Archive of Our Own ^beta

Benedict would like it noted, wherever such notes are kept—surely, by now, a truly impressive repository for all the world’s most embarrassing moments—that he did indeed mean to propose to Penelope Featherington.

The second time.

The first time he would admit to some unintentionality on his part.

The first time Colin brought Reginald Pritchard and George Blackwood home, they made Eloise cry.

Benedict, while he did not typically consider himself a fundamentally spiteful specimen of humanity, never forgave them for it.

“Why are you reading?” Pritchard demanded, all of fourteen and already impressing Benedict as the most unpleasant young man he had the misfortune of meeting.

Benedict paused in his perusal of the day’s paper and looked up over the top of it. Pritchard and Blackwood had crowded around Eloise where she sat on the chaise, Colin hovering nearby.

“I like reading,” Eloise mumbled, glaring down at her book, fingers tighten on the cover. She’d tried ignoring them, but the embarrassed blush rising in her cheeks became more obvious with every passing moment, giving them all the permission they needed to continue seeing her as a target.

“My mother says that there’s no surer sign of a spinster-to-be than a girl who reads,” Blackwood agreed.

This was going to drive her right back to her room, after it had taken Benedict literal hours to coax her out and try to get her to sit with them in the drawing room. Benedit shot a look at Colin, waiting for him to intercede. He’d do it himself, if needed, but they were Colin’s friends and he should have been the one to shut down such insults. Instead, his brother merely looked at his feet, obviously fighting a smile.

Frankly, they were all lucky Anthony wasn’t at home, as it would have resulted in the both of them being invited to leave and never come back, and only then if they were lucky enough to catch Anthony in a good mood.

When Colin continued to say nothing and in fact snickered when Pritchard continued pushing the point, Benedict finally stood. All three younger boys silenced themselves immediately.

“El,” he said. Eloise reluctantly looked up from her book, cheeks aflame. “Why don’t you and I take a turn through the garden so I can tell you of the many, many, many well-read ladies of the ton and assure you that the only spinsters among them are those who chose to be so rather than wed themselves to ignorant little bullies.”

Still flushed, though with bright eyes and a broad smile, El tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and accompanied him out the door.

And while, yes, Benedict perhaps had exaggerated by at least two ‘manys’ too many, he never regretted it. Nor did he forget that Pritchard and Blackwood turned Colin into a wholly reprehensible version of himself.

Thus, when he happened to hear the last bit of a conversation between his brother and a small group of friends at the Featherington ball at the end of the season nearly a decade later, he was completely unsurprised that Pritchard and Blackwood were among the sizable audience to it.

“Bit harsh on Penelope, weren’t we?” Benedict asked on the way home.

Colin blinked at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Declaring, loudly and in a very public setting, that you’d never court her?”

Colin huffed out a laugh. “Oh, that. Well, it’s true. She’s an excellent friend, but certainly not the type of girl one courts with any serious intention.” He smiled at Benedict in a way that very likely won over most people. Unfortunately for his brother, Benedict had the advantage of long association, and it did not work on him. It merely made him think that Colin needed better friends.

Penelope Featherington had practically been a member of their family since Eloise had dragged her through their front door, becoming a semi-permanent fixture in their home prior to her coming out. A wallflower, albeit one that complemented Eloise’s bouts of outspokenness. And Benedict had occasionally caught glimpses of true intelligence despite her inexplicable efforts to hide them. He rather suspected it had something to do with her mother, a theory all but confirmed anytime he had the misfortune of observing their interactions.

“You’ll be very lucky if it doesn’t get back to her,” Benedict pointed out.

“Pen’s a good sort. Even if she did catch wind of it, she’d forgive me.”

Colin’s smile reminded that of the one he’d worn while he listened to his friends pick on Eloise. Benedict rather wanted to box his ears and remind him that cruel words spoken by adults were far less likely to be forgiven than those of children, but ultimately chose to keep his own counsel.

Colin took off for the continent and the rest of them removed themselves to Aubrey Hall, less Anthony and Kate happily off on their honeymoon.

Benedict alone marked Eloise’s uncharacteristic melancholia before they’d even left town. He suspected it had much to do with Lady Whistledown’s account of Eloise’s forays into dangerous parts of town to keep with poor company. Between his mother and Anthony, more than enough had already been said regarding the matter and he wisely had not contributed his own thoughts. Mama doubtless would have noticed, had she not been busy preparing for their departure. With Hyacinth playfully torturing Gregory, Eloise went mostly overlooked save for a few frantic moments wherein she confirmed that she’d packed all she needed for their stay in the country.

Desperate for distraction—Anthony had very helpfully left a book length list of instructions for Benedict to follow in his absence, which Benedict glanced at and then decided to ignore—he tracked down Eloise where she’d hidden herself off the main foyer, poring over what appeared to be a last, late issue of Lady Whistledown.

He did not sneak up on her. He merely moved quietly. “And here I thought you were all caught up on Whistledown.”

Eloise gasped and dropped the paper, then scrambled to pick it up again with a glare his way. “Has no one told you that taking people by surprise is terribly rude?” He leaned up against the wall beside her. Her scowl softened. “It is the last one published before the end of the season,” Eloise said. Her eyes were rimmed red. She folded, unfolded, and then refolded the scandal sheet. Benedict hoped, Lord how he hoped, that Whistledown had not found further gossip about his sister.

“Well, what’s the old harridan have to say, then?” Benedict asked.

Eloise choked on his words, but gamely handed over the sheet.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season has reached its conclusion and with it then comes the mass exodus to the countryside, albeit not without a few last-minute weddings to round out this year’s affairs.

The list was fairly impressive, actually. Besides Anthony and Kate, a fair few other weddings had taken place, listed in no discernable order; perhaps decided by whatever Lady Whistledown found interesting.

Of course, there is also the season’s many and varied broken hearts to consider, and this writer’s best wishes go out to all of them. Doubtless this season’s diamond, Miss Edwina Sharma, will find herself a happy match despite her confounded romance with Viscount Bridgerton. Less certain is that of Cressida Cowper, who perhaps should take to heart that her unfortunate reliance on exaggerated sleeves is coming across as a singular demand for attention than the high fashion she seems to believe.

And then one would be remiss to ignore the looming fate of the youngest Featherington daughter. With the young gentleman of the ton easily swayed by their peers, this author doubts there is anyone among them who will not follow Colin Bridgerton’s lead in deciding to dismiss her as a marriageable prospect in perpetuum.

“Poor Penelope,” Benedict muttered. “I told Colin that it would get back to her. I can’t imagine how she’s feeling.”

“I don’t understand why she’d do this,” Eloise murmured.

“Who? Whistledown? It’s her business, isn’t it?” He frowned at the stricken look upon Eloise’s face. “I know she put you through the wringer this year, too. Penelope might need an understanding shoulder to cry on.”

Eloise made a noise not dissimilar to a rusted tea kettle, a choked growl which stuck in her throat and whistled out. Benedict felt his eyebrows crawling high upon his brow. “If she didn’t want it to be open knowledge, perhaps she oughtn’t have reported it!”

Benedict’s mouth dropped open, thoughts sprinting madcap through his mind until reaching a baffling finish line: “Penelope is Lady Whistledown?”

Eloise immediately clamped shut both mouth and eyes.

“And she wrote this about herself?” he continued, astonished. “To what possible end?” Certainly, Colin had been in the wrong making such a public declaration, but there may have been any number of people unaware such careless words had passed his lips. Little chance anyone now remained ignorant of the matter. Moreover, “And she wrote such things about you?”

“Yes. When I discovered the truth of it, she and I fought,” Eloise said. “I was very angry.”

“Then perhaps this is some form of atonement? Rather Carthaginian, isn’t it?”

For all Eloise’s indiscretions had certainly been the topic of conversation, he had meant it when he said attention would quickly pass when there had been no material result. But Penelope’s chances of marrying well were practically nonexistent now. Her only real hope would be if the matter were forgotten by the start of the next season, and the ton had particularly good memories for anything involving cruelty.

“Will you speak to her?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Eloise admitted. She dropped her head into her hands. “Part of me wonders if she hasn’t done this as some sort of apology to put us back on equal footing. But even if that is the case, can I forgive her?”

“At the end of the day, El, you did the things she wrote about,” Benedict said. “Did you not?”

Eloise nodded, mouth pinched and poorly hiding her shaking jaw. She’d never been much of a crier. She disdained the practice as missish and wholly unappealing. Benedict hoped never to see her unhappy enough to forget the fact.

“Then you must also accept that there are consequences to our actions.”

Some familiar temper returned as she fixed him with a glare. “Oh? So, we are supposed to remain at home, safely behind closed doors to avoid scandal forever?”

“Of course not,” Benedict said, “But in accepting there may be consequences, we must also acknowledge that sometimes those consequences are thus!” He pouted at her scowl. “El. Judging from the number of people I’ve heard talking about our dearest, darlingest elder brother and new sister-in-law, people have already forgotten Lady Whistledown’s account of your misstep. All that’s left is for you to forget it yourself.”

“Why should I?” Eloise demanded.

“You’ll be happier, for one.”

“Is that how you go about life, Benedict? Forget anything and everything that brings you pain?”

The words were meant to be vicious, but he took them in stride. He wasn’t the one truly responsible for Eloise’s anger, after all. “Yes. And honestly, it’s worked out for me very well.”

Eloise finally loosed a broken chuckle that shook her shoulders and only took a single waggle of his eyebrows to turn into a full laugh.

With this measure of peace returned, he asked, “Did she give any account as to why she’d written about you?”

El sighed. “Apparently humiliating me occurred to her as the only means to dissuade the Queen from her belief that I was Whistledown. As though there weren’t a half-dozen other schemes she might have concocted, including being honest about herself.” Eloise shook her head angrily. “How can I possibly forgive her?”

“You needn’t,” Benedict said. “Only, if you’ll accept words of questionable wisdom from your equally questionable elder brother, ask yourself if you wish to be angry at her—justifiably!” He threw up his hands when Eloise opened her mouth to interrupt “—More than you want her to be in your life.”

Eloise considered the words. “Thank you, brother,” she finally said.

Whether she heeded him wasn’t really any of Benedict’s business, but he did hope that the shawl of her gloom might fall off her shoulders.

It was with some satisfaction, in his auguries as an elder brother and font of fraternal wisdom, that Benedict was the one to welcome Penelope Featherington to Aubrey Hall only a week after their arrival. Their estate stood not far from the one she occupied with her family over the summer, but from what he’d gleaned from Eloise, there might as well have been the same distance between London and the Continent, and not nearly so easily crossed.

“Miss Featherington,” he greeted.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” She dipped at the knees. “Eloise invited me to call.” Since Eloise had brought Penelope home, Benedict had heard her voice steeped in uncertainty many times. Mostly when it came to academics—though now he did find himself wondering how much of that had been artifice to hide an obviously keen mind—but also frequently in social situations. He had never much cared for it and certainly did not enjoy it now.

Benedict offered as sincere a smile as he had ever mustered. “She has been lonely for your company.”

“I very much doubt it, but thank you for saying so,” she said, unwilling to meet his eyes.

Eloise appeared before he could say anything further. “Pen.” They looked at one another. “My mother is serving tea,” she said shortly, ignoring Penelope’s fragile smile.

Feeling unaccountably awkward, Benedict nodded to both of them and escaped out a nearby door.

A short time later, his mother came to find him in the study he’d taken as his own. “Benedict, dear, I should like to host a dinner for our neighbours overmorrow. Particularly the Franklands, you know they don’t come to town very often and this is our only chance to see them.”

“All right?” Benedict said, blinking up from the stack of correspondence before him. How did Anthony manage this without going viciously insane? “Do… you need my permission?” Was that how it worked? He could not fathom his mother asking Anthony’s permission for anything. Perhaps he should have given the instructions a closer read.

“No dear,” his mother said with a kind smile which yet left him feeling a little stupider than he had in the moment preceding it. “But you will be expected to act as host during the event.” He withheld a groan. Poorly, according to his mother’s piqueish eyebrow. “And I will need you to select the wine.”

His groan abruptly transformed into a face-splitting grin. “That, Mama, will truly be my pleasure.”

“I suspected as much. Two removes and dessert,” she informed him. “And do try to uncover where Anthony keeps the good brandy.”

Such direction, and implied permission, found him in the wine cellar in short order. Curiously, while he had nipped down here more than once in past years, the very act of choosing wine brought memories of his father closer to the surface. He’d accompanied his father on one such errand at a young age—eight? Nine? He barely recalled, only remembered that the innumerable shelves had loomed quite a bit taller—watching as his father took bottles off the shelves one at a time to examine them.

Seemed a damn shame that so many of them had gone untouched. His father’s tastes had run to more robust reds than his mother enjoyed.

...best make sure they were still potable.

Little over an hour later, pleasantly surprised to learn that at least the two bottles he'd sampled thus far were imminently drinkable—one more so than the other, based on his close and personal study of the contents—the sound of recognizable feminine voices reached him through the racks.

Penelope said, voice somewhat choked, “It’s very dusty.”

“Yes, but we should have some measure of privacy down here," Eloise said.

The stairs creaked beneath their feet and Benedict began pushing himself upwards, hoping to escape with some manner of grace before they—

“Talk,” Eloise ordered in the officious tone he recognized from Anthony at his most unbearable.

"As I said, I only wanted to protect you."

"I know what you said," Eloise said. "But I need to know if that's the truth of it."

Ah. No hope of escape now. He winced and settled back down, hoping to avoid the ensuant awkwardness of late discovery.

"Eloise, of course," Penelope said.

"Not 'of course.' 'Of course' belongs to my friend, who never would have betrayed me in such a manner."

Benedict sat up, away from the latticed shelves at his back, careful not to kick over the open bottle next to his foot. He had some experience extricating fighting ladies from one another's hair but had wholly hoped never to have to do so in his own home.

"I did not mean to betray you!"

"Did you not? Do you know what your article did to me? To my family? The only reason we are not all ruined is because of enormous luck and the good graces of Her Majesty."

True. With Anthony and Kate drawing the majority of the attention at the ball and the Queen's tacit permission for the two of them to be forgiven any potential social missteps, the rest of their family seemed to have likewise escaped the contempt of the ton. And even should Eloise not care to admit it, the last Whistledown likely had gone some way in diverting the attention of their friends and neighbours.

"And what of what you said to me?" Penelope demanded. Benedict blinked; he'd never heard her angry before. "When I found you in my room? People only ever cared about the things I wrote because of the scandal and the excitement of gossip, but what you said to me was far more personal. And I hope you never have to face the matter of having someone you love set you down so terribly, terribly low."

"I did face it," Eloise snapped, "The moment I realized Lady Whistledown was you."

Silence thicker than fog stuffed itself into ever available space in the cellar.

"We have been quite cruel to one another," Penelope finally whispered.

"Indeed we have." He imagined Eloise grasping at the bridge of her nose, as she was sometimes wont to do when frustrated. "I did admire Lady Whistledown quite a bit. And I suppose that admiration has not entirely died. But what I don't understand is why you did not come to me and tell me. Do you not believe that together we might have found a different means of resolving the matter?"

Penelope's voice dropped to a whisper. Benedict craned his neck, as though that would somehow improve his hearing. He still barely caught her reply, "It honestly did not occur to me. I suppose that, having relied on my pen for so long, Lady Whistledown seemed the only solution." She pressed on, "The truth, the very hard truth, is that you are my dearest friend. And should I live my life without you from now on, I shall be lesser for it. But I would also understand. I do not wish for you to say you forgive me and then continue to secretly despise me."

Eloise took a deep breath and then released it in a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "You make it very hard to continue being angry at you."

"Please, be angry as long as you wish. I'll weather it, so long as there is something to wait for."

Benedict leaned over, trying to peer between the shelves and the bottles towards El and Pen. He only succeeded in spotting a long drape of pink fabric.

"I am not sure I can continue on as we have been," Eloise said.

Penelope took a tremulous and shaky breath. "I understand," she said, voice halfway to a sob.

"Very well, then.”

Was this to be it? A long friendship cast forever aside? Benedict stood by Eloise without question or hesitation but could not help but feel that their family parlour would feel somewhat emptier without Penelope in it.

Eloise continued after a long, pensive moment. “You and I shall start again and rebuild our friendship."

"Whatever are you doing?"

"I am offering my hand for you to shake. I am Eloise Bridgerton. I am the fifth child in my family and should like one day to finish my novel and have it published."

"Oh! Um. Hello. I am Penelope Featherington, though you may know me as Lady Whistledown."

Eloise chuckled. "I do believe I have heard of you."

Their voices began to fade and Benedict shortly thereafter heard the tread of feet upon the stairs. Nodding to himself for a job bloody well done, he tipped back the bottle and took another long sip of wine.

An hour later, more or less, and with wine selected and delivered to the kitchens, the sound of feminine cackling reached him by way of the nearby open window. He looked up from the accounts book to peer outside and, seeing Penelope and Eloise with their heads tilted against one another, his hand twitched towards where he’d regularly kept his pencils to his right, before remembering he’d set them down without meaning to pick them up again.

Instead of succumbing to the silly notion of trying to draw them, he contented himself with another moment of self-congratulation, and returned to the much more tedious matter of sums.

(To his dismay, they had been somewhat more considerate of his attempts prior to his sampling of the wine.)

Unsurprisingly, Eloise sought him out late that evening in the library. It did not have same appeal as their swings back in Town, but it did allow her to sprawl out against him.

“Well? All is mended and right in the world?” he asked.

“No,” Eloise said. “I daresay repairing the friendship will take time. But we shall work on it. The important thing is that she’s now convinced that her writing can be used for more than gossip. I’m going to help her with it.”

Despite the swell of pride, Benedict couldn’t help himself from saying, “From what I can tell, Lady Whistledown has very little need of help when it comes to routing out the choicest little bits.”

“Perhaps not, but she has asked and I’ve accepted. I’ll take it for the olive branch it is.”

Benedict nodded. “I did say you’d have my full support had you ended up being Lady Whistledown. That has not changed.”

“I do appreciate that, brother.” She stretched out. “I suppose I shall also decline Cressida Cowper’s invitation to tea next week. I thought I’d be beggared for companionship, but now that Pen and I are speaking again, I am not all that desperate.”

“I’m certain you can find better company,” Benedict said. “Perhaps Kate will lend you Newton?”

Eloise laughed and subsequently smacked his arm. Quite hard, actually. He felt very proud.

The first dance after their arrival in the country was to be hosted at the hall in Ashford by one of the local families who rarely came to town. Their party felt remarkably diminished; with Kate and Anthony still on their honeymoon and Colin off traipsing about the continent, only the three of them would be representing the Bridgerton family.

Which, of course, had meant that neither he nor Eloise had been permitted to escape the obligation.

“Have I not already been sufficiently paraded about?” Eloise grumbled, arms crossed over her chest.

“My dear, some of these neighbours we only see rarely. It is our privilege to visit with them now,” Mama replied. Her smile turned sly. “And do you know, Lady Russell happens to have a very eligible nephew—”

“No, no eligible nephews, sons, cousins, brothers or any such thing,” Eloise begged. “I have had quite enough of that already, thank you.”

“You danced less than an hour complete this whole past season,” Mama pointed out, very reasonably in Benedict’s opinion. Also likely accurate. His mother had an uncanny ability to keep track of such things. “Indulge your poor mama by allowing yourself to be escorted to the floor at least twice.” When Eloise opened her mouth to reply, Mama continued, “With gentlemen other than your brother.”

Eloise huffed and dropped back against her seat, a mulish set to her jaw in place right up until their coach stopped and they arrived at the venue.

After the season’s entertainments, the comparatively meagre number of attendees already present seemed shockingly limited. Only eight and ten families really, most of whom he had known since infancy. Eloise allowed Benedict and Mama to greet their hosts, obviously distracted as she scanned the room.

“There’s Pen,” she finally said. Benedict followed her line of sight to Penelope, tucked up near one of the windows, as though the curtains would hide her bright yellow dress.

“I am pleased you two have reconciled,” Mama said. “Ah, and here is Lady Russell. Eloise, won’t you join me in speaking with her?”

Eloise cast a beseeching look to Benedict, but he merely smiled and shrugged. Lady Russell’s nephew was, indeed, a decent specimen of the male figure. Good shoulders. Fine teeth, though his smile did seem somewhat forced.

“Miss Bridgerton, if you’d honour me with a dance this evening?” the gentleman finally asked, grasping the soonest opportunity to do so between Lady Russell’s exaltations of his many talents, which primarily seemed to revolve around equestrianism.

“I suppose I might.” Eloise’s eyes narrowed at a flash of pink feathers seated in an elaborate blond coiffure weaving its way around the dance floor: Cressida Cowper, her sights set on Penelope.

“Excuse me,” Eloise said absently to Lady Russell’s nephew, cutting him off mid-sentence and escaping in Penelope’s direction.

Benedict looked after her, finally smiled tightly at the other man, and followed. Cressida had outpaced them, and stood looking before Penelope, her beauty dimmed by an ugly smirk. Eloise reached them first, leaving Benedict to catch only the tail end of the conversation.

“—You are quite horrible Cressida,” Eloise stated as he reached them. “Thank you for the reminder. I had nearly forgotten.”

Cressida’s expression twitched; only for a moment, but Benedict had long been a close observer of beauty and noticed the irritation mixed with disappointment. “I was merely asking after the state of her dance card, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Of course you were. In the way that a snake asks after an injured bird.”

Cressida sighed, a rather long and drawn-out sound which carried across the sparse crowd and drew more than one look. “How fortunate that we need never fear the walls falling down, what with their constant companion keeping them so firmly in place.”

She smiled sweetly at Penelope and then fluttered off to torment someone else. Eloise glowered after her, but Penelope merely shook her head.

Did… did she take this abuse as her due for some reason? Or had just become inured to it to the point of considering it an everyday occurrence? Neither thought sat particularly well with him.

Penelope took a step backwards, closer to the curtains.

“Miss Featherington,” Benedict said, rather loudly. She blinked at him in surprise, cheeks still red with embarrassment. Eloise, watching Cressida over his shoulder, grinned in a manner both unattractive and profoundly appropriate. “May I prevail upon you to dance with me?”

“Oh, I.” Penelope paused and looked at him through a tilted and uncertain brow. “I should like that, thank you.”

At the end of the current movement, Eloise helpfully took Peneloep’s half-finished glass of wine and Benedict offered Penelope his hand. Some of the dances they enjoyed out in the country would have been considered old and unfashionable in Town, and the musicians only pale impersonators of the best hired by some of the larger houses, but it nevertheless felt easy to fall into the rhythm.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I must thank you. Eloise tells me you were the catalyst for her forgiveness,” she said. “The weeks spent during our fight were among the loneliest of my life, and I cannot imagine what I would have done had we not reconciled.”

They drew close, hands clasped, and Penelope smiled at him, warm and grateful. Benedict’s stomach swooped. Perhaps from dinner? He felt unaccountably flustered.

“And for inviting me to dance,” she added. “I think I will not have much opportunity once we return to town.”

She moved as a woman unaccustomed to dancing, but willing to make a good showing of it. Her steps were perhaps not as light as others with whom he’d danced before, but he did not find it at all awkward or uncomfortable.

“I am sorry about what Colin said about you at the end of the season,” Benedict said.

“It is no matter,” Penelope assured him, her heart obviously not in it. “He has never been discourteous towards me when he and I have met in person.”

They wove around another couple and came back together, their hands joining as they moved down the line of dancers.

“It was still wrong of him.”

“Wrong or not, Colin is allowed to say what he likes. I hold no grudge.”

Another parting.

They finally came back together, close enough for Penelope to hear him when he lowered his voice.

“And Lady Whistledown’s report?”

Penelope searched his eyes, but finding no censure in them, merely shook her head. “I can only imagine she wrote as much in part to remind me what I can expect next season. A place along the wall is truly all I need.” She forced a smile. “Who else can be certain of holding it in place, after all?”

The music wound to a close and they obligingly applauded the musicians.

As the dancers dispersed, he accompanied her back to Eloise.

“Penelope,” he said, low enough for only the three of them to hear, “Whatever my brother’s poorly-chosen words, I hope you will not take them to heart. There would be many men who would count themselves as fortunate to win your favour.”

Penelope’s mouth dropped open. “Thank you,” after a beat, “Benedict.”

He bowed and harried himself back off towards the refreshments. It was damnably hot in the hall this evening.

Time passed quickly while in the country. Colin sent them a few letters that invited little in the way of reply, and Anthony and Kate reported that they would meet them back in town. They found other ways of occupying themselves.

Mama spent many hours visiting their neighbours.

Eloise tackled the contents of their library with single-minded determination, finally managing to argue their mother into allowing her to read a few volumes which had previously been deemed inappropriate for a young woman. Penelope happily joined her, now a frequent visitor since both her sisters married and leaving her the principal subject of her mother’s attention.

Hyacinth took up and abandoned embroidery, German, and painting, then declared her interest in learning the harp before abruptly forgetting all about it.

Francesca tried to convince him to allow her to move their Broadwood grand piano to one of the back rooms and, upon his refusal, played the third movement of Sonata Pathétique at top volume many times over.

Gregory followed him around for a while before realizing that the running of a grand country estate was quite boring and then went to entertain himself with other things that tended to end with mud ground under his fingernails, but thankfully no instances of wildlife being invited into the manor.

More than once, Benedict caught himself wishing to escape back to his art, before abruptly remembering that he’d forsworn such a useless hobby and returned his attention to the running of the estate.

In what felt like no time at all, they began preparing for their journey back to London, to diversions Benedict enormously anticipated.

The last few events before returning to town tended to be scantly attended and excruciatingly polite; everyone had a dozen other tasks to which they should be attending but desired not to give offense by indicating that they were at all distracted by thoughts of them.

It also allowed a preview of what he had to look forward to: more than one young lady, on the cusp of coming out, had a mama determined to catch his eye in advance.

By the last gathering, Benedict had taken it upon himself to hide. Bronwyck Abbey had a great many nooks and crannies suitable for such ignoble purpose, a right he felt he’d more than earned after managing things in Anthony’s absence. Quite well, too, if he were to be honest instead of humble. He ducked into one of the many drawing rooms to escape the predatory gaze of Lady Dalton who had been keenly interested in cornering him all evening on behalf of her eldest daughter. It felt like a decent warm up to the exhausting exercise to commence as soon as they returned to town.

He had not been the only one in search of escape, apparently. Penelope hovered next to the door on the far side of the room, opened only to a crack, a single sliver of light creeping through across the ground. She’d closed her eyes to listen in on the hallway beyond.

“Pen,” he said at a whisper.

Penelope did not hear him, attentive to whatever had captured her interest. He crept across the room to her side, careful to mind the sound of his tread upon the floor. At the doorway, he just caught the tail end of furtive whispering in the hallway beyond. Something scandalous, he thought, though he merely had the timbre of the conversation and Penelope’s attention to it upon which to base the assumption.

The voices faded and Penelope stepped back.

“Already at it?” he asked from behind her, a smile curling the corners of his mouth upwards.

Penelope gasped and swung around, eyes wide. “Benedict!”

“Did I hear something about a piano forte?”

Penelope nodded and stepped closer, her surprise fading into a wicked smile. “One was apparently broken in Lord and Lady Merton’s conservatory while their eldest daughter entertained a certain gentleman caller.”

Benedict’s eyebrows flew up. “One imagines that, whatever caused such an accident, it must have been quite loud.” Penelope laughed. “Whyever are you hiding in here?”

“My sisters are effusively happy in their marriages and have made a point of being equally vocal about the matter,” Penelope admitted. “I am pleased for them, but I’m afraid it has become somewhat tedious.” Her smile disappeared for a moment before she plastered it back on. “And you?”

“I,” Benedict drawled, “Am a prey animal hiding out from very canny hunters.”

“I do suppose now that Anthony is married that you and Colin will draw more interest.”

“Inevitably,” he agreed. “I cannot say I am particularly looking forward to this season.”

She sighed. “That then makes two of us. Three,” she corrected herself, “if one counts Eloise. And I should not wish to discount her opinions ever again.”

“Very sensible,” he said. “Mostly. I will say that her opinions regarding madeira are absolutely without merit.” Penelope laughed. He found he quite enjoyed the sound and wished for it to linger. “Should you ever find your dance card empty, and are in want of a partner, do seek me out. I will be at your service.”

“Truly?” she asked. He nodded. “That is very kind. Thank you. I shall try not to trespass on your time overmuch.”

Trespass all you’d like, sat on his lips. It remained, there, however; Eloise entered the room the moment they threatened to slip out. For the best, he decided. He should not care for Pen to be uncomfortable.

“Here you both are,” Eloise said. She moved to Penelope’s side and hooked her elbow through Pen’s. “Thank goodness. They’ve started the dancing and I was very nearly cornered by Lady Rusell’s nephew again. How fortunate that his aunt intends for him to remain in the country or I should have to put up with him all season as well.”

“Mama says that he seems a perfectly nice young man,” Benedict said. And roughly as memorable as a tea towel; try as he might, he could not recall the gentleman’s name.

“Mama has said the same thing about every prized specimen she’s trotted out in front of me for the past year,” Eloise said. “Thank goodness Francesca’s turn is upon us or I should go mad.”

Pen patted her hand consolingly. “At least your mother still has hopes for you,” she said. Her brow drew. “I think I must find a husband this season.”

Benedict sensed the time for the better part of valour had come upon him, even as his stomach dropped at the proclamation. “I will go and see about distracting Mama,” he offered, earning himself a broad grin of thanks from El. He bowed to Penelope and left them to their confidences.

It would be good if Penelope found someone suitable, Benedict reminded himself. He merely hoped that her desire had not been born from desperation. That would be most terrible. She deserved true happiness in matrimony as much as any other worthy young lady of the ton.

He glanced over his shoulder for a last look at her and El, heads bent together, before escaping back out into the general party, already pulling on a fatuous smile in anticipation of drawing the attention of unrelenting mamas and their hungry-eyed daughters.

The first Whistledown scandal sheet of the season arrived less than a week after they returned to town, before the Queen even rumbled about a date for the parade of young ladies whose turn to be presented before her had finally arrived.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

After ending last season with a full complement of surprises, the ton has returned to town, bringing with them good summer cheer and a want of gossip which yours truly will attempt to provide.

Needless to say, the question at the top of everyone’s mind is will the Queen yet again pick out a diamond of the season? While this writer will own her curiosity, she has also come to the conclusion that perhaps Her Majesty should take into consideration the actions of some of the young ladies in question. One among them, Cecily Garfield, we hear assisted her elder sister in serving particularly strong wine to a romantic rival in past seasons, rendering the young lady in question insensible and ruining her chance at what might have been a reasonably happy marriage…

“I will say, it’s certainly more… meaty,” their mother said at breakfast, poring over the scandal sheet. “I can’t believe the Howards use their servants so abominably.”

“Nor that the Marchioness Rutland had such a penchant for blackmail,” Kate agreed.

“It is a refreshing change, is it not?” Eloise asked. “Now that she has begun reporting on things of matter rather than merely idle gossip.”

Mama cast her a knowing look which Eloise dutifully ignored. Benedict decided to have a word with her later lest she crow too triumphantly over Lady Whistledown’s change of tune and bring speculation back upon herself. He remained the only one in the know besides Eloise (save for Genevieve Delacroix, which in truth had been a mortifying and yet somehow wholly unsurprising discovery.)

“What does she mean by ‘cicisbeo’?” Hyacinth asked, peering over Anthony’s shoulder before he managed to snatch the sheet away.

“Any word from Colin?” Benedict asked loudly before Hyacinth repeated the question. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“None since his last letter, though he seems determined to arrive before month’s end,” Anthony said.

This set off riotous speculation as to what, exactly, Colin had been doing these past months. Benedict sat back, casting a look at Eloise. She’d set her copy of Whistledown aside, but had anyone chanced to look at the expression upon her face, they would no doubt have been left with the impression that she found the contents very satisfying indeed.

“Benedict. Benedict. Benedict!”

The urgent whisper-shout roused him from a perfectly lovely dream of… something, which faded far too quickly as he snapped to consciousness at an unforgiving pinch of his bicep.

“Eloise?” he mumbled, blinking away the vestiges of the dream—something to do with the colour yellow?—”What on earth—”

“We need you. Make haste!”

Still mostly unconscious, he tripped out of bed and stumbled after her. Eloise led him down the back servant’s stairs towards the kitchen. Half-convinced Hyacinth and Gregory had gotten into the cooking sherry again, he halted just inside the entryway when he saw Penelope standing near their back door, berobed in a long grey hooded cloak.

When she saw him, she flushed red from her breasts upwards and turned abruptly away.

“Benedict,” Eloise hissed.

It took him a moment to realize that he’d forwent dressing, leaving him merely a bare chest and soft pants without even a hastily donned nightgown.

He laughed, the sound cringeworthy even to his own ears, and grabbed the door to pull it part way shut, hiding the majority of his body from view.

“Penelope,” he squawked. “It is quite late, is it not?”

“It is,” she replied. He would take some gratification in the equally embarrassed squeak of her voice, had he not been willing some minor calamity upon the house in order he might reasonably escape.

“Yes, it is late,” Eloise agreed. “And time is of the essence!”

He peeked around the door. “What is the matter?”

“Someone has discovered that Lady Whistledown conveys her publications via a single maid,” Penelope told him, eyes still fixed upon the door to the larder. “When I arrived to deliver the latest publication to my printer, there were three men watching the door.”

“All right. What am I to do about it?”

“Obviously you must deliver her latest writing, Benedict,” Eloise said. “They are watching for a young lady, not a gentleman.”

“And you do not think they will find a man arriving in the middle of the night suspicious?”

“Many people will overlook a gentleman’s movements far more readily than that of a lady,” Penelope said. “Please, it is our only recourse. I do not imagine they know for certain which publisher it is, therefore it should only be this once.”

While he did not care for ‘should,’ Benedict chanced a look at both of them, passing his gaze between Eloise and Penelope and saw only equal anxiety in their respective expressions.

“Very well.” The combined power of their relieved sighs filled the room. He held out his hand, flapping his fingers a few times in quick succession before Eloise finally grabbed the papers from Penelope and delivered them to his hold.

When he leaned out to grab them, he thought he caught a glimpse of Penelope’s gaze darting hastily towards him and away again. Vaguely gratified for reasons he did not care to think upon, he drew his arm back.

“Quickly now,” Eloise said. “Pen, head home. Benedict will make sure it’s delivered safely.”

Resigning himself to the role of errand boy, Benedict quickly returned to his room to dress.

Their mother's announcement of 'promenade' a few mornings after Francesca’s presentation was met with the usual enthusiasm. Eloise looked as though she wished for the book in her hands to spontaneously grow jaws to close around her throat, but she stood with an ill-concealed groan and followed the parade of siblings out the door. Fortunately for Kate and Anthony, they were busy with other affairs, leaving the rest of them to be trotted out at their mother's bidding. Colin alone seemed eager to go, no doubt excited to regale his friends with the stories of his travels he daren’t share among family.

"You must stay with me, El," Benedict said, ducking his head in next to hers once they arrived. "For I've accidentally caught the eye of a particularly tenacious mama who wishes me wed to her daughter quick enough to merit a special license."

"All right, but I promised Pen I'd walk with her, so you'd best keep your other elbow at the ready."

Benedict very consciously did not think upon the flush in Penelope’s cheeks when she'd seen him bare-chested.

His efforts on that score were neatly confounded when, upon Penelope spotting them, that same blush returned. Neither of them said anything about it. And the walk served its purpose: Countess Albermarle glared at Penelope and Eloise with a gaze fierce enough to saw through bone. Either they did not notice or had become quite good at ignoring such attentions.

Countess Albermarle finally turned her eye in someone else's direction and Benedict's shoulders finally relaxed down from his ears. He refocused on Eloise and Penelope, catching the very tail of their conversation, conducted across the expanse of his chest.

"...And she's right. It should be examined with a critical eye if women are to make our own decisions about our lives. She calls it, what, a ‘revolution of female manners’?" Eloise pressed.

"I am not arguing, but do you not think she takes it too far by suggesting women should have a seat in government—?"

"Whatever have you two been reading?" Benedict asked, forehead creasing deeper with every word.

Eloise looked immediately shifty. "Ah, is that Mama calling? Pardon me a moment."

She took off without a glance backwards. Benedict sighed after her; if Anthony found out she'd secreted away yet more inappropriately political material in her bedroom, he'd have every book stripped right out of the house. Well, he'd try, anyway, until Kate intervened. Come to think of it, hadn’t he seen Kate pressing a book or two into Eloise’s hand with a knowing smile earlier that week?

"I do not wish to know," he decided aloud.

"That is probably for the best," Penelope said.

They continued their stroll, enjoying very fine weather. Once or twice, he thought he noted the scrutiny of others, but these fleeting moments were over in an instant. It shouldn't be very unusual for people to notice Penelope Featherington in the company of a Bridgerton. Sometimes it seemed she spent nearly as much time with their family as her own.

A young man stepped into their path. Prepared to surrender her hand if they'd come to ask after it, the offer died on his lips when he marked the man in question to be Reginald Pritchard.

"Good morning," the other man said, the sly set of his mouth making even a simple greeting feel like an insult. "You must pardon my oversight, Bridgerton. Had I known you enjoyed escorting spinsters about town, I should have introduced you to my aunt." His expression remained easy and friendly, a generous smile stretched across his mouth which did nothing to conceal the nasty gleam in his eyes. The very same that Benedict had seen once upon a time, when he'd brought Eloise to tears.

Penelope looked down and away, partially hiding her face behind her fan.

"I feel I am the one who must be pardoned," Benedict said, his grin so broad that his cheeks hurt. He showed an indecorous number of teeth and hoped that it brought a wolf to mind. "For not properly educating you on the fact that a spinster is merely a woman who has not been recognized for her worth. Or, in the cases of present company, more willing to live a life alone rather than be shackled in marriage to the unworthy."

The smile fell away from Pritchard's face. He opened his mouth to speak.

Benedict continued before he could, "I am, of course, happy to address my oversight should any lessons be required."

Penelope's hand tightened on his arm.

"Careful, Bridgerton," Pritchard finally ground out from a clenched jaw. "Should someone overhear you, surely word will get back to Lady Whistledown and your intentions in defending Miss Featherington might be brought into question."

"I doubt Lady Whistledown would find much interest in mere statement of fact," Benedict said. Penelope's hand twitched again, hot through the fabric of both her gloves and his coat. "Were I you, I should be much more concerned over her overhearing how you have spoken in an ungallant manner."

Before Pritchard said another word, Colin trotted up to join them. "Pritchard, Brother. I was wondering where all the good company had gone."

Pritchard turned a thin smile Colin's way. "I was just here to pay my respects to Miss Featherington."

"Miss... Oh, Pen. Pardon my failure to notice you."

"It is not out of character," Penelope muttered, the words completely lost when Colin turned back to Pritchard.

"Come along, Blackwell's got some ridiculous notion of buying Keppel's brown mare and the price he is willing to pay will is absolutely outrageous..."

They walked off together, Pritchard casting a last scowl over his shoulder.

"You did not need to do that," Penelope said. Benedict turned to her, finding her gaze cast out towards the river. The flush now to her cheeks seemed far less appealing than when he'd noted it before. "I am quite aware of how such men think of me and am content to ignore instead of confront them."

"They are wrong," Benedict told her.

"It is my third season out with no prospects. What should I be called if not a spinster?"

He gave it a moment. "An egg," he finally said.

Penelope burst out laughing. "An egg?" she repeated through heaving giggles. "What can you possibly mean by an egg?"

"Well, one does not know what may be inside an egg until it hatches. A swan. A very fine goose. Helen of Troy..."

"Stop," she gasped, shaking with mirth. She had lost the shame-filled and miserable set to her features. He found himself vastly preferring this generosity of delight. "You know," she said, wiping away a tear, "Should Lady Whistledown catch wind of this, I shall be known by no other name the rest of my natural life."

"Well, I shall take care not to call you Egg before others, then," he said. "And we shall allow Lady Whistledown to remain ignorant of it."

Penelope's smile remained through the rest of their walk and stayed with him later that evening, when he found himself at the club with Colin and a small group of friends, Pritchard fortunately nowhere to be seen. Mondrich had a full house that evening, drinks flowing freely between crowded tables. They had been obliged to sit quite close to another group in order to accommodate the men crowding the space.

"You are distracted tonight, Brother," Colin said after a question he put to Benedict went unanswered. "Dare one ask the occupation of thought?"

Not very well able to speak to the lingering impression of Penelope's happiness, he merely shrugged with a gormless grin. "The brandy is quite fine tonight."

They accepted the explanation, thin though it was, and continued speaking amongst themselves. Benedict's thoughts began to wander again, though his hearing quickly brought wayward contemplation to heel. Their neighbours at the other table, deep into their cups, had grown increasingly loud.

"Have you another prospect in mind now that Miss Cole has soundly rejected you?" one of the men asked another.

The latter, Mr. Elias Thynne, smirked in a profoundly ugly manner. "The lady has taken leave of her senses."

"I hear she has accepted the suit of a tradesman," another companion said. "Whatever will you do, knowing that you have been looked over for someone so low?"

"Pine forever, one suspects," a fourth member of their party chuckled.

"Not that, certainly," Thynne said. He finished his drink and called for another. "In fact, I already have my manservant at work spreading news that she has been rather too loose with her affections, requiring her to settle for a man decidedly below her station."

The humour fell away from the others. "Lawd man," one of his friends laughed uneasily, "That will ruin her."

"No less than she deserves," Thynne shrugged. "I only await Lady Whistledown's report on the affair."

"—Is that not right, Benedict?"

Benedict snapped his attention back to Colin. "What?" he asked.

"You are rather in a state tonight, aren't you?" Colin laughed.

"Indeed. If you will all be good enough to excuse me, it seems I've no head for drinking this evening."

Benedict quit the place before any of them had the chance to argue. Instead of going directly home, he slipped through the back gates of the Featherington home and quietly knocked on the door to request a moment with Penelope. The maid's eyebrows shot all the way up to her hairline, but she obliged without comment.

Penelope joined him after only a few moments. "Benedict?"

"Please, I need a moment." She nodded to the maid, who slipped back away into the house. "I overheard something tonight which immediately requires your attention."

"Are you finding gossip for me?" she asked, shock writ plain upon her face and a smile tucked into the corners of her mouth.

“That, and I mean to save a young lady’s reputation. I have always found that performing two tasks at once, where possible, is exceedingly clever.” He leaned in closer to her. "I merely happened upon it, but it is imperative you know."

Her eyes, in all their glory, flashed with the determination which must have driven her to create Lady Whistledown. "Tell me," she said.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season's games have already commenced, some being played with much more honour than others. It has been said that this author has ways of separating the choicest kernels of wheat from among the chaff. What is perhaps lesser known is that she is also particular regarding what she reports, which will come as a terrible discovery to the presumptive Baron Lucas, Mr. Elias Thynne, who believes that merely by lying, he might use this author to his advantage and ruin the reputation of a perfectly innocent young lady. How unfortunate for this rake that the truth of the matter is much more interesting than his rumour would ever prove.

This author cautions anyone who would actively seek to benefit from these pages: they are not a tool to be wielded by anyone other than the person placing pen upon paper.

"It is simply unfair," Colin stated, smacking his knuckles against the paper.

Benedict looked up from his own copy. "What is?"

"I know Elias Thynne. What Lady Whistledown has written about him is unpardonable."

Benedict's face twisted up in an expression of disbelief. "I rather think that his intentions regarding the young lady to be the offense."

"A pettiness, I will admit, but surely not one which merits this level of chastisement. He will barely be able to show his face out of doors for a good long while."

Benedict grinned. "And in that, the ton will be losing nothing of value."

Colin harrumphed in protest, but Benedict quit the room before his brother could offer any sensible rejoinder.

He reached the foyer just as Penelope entered.

"Egg," he said with a grin, "How are we this morning?"

Penelope chuckled and shook her head. "Very well, thank you." Her hair looked different. Less curly and more wavy. He itched to draw it, an inclination he pushed ruthlessly down. "I came to call on Eloise. I would like her opinion on the new frock I have to wear to the Innovations Ball this evening."

"I am sorry to say you will be disappointed. She is out with our mother on an errand." Penelope's face fell in disappointment, which Benedict could not stand for a moment. "If you'd like to wait, I will find us refreshments. I may not be as compelling as Eloise in terms of company, but I would be happy to wait with you."

Her expression brightened. "Your company is superior to any other I might enjoy in the meantime."

He led her through to the drawing room and sent for snacks.

"Do you know," she said once they'd been delivered. "I have many memories of you sitting right where you are with a pencil in hand, ever drawing. I have not seen much of it of late."

"Nor shall you," Benedict laughed, hoping the sound came across as anything other than swollen with disappointment yet doubting himself to be a good enough actor. "I find myself unsuited to art and have quit the notion entirely."

"I cannot believe that is true. An artist's life, perhaps, but your passion has always shone through."

How to give voice to the absolute despair he felt upon discovering Anthony's involvement in his Academy admission? He had felt every inch the indolent, spoilt young gentleman who relied upon money instead of talent—something he had promised himself over and over again would not be true. Anthony, in his attempts to help him, had only damned him and dammed up his love of the only thing that had helped keep him sane in the wake of his father's death and the ensuant needs of his family.

Penelope's face fell at whatever his had decided to convey. "If I have caused offense, I apologize."

"Not at all. I am surrounded by those who have more faith in my abilities than are warranted." He dropped his eyes to look at his hands. A callus had long ago formed on his right middle finger, where he had often rested brush or pen. All these months and it had not faded away.

"I have seen some of your work. I have never found it wanting."

He looked up at her. "Truly? Whenever did you have the chance?"

Penelope flushed a brilliant red and he had the surprising experience of seeing her wrong-footed. "Oh, I only. It. I didn't mean." She looked hastily towards the window. "You more than once left your sketchbook unattended during visits I made to Eloise."

"You looked?" he asked, aghast. Some of his drawings over the years had been decidedly unfit for a young lady's eyes.

Penelope nodded. When he did not immediately respond, she glanced back at him. "I thought they were all very beautiful," she said. "I would not object to seeing more."

“Your eyes certainly would.”

“Benedict,” she said, as sincere as ever he’d heard her. “I know what it feels like to rip part of yourself out because you feel you’re not good enough. More than once, I’ve considered placing down my pen. Every time I’ve eventually picked it back up again.”

“As well you should. Your talent with a turn of phrase is admirable.”

“From what I recall, your art is equally so.” She smiled gently. “I do mean it, quite sincerely, when I say I should like to see more.”

Nervous, though he did not know how to articulate why exactly, he stood and offered his arm. She gamely accompanied him to his small studio, really a repurposed closet he used only while in town, pale in comparison to his rooms at Aubrey Hall. The servants had saved it from going to dust and molder in his absence.

Penelope examined the most recent pieces, still mounted upon easels or laid out one atop the other on the room’s sole, small table. She shifted through them, every moment of her silence a single, irritating drop of rain hitting him on the crown of his head until he thought he might go half-mad.

Penelope’s attention, her hands, stuttered when she tugged aside one painting to reveal a half-finished drawing of a naked man.

“It’s very…” She tried and failed to cough away her blush, but her voice cracked as she continued with, “Evocative.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely you’ve seen such examples before now? As I recall, many members of the ton have particularly good collections.”

“Yes,” she agreed, slowly drawing out the word as her fingertips followed the line of his brush. She tripped over the iliac furrows and withdrew her hand before it could stray any lower. “But they’re not the same.”

Benedict’s stomach dropped and he looked decidedly away. “Because mine is not true art.” Really, who wished for his shallow offerings when true masters walked among them?

“That is not what I meant,” Penelope said, all evidence of genuinity in her tone. He dared to meet her eyes. “The pieces of which you speak seem very focused on the happenstance around the subjects. Here you’ve put such obvious care into the subject himself, he’s become the true focus of the piece.” Her blush intensified. He stared at the high pink in her cheeks, fascinated. “I find it truly affecting.”

“And dare one ask after the effect?” Benedict asked, drawing towards her. Penelope’s eyes widened, but she did not shy away from him.

“Curiosity.” Her voice slipped between her lips in a whisper. “How would you draw me?”

Benedict swallowed. “As mighty as Hersilia,” he told her. Penelope’s chest heaved with the catching of her breath. “As captivating as Venus.” Another step closer yet she still did not quail. “As…”

Before he could find the words, he ducked his head down to kiss her. She gasped, a throaty sound that he wished to chase down where it hid past the sweetness of her lips. Instead, remembering himself, he pulled away.

Penelope’s eyes opened and she looked up at him with parted, rosy lips. “Benedict.”

He pressed his mouth to hers once again. She craned up to meet him, rising to her toes and then stumbling back when she lost balance. She caught herself on the table behind her and Benedict slipped his way into her space, daring to place a hand upon her cheek as hers came to rest upon his breast. He caught the curl of her tongue as it brushed against his lower lip, tasting as sweet as her first little gasp. Penelope pushed herself against him, half-sitting upon the table and knocking some of the contents askew.

The sound of an ink bottle hitting the floor finally broke them apart.

“Oh, we had better stop,” Penelope whispered, breathless.

“Ah. Of course.” Truly, the exact opposite of his wishes, but Benedict nevertheless drew back and away. “Forgive me, I—”

“No, please. Do not ask forgiveness. There was nothing I did not…” She coughed. “I think you should dare to return to your art, Benedict.”

“I shall consider it,” he said. He found himself surprised to find he meant it as a promise instead of empty words.

“Good. I am glad of it. But I should go,” Benedict nodded dumbly and helped her down from atop the table. She’d been sitting on the very same drawings she’d so admired. “Would you please tell Eloise to call on me when she returns home?”

Still unable to quite find his tongue, Benedict nodded. He escorted her down to the front door.

“Egg,” he said. She sighed her way through a smile and looked up at him. “Will you dance with me tonight?”

Her mouth dropped open, yet again calling his attention to her lips. “Yes,” she agreed, gratifyingly breathless. “I dare say I shall have room on my card.”

They bid one another goodbye, and Benedict was left behind, actually looking forward to a ball for the first time he could remember.

The feeling of Penelope’s body pressed against his carried him through the rest of the day and well into the evening. To distract himself, likely an exercise in futility, he returned to his studio to collect the things knocked off the table, pausing over the drawing that had so captured Pen’s attention. He found his fingers fiercely aching in ways he’d tried to ignore these past few months, lonely for a bit of charcoal or pastel. Perhaps one of the graphite sticks he’d acquired directly before leaving the Academy.

He collected one of his sketchbooks and hesitantly flipped to a blank page. He stared at the expansive white of it. Shaking hands reached for a piece of charcoal, settling immediately once it was in his grasp. Quite outside his control, his arm moved to draw a single, curving line.

Hersilia, he’d said. Venus. No. Penelope needed to be shown as one of the muses. The single line quickly became the drape of cloth, resolving itself into a toga lovingly wrapped about a gorgeous figure.

Benedict was nearly late for dinner. He smiled at the black spread across the blade of his hand as he dressed that evening. He always took care with his appearance, but took a few extra moments to ensure every fastidious detail was perfect in execution.

Kate, the first one of their party downstairs, met him in the lobby and gave him a look of approval.

“I hope you will not let Anthony impose upon you all evening, Sister,” Benedict said. “I should very much appreciate a dance or two.”

“I shall stop him from monopolizing my time,” Kate agreed with a smile. She studied him closely. “You look very well this evening.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Perhaps there is someone in particular you are hoping to impress?”

“Ah, is that my mother calling? I should go and make sure everyone is nearly ready.”

Kate laughed at him all the way out of the foyer, but thankfully did not share her speculations with Anthony when he joined her, beckoned by the sound of her delight.

The Bridgerton party felt much fuller than it had while in the country, a return to normalcy which he might have relished had there been nothing else weighing on his mind.

Their hosts greeted them politely and they scattered into the crowd, Francesca on their mother’s arm, Colin towards a tangle of his friends, Kate and Anthony to the refreshment table, and Eloise dragging Benedict off to the sidelines in a joint effort to avoid scrutiny.

“Lady Russell wrote to Mama and suggested she might go out of her way to visit with her nephew,” Eloise whispered, “She told me right before we arrived.”

“You might finally take a moment and learn his name,” Benedict suggested.

“Far too likely to be taken as an invitation to intimacy,” Eloise said.

They hid themselves out of the way as best they could, Benedict determined yet again avoiding Countess Albermarle and Eloise obligingly assisting him in the endeavour. He took note of a few other attendees, but found himself oddly distracted. More than once, Benedict cast his gaze around the room, as though yellow were a particularly challenging colour to pick out of an otherwise sedate crowd.

A few minutes past the hour, Eloise took hold of his arm and used it to steady herself as she rose to her toes and craned her neck.

“Whatever are you doing?” Benedict asked.

“Lady Featherington has just arrived,” Eloise said, using his arm to balance herself on her toes and get a better look over the crowd. “Do you see Pen?”

Benedict began shaking his head before spotting her at the top of the stairs. “She’s—” He stopped short as the footman took her cloak.

Penelope looked.

Well. She.

“Everyone is staring at her,” Eloise murmured.

“Are they?” Benedict asked, voice oddly strangled to his own ears.

Before Eloise had a chance to reply, he slipped from her grasp and made his way towards the stairs. He passed Lady Featherington and the rest of the family to meet Penelope before she reached the bottom step.

“Miss Featherington,” he greeted. “I don’t suppose I might be lucky enough to claim that dance?” he asked. He ducked his head in a bit closer, trying and failing to ignore how the height of the steps placed his head rather precariously close to Penelope’s chest. “If it pleases you, we can stand next to Lord and Lady Talbot. They’ve had their heads together all evening and one cannot help but think there must be some sort of news afoot we might be able to divine between us.”

“They are known for keeping their distance most days,” Penelope agreed with a blinding smile. “Yes, Mr. Bridgerton, I should be delighted.”

He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Keenly aware that the majority of the room’s attention had fixed itself quite readily to where Penelope’s hand rested in the crook of his elbow, Benedict escorted her to the dance floor. He thought, once or twice while manoeuvring them through the throng of other attendees, that Colin might be watching them, but every time he glanced across the room his brother’s attention appeared to be decidedly elsewhere.

“Lady Whistledown will be obliged to write about this,” she reminded him as they took their places, next to the Talbots as promised.

“In which case, I hope she rightly reports what an excellent dancer I am,” Benedict replied.

Penelope laughed as the dance commenced, catching him in the sound of it and nearly making him lose count at the first turn of his ankle. Thank goodness his mother had taken such pains to ensure he knew the steps to every conceivable dance without having to pay much attention to them.

They moved together much easier now than they had when they’d danced together in Ashford. She seemed more relaxed in his company, now.

(Perhaps because this was not the most intimate thing they’d shared today.)

(Strange that he did not recall this dance requiring quite so much eye contact before.)

Eventually they came to a stop, facing one another.

“The dance is over, Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope said.

“It is,” he agreed.

She smiled, a flush rising in her cheeks. “Then I believe you can release my hand.”

He looked down at where their hands were still joined between them. “Ah.” He reluctantly obliged. “I’m afraid I did not overhear the Talbots.” Or much of anything else, really.

“Neither did I,” she admitted.

He led her off the dance floor. Yet again he thought he espied Colin, but his brother disappeared into the crowd when he went to look for him.

“It’s gotten quite warm in here. May I fetch you some lemonade?” he asked once Penelope had situated herself in an appropriately well-trafficked corner.

“Please.”

Halfway to the table, the Countess finally lost patience with his attempts at avoidance. While he managed to extricate himself by promising a dance to each of her daughters, it delayed his return to Penelope’s side. Once he finally made it back to where she’d been waiting for him, she’d disappeared.

Fearing Hoping that another gentleman had engaged her for a dance, Benedict moved to get a better view of the floor. Confirming that no one had claimed her hand, he began a quick exploration of every window and dark corner in search of her, half expecting she’d merely been distracted by some excellent bit of gossip and had allowed her feet to follow the tune of it.

Eloise found him before exploration could turn to lurking.

"Benedict," Eloise hissed, drawing up next to him, "Penelope left the ball."

Benedict’s stomach dropped. "She what?"

"While I was speaking with mother, Cressida ripped her dress and she left. I think Colin followed her, but—"

He grabbed her arm in thanks, passed her the two glasses of lemonade, and escaped up the stairs towards the door. Just outside, Colin stood stupefied and frowning at the empty space where a carriage must have been.

"Brother," Benedict greeted. "Miss Featherington?"

Colin blinked at him. "Gone home," he said. "The evening was..." He paused. "No, I shan't lie to you. Penelope is indeed unhappy about what I said at the Featherington ball last season. There may be many miles for our friendship to tread before she forgives me."

"Are you?" he demanded instead. At Colin's befuddled frown, he continued, "Her friend?"

"Well, yes. It isn't as though we would ever be anything else," Colin said. His eyes narrowed into a scowl. “If only that horrible Lady Whistledown hadn’t reported on it.”

“Allow me to reiterate something I recently told another member of our family: you did the things she wrote about,” Benedict said. “It is not her fault you said them. And loudly enough, too, for half the ton to overhear. I assure you, as a Bridgerton, your word carries far more weight among your peers than you seem to notice and Penelope felt them quite keenly. Pritchard himself approached her the other morning and called her a spinster to her face. How else is she supposed to react?” Benedict sighed. "You need to make amends.”

“You seem oddly invested in Pen’s feelings,” Colin said with a frown. “Why were you dancing with her anyway?

“Why shouldn’t I dance with her?”

“Pen doesn’t dance.”

“She does. With me,” Benedict informed him.

Colin stared at him. “What, are you courting her?”

The quick denial died on his lips before he spoke it. Benedict Bridgerton did not court anyone. He enjoyed his vices and had never desired to curtail them with something as shackling as a marriage. And yet. If there ever were a woman he might desire to spend at his side for the remainder of his long days, the shape of her had now been clearly defined for him.

Colin mistook his silence and continued, “You should let her alone, then. She already feels exposed enough in front of the ton without you parading her about the room like—” He paused.

Ah, there was his tongue. “Like what? Like a beautiful woman?”

“She’s not a beautiful woman. She’s… Pen.”

Benedict loved Colin. As deeply as any man had ever loved a younger brother. Yet at this very moment, Benedict fondly remembered their time as children, when he'd shove Colin into the ground and grind dirt into his hair. As adults, such things were beneath their dignity, but Lord did he wish it to be a viable course of action.

“I cannot believe that Gregory may be the only hope left for our family,” Benedict groaned. “I shall see you at home. I do hope you spent the rest of the evening thinking about why Penelope may have rarely danced before now, and if your impression of her as anything other than a beautiful woman may have something to do with it.”

He left Colin standing on the steps of the estate.

It took an interminable length of time to find a coach and have it deliver him home. Or perhaps it merely seemed that way. He spent no time at all sneaking into the back of Penelope’s home; he did have some experience with escaping notice. He scanned the windows before finally finding the right one, then leaned down to grab a fistful of rocks from the nearby pathway.

It only took a couple of well-aimed pebbles thrown at the glass before Penelope appeared and opened the window.

“Benedict?” Her voice was choked. Lord, had she been crying? “How did you know this was my window?”

“It’s the only one with a light on.”

He thought he saw Penelope blush, though with the light cast by the room behind her it was hard to say for certain. “Right. Of course.”

All the things he wanted to say felt too stupid to give voice. “What are you going to write about tonight?”

Penelope’s eyes widened and she cast a look around him. “Shh! What if someone were to hear you?”

“Everyone of matter is still at the ball.”

She took a steadying breath as though in search of patience. “I shall be down in a moment.”

Penelope shut the window behind her and Benedict bounced on his heels as he waited. When she finally emerged, his gaze immediately went to the ink already staining her fingers.

“You are quite lucky that my mother has not yet replaced all of our household staff,” Penelope stated. “I assure you, the ears of the servants work just as well, if not better, than our own.”

Blast. “Quite right,” he said, ducking his head. He looked up through his eyelashes, pleased to find that she was smiling instead of stern. “But what will you write about tonight?” he repeated.

Her smile disappeared. “Only what I should,” she said. “That Miss Penelope Featherington enjoyed a single dance with a handsome gentleman before remembering herself and leaving before she could become more of a spectacle.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it not?” Penelope’s eyes looked wet, but she turned away from him before he could muster up even the simplest words of reassurance. Penelope sighed, the sound at war between the factions of disbelief and irritation. “Gentlemen such as your brother find the prospect of courting me horribly disagreeable. How else am I to report on the matter without making it obvious that I am being overly generous and land myself in the same situation as Eloise, with even the Queen suspecting me?”

“Egg, I love my brother but even I allow that he is a fool who often speaks out of turn in order to impress those around him. And, had he indeed been sincere in this instance, he is a blind one at that.”

“Colin knows just as well as everyone else does: I might wear beautiful clothing and take to the floor, but in every way that matters, I am still the same as ever I was.”

“As ever—. You, Penelope Featherington, are lovely and intelligent and interesting,” Benedict said. She turned around, brow deeply furrowed. “It is that last quality that recommends you in the way few others can compare. Do you think anyone else could successfully carry on the charade you have? No. Only you.”

“Men do not marry interesting women,” Penelope said. The words knocked the air from his lungs, strangling his immediate denial. “You have helped me in my work as Lady Whistledown, but you do not seem to understand the importance of it for me.”

“Help me to, then,” Benedict replied.

She stared at him, lips pinched, until she shook her head and turned away. “I have no prospects. Nor do I wish to be shackled to my childhome home for the rest of my life. My options as they stand are to publish or, for all intents and purposes, perish.”

“I cannot believe that to be true.”

“Is it not? As Lady Whistledown I at least am able to provide myself with an income. Enough, in fact, to establish my own home. This is more than any spinster can reasonably expect in life.”

“For goodness’ sake, surely there must be other options? Marry me if you must, it has to be preferable to…” He paused as the words which had stupidly tripped from his lips caught up with him. Or perhaps it was the look of utter devastation upon Penelope's face.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, her voice shaking. “I know that I have hurt more people than just Eloise with my writing. But even so, I do not deserve such mockery.”

“Egg—” Before he could muster up a sensible defense of the indefensible, Penelope turned on her heel and escaped back into the house.

Eloise found him on the swings when she returned home later on that evening, already smoking. She blinked at him, slow and condescending as a cat, then joined him.

“I’ve made rather a mess of things, El,” he muttered when she sat down beside him. He allowed her to nick the cigarette from between his fingers.

“Can it be as bad as all that?”

“I asked Penelope to marry me.”

Eloise abruptly choked on the cigarette. When she tried to catch her breath, it merely exacerbated the problem. Fearing she might vomit up a lung, Benedict took it upon himself to clap her between the shoulders until she finally managed to heave in a breath.

“You what?” she demanded in the voice of a sailor no less than fifty years her senior and with substantially more between his legs. “Benedict,” Eloise said, serious as he’d ever heard her before. “For all her missteps, Pen has done her best to make amends—”

“I had merely meant to comfort her and it just…” He stuck out his lower lip, face contorted as the full horror of the matter struck him all at once and his hands flew wildly about his face. “My mouth?”

Eloise sighed, sounding remarkably like a cross between Daphne and their mother, doubtless a comparison she’d disdain should he speak it aloud. “If you did not do it for sport, and it merely came out poorly, she will forgive you, but you must go and make amends before she convinces herself that you’ve merely been playing at friendship with her all this while.”

Benedict’s pout tilted down at the corners. He had not been playing at any such thing. He still remembered the flushed and lovely way she’d looked at him while seated upon his drawings, and the way the ink had curled across her fingers when he’d interrupted her writing. The sweet taste of her lips.

“A moment of hurt will be assuaged by a sincere apology,” Eloise insisted, bringing him back to himself.

“But I should not like her to be hurt for even a moment,” he whispered.

It took him a moment to realize that Eloise, next to him, had divined something in his expression he had not meant for her to see. “Benedict, is there a chance that you were sincere in asking her to marry you?”

"I cannot say for certain that I... did not... mean it," Benedict admitted, the worst bursting forth terribly quickly and then very, very slowly.

Eloise stared at him. "I cannot speak with you about this," she said bluntly. "And you must not mention this to Mama."

God forbid; should his mother learn of this, he would hear no end to it. Not her speculation nor her chastisement.

Eloise thought for a moment before nodding to herself. She grabbed his hand and hauled him through the house, ignoring his questions and protests until they reached the sitting room that Anthony and Kate favoured in the evening.

"You cannot mean for me to speak with Anthony," he yelped right before she flung open the door, startling the two occupants within. They sprang apart from one another, both of them turning away to hastily reorder themselves. Benedict looked longingly towards the window. Surely they were not so far off the ground to make it an unacceptable means of escape?

"Has knocking fallen out of fashion?!" Anthony demanded, pink-cheeked, hopefully only with fury.

"Brother," Eloise said. "I need your assistance."

Anthony straightened, all irritation fled. "With what? Are you unwell?"

Eloise groaned, but somehow managed not to roll her eyes. "I am very well. But I do need a brother's wisdom." Anthony turned a puzzled gaze towards Benedict and began a reply which Eloise cut off with a neat, "An eldest brother's wisdom. Benedict will keep Kate company."

She all but dragged Anthony from the room leaving Benedict abruptly alone with his sister-in-law.

Kate tilted her head and looked at him. "I assume you have something you should like to discuss with me in private?"

Lord save him from meddlesome sisters. Yet, this did seem a far superior choice than chancing what his mother might say. "Only if it is not too much trouble." Equilibrium had returned to his voice. Mostly.

"It is not," Kate said. She gestured for him to join her in sitting near the fireplace. "I am listening."

"I have been forced into speculating over the nature of love," he began.

Kate's eyebrows rose. “Might this have something to do with the care you took in dressing this evening?”

“It is both related to and somewhat more serious than that.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Do you believe love might arise from nothing at all?"

"No." Unaccountably disappointed, Benedict nodded. "But then, I do not believe feelings flourish when untended. They may arise unanticipated, but surely they must be sown first.”

He considered it a moment. "Love is a garden," he began hesitantly. Kate nodded encouragingly, though he felt a bit of a fool. "Which may sometimes have seeds blown into it that bloom unexpectedly?"

"I am glad to see you are much better than your brother at poetry," Kate chuckled. "Does the flower in question have any notion of your feelings?"

"No, I am ashamed to say that I have bungled that part quite terribly."

"Great love will encourage a forgiving heart. This benefits some much more than others," she said. She rolled her eyes with a fond smile, mostly to herself it seemed, and Benedict caught himself grinning down at his hands. "I recommend honesty. Too much tragedy can come from trying to hide."

"Quite right." He swallowed. "I am very glad to have you as a sister, Kate."

She smiled, just in time for Eloise and Anthony to return. Neither looked more ruffled than they had before leaving; whatever scheme she'd devised to keep him distracted had not been too onerous on either of them.

Benedict and Eloise bid Kate and Anthony good night and showed themselves out.

"A very wise suggestion," he admitted at Eloise's expectant look. She nodded, taking credit as was her due. "But however did you manage to keep him occupied?"

"Oh, that was no matter. Before the season began, Francesca asked me to come up with a few excuses to draw his attention in case he treated her the way he did Daphne. I still have five or six left should he once again decide to be ridiculous."

"You are my favourite sister, do you know that?" Benedict asked.

Eloise smiled. "I did have some notion." She nudged him. "And?"

Benedict swallowed, steeled himself, and said, “I will off in the morning to speak with Pen. Properly, this time.”

He only hoped she’d be willing to see him.

Benedict slept poorly and woke early, then hid in his room, sure that everyone would see the truth of the matter plastered across his face. Benedict spent some time pacing his room, stared at a book without reading a single word, and sketched out the slope of Penelope’s cheek in a rescued sketchbook. The pen practically leapt into his hand, eager to draw her likeness.

Should he have anticipated these seeds coming to bloom? He did not know. And though he’d spent much of his time avoiding the prospect of marriage, he no longer found the idea of it quite so disagreeable.

When the appointed hour for calling finally drew near, he made his way downstairs.

“Mama,” he said, sweeping into the parlour. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course, Benedict dear, go right ahead,” his mother said, dismissing the maid from the tray of fine-looking desserts she’d laid out. Eloise looked directly up from her book at him, though Hyacinth, Gregory and Francesca all seemed distracted by their own pursuits.

“I intend to go and propose to Penelope Featherington,” he said.

“Oh, my dear!” Mama grabbed him and hugged him tight. “I had wondered when the two of you started spending so much time together. How wonderful. When do you plan to do it?”

“At once.”

Or, whenever his Mama saw fit to release him from her sudden and inexplicably tight embrace.

Eloise grinned indecorously at him as he left. On his way out, Benedict passed a rather sanguine-looking gentleman on his way in. If he’d come to call on El, he’d have a better chance of it than most; she seemed in excellent spirits.

The walk across the street seemed longer than it ever had before. The Featherington’s housekeeper let him in, a puzzled downturn lurking in the corner of her mouth as she led him through to the sitting room, where Portia Featherington met him with an equally confused frown.

Benedict did not bother wasting time with minced words, “Lady Featherington, I am hoping to see Penelope.”

Portia Featherington rapidly blinked. “You’ve… come to see Penelope? Now? Are you aware of what time it is, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Quite aware,” Benedict replied, trying and mostly succeeding in not looking over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of Penelope, sat on the seat closest to the window, though the drapes were tightly drawn shut.

After another awkward moment of silence, Lady Featherington finally ceased blinking in a flabbergasted fashion—moving to a slower, more mystified tempo—and nodded. She stepped aside to let him pass.

“Egg,” Benedict said, likely moving far too quickly to join her.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, only barely glancing up from the book in her hands. He tracked her eyes; they did not move to read the words upon the page. “I am quite confident you must have other obligations today.”

“None as important,” he said. “Please, will you hear me out?”

Wary in a way that pained him, she nevertheless raised her head.

“I am sorry for my careless words,” he said.

Penelope’s lips pinched and she dropped her eyes again. “You are forgiven. If that is all—”

“That is not all. I spoke in haste, yes, and without thinking.”

Benedict knelt down before her. He thought he heard a small gasp from behind him, but ignored it entirely.

Penelope’s mouth fell open. “What are you doing, Benedict?”

“I am proposing marriage,” Benedict said, meeting that same shocked gaze. “To the most interesting woman I know. Marry me, Penelope Featherington. Not because you have no other options, but because I love you and wish to fill all your days with joy.”

Behind them, Lady Featherington made some commotion which he found easy to ignore in favour of the hopeful smile slowly curving across Penelope’s mouth. His own lips echoed the expression, quite beyond his control.

"Penelope, do you not have something to say to Mr. Bridgerton?" Lady Featherington asked, voice curiously high pitched.

Penelope barely seemed to hear her and Benedict refused to look away.

An exasperated sound burst from Lady Featherington's throat, though only briefly before she choked it back. "Allow me to say on my daughter's behalf that Penelope would, of course, be delighted to accept you."

“Yes,” Penelope said. Benedict’s heart lurched. “I do have something to say to you.”

Lady Featherington gasped. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed to Benedict that she was not injured; she had pressed hand to forehead, tilted back to stare fruitlessly at the ceiling and seemed to be speaking to the plaster roses overhead, “Please, I beg of you, do not test my strength in this manner.”

Benedict leaned forward. “Are you teasing me, Egg?” Penelope struggled to contain her smile and he lowered his voice. “Or your mama?”

“I think, Mr. Bridgerton, that you were the one who told me it was exceedingly clever to perform two tasks at once.”

He laughed, leaned in, and caught her lips with his own, their individual smiles barely contained and thus far too many teeth to make it anything less than astonishingly perfect.

Coda

The day it came to decide what they would be wearing to his mother’s masquerade ball, Benedict sought out Penelope for approval.

“I thought perhaps a sun and moon motif,” he said.

Pen spared him a quick smile up from her writing desk. “That sounds lovely. Only, please allow me to be the moon. Gold is a bit too close to yellow for my tastes.” Her nose wrinkled in the most fetching way and Benedict found himself helpless to do anything but kiss the tip of it and then kiss her again to chase down the sound of her laugh.

“You’ve been quite distracted by this one,” he murmured when she pulled away from him rather than topple him onto the nearby chaise. He brushed her hair away from her neck and mouthed the top of her spine, delighting in her ensuing shudder.

“Mm. El wrote to me from Scotland. She overheard that the Earl of Penwood is behaving quite terribly towards one of his children. I thought I’d see if Whistledown might shame him into being a decent person.”

“I wish you every success with the endeavour,” he said, kissing her neck once more and then pulling away to make arrangements for their costumes.

The night of the ball, they arrived early to assist his mother in harrying both Gregory and Hyacinth back to bed—for the time being, anyway, he had no doubt they’d both find individually sneaky ways to observe the proceedings. Shortly before the dancing began, he joined Penelope at the edge of the floor, his hand seeking out hers. She was a vision in dark blue, a perfect match to his own gold, both outfits trimmed in luminescent white. He’d been particularly proud to find masks that both suited their theme and complemented one another.

“Will you honour me with the first dance?” he asked as the musicians prepared themselves for the first movement.

“I should be delighted,” she said, grinning.

Before they could take to the floor, a flash of silver from the entrance caught Benedict’s attention. He and Penelope both turned to look, and Benedict found himself brought up short by the sight of a young man resplendently dressed, stars fixed to the mask seated on his face. Slim and slightly shorter than Benedict, he nonetheless cut a striking figure. Benedict blinked to find his heart suddenly seated in his throat in ways usually exclusively inspired by Penelope.

He glanced sideways at his wife and found red high on her cheeks as she closely studied the newcomer.

Well.

“What say you, shall we postpone our dance and introduce ourselves?” he asked.

Penelope smiled up at him. “Excellent idea.”

“I do have them. From time to time.”