Chapter Text
“Ow, ow, ow!” Prudence Featherington swatted her mother’s hand away from her head and moved the decorated hair pin slightly to the left of where her mother had been desperately trying to ram it into her head.
“Well, I’m sorry, Prudence,” Portia Featherington huffed, waving her hands in the air in frustration. “Next time, speak up when you know your maid is adorning your less-pleasing side; then I will not have to fix her sloppy work.”
“I don’t even see why we’re getting so dressed up for a stupid dancing lesson,” Philippa grumbled from her seat on the settee. “Why do we need to practice with actual partners when we are not going to be debuting for several years?”
“Archie, please,” Portia shot a wayward glance at her husband, beseeching a positive answer.
“Women who dance well become wives who dance well,” Archie Featherington grumbled, his voice monotone as he didn't bother to lift his eyes from his reading. Portia nodded in unenthusiastic agreement; it was clearly not the answer she had wanted, but it would suffice.
“Penelope, dear, get your nose out of your book,” Portia shot a glance over her shoulder at her youngest daughter, who sat next to their large drawing room window, gently licking the tip of her finger before she flipped a yellowed page. “And for God’s sake, Penelope, slip your shoes back on! We must all make a good impression, girls. Who knows – one of you might become a Bridgerton one day!”
“Philippa Bridgerton,” Philippa sighed dreamily. “Those two brothers are rather attractive, are they not? I am quite partial to the second son, being the second daughter myself.”
“The oldest seems pigheaded,” Prudence sighed with a roll of her eyes. “I could hear him arguing with his mother about some lesson he needed or something like that when we saw them in the park last week.”
A realization finally dawned on Penelope that was entertaining enough to lift her attention from her book: “Does that mean I will get to practice my dancing with Colin?”
“Who?” Portia said dismissively, before raising a hand to her forehead. “Oh, yes, that young man you knocked off the horse?”
“It was my hat, Mama,” Penelope corrected gently.
“Yes, well, try not to knock him to the ground today, Penelope. We have endured enough embarrassment from your mishap already.”
Penelope eagerly shut her book, jumped up from her seat and brushed dainty hands over her dress. She frowned as she examined how the color of the dress looked against her pale skin; somehow, the bright yellow seemed to make her look even paler – almost sickly, in her opinion. She brought her hands up to her cheeks and pinched them, hoping she could add an attractive blush of color that might distract her from feeling like an overripe lemon.
“Make haste, child,” Portia called to her, reaching an arm behind Penelope’s back and pushing her over to her sisters. “Stand beside one another and let me examine you.”
The three sisters stood in a row; Prudence slumped her shoulders and muttered under her breath while Philippa distractedly picked at a nail, lost in her thoughts. Penelope blinked and tried to give her mother her best smile.
Portia sighed, bringing her fingers to both temples.
“Lord, you test me in this life,” she muttered under her breath, before speaking loudly to her daughters: “This will do. Gloves on, girls. Let us go.”
“You have visitors, my Lady,” the Bridgerton footman announced as the Featherington family waited in the hallway, Portia nervously wringing her hands. “Lady Featherington and her three daughters.”
“Of course,” Penelope could hear Violet Bridgerton’s kind voice reply. “Please see them in.”
“Shoulders back; pleasant smiles,” Portia hissed at her daughters before snaking her way in front of them, leading them into the room.
Penelope stood as tall as she could as she entered the Bridgerton drawing room. It was stunning – sunlight sparkled through the large windows, casting a cheerful glow about the room. A large, beautiful painting of Violet and the man Penelope assumed was the Viscount Bridgerton hung high; clearly the centerpiece of the entire room. The pianoforte twinkled as a young girl sat at it to practice dutifully, plucking out a melody and hitting only the occasional discordant-sounding chord.
“Daphne, a pause, please,” Violet called over to the girl; she immediately ceased playing and stood tall, bowing her head.
“Lady Bridgerton,” Portia greeted, her voice dripping with saccharine politeness. “How kind of you to offer up your boys as partners for our dancing lesson today. My girls have done nothing but talk about how fortunate they are to practice with someone other than their father.”
“Of course, Lady Featherington,” Violet smiled graciously. “I am sure my boys are rather glad to have a dancing partner other than their sister. The oldest two have been quite idle in their free time since coming home on break from Eton; I am happy for them to be occupied with a useful pursuit this afternoon. Daphne, please go find your brothers, will you?”
“Yes, Mama,” Daphne said sweetly, rising from her bench and scurrying out of the room.
“Oh!” Portia suddenly exclaimed, her eyes darting to the door that Daphne had just opened. “Viscount Bridgerton, it is a pleasure.”
A tall man with dark hair and a kind smile entered the room, chuckling slightly as his daughter ducked under his arm. He strolled over to his wife, who gazed at him with adoring eyes. Penelope could feel her breath quicken as she saw them exchanging the most loving look she had ever seen shared between two people. Shockingly, she realized she had never seen two married people look at each other in such an affectionate way; it was certainly not the same way her mother and father looked at each other.
Without even hesitating, Penelope quickly vowed to herself that if she was ever lucky enough to be married, it would have to be to a man who looked at her the way the Viscount looked at Lady Bridgerton.
“Lady Featherington,” the Viscount nodded at Portia before looking over at the three sisters. “What a fine trio of daughters you have been blessed with! That beautiful red hair will certainly turn heads in a few years. And I hear there is to be some dancing this afternoon?”
As if on cue, the Bridgerton footman appeared at the doorway again to announce the arrival of the dancing instructor, Mr. Morton. He was a stuffy old man with a long cane; in the few lessons Penelope had already had with him, she had learned that he would not hesitate to use the cane in a corrective way, tapping it forcefully against her legs or back to make sure was turning the right way or stepping with the correct foot. Tucked under his arm was a weathered copy of Twenty Four Country Dances for the Year 1803 ; at the sight of it, Penelope could hear Prudence groan under her breath.
“Viscount Bridgerton,” Mr. Morton said haughtily, nodding. “Lady Bridgerton; Lady Featherington. And where are the young men that will be dancing with the sisters?”
“On their way,” Violet said, looking expectantly at the opposite door. “Ah, here they are! Come in, boys.”
The three Bridgerton brothers shuffled into the room. Anthony and Benedict were teenagers, tall and thin, their feet looking almost too large for their gangly legs. Anthony, as the heir to the viscounty, had an air of self-importance about him. Benedict was only a bit younger, but clearly more playful; he was already snickering something into Anthony’s ear, seemingly unready to take any of the afternoon seriously.
But Penelope paid little attention to the two older brothers; she was much more excited to see Colin.
Standing nearly a foot shorter than his older brothers, Colin still had the face of a child, although he was now dressed to match his older brothers in long trousers and a silky blue waistcoat. He looked decidedly more out-of-place, almost nervous – however, when he spotted Penelope, he couldn’t hold back a lopsided grin and a most impolite wave to his redheaded friend. Penelope didn’t dare wave back, not wanting to incur the wrath of her mother; however, she did return his grin with the brightest smile she could send across the room.
“Right, then,” Mr. Morton said gruffly, “let us partner the oldest with the oldest, down the line. We will simply practice steps at first, so that the girls might get used to dancing with a partner and not stepping on his toes.”
Daphne had slipped back into the room, sliding onto the bench in front of the pianoforte, her fingers hovered above the keys as she awaited instructions. Portia, in the meantime, pushed Prudence and Philippa out towards the older Bridgerton brothers, who stepped forward and bowed graciously. With Portia’s attention on her older sisters, Penelope gladly slipped past all of them to make a beeline over to Colin.
“Pen!” Colin whispered as she approached; he glanced over at his mother as if he was expecting a harsh admonishment, but when none came, he grinned cheerfully. “I think we are supposed to bow to one another, you know.”
“Oh! You are right,” Penelope said, dipping into an awkward curtsey.
She blinked her eyes upward to meet the crown of Colin’s chestnut hair as he dropped his shoulders forward. She waited until he stood upright before she brought her own body up to face his, meeting his eyes with her own.
“I am very glad you are here, Pen,” Colin said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious observation in the world.
“You … are?” Penelope was not sure anyone had ever been glad to see her.
“Of course,” Colin said, looking over Penelope’s shoulder at her sisters. “I was worried I would have to dance with one of your sisters; they are a bit intimidating, are they not?”
“That is one way to put it,” Penelope whispered. “Terrifyingly dull is how I like to describe them.”
Colin threw a hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle, and Penelope beamed – ever since her hat had flown into his head several weeks ago and knocked him off of his horse, she had learned that making Colin laugh was perhaps her proudest accomplishment.
“Master Colin, Miss Penelope,” Mr. Morton turned to face them, and the two quickly stood as straight as they could. “Do not think I will not be watching you two. At the very least, you should both be practicing your balancés with each other.”
Behind him, Prudence and Anthony could be heard already bickering with one another in hushed voices, their arms tightly gripping each others’ shoulders as they both stared down at their feet. Benedict and Philippa had not moved past the very first step of coming together to form a frame; Benedict was smiling rather roguishly, whispering something to Philippa that was making her cheeks blush bright red.
Penelope suddenly remembered how dull and lifeless she must look in her yellow dress, which she realized must look completely out-of-place; loud and garish in the genteel Bridgerton drawing room, like an erroneous drop of paint on a beautiful landscape painting. Without thinking, she brought her hands up to her cheeks and pinched them as hard as she could.
“What are you doing?” Colin stared at her quizzically.
Penelope gasped; she hadn’t realized Colin had seen her pinching herself. Embarrassed, she began rubbing her fingers together, one nail hitting a catch in the fabric of her glove and making her grimace.
“Giving my cheeks a little color,” she said finally, unable to come up with a convincing lie.
“Why?”
“I look pale in this awful color,” she said, staring sadly at her bright yellow dress.
Colin quickly looked her up and down before shrugging his shoulders. “I think yellow is rather cheerful. It is fitting for you.”
Penelope paused; she had only recently read about a young woman’s heart fluttering in one of her novels, a clear sign that she was feeling something deeper towards someone else.
And unless she was mistaken, Penelope had almost felt something she might describe as a flutter in her own heart.
Could it be?
“Penelope!” Portia called, adding a quick bit of nervous laughter to temper her harshness. “Young ladies should not talk their partners’ ears off, yes? I am sure Master Colin is uninterested in whatever book you are reading currently. Focus on your dancing.”
“Sorry,” Penelope muttered, dropping her eyes to the floor.
“Oh no, I should apologize. I have not formally asked you to dance,” Colin said, holding out his arms. “Shall we practice, Pen?”
Pen smiled and placed her hands on his elbows, completing his frame. From there, they began to move side-to-side, practicing their step slowly as Penelope silently prayed she would not step on his feet. After a few minutes of rising and falling in time together, Penelope heard the unmistakable sound of a stomach growling. She glanced up at Colin, who smiled cheekily back at her.
“Mama says I have been hungry since the day I was born,” he said a bit sheepishly. “Apparently I used to snatch meat pies right from her hand before I even had teeth.”
Penelope giggled. “Did you not break your fast this morning?”
“Well, yes,” Colin looked thoughtful for a moment, “but I only had three scones rather than my usual four. Mama shooed us away quickly so we could be prepared for this lesson this afternoon.”
“Only three?” Penelope coughed back a laugh. “I can barely finish one! I do not find them that tasty.”
“Maybe your cook should get the recipe from ours,” Colin said earnestly, making Penelope giggle. “What?”
“I have never heard anyone speak so seriously about scones!” Penelope admitted.
“Pen,” Colin glared at her, clearly fighting back a mischievous smirk dancing on his lips. “Nothing is more serious to me than scones.”
He was so solemn in the tone of his delivery, Penelope again couldn’t help but laugh. As soon as she did, however, Mr. Morton knocked the floor sternly with his cane.
“Miss Penelope,” he scolded. Behind him, Penelope could feel Portia’s glare bearing into her like daggers.
“It is my fault, sir,” Colin spoke up. “I was purposefully distracting her.”
“You must show more focus, boy,” Mr. Morton said stiffly. “There will be no time for distraction when you’re an Eton man like your brothers.”
“Yes, sir,” Colin swallowed.
Penelope looked over to Colin’s parents. Violet was trying to match Mr. Morton’s serious tone with her best motherly glare at her son. The Viscount, however, was smiling at his son; Penelope noticed him mouth silently, gently to Colin: It is alright .
“OW!” Prudence’s voice cut through the moment sharply. “Must you step on my toes again?”
“I would avoid your toes every time if you would simply do the correct step!” Anthony snapped back.
“Anthony!” Violet scolded, and rushed over to the two to sort out the problem.
“They are a hot-headed match, aren’t they?” Colin whispered as he led Penelope back into their dance, bringing his head a bit closer to Penelope to try to hide their conversation.
“Prudence can be brutal; I can see your brother is the same,” Penelope admitted.
“Yes, very alike in their temperaments. Maybe that means they will be married one day,” Colin said flippantly.
“Do you think?” Penelope glanced up at him curiously. “Is it common for similarly-tempered people to get married?”
“Maybe? I am not sure why people get married, honestly,” Colin admitted.
“I think some people get married because they love one another,” Penelope responded quietly.
“Oh, true,” Colin nodded. “That is why my parents were married. They tell the story of how they fell in love with one another so often, I think I could recite it in my sleep. Is the same true for your parents?”
“I am not sure,” Penelope paused, biting her bottom lip. “I have not heard them speak about love.”
Colin hummed. “Well, I think I would like to marry someone I love.”
Penelope looked up from her feet to catch his eyes. For just an awkward, too-long moment, they stared at each other; Penelope could feel a heat burning up to the tips of her ears. Then, just as quickly, they both looked back at their feet, rising and falling again to the sound of Daphne’s gentle pianoforte playing.
Penelope knew without a doubt, then – her heart had most assuredly fluttered.