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UNDERNEATH THE OAK LEAVES
They make it precisely three feet into the park before it starts to drizzle.
Pen looks at Colin. Colin looks at Pen.
“Don’t say it,” she tells him sternly.
“Don’t say what?” His eyes are wide and mock-innocent, laughter dancing in their depths.
“Don’t-“
Pen is about to expound on her order when there’s a crack of thunder and the heavens simply open.
So much for making it to Bridgerton House without her shawl.
With a shriek she runs for the trees, giggling; Colin follows, hot on her heels, trying to pull his jacket over his head as he runs.
This works as well as might be expected.
They reach the cover of a large oak, its leaves tapping sweetly with each raindrop striking them. Pen stops. Smiles. Still giggling, she tips her face upwards, eyes closed as she listens to the music the rain makes through the trees. She breathes in the sweetness of the air, the freshness of it. Savouring this moment, savouring the fact that she is standing in the rain with Colin Bridgerton, who just told her mother in no uncertain terms that he is absolutely serious about courting her…
When she opens her eyes Colin is staring at her with an expression on his face she’s never seen before.
The closest comparison she can conjure is the day three years ago when she came upon Benedict painting in Aubrey Hall, his expression enraptured by both the vista before him and his own joy in painting it.
It makes her feel oddly shy, and oddly excited. She doesn’t understand it.
The look on Colin’s face seems a private thing, a special thing. A thing meant for her alone.
And maybe it is. Slowly, cautiously, Colin moves towards her. Reaches for her. He takes one of her hands in his, his other coming up to stroke her cheek. He presses a kiss to her lips and it’s sweeter, gentler, than anything she’s felt before. She feels it down to her toes.
“You are so beautiful, Pen,” he breathes against her ear, and he sounds awestruck.
Instantly she straightens up, unable to help her jolt of discomfort. Unable to quite understand it, either. It’s the worst thing he could have said, and she doesn’t know why.
All she can think is that a moment like this does not need to be gilded with a lie.
Colin notices her discomfort and he frowns, peering at her. Pen feels suddenly unmoored, unsure how to explain or even how to answer him.
Writer that she is, she can’t conjure a polite way to say Thank you but I know you’re lying, mainly because there isn’t one.
“Are you worried that people will see?” he asks and she shakes her head. She knows she should pull away from him, gain control of herself, but she can’t seem to. It’s just all so confusing: on the one hand, Colin has just stood up to her mother for her, defending her and describing her many virtues. She now has no doubt whatsoever that he does indeed wish to court her. Yet his latest words war with something so deeply embedded, so basic to Pen’s understanding of herself and her place in the world, that she cannot bring herself to doubt it.
She is not beautiful.
She will never be beautiful.
Nobody with eyes would think such a thing, let alone say it and mean it-
And yet it seems that Colin Bridgerton has just done both.
She just has no idea how to deal with what that does to her.
For Pen knows that she is clever, and kind, and stubborn and talented. Her determination has seen her build a literary empire and procure a fortune to rival many a gentleman’s; when she is finally able to disappear from Mayfair she will live in comfort for the rest of her days. Were she a man then she would, indeed, be considered a catch… But she is not a man, and she is thus not considered a catch. She never will be, she has always understood that.
She will never be desired, or sought after: to imagine as much is dangerous folly.
A pretty face is all a gentleman is interested in, Penelope. She remembers her mother’s words when she was thirteen and it became obvious that her puppy-fat was really just fat. When it became obvious that the beauty in the family went to her sisters and the intelligence went to her. You may be able to interest a gentleman with your figure, her Mama had told her, but always remember that the sort of man who wants a body like yours is not looking for a wife, he’s looking for a tumble…
The memory is mortifying, yet it was one of the few times during her childhood when Pen did not think her mother cruel, but merely honest. The way men had reacted to her body- particularly her chest- had soon proved Portia right. And hasn’t last night been such a mess precisely because Lord Fife liked the look of her bosom and thought it entitled him to mistreat her? Hadn’t the snickers his words provoked through the ballroom shown how many people agreed? He never would have dared behave like that to one of the Bridgerton girls, Pen knew, or even someone like Cressida. Because they were beautiful. They were desirable. They were wife material and she… She was not.
And now Colin Bridgerton, of all people, is standing under an oak tree and calling her beautiful and kissing her and saying he wants to court her and, and…
It’s just so confusing.
At the thought she winces; again she tells herself that she should push Colin away but she does not- Her apparent inability to do so is making her rather frustrated with herself. Instead she pulls him closer, wanting his arms around her. Wanting him to comfort her. As he always does, he seems to understand her, for he wraps her in his embrace, drawing her into the warmth of his body.
He moves them so that they are deeper into the foliage, further away from prying eyes.
“What is it, Pen?” He asks. “What’s wrong?” His mouth twists. “Have I done something to upset you, or offend you-?”
“No!” She can’t let him think that. This isn’t his fault. Pen takes a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. Trying to muster some of her usual courage, some of that Lady Whistledown élan which she has worked so hard to hone.
“I am sorry, Colin,” she says. She turns her gaze to her feet, it’s the only way that she will get through this. “I merely… I merely felt overcome at your compliment.” She takes a deep breath. “I feel I should make it clear, however, that you do not need to lie or hyperbolize in order to gain my favour-“
“Hyperbolize?” He frowns, peering down at her. “I merely stated a fact. You are beautiful, Pen, there is no hyperbole in that.”
Pen digs her fingers into her palms, trying to centre herself: Trust Colin to make this more awkward than it has to be.
“Colin,” she says bluntly, “I know I am not beautiful.”
Normally when she uses that tone at home, unless it is with Mama then that is the end of the matter.
Colin blinks though, looking astonished. Then angry. Then some mixture of astonished and angry and trying not to show it which Pen has never seen from him before.
He takes her by her shoulders and gives them the tiniest little shake.
“Penelope Featherington,” he says, “believe me when I tell you that you are beautiful. You are very, very beautiful.” He brings his hand up to very gently, almost reverently, stroke her cheek. “The men of the Ton may be too idiotic to admit it, but I am not-”
“You like me Colin,” she counters. “And you want to court me: Of course you would say that I’m beautiful, that’s simply what beaux do. But you do not need to play a part with me, you do not need to say things which you do not mean-“
“For heavens’ sake, Pen,” he interrupts. “I thrust you up against a tree last night and nearly compromised you: is that something you think a man does if he doesn’t find you beautiful?”
“Yes.” The word is almost soundless. “Yes, when you have a body that looks like mine.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He frowns, tipping her face up to him. “I heard you, Pen, but I must own that I didn’t understand you.”
And he takes her hands between his, squeezing them. Warming them. He looks into her eyes and it’s like he’s peering into her soul. “Please explain: I want to understand everything about you,” he says, and the heart-breaking thing is… He’s making her believe it.
Of all Colin’s many gifts, his ability to make her believe in the impossible is by far his most dangerous.
A beat.
But then-
“I can explain,” she says softly. “But I do not think you will understand. You are not a woman, and you have never known what it is to be plain. To be despised for that plainness.” At his horrified expression she cannot help herself, she touches his cheek. “It is not a thing a man would ever experience, and I am grateful for that, because I would not wish it on you- I would not wish any of this on you, Colin...”
And she hangs her head, hating how faint her voice sounds. Hating how, how small this is making her feel. It’s becoming too much, this conversation, it’s bringing up so many feelings and memories that Pen’s afraid she might start to cry and Lord, she doesn’t want to do that…
And yet the tears come, and she can’t help herself. She finds herself bewildered, wondering how she could have been so happy just fifteen minutes ago, and how she can be weeping like a babe in arms now. But maybe it’s to be expected, after the whirlwind of last night and this morning.
Everything feels like it’s happening at once and Pen finds it overwhelming.
Colin, being Colin, pulls her to him and holds her. He strokes her hair, and soothes her and it’s an awful thing to say but the only other person who has ever even attempted to be so kind to her is Eloise. Eventually she cries herself out- it takes less time than she thought it would- and then she’s sniffling and feeling ridiculous and pathetic and rather like she would like the earth to open up and swallow her.
Colin takes her hand, however, and pulls her over to a birch tree beside the oak. (The rain has gone back to drizzling and the tree’s bark is barely damp). He places his jacket on the fork of the tree’s trunk and sets her sitting on it, handing her his handkerchief as he does so.
She dries her eyes with it and he smiles at her, brushing her hair off her face.
“There’s my Pen,” he says. “There’s my beautiful Pen.”
She sniffles, looking up at him. She is tempted to argue but what would be the point? If he insists on complimenting her then maybe she should let him. Instead, she sticks her tongue out at him, trying to break the tension. He laughs, his eyes fond as he sticks out his tongue right back. She giggles.
“And now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” he says, “can you please explain to me what just happened?” He touches her cheek. “I want to make it better, Pen.”
“It will not be edifying,” she warns.
He shrugs. “Few things are… But for you I shall rise to the challenge.”
And he leans against the trunk of the tree, right beside her, long and lean and perfectly him. He smiles at her encouragingly, as if she hasn’t just had a ridiculous little outburst. As if he really does want to court her. As if he really does think she’s beautiful.
Pen must admit to herself that she doesn’t know where to start.
And yet-
Colin asks so little of her, she will try to give him this.
She will try to explain, even if she’s not sure she can.
“I have always known that my body is the sort which might- might attract attention,” she says eventually. It feels like there’s a pile of rocks in her throat. “Not the attention of a husband,” she continues, eyes on her shoes, “but the attention of a man… a man looking to sate his appetites. A man who cares not where he spends himself, but only that the object in which he does so is warm and soft and womanly and without other options.”
Her lip twists.
“That sort of attention, I have always known, is the sort which I might capture.
Not the other sort… Not the respectful sort… Not the sort you show me…”
She shrugs helplessly, trying to keep her voice even. It is difficult. It is somehow made more difficult when Colin takes her hand in his and squeezes.
For a horrible moment she thinks that once again, she will cry but she manages to will the tears away.
“You saw how Fife behaved last night,” she tells him, swallowing thickly. “What he said about my, about my… body, that’s the way I have always known most men think of me…”
And she trails off, for really what could be more pathetic than what she just admitted? What could be more pitiful than admitting that you know you might never be loved or respected but you might do for a tup? And how can she talk about bodies and intimacy with a man she’s not even wedded to, even if he is Colin?
That is nothing short of unspeakable for a woman of her rank, and for a man of his.
Yet when she risks a glance up at Colin, his expression is not shocked at her honesty but angry. His hands are fisted at his sides, a most ominous colour rising on his neck. “So you have been told such disrespectful claptrap often?” he asks, and there’s something dark in his voice, the same something which she heard last night when he was dragging Fife away from her. The same something she heard today when he told off her Mama.
It whispers to her that she can trust him with the rest, for nobody has ever seemed angry at her mistreatment before.
She nods. She sees no point in lying to him. “Of course,” she says. “My Mama- She was trying to protect me, so she warned me early that I should be on the lookout for it. That I should not let honeyed words blind me to the nature of what men look for in a woman who looks like me…”
Colin is holding his hand up though.
“Your own mother told you this?” He asks. He sounds disbelieving. Pen nods. “Your mother told you to expect that sort of treatment?” he says. Pen nods again. “Your own mother told you that you must prevent it?
As if that were merely your lot in life, to be despised and taken advantage of?”
A third time she nods and Colin’s expression turns thunderous.
“I never thought I would say this,” he bites out, “but I should rather like to duel your mother, Penelope.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Or better yet, have Eloise and Kate do it, they are far better shots than I.”
And he looks at her, his eyes haunted. Fierce.
He seems almost more upset by this than she is.
Without thinking, Pen holds her hand out to him and he takes it, pressing a kiss to her palm, then her knuckles. He gathers her into his arms and holds her tight and it’s the oddest thing but now she has said all those awful things out loud… She feels better. She feels quite a bit better, actually. Oh, she still feels uncomfortable and vulnerable and embarrassed, she still feels as if some of the skin on her heart has been flayed off, but she also feels… wanted. Cherished. Safe.
She has rarely felt safe before, certainly not since she started with Whistledown, but with Colin she realises she does.
It feels like a tiny sort of miracle, to realise that.
For a moment they just stand there, arms wrapped around each other and ignoring the world. The rain whispers in the trees, as the wind does; Pen can feel Colin’s chest rising and falling as he breathes in time with her, she can feel the pressure of his arms holding her tight and it soothes her in a way she has never felt soothed before.
Eventually they have to pull apart and when they do Colin takes her face in his hands and stares into her eyes. “Thank you for telling me that, Pen,” he says quietly. “I know- I imagine that it was not easy for you, and yet you did.
So thank you.”
Pen can feel her eyes pricking with tears again. “You asked me,” she says quietly. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do, if you asked me.”
She means the words as a sort of détente, a way to break the big swirling emotions between them, but Colin seems to take it another way.
“I promise to never ask anything of you which will hurt you,” he says quietly. “I promise to never take advantage of the trust you have shown me today. And if I do- no matter how little you think I mean any harm- you must tell me, Pen. You must tell me if I overstep, you must tell me if I am asking for something you do not wish to give- For you deserve all the best things in the world, not the insults of idiots like Fife and your Mama.”
She gives a tiny nod. “I promise, Colin.”
He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Good.” And he smiles at her, a loving thing. A sweet thing. “I meant it when I said I would take care of you,” he says, very quietly. “You are special to me and I shall prove it to you every day. You have my word.”
She squeezes his hand. “I will take care of you, too,” she says. “If you will let me.” He nods and kisses her, gathering her against him and wrapping her in his warmth. She feels so tired, as if she’s run a thousand miles. And yet, she feels more centred, more confident too. More at peace.
Who would have thought a little shower could provoke such an outcome as this?
“Let us go and tell your family our good news,” she says. A small smile and she hops down off the tree-trunk. She slides her arm through his. “I’m willing to bet that your mother will behave better than mine,” she says and Colin laughs, standing and draping his jacket over his shoulders.
“That is a very low bar to pass, Pen,” he says dryly. Another smile. He presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. “To own the truth, I suspect she’ll be delighted.”
He is proven correct when Violet Bridgerton hears of her son’s courtship and choice of bride; she practically screeches “It’s about time!” and then proceeds to order champagne for the entire house, servants included.
Pen sits in the parlour, surrounded by the people she loves more than any others, and she finds herself more hopeful than she has felt in years.