Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington was held captive by a multitude of wonderfully foreign sensations. Firstly, there was the heavy thudding of her heart. She couldn’t remember a time in her life where it had previously beat so incessantly against her chest, as if trying to escape and leave her without a life force.
Then there was the gentle pull of her hair—strands seemingly woven between someone’s fingers, their strength pulling with a subtle greed. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. No, in fact, Penelope was flooded with memories of lazy summer days when she and Eloise would lay out in the gardens of Aubrey Hall, their backs against the dewy grass as they read. Eloise would often be forced to read with one hand, the other scratching lightly at Penelope’s scalp, due to the girl’s quiet request. The thought of such pleasant times made her lift her chin ever so slightly, as if seeking the warmth of a fleeting sun that only existed in those adolescent days, and unbeknownst to her, a quiet gasp escaped the other person in the room.
The other sensation that Penelope was able to discern upon waking was the heavy weight of a hand within her own. A delicate heat couldn’t help but emanate from it, and she was momentarily taken aback by the fervor with which this person gripped her. Unlike the unenthusiastic and flimsy hands of her father and mother that Penelope had reached for in her youth, this hand seemed to demand her presence and find pleasure in the knowledge that she was solid. That she existed and took up space.
She shifted her fingers, and she couldn’t help but notice that the hand was smooth, save for a rough, thickened patch of skin on the middle finger—similar to her own, which had appeared years ago when she first picked up her pen, and hadn’t left since.
Though she hoped it would be her friend, Penelope knew the hand that held hers couldn’t belong to Eloise. The girls’ hands fit so perfectly in each other’s, a perfect match, while this one seemed to envelop her. If not Eloise, then who? Penelope could hardly imagine another person who might desire her presence enough to choose to be next to her, even in a state of slumber. Another person who would even be allowed this close to her, without mention of misconduct and ruin.
“Pen?” A quiet, rough voice.
Oh
And even if she wasn’t able to immediately distinguish the tone of said voice, the timbre that so often sent shivers up her spine, the gentleness that always coaxed a reply, she still would have been able to ascertain that the hand in hers belonged to Colin Bridgerton. Because he was the only person in the world who took such pleasure in shortening her name to Pen.
Her eyes shot open, the heaviness that had previously weighed them down now momentarily forgotten. His name was escaping her before she could think, “Colin?” Though it came to her so easily, the name leaving a most tender feeling in her mouth, she had trouble reconciling the name with the man who sat beside her. Gone was the trace of youth that had existed in his rounded cheeks. Now his chin looked chiseled, even from feet away, and he had the most delicious looking facial hair framing the delicate contours of his face. He looked bigger, as well, more imposing. Though imposing was a trait hardly achievable by Colin. She had also never seen his hair in such a state of disarray, with curls falling this way and that, as if he had been running his hands through it.
“Oh thank God. Thank God,” he uttered, his voice stuck somewhere between a hoarse cry and a disbelieving chuckle. “Sweetheart you know I am not fond of telling you what to do, but I must order you to never do such a thing again, I fear my soul could not bear it.”
Sweetheart? Her traitorous heart thumped wildly still, and she could’ve sworn it almost tore open at the seams from the easy way the term of endearment left him. Colin’s thumb had taken to drawing soft, urgent circles on the top of her hand, and though she knew she should be shocked by the impropriety of it, she couldn’t bear to take her hand away. She must have been sleeping. Surely this was another one of her dreams, and she would wake to Rae’s gentle ministrations as she readied her to break her fast. In an attempt to savor the phantom scratch of his skin against hers, Penelope closed her eyes and chose to not reply.
“Pen? Can you speak? Please tell me you do not feel too greatly injured.” Before she could even hope to reply, he was speaking again, a louder voice aimed at the door, “Mother—the doctor please. She is awake!”
It was almost as if saying the words aloud and to someone other than himself allowed him to truly appreciate the enormity of the moment, for he then seemed incapable of restraining himself from her. His hands found her stomach, the soft lushness of it not entirely lost beneath the layers of blankets, and he lowered his head to it, his cheek nuzzling softly into her. Penelope was decidedly not sleeping, then. For she had never been able to imagine such a gentle touch. Such an act of subtle intimacy. Her mind, while brilliant, would have never previously been able to comprehend the way her skin would buzz at such a contact. Her mind working against the buzz, she shot up, forcing Colin’s head off of her. “Colin! What are you doing?”
The furrow of his brow was immediate. “What do you mean, darling?”
Oh this man was trying to kill her. Surely he was some figment of evil, adorned in sweet Colin’s clothing, sent to Earth to fill her mind with improper thoughts and force her to question the merits of living in such an austere society. “Are you hurting here?” With his words, his hands gently probed at her stomach, as if desperate to cure her from whatever invisible ailment might have laid within her. “I’m truly sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you more discomfort, only I’m so unbelievably relieved that you’re awake.”
“What is the meaning of this, Colin? What happened to me? How can you touch me so, when your mother stands just beyond these doors. And where am I?” For the dark green walls of the bedroom looked entirely unfamiliar, indeed. Her own bedroom was much brighter, and the liberties taken by the inhabitants of this room would have certainly never been allowed in the Featherington household. A cravat laid haphazardly on the desk. A white chemise abandoned on the floor, for anyone to see. Her cheeks burned as she imagined the scene that could have led to such an environment. Why would she have been brought to such a place?
Colin’s eyes widened at her questioning, and he could do little more than open his mouth, and then close it again for a few moments. “Do you not remember your fall? We were taking a turn about the garden, and you slipped on a patch of ice. You fell off of my arm so quickly that my reach for you was fruitless. You hit your head quite hard.” At this, his voice became an oddly somber thing, as though he was admonishing himself for not protecting her adequately enough. What an odd, giddy thought, for her to be someone worthy of such protection. Perhaps she really had been close to great injury, for Colin to be acting so familiar with her. They were friends, after all—he must have just been overwhelmed with gratitude that she didn’t die on his watch.
Portia Featherington may not have taken great delight in her third daughter’s company, but Penelope imagined that she would have been at least a little bit angry with Colin, had he forsaken her life. Hopefully. And she was surely not a woman to be trifled with.
But a walk alone? With Colin? Their families often ignored the rules of society when it came to their friendship—for what would Colin Bridgerton want to do with Penelope Featherington? But even this seemed to be pushing the limits of Portia and Violet’s leniency.
“I suppose it isn’t all odd that you don’t remember, though. I had to carry you inside, and you’ve been asleep since.”
Her blood burned within her, and she was unable to tell if it was from embarrassment at his having carried her, or delight at the thought of being enwrapped in his arms. The little groan that escaped her seemed to favor the embarrassment, though.
“I’m so sorry, Colin. Really, you needn’t have strained yourself so.”
“You’re sorry?” His incredulous tone caused her cheeks to pinken, and she got the sense that she had done something wrong, even though apologizing didn’t seem hardly enough. Her own father hadn’t carried her since the summer before her seventh birthday, and she had resigned herself to a reality in which Penelope Featherington simply wasn’t meant to be lifted. Just like how warm days weren’t meant to exist from the months of October to December, and how quiet, frumpy girls weren’t meant to make wives. Though she held deep within her a secret fantasy of being carried like the women in her romance novels, perhaps even over the threshold by her future husband (who always seemed to favor the look of a certain third son), she knew it was for the best if her feet remained firmly planted on the ground.
“I am sorry for failing you so. I should have caught you. Hell, I should have summoned the sun forth from its hibernation and ensured that the garden was thoroughly melted before I invited you outside with me.” The liberties he took with his speech, and the ardor with which he spoke took her breath away. “And you normally love when I carry you. I know I do. Though I suppose it is usually under more…favorable circumstances. So please do not speak of strain, for you will insult not only my strength,” and what strength, indeed, for the swell of his biceps strained against his billowing shirt, “...but also my desire to hold you, little Pen.”
Despite the current happenings, Colin’s mouth upturned into a slight smirk at his words, and Penelope felt as though she was dead. Or certainly dying, at the very least. Yes, that fall must have been very bad, indeed. For Colin alluding to more favorable circumstances felt like the cruel collision of her dream reality and actual reality.
She could bear this confusion, this impending feeling of having something dangled in front of her and then taken away, no longer. She began to move away from the center of the bed, ignoring the throbbing of her head and Colin’s muttered hesitancies as she did. When she swung her lower half out from under the covers, she was met with the pale expanse of her thighs, her calves, her ankles. The pertness of her heavy breasts heaving against her night dress. Ignoring the self-consciousness that gripped her spine, she was overwhelmed with the rising incivility of the situation. Such incivility was surely only meant for her dreams.
“Thank you, Colin, for treating me so kindly. Really, you are very good. I am afraid you still leave me in the dark, though, on many matters-,” she said, conviction rising in her voice.
“Pen what are you-,” he begins.
“I am not so offended, Colin, but why are you in here with me? Alone?” As she spoke, a familiar vision of her mother, red faced and demanding good manners so she may one day attract a decent suitor, met her. A wave of panic crashed over her. “You must leave. Have you informed my mother? If she finds us together, alone, she will do something preposterous, like insist upon a special license. I hardly think that you wish to be tied to me in such a way.”
A dumbfounded laugh escaped him, “A special license? I hardly think that would make a difference at this point.”
Penelope stood on shaky legs, and she froze at the feeling of Colin’s hands coming to wrap around the backs of her knees to steady her. He did it without even thinking about it, as if touching her was second nature.
She couldn’t imagine that touching Colin could ever feel like second nature, because every kiss of his skin against hers thus far had been utterly consuming. Even now, the rush of her blood thrummed through her ears as he swept his hands up and down the bare, delicate skin where her calf and thigh joined. She just couldn’t bring herself to back away.
“Colin I hardly think this to be a laughing matter.” Her tone couldn’t possibly be interpreted as anything other than serious, and Colin’s face immediately mirrored it, his smile dropping. “You touch me. You touching me at all is impertinent, but you are touching me with such familiarity. I feel as though I have woken up in a different universe. You are acting as though I belong to you. I think we both know that that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Her eyes turned into something fiercely wistful, while his turned dark.
“Pen, you can not be serious. What is impertinent about a man touching his-”
“Please, Colin,” she whispered, a gloss beginning to form over her eyes. “This is cruel. Do not think me in need of any great comfort due to my condition. Really, you have been very kind, but your touches and endearments are only making me hurt more, for I know they hold no great meaning to yourself.”
At this, some realization seemed to captivate Colin, and the glimpse of hurt that had begun to materialize in his face now turned to understanding, and…worry? “Pen, do you remember us walking in the garden? When you fell?”
An odd deviation from her previous point, and she was beginning to feel very frustrated with Colin’s train of thought. “No, I do not.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
Penelope hadn’t even truly thought about the past in any manner. She had been too utterly consumed by the present, by being in this room with the man she’s always loved and who had taken to touching her oh so inappropriately. She tried to think of what she had done last, and blurred visions of tea at Bridgerton house, her latest novel, and Prudence’s mocking of her taking two servings at dinner filled her mind. “I suppose it was me in my room, reading before bed. I had gone to your home for tea with Eloise, and my mother became angry with me for walking in the rain on the way back home, so I retired early.”
Her eyes met Colin’s, and the room went silent as they looked into each other. He looked so worried for some reason, as if she were talking complete and utter nonsense. Even though he had been the one uttering nonsense to her and acting so unlike usual.
Their eyes were forced apart when the bedroom doors opened to reveal the doctor. He looked flushed and windswept, perhaps from his journey. Not long behind him was Violet Bridgerton, who let out a most unfamiliar squeal at seeing Penelope awake and well.
“Mrs. Bridgerton! It is a pleasure to see you up and looking well. I have to admit after four days I was beginning to be concerned, but I should have known you would recover as soon as your body allowed, what with such an attentive husband.” At this, he looked at Colin and grinned.
Her husband. Her attentive husband. Colin. Mrs. Bridgerton.
Penelope was swooning before she knew it, only this time, Colin’s arms were around her before she could fall more than an inch towards the floor.