finally put my modest language skills to use by conversing with the locals."

"Then you have proven yourself a better student than I can ever claim to be," Colin responded. "I mostly signed my way through, when I had no guide to rely upon." Then, in the same breath, "Pen," he said, turning to Penelope with the same brilliant smile. Penelope looked up with some surprise.

"Shall we dance?" he said, nudging his head towards the dance floor.

Penelope was not the only one whose attention was alerted by his question. Lady Danbury, who could have sworn a moment ago that Colin had joined their group in hopes of being introduced to the exceptionally beautiful blonde standing next to her, now realized he might have had an entirely different object in coming their way. The ease with which he addressed Penelope, not even by her given name, but by this endearing hypocorism of it, was not lost on her, nor on Miss Macclesfield, who looked down with a small, resigned smile.

"Oh, I have the next promised to Lord Lumley. I see him making his way now." She looked at her dance card. "Perhaps the quadrille?"

"Certainly," he said, trying to collect himself as he used the hand he had already extended towards her, intending to lead her to the dance floor, to take the dance card she was offering him instead. Colin scanned the twelve slots on the card to see that not one, not two, but five dances were already promised by Penelope to three different gentlemen.

He jotted his name next to the quadrille, but then he saw the waltzes were still free. "Will you allow me the pleasure of more than one? I see some of our favorites have already been taken." He tried not to sound angry. "Of course," she said with a smile. And he knew he was behaving like a petulant child, but he took the opportunity and claimed both the Redowa and the five-step waltz for himself, in addition to the quadrille.

"Ladies, Bridgerton," Lumley greeted as Colin returned her dance card and gave him a curt nod. "Miss Featherington, I believe we're up," he said, taking her hand as she curtsied with a smile. "Now you can finally tell me how my poor poet fared under your scrutiny."

Chapter Text

Colin gave up and finally opened his eyes, reaching for the small pocket watch he kept by his bedside. By aid of the moonlight, he squinted to read the little hands. Half four. He had gone to bed three hours ago, straight from the Danbury ball, with only one frenzied thought occupying every corner of his mind.

Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.

He had only himself to blame. He had spent the entire evening intoxicating himself with her. When he was not indulging in her proximity as they danced, breathing in the different notes in her scent, delighting in the feel of the silky green fabric of her dress as his hand was pressed to her back with a firmness he realized was slightly more than propriety allowed in the situation, he would content himself with watching her elegant turns as she danced with another, or standing next to her, savoring her every word as she expressed her thoughts to her new friends on books he had not even heard of, but which now made their way to the top of his reading list.

By the time he had reached his bed, his every sense was saturated with her, and he spent what seemed to be an eternity tossing and turning until his mind finally surrendered to exhaustion, and he slept.

Now, three hours later, his eyes were wide awake again, and Colin sighed as he propped up the pillow under his head and lay back, staring at the ceiling. There was no more escaping this. He was attracted to Penelope Featherington.

The notion that used to only rarely cross his mind, the notion that was easy for him to dismiss for many years was now burgeoning at a rate that was out of control, and he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

Colin always had a fondness for Penelope that was matched only by his fondness for his family. This much he never had trouble admitting. No one could sneer at him for the tenderness he felt for his sister's oldest friend, even if she had been in love with him since she was a little girl—so long as he did not like her, in that way. Which he did not.

This was the neat little story he had always used to run away from the subject of Penelope Featherington. He admired her intelligence, her humor, her kindness, her overflowing passion for people as well as dreams and ideas. He sometimes fancied he liked her better than he did anyone else in the world. Just not in that way.

Her hair, her gray-blue eyes, her smooth ivory curves, her scent, the melodic sound of her laugh, the way she beamed at him as if he were the most magnificent creature to grace the earth—or at least she used to…

Not Penelope Featherington, not Penelope Featherington, not Penelope Featherington.

Not Penelope Featherington, who had idolized him since childhood. Not Penelope Featherington, who with every look she gave him claimed to know him so well, to understand him on every level, when he did not even yet understand himself. Not Penelope Featherington, who never had another man in her life—not a single suitor, not even a brother, not a strong father figure. Not Penelope Featherington, whose love for him was so pure, so innocent, it could not possibly compare to all the possibilities life had to offer him, to the adventure he wanted for himself. If he were ever to choose her, it would forever seal his fate as the empty-headed Bridgerton boy who could do no better than the little girl who worshiped him, the girl no one else liked. And if there was one thing Colin Bridgerton dreaded in this life, it was other people's judgment. He could not. He would not. Not in their wildest fantasies.

The brief moments of attraction that he experienced for her over the years—the occasional urge to hold her close, to rest his face against hers, the images that flickered in his mind sometimes of him closing his eyes as she gently ran her hands through his hair, of him falling asleep with his head on her lap—they did not mean that he liked her in that way.

And yet there he was, lying awake in bed at five in the morning, having been shaken awake by a dream of her that was most decidedly in that way, a dream of the variety usually reserved for faceless women with tall, slender, sun-kissed bodies, women who were most decidedly not Penelope Featherington.

Colin was now face to face with two irrevocable facts. He liked Penelope Featherington, and he desired Penelope Featherington. And since he could no longer push those feelings back down, he would have to decide what to do with him, once and for all. 

And fate was providing him with a most timely opportunity to do just that. The Featheringtons had been extended an invitation by Lord Burgh, who seemed to have developed an interest in courting Prudence, to stay a week with him and his sisters in his country residence. It was decided that Penelope should stay behind, and his own mother, bless her, had invited her to stay with them at No. 5.

It was determined. A week in close quarters with Penelope Featherington was in his immediate future, and Colin was not sure if he felt more dread or excitement at the prospect.

Chapter Text

Penelope had never been more exhausted as she crossed the street to No. 5, her belongings having already arrived there earlier in the morning. She had no idea how she was going to spend an entire week in the same house as Colin. She was still not fully recovered from last night's events.

Colin had stayed glued to her side all night. It did not seem to matter to him what she was doing or whom she was standing with—wherever she looked, he was there. He had danced three dances with her, two of them waltzes. And Penelope could swear she had felt his hand slightly tense and bunch up the skin of her back more than once. Cressida Cowper was practically shooting her daggers from her eyes.

Not again. She would not go through that again. Penelope was in a good place. It was the first social event of the season, and Penelope had talked and danced more than she did in the past two years together. She was enjoying herself. She made friends she liked, and who seemed to like her. She was content.

But through all of that, there was Colin, standing close to her, talking to her, laughing with her, touching her, gazing at her as she spoke—confusing her. She had never spent this many hours in his company before last night. Even this morning, she was still so haunted by his presence that she fancied she could conjure him out of thin air if she were to simply close her eyes.

But she didn't need to, because there he was again now, in the flesh, standing in the middle of the door of No. 5, beaming down at her as she took the few steps up to the entrance.

"Ah. Morning, stranger!"

"Good morning," she looked up at his face. How she loved that face. How she loved it still.

"Brother, must you always be in my way?" Eloise had run up to the door. "Come, Pen," she said, moving to stand in front of Colin and grabbing Penelope's arm. "I hope you've not broken fast yet. I'm starving."

Upstairs in the drawing room, Penelope could not even think of food.

"Right, so what on earth was up with you two last night?"

"Oh, El. How do other women do this? I'm done for."

"I'm sure you are. I've never seen you dance so much in my life. Must have been challenging, what with my brother attached to you at the hip." Penelope blushed. "He did not seem to have a single word to say to anyone else. I'm sure I saw him turn his back on Elizabeth Macclesfield to talk to you."

"She was only asking him about his time in Greece."

"And?"

"He made some polite response or other. And then he asked me to dance."

"You mean to tell me that Colin Bridgerton willingly passed on a chance to discuss Greece? And with a willing participant?"

"Yes." She tried her best to keep a straight face as she said this, but she could not help it if her heart was doing a little dance.

"Pen, if that git is not in love with you, then we know nothing in life."

"Which, you have to admit, is a distinct possibility." They both smiled.

"Did you manage to learn anything useful for your first column of the season?" Eloise said after some time. "I imagine you were hardly afforded the time for other people's gossip last night. Unless," it just occurred to Eloise, "you're thinking of featuring yourself?"

"About that, I don't think the column is a very good idea anymore." She paused, but Eloise seemed to have no intention of contradicting her. "In fact, I already have some drafts for my final issue," she continued. "Do you mind if we use your desk?"

Chapter Text

"Is he even allowed to be here?" Colin fumed. "I'm sure there must be a rule against calling on a single lady outside of her family's home."

"You need to relax," Eloise said with a grin, keeping her voice hushed from the settee at the other end of the room, where Penelope and her gentleman caller were deep in conversation.

Lumley seemed to say something particularly amusing, and Penelope responded with a hearty laugh.

"He is rather a dull-wit, though, is he not?" He turned to Eloise, as if expecting her to agree with this objective statement of fact.

"Brother, you cannot possibly have a problem with Lumley." She was enjoying this too much. "The man is almost too agreeable. I like him, and I don't like anyone."

Colin sighed. He happened to agree with her, Lumley was a decent fellow. It was he who was the dull-wit, he who needed to decide what to do about his feelings.

He turned his gaze back to the object of those feelings. She looked radiant. And Colin's mind drifted back to that wretched July of last year, that July that had turned his entire world upside down, when he had felt like the world's biggest fool. "You were not a fool," she had told him. "You merely believed yourself in love. One should never apologize for that. One finds oneself in such an incredible position, and, well, one should declare it, assuredly, fervently, loudly."

He had marveled at her then, just as he was marveling at her now. He knew she had been speaking from experience. He knew that she had found herself in that same "incredible position", as she called it, of being in love, and he knew that he was the object of that love. It made his heart swell with pride to be loved with such candor, such faithfulness. Her love for him, which he had so many times dismissed as a mere infatuation, was in fact more worthy than any love he had claimed to feel for Marina. How young she was, how little she experienced of the world, and yet how passionate, how certain of her feelings. Penelope had always known her own mind. He admired her—almost envied her for it. Would he ever understand his own feelings with such certainty? Did he understand enough of love to know that he truly and completely loved her?

Lumley seemed to be finally getting up, and Colin let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

"I have to bid you all goodbye for the present," Lumley said, now addressing the room. "I'm afraid my business back in the country will keep me away from London for at least the next two months." He looked back at Penelope, "Miss Featherington, I shall write to you in a week's time to arrange that visit you promised us when you were in the country. I have not forgotten, you see. My mother is most looking forward to it." Colin's jaw nearly dropped.

Penelope smiled. "Please assure her that I shall be delighted to come visit as soon as she'll have me. And Lord Lumley," she suddenly remembered, "if you see Lord Macclesfield, will you give him my apologies for not having had the time to respond to the note he sent me with his sister? Tell him I shall write to him as soon as I have the chance." Lumley nodded with a smile, and begged his leave.

Eloise hardly waited to make sure he was safely out of earshot before she started, "oh Lord Lumley," she mocked in the daintiest voice she could manage, fluttering her eyes, "if you see Lord Macclesfield, tell him I shall write to him?"

Penelope laughed, though with a noticeable blush spreading across her chest.

"Is he courting you?" Colin interrupted, causing their laughter to die out.

Penelope looked at him. "I think he's a friend."

"I hardly think a gentleman would expect a single lady to carry out a correspondence with him without at least the intention of a courtship."

"I correspond with you."

He opened his mouth in protest, but closed it again. He knew she had a very good point.

"Lumley is agreeable, and we like many of the same books." She continued. "But I don't think he is romantically-inclined. That is, not in the same way I am," she said openly. "I do believe he sees me only as a friend." She paused with a smile. "Lord Macclesfield, on the other hand…" She trailed, grinning up at Eloise, who responded with a knowing grin of her own.

And the pain that Colin felt in that moment made him finally understand what he had to do.

He no longer cared what label to place on his feelings for Penelope. All he knew, all that mattered, was that he could no longer imagine a world in which she was not his wife, could no longer imagine a path that took him away from her love. Whatever this feeling was that was brewing inside him, he knew it was more tender, more real, more worthy than anything he had ever experienced. He wanted to live this feeling. And he wanted to live her love for him. That love she once had for him, the love he had tried to ignore for so long, he prayed to God she still felt it, or that he could at least revive it, because he could not bear knowing that he had willingly banished himself from its warmth forever.

He was hers.

And he would find the courage to tell her that before the week was over.

Chapter Text

Colin had only intended to be in Eloise's room for a short moment.

The girls had gone out for a visit to the modiste, and Colin needed a distraction, something to do to abate his nervousness until they returned and he could speak to Penelope. So he decided to retrieve his copy of Self-Control, which was currently sitting on Eloise's desk, and do some reading outdoors in the fresh air.

And so he would have done, had it not been for the other things he discovered on Eloise's desk that provided him with a very different kind of reading.

He had reached to grab his book when his eyes landed on the several sheets of paper scattered across the desk, some of them covered in scrawls, one sheet looking more like a polished draft, written in that elegant hand Colin had seen countless times, a hand he recognized as well as he did his own.

"Dear Reader—

It is with a surprisingly sentimental heart that I write these words. After chronicling the lives and times of the beau monde for the past two years, This Author is putting down her pen.

The column has grown wearisome of late, less fulfilling to write, and perhaps more taxing on the conscience. It has turned friends against friends. It has placed too much power in the hands of a single person. This Author needs a change. This Author needs to make amends.

I bid you adieu, London!"

His life as he knew it was over.

The vicious gossip column that had caused his family so much pain and turmoil over the past year, the column that almost ruined his sister's reputation, the column that published the sham of his betrothal for the entire ton to see, was written by none other than Penelope Featherington. His only friend. His sister's only friend. The woman whom he had presumed loved him the most. The woman whom, just moments ago, he had intended to make his wife.

Colin sat there at Eloise's desk for what felt like hours, holding that wretched sheet of paper, at times not even looking at it, but staring beyond it at the wall ahead, and at times pouring over every last one of its words, again and again, desperate to distill some further meaning behind them.

By the end, his mind was so exhausted that he hardly knew if he felt angry, shocked, betrayed, or indifferent. His senses were numb. He desperately needed to organize his thoughts.

The first thing he knew for certain was that Eloise knew. Eloise knew that Penelope was Lady Whistledown, and she was reconciled with that knowledge. This last installment of the column was evidently written on her very desk, and he knew it was because Penelope had enlisted her help with it.

The fact that Eloise had no problem with Penelope being Lady Whistledown, while it did nothing to abate his confusion, did help set his mind somewhat at ease. There had to be more to it. There had to be a reason why Penelope saw the need to publish what she did about Eloise. And he would find out what that reason was.

His thoughts switched over to the second Whistledown victim, Marina. God, it all made so much sense now. Penelope would know. She would know of Marina's attempt to trick him into marriage, to pass off the child she was carrying as his. After all, Penelope had known of Marina's love affair with the child's father, George Crane. Colin remembered how Penelope had desperately tried to warn him that Marina did not love him, that she loved another, without making any mention of the child. But he had dismissed her warnings, until the full truth had miraculously reached him at the very last moment before his elopement, in the form of Lady Whistledown's latest issue. He realized now that her intention had been to save him from throwing his life away. He sighed. Oh Penelope, what a wretched, wretched way to go about it. Still, his body relaxed ever so slightly in his seat, and he was able to take a deep breath.

She had meant well. His Penelope had meant well. Or at least he was determined to find out if she had, he was determined to know if she was the same person he had thought she was just this morning, the person he had trusted all his life. Had he been deceived yet again?

"Colin?" Eloise's voice was small and nervous. "W-what are you doing here?"

He looked up at the two girls standing at the door. Eloise was giving him a frightened, pleading look, and behind her, Penelope's face was stone cold, her eyes fixated on the sheet that was still in his hand.

"Come inside, both of you," he said quietly, "and shut the door."

Chapter Text

Colin's eyes were fixated on hers in a look she had never before seen him give her, not in all the years she had known him. 

He had turned his chair to face Eloise's bed, where she and Eloise were now sitting, all three in deathly silence. Eloise looked as if she was scared to breathe for fear of making a sound, her eyes moving in every direction but Colin's, desperately awaiting the moment of reckoning, the moment when Colin's anger would finally erupt and rip the silence apart in thunders of wrath.

But Colin was not angry, Penelope thought as she examined his face. Or rather, anger was not currently at the forefront of his emotions. In the back of her mind, she blessed his good-natured, gentle soul. But the majority of her thoughts were occupied by the other emotions she was reading in his stare as she held it in her own gaze. He was in anguish. He looked like his worldview had been turned on its head, like he was questioning everything he thought he knew. He was hurt, betrayed, confused, and there was something else there, something almost—hopeful. Or perhaps desperate was a more fitting word. He looked desperate for an explanation that would redeem her in his eyes, desperate for reassurance that she was still Pen, still the version of herself he thought he knew so well. Colin needed to know that she was not another Marina, that the things he had always considered to be constant in life were still the same.

"Before I tell you everything, which I will," she finally broke the silence. There was no fear or hesitation in her voice—only empathy, even tenderness. "I want to express how sorry I am for causing you pain."

She paused to see if her apology would cause him to finally snap, but his expression remained frozen. She then started the story from the beginning, just like she had done with Eloise. She had taken up writing as a hobby, inspired by some of her favorite novels, and, having little else to write about, resolved to practice with some musings on high society, on the few social events she had attended prior to being out, on bits and pieces of gossip that usually found their way to her ears. She explained the circumstances that led to her work catching the attention of a Bloomsbury publisher, who offered her the opportunity to get paid for her writings once she had made her societal debut.

The pseudonymous column had started as a learning experience, an occupation, something to call her own, until the interest in her identity had reached a disturbing point.

Colin still said nothing, but Penelope could see that his breath was becoming more steady, his muscles more relaxed.

"Eloise's interest in Lady Whistledown was already becoming quite challenging. It involved more than a fair bit of deceit to keep her curiosity in check." She gave Eloise an apologetic look, and Colin glanced at Eloise—he had almost forgotten she was in the room with them—and saw her nod at Penelope with a small smile.

"But the queen's obsession with my identity was when it truly started getting out of hand." Colin started slightly at this casual mention of the Queen of England's interest in Penelope's affairs. "She was using every means at her disposal to uncover me. She still is. She and Eloise joined forces last year to that end—" Colin's mouth fell open, "until the end of last season, when one of the queen's footmen followed Eloise on one of her excursions to Bloomsbury, and the queen became convinced that Whistledown was none other than Eloise herself."

Colin sat up in his chair.

"Penelope found me in a state of absolute terror," Eloise now felt confident enough to speak. "The queen would not believe me when I told her I knew nothing of Whistledown. She gave me three days to confess. She threatened to ruin me, to ruin us."

Colin looked back at Penelope and spoke for the first time. "And that's when you rushed to print on Eloise's entanglement with that group of political radicals. As irrevocable proof that Eloise was not Whistledown." Penelope nodded.

He sighed. The Queen of England had been after his little sister, and the two girls now sitting in front of him, not much older than eighteen, and armed with nothing but their own wits, had attempted their best to fix the situation. And Colin could not blame them for their foolishness or recklessness, because God knows he had been foolish and reckless countless times himself. Last season, he had almost cost his family a sizable sum of money by investing it in a fraudulent business. And the one before, he had almost thrown his life away by marrying a complete stranger.

"And what of Marina?" He asked, his voice small. "Does she know you were responsible for her scandal?"

"No," Penelope answered with true remorse. "It is my biggest shame." That was all she could venture to say without breaking apart. And he did not seem to need her to say more. They both understood why she had done it. She had exposed one friend to save another. It was an impossible equation, and she had chosen a side. His side.

When she had managed to overcome the threat of tears, she looked back up at him, and he held her gaze. She always chose his side. She was Pen. She would always choose his side, always choose Eloise's side. Everything she was telling him now, he could understand it, he could trust it. She was the person he knew she was. Her actions had been misguided, but she had never intended to betray her friends.

In fact, he did not know what even he could have done in her situation. It was moments like these when Colin felt the most inadequate. What would Anthony or Benedict have done? "You're still rather green," Anthony's words still cut him to this day. They reaffirmed his worst fears about himself. That he was just a boy. A charming, affable, and not unintelligent—boy. He was angry for feeling so helpless, for feeling incapable of protecting the people he loved.

"And what now? Do you think that this—" waving the sheet of paper now crumpled in his hand, "is going to abate the queen's interest in uncovering you?"

"I don't know," she said. "I hope so. I have no intention of continuing with the column in any case."

He stood up and started pacing the room.

"And if she finds you out?"

"I imagine she will cause my family considerable damage. Philippa is already married and settled, but Prudence has already gone through so much with her broken engagement. I have some money set aside from the column, which—"

"Yes, but could we not reason with her?"

"Reason with her?"

"Yes. If we somehow were to request an audience with her, disclose your identity. Perhaps she would be forgiving."

She smiled slightly. "I must admit I offered a similar suggestion to Eloise when she was in my same bind. But in my case, of course, I would need to admit guilt. And I cannot be entirely sure, but I do not think the queen would be very forgiving. After all, I'm no Bridgerton." She chuckled—a feeble attempt to alleviate Colin's mood, who was still frantically walking back and forth the length of the room.

He stopped in his tracks, looking up at her, his eyes wide.

"But you could be."

Chapter Text

"What?" It was Eloise who spoke, though if Penelope could have opened her mouth, she was sure she would have echoed the sentiment.

"Well," Colin started, his eyes still on Penelope. "If you and I were to marry, you would at least have the Bridgerton name to protect you."

For the first time since they'd been sitting there in Eloise's room, Penelope felt truly angry. And it was taking an enormous amount of effort from her to keep her composure. She nodded.

"And what reason would you and I have to marry?"

"Well!" He gave her a gesture as if to say, I just said… But when she said nothing, he was forced to continue. "If you were my wife," his voice caught at that last word, "I could protect you," he said weakly. And then an ominous realization possessed him that he had started on the wrong path, that this conversation was about to go in a direction entirely different from the one he had intended.

She gave him a long, hard stare.

Finally, unpursing her lips, then looking down to her hands settled on her lap, one holding the other, she said, "Well, I suppose marriage is a good idea. In fact, Edward Macclesfield has asked me to consider a courtship once he has returned to London. Perhaps I will write to him after all." She looked back up at him, daring him to respond.

"Macclesfield?" He said, dumbfounded. 

"I have not known him very long, but he seems an excellent option."

"You wish to marry Edward Macclesfield?"

"Did you not just suggest I marry?"

"It was not my suggestion that you marry Macclesfield, Penelope," he responded, his voice growing more tense. "It was my suggestion that you marry me."

Eloise watched as the situation spiraled between her brother and her dearest friend, who had both seemed to have completely forgotten that she was still in the room with them. It was as though she were witnessing two carriages about to collide in an imminent crash, a crash that needed to happen, a crash she felt entirely helpless to prevent.

"Right. Well I thank you for your suggestion, Colin. But no, thank you." She stood up from the bed, mostly out of a desperate need to change her situation, but with half a mind to leave the room altogether.

His panic rose. He knew he needed to find a way to correct course quickly, to make her listen to him, to make her understand that he wanted to marry her. "You are angry."

"Angry? I suppose you think I have no reason to be. I suppose I should feel only gratitude—no, delight," her voice rising, "at an offer of marriage from you, even if it is one made out of pity. Unfortunately, I cannot. Despite the distinct disadvantage of being Penelope Featherington."

"Pity! No, Pen—" He had interjected, but she continued in her tirade.

"If I am to marry solely for protection, then why not Edward Macclesfield?" She yelled. "After all, he is the first son of an earl, and you are only the third son of a viscount."

Her words tore through the room like thunder, and they both fell absolutely silent.

"Right." He finally said, his lips quivering, and she felt her heart break in her chest.

"I suppose an earldom is rather difficult to compete with—" he swallowed, "quite the appealing prospect." He said quietly, not looking at her.

"I know it must seem an outlandish notion to you, Colin," her voice softened slightly, "but I wish to marry for love."

"And you love Edward Macclesfield?" He said.

"No, but I could." She said simply.

"Oh, and I suppose you could not love me?" He said with a bitter smirk, his tone insinuating. He was goading her.

She studied him for a long moment.

"There is no reason to talk around the point, Colin." She said firmly. "I am not the sort of person who is ashamed of their own feelings. The regard I once held for you—" he winced, "it is mine and mine alone. I do not apologize for it, nor do I hold you or anyone else accountable for it. It is mine. I lived it. I learned from it. And I'm proud of it. At least I have known what it is to truly love."

His heart softened. "Pen—"

"I may only be Penelope Featherington, but I have dreams. I dream of adventure, of freedom, of love! I deserve love. And I know that if there is such joy, such passion to be found in loving another person, even when that love is unrequited, then there must be even greater bliss in being loved in return. And I reserve the right, if not to have this bliss, then at least to hope for it, instead of contenting myself with a backhanded offer of marriage from someone who has no regard or affection for me."

"Pen!" He pleaded. "Please listen to me," though he had not yet decided on the exact right words, and he knew he needed them if he were to fix this wretched mess of a situation. Instead, he spoke the fragmented thoughts as they came to him. "I feel many things for you, and I assure you, pity is not one of them. I admire you. I care for you. I look up to you. In some ways, I envy you. I was resolved to ask you for your hand before I had any knowledge of Whistledown, any notion of protecting you. Pen, I wish to marry you."

"Oh! Are we to grant Lord Fife the opportunity to live out his wildest fantasies?" She said bitterly, mainly to interrupt him. She could not bear to hear his words of sympathy. Not after she had just confessed her love for him.

The confusion at this most unexpected mention of Fife of all people threw him off momentarily. He looked at her questioningly, but she said nothing, until realization finally dawned on his face.

"I assure you I did not mean to eavesdrop," she said, as if reading his mind. "But your barb was so clever that the laughter caused quite the uproar in that part of the garden."

My garden, she had meant to say.

"Pen—" He was too mortified for words. Still, he took a small step forward towards her, his arms extended in a sort of plea. But instead of backing away from him, she closed the remaining distance between them with calm, confident steps of her own until they were inches apart.

"Listen to me very carefully." Penelope began, her tone of voice steady. "I do not know if I will marry Edward Macclesfield. I do not know if I will ever marry. But the one thing I know with all my heart is that I am never, ever, going to marry you. Not in your wildest fantasies."

They stood there, chests heaving, eyes boring into each other with an intensity that threatened to rip at the seams.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Violet was standing in the now open door, not knowing how to make sense of the sight in front of her. "Colin!"

"Colin!" She repeated when she saw that the two of them remained locked in their trance, neither of them looking away. "Step out of this room right this instant," she said sternly. "You are all late for dinner."

For one more moment, they remained transfixed, his own eyes desperate as he watched Penelope's attempt to fight the increasing threat of tears, until she finally shook her head, still looking at him. "Idiot." She muttered, and stormed out of the room as he looked down and closed his eyes in pain as if she had just slapped him on the face.

"Not now, mother," was all he could bring himself to say, and then he was out of the room himself, leaving Violet standing there in a state of utter shock, with no one to turn to but Eloise.

Chapter Text

It was almost noon, and his room was warm and bright with sunlight that was seeping in through the half-closed curtains, as if the universe was making a small attempt to console him for the misery of the night before. But Colin could not find the energy to leave his bed. His head ached. Everything in him ached.

Last night, he had come back to his room and finally surrendered to the overwhelming urge—and he cried. He cried like he had not done in years, not for Marina, not since his father had died over a decade ago. He did not remember falling asleep, but when he had opened his eyes this morning, it was with the hollow awareness that something dreadful had happened.

He was laying in his bed, eyes closed, when he heard a faint knock on the door. He stood up slightly, turning to the door to see Eloise looking in cautiously. "Brother, may I come in?" Then, realizing he was still in his nightshirt under the covers, she said, "I can come back another time," and stepped back behind the door.

"No," he said gently. In truth, he welcomed her presence. "Just give me a moment," he said, standing up to fetch his trousers. Once he was decent, he summoned her back into the room and sat on the bed, expecting her to take a chair, but, to his surprise, she opted to take a seat beside him.

"How is she?"

"She is well," she nodded. "I stayed with her in her room for a while until it was time for bed. Mother had our dinners sent up. I saw yours was still on the floor outside your door."

"Does mother know?"

"Yes."

He could not think of anything to say next.

"And how are you?"

He quickly shook his head in a small smile, as if to tell her he had not the energy to answer. They remained silent for a moment.

"I have made quite the mess of things, have I not?"

"A glorious mess," she said with a sympathetic smile. "But Colin," she wrapped an arm around him, placing a hand on either shoulder, "it is going to be alright."

"Do you think so?"

"I do. This is a good thing."

He looked at her, amazed. "A good thing?" She nodded.

"Last night—you were honest with each other. I don't think I realized before the extent of your feelings for one another. And Penelope had told me she loved you, but I do not think I fully understood what that meant until I saw you two together."

"Ah yes, it was such a loving exchange," he joked.

"You know what I mean." And he did—he was just scared to let himself hope she was right. "It was—loving, I mean." She continued. "It was real. And raw. And yesterday was a long day. We were all exhausted. You both had things to be angry about."

"Do you think she hates me?" He was angling for a compliment, and she knew it, but he was desperate, and she decided to give him the comfort he needed.

"She loves you, Colin."

"But do you think she'll forgive me?"

"I think so," she said, pensively, "if you don't continue to behave like an absolute fat-wit. Though, come to think of it, you are a fat-wit, so perhaps it is hopeless after all." They grinned.

"Did she mention me?"

"Nice try," she smirked.

"Have patience," she reassured him. "Give it time to settle. I suppose it won't be that much time after all, if we are all to go to the Brices' this evening. But do afford her some space, at least till then."

Colin nodded with a smile, and did something he did not do nearly often enough—he pulled his sister into a hug and kissed her gently on the head. She patted his back as she got up to leave.

"And take a bath."

Chapter Text

Colin walked down the stairs with the smallest spring in his step. His conversation with Eloise had given him some renewed hope for the future. As for the present, he would be seeing Penelope at the Brice ball tonight, and he was anxious for the chance—if not to win her hand—at least to start setting things to right.

He opened the door to the library, certain that he would find it empty. He knew Gregory and Hyacinth to be both upstairs, with the rest of the household on their way to the ball, which was why he was surprised to enter the room and find it brightly lit, his favorite chaise occupied by none other than Penelope, looking up at him from her book, a look of equal surprise on her face.

"Pen." He stopped in his tracks.

"Colin." Her expression was strained, but there was no malice in it. He worked up the nerve to approach.

"I did not expect to find anyone here. I thought everyone had left."

"They did. But in the end, I was not feeling quite up to it, so I asked to stay back. Aren't you going?"

"I am," although he was starting to reconsider. "The four of you made a full carriage, so I thought I'd follow on horseback. It's an easy distance."

"Fashionably late," she said, and he felt slightly more at ease. They were talking. Granted, it was only a handful of sentences, and the atmosphere in the room was thick with tension, but he felt grateful for the unspoken truce, however temporary.

"I was caught up in the last pages," he said, indicating the book he was holding.

"Is that the lady's latest novel?"

"Yes. I bought it before I left for Italy. It made for an excellent summer companion. I had a fancy to revisit some of my favorite passages today." He almost went on to say that he had mentioned some of the aforementioned passages in his letters to her, but immediately thought the better of it. Instead, he ventured a question, "Have you read it?" He could hear the nervousness in his voice. "I remember it was you who first introduced me to her."

He realized awkwardly that he was still standing, and he wanted to sit to meet her at eye level, but he could not decide whether to choose the chair across from her or take a leap of courage and assume a place next to her on the chaise.

"It was her work that inspired me to venture into writing."

He opted for the chaise. It was a bold move, a very bold move, but he wondered if the closeness would help break the ice between them, help melt her defenses. He took his seat next to her, moving so slowly as if not to frighten her—only to instantly curse himself for his decision.

Because as soon as his bottom touched the seat, he was struck with the realization that he and Penelope Featherington were sitting inches apart, alone in an empty library—an empty house, if you discount Gregory and Hyacinth, who were unlikely to venture into the library at this hour. His senses were filled with the subtle notes of bergamot and lavender, and the delicious heat emanating from her body, and it was all he could do to expel from his mind the intrusive image which featured them in a very different, and, much less respectable, position to the one they were currently in.

"I have read this one," she said, looking slightly fazed by his chosen proximity. "Although I have to admit," she continued, "I did not like it as well as I did her other two books. I wished a better love story for Fanny."

He forced his attention back to the present moment. "Better than having her love requited?"

"But does he love her? We are simply told that he comes to love her eventually, but there is hardly any evidence of that love to be found within the pages."

He considered his next words carefully as he realized they were broaching a subject that bore too close a resemblance to their own situation. And he could not help but think she must have had the same realization, although she did not show it.

"Well, I believe in some way he has always loved her. He was her true friend. He cared for her. He listened to her. He always chose her side. It only takes him some time to know his own heart."

"He is fond of her, perhaps," she countered, "because his kindness to her satisfies his own vanity. But charity is not love. Charity is given only when convenient, whereas love requires some element of sacrifice—or at least, a willingness to sacrifice, a realization that the person matters as much to one as one's own self." She paused. "Not to mention passion, which, in Edmund's case, is miserably lacking."

"Ah, you think my hero lacking in passion." He almost winced. She could not have possibly chosen a less convenient topic of conversation. Not in their present state, where there was, in his opinion at least, altogether too much passion.

"Is he your hero now?"

"He is, because I understand him," he said simply. "I believe it is he who needs her. She is the compass with which he navigates the world, the person he turns to in order to understand himself. And this need for her, while, granted, does not constitute love, develops ever so gradually over the years into something more. At one moment she inspires him, then fascinates him, then attracts him to her with her mere presence, and then all that is required is a series of events to cause all these fragmented feelings to collect, to take shape, to simmer to the surface, and, before he knows it, he finds himself in love with her with a passion more intense than he ever thought possible."

Even as he had started his speech, he had given up all pretense of thinking of Mansfield Park. In truth, he knew not if Edmund found Fanny fascinating or desired her with a passion. All of his thoughts now revolved around the woman facing him. He could hear the sound of her breath, and the look in her eyes was stirring something powerful inside him, and even when he tried to avert his eyes, it was only to make the perilous mistake of dipping them towards her lips.

But he knew he could not kiss her. For one thing, he did not trust himself—not in their present situation, where the intimacy was almost unbearable. He knew that if he were to break that final barrier between them, every decent thought would leave him, and he would let go completely. But, more importantly, he did not know if she wanted him to kiss her. The last time she had spoken to him, she had declared him an idiot, and promised she would never marry him. And while the air between them now was strung with emotion, it also held more than a small amount of hurt, anger, and uncertainty from the night before. And he could not take the risk of scaring her away, or, worse, giving her more reason to mistake his intentions towards her.

"Perhaps I shall give the book a second chance after all," she said as she adjusted in her seat, likely in an attempt to break the spell. It took him a moment to recollect himself.

"Could I convince you of one other thing?" She looked at him questioningly.

"Would you come to the ball?"

Chapter Text

To Colin, as to any other Bridgerton, the color blue meant many things. It meant family, it meant home. But he had never before learned to associate it with liquid fire until Penelope walked down the stairs of No. 5 in a gown of the most agonizingly beautiful wedgwood blue. Bridgerton blue.

His gaze was practically emanating heat, as, he was certain, was his hand when it took hers to help her into the carriage, and he felt an unreasonable swell of pride on seeing that the shade of her dress was a perfect match to the color of his tailcoat and the intricate pattern on his waistcoat.

Having learned his lesson from their time at the library, he now seated himself at the opposite corner of the carriage from her, and resolved to look out the window for the entire ride, although the streets outside were already dark, and there was really not that much to see. She did the same, and, apart from a few glances, and one or two necessary pleasantries, they spent the ride in silence.

He did not dare give her his arm as they walked inside the ballroom at Brice house. Instead, he walked next to her, hands behind his back, until they joined Violet, Benedict, and Eloise. And then, almost on schedule, Edward Macclesfield materialized in front of them as if from thin air.

"Bridgertons," he greeted with a convivial smile, "how lovely to see you all."

"Lord Macclesfield," said Violet with a small curtsy.

"I'm afraid I've come to steal your ward, Lady Bridgerton, if she'll let me," he said, turning to Penelope. "Miss Featherington, would you allow me the first dance, especially since you have had me so little in your thoughts these past weeks."

"I admit to nothing of the sort, my Lord," she smiled. "But yes, I shall gladly dance with you." He led her to the dance floor, and Eloise promptly excused herself and headed to the refreshments before her mother could find an eligible suitor to place in her path.

Violet now turned to Colin, taking his hand in hers. "How are you feeling?"

"Miserable. Hopeful," he said with a tired smile. 

She nodded. "Now that," she said, pointing her head at Penelope, "is an excellent choice."

He turned to face her. "You think so?"

"Did you think I would not approve?" She asked with amusement in her voice.

"Well, I thought you'd be surprised, perhaps. She seems the only girl in London with whom I never flirted."

"I am, to some degree," she admitted. "And yet you have always trusted her with yourself in a way that warmed my heart. If I may, dearest, I think you worry too much about what people think of you. But you have never feared Penelope's judgment."

It was a simple statement, but it had a significant impact on him. Colin had spent all his life hiding behind his charm, because his worst fear was to be found inadequate. He did not trust others with his shortcomings. But his mother was right. He never feared Penelope's judgment, because she never judged him. He thought back to the days after his broken engagement with Marina, how difficult it had been for him to face his family, to admit to his errors. The only person with whom he could speak of it openly was Penelope. It was in her alone that he felt the safety to acknowledge his mistakes.

"And she brings out some of the best parts in you," his mother continued, placing her hands on his cheeks, "of which there are many."

Colin looked at Benedict, who had been silently listening to the conversation.

"Don't look at me. If I met a woman who gave me cause to look as wretched as you look right now, I would snatch her up without a moment's hesitation," Benedict said with a grin. "You've always fancied her," he added in a matter-of-fact tone, causing Colin to blush slightly and earning himself a slap on the shoulder from Violet.

"Were you all going to leave me to work this out on my own?!" Colin asked indignantly.

"Oh hush," she laughed. "As if you would have listened to me. I dared not so much as breathe her name to you for fear of influencing you against her."

"You are probably right," he sighed. "I only hope I'm not too late." His eyes turned to search the crowded room for Penelope. Eventually, he found her and Eloise, looking like they were being accosted by Cressida Cowper. The exchange seemed extremely unpleasant, but brief, and Cressida was soon on her way to join her friends.

"Are you going to ask her to dance?" Violet asked, but even as she was uttering the words, Penelope was already being accompanied to the dance floor by one of the Worthington sons.

Colin contemplated. "Not tonight," he said, his eyes still on Penelope. "I daresay she has had enough of me this past week."

Instead, he contented himself with observing her as the evening wore on. She danced, she talked, she laughed with her friends. And, every now and then, when she ventured a glance in his direction from across the room, his eyes were always there to meet hers with a gentle, encouraging smile. At first, she would blush and instantly look away, but, eventually, she felt comfortable enough to smile back at him. She was lovely, and she was enjoying herself. 

Unfortunately, Colin could not say the same for Cressida, whose eyes had been fixed on Penelope almost as intently as his own had been. She looked positively green with jealousy. Colin watched her with an amused look as he remembered that night last year at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. If Penelope's dress from that night was enough to make Cressida jealous, then tonight's dress was sure to reduce her to shreds. Not to mention the fact that Penelope was spending the entire evening dancing in said dress, not only with the first son of the Earl of Macclesfield, but also two of the Worthington brothers. Colin was having the time of his life.

But his amusement soon turned into dread at the all too familiar scene that was now unfolding in front of him. Colin's face darkened as he saw Cressida and her friends whispering to one another, shooting frequent glances at Penelope, who had started to walk with Eloise to another part of the room. On Cressida's cue, one of the girls picked up a glass of red wine and headed towards Penelope, while Cressida followed Penelope from behind.

Without thinking, Colin started crossing the room towards them, but he did not manage to reach them in time. Because at the exact right moment, Cressida placed her foot discreetly in Penelope's way, causing her to lose her balance, at which point the accomplice proceeded to empty the entire contents of the glass onto Penelope's gown.

It was the work of an instant, and Colin arrived just in time to hear Cressida say, "Penelope, dear, are you alright? Do take better care. I know it must be difficult to carry oneself gracefully with so much weight." And then her friend joined in. "It is a shame about the dress. It does have a rather Bridgerton-like air to it, does it not?"

Eloise was stupefied with horror. Penelope's face went red, her arms attempting to cover the part of her chest that was now soaked in wine, her whole body bent forward, as if she were trying to make herself as small as possible, and Colin saw that she was putting all her effort into fighting back her tears as she turned and ran towards the doors that opened to the gardens.

Eloise had started to follow her, but Colin stopped her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "No," he whispered, "let me do it."

"Jealous bitch," Colin cursed as he passed Cressida, to the utter shock of everyone within earshot, and followed Penelope out of the ballroom and into the gardens.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Colin felt some panic that he wouldn't find her. He turned every corner, and the gardens were starting to seem like a maze, but there was no sign of Penelope, until he heard the sound of her voice.

As soon as he laid eyes on her, he realized that in all those years, he had never before seen Penelope cry. He had seen her upset, and he had seen her close to tears—he had brought her close to tears—but he had never seen her cry.

"Penelope," he called out, but she just stood there, hugging herself tight.

He made his way towards her, contemplating the decision that lay before him. But once he reached her, he knew there was no choice to be made. He closed the remaining distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, completely enveloping her in him.

She did not move at first, and Colin would have let her go, but then she seemed to relax slightly in his arms, and then, very slowly, he felt her move her hands to his back in an almost imperceptible touch.

It was all the reassurance he needed. He took her in closer, surrounding her, holding her even tighter than she had been holding herself when he found her. And before he could realize what he was doing, he was taking one more liberty, and started placing long, slow kisses on her hair, the difference in their heights affording him the perfect advantage.

They stayed in this way for a long moment, his kisses punctuating the silence. The ballroom, Cressida, the wine—it all seemed to belong in some distinct past. They had crossed some invisible line that separated them from the events of ten minutes ago.

Her heaving eventually subsided, and she grew calmer and stiller in his arms, and Colin realized that she had stopped crying. He cradled her head in his hands, pulling her slightly away from him so that he could face her without breaking their embrace, and he started wiping away the tears from her face with more timely kisses on her eyes, then on her cheeks.

It was slow, tender, loving. And then his mouth found its way to hers, and their breaths mingled, and his relatively easy demeanor grew cautious as he understood then and there that he only had a few more moments of self-control before other feelings took hold of him.

Carefully, slowly, he touched his lips to hers, venturing a few of the same deliberate, chaste kisses on them, relishing their taste, their softness, savoring this new sensation. But then her lips moved against his, parting slightly to accommodate him. With every kiss, he tasted more of her, his hunger for her intensified, and he felt her reciprocate with equal emotion, until passion took over them both, and any thought of self-control had to be pushed aside. Their kisses grew deeper and more urgent until they were both breathless, swallowing each other's gasps.

It was her first kiss, but she was kissing him with perfect honesty, without hesitation, without trying to hide anything she felt, without trying—anything. She was kissing him like she treasured him.

Colin's physical experiences with women had all been after Marina, after his brother had called him "green". Colin was an emotional creature. And he had never learned to disconnect sex from love in the way Anthony or—to some extent, even Benedict—had done. But after Marina, his innocence had become a source of embarrassment to him, and he sought to rid himself of it, mostly with foreign women he met during his travels. In those encounters, kisses only served as a quick prelude to something more, and Colin never truly enjoyed them. There was something uncomfortable in meeting someone's mouth in that way, someone who was essentially a stranger.

This kiss—it was an experience in its own right. He was being loved with this kiss. And he did not know if there was anyone else in the world who could give him a kiss like this one. Colin was only now realizing how limited his understanding had been of physical intimacy, of the power to be felt in one person's touch.

The difference in their heights was now becoming an obstacle. Without thinking, Colin wrapped one arm around her waist and straightened up, lifting her with him to her tiptoes and causing their entire bodies to align. He pressed her closer against him, and it set him on fire. Struggling to keep her balance, she held on to his head, running her fingers through his hair.

He opened his mouth against hers, needing to say something, looking for a word to hold on to, but all that came out was a breathless "Pen, Pen..." And hearing himself utter her name in that way made him realize that this was his final chance to recollect himself, to gain back possession of his senses before he lost himself for good.

He finally broke the kiss, setting her down on her feet, moving his hands back to her head as she settled hers back on his shoulders, but he was not yet ready to step away completely. They stood there, foreheads almost resting against one another as they steadied their breaths, and he had half a mind to pull her back into him and trail his ravenous kisses down her neck, to give in once and for all, until the faint voices of some of the party venturing out into the garden finally forced them to step apart.

"Do you want to go home?" He asked, still slightly breathless. She nodded.

He left word for his family while the carriage was brought round for them. He helped her inside, and, instead of sitting at the opposite corner, took a seat next to her, keeping himself close. Once they started moving, he placed his hand on hers, then threaded his fingers through hers.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," she said with a reassuring smile. It was the first word she had spoken since she had left the ballroom.

They sat there a moment, adjusting to this new position, neither looking at the other, until he finally spoke.

"Pen, I am so in love with you, I hardly know what to do with myself."

She turned to face him, but the moment was too overwhelming for words, for him as well as her. Instead, she placed a hand on his chest, brushing gently over the beautiful fabric that was now stained with some of the wine from her dress.

"Your waistcoat is ruined," she said softly. "It was my favorite."

He gave her a surprised smile. "I'll have another one made," he said with wonder in his voice. He would have a hundred waistcoats made just to see how she cherished them, for the sole reason that they belonged to him. "And we absolutely need to have a dress made for you. Identical to this one."

She smiled, resting her head on his shoulder, and Colin's entire body relaxed, his cheek pressed to her hair, and took a long, deep breath as he let himself be engulfed by a sort of happiness he had not known existed. How could anyone, anywhere, have wanted to run away from this?

Chapter Text

"So, let me make sure I have this right," Eloise finally said once Penelope had finished relating to her the events of the previous night. "Colin's face was on your face." 

"Very much so," Penelope said, blushing. She had been counting the minutes since she woke up this morning, desperate to get Eloise alone so they could process this new information together. Now, breakfast was finally done and the two girls were sitting alone in the drawing room, hunched up close to one another, Penelope talking in quick, hushed whispers while Eloise listened in astonishment.

"That's disgusting," Eloise responded, wrinkling her nose.

"It—did not feel disgusting." She shot a nervous glance at the door. "El, I think I am starting to understand the notion of love making Marina was so cryptically hinting at last year. I mean, I am telling you there is something there."

"Something where?" Eloise perked her head up.

"Something—an event, a physical event, that makes a child. And I suspect it has to do—"

Eloise might have given an arm to hear Penelope's next words, but they were interrupted at this most inopportune moment by Benedict entering the drawing room, sketchbook in hand, followed by Violet, Gregory, and Hyacinth, and the girls were forced to steer their conversation towards more appropriate—or at least less conspicuously inappropriate—topics.

"Where do you think he is this morning?" Eloise said. Colin had been mysteriously absent all morning. "He missed breakfast. That man has not missed a single breakfast since he was born."

"I do not know, I have not seen him since last night," Penelope said, feeling an increasing sense of agitation. "Do you—do you think he regrets what happened?"

But she did not get the chance to receive the reassurance she needed from Eloise, as they were interrupted once more by Hyacinth coming up to them.

"Pen, would you play a jig for us? Gregory and I would like to dance."

"Of course," she obliged with a smile, shooting Eloise a nervous glance as she moved reluctantly to take her seat at the piano.

Penelope was halfway into her third song, and Gregory and Hyacinth were showing no indication of stopping, but she was grateful for the distraction. It was nearly eleven, and there was still no sign of Colin, and she was growing more and more anxious that something had gone terribly wrong.

But just as she was starting to become consumed by her fretful thoughts, he was there. Colin had finally entered the room.

He had said nothing, and she only realized his presence as he appeared into view at the corner of her eye while she was playing. Her fingers trembled slightly on the keys, and she attempted to regain her composure by continuing to play a few more of the familiar notes before she finally found the courage to look up at him.

But when she met his face, it did not carry a single trace of guilt or regret, but instead she found an expression that rendered her awestruck. He was looking at her in a way she had never before seen him look at anyone. Like she was the most beautiful, wondrous thing he had ever beheld. His smile was brilliant. His eyes were overflowing with adoration. It was like the sun was shining on her. She let go of the breath she had been holding. All was well.

She was only vaguely aware that she had finished playing when Gregory spoke, pulling them both out of their private moment.

"Will you play another, Pen?"

"I am sure I have played every jig I know," she said laughingly.

"Have you been imposing on our guest to play all morning?" Colin asked with feigned indignation.

"But she is the only one who plays as well as Daphne," complained Hyacinth.

"That, she does," Colin said, his eyes back on Penelope in the same brilliant smile.

Penelope paused for a moment. "I shall be happy to play, but only if your brother sings," she said, tilting her head up at Colin expectantly.

He said nothing, only locked her gaze, matching the playfully challenging look in her eyes. Then, he took deliberate steps around the piano until he was standing behind her, and he leaned closely over her shoulder, pretending to examine the sheets spread out before her on the music stand. She could feel his warm breath on her neck as he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, "I think I should like this one," bringing one of the sheets to the forefront. "What do you think, Penelope?" She swallowed hard.

"I like this one," she breathed.

"Good." She shivered as he stood up and went to take his place in front of the instrument.

She had heard him sing more than once over the years, and it had always filled her with an almost unbearable sense of yearning. The thought that he would never be hers, that this beautiful voice of his would never belong in her life, had always created in her a sort of pain that almost overshadowed the joy of listening to him.

Things could not have been more different now. She accompanied as he sang, and he was dedicating every line to her. She had never found his voice more captivating than in that moment, when there was no ache or longing to be felt, only delight. This song was theirs. Penelope did not know if it was possible for anyone to be happier than she was right now.

By the time the song was done, everyone was thoroughly exerted. Benedict had danced with Violet, and had even managed to force Eloise out of her chair to join them. 

"Alright, children," Violet said eventually, "any chance of gracing the schoolroom with your presence this morning?"

She stood up, leading Gregory and Hyacinth out of the room as she touched Benedict's shoulder and seemed to whisper something in his ear. Benedict nodded, and they both followed the children out of the room, giving Colin meaningful looks as they left.

Colin turned to Eloise, hoping she would follow his mother's cue and give him and Penelope some privacy, but Eloise seemed to show no immediate intention of leaving.

"Where have you been all morning?" she questioned.

"I had some business to attend to with mother."

"But mother made it to breakfast."

"Yes," he said with some impatience, "and then I had other business to attend to, without mother."

And then he seemed to find it best to cut straight to the point. "El, could you give your favorite brother a moment alone with your friend?"

"Benedict wants to talk to Penelope?" Eloise said, pretending to be confused.

"You are insufferable," Colin groaned. "Would you give us some privacy, please?"

Eloise gave up her act, looking at Penelope with a knowing smile.

"Fine," she said, and headed for the door.

He turned to Penelope.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Good morning," she replied, relieved to see she had not lost her ability to speak.

"I have something I would like to ask you." He took a step towards her, his hands behind his back.

She tried to steady her heartbeat by taking deep, uniform breaths. "Yes," she said, her voice full of anticipation.

"I—am in need of your opinion. On the subject of fashion."

She deflated slightly. "You require my input on fashion," she repeated.

"Yes. I wanted to know," and he took his hands from behind his back to reveal a small velvet box, which he opened before her, "what you think of this ring? It has been in the family collection for a little less than a century."

She could kill him, if her mind were not busy making sense of what was happening, of the fact that Colin Bridgerton was standing before her right now with a ring in his hand, the fact that her life was about to change forever.

She took in the beauty of the piece before her—a delicate gold ring, featuring small white pearls arranged in an oval pattern, with a large rectangular piece of precious red stone at its center.

"Ruby?"

"Yes. I made sure this one was not made from glass," he said with a smile. "I also paid a visit to Mr. Brookes. I was glad to find he had a note of your ring size." He paused a moment.

"I think it captures you perfectly. Genuine, rare, and a passionate red." 

She looked up at him in awe, finding it impossible to speak without breaking into tears.

"Will you be my wife, Penelope Anne Featherington?"

Chapter Text

"Did you really call Cressida Cowper a jealous bitch?" Anthony asked incredulously as he poured a glass of whiskey. Colin only answered with a smile, looking well pleased with himself.

"Well, at least you did not perjure yourself," he said, grinning. He offered the glass to Colin, who shook his head, so he took a sip himself as he sat down at his desk. "Although you know we still have to invite the Cowpers to the wedding," he said, pointing a finger at Colin.

"Oh yes, I would not dream of leaving them out. In fact, if Cressida does not come, I shall not hesitate to go to her house and fetch her myself." Colin smirked, practically giddy at the thought of subjecting Cressida to an entire day featuring Penelope in a wedding gown.

"Is there really no chance of moving the wedding up?"

"Between Daphne's rushed marriage, your broken engagement, and my 'bungled nuptials' as you once so charmingly referred to them, it would be nice if at least one Bridgerton could manage an engagement of a respectable length." Anthony said with a grin.

"I suppose you are right, though it is most inconvenient that this responsibility should fall to me," Colin grumbled. "I have to admit, three months is a long time to wait. It is starting to test my patience."

"I hope you are conducting yourself with honor, Colin," Anthony warned.

"I am," Colin said with a sigh. "Although that honor is currently hanging by the thinnest of threads."

"I understand," said Anthony sympathetically. "But I trust your sense of discipline. You were never particularly rakish by nature. A flirt, perhaps, but you could always find the strength to resist any further temptation. I've always admired you for it."

"That may be true," he responded with a modest nod, acknowledging his brother's compliment, "but I'm afraid in this case the temptation is altogether of a different and more powerful sort."

"Yes," Anthony studied him with an appraising smile, "I suppose it is, when you share such genuine love and affinity with another person. I am delighted for you, brother." Colin beamed.

"There was a time in my life when I was convinced I needed to live without love," Anthony continued. "Now that I have Kate, I cannot imagine the fate to which I was so easily willing to condemn myself. And you—you are a romantic creature, Colin. More so than I am, or even Benedict, for that matter. There is a sort of idealism, even if naive at times, that underlies all your thoughts and actions. You would not have survived in a marriage without love."

The backhanded reference to Marina was not lost on Colin, but it was the other part of his brother's declaration that truly intrigued him. Anthony was right. It was why Colin could not love Marina, who did not share his nature, nor even valued it. It was why Penelope's pull on him was so strong. It was why he was drawn to her long before he had learned to love her.

"Penelope is the same," he mused. "She approaches everything with a passion. She is driven by the same yearning. Though while I am prone to self-doubt, she seems to possess an endless supply of optimism."

He lingered on this line of thought for a moment, until he was roused by the sound of Kate entering the study.

"I see the man of the hour is here."

"Ah, Kate!" He stood up to greet her.

"Congratulations, Colin," she said, beaming. "And best wishes to Penelope if she is to join this family. I shall have much to teach her. That girl is too good for what is in store for her." 

"Nonsense. I think Pen is as much a Bridgerton already as any of us," he countered with a charming smile.

"I'm sure she is by now. I hear you two are inseparable. Edwina tells me she has hardly had the chance to speak to her since she's been in London. And she says that among her acquaintances is a certain heir to an earldom whose hopes are sorely disappointed."

"I am sorry for him," Colin said with earnestness. He had known Kate a short time, but he could always speak openly with her. "Although I must lay claims to a stronger love in this case. I would have felt her loss more keenly than he—or indeed anyone else—would have. He may be disappointed, whereas I, in his position, might have been broken."

She held both his hands in hers. "I am happy for you, Colin," she said with genuine feeling. He smiled.

"Will you stay the night?"

"Thank you, but I need to head back to London. I should like to get some time with Pen tomorrow morning before we both get caught up in wedding errands."

Chapter Text

May 1816, London, England

It was an unusually beautiful May morning. His wife sat leaning against a tree in the small gardens attached to their London home, looking to be completely absorbed in the book she was reading. He lay on his back with his head in her lap, his eyes closed as he soaked up the perfection of the moment. She held her book in one hand, the other gently brushing through his hair.

She chuckled.

"What?" He asked with a smile, his eyes still closed.

"I am rereading that part about all chilly months having an 'R' in their name. That was quite clever of you."

He grinned, his cheeks flushing. 

"Colin, how on earth are we not working on having these published? You capture the experience perfectly. I feel as if I were right there with you on those tours of Greece and Italy. I even enjoy reading your account of the tours we did together. Your words add a new dimension to my own memories. That sea water in Paphos—you describe it so vividly, so accurately, I could almost feel my feet soaking in it once more."

He could not possibly respond to such praise. He could only continue to close his eyes, grinning from ear to ear as he savored the swell of pride, savored the fact that his wife—the person whose opinion he values most in the world, not to mention a talented and successful writer in her own right—admired his writings with such fervor. His heart was dancing with happiness.

"Don't you have a novel to write, my darling wife?" He deflected.

"I'll have you know I drafted the final chapter last night. I only have some revisions to make before I hand it in to Mr. Jones. Well, once you have read it, of course."

That caught his attention. "You did?" He asked, glancing up at her. "Dare I ask what happens to Charlotte? Or am I to have to wait till tonight to have my curiosity satisfied?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to have patience for a few hours," she answered playfully, "until I make my revisions. Then you can provide me with your honest opinion."

"Fine," he grumbled in pretend annoyance. In reality, Colin believed there was absolutely nothing in the world that could give him reason to complain. His life was perfect. This woman, whose hand had just moved from lacing through his hair to resting on his chest, was perfect.

When he and Penelope were not traveling abroad, they spent most of their time in London. They both enjoyed a visit to the country every now and then, especially to Aubrey Hall where they could spend time with the rest of the family. But London was home. It suited their temperaments perfectly, and provided them with the inspiration and excitement which propelled them forward in their pursuits.

They spent their days visiting art galleries, attending concerts, or walking the familiar streets and parks from Bloomsbury to Mayfair. Their evenings were spent reading, writing, entertaining friends, and, through all of it, thoroughly enjoying each other's company.

She had turned the page. By Colin's calculation, she was now reading his account of their trip to Scotland. He knew she had read it all before, and yet he was secretly anticipating her reaction once she reached his description of their encounter with Angus Campbell. He was particularly pleased with his work on that story.

She must have finally reached it, because she started to giggle.

"Alright, alright," he finally spoke, feigning resignation, his smile never leaving his face. "If you truly think there is something in them, then perhaps we can arrange a meeting with the Chancery Lane folks."

"Colin, they are unconscionably good," she reiterated. "If these were published, I myself would own two of every volume."

He finally looked up at her with the most congenial smile, lifting a hand to gently trace the line of her jaw with his finger. "Yes, but you are so hopelessly in love with me," he said softly, with a tone and gaze so full of love that they suggested he meant exactly the reverse, before they turned playful again, "that there is really no question of your impartiality." He settled back into her lap. "You think everything I do is marvelous."

He was teasing, but she simply said with sweetness in her eyes, "I suppose I am hopelessly in love with you. In my defense, you are quite marvelous."

He grinned silently for a long moment, gazing at the sky above, then started again. "And how annoying is it to aspire to have your works published and find yourself married to one of the most successful young writers in London?" he said with feigned indignation. "Most unlucky, if you ask me."

He could not be more proud of his wife. Penelope's first novel was an instant success, with several favorable public reviews. Now, she was finishing her second novel, while continuing to write her increasingly popular serial for the Weekly Dispatch.

In their year or so of marriage, they had traveled together to Scotland and Cyprus. Colin still wanted to take her to Greece and Italy. He wanted to show her his favorite places, and to travel with her to places that were new to the both of them. He wanted to see everywhere, and he wanted to take her everywhere. They had made a list of the places they wanted to visit before starting a family.

But while she could write her novel anywhere, the serial was going to keep them in London for at least the summer months, since it was necessary that the installments reach the editor in time each week. Their trip to Greece would have to wait till the end of the summer.

"Will you help me edit them?" He asked eventually in a more earnest tone.

"Of course," she said simply.

"Alright then, I shall arrange for an appointment with the publisher."

"Alright then," she was beaming down at him, but he could not see it. His eyes were closed again, and he covered the hand that was resting on his heart with his, and allowed his mind to shuffle through the memories of the past year. The opening dance of their engagement ball, brewing with emotion. That day on their honeymoon when they had been laughing themselves silly—over what, he could hardly remember now. The late night walk they had taken along the beach in Cyprus barefoot. Last night, how her skin had felt against his. And this morning, waking up to her nestled in his arms.

It was the stuff of his wildest fantasies.