Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had never occurred to Colin that they were unchaperoned until he heard the voices of his sisters yapping away in the hallway. Truth be told, after Penelope said that thing about his eyes, he just about forgot everything for a second. In response, he had mumbled something almost rude along the lines of the compliment - the one he’d bullied her into giving him by way of coaching her in the art of finding a suitor - being “rather direct”. Before he had time to elaborate though, the reality of their meeting had come into sharp focus as he heard Eloise and Fransceca in the hall. Approaching. Quickly. Him and Penelope both whipped around and Colin rushed past her to intercept his sisters before they could think to do something incredibly inconvenient, like walk into the family drawing room and discover him on his own with an unmarried young lady of gentle breeding.

“Through that door there, to the study, quick,” he told Penelope, barely looking over his shoulder to his friend, “I’ll keep them off.”

Then he ducked out onto the landing and ran interference.

***

Penelope stood for a second, unsure of what to do. If things were normal between her and Eloise, she wagered Colin would have no reason to hide her away like a shameful little secret - a thought that still stung, no matter how profusely he had promised her that he was not and had never been embarrassed by her. Because surely, no one of the Bridgerton family would suspect anything untoward going on by them being together, unchaperoned. Colin had never made a secret out of not being interested in her, even if it had taken her a while to accept it.

At least now, he was helping her find a match. Whoever it would turn out to be, she wouldn’t love them, she knew that, but at least she could stop feeling like the last pick, the runt of the litter. It was time to move on. From her ideas of love matches and Colin Bridgerton and the hope that she could be like people such as Daphne or Edwina or Kate; Diamonds who had suitors falling to their knees for them simply for entering a room. That wasn’t her, would never be her. No, Penelope Featherington had to work harder. Always. She had to polish her manners and hope that among the men of the ton one would find her decent enough to marry. This was her lot in life and she was coming to terms with it. Not everybody could be a romantic heroine. Some people had to take what they could get. She allowed herself a little moment to sigh, commiserating her fate and then slowly started walking to the small door on the other end of the room, half-listening for the footsteps that moved away from the door, Colin’s voice growing fainter.

She found herself in a study that also housed a pool table. She could see the Bridgerton brothers convene here, joking over a game of billiards. She could also smell faint cigarette smoke and sweet remains of whiskey stains. It seemed this room was more a den or a game room than a study. But as she inspected it, she did see a desk at the far end of the room that looked to be in use. With nothing better to do, Penelope kept her turn about the room, moving closer to the desk. That was when she saw it. Colin’s journal. His travel journal! She could tell because she knew his hand and because it had some pressed flowers sticking out of it where it lay face up, turned to a page that must only recently have been filled.

Before she knew it or could help herself really, she was reading its contents that marked out one of Colin’s recent travel destinations. She shouldn’t have read on past the initial sentence which gave her that revelatory insight about this being his private musings. But she was intrigued. Not just because she had never really been able to fully understand that man but because, well, the writing was actually good. Not that his letters hadn’t been entertaining. But there was something about his journal, a certain immediate quality that carried her eye from sentence to sentence. He described the feel of the ocean in the south of France and she as good as felt the waves softly lap at her toes too, lukewarm, like a bath that had run a little cold. She found herself smiling at the last line — but that smile died a quick, brutal death when she heard his voice right behind her.

“What are you doing?!”

She barely had time to apologise, because Colin already pushed past her to collect every last scrap of private paper on that sodden desk, away from her prying eyes.

“That’s personal!” He said gruffly and hurried with the stack of things to the other corner of the room, compelling her to chase after him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to, it just sat there and I—“

“You don’t do that!” He interrupted, not looking at her, instead trying to find a spot for his papers on a side table. “You do not just read someone’s private thoughts like that.”

If she didn’t know better, she would believe he sounded humiliated — but what for? He was a good writer and what he’d written on those pages was so innocent.

“I mean, it was barely intimate,” she argued stupidly. “Just a description of the ocean, and a rather nice one at that.”

What she saw of his ears where he stood with his back to her flushed red. He still wouldn’t turn around, instead busy with righting all the clutter on the table to put the stack down onto and when she geared up to make another attempt at either an apology or a compliment, she never got to. Because a sharp jolt accompanied by a soft but urgent wheeze of pain escaped him and in the next second, there was blood.

It took Penelope a moment to register that he had cut himself in the palm with a stray letter opener and he dropped everything to gather his injured hand into his unhurt one, trying to stop the bleeding. Penelope couldn’t stand the sight of blood, so instead of staring at it, she hunched down to collect his fallen possessions.

“Leave it,” he said rather harshly and she scrambled back while he fished for a piece of stray paper to catch the blood dripping from his wound.

Penelope decided the least she could do was help and ignore the faint flutter in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the offensive red fluid.

“Wait,” she said and got rid of her gloves quickly so as to not sully them when she came to his aid. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

“Chest pocket,” he said and started to look a little bit pale which worried her.

“Sit,” she told him and he obeyed, sinking down onto a nearby récamiere, which worried her even more.

Surely, he could not have been impacted by the blood loss already - alas the sight of it very well could make a grown man queasy. Penelope hurried her efforts even more and bent over him, not even thinking about grabbing his vest’s decorative pocket - only to, of course, come up empty.

“Inside,” Colin winced, “inside pocket.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage and wouldn’t dare look at him, especially now that she had to come even closer to unbutton the first two buttons of that darn vest with shaky fingers.

She struggled with the second button, so she had to move in even closer to pop the stupid thing open. So focused on the task, she barely noticed that Colin had an absolute close-up view of her décolletage.

***

Colin, however, very much did notice. So much so that his mouth went completely dry and for a moment, he forgot about the throbbing pain in his sliced-open palm. Maybe it was early blood-loss induced delirium, but sitting there with a perfect view of her full, pearly pale, unfathomably beckoning décolletage in front of him, he thought of naught but the fact that if he tipped his face just two, three inches forward, he could wedge his nose between her breasts. And happily suffocate there. Somewhere in the depth of his mind, he had some sense that something small and weird blossomed inside of him at the sight. Something that had to do with the rest of his life. Not that he had the wherewithal in that moment to fully process it. Because next thing, her fingers make contact with his bare chest. He drew in a sharp breath as his head shot up at her. Penelope’s hands, which were half propped on his collar bone, between the folds of his collar under the shirt, and half fishing for his handkerchief on the inside of his vest, paused as she looked down at him, prompted by his reaction. Heavens, she was close. When had she gotten so close?!

They were suspended in time like this for a moment that felt like years. Colin heard only the rush of blood past his ears, forcing his gaze that had dropped to her lips back up to her eyes. His vest was too tight, even with two buttons open. What was happening?! This was Penelope. Penelope Fearherington! Why was he suddenly so bothered? So keenly aware of her presence and where exactly her fingers rested on his skin?! Finally, gladly, Penelope resumed her efforts and pulled the handkerchief out - but the vest was still too tight. Colin felt like he couldn’t breathe. Or think straight. He ordered himself to sit back, to stop gawking. It took him a shameful amount of deep breaths to calm down.

***

Penelope leaned back and sat down in front of him, ordering herself to focus on the task of bandaging up that bleeding hand of his. He had an almost dazed look about him, glazed over eyes, his mouth hanging open. Maybe he had truly lost too much blood already. She was afraid that maybe he could faint - and how would she explain that to the Bridgertons?! Colin passed out in the drawing room with the letter opener.

“Colin, are you alright? You look dizzy,” she said, wrapping the cloth once, twice, around his hand and he shook his head, almost as if waking himself up.

“Gah…,” he murmured and then his face became alert again. “Yes. Yes.”

There went nothing. She had to say it, now before he might truly topple over.

“I really am sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to pry but then the sentences just kept tumbling one right after the other and before I knew it, I’d already read half the page and it was really so well written - and I should know–“ She cut herself off, that was a blunder she needed to cover and fast. “Being an avid reader and all.”

“Was it?” He asked and she was so afraid of having let her own authorial experience slip that at first, she didn’t know what he meant. “Well written,” he clarified.

“Of course!” She nodded emphatically, both glad that he had bought her cover-up and because it was simply true. “Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised, given your letters, but yes, really well-written.”

She looked back at him then, caught a glimpse of something akin to a proud little smile but then he schooled his features back into a stern expression. It confused her, made her feel guilty.

“I can only apologise once more.” She tied a knot around the impromptu bandage. “If I hadn’t upset you, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself.”

Colin’s face softened. “I would have gotten upset by something else.”

“With a letter opener so close-by?”

“I’m rather clumsy.”

“No, you’re not,” she insisted and returned his hand to him. “Do you want me to call for someone to look at it?”

“Please don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d have to explain this.”

He gestured vaguely between them and Penelope felt silly again. Of course he wouldn’t want to explain why she was here, all on her own. Alone with him.

She still felt a little silly when they met again at that night’s Full Moon Ball and his hand remained bandaged up. The proof of her insolence. They had sat in silence for a while after, in that game room, until Colin had deemed the coast clear enough to sneak her out, promising that he had forgiven her and that they would see each other later at the Osterley’s ball.

And there they now stood. Side by side at the buffet table. And while he was already surveying the crowd for possible suitors for her, Penelope still thought about his journal. It really had been a well-written piece of prose. She should have liked to read more but he had gotten a bit cagey about it when she asked him about some particulars that she did not dare bring it up again. Instead, she asked him if his hand still hurt.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll survive.” Then he dipped down to her a bit, lowering his voice. “Do you see that gentleman over there by the fiddle-leaf fig?”

“Say that three times fast,” Penelope quipped in reflex and his little, breathy laugh in response made her look up at him instead of whatever sir he had just spoken off.

“You should go stand by him and mention you are quite parched,” Colin said.

Penelope wanted to argue, nerves rising like bile, but he gave her a look that assured her he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So she gathered her wits and made her way over. She didn’t fully remember the gentleman’s name, only that he was a cousin of someone who barely ever attended the London season. But since she hadn’t set her sights on anyone in particular yet, she decided it was just as well. In any case, she couldn’t do worse than she had at Lady Danbury’s first ball of the season.

She took position next to the gentleman, as casually as she was able to and then started to fan herself.

“An unseasonably warm evening,” she began – the weather, always a safe option to start, Colin had said – but she hadn’t quite found her nerve yet and so it came out hurried and rather quiet.

“Pardon me, Miss…?” The gentleman asked. “I could not hear you.”

“Featherington. I said it is warm,” she repeated, much less dignified, and cleared her throat. Focus. “I am quite parched.”

“Shall I fetch you a glass of lemonade, Miss Featherington?” The man smiled politely, but Penelope could tell immediately that he was just doing what propriety and gallantry dictated… that man wouldn’t care if she died of thirst on the spot.

***

Colin kept an eye on Penelope as her gentleman approached the buffet. Moving slightly away from the lemonade bowl, Colin allowed space for the man to fill up two glasses of juice for Pen and himself.

“I see you have been talking to Penelope Featherington,” Colin said to him, discreetly.

“Not for long, Mr Bridgerton, we have only just met,” the chap replied, Colin had forgotten his name already from the last ball where they had been introduced in passing.

“She is quite fetching, is she not?” Colin said, wanting to talk her up to him a bit so that Pen could gain some confidence from a hopefully positive conversation.

“I do not know about fetching,” the man replied. “We have barely spoken three words. But her dress is very, very lovely, indeed. Very shapely.”

He gave him a sly little smile that Colin didn’t quite know how to feel about and then tipped his head to return to Penelope.

They did talk more than three words then, Colin could tell because he kept watching like a hawk. Or better, he kept watching her dress. Which was indeed very, very lovely. Very shapely. He had no idea why he had not noticed it before. Before he knew it, there it was again. That odd compulsion to look at her décolletage and imagine putting his face on it. Or in it. Anywhere around and close to it, in any case. Colin cursed under his breath and forced himself to look away. What the everloving saints was wrong with him? Was this what Anthony had meant about wetting his wick?! Were these the consequences of not having visited a brothel yet? That he would now leer at the chest of his best friend in the world and have his debauched mind conjure up lewd image after lewd image of him tasting every inch of her soft, porcelain skin? Colin trained his eyes on the couples dancing and tried to recall if he had ever had thoughts like this about Marina – but his infatuation with Lady Crane seemed lifetimes away and to his recollection, he had wanted to kiss Marina and read her poetry… but he had never wanted to gather her breasts in his hands and squeeze until the cows came home.

Maybe he had caught something on his travels. A brain worm that made him into a perverted lustling. His head shot up as he heard Penelope giggle across the dance floor and he was back in the present. She was dancing. With that gentleman. And she was giggling as she did so. To his great chagrin, Colin realised with a start that he did not like the sight. At all. What – and he permitted himself the crassness in the privacy of his own mind – the fuck was going on?!

Colin had no idea, not that night. Neither at any time in the following week where he kept meeting up with Penelope to “coach” her in the ways of flirtation. Clarity was as elusive as his unseemly thoughts were persistent. It was those darned new dresses of hers to blame, he decided. Sitting and fitting just right. Making her look so tantalising. Colin would return home from an outing with her tense and ponder if he should relieve himself until he fell asleep. He never did soil himself to thoughts of her breasts - but only by a hair and only because he knew once he had, he wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye anymore – and he found he rather liked her eyes more and more each day. They were blue, he thought, on the fourth consecutive day that they met that week, strolling down the market in town.

They came up on a stall, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at fresh flowers.

“Tell me, Pen,” he said, forcing the improper thoughts about her back into the shadows of his mind to focus on the task at hand, “are you well-versed in the secret language of flowers?”

She gave him a funny look. “I’d imagine I'm more fluent than you.”

“Is that so?” He teased and pointed to a primrose. “Do you know what this signifies?”

“Primroses stand for consistency,” Penelope replied easily.

“And those?”

“Violets. Faithfulness.”

“And those?”

“Morning glory. Affection,” she said.

“So, if I were to gift a bouquet of these flowers to you, what would that mean?” Colin asked, picking out a primrose to inspect them a little closer.

“It would mean you gravely overestimated my love for purple flowers,” Pen quipped and grinned and Colin couldn’t help but smile, though he quickly fixed his face because she was not taking him seriously.

“Pen,” he admonished. “What would it mean?”

She sighed, as if exasperated with him. “It would mean that because by virtue of my being constant and loyal, you regard me with great affection. That’s easy. I know you do.”

“I really do,” he said – but like once before when he had thanked her for her consistency and loyalty, she looked like something troubled her.

Colin was about to ask her, when he followed her absent gaze to the middle distance and saw the reason for it: His sister Eloise, on a market stroll. With none other than Cressida Cowper.

***

Penelope froze. She could not physically stand the sight of Eloise walking arm and arm with Cressida Cowper out of all people! This had to be a joke. A cruel prank! But then she reconsidered – and remembered past the interactions with Colin at the last couple of balls (which were understandably hard to think around). And she had indeed seen this before. Eloise standing next to Cressida by the buffet at the Full Moon Ball. Then another time near the dance floor. But Penelope had believed it to be just happenstance. Never in a million years would she have thought that Eloise would seek out to spend time with Cressida. Cressida! On purpose! Yet there they were. In the absolute light of day. The sight alone glued Penelope to where she stood and she watched and watched on, petrified, as the pair of them made their way over to her and Colin. Eloise regarded her with such coldness, it made Penelope want to break down crying.

“Good day, sister,” said Colin and Penelope thought she should have told him some more elaborate story about why her and his sister were not speaking at the moment, because he did not seem to understand the gravity of beckoning her over for a chat. “Miss Cowper.”

“Mr Bridgerton,” Cressida said, dipping into a little bow and then threw Penelope naught more than a sideways glance.

And did not say hello to her. Neither did Eloise. They were giving her the cut direct. Penelope could not really breathe.

“Are you picking out flowers, Mr Bridgerton?” Cressida asked innocently like a spring morning – instantly putting Penelope on her guard.

“As a matter of fact,” Colin replied conversationally.

“Who’s the lucky recipient?” Cressida beamed while Eloise stared daggers at Penelope. “Some new debutant caught your eye?”

But Penelope was distracted, waiting for Colin’s answer. She did not expect him to say they were for her – because they weren’t really picking out flowers and she rather he did not tell Cressida the truth of their meeting either. But it still hurt when he said: “For my lady mother” instead of acknowledging that Penelope was even there with him.

“Naturally,” Cressida said with a sneer and the message was clear.

She could have just as easily said: “Of course they are not for Penelope - who would ever believe such an unfathomable thing?!”

“Though, I would hope Miss Featherington allows me to buy her a flower of her choosing, as a token of gratitude for indulging my flower picking exploits,” Colin said, ever the gallant protector.

Ever the man who pitied her so much, he was ready to defend her from bullies with a dance or a flower – but wouldn’t think of doing these things out of his own desire or volition. Penelope found that she did not want flowers from him at all.

“We best be going,” was the first and last thing Eloise said, just then.

Cressida nodded but before they bid their farewells, she looked down at Penelope once more and leaned in so that Colin wouldn’t be able to pick it up unless he was listening for it and said saccharinely: “A nice dress, Penelope. Maybe those plunging necklines will finally find you that suitor you seem to be so desperate for.”

They left at that with no further glance, word or pause. Penelope found herself still unable to move, tears springing into her eyes at the sheer meanness. Not so much from Cressida. Heavens knew Penelope was quite used to that. But Eloise! Eloise! How could she be so… unlike herself? And so mean! Yes, Penelope was not too proud to allow Eloise to be angry at her because of the Whistledown thing, especially since she had promised her never to tell a soul – but this seemed almost like punishment in lieu of punishing her outright by revealing her identity. Like Eloise was doling out her brand of punishment by way of Cressida Cowper. By standing by while she mocked Penelope and called her out for exactly what she was: A desperate spinster.

“Pen, I--” said Colin from somewhere near her, but Penelope only heard it like a distant foghorn.

He might as well not have been there at all. “Pardon me, I think I shall be needed at home.”

“Pen!”

“Goobye, Colin,” she said, not looking at him because she was already crying and she did not wish for him to see her like that. “Thank you for the day.”

And then she hurried away from him, side-stepping more and more people as the market filled with the midday rush.

A day later she was sat in her room, ready for the next ball, looking out at the Bridgerton’s house across Grosvenor Square, still heart-broken about Eloise. She knew Cressida and Eloise would be awaiting her at the ball. They would be standing close and be mean to her until Eloise had her satisfaction. And Penelope decided on the spot, that she was not going. Lady Whistledown gossip be damned for one night.

Her mother being away to aid in Philippa’s impending labour, there was no one she even had to give an explanation to. So she let the day pass and the night come and told Mrs Varley to go take the time to be with her family and the rest of the staff the very same. Then she sat alone in the dark in the garden, letting the April night air cool her down to the bones. At least that made her feel something other than shame.

***

Where was Penelope? Colin had been standing close to the entryway of Trombley house where he had positioned himself a good half hour ago and still, there was no sign of her. Penelope was not there! He pondered if maybe she had arrived very early but a turn about the ballroom and the orangerie yielded no results either. Asking Eloise, who again was conversing with Cressida Cowper for whatever ungodly reason, was no use. He wondered for the umpteenth time what exactly had caused the row between his sister and his best friend but the sheer coldness of Eloise towards Pen made him honestly scared to ask, so he was at a loss of what to do. On the one hand, he could just as easily have enjoyed his night like he had done many times without Penelope in the past, or ditch the company and dip into Mondrich’s club, but that all seemed unappealing at present. Because… well, plain and simple, because he wanted to see Pen.

He shoved down any possible reason outside of merely, innocently wanting to continue helping her find a suitor and decided he was going to find her. Halfway to Grosvenor Square by foot, he had also conjured up another reason unrelated to wanting to just be near her and see what dress she would be wearing that night. Which was worry. Because maybe, something bad was keeping Penelope away. Maybe she had tripped and fallen over the hem of that dress he could not fully stop thinking about and desperately needed help? This notion quickened his step. But even after knocking three, four times at the front door, no one was opening up at Featherington house. It seemed like even the staff had vacated the premises for the night. Maybe Philippa had gone into labour and Penelope had accompanied her mother to help? Colin was just about to head to the Finches - but then he thought of the gardens. Perhaps she would be there and just didn’t hear him knock.

Quickly, he snuck past the row of houses down the street and around the corner, all the way back to the garden gate at the backside of Featherington house and tried the door handle, which of course, did not give way. He stood there in the dark for a second, deliberating his next steps. Theoretically, it was very unbecoming to even consider breaking and entering – but on the other hand: What if Penelope was hurt? Incapacitated inside with no staff and no family to hear her cries for help? That decided it and he scaled the wall. Less graceful and a lot less fast than he had expected himself to, but he did come out on the other side, slipping of the edge of the wall to land on his feet with a thud. He took a few paces into the garden, around the thick bushes when he heard her.

“Hello?! Who’s there?” She sounded scared and it occurred to Colin that she had every right to. Seeing as he was, after all, an unknown intruder at present.

“It’s me,” he hurried to say and then added quite unnecessarily: “Colin.”

He rounded the hedges and there she stood, next to a bench, next to a pillar, looking aghast, her hair down and her eyes wide. Her dress was a pale minty, maybe even sagey green. It shimmered softly in the glow of the moonlight. And the neckline was as exquisite as he had imagined it would be. Colin forced himself to keep his eyes on hers.

“What are you doing here?” She took a step towards him. “Did you climb over the wall?!”

“You wouldn’t answer the door,” he explained dumbly. “And you weren’t at the ball. I was worried, I thought something bad had happened to you.”

Pen let out a huff of air, more annoyed than he thought she strictly had a right to be – after all he was there out of pure concern for her safety. At least that’s what he told himself.

“Nothing bad happened,” she said. “I merely wished for a reprieve from the ton tonight.”

“But why?” Colin asked. “You said you’d be there.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m not,” she replied. Looking upset.

“Pen,” he urged, walking closer, “what’s wrong? Is this about Eloise and… her new, absurd friendship with Cressida?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No matter what passed between the two of you, don’t give her the satisfaction,” he said, moving closer yet. “Come on, let us go back to the ball.” And because she remained unmoved, he improvised: “There’s suitors to be charmed.”

She only let out quite a mirthful, ugly grunt.

“I fear that ship has sailed.”

“What do you mean?” He asked – and apparently tripped a wire because she exploded at him.

“You heard Cressida! You’ve been there this past week!” She wrung her hands in sheer frustration. “Even with your… lessons, no one takes note of me! All I am is a desperate spinster!”

“That’s not true!” He argued. “That gentleman you danced with at the Osterley Ball said you were fetching.”

It was strictly speaking a lie because fetching was the word Colin had used but the sentiment was still correct so he thought it was fair. But Penelope was not convinced.

“Do not mock me.”

What?!

“It’s true. I wouldn’t just say this to make you feel better.”

“Do not pity me either,” she said and looked so tired, like she had had these thoughts forever.

“I’m not,” he promised. “Please, let’s just go to the ball, Penelope.”

“No.”

“Pen--”

“--I’m not in the mood to be put down by Cressida. And I’m not in the mood for hanging around the side of the ballroom mindlessly chatting to gentlemen, hoping one of them will be bored enough to dance with me. It’s no use. None of this.”

She gestured vaguely between the two of them which irked Colin more than he cared to admit. Did she want to call the lessons off? If she wanted to call them off, how would he get to see her as often as he had these past few days?

“I don't understand.”

Again she snorted that ugly little huffed laugh. “The lessons. The dresses. All of it. It doesn’t work. Some people just aren’t meant to marry. Some people are just… destined to be alone.”

“But not you.”

“Why?” She took a step towards him, her cheeks flashing red with frustration. “What gives you the indication that I have any hope of securing a match when even after our considerable efforts, I’m still nothing but a joke?”

“You do not know the future.”

“I know enough,” she said and then bit her lips, obviously opting to tell him something a little more sincere regarding her reasons, something that wasn’t just barking to bite his head off. Colin leaned in to signal that he was ready to listen if she wanted to trust him with her feelings and she said: “And I’m happier to just decide that I am done trying. If I decide now to take myself out of the race and just accept my fate, I won’t be so devastated about losing at the end of it.”

“Penelope--”

“No, Colin,” she insisted. “You don’t know what it’s like. You can just… galavant about and walk into any ballroom and just pick a girl at random. You’re charming and handsome and lovely. You could be engaged in a fortnight. That’s a guarantee for you. All I have to show for my efforts is constant rejections and uncertainty.”

Colin had to clear his mind from the instant impact of her calling him charming and handsome and lovely, which is why he initially missed her spiraling further – and why he was not really in full possession of his wits when the stupid thing he said next, tumbled right out of his mouth.

“Nothing but these questions,” she lamented. “What if no one picks me? What if I never get married, never have children? What if I’m doomed to be alone forever? What if I never ever even get kissed?!”

“I could kiss you.”

What?!

“What?” Penelope stopped in her tracks and Colin asked himself exactly the same thing once over.

What unspeakable thought had just left his malfunctioning worm-holed brain?

“I said I could kiss you,” he repeated and had no earthly idea why.

His mouth moved without his consent, without his head giving the command, without any hope of stopping now. Penelope looked almost afraid.

“We can’t,” she said and Colin made the mistake of looking at her lips.

And found that now that his traitor mouth had uttered the words, he wanted to kiss her. Wanted nothing more, was pretty sure he had never wanted anything quite so fervently. Just to try. Just to taste.

“Why not?” He said, compelled to take another step towards her, his face frozen into what felt on his features like a stern mask because he was grasping for the right thing to say to talk her into this brilliantly stupid idea. “You’d have been kissed. Then you can return to the ball with me having ticked one worry off.”

“Colin, I--” She still looked almost frightened, her chest heaving, eyes searching his.

He got even closer. If this thing was going to be stopped now, he would need her to do a lot better than “Colin, I…”, with her plump, perfect lips falling open for him so prettily. So damned kissable. He was going to need her to tell him off firmly. To put him in his place for his impertinence and un-gentlemanly ways. Or maybe to knee him in his groin and tell him he was repulsive and debased for even suggesting it. But she didn’t. She just stared at him wide-eyed as he leaned in. Closer and closer. Like a magnet drawn to its counterpart.

“Can I kiss you, Pen?” He whispered – because stern “no” be damned, he couldn’t really go through with this without her explicit consent, not with how absolutely scandalous and stupid the thing was that he felt so compelled to do.

His focus on her was so razor-sharp, he caught the very first instant of her tiny, shy little nod and then he was gone for the world. And so, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday night, in the heart of Mayfair, in a quiet garden off of Grosvenor Square, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington. And it was glorious.

He kissed her so softly at first, trying to pace himself, to preserve her honour even as he was taking some of it for himself rather selfishly. But no one would ever know about this. He would never betray her. Holding his peace forever was absolutely worth it for the feeling the touch stirred up in him. Her warmth, the softness of her mouth as he drew her in, one hand wrapping around her waist, one snaking around the back of her head and gripping into her wavy, beautiful hair. He felt himself becoming quite dizzy with it all, and fast, so he was glad to be holding onto her and glad that she was standing rather still, solid in his arms - though he could feel her heartbeat curse through her lips, fast and furious. He wanted more. So he chased it.

Chased that little high of nudging her mouth open, tracing her top lip with his tongue. The little sigh of acquiescence as she let him deepen the kiss. He could tell she had no idea what she was doing, simply letting him explore and taste. He hoped it was a somewhat decent experience for her with what little capacity for measured thought he still possessed, but for the most part he was all emotion, all feeling. All yearning. All desire.

He wanted her. Heavens, he wanted her so blindly, it made his knees weak. He was growing hard against her, desperate, pushing her to get closer - and because she wasn’t strong enough to push against him and he was starting to move her about, he flung her around where he was holding her by the hips so her back connected with the pillar next to her. Now she was pinned against the thing and her body was pressed up flush against the stone, which meant Colin could push himself flush against her body. What a delight! What an almost painfully raging sensation their connection created in the pit of his stomach. He felt his throat reverberate with a growl, a direct response to a little moan that left hers, doing its ample best to completely overwhelm him. He kissed her harder and relished in the feel of her breasts bunching against his chest. He wanted to see them, almost enough to break the kiss but not quite. He wanted to touch them. So, so badly. But he worried that if he touched her in that way, he might not be able to stop before he completely besmirched her honour and so he held back. If by a threat.

He hated that he had to, but he did have to come up for air an indeterminable amount of time later, and did so between pecks of kisses to both corners of her mouth. That’s when he felt it physically, almost as if it were his own body, that she was holding back.

That would not do.

“You can kiss me too,” he heard himself murmur against her mouth, quite surprised at the neediness in his voice. And the reverence. “A kiss is for two people.”

“What do I do?” She almost squeaked and he wanted to laugh - but even more, he wanted to kiss her again.

And he wanted her to kiss him.

“Whatever you want,” he whispered and expected, invited, was desperately looking forward to her to seal his lips with hers again.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she took his head into both her hands, causing him to open his eyes, and said exactly the wrong thing: “Thank you.”

And Colin’s desire toppled over itself, as if a horse was stumbling mid-gallop and he fell. Hard. Unguarded. Unexpected.

“Don’t thank me,” he said, surprising himself with how harsh it sounded and immediately took two strides away from her to create some distance - just to be able to come to his senses.

His whole body ached with the sudden loss of contact and warmth and he was pretty sure she could see him tenting his goddamn breeches but something else was taking precedence over his physical wants and needs. Something ugly. He didn’t want to be thanked for the kiss. It made him feel guilty and shallow. As if he’d done her a favour. As if he’d done it out of pity. And maybe, a few months ago, he’d have sworn up and down if anyone asked that it would have been. But now that he had kissed her, he knew it was not. He knew it. He had wanted to kiss her. He had asked her to let him kiss her! But she looked at him as if he had taken mercy on her. As if she was a charity case.

“Colin,” she started.

“I said don’t,” he repeated harshly, turning away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, when the truth was that he couldn’t quite bear himself.

And the damnedest thing was—he wasn’t sure why. This desperate, gnawing feeling — was it really guilt? Because he shouldn’t have kissed her?

“Colin,” she said, “I’m not angry with you.”

“What?” He snapped.

“I said it was alright, you don’t have to marry me,” she said.

What on earth was she on about? And then he remembered. Oh. Yes. That. They were unchaperoned. And he had just kissed her. If anyone had seen them, he would have been compelled to marry her. Did that mean, if he really was a gentleman, he was also compelled to marry her now? Just because they both knew it happened? And would that really be so bad? He had barely begun sorting through that jumbled mess, when Pen decided to make it even worse.

“I know you were just being kind,” she said and it made him so angry, though he had no name for that anger at all. And scarcely an explanation.

“For the love of God, Penelope, enough!”

She drew back, her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

No, no, no, no! Now she was apologising to him?! This was all going so terribly awry!

He looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He closed his eyes in agony and confusion.

Why why why was he being such an ass?

“Penelope . . .” he began.

“It’s alright,” she said, her words rushed. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I should.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

And now she looked so quietly dignified. Which made him feel even worse. She was standing there, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, her eyes downward—not quite on the ground, but not on his face. She thought he’d kissed her out of pity. And he was a monumental arsehole because a small part of him wanted her to think that. Because if she thought it, then maybe he could convince himself that it was true, that it was just pity, that it couldn’t possibly be more. That his life could go back to the way it was before. But as he looked at her, he understood that it never would.

He should make her an offer. Polite manners, let alone honour demanded it. But he couldn’t. And he both knew and didn’t know why and he hated himself but he couldn’t say the words. Say any words for that matter. Penelope realised this in the exact same moment that he did and the way her face fell and he could just tell that she lost that last shred of hope that Colin could be a better man... it made him sincerely want to perish then and there.

“I should go inside,” she said, the distance between them now spanning oceans, rather than a few steps. “Should I go inside?”

Colin was petrified. Mute. Dumb. Useless.

Penelope nodded, accepting it. Resigning herself to it. “Well, I guess you can leave the same way you got in.”

And before she turned to abandon him there, alone with his utter inaptitude and stupidity, he saw her face harden and he knew. He knew it right in that second: He’d have hell to pay for this. He would hate himself for this before the week was out. And then she was gone.

Stay.

He should have asked her to stay.