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Chapter Text

The air in St. James Palace hung thick with anticipation, the ornate gilt mirrors reflecting the afternoon sun across marble floors and damask-draped walls. Queen Charlotte, resplendent in her royal finery, sat upon her throne with the bearing of one who had weathered countless storms of society and emerged victorious from them all. Her eyes, keen as a hawk’s, fixed upon the two figures before her with barely concealed mirth.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton stood rigid, his cravat perfectly tied, yet his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnut shells. Beside him, Miss Penelope Featherington appeared smaller than ever in her lemon colored muslin gown - a shade that did her complexion no favors. Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she kept her gaze fixed upon the intricate pattern of the Persian carpet beneath her feet.

“We find ourselves most… entertained.” Queen Charlotte began, her German accent more pronounced in her amusement. “..by the predicament before us. Lady Whistledown – or should we say, Miss Featherington – has provided us with such delightful discourse these past seasons. And now, here she stands, requesting exile or worse?” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Such dramatic notions are beneath a woman of your obvious talents, Miss Featherington.”

Anthony’s head snapped towards Penelope, his eyes widening. “Lady Whistledown?” The words escaped in a hoarse whisper before he could master himself.

“Silence!” The Queen commanded, though her lips twitched. “We are not finished. As for you Lord Bridgerton, your failure to secure Miss Sharma has left quite the… shall we say, blemish upon the season’s proceedings. And now we learn of your brother’s unconscionable behavior toward Miss Featherington?”

“Your Majesty..” Anthony began, his voice tight with controlled fury. “I fail to see how Colin’s thoughtless remarks –”

“Are you questioning our judgment, Lord Bridgerton?” The Queen’s voice could have frozen the Thames in August.

Penelope finally raised her eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your Majesty, surely you cannot mean to –”

“We can, we shall, and we have.” Queen Charlotte declared, rising from her throne with a rustle of silk. “Lord Bridgerton, you shall wed Miss Featherington. Consider it a royal decree – one that shall solve multiple problems at once. Miss Featherington gains protection from scandal, you regain your standing in society, and we…” She paused, allowing herself a small smile. “We retain our favorite author, though perhaps under a different nom de plume.”

Anthony’s hands clenched behind his back. “And if we refuse?”

The Queen’s eyebrow arched delicately. “Then Miss Featherington’s earlier request for exile shall be granted – though we doubt your family’s reputation would survive such a scandal, particularly after two failed matches in consecutive seasons. Choose wisely, Lord Bridgerton.”

Penelope swayed slightly on her feet. “This is madness..” She breathed.

“No, my dear.” Queen Charlotte corrected, settling back onto her throne. “This is marriage. You may thank us later – perhaps in your writings, though do try to be more… discrete in your observations henceforth.” She waved a bejeweled hand. “You are dismissed. We suggest you begin planning the wedding for the upcoming season. We shall, of course, attend.”

As Anthony and Penelope backed away from the royal presence, their minds reeling, the Queen’s voice followed them: “Oh, and Lord Bridgerton? Do endeavor to keep this one at the altar. We find our patience for failed weddings growing rather thin.”

The heavy doors closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving them alone in the corridor. Anthony turned to Penelope, his expression unreadable. “It seems, Miss Featherington, that we have much to discuss.”

The carriage rolled smoothly through the quiet streets, the steady clip of hooves on cobblestone filling the air as Anthony and Penelope sat in a strained silence. Only minutes before, they had left the palace with the Queen’s decree looming over them like an ominous cloud. Though both wore a composed expression, each was engulfed in private, conflicted thoughts.

Anthony broke the silence, his voice calm but carrying an underlying urgency. “Miss Featherington…” He began, glancing at her cautiously. “I imagine this arrangement is not what you envisioned for your future.”

Penelope kept her gaze fixed on the window, her profile illuminated by the dim glow of passing streetlamps. She took a slow breath, her voice low and laced with fatigue. “Indeed, my lord, it is not. But it appears the Queen’s will is beyond even our protestations.”

There was a faint, bitter twist to her lips as she spoke. Anthony found himself studying her, noting for the first time the trace of steel in her tone. He cleared his throat. “May I say that I am… surprised, deeply so, to learn the truth of your – well, your other identity. Lady Whistledown.” He said, his tone softening with respect. “I never would have guessed, and yet in hindsight, it is… rather fitting.”

“Is it?” Penelope’s words were edged with quiet derision. “I doubt anyone would be so entertained by that particular revelation, least of all your family.”

A sigh escaped her as she glanced down, hands clenched tightly in her lap. “In any case, my lord, it is not something I imagine brings you much satisfaction.”

Anthony shook his head, the faintest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary, Miss Featherington, it is a testament to your remarkable wit and courage. I must admit that I… owe you a great deal, as does my family.”

Penelope finally turned to face him, her brow furrowing in surprise. “What do you mean?”

Anthony shifted, leaning slightly toward her as he spoke earnestly. “You may think your actions insignificant, but your words… the influence you wielded as Whistledown –” He broke off, then resumed, his voice warm with appreciation. “I am aware of your part in ensuring Daphne’s freedom from Nigel Berbrooke. And I know of the assistance you provided to Colin, preventing him from a most unwise union with Miss Thompson. And even Eloise… you shielded her from the Queen’s suspicions, allowing her to pursue her independence.

Penelope swallowed, her expression betraying a momentary crack in her cool composure. But she quickly looked away, her voice as restrained as ever. “I only did what I believed to be right.” She replied softly, almost coldly. “Nothing more.”

Anthony observed her, silent for a moment, taking in the weariness that shadowed her gaze, the faint resignation in her posture. She was a woman who had been stripped of her trust, hurt by those she once held dear. And now, bound to marry into the very family that had unintentionally contributed to her sorrow, her pain seemed even more poignant.

“Perhaps.” He said gently. “But I am grateful nonetheless. And if my own brother’s words have in any way compounded your suffering, I apologize on behalf of my family. It should never have come to this.”

Penelope gave a slight, dismissive shake of her head. “It is of no consequence. What’s done is done.”

He watched her, a weighty silence falling between them. As they continued their journey through the darkened streets, Anthony’s resolve grew. Whatever her feelings – or lack thereof – toward this union, he knew that, for his part, he would shoulder it with as much honor as he could muster. He owed her that, at the very least.

“When the next season commences..” He ventured after a pause. “We shall present ourselves as a pair deeply in love. Let the ton believe that our union is one of romance, not of royal compulsion. I believe that would spare you much of their idle gossip.”

Penelope’s gaze flicked back to him, a flicker of irony in her eyes. “A charade, my lord? And here I thought the Bridgertons were above such theatrics.”

Anthony’s mouth quirked slightly, appreciating her humor despite the gravity of the moment. “If it is theatrics that will preserve your reputation – and ours – then I am willing to perform them. I would not see you suffer the indignities of a loveless arrangement any more than you would wish it yourself.”

Penelope’s expression softened briefly, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken lingered between them. But she merely inclined her head in a small nod, conceding without words. “Very well. We shall do as you suggest. Though I make no promises that I shall be convincing.”

Anthony chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I think you might surprise yourself, Miss Featherington. After all, you have concealed far greater secrets with remarkable success.”

As the carriage finally pulled up to Grosvenor Square, Penelope began to gather her skirts, preparing to step out. Just as she reached the door, Anthony leaned forward, his tone low but filled with quiet resolve.

“Miss Featherington, I intend to write to you during the off-season.” He said. “Whatever you may think of this arrangement, it is not something I mean to take lightly.”

Penelope hesitated, then turned back, her eyes searching his face for a long moment. She seemed on the verge of a retort, perhaps even an outright refusal, but instead, she inclined her head once more, her gaze guarded yet somehow soft.

“If you wish, my lord.” She murmured. And with that, she stepped down from the carriage, disappearing into the night with a grace Anthony hadn’t quite realized she possessed.

As he watched her retreat, he felt a strange sensation settle in his chest — something he could not quite define. But as the carriage pulled away, leaving her behind, Anthony knew that this union was about more than duty. Perhaps, he mused, there was yet something worth discovering in Miss Penelope Featherington, something that might make even a Viscount’s life richer than he had ever anticipated.

Chapter Text

The air in Lady Danbury’s ballroom was thick with the hum of conversation, the twinkling of chandeliers casting a warm glow over the sea of silk and lace that moved in elegant swells across the floor. The first grand event of the season was in full flourish, a spectacle of wealth, beauty and the sharp, glittering edge of London society.

Anthony Bridgerton, however, stood apart from it all, his back straight, his posture rigid with barely concealed impatience. He lingered near the entrance, offering only the necessary courtesies to passing acquaintances, nodding at old friends, exchanging clipped pleasantries with gentlemen of equal station. The glass of champagne in his hand remained untouched, his focus fixed on the doors as he awaited the arrival of the Featheringtons.

His relief at the reduced number of his own family in attendance was a small mercy, but one that did little to ease his nerves. This evening marked the beginning of the plan – the pretense he and Penelope had agreed upon. A courtship, a love match in the eyes of the ton, a seamless transition into the union the Queen had so artfully devised.

But when the Queen’s arrival was announced, Anthony felt an unwelcome shift in the evening’s course. Before he could react, he was summoned by a royal attendant.

With measured steps, he approached the monarch, bowing deeply as decorum dictated.

“Your Majesty.” He greeted, his voice steady despite the wary glances cast upon him by those lingering nearby, ever eager for a scrap of gossip.

Queen Charlotte regarded him with an expression of polite indifference, though her shrewd eyes gleamed with interest. “Viscount Bridgerton.” She said, her voice lilting with amusement. “I presume you have not forgotten the arrangement set before you?”

Anthony straightened, meeting her gaze with the resolve befitting his title. “Of course not, your Majesty. I am fully committed to the path you have so wisely laid out for Miss Featherington and myself.”

The Queen hummed, tilting her head ever so slightly. “A noble sentiment. Yet, I find myself perplexed, Lord Bridgerton.” She tapped a finger against the armrest of her gilded chair, her expression turning contemplative. “If you are so committed, where, pray tell, is the young lady in question?”

Anthony stiffened, a flicker of unease passing over his features. “She will be here, your Majesty.”

“Will she?” Queen Charlotte’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles, though it did not reach her eyes. “One would think a lady betrothed to the most eligible of men would make haste to revel in such fortune.”

Anthony held his ground, unwilling to let the Queen’s words unravel him. “She understands the importance of our courtship, your Majesty. We intend to proceed as planned, allowing the ton to believe in the sincerity of our attachment. It would not do for such an arrangement to appear… forced.”

The Queen regarded him for a moment longer, then, with a knowing look, waved a dismissive hand. “Very well, Viscount. You are free to enjoy the evening. But do not keep me waiting too long for the unfolding of your grand romance. I do detest an unfinished story.”

With that, she turned her attention elsewhere, leaving Anthony to bow once more before retreating into the ballroom.

Yet, despite the reprieve, unease gnawed at Anthony Bridgerton.

Something about the Queen’s words unsettled him, and as the minutes passed without the arrival of Penelope Featherington, that unease grew into something bordering on dread.

It was this feeling that spurred him into action.

Spotting his mother standing nearby Portia and Prudence Featherington, he swiftly made his way towards them, offering a polite nod to his mother before addressing the Dowager Baroness.

“Lady Featherington.” He greeted smoothly, though his voice carried an unmistakable urgency. “I had hoped to see Miss Penelope this evening. Has she been delayed?”

Portia Featherington, ever one to relish the attention of a titled lord, lifted her chin and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, my lord, I regret to inform you that my youngest daughter has chosen to remain in Cornwall for the season. She found the country far more agreeable than the tiresome theatrics of London society.”

Anthony felt the weight of her words settle over him like a vice. His grip on his champagne glass tightened. “Cornwall?” His voice was deceptively even, though his pulse quickened. “For the entire season?”

Portia nodded, fanning herself absently. “Indeed, my lord. She made it quite clear that she has no intention of returning this year. A shame, really, but I could not in good conscience force the girl to endure the scrutiny of the ton after such… declaration from your brother.”

Violet felt guilty and saddened upon facing the truth on how Colin blundered with his words last season. For the longest time, she had hoped that a match would be made between Colin and Penelope. For god knows, she had longed to have the youngest redhead as her daughter-in-law. However, with her third born son’s callous words, such wish would be for naught.

On the other hand, Anthony’s mind reeled. The plan – the carefully constructed charade – was unraveling before it had even begun. If Penelope did not return to London, there would be no courtship, no engagement for society to accept. There would be no way to ease the ton into the idea of their union.

And worst of all, there would be no way to appease the Queen.

Violet, sensing his distress, placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Perhaps she merely needs time, my dear.” She offered kindly. “She has been through much, after all.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, schooling his features into impassivity. “Time is a luxury not everyone can have, Mother.”

Portia, seemingly unaware of the gravity of his thoughts, waved a dismissive hand. “If you ask me, my lord, perhaps it is for the best. The girl has always been dreadfully independent – far too bookish for her own good. I daresay marriage may not suit her after all.”

Anthony barely heard her. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating his next move. He had given the Queen his word. He had promised a courtship, a love match, a seamless transition into matrimony.

And now, Penelope Featherington had fled.

His chest tightened as he imagined the consequences. The Queen’s displeasure was not a thing to be taken lightly.

More than that, however, was the inexplicable weight that settled in his gut – not merely frustration at a plan gone awry, but something deeper. A nagging, uncomfortable sensation he did not wish to name.

With a stiff bow, he excused himself, murmuring some polite farewell before striding towards the nearest exit.

Cornwall.

If Penelope Featherington believed she could simply remove herself from the equation, if she thought she could escape what had been set in motion, then she was sorely mistaken.

He would go to her.

One way or another, this engagement would proceed. And Penelope Featherington would have no choice but to face him.

A few minutes later, Anthony went back to his earlier spot to escort her mother away. “My ladies, If you’ll excuse us.” Anthony motions for him and his mother to leave, bowing to Lady Featherington once more. “Mother, I believe Benedict was seeking your counsel regarding some matter of importance.”

As they moved away from the Featheringtons, Violet turned to her eldest son. “Anthony, what is troubling you? Your interest in Penelope seems rather… sudden.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened as he caught sight of Queen Charlotte watching him from across the ballroom, her expression unreadable. “Nothing of consequence, Mother. Though I find myself developing an unexpected interest in Cornish landscapes.”

The weight of the Queen’s decree pressed upon him like a physical thing, and for the second time since accepting this arrangement, Anthony felt something beyond mere duty stirring his chest – something that felt remarkably like concern for the young woman who had chosen exile over facing London society again.

“Edmund would have gone after her.” Violet said softly, her words barely audible above the orchestra.

Anthony’s head snapped toward his mother, surprise evident in his features.

“Your father never could bear to see anyone in distress.” She continued, patting his arm gently. “Particularly not someone as dear as Penelope. He is very fond of her, you know.”

Looking down at his mother’s knowing expression, Anthony realized with startling clarity that his next actions would define far more than just his compliance with a royal decree. The question was, what would the notorious Viscount Bridgerton do to convince a wayward wallflower who had decided to slip through society’s fingers?

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the grand windows of Bridgerton House, casting golden light across the polished floors of the entryway. Anthony Bridgerton strode purposefully down the stairs, his boots echoing sharply against the marble. He was a man on a mission, and his expression – grim, resolute – left no room for distraction. Outside, a carriage stood ready, the horses pawing impatiently at the cobblestones as if they sensed the urgency of their master’s mood.

Viscount Bridgerton’s valet had hardly finished packing his trunk when he demanded it to be loaded onto the waiting carriage, his usual fastidious morning routine abandoned in favor of haste.

As Anthony reached the door, his hand poised to grasp the brass handle, a voice rang out, halting him mid-step.

“Anthony Bridgerton!” Came the measured, maternal tone of Violet Bridgerton, her figure appearing at the top of the staircase. She was dressed impeccably for the morning, a soft lavender day gown draped elegantly over her frame, though her posture and the slight tilt of her head indicated that she was perhaps summoned by some instinctual knowledge that her son was about to embark on some reckless endeavor. Her brow was knitted with concern, though her lips bore the faintest trace of a knowing smile. “Where, pray tell, do you think you are going at such an hour, and without so much as breaking your fast?”

Anthony sighed inwardly, turning to face his mother. “Good morning, mother.” He greeted, his voice clipped but polite. “I apologize for my abruptness, but I have urgent business in the country that cannot wait.”

Violet descended the stairs with the grace of a seasoned matriarch, her keen eyes fixed on her eldest son. “Urgent business in the country? Surely, this is not Bridgerton affairs. I know of no matters requiring your attention at Aubrey Hall nor outside of London at present. Perhaps you might enlighten me?”

Anthony hesitated for the briefest of moments, knowing full well that evasion was futile. Violet Bridgerton had an uncanny talent for uncovering the truth, especially where her children were concerned. With a resigned sigh, he squared his shoulders.

“If you must know..” He began, his tone steady but tinged with impatience. “I am travelling to Cornwall to fetch Miss Featherington.”

“Miss Featherington?” Violet’s brows lifted in surprise, her steps halting as she regarded him with incredulity. “You mean Penelope Featherington? And for what purpose does the Viscount of this family personally see to the affairs of our neighboring young lady?”

Anthony clenched his jaw, sensing the inevitability of the conversation dragging longer than he wished. “Because she has chosen to remain in the country, and I –” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “I require her presence in London for the season.”

“Require her presence?” Violet echoed, folding her arms. “Anthony, forgive me, but this is most irregular. I did not think you and Penelope were so… familiar as to warrant such an act of – dare I say it – devotion.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed, his patience fraying. “It is not a matter of familiarity, mother. It is a matter of necessity.”

“And what necessity would compel you to leave London at this hour to fetch a young lady who, by all accounts, prefers the peace of the countryside to the chaos of the ton?” Violet’s voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the curiosity – and suspicion – behind her words.

Realizing he could delay no longer, Anthony drew a deep breath. “Because, mother, I intend to court her. To marry her before the season ends, in fact. And that cannot be accomplished if she is determined to remain hidden away in Cornwall.”

For a moment, Violet simply stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then with a slight tilt of her head, she asked. “You mean to tell me that you, Anthony Bridgerton, have set your sights on Penelope Featherington?”

“Yes.” He replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Violet’s lips parted, her hands momentarily falling from their prim clasp at her waist. Of all the declarations she had expected from her son this morning, this was assuredly not among them.

“You –” She stopped, shook her head, as though trying to make sense of his words. “You intend to court and marry Penelope Featherington? My beloved darling Pen?”

“Yes.”

“This season?”

“Yes.”

Violet stared at him as if he had just declared his intention to wed a French courtesan in the middle of Hyde Park. Anthony seized the opportunity her astonishment provided, dipping his head in a brief bow. “Forgive me, mother, but I must take my leave. The longer I delay, the less time we will have to set things in motion for the season.”

Before Violet could recover enough to formulate a response, Anthony turned on his heel and strode out the door, the waiting footman snapped to attention, opening the carriage door as Anthony climbed inside.

“To Cornwall.” He ordered.

As the carriage lurched forward, the wheels crunching against the gravel drive, Anthony allowed himself a single, steadying breath.

Penelope Featherington thought she could remove herself from London. From him.

She would soon find that a Bridgerton’s determination knew no bounds.

Inside the house, Violet remained in the entryway, her gaze fixed on the carriage that just left. Slowly, a smile crept across her face, one tinged with both amusement and intrigue.

“Penelope Featherington.” She murmured to herself. “Well, this season may prove far more interesting than I anticipated.”

Chapter Text

The lush greenery of Cornwall stretched before Anthony Bridgerton like a pastoral painting brought to life. The air was fresher here, untainted by the smog of London, carrying with it the faint scent of wildflowers and salt from the distant sea. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to admire the rolling hills and vibrant villages. It reminded him, in some ways, of Aubrey Hall, though there was a simplicity here that the Bridgerton estate lacked.

As the carriage slowed to a halt in front of a modest yet charming townhome, Anthony’s thoughts shifted to the task at hand. The house, belonging to Penelope Featherington’s maternal grandaunt, stood as a beacon of the solitude Penelope seemed determined to preserve. Yet solitude was not something Anthony could allow her – not when the Queen herself had decreed their union.

He stepped out of the carriage, his boots crunching against the gravel path. With a decisive knock upon the door, he waited, his gaze fixed forward until it was met by the confused expression of Penelope’s lady’s maid. After a brief exchange, he was led into the drawing room, where the formidable Aunt Petunia awaited him.

The elder woman entered with an air of authority, her russet hair streaked with silver and her sharp eyes assessing Anthony with the precision of a hawk. Her simple yet elegant gown suggested she was a woman of practicality, one unaccustomed to frivolity.

“Your lordship.” She greeted with a curt nod, her voice carrying the distinct cadence of Cornwall. “What brings the Viscount Bridgerton to my humble home?”

Anthony rose from his seat, bowing politely. “Madam, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Anthony Bridgerton, Ninth Viscount Bridgerton. I have come to Cornwall seeking Miss Penelope Featherington.”

Aunt Petunia’s brows lifted, her piercing gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “And what business might you have with my grandniece?”

Anthony clasped his hands behind his back, the weight of her scrutiny pressing upon him. “I have urgent matters to discuss with her.” He began, his tone steady despite the tension. “Matters that require her immediate return to London.”

Petunia’s expression did not waver, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “I am afraid Penelope is not at home. She has gone to the village to procure some necessities.”

For a moment, Anthony’s heart sank, disappointment flickering across his features. But before he could voice his concern, Petunia continued, her tone softening slightly.

“Fear not, my lord. She will return shortly.”

Relief washes over him, and he exhaled audibly. “I thank you, madam. I shall wait for her here, if that is agreeable.”

Petunia gestured to the chair he had vacated. “You are welcome to stay, though I must admit, I find it curious – a viscount travelling all the way from London for a Featherington girl.” She settled into her own chair, her sharp gaze unwavering. “What, pray tell, is your true relation to Penelope? And why is it so imperative she return to London? I am under the impression Portia had already agreed for her to stay here for the entire year.”

Anthony felt the prick of cold sweat at the back of his neck. The woman’s penetrating stare was as effective as any integration. But Anthony Bridgerton was no liar, nor did he wish to deceive this woman whose approval might well influence Penelope’s decision.

“I shall be frank, my lady.” He began, his voice firm. “I have come because I intend to court Miss Penelope. I wish to marry her before the season’s end. To do so, she must return to London.”

Petunia hummed, leaning back to her chair as she studied him. “A bold declaration, my lord. And yet, I find myself skeptical. Penelope has never been the object of such attention from any man, let alone one of your standing. Why now?”

Anthony opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, the door to the drawing room burst open with a resounding thud.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Penelope Featherington stormed into the room, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming in quick gasps from what appeared to have been a hasty journey. Her red curls framed a face that was equal parts astonished and exasperated. Her bright blue eyes searched the room until they locked onto his. “What, may I ask, are you doing here?”

Anthony rose from his seat, his composure unshaken despite the fiery entrance. “Good afternoon, Miss Featherington.” He greeted, inclining his head. “I have come to fetch you.”

“To fetch me?” Penelope repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. She turned to her grandaunt, her hands clenched at her sides. “Aunt Petunia, you allowed him in?”

Petunia shrugged, her expression betraying no particular sympathy. “He is a viscount, Penelope. One does not turn away a peer of the realm so easily.”

Anthony took a step closer, his gaze steady as he addressed Penelope directly. “We need to talk.”

“I cannot imagine what there is to say.” Penelope retorted, folding her arms. “Whatever it is, I assure you it could have been said while you were in London, my lord. There was no need for you to come all this way.”

“On the contrary.” Anthony countered, his tone resolute. “There is every need. And I will not leave Cornwall until we have had our conversation.”

Penelope stared at him, her lips parting as if to argue further, but she seemed to think better of it. With a sharp exhale, she turned on her heel. “Very well. Aunt Petunia, if you will excuse us, I shall entertain his lordship in the garden. It seems this discussion requires more air than this room can provide.”

Petunia nodded, her gaze flicking between the two with interest. “As you wish, my dear. Do try to keep it civil. We wouldn’t want to give the servants anything to gossip about.” Her twinkling eyes suggested she rather hoped they would.

As Penelope swept from the room, her back rigid with barely contained fury, Anthony found himself wondering if facing the Queen’s wrath might have been the easier option after all.

Chapter Text

The garden was a serene sanctuary, with wisteria draped elegantly over trellises and the gentle hum of butterflies flitting between the blooms. A light breeze carried the scent of fresh lavender, though it did little to quell the tension that now hung thick in the air between Anthony Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington.

Penelope turned to face him, her posture rigid, hands clasped before her as though bracing for battle. “Why have you come here, my lord?” She asked, her voice smooth yet devoid of warmth.

“Why have I –” Anthony’s voice caught with disbelief. “Surely you jest, Miss Featherington. Or have you forgotten our arrangement with her Majesty?”

“There is nothing to forget.” Penelope replied, her voice as brittle as frozen leaves. “I made no promises to return to London.”

“We are to court and marry this season.” Anthony’s words carried the weight of his viscountcy. “The Queen herself decreed it.”

“I decline.”

The simple words hung in the air between them like frost. Anthony’s patience, already worn thin by the long journey, began to fray. “You cannot simply decline a royal decree. The consequences –”

“The consequences?” Penelope’s laugh held no warmth. “What consequences could be worse than what I already face in London?”

Suddenly, the truth of her intentions struck Anthony like a physical blow. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “You mean to force the Queen’s hand. You still seek death or exile.”

Penelope’s silence was answer enough.

“By God, you do.” Anthony ran a hand through his hair, propriety momentarily forgotten. “And what of those you leave behind? What of your family? Have you given any thought to them?”

“I have thought of nothing else.” She replied, her composure cracking slightly. “You were mistaken in believing I would honor whatever plans of marriage had been discussed before.”

A muscle in Anthony’s jaw twitched, his patience waning. “Mistaken?” He echoed, his voice edged with incredulity. “Are you telling me that you have never even given a thought to following the Queen’s decree? That you meant to leave me to bear the weight of her displeasure alone?”

She turned her gaze to the hedgerow, eyes tracing the delicate petals of a nearby rose, as if the conversation did not hold the gravity it did. “You forget, my lord, that I had sought the Queen’s judgment willingly.” She said softly. “I was prepared for whatever worst punishment she deemed fit.”

Anthony stilled, his heart clenching as the truth of her words settled over him. He still could not believe – Penelope had gone before the Queen not to seek absolution, but to request exile or death. How can a young lady like hers submit to that conclusion?

His voice, when he spoke, was quieter, more measured. “So it is true..” He murmured. “You would rather the scaffold or a life in banishment than a marriage to me.”

At last, Penelope turned to face him fully, and the cold sorrow in her sky blue eyes made Anthony’s breath catch. She did not speak, but her silence was more than answer enough.

Something in him cracked then. He had known resistance, had faced countless challenges, but never had he encountered a wall so impenetrable as the one Penelope Featherington had built around herself. Still, he was a Bridgerton, and he would not be dismissed so easily.

He straightened, his determination hardening. “Very well.” He declared. “If you will not return to London, then I shall remain here in Cornwall until I convince you otherwise.”

That startled her. “You cannot mean to stay.” She said, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Anthony lifted his chin. “I mean precisely that.”

Without waiting for further protest, he turned and strode back toward the house. Penelope, flustered and furious, followed him, her footsteps quick and light against the gravel path.

By the time they reached the drawing room, Petunia sat with a knowing look, a cup of tea in hand. She raised an expectant brow.

“My lady.” Anthony began, inclining his head with the impeccable courtesy of a gentleman. “I would be most obliged if you would allow me to stay at your estate for the time being. I fear my business here is far from concluded.”

Aunt Petunia studied him for a long moment before setting down her teacup with a deliberate motion. “A viscount in my home is not something I ever expected.” She said dryly. “And I do believe my grandniece would prefer otherwise.” She flicked her gaze toward Penelope, who stood tense and tight-lipped.

“Nevertheless.” Petunia continued. “I have no grounds upon which to refuse you, my lord. You are welcome to stay.”

Penelope exhaled sharply, and Anthony smirked ever so slightly at her vexation.

Petunia turned to her grandniece. “Penelope, do be a dear and show Lord Bridgerton to the purple room.”

Penelope stiffened. “The purple room?” She echoed, aghast.

“Yes.” Petunia said with a wave of her hand. “It is the most suitable for a gentleman of his standing. And as you well know, it is the chamber just beside yours. You will see to it that he is comfortable.”

Anthony did not miss the way Penelope’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. He nearly felt sorry for her predicament – nearly.

With great reluctance, Penelope turned and made for the stairs, her steps sharp and purposeful. Anthony followed, unable to suppress the satisfaction that came with each clipped tap of her heels against the wooden steps.

The corridor upstairs was dimly lit by the soft glow of candle sconces, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. As they reached the door to his assigned chamber, Anthony turned to her, his expression more solemn than before.

“Tell me something, Miss Featherington.” He said quietly. “Do you truly wish for the worst to befall you?”

She blinked, taken aback. “What are you implying, my lord?”

Anthony’s gaze bore into hers. “I know why you confessed to the Queen.” He said. “I know you sought exile, or worse. Tell me –” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “Do you find marriage to me so intolerable that you would rather face the gallows?”

Penelope inhaled sharply, her eyes flickering with something unreadable – pain, regret, something more. But she did not answer.

Anthony clenched his fists at his sides. He had always one to doubt himself, had been the first to second-guess his worth since he took up the mantle of the viscountcy. But standing before Penelope now, having rejected him so wholly and so utterly, he felt something close to defeat settle in his chest.

For a man who had once been so certain of his own path, it was a humbling thing to be turned away.

This was the third time a woman had refused to marry him.

Perhaps, this time, it should not sting quite so much. And yet, it did.

Penelope studied him for a long moment, as though she, too, could see the cracks forming in his carefully composed exterior.

But instead of answering his question, she simply lowered her gaze and stepped back. “You must be weary from your journey, my lord.” She murmured. “I shall leave you to your rest.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Anthony standing alone in the dim corridor, drowning in the silence she left behind.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the sitting room of Aunt Petunia’s estate, its light filtering through lace-draped windows and settling in delicate patterns upon the floral carpet. A soft breeze carried the distant hum of village life through the open panes, yet within the room, an air of quiet tension persisted.

Anthony Bridgerton sat stiff-backed in his chair, his fingers curled loosely around the fine china teacup before him, though he had long since abandoned any pretense of drinking from it. Across from him, Aunt Petunia sipped at her own tea with a patience that bordered on amusement, her sharp, knowing eyes never once straying from her guest.

Penelope had excused herself moments ago, leaving Anthony alone in the lion’s den, though he suspected this particular lioness was far more interested in instructing him than devouring him whole.

“My lord.” Petunia began at last, setting her cup down with a gentle clink against the saucer. “If you are truly determined to have my grandniece return to London, then you must stop going about it like a bull in a china shop.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

Aunt Petunia’s lips curled in what could only be described as a knowing smirk. “You are an intelligent man, Viscount Bridgerton. You must see by now that sheer stubbornness will not win you Penelope’s compliance. You must employ… strategy.”

Anthony exhaled, his frustration barely contained. “My lady, I have exhausted every rational argument at my disposal. I have reminded her of our arrangement, plans discussed through letters we have shared during off-season. And yet, she remains unmoved.”

Petunia hummed, stirring her tea idly. “Then perhaps you are appealing to the wrong part of her nature.”

His frown deepened. “And what, pray, do you suggest?”

The older woman took a measured sip before lowering her cup once more. “Penelope is an intelligent, headstrong young woman.” She said. “But above all, she is kind.”

Anthony’s fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his cup. “That, I do not dispute.”

“No, I do not believe you would.” Petunia said, watching him closely. “She is clever enough to outmaneuver most, but it is her heart that will always be her greatest weakness.”

Anthony straightened, his pulse quickening at the implication.

“Surely..” Petunia continued. “There are those in London who hold a space in her heart. Those whom she would find difficult to abandon entirely.”

Anthony stilled. A name – several, in fact – came to mind almost instantly.

Violet.

Eloise.

Perhaps even Hyacinth and Gregory, if he considered the years Penelope had spent in their family’s orbit.

Aunt Petunia said nothing further, merely watching as understanding dawned across the viscount’s features.

Anthony set his cup down, his mind already spinning with the possibilities. “You are a most astute woman, Lady Petunia.”

She gave him a small, satisfied smile. “I have my moments.”

He rose abruptly from his seat, inclining his head. “If you will excuse me, my lady. I believe I have much to consider.”

“By all means.” Petunia said, lifting her teacup once more. As Anthony strode purposefully from the room, she merely chuckled softly to herself and took another sip.

The Bridgerton Viscount was finally seeing the board for what it was.

And soon, the game would begin in earnest.

—---

The hush of midnight wrapped the Cornwall estate in a velvety stillness, the only sound within its halls the faint crackling of embers from the hearth and the occasional sigh of the wind against the window panes. Anthony Bridgerton moved with careful, measured steps, ensuring the servants had long since concluded their nightly duties before he made his way toward the library.

He had sought out Penelope in her chambers earlier, only to be met with silence. But he knew where to find her.

The library’s door creaked softly as he pushed it open, his breath catching as his eyes fell upon her.

Penelope sat curled upon a chaise, her frame wrapped in the folds of a woolen blanket, her vibrant red curls cascading down her back in a manner so effortless it appeared almost ethereal. The flickering candlelight lent a golden glow to her porcelain complexion, softening the sharp angles of her face and illuminating the quiet solemnity in her blue eyes as they scanned the pages of her book.

Anthony had always thought her pretty in an understated way, but here, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, she looked almost otherworldly – like an angel cast down from the heavens, seeking solace in ink and parchment.

He cleared his throat, a quiet yet deliberate sound meant to alert her to his presence without startling her.

Penelope’s gaze lifted languidly from the pages, settling upon him with an expression of neither surprise nor annoyance, merely quiet acknowledgment. “My lord.”

Her voice was soft, even, betraying no emotion.

Anthony inclined his head. “Miss Featherington.” He hesitated for a brief moment before stepping forward. “May I join you?”

A flicker of hesitation passed through her gaze, but then, with a barely perceptible nod, she shifted ever so slightly, granting him space on the opposite end of the chaise.

He lowered himself into the seat, the silence between them stretching, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

He made an attempt at light conversation. “Are you fond of the novel?”

Penelope, ever perceptive, saw through his weak attempt at pleasantry. She closed the book in her lap, her fingers brushing absently over the gilded lettering on the cover. “You did not come here to discuss literature, my lord.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, his lips curving in a wry smile. “No, I did not.”

For a moment, he said nothing, merely studying her. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked. “Is there truly nothing that could change your mind about returning to London?”

There was something raw in his voice, an edge of vulnerability that surprised even him. His dark eyes held hers, seeking – no, pleading – for an answer.

But Penelope remained silent.

Anthony clenched his jaw. He had hoped – foolishly, perhaps – that the sincerity of his question might move her, but her gaze was steady, unreadable.

Left with no other recourse, he played his final card.

He leaned forward slightly, his tone quieter still. “Tell me, then, how I am to face my mother and my sister.”

Penelope’s brows furrowed slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark curls in feigned distress. “I have already informed my mother of our plans – of our intended courtship.” His voice softened, laced with careful pain. “She is expecting me to bring you back to London with me. She and Hyacinth both.” He let out a small, humorless laugh.

“You know how Hyacinth is. She has already begun spinning tales of our grand romance in her mind. And my mother —” His voice faltered just enough to sound genuine. “She has been so pleased. She believes you to be a perfect match, Penelope.”

He let the words settle between them, watching as the first flickers of doubt crossed her delicate features.

Penelope’s lips parted as if to speak, but then she closed them again.

Anthony pressed forward, emboldened. “How do you suggest I tell them that you refuse to come back? That you reject me outright?” His expression turned solemn. “How am I to tell them that the woman they have welcomed into their hearts has abandoned us?”

It was a cruel tactic, one he might have scorned in any other circumstance, but this was not a battle he intended to lose.

Penelope inhaled sharply, looking away as if to shield herself from the weight of his words. Anthony knew he had struck true.

She said nothing for a long while, and just when he thought she might relent, she rose to her feet.

Carefully, deliberately, she closed the book in her hands and placed it upon the side table.

When she turned back to him, her expression was impassive once more, though he did not miss the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Goodnight, my lord.”

Anthony watched her retreat, his chest tightening with something he could not quite name.

He had not won – not yet.

But for the first time since his arrival in Cornwall, he had caused a fracture in her armor.

And that, he knew, was the first step to victory.

Chapter Text

The Next Morning

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the dining room, casting golden hues over the fine china and polished silverware. The scent of freshly baked bread and warm tea lingered in the air, yet despite the pleasantness of the setting, the atmosphere at the breakfast table remained unbearably tense.

Anthony Bridgerton, Ninth Viscount and head of his noble family, sat in quiet contemplation, his hands resting idly on the linen-covered table as he stole the occasional glance at the woman across from him.

Penelope Featherington, ever the epitome of composure, nibbled delicately on a piece of toast, her countenance serene, though her silence spoke volumes.

She had barely acknowledged his presence that morning, offering only the briefest of courtesies before retreating into her carefully constructed fortress of indifference. Even now, as he sat mere feet away, she remained distant, her gaze cast downward, more interested in the patterns of her plate than in entertaining his company.

It was maddening.

Anthony took a slow sip of his tea, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his next move. It had been four days since his arrival in Cornwall, and though he had made small strides, the battle was far from won. He had hoped that their encounter in the library the previous night would soften her resolve, but instead, she had fortified it further, erecting an even colder barrier between them.

He exhaled sharply. If she thought he would retreat in the face of her resistance, she was sorely mistaken.

“Excuse me.” Penelope murmured suddenly, dabbing at her lips with her napkin before rising gracefully from the table. “I have matters to attend to in the village.”

It was the same excuse she had given the day before.

Anthony set down his teacup with a little too much force. “You seem to have a great many errands that conveniently require you to be anywhere but here.” He remarked, his voice even but laced with clear displeasure.

Penelope paused, sparing him a fleeting glance, her expression unreadable. “If I am in the way, my lord, I shall endeavor to be even more absent.”

With that, she turned and exited the room without another word.

Anthony clenched his jaw, suppressing the growl of frustration that threatened to escape him.

A soft chuckle broke the silence.

He turned his attention to Aunt Petunia, who had been observing the exchange with no small amount of amusement. The elder lady reached for her teacup, taking a leisurely sip before setting it down with an air of mild curiosity.

“It appears, my lord, that my grandniece is as immovable as ever.” She mused, fixing Anthony with an assessing gaze. “Tell me, did you even heed my advice, or did it fall upon deaf ears?”

Anthony exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I did.” He admitted. “And I must say, it was rather good advice.”

Petunia arched a brow. “Yet, judging by this morning’s interaction, I see no evidence that you have made any progress.”

Anthony’s lips curled into a smirk, the first genuine smile he had allowed himself since his arrival. “That is because you underestimate me, my lady.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, the confident glint in his eyes betraying the beginnings of a strategy. “I assure you, Miss Featherington will come to my terms.”

Petunia studied him carefully, noting the shift in his demeanor. For the first time since he had arrived at her doorstep, the Viscount did not appear weary or burdened by uncertainty. Instead, there was confidence – certainty even – in the way he spoke.

She tilted her head, intrigue flickering in her sharp gaze. “And what, pray, has given you such newfound assurance?”

Anthony leaned forward, resting his forearms upon the table. “You did.” He admitted with a knowing smile. “You told me to use her kindness, and you were right. Miss Penelope may be stubborn, but she is not cruel. She has a heart that is far too soft for her own good.”

Petunia hummed in thought, her amusement growing. “And you believe that this – whatever scheme you have devised – will be enough to persuade her to return to London?”

Anthony’s smirk deepened. “I do. My greatest ally is waiting for me back in Mayfair, and I assure you, my mother will not fail me.”

Petunia chuckled, shaking her head. “A son who places such faith in his mother’s influence is either foolish or wise beyond his years.”

Anthony merely inclined his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Then let us hope, Lady Petunia, that I am the latter.”

She observed him for another moment before allowing herself a small, knowing smile.

Perhaps, after all, the Viscount had something up his sleeve.

—--

Later that Afternoon

The soft rustling of parchment was the only sound filling the quiet sanctuary of Penelope Featherington’s chamber. Seated at her escritoire, bathed in the gentle glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the lace curtains, she diligently penned her replies to the various letters that had arrived for her that morning.

Her quill glided effortlessly over the paper as she composed a note to Madame Genevieve Delacroix regarding her Whistledown columns, another to the ever-lively Smythe-Smith sisters, who had written to regale her with tales of their latest musical endeavors, and lastly, a formal response to her solicitor concerning her financial affairs.

Each letter was completed with careful precision, folded and sealed with her personal insignia. But just as she reached for another blank page, her hand stilled.

Her gaze landed upon an envelope unlike the others.

Thick, cream-colored parchment, sealed with the unmistakable Bridgerton crest.

A letter from her.

Penelope swallowed. Her fingers hovered over the letter for a moment before she carefully broke the wax seal and unfolded the pages.

Her heart pounded with a strange mix of apprehension and longing as her eyes drank in the elegant, familiar script of Lady Violet Bridgerton.

The Letter

My Dearest Penelope,

I do hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, though I must confess I write to you with great impatience, for I simply cannot contain my excitement any longer.

My son, Anthony, has informed me of your plans for courtship, and I cannot begin to express my absolute delight at such a match. Dearest girl, I have long admired your wit, your kindness and the strength of your spirit. To hear that you will soon be part of our family is a joy I had long dared to hope for and one that I cherish with all my heart.

London has been dreadfully dull without you, my dear. I eagerly anticipate our promenades, our visits to the modiste, and the many delightful outings we shall embark upon once you return. There is so much to be done, so many preparations to make, but above all, there is the simple pleasure of welcoming you home.

Yes, home, Penelope. For that is what the Bridgertons shall be to you.

I must also extend my deepest gratitude. To entrust my son with your hand is a gift beyond measure, and I swear upon my good name that he shall be a devoted husband to you. I have no doubt that you will be an exemplary Viscountess, and I cannot imagine a more perfect match for Anthony.

Regardless of the miles that separate us at this moment, know that you are already one of us. My favorite daughter-in-law, if I may be so bold as to say it.

Do not tarry too long in Cornwall, my dear. We all await you with open arms.

With all my love,

Violet Bridgerton

Penelope set the letter down, her hands trembling slightly as she exhaled a shaky breath.

She should have been furious.

She was furious.

Anthony had used his mother – his own mother – as an instrument to sway her, to force her heart into the fray when she had so carefully steeled herself against his advances. It was nothing short of manipulation, and she ought to march downstairs this instant and give the insufferable Viscount a piece of her mind.

And yet…

Her fingers traced over the words my favorite daughter-in-law, and her breath hitched.

For all the years she had longed – desperately ached – for a place in the Bridgerton family, she had imagined it through the lens of a different man. She had once dreamed of becoming Colin’s wife, of slipping seamlessly into their fold with love and laughter, of being accepted without reservation.

But that dream had been shattered.

And yet, here was Violet Bridgerton, extending a hand to her, welcoming her not as Colin’s wife, but as Anthony’s intended.

A lump formed in her throat as she read the letter once more. The warmth, the motherly affection that she had craved for so long – it was all there, offered freely, without conditions or hesitation.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Curse Anthony Bridgerton.

For he had struck where he knew she was weakest. And worst of all?

It was working.

Chapter Text

The evening air hung heavy with the sweetness of night-blooming jasmine as Anthony Bridgerton moved through the halls with the practiced stealth of a man who had spent his youth sneaking about grand houses. The library’s emptiness sent an unexpected pang of concern through his chest – Penelope could usually be found there, surrounded by books and correspondence at any hour.

His footsteps, muffled by expensive Turkish carpets, carried him through the common rooms. He took care to avoid the creaking floorboard near the drawing room that might wake Aunt Petunia or alert any of the servants to his decidedly improper evening wanderings. The kitchen, too, stood silent and dark, the hearth's dying embers casting strange shadows on the walls.

A frown tugged at his brow. Where in God’s name had she gone?

And then he thought of the gardens.

His instincts proved correct.

There, on a stone bench nestled amidst the carefully cultivated flowerbeds, sat Penelope Featherington. Her golden-red curls shimmered under the starlight, a stark contrast against the pale lavender shawl draped over her shoulders. She was still, contemplative, her gaze fixed upon the night blooming jasmine that swayed gently in the evening breeze.

Anthony exhaled, his relief manifesting as a quiet sigh before he made his presence known with a soft cough.

Penelope turned her head slightly, her sharp blue eyes flicking toward him before she exhaled soundlessly. “My lord.” She greeted, her voice devoid of warmth but nor entirely void of civility.

Anthony took that as an invitation – however reluctant – and stepped closer. “May I join you?”

She did not look at him, her gaze resolutely fixed on the flowers before her. “As you wish.”

For a moment, silence reigned between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words. The cicadas chirped, the leaves rustled, and still, Penelope said nothing.

Anthony, never one to be deterred by a lady’s silence, was the first to break it. “You have been rather elusive today.”

Penelope scoffed softly, finally sparing him a glance. “And you have been rather persistent.”

His lips quirked. “I merely sought your company.”

She hummed in obvious disbelief. “Is that so? I was under the impression you had other methods of persuasion.”

Anthony tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I do not follow, Miss Featherington.”

This time, she fully turned to him, one auburn brow arching in disbelief. She did not have to say it, for her expression spoke volumes.

Still, she did.

“Your mother.” She stated simply.

Anthony’s mouth twitched – whether in surprise or amusement, even he was uncertain – but before he could respond, Penelope had already turned back to her flowers, the discussion seemingly of no consequence to her.

His surprise quickly gave way to a slow, knowing smile. “Ah.” He drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. “So my plan did work, after all.”

At that, Penelope let out a sharp, exasperated breath and shot him a look that could have felled a lesser man. “I cannot believe you would stoop so low as to use your own mother against me.”

Anthony had the decency to look mildly chastened, though he did not retract his words. “I did what I had to.”

Penelope let out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief. “Of course you did.”

His expression sobered as he regarded her profile, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He had anticipated her irritation, but there was something else beneath it – something far more potent.

Hurt.

A pang of guilt twisted in his chest, but he steeled himself against it. “You left me no choice, Penelope.” His voice was quieter now, more measured. “You would have me return to London alone, knowing the consequences we both must bear.”

She did not respond.

So he pressed on. “Do you not recall our audience with the Queen?”

At that, her body stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Anthony leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. “I know that you no longer care for whatever fate befalls you.” He said, voice laced with something dangerously close to desperation. “But I do. I cannot – will not – risk my family’s name, my sisters’ futures, my mother’s peace of mind. You may not wish to protect yourself, but I have a duty to protect my family.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, softly – so softly he almost missed it – Penelope hummed.

It was not a sound of agreement nor defiance. Merely acknowledgement. But it was enough to make Anthony believe, for the first time, that perhaps the tides had begun to shift.

The silence stretched between them, thick and impenetrable as the night air. The moon cast a silver glow upon Penelope’s face, illuminating the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the soft curve of her lips. She was unreadable, her expression composed, but Anthony had learned to decipher the smallest shifts in her demeanor.

With a heavy sigh, he ran a hand through his dark curls and spoke, his voice gentler this time. “I must apologize.” Anthony said softly, his voice carrying genuine remorse. “Using my mother’s affection to sway you was… ungentlemanly.”

Penelope did not respond at once, but the tension in her shoulders eased, if only a fraction. Taking that as encouragement, Anthony pressed forward. He turned slightly on the stone bench to better face her. “Will you not consider returning to London with me?” He said, his tone much more softer, almost imploring.

She turned away, but he was undeterred.

“I promise you..” He continued. “Our courtship shall be free of scandal. No rumors, no whispered speculations. We shall do this properly.” His voice grew firmer with conviction. “And I vow to be a good husband to you, Penelope. A devoted one.”

Still, she said nothing, though he could see the minute shift in her breathing.

“If love is beyond our reach..” He added. “Then I can offer you, at the very least, friendship – one built on respect and unwavering support.”

That was when he made his final gambit.

“I would even aid you in your Whistledown affairs.”

That caught her attention.

Penelope turned to face him fully now, her sharp blue eyes narrowing as she studied him. The mention of Whistledown was no small thing, and Anthony knew it. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she exhaled instead, pressing them into a firm line before finally breaking her silence.

“Do you know what holds me back, my lord?” She asked at last.

Anthony remained silent, allowing her the space to speak.

She turned her gaze downward, as if speaking the words aloud was an exertion of will. “I no longer have my friendship with Eloise.” She admitted, her voice cool but laced with an unmistakable sadness. “She – she despises me now. She found out about Whistledown and..” Penelope trailed off, shaking her head slightly.

Anthony’s jaw clenched at the mention of Eloise. His sister had always been fiercely opinionated, but he had not realized how deeply she had wounded Penelope with her rejection. He was then reminded of how Eloise almost cost ruin to the whole of their family by getting on the Queen’s trails.

“And Colin.” Penelope continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “Made it abundantly clear what he thinks of me.”

Anthony inhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. He knew of Colin’s callous words – how he had once proclaimed to his friends that he would never court Penelope Featherington. Anthony had wanted to throttle his brother for it, and now, seeing the lingering hurt in Penelope’s eyes, he wished he had.

“I am sorry.” He said, his voice thick with sincerity. “For my siblings’ cruelty. For their lack of understanding.” He hesitated, then added. “The Bridgertons are undeserving of your protection.”

Penelope scoffed. “That, at least, is true.”

Anthony did not flinch at her candor. Instead, he straightened his spine and met her gaze with solemn resolve. “But I am their head, and as such, it is my responsibility to right their wrongs.” His voice hardened. “I will see to it that both Eloise and Colin answer for their actions. I will not allow them to treat you with anything less than the respect you deserve.”

She regarded him carefully, the moonlight catching in her eyes as she weighed his words.

“And if I am to agree to this courtship.” She said at last. “Then you shall have to rein in Eloise. You know she will not approve.”

Anthony nodded without hesitation. “Consider it done.”

She arched a delicate brow. “That was rather quick.”

“I would do anything for this courtship.” He said simply.

He meant it.

Penelope tilted her head slightly, lips parting as though to respond – but then she stopped.

And then, Anthony saw it.

A flicker of realization in her eyes.

For the first time since his arrival in Cornwall, she had agreed to the notion of their courtship.

The weight of her words hit him like a well-aimed punch to the gut, and his heart thundered in his chest. His expression must have betrayed his astonishment, for Penelope smirked.

“I see you have finally realized it.” She mused, amusement dancing in her tone.

Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

Penelope exhaled once more, shaking her head with an air of reluctant acceptance. “You should be grateful that I value your mother as much as I do, my lord.” She turned her gaze skyward, as if contemplating the stars above. “For it is only my regard for Lady Violet and my desire to see you cease pestering Aunt Petunia that has led me to this decision.”

Anthony finally found his voice, albeit a dazed one. “Truly?”

Penelope gave him a look, one brow arching. “Do not make me reconsider, my lord.”

He straightened at one, nodding vigorously, much like a devoted pup before its master.

“We have much to discuss before returning to London.” Penelope continued, rising from the bench with elegant dignity. “There are terms to be negotiated, agreements to be reached.”

Anthony nodded so enthusiastically that Penelope had to bite back a smile – the mighty Viscount Bridgerton, looking for all the world like a faithful eager servant awaiting instruction.

“Good night, my lord.” She said, allowing herself a small, smugly satisfied smile as she turned toward the house. Her skirts whispered against the gravel path as she left him sitting alone in the moonlit garden, looking both thunderstruck and triumphant.

The night air carried the faint sound of Anthony’s quietly jubilant laugh as Penelope disappeared into the shadows of the estate, both of them knowing that while this may not be a love match, it promised to be something equally intriguing.

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured through the lace-curtained windows of the breakfast room, casting a golden glow upon the fine porcelain and polished silverware. The air was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked bread and honeyed tea, yet the most striking presence at the table that morning was not the elegant spread, but rather the beaming Viscount seated across from Penelope and her grandaunt.

Petunia, ever an astute observer, did not fail to take note of the peculiar transformation in her houseguest. Gone was the brooding man who had, for days, worn an expression of mild frustration. In his place sat a Viscount positively radiating triumph.

“Good morning, Lady Petunia. Miss Featherington.” Anthony greeted them with such warmth that it was near unsettling.

Petunia arched a brow at him over the rim of her teacup. “Good morning, indeed, my lord.” She replied, setting her cup down with deliberate grace. “It is quite rare to see a Bridgerton smile before noon. Should I be concerned?”

Anthony chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a ripple of irritation through the young lady seated beside him. Penelope had been perfectly content to ignore his presence, but at his persistent joviality, she cast him a sidelong glare.

Petunia, entirely unbothered, observed their silent exchange with interest.

Breakfast passed in a manner both strained and peculiar – strained, for Penelope seemed determined to keep her words to the bare minimum, and peculiar, for Anthony seemed immune to her frigid demeanor.

At last, Penelope, ever composed, dabbed at her lips with her napkin before setting it aside. “If you will excuse me, Aunt, I have matters to attend to in the village. There are certain provisions I must procure before our departure.”

Anthony, who had been leisurely sipping his coffee, nearly choked on the last word. With an abruptness that startled even Aunt Petunia, he pushed back his chair and stood. “I shall accompany you.”

Penelope, who had been gathering her gloves and reticule, paused. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, pinning him with a look that could have withered lesser men. “That will not be necessary, my lord.”

Anthony unfazed, tilted his head in challenge. “And yet, I find myself eager to see the village for myself.”

Penelope inhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the handle of her reticule as if contemplating the weight of it against his skull. But after a pause – perhaps realizing the futility of arguing with the most stubborn Bridgerton – she relented with a weary sigh.

“As you wish.” She muttered.

Anthony’s smile widened.

Petunia, having witnessed the exchange with great amusement, folded her hands primly upon the table. “Well, my dear, if it is errands you are about, I trust you will ensure that his lordship does not get into trouble? Men, as you well know, have a habit of disrupting the natural order of things.”

Anthony, grinning, placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Lady Petunia, you wound me.”

Aunt Petunia merely waved him off, before turning to Penelope with a knowing glance. “And before you go, child, do enlighten me – when, exactly, did you decide that you would be returning to London?”

Penelope, not one to delay what was inevitable, squared her shoulders and met her aunt’s gaze. “I have decided that I will accompany Lord Bridgerton back to Mayfair.” She stated, her voice firm. “I shall make the necessary preparations today so that we may depart on the morrow.”

Petunia hummed, glancing between the two of them before offering a small, satisfied smile. “I see.”

Anthony, positively radiant at Penelope’s declaration, turned to her with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “It would see, my lady, that I owe you my gratitude once again.”

Petunia sipped her tea, her expression unreadable. “Indeed you do, my lord.”

Penelope, already regretting her life’s choices, let out a quiet sigh before turning toward the door. “Come along then, my lord, before I change my mind.”

Anthony followed her without hesitation, his stride brimming with confidence while Petunia, left alone in the breakfast room, chuckled softly to herself.

Yes, this would certainly be an interesting courtship to behold.

The village square was bustling with the usual morning activity, vendors calling out their wares, children darting between carts with sticky fingers from stolen sweets, and ladies pausing to admire bolts of fabric and trinkets. The air was filled with the scent of fresh bread and sugared almonds, mingling with the crispness of the sea breeze.

Penelope Featherington, trailed closely by her ever-watchful lady’s maid, Rae, strolled through the cobbled streets with a measured pace, pausing here and there to peruse the market stalls. She carried herself with the quiet composure of a woman who knew precisely what she wanted and had little patience for diversions.

Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and persistent shadow, walked beside her with an ease that belied the weight of the discussion that was to unfold.

They had, after all, a courtship to arrange.

As Penelope paused to inspect a selection of sugared violets, Anthony seized the opportunity to speak. “I should like to thank you again, Miss Featherington.” He said, his voice low and sincere. “For agreeing to return to London and to proceed with our courtship as planned.”

Penelope did not look up from the confections she was considering, merely humming in response. “I do not recall having much of a choice in the matter, my lord.”

Anthony chuckled, undeterred. “I promise you, I will do everything within my power to ensure that our courtship – and subsequent marriage – proceeds smoothly.”

She finally lifted her gaze, fixing him with a pointed look. “Then we must establish some rules, my lord. Boundaries, if you will.”

“Boundaries?” Anthony echoed, intrigued.

“Yes.” Penelope said, turning to him fully. “If we are to be husband and wife, we must have an understanding. And to ensure we both adhere to it, I would prefer that we commit these terms to paper.”

Anthony quirked a brow. “A contract?”

“A contract.” She affirmed.

“Very well.” He said, folding his arms. “Let us begin.”

Penelope took a breath, then stated her first condition. “You will establish a separate bank account for me – one to house my Whistledown earnings. You will have no authority over this account, nor any right to dictate how I spend the funds. It will remain mine alone. The money shall remain under my sole control, designated for our future daughters’ dowries. I will also provide my own dowry so you no longer ask my mama for it.”

Anthony inclined his head. “Whatever is yours shall remain yours, Pen – Miss Featherington. Though as my Viscountess, all I possess shall be equally yours.” His voice softened slightly. “And pray do not concern yourself with dowries – I require nothing from you and I shall provide generously for any daughters we might be blessed with, just as I shall for my sisters.”

Penelope studied him for a moment before nodding. “Very well.”

Encouraged by the progress of their negotiation, Anthony continued. “And as for the matter of heirs —”

“Ah.” Penelope interrupted. “The matter of heirs. Yes, I understand my duty as your wife. You require a son and a spare.”

Anthony had the grace to look slightly abashed. “It is a necessity, I’m afraid. My brothers are hardly inclined to shoulder the burden of the title should anything befall me.”

Penelope merely hummed in response. She had known this would be expected of her.

But then, her next words took Anthony entirely by surprise.

“I only ask that you be discreet in your dealings with your mistresses.”

Anthony stiffened. “My what?”

Penelope kept her gaze steady. “If you are to take a mistress, my lord, I ask only that you be cautious. You must not share my bed on the nights you have been with her, and you must take care to avoid scandal. I have no desire to be humiliated in society.”

Anthony looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Good God, Penelope.” He breathed. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

She hesitated, taken aback by the raw indignation in his tone.

Anthony shook his head, stepping closer. “I do not know what you have heard of me, but I am a gentleman.” He said, his voice low. “I do not intend to take a mistress, nor do I have any desire to dishonor you in such a manner. If I give you nothing else, I will give you loyalty. You will have my devotion until my dying breath.”

Penelope faltered, her fingers tightening around the reticule in her hand. She had prepared herself for a marriage of convenience, had expected him to demand heirs while seeking companionship elsewhere. But his words… they unsettled something within her.

“I see.” She said finally, turning back to the stall, pretending to inspect a tin of candied almonds. “Then I suppose that condition need not be included.”

Anthony exhaled, as though releasing a tension he had not realized was gripping him.

After a moment of quiet, Penelope continued, her tone more measured. “I do not wish to be heavily involved with some of your siblings.”

Anthony frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I understand that, as your wife, I will be expected to oversee the matches of your unwed siblings.” She said carefully. “But I want nothing to do with Eloise or Colin.”

Anthony’s expression darkened. He had anticipated this request, and yet, hearing it aloud still stung.

“You are asking to forsake my own brother and sister.” He said quietly.

“I am asking you to grant me peace.” She corrected.

Anthony looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. I will ask my mother to oversee their futures instead.”

At that, Penelope finally turned to face him fully, meeting his gaze with something akin to gratitude. “Then it is settled, my lord.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, shaking his head. ‘“No, it is not.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If we are to court, if we are to convince the ton that we are a love match, then we must dispense with these formalities.”

Penelope frowned. “I do not understand.”

“You must call me Anthony.” He clarified.

She looked momentarily stunned.

“And in return..” He continued. “I shall call you Penelope.”

She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to argue. But something in his expression made her pause. There was no jest in his eyes, no teasing lilt to his tone – only sincerity.

Penelope considered it. Then, with a small sigh, she conceded.

“Very well… Anthony.”

Anthony smiled. A real, unguarded smile.

“Penelope.”

She shivered.

And as they continued their stroll through the village, their agreement finalized, a quiet understanding settled between them. A beginning, however uncertain, had been forged.

Chapter Text

The Bridgerton carriage rolled steadily over the well-worn road leading back to Mayfair, its occupants seated in an uneasy silence, the only sound within the plush interior being the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone and the occasional creak of the lacquered wood.

Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and persistent meddler, sat on one side of the carriage, his posture perfectly composed yet exuding a restlessness that could not be mistaken. Opposite him, Penelope Featherington – his reluctant intended – sat stiffly, her gloved hands clasped in her lap, her gaze resolutely fixed upon the passing scenery beyond the window.

This was not their first time sharing a carriage. But it was, undeniably, the longest they had been confined together in such an enclosed space.

Attempting to dispel the awkward silence, Anthony leaned back and adopted a conversational tone. “You have missed quite the opening to the season, Penelope. Lady Danbury’s ball was particularly well-attended – though I dare say the true spectacle of the evening was Lord Finchley’s most unfortunate tumble into the champagne fountain. Quite the sight, I assure you.”

Penelope, however, remained unmoved, offering nothing more than a polite nod, her expression revealing none of the amusement he had hoped to provoke.

Undeterred, he continued, recounting the latest engagements and scandals with the ease of a man accustomed to society’s ever-turning wheel. And yet, despite his best efforts, her responses remained minimal – an occasional hum, a lift of the brow, a fleeting glance in his direction.

Realizing his anecdotes were met with little more enthusiasm than if he had been reciting the words on her Lady Whistledown column, Anthony abandoned the topic entirely. Instead, he turned to something more pressing – the logistics of their impending show.

Clearing his throat, he said. “Upon our arrival in Mayfair, I shall go directly to your mother. It is imperative that I speak with her at once.”

Penelope, who had until now been staring disinterestedly out of the window, turned to him fully, her eyes narrowing with something bordering on alarm. “You intend to call on my mama the moment I step foot on Grosvenor Square?”

“Of course.” Anthony replied, as if the matter were already decided. “It would be the natural course of action. Your mother must be made aware of my intentions to court you.”

Penelope inhaled slowly, measuring her words. “And you believe it wise to subject her to such news without adequate preparation?”

Anthony’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Would she not be delighted?”

“Delighted, yes. But also insufferable.” Penelope muttered under her breath. She straightened, leveling him with a wary look. “If mama learns that you and I have spent the past week together in Cornwall, unchaperoned for much of it, she will not simply assume you are courting me, my lord. She will assume we are to be married at once.”

Anthony considered this, then inclined his head in concession. “You make a fair point.”

Encouraged by his willingness to see reason, Penelope continued. “It would raise too many questions. For one, how could you have come to be so enamored of me, when in the past two seasons, we have barely exchanged more than a handful of words?”

Anthony’s smile deepened, a glint of triumph in his eyes. “Ah, but I have anticipated such inquiries.”

Penelope arched a brow, wary of his confidence. “Have you, indeed?”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone smooth and assured. “I shall simply tell them that, unbeknownst to society, you have been a steady presence in my family’s life for years. Your friendship with my sister allowed me the privilege of observing you from the sidelines, and in doing so, I came to appreciate your wit, your intelligence, your remarkable resilience.” He paused, letting the words settle between them. “And now that you are at an age where marriage is expected – not a fresh debutante, but not yet a spinster – I found it the perfect time to act on my admiration and declare my intentions.”

Penelope said nothing for a moment, merely studying him with an inscrutable expression.

Then, she hummed.

A simple sound, yet one that betrayed her begrudging approval.

Anthony’s grin widened, sensing his victory.

“You must admit.” He said lightly. “It is a most believable account.”

“It is.” She conceded, though her expression remained unimpressed. “But it is also very convenient that you are a Viscount – few would dare to question your version of events.”

Anthony’s expression softened slightly, his voice quieter when he spoke next. “And you, Penelope, are about to become a Viscountess. That, too, is not so easily refuted.”

She inhaled sharply, his words hitting with more force than she had anticipated.

A Viscountess.

Not the one she had once dreamed of becoming. Not the wife of the Bridgerton she had spent half her life loving in secret. But a Viscountess all the same.

She turned away, gaze fixed once more on the passing scenery.

The remainder of the journey continued in silence, though this time, it was not nearly as uncomfortable.

The Bridgerton carriage rolled to a stately stop before the Featherington residence in Grosvenor Square, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel drive. Anthony alighted first, his movements swift and assured as he turned to assist Penelope from the carriage. His gloved hand extended towards her, and for a moment, she hesitated before placing her own within his. The touch was fleeting, perfunctory, yet Anthony noted the slight tremor in her fingers before she withdrew them.

At the doorstep of the Featherington house, Anthony knocked firmly, the rap of his knuckles echoing through the quiet morning air. The butler, Briarly, opened the door, his well-trained composure faltering for the briefest moment at the sight of Viscount Bridgerton standing on their threshold. But upon seeing Penelope beside him, Briarly’s expression softened into one genuine surprise and warmth.

“Miss Penelope.” He said with a nod of welcome, stepping aside to allow them entry. “It is good to have you home.”

“Thank you, Briarly.” Penelope murmured, smoothing her skirts as she stepped into the familiar confines of her childhood home.

Anthony cleared his throat. “I should like to speak with Lady Featherington, if you please.”

Briarly, ever efficient, inclined his head and gestured towards the drawing room. “If you and Miss Penelope would be so good as to wait here, my lord, I shall inform Lady Featherington of your arrival.”

With that, Briarly disappeared up the staircase, leaving Anthony and Penelope alone in the drawing room. The space was as he remembered it – draped in overly floral fabrics, adorned with gilded furnishings that teetered on the edge of gaudiness, and still carrying the faint, cloying scent of lavender and lemon.

Penelope remained silent, standing near the mantelpiece with her hands folded before her, a wary expression settling upon her features. Anthony did not attempt conversation, instead allowing the air between them to settle, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Moments later, the rustle of silk and the sharp click of heels against the parquet flooring heralded the arrival of Lady Featherington and her eldest daughter, Prudence.

Portia Featherington entered with the air of a woman well accustomed to intrigue, her gaze sweeping over her youngest daughter before settling upon Anthony with carefully concealed curiosity. Prudence, ever eager to follow her mother’s lead, dipped into a curtsy, though her wide-eyed expression betrayed her astonishment at finding a viscount in their drawing room.

“Lord Bridgerton.” Portia greeted with a gracious nod, masking her surprise with a well-practiced smile. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Lady Featherington.” Anthony returned the greeting with a short bow before shifting his gaze towards Penelope, who remained silent.

Portia turned her attention to her daughter, her smile tightening. “Penelope, dearest, I was under the impression you had intended to spend the remainder of the year in Cornwall with Aunt Petunia.”

Penelope opened her mouth to respond, but before she could so much as utter a word, Anthony stepped forward.

“If I may, Lady Featherington.” He interjected smoothly. “It was at my behest that Miss Penelope returned to London.”

Portia’s brows arched, her curiosity piqued. “Indeed?”

Anthony inclined his head. “I have come to formally request permission to court your daughter, Miss Penelope.”

A hush fell over the room.

Prudence’s mouth parted in shock, her gaze darting between Anthony and Penelope as if waiting for someone to refute the statement. Portia, for all her experience in navigating society’s intrigues, found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Her youngest daughter, whom she had long resigned to spinsterhood, was suddenly the object of a viscount’s affections?

“I –” Portia began, before narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must admit I find this… rather sudden.” Her gaze flickered to Penelope. “In all the years you have been acquainted with my daughter, you have never once expressed an interest in her. And if I recall correctly, last season you were quite publicly engaged in courtship with Miss Edwina Sharma.”

A faint muscle in Anthony’s jaw twitched, though his expression remained composed. “I understand your hesitation, Lady Featherington, and I would not fault you for questioning my intentions. However, I assure you they are nothing but honorable.”

Portia folded her arms, unconvinced. “Why now?”

Anthony exhaled, allowing a softer edge to creep into his tone. “Penelope has long been a fixture in my family’s life due to her friendship with my sister. Over time, I came to appreciate her intelligence, her kindness and her quiet strength. And now that she is of an age where marriage is expected, I see no reason to delay what should have been pursued long ago.” He met Portia’s gaze directly. “She will make a fine viscountess.”

Portia blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in his words. Even Prudence, usually too self-absorbed to pay heed to such matters, appeared thoroughly astonished.

But Anthony was not yet finished.

“I ask for no dowry.” He declared, his voice firm. “I seek no advantage but that of having Penelope as my wife. However, as I am soon to be your closest male relation, I shall see to it that Miss Prudence is provided with a dowry when she marries, ensuring a favorable match for her as well.”

At this, both Portia and Prudence’s eyes widened.

Anthony pressed on, his gaze unwavering. “I vow that our courtship will be conducted with the utmost propriety. There shall be no scandal – neither for my family nor yours.”

Silence stretched once more, thick with contemplation. Penelope, who had remained composed throughout, finally looked at him, something unreadable in her crystal blue eyes.

Portia, for all her suspicions, could not refute the words and wishes of a viscount.

And so, after a long pause, she inclined her head.

“Very well, my lord.” She said, her voice carrying a touch of calculation. “You have my permission to court my daughter.”

Chapter Text

The grand facade of Bridgerton House stood unwavering against the afternoon sun, its polished windows reflecting the golden light as Anthony stepped across the threshold. The familiar scent of beeswax and fresh flowers filled the foyer, but before he could even remove his gloves, a blur of lavender silk and soft laughter descended upon him.

“Anthony, my dear boy!”

Violet Bridgerton enveloped her son in a warm embrace, her hands pressing against his broad shoulders as though to assure herself that he was truly home, in one piece. There was a maternal fervor in her hold, as there always was, and though Anthony would never admit it aloud, there was something deeply comforting in the way his mother welcomed him home.

“You must forgive my enthusiasm.” Violet said as she pulled back, studying his face with a keen, searching gaze. “But I have spent the past week imagining all sorts of mishaps befalling you in Cornwall.”

Anthony huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You wound me, mother. Do you think me incapable of handling myself in the countryside?”

Violet arched a brow, the corners of her lips twitching with amusement. “It is not you I feared for, my dear. It is Penelope. I know how dreadfully stubborn you can be.”

At that, Anthony’s lips curled into a grin, reminiscent of a schoolboy who had just received a well-earned commendation. “Then you shall be pleased to hear that your intervention was invaluable.”

Violet’s brows lifted in intrigue. “Oh?”

“Penelope received your letter, just as I asked you to send.” Anthony confirmed, removing his gloves and handing them off to a waiting footman. “And I am pleased to inform you that she has returned to London. In fact, I have only just come from across the street, where I personally escorted her home and secured Lady Featherington’s permission for our courtship.”

Violet gasped, her hands coming together in a delicate clap, her delight evident in the sparkle of her eyes. “Oh, Anthony! This is most wonderful news.”

“It is indeed.”

“And when may we expect to see dear Penelope?”

Anthony smoothed a hand down his waistcoat, considering. “I intend to call on her tomorrow and formally extend an invitation for tea here at Bridgerton House.” He then smirked, adding. “I shall also arrange promenades for the entirety of our courtship, so as to ensure the ton is thoroughly convinced of my unwavering intentions.”

Violet sighed dreamily, placing a hand over her heart. “Oh, how splendid! Your siblings will be overjoyed to learn that Penelope is to become their sister officially.”

Anthony’s smile wavered for the briefest of moments. The mention of his siblings brought forth the very matter he needed to attend to. He squared his shoulders, his expression shifting into one of quiet resolve.

“Speaking of which.” He began. “Where is Eloise?”

Violet blinked, tilting her head in curiosity. “Eloise? I believe she is in the morning room, writing letters.”

Anthony turned to the nearest footman. “Send for my sister at once. Have her meet me in my study.”

At once, the footman gave a crisp bow and departed.

Violet, ever perceptive, narrowed her gaze slightly. “Anthony, is something amiss?”

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before offering her a reassuring smile. “Perfectly well, mother.” He assured her, though his jaw had tightened slightly. “I merely wish to speak with Eloise before I make the formal announcement to the family.” He continued smoothly. “Penelope has been her closest friend for years. It is only right that I explain to her how things shall change once I marry.”

He could not bring himself to tell his mother the true purpose of the meeting – to address Eloise’s dangerous meddling in the Whistledown affairs, which had nearly brought the Queen’s wrath upon their family. Such matters were best handled privately, between siblings.

“Of course.” Violet nodded, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. “You must have much to discuss. Shall I have tea sent up?”

“That won’t be necessary, mother.” Anthony replied, already turning toward his study, his shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. The weight of being both brother and head of the family settled heavily upon him as he climbed the stairs, leaving his mother’s warm welcome behind for the more difficult task ahead.

Eloise entered her brother’s study with an air of indifference, though the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her casual stance. She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow.

“Well?” She asked impatiently. “What pressing matter could possibly require my immediate attention, dearest brother.”

Anthony, standing by the sideboard, turned slowly to face her. His gaze, steady and unyielding, bore into her with a quiet authority that instantly set her on edge. He let out a measured sigh before gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

Eloise scoffed but, after a beat of hesitation, did as he instructed. She perched herself on the chair with an exaggerated sigh, her posture slouched in defiance.

Anthony turned back to the crystal decanter, pouring two generous measures of brandy. He carried one glass to her, extending it with an air of finality.

Eloise eyed the drink with suspicion. “You summoned me here to drink?”

“No.” Anthony replied. “I summoned you here because we are about to have a very serious conversation. And believe me, you shall need it.”

Still wary, Eloise took the glass and sniffed at its contents before throwing her brother a look of begrudging amusement. “You do realize that offering one’s sister a drink is highly unorthodox, do you not?”

Anthony merely raised his own glass to his lips and took a slow sip. “Drink, Eloise.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes, but took a sip nonetheless.

The moment she gulped the alcohol down her throat, Anthony set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk between them. Then, with all the gravity of a statesman announcing a royal decree, he said. “I am going to marry Penelope Featherington.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Eloise slammed her glass onto the desk with such force that Anthony half-expected the crystal to shatter. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, burned into his.

“Why?” She demanded, her voice sharp, incredulous.

Anthony’s lips curved into a smirk – one that only further provoked his sister’s ire. “Because I wish to.” He stated simply. “And because there is not a soul in England, not even you, who could prevent it.”

Eloise’s breath came sharply through her nose. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”

“You cannot marry her.”

Anthony merely leaned back in his chair, studying her with a knowing expression. “And why is that, dear sister?”

Eloise stiffened. She knew that stubbornness was a Bridgerton trait, but her brother had taken it to another level entirely. She knew he would not be easily dissuaded, but the thought of him marrying Penelope – a woman who had so thoroughly betrayed her – was something she could not abide.

Anthony, sensing her hesitation, pressed further. “Penelope is intelligent, refined, and well-mannered. She will make an exemplary Viscountess. She possesses all the qualities that one would expect from a woman in her position.”

Eloise ground her teeth, knowing she could not refute his words, no matter how much she wished to.

When she failed to immediately respond, Anthony tilted his head, his gaze shrewd. “Tell me, Eloise, what truly troubles you?”

Something inside her snapped. She shot her feet so quickly that her chair nearly toppled over.

“She is Lady Whistledown!” She blurted out, her voice filled with accusation.

Anthony, to her utter astonishment, merely hummed in acknowledgment, his expression entirely unbothered. He swirled the brandy in his glass before looking up at her.

“I know.”

Eloise’s mouth fell open. “You – what?”

Anthony took a slow sip of his drink before setting it down. “I know.” He repeated, his voice as calm as ever. “And that does not change my decision.”

Eloise could hardly believe her ears. “You mean to tell me that you are fully aware of what she has done? That you know she has spent years exposing the ton’s secrets? That she nearly ruined our family more than once? And yet, you still wish to marry her?”

Anthony’s expression darkened. “Yes. And I also know what you have done.”

Eloise’s breath caught in her throat.

“I know.” Anthony continued, his voice dropping into something dangerously close to a warning. “That you spent the better part of last season playing detective, meddling in matters far beyond your understanding.” He leaned forward. “I know that you drew the Queen’s ire upon yourself with your foolish obsession. And I know that you, in your infinite wisdom, ransacked Penelope’s chambers and confronted her like a common footpad, which led to the very state of estrangement that you now so bitterly lament.”

Eloise stood frozen in place, her face ashen. “How…” She swallowed. “How do you know all of this?”

Anthony smirked. “You are not as discreet as you believe yourself to be.”

Eloise clenched her fists. “You expect me to simply accept this? To stand idly by while you parade her around as your soon-to-be wife?”

Anthony’s gaze hardened. “I expect you to be civil.”

Eloise let out a bitter laugh. “Civil?”

“Yes.”

He leaned back once more, his expression impassive. “I know that neither you nor Penelope have any desire to mend what was broken between you. And I will not force the issue. But I will insist upon civility. Penelope had already stated she does not wish to engage with you in any way. I will let our mother handle your social seasons. You will not cause discord within my household, Eloise.”

Eloise’s lips parted in disbelief. She could not believe the words of his brother. To think that Penelope – her Penelope – would not want to associate with her, makes her feel hurt and disappointed. “And if I refuse?”

Anthony’s voice turned cold. “Then you may remove yourself from my house.”

Eloise recoiled as though she had been struck. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am entirely serious.” His tone left no room for argument. “You may spend the remainder of the season in Bath with Aunt Winnie, or you may impose upon Daphne’s hospitality. Or, if you find that neither option is to your liking, you may marry and remove yourself from my jurisdiction entirely.”

Eloise stared at him, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She had always known her brother to be formidable, but never had she seen him like this – unyielding, unshaken and resolute in his authority.

With nothing left to say, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the study, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the bookshelves.

Anthony remained seated, lifting his glass to his lips as the last rays of sunlight faded from the window. The brandy tasted bitter now, but he had done what was necessary to protect both his future wife and his family’s reputation.

Chapter Text

The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Featherington drawing room, casting delicate golden beams across the carpeted floor. Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of his illustrious family, found himself standing in its midst, bouquet in one hand and a neatly wrapped box of fine confections in the other. Though he was no stranger to formal calls, there was something peculiarly different about this visit – something that set his heart to an unfamiliar rhythm.

Briarly, the Featherington butler, led him inside with his usual measured grace, but the older man’s lips twitched ever so slightly when his gaze flickered towards the young lady by the window.

Penelope Featherington sat with perfect poise, utterly absorbed in her book, seemingly unaware of the world around her. The sunlight framed her in an almost ethereal glow, catching in her auburn curls and illuminating the soft ivory of her complexion. Anthony, for a moment, was struck silent. She was breathtaking in the simplest of ways, unaware of her own allure – an aspect that made her all the more compelling.

Briarly, ever discreet, coughed lightly to draw attention to his guest.

“The Viscount Bridgerton for Miss Penelope.” He announced smoothly.

At once, dowager baroness Portia Featherington and her eldest daughter, Prudence, who had been engaged in some idle gossip at the opposite end of the room, rose with an eagerness that barely masked their surprise.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Portia exclaimed, her voice lilting with the unmistakable thrill of seeing a titled gentleman taking an interest in her daughter. She smoothed her skirts and beamed at him. “What an unexpected delight this morning brings.”

Prudence followed suit with a curtsy and a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

Penelope, however, remained where she was, lifting her head ever so slowly, as if torn from a particularly engaging passage. She blinked at Anthony with an unreadable expression before closing her book with deliberate care and setting it aside. Rising to her feet, she executed a perfect curtsy, her voice soft but measured.

“My lord.”

Anthony inclined his head in greeting, but did not miss the way her gaze, though polite, lacked any particular warmth. He had expected this. He had, after all, thrown her world into chaos with his sudden declaration of intent.

“Penelope.” He said, stepping forward and extending the flowers and sweets. “A small token for the morning.”

Penelope hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting them, her fingers brushing his ever so briefly. She glanced down at the fresh blooms, their vibrant hues stark against the cream of her gown, and then at the confectionary box tied with a silk ribbon.

“They are lovely.” She murmured, studying them with the kind of detachment one might offer an interesting but irrelevant piece of art. Without much further ado, she turned and handed them off to Mrs. Varley, the housekeeper. “Please have these taken to my chambers.”

Anthony watched the exchange, noting how little attachment she displayed to his offering. It amused him, in a way – she was resisting. But resistance had never been something to dissuade him; rather, it was a challenge to overcome.

“Shall we sit?” He prompted, gesturing toward the settee by the window.

Penelope nodded once and took her seat gracefully. Anthony settled beside her, while Portia Featherington perched nearby, her presence an obvious declaration of propriety and oversight.

Ever a dutiful suitor, Anthony began. “I trust you have had a restful night following our journey?”

Penelope folded her hands neatly in her lap, offering a placid nod. “I have had sufficient rest, my lord.”

“My lord?” He asks, subtly reminding her of their agreement to forgo formalities when speaking with each other.

“A-Anthony..”

“Good.” He said, studying her. “My mother was quite pleased to learn of your return to London. She has insisted that you call upon her for tea tomorrow.”

At this, Penelope’s lips pressed together in what Anthony recognised as the careful calculation of an answer. Her mother, however, left no room for refusal.

“What a splendid idea!” Portia interjected. “I am certain Penelope would be delighted.”

Penelope smiled, though Anthony noted it was a shade too composed. “Indeed.” She agreed. “I shall be there.”

Satisfied, Anthony withdrew a small slip of paper and placed it before her. “I have taken the liberty of outlining our promenades for the coming weeks. We will be seen together frequently, which should allow ample opportunity to acclimate to the nature of our courtship.”

Penelope’s fingers brushed over the parchment, eyes scanning the carefully curated schedule. To an outsider, she appeared appropriately pleased, but Anthony knew better. He could see the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet restraint in her expression. She was playing the part expected of her.

“That is… very thorough of you.” She remarked at last.

Anthony smirked slightly. “I do not believe in half-measures.”

Portia clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! You shall be the most admired couple in London.”

“Indeed.” Anthony agreed, his voice laced with certainty. “Speaking of which, I shall serve as your escort for this evening’s ball. It will be the perfect opportunity to formally introduce our courtship to the ton.”

Penelope’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “That will hardly be necessary.” She murmured, though not so softly that Portia could not hear.

“Nonsense!” Portia declared. “You must attend. The ton will be abuzz with speculation; it is best you put all uncertainty to rest.”

Penelope, caught between her mother’s eager anticipation and Anthony’s unwavering gaze, had little choice but to concede.

“As you say.” She relented.

Anthony’s smirk deepened at her reluctant agreement. “Excellent. And what color shall you be wearing tonight?”

Penelope frowned slightly, clearly puzzled by the inquiry. “Madame Delacroix has prepared a new gown for my return.” She answered. “Mint green.”

Anthony hummed in thought, storing the information away. He imagined she would look exquisite in such a shade.

Realizing he had exhausted his allotted time for a proper morning call, he rose to his feet. “Then I shall take my leave for now.” He inclined his head toward Portia. “My lady.”

Portia, positively glowing with satisfaction, curtsied. “We shall eagerly await this evening, my lord.”

Penelope followed suit, though her gaze held an unreadable quality. “Good day, Anthony.”

Anthony took his hat from Briarly, casting one last glance toward Penelope before making his departure.

Tonight, all of London would know she was his.

As the grand door of their drawing room had barely shut behind Viscount Bridgerton, Portia Featherington wasted no time in sweeping onto the settee beside her youngest daughter, eyes alight with triumph.

“Well, my dear Penelope.” She began, voice laced with unmistakable excitement. “I must admit, I had not thought you capable of such strategy – to have ensnared a viscount, no less!”

Penelope, who had only just exhaled the breath she had been holding since Anthony’s departure, felt the familiar weight of her mother’s scrutiny settle upon her. With practiced patience, she folded her hands in her lap, willing herself to remain composed.

“I have done no ensnaring, mama.” She replied evenly. “Lord Bridgerton and I have known one another for many years. We became better acquainted through a few exchanged letters during the off-season. It is merely that familiarity which has –”

“-- led him to consider you as a wife?” Portia finished for her, grasping Penelope’s hands and squeezing them with unrestrained delight. “Oh, my dear girl, what a miracle! A viscount! I daresay your sisters could never have aspired to such a match.”

Across the room, Prudence huffed but said nothing, too absorbed in studying her reflection in a nearby looking glass.

Portia, meanwhile, prattled on, her mind already running ahead to wedding plans, grand dowries, and the prestige of a Bridgerton connection. Penelope merely sat there, offering small smiles and nods where appropriate, though inside, she could feel the walls closing in. The constant questioning, the scrutiny of her every word and movement – it was all beginning to suffocate her.

The Hawthorne Ball

The chandeliers in the grand ballroom of the Hawthorne estate shimmered with a thousand candlelit flames, casting golden reflections across polished floors and silk-clad guests. It was one of the anticipated events of the season, and the ton had arrived in full force, eager to observe, gossip, and of course, dance.

When Penelope Featherington arrived in the company of her mother and eldest sister, the air in the room shifted ever so slightly.

It was not merely her entrance, but how she entered.

She was adorned in a gown of the softest mint green, a shade that highlighted the delicate fairness of her complexion and the deep auburn of her curls. The cut of the dress, elegant yet subtly daring, flattered her figure in a way that left many blinking in astonishment.

Gone was the garish yellow that had plagued her for seasons past. In its place stood a lady who – if not yet fully confident – was beginning to step into her own.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, a susurration of curiosity and admiration. For the first time in a long while, Penelope Featherington felt truly seen.

Ang yet, the weight of their collective attention made her stomach tighten with unease.

Then, as she descended the grand staircase, she saw him.

Anthony Bridgerton stood at the base of the stairs, dressed in impeccable evening attire. But what caught her attention was not merely his presence – it was his choice of dress.

His vest and cravat, typically the deep Bridgerton blue, were instead a shade of muted mint green.

Her shade.

Penelope’s breath hitched, a warmth blooming in her chest. Whether deliberate or incidental, the effect was undeniable – they matched.

Anthony’s gaze locked onto hers, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable yet reassuring. As she reached the final step, he stepped forward, offering his hand.

“Miss Featherington.” He greeted smoothly, his fingers curling around hers before he brought them to his lips, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to the lace-covered knuckles. “You look exquisite this evening.”

Portia, nearly beside herself with glee, curtsied deeply, as did Prudence, though her expression carried less enthusiasm.

“My lord.” Portia tittered. “You are too kind.”

Anthony smiled politely at her before turning his full attention back to Penelope. He slid her hand through the crook of his arm.

“Shall we take a turn about the ballroom?”

Penelope could only nod, still reeling from the fact that – of all things – Anthony Bridgerton had coordinated his attire to hers.

As they strolled along the periphery of the vast room, the whispers only grew.

“Lord Bridgerton, with Miss Featherington?”

“Are they courting?”

“I have never seen her look quite so… refined.”

Penelope tensed slightly, but Anthony’s voice, low and reassuring, broke through her thoughts.

“Pay them no mind.” He murmured, his lips barely moving. “They are merely envious that I have the pleasure of your company.”

She turned to him in surprise, only to find the corners of his lips lifted in faintest smirk.

“You carry yourself beautifully.” Anthony observed quietly as they walked, his steady presence helping to calm her nerves despite the numerous eyes following their progress. “The entire room cannot help but notice your grace.”

“I daresay you exaggerate.” She replied, though his words had done their work – her nerves had begun to settle.

Anthony hummed in response, but said nothing further as they neared the section of the ballroom occupied by his family.

Upon seeing her, Violet Bridgerton’s face lit with unmistakable joy.

“Oh, my dear girl!” She exclaimed, rising to her feet and enveloping Penelope in a warm embrace. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you returned to us. I have missed you terribly.”

Penelope, though momentarily taken aback, felt herself relax into the maternal warmth of Lady Bridgerton’s embrace.

“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.” She said softly.

“Violet.” The elder woman corrected with a knowing smile. “You shall be family soon enough, my dear, as I told you in my letter.”

Penelope flushed, though she managed a nod.

Benedict, seated beside his mother, chuckled as he regarded his elder brother.

“So it is true then?” He mused. “Anthony, you are courting Miss Featherington?”

Anthony, ever composed, merely inclined his head.

Benedict let out a whistle. “Well, I must say, I did not expect this turn of events – but I am pleased by it.” He turned to Penelope with a grin. “Welcome, then, to the madness that is the Bridgerton family. London has been terribly dull without you.”

Penelope let out a small laugh, though her amusement was short-lived as Benedict’s eyes flickered over his brother’s attire.

“Good God!” He exclaimed, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me Anthony – was it a deliberate choice to wear the precise shade of Miss Featherington’s gown, or have you and the tailor become sentimental about color schemes?”

Penelope’s cheeks colored as she realized their coordinated appearance, while Violet beamed with maternal approval. Eloise remained conspicuously silent, though her rigid posture spoke volumes.

Anthony merely raised a brow, unconcerned.

Penelope, however, glanced down at his vest and cravat, her breath catching as she once again took in the matching hue.

Heat crept up her neck.

Anthony, catching her reaction, leaned in slightly and murmured. “I take it you approve?”

She bit her lip before whispering back. “I shall reserve my opinion until after the ball ends.”

As the orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz, Anthony turned to Penelope with an outstretched hand. “Might I have the honor of this dance?”

Penelope’s surprise was genuine – the Viscount was notorious for avoiding the dance floor – but she placed her hand in his, understanding that their courtship required such public displays. As he led her to the center of the ballroom, she could feel the collective gaze of the ton following their every move, marking this moment as the official beginning of their carefully orchestrated performance.

And for the first time in her life, Penelope was not merely a wallflower.

She was seen.

And she was dancing with him.

Chapter Text

The gilded ballroom shimmered with the soft glow of candlelight, casting warm reflections upon the sea of elegantly clad dancers. At the center of the dance floor, Anthony Bridgerton led Penelope Featherington in a waltz, his movement assured, his attention unwavering.

From the edge of the ballroom, Violet Bridgerton watched the pair with an expression that could only be described as motherly delight. A glass of champagne rested lightly in her gloved hand, though she hardly seemed to remember it, so absorbed was she in the sight of her eldest son – her Anthony – dancing with such ease and devotion.

“Well, well.” Came a familiar, sharp voice to her left. “I never thought I would live to see the day when Lord Bridgerton would voluntarily grace the dance floor for any reason other than obligation.

Violet turned to find the formidable Lady Danbury beside her, her cane resting against the polished floor, her shrewd eyes twinkling with amusement.”

“Agatha!” Violet greeted warmly, though there was no mistaking the mischievous glint in her own eyes. “I must admit, it is quite the sight, is it not? My son, the ever-elusive Viscount, dancing as if he enjoys it.”

Lady Danbury let out a soft chuckle, surveying the couple with interest. “I cannot fault him for his past reluctance. The man has been duty-bound since he was a boy. But look at him now.” She tapped the ground lightly with her cane. “I daresay he has finally found himself a reason to enjoy such frivolities.”

Violet let out a sigh, her smile deepening. “Indeed, he has.”

Agatha glanced at her. “And will you keep me in suspense, or shall I be permitted to hear the full tale?”

Violet’s giddiness was impossible to suppress. “It is official.” She declared, unable to contain the note of pride in her voice. “Anthony and Penelope have begun their courtship.”

At this, Lady Danbury raised her brows, a flicker of something akin to surprise crossing her usually unreadable face. But the expression soon melted into one of quiet approval. “Penelope Featherington?” She mused. “Well, that is an unexpected turn.”

Violet inclined her head knowingly. “It is unexpected only because no one in the ton had the good sense to notice her sooner. But my son, thank heavens, has proven himself the wiser for it.”

Lady Danbury let out a thoughtful hum, observing the couple more closely. “I cannot say I disagree. She has always been a rather sharp young woman, though woefully overlooked.” Her gaze flicked back to Violet. “You are a fortunate woman, Violet Bridgerton. Miss Featherington will make for a delightful daughter-in-law.”

Violet’s heart swelled at the words. “Oh, Agatha, you have no idea how long I have hoped for such a match. For years, I thought it would be Colin who would bring Penelope into our family. I had all but convinced myself of it.”

“Ah.” Lady Danbury nodded sagely. “And yet, it was the wrong Bridgerton you placed your hopes on.”

Violet chuckled. “Precisely. It seems I was mistaken about which of my sons had the sense to recognize a true gem when he saw one.” She turned back toward the dance floor, her expression fond. “But Anthony… he sees her now.”

Lady Danbury took a sip from her own glass. “And that.” She murmured. “Is all that matters.”

A comfortable silence passed between them as they watched the couple glide across the floor.

After a moment, Agatha tilted her head slightly. “I do hope, for your sake, that this courtship proceeds to marriage. Your son does not have the best history when it comes to such matters. Miss Edwina Sharma, if you recall.”

Violet sighed at the mention of Anthony’s failed betrothal from last season. “Oh, I remember it well.” She admitted. “But this… this is different.” She exhaled, watching the way Anthony’s gaze never strayed from Penelope, the way his hold on her was both protective and reverent. “With Penelope, he is not merely doing his duty. He even went to Cornwall just to bring back the dear girl back here in London. He wants this.”

Lady Danbury nodded approvingly. “Then we shall both hope that, this time, your son does not let a good thing slip away.”

Violet lifted her glass. “To that, I shall drink.”

And as the music swelled, carrying the dancing couple into another sweeping turn, both women exchanged a knowing smile.

The clock in Mayfair struck well past midnight, its chimes echoing faintly over the quiet streets. Most of the grand houses along Grosvenor Square were dark, their occupants having retired after the evening’s festivities. Yet, standing resolutely in the shadows of the Featherington gardens, Anthony Bridgerton endured the chill of the night air, his sharp gaze fixed on the servants’ entrance of the estate.

He had taken note of the unmarked hackney earlier in the evening – a detail too inconspicuous to the untrained eye but glaringly suspicious to Anthony. The sight of the carriage had ignited a quiet but resolute certainty: Penelope Featherington was up to something.

And sure enough, as he lingered beneath the cover of a large yew tree, a small figure cloaked in a dark maid’s uniform emerged from the house. The figure moved with practiced swiftness, their steps unhesitating as they approached the waiting hackney. Though the hood concealed the figure’s features, Anthony would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Penelope Featherington.

He moved quickly, his boots silent on the gravel path. Just as Penelope climbed into the carriage and began to close the door, Anthony’s gloved hand intercepted it, pulling the door open before stepping in uninvited.

“Anthony!” Penelope gasped, her crystal blue eyes wide with shock as she instinctively drew her hood tighter around her face. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

Settling into the seat across from her, Anthony shut the door behind him and rapped sharply on the roof of the hackney. “Drive on.” He ordered the coachman through the open window, his tone brooking no argument.

The carriage jolted forward, and Penelope’s glare deepened. “You have no right to commandeer my carriage, my lord.” She said through clenched teeth.

Anthony arched a brow, leaning back with the air of a man entirely unbothered by her irritation. “As your suitor, and your soon-to-be husband, I have every right to ensure your safety.”

Penelope crossed her arms tightly, her cheeks flushed, though whether from indignation or the chill of the night, Anthony could not tell. “I have been taking care of myself for years.” She retorted. “I hardly require your assistance now.”

Anthony’s features grew firm, his dark eyes locking onto hers with quiet intensity. “And what sort of man would I be.” He said, his voice low and commanding. “If I allowed my intended to wander the streets of London unescorted, in the dead of night, no less? What kind of husband could I claim to be, Penelope?”

The wright of his words silenced her for a moment. She had grown accustomed to fending for herself, to slipping through London’s shadows unnoticed. Yet, here was Anthony Bridgerton, insisting on bearing a burden she had carried alone for so long.

She opened her mouth to argue further but stopped when Anthony exhaled softly, his tone softening. “I promised to help you with this.” He reminded her gently. “Let me keep that promise.”

Resigned, Penelope leaned back against the seat, her irritation giving way to a grudging acceptance. The rest of the journey passed in tense silence until the hackney slowed to a stop near the printing shop.

As she reached for the door, Anthony’s hand shot out, halting her. “I will not permit you to go in alone.” He said firmly.

Penelope shot him a pointed look. “And I will not permit you to accompany me. Dressed as you are, you might as well hang a sign announcing your rank. Do you wish to alert the entire city to our presence?”

For a moment, Anthony seemed poised to argue, but he glanced down at his attire – a fine evening coat, a silk cravat in muted mint green to match her gown earlier – and conceded with a reluctant nod. “Ten minutes.” He said. “No more.”

Penelope smirked faintly. “You are far too bossy for your own good, my lord.”

With that, she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Anthony to fume quietly in the hackney.

When she returned, her cheeks were flushed with the cold, but there was a satisfied gleam in her eyes. As the hackney began its journey back to Grosvenor Square, Anthony broke the silence.

“From now on..” He said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Your drafts will be delivered by one of my trusted footmen.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “Anthony, I have been managing this perfectly well without –

“While her Majesty may be aware of your alter ego, the ton remains in ignorance.” He interrupted, his voice sharp with warning. “But if they were to discover the truth, do you think they would react kindly to the idea of a viscountess penning their scandals?”

Penelope looked away, her hands twisting in her lap.

Anthony leaned forward, his voice softening once more. “Your safety matters to me, Penelope. And so does the reputation of our family. Let me protect you.”

At last, she met his gaze, her own eyes softening despite her frustration . “Very well.” She murmured, though her tone carried a hint of reluctance.

Satisfied, Anthony sat back with a nod. “Good. Now, let us see you safely home.”

And as the hackney rattled through the quiet streets, Anthony allowed himself a small smile. Penelope Featherington was a force to be reckoned with, but he had no intention of letting her carry her burdens alone. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Readers,

The ton is abuzz with whispers following last night’s grand Hawthorne ball, an affair that saw the season’s finest parading in their dazzling finery, exchanging pleasantries, and, most importantly, giving us much to discuss. But while the event brimmed with the usual splendor, it was the actions of one Viscount Bridgerton and his chosen companion that have set tongues wagging this morning.

Yes, dear readers, that Bridgerton. The very one who, last season, stood solemnly at the altar only to be left quite alone by Miss Edwina Sharma, who had the good sense to abandon the ill-fated match before any vows are exchanged. One might think such a public spectacle would have left our dear Viscount wary of romantic entanglements. And yet, to our collective astonishment, he appeared utterly entranced last night – by none other than Miss Penelope Featherington.

You hear me correctly, my darlings. Miss Penelope Featherington, who, for the past two seasons, has been more widely known for her unfortunate penchant for yellow than for any romantic prospects. Indeed, her citrus-inspired wardrobe — whether resembling a lemon or a canary – had rendered her a fixture at the edges of ballrooms, her sharp mind overshadowed by her garish gowns. But it seems the ton’s perennial wallflower has blossomed.

Resplendent in an elegant mint-green gown that flattered her in ways her previous choices never could, Miss Featherington commanded attention as she descended the staircase. And who should be waiting for her at the bottom but Viscount Bridgerton himself, dressed in a cravat of the same hue. A coincidence, or a deliberate declaration?

The pair shared not one but two dances – an unmistakable breach of decorum for any gentleman not explicitly courting a lady. When not on the dance floor, they were nearly inseparable, strolling arm in arm along the ballroom’s edges, speaking in hushed tones that only fueled speculation.

Naturally, one cannot help but wonder: is this the beginning of a courtship? Or is the Viscount merely offering Miss Featherington a measure of sympathy after the rather cruel determination of his brother, Mr. Colin Bridgerton, last season? For those who may have forgotten (though how could anyone?), Mr. Bridgerton was overheard stating he would “never dream of courting Penelope Featherington.”

Has the Viscount taken it upon himself to repair the damage done by his younger brother’s careless words? Or has he, like the rest of us, come to see the hidden depths beneath Miss Featherington’s unassuming exterior?

Whatever the case may be, it is a remarkable turn of events. From being the subject of whispered ridicule to captivating the attention of one of society’s most eligible bachelors, Miss Featherington’s transformation is nothing short of extraordinary.

But be warned, dear readers: while love might be in the air, so too is suspicion. After all, Viscount Bridgerton is no stranger to failed courtships, and Miss Featherington’s family is no stranger to scandal. Should these two unite, one can only imagine the shockwaves that will ripple through the ton.

As always, I shall remain your devoted observer, poised to report on the triumphs, the tragedies, and the truths lurking beneath the glittering surface of our society.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

The Bridgerton drawing room was as lively as ever, its sunlit corners brimming with warmth and chatter. Penelope Featherington sat perched delicately upon the settee, her back straight and posture impeccable, though a keen observer might detect the tension in her shoulders. Her gaze flitted about the room, taking in the familiar surroundings that once felt like a second home. It was a peculiar sensation to return, now as an official guest with a particular purpose – a role she had never imagined for herself.

Gregory and Hyacinth, full of youthful exuberance, clamored for her attention. Gregory recounted an outlandish story about a misplaced cricket ball that had, supposedly, sent a vase toppling, while Hyacinth took Penelope’s gloved hand in her own and declared with great authority that she had missed her “most terribly”.

“Why, Pen.” Hyacinth exclaimed with a dramatic flutter of her eyelashes. “You mustn’t ever leave London again. It is far too dull without you to brighten the room.”

Penelope smiled warmly, the young girl’s earnestness soothing some of her unease. “I daresay, Hy, you manage to fill any room with enough brightness for the both of us.”

Francesca and Benedict, standing off to the side, exchanged knowing glances. Francesca offered Penelope a soft smile, her tone light but sincere. “It is good to see you again, Penelope. The house has been too quiet without your clever remarks to balance out Eloise’s litany on women’s suffrage.”

Before Penelope could respond, the door opened, and Viscount Bridgerton entered with his characteristic commanding presence. The room shifted, all eyes instinctively drawn to him. Anthony’s dark gaze immediately sought Penelope, his lips curling into a warm smile that, despite herself, made her heart skip.

“Miss Featherington.” He greeted as he approached, bowing slightly before taking her gloved hand. His lips brushed her knuckles in a gesture so deliberate it sent a ripple of giggles across the room. “You look so beautiful today.”

Penelope felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She knew this was all part of their carefully constructed performance, yet the sincerity in his touch and the intensity of his gaze made her stomach flutter. “My lord.” She replied, her voice soft and melodic. “You are too kind.”

Anthony’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than propriety might allow, his thoughts briefly scattered. How had he never noticed before the remarkable shade of blue in her eyes, like the clear skies after a storm? She was radiant, her delicate beauty more pronounced with every passing moment.

The spell was broken by a subtle clearing of Violet Bridgerton’s throat. “Anthony.” She said with a bemused smile. “I trust you find Penelope’s company agreeable, but you mustn’t forget that there are others in the room.”

Anthony released Penelope’s hand with a sheepish chuckle and settled beside her. Benedict, ever the mischief-maker, seized the opportunity. “Late morning for you, brother.” He remarked casually, though his tone held a teasing edge. “Did the Hawthorne ball wear you out so much, or was there another cause for your tardiness? You missed breaking your fast this morning.”

Anthony stiffened, his mind racing for a suitable answer that would not betray the memory of their clandestine meeting that involved a hackney ride unchaperoned, and the secret delivery of Whistledown’s latest column.

Before he could speak, Hyacinth piped up, saving him from his internal struggle. “Oh, Anthony, what Lady Whistledown wrote today – about you and Pen sharing two dances and being inseparable – is it true?”

All eyes turned toward him, save for Eloise, who buried her nose further into her book with an exaggerated air of disinterest. Violet’s teacup hovered near her lips, hiding her smile as she watched her son’s struggle with poorly veiled amusement.

Taking a steadying breath, Anthony stood, his decision swift. He extended his hand toward Penelope, who hesitated only briefly before placing her own within his. Rising to stand beside him, she cast him a fleeting, curious glance.

“Indeed, it is true.” Anthony began, his voice resolute. “Allow me to make this moment official, here among my family. Indeed, I am courting Miss Penelope Featherington, with the intention of making her my wife before this season concludes.”

The room erupted in joyous exclamations. Francesca rose to embrace Penelope, while Benedict clapped Anthony on the shoulder, a wide grin lighting his face. Gregory cheered enthusiastically, and Hyacinth clapped her hands together, declaring. “I knew it!”

Only Eloise remained silent, her book poised on her lap.

“Congratulations, Anthony.” She said dryly, glancing up at her brother with an arched brow. “I’m certain you’ll both be very happy.”

Anthony frowned slightly, but before he could address his sister, Violet intervened, her voice calm but firm. “Eloise, my dear, perhaps it is time to set aside your book and properly welcome Penelope.”

Eloise’s lips pursed, but she complied, standing with an air of reluctance as she remembered her conversation with Anthony in his study. “Welcome back, Penelope.” She said curtly, before returning to her seat.

Anthony tightened his hold on Penelope’s hand, sensing her unease, and leaned closer to her. “Pay no mind to Eloise.” He murmured for her ears only. “I’ve already spoken with her. She will come around.”

Penelope nodded, though her heart ached at the cold reception from her once dearest friend. For the sake of appearances, she donned a smile and returned to her seat, as the family began to chatter eagerly about the upcoming plans for the couple.

Anthony, however, kept his gaze on Penelope, silently vowing that whatever reservations she harbored, he would ensure that their future together – real or otherwise – would be nothing less than remarkable.

Chapter Text

The warm glow of candlelight softened the edges of the Bridgerton sitting room as evening settled over Mayfair. What had begun as afternoon tea had seamlessly transformed into dinner, with a hastily dispatched note to Portia Featherington ensuring propriety was maintained.

Now, as the younger Bridgertons reluctantly retired for the evening, Penelope found herself alone with Lady Violet Bridgerton, whose gentle expression held all the warmth of a mother’s love. The older woman’s kind eyes were fixed on her, exuding a maternal care that Penelope had often imagined but rarely experienced in her own household.

“My dear.” Violet began, her voice soft yet brimming with sincerity. “It brings me such joy to see you here, seated among my family. I meant every word I penned in my letter to you. From the moment I met you since you were but a child, I knew you possessed a rare quality – a quiet strength that this family would be lucky to claim. And now, with Anthony… well, I can scarcely contain my happiness.”

Penelope, already flushed from the day’s events, felt her cheeks grow warmer. “Lady Bridgerton, your kindness overwhelms me. You have always been so gracious, so welcoming… It is no exaggeration to say that your support was a great factor in my agreeing to this courtship. I have long admired you and the way you’ve guided your family with such love and wisdom. To hear your words now…” She trailed off, emotion thickening her voice. “I can only hope I prove worthy of the role you and Anthony have entrusted me with.”

Violet reached across the space between them and took Penelope’s hand in hers, her touch firm yet gentle. “Penelope, there is no ‘proving’ necessary. You are everything I could wish for in a daughter-in-law and more. Anthony is the fortunate one in this arrangement, let me assure you.”

Penelope’s laugh was soft, almost shy, as she lowered her gaze. “You are too kind, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Violet. Must I remind you?” The older woman corrected with a smile. “If you are to be my daughter in truth, then I insist you call me Violet.”

“Violet.” Penelope echoed, the name tasting unfamiliar yet comforting on her tongue.

The dowager viscountess’ expression grew thoughtful, and she leaned back slightly, studying Penelope with maternal concern. “I have noticed.” She began delicately. “A certain tension between you and Eloise. I do not wish to pry, my dear, but I hope you will take heart. Whatever the matter may be, I am confident it can be mended. I have seen your patience and kindness firsthand, Penelope. You have shown it with all my children, even when they hardly deserve it.” her lips quirked in a knowing smile.

Penelope hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her gown. “Eloise and I…” She began cautiously. “We have had our differences of late. I fear I may have disappointed her, though it was never my intention.”

Violet nodded, her expression one of understanding. “Eloise has always been strong-willed, and her passions sometimes make her blind to reason. But time has a way of softening even the most stubborn hearts. I know she values your friendship deeply, even if she struggles to show it now.”

Penelope’s heart ached at the thought of Eloise, still she nodded slowly despite her firm resignation that she will not engage Eloise in any way to keep her peace of mind. “I hope you are right, Violet. She has been my dearest friend.”

“You will see.” Violet assured her, her voice filled with quiet conviction. “Patience and love work wonders, my dear. And as for Anthony..” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “He is no less stubborn than Eloise, I fear. But I know you will keep him grounded. You have the strength to stand beside him, Penelope, not behind him. That is what he needs, and that is what you are.”

The blush returned to Penelope’s cheeks, and she looked down overwhelmed by Violet’s faith in her. “I will do my best.” She promised softly.

“I have no doubt of it.” Violet replied warmly. “Now, enough of this solemn talk. We must go to the modiste tomorrow. We must get you dresses in Bridgerton blue. Have you realized how beautiful both of you are wearing matching colors?”

The shift in conversation was a welcome relief, and Penelope found herself smiling once again.

Just as Violet began extolling the virtues of soft greens and blues for Penelope’s complexion, the door opened, and Anthony entered with his usual commanding presence. His dark eyes immediately sought Penelope, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that was both genuine and practiced.

“Ladies.” He greeted, bowing slightly. “It seems I am intruding on a rather animated discussion.”

“Not at all, dearest.” Violet replied warmly. “Penelope and I were merely planning an outing to the modiste. It is high time she commissions some dresses that truly do her justice. No more of those unfortunate yellows.”

Anthony chuckled, crossing the room to stand before Penelope. Without hesitation, he took her hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles. His eyes lingered on hers, and his voice dropped slightly, becoming softer. “A most splendid idea, mother. Penelope deserves nothing less than perfection.”

Penelope offered him a warm smile, though her calculating gaze betrayed the performance beneath her composure. “You are too kind, my lord.”

The scene brought a glow to Violet’s cheeks, her heart swelling with delight at the apparent devotion between the two. “Anthony, you will be pleased to hear I have been persuading Penelope to embrace colors that better suit her. I daresay Madame Delacroix will work wonders.”

Anthony straightened, his tone light. “I could not agree more. In fact, I have already opened an account for Penelope at the modiste. And, mother, you and my sisters must take advantage of it as well. I fully expect to see a rather exorbitant bill on my desk by the day after tomorrow.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, and she shook her head. “That is far too generous, Anthony. I would be happy to commission new dresses, but I shall pay for them myself. I cannot impose on you so.”

Anthony’s brow arched, and he tilted his head, his voice firm but teasing. “Nonsense. It is entirely customary for a suitor to provide for his intended, particularly when said suitor has every intention of marrying her.”

Violet chimed in with a knowing smile. “Indeed, my dear. Such gestures not only display Anthony’s affection but also reinforce his commitment to the ton. Let this be an opportunity for you to shine, Penelope.”

With both Bridgertons aligned against her, Penelope could do little but concede. She sighed softly, her smile returning as she stood. “You are both insistent, I see. Very well, but only on the condition that I shall not be extravagant.”

Anthony offered his arm, his smile growing. “Shall we?’

Penelope bid Violet goodnight, and together with her lady’s maid, Rae, she allowed Anthony to escort her home.

The walk back to the Featherington estate was deliberately unhurried. Anthony had chosen a less conspicuous route through the rear gardens, a decision that Penelope noted with silent understanding. Rae, Penelope’s maid, trailed discreetly behind until Anthony gave her a subtle nod. Penelope, catching the signal, turned to Rae. “Go ahead inside. I shan’t be but a moment.”

With a curtsy, Rae disappeared through the servant’s entrance, leaving Penelope and Anthony alone amidst the shadowed blooms.

He turned to her, his expression unusually earnest. “Thank you for spending the day with my family. It means more to them – and to me – than you may realize.”

Penelope folded her hands before her, her voice steady. “Your family has always been dear to me. Though, I must admit, the day was longer than I anticipated.”

Anthony chuckled. “I shall consider that a challenge to make your next visit even more enjoyable.” his tone turned serious as he continued. “I also wanted to apologize for Eloise’s behavior. I’ve spoken with her the day we arrived back home.”

Penelope nodded, her tone cool. “As we agreed, Anthony. I will not be expected to engage Eloise beyond what I find tolerable. That has not changed.”

He dipped his head, conceding. “Of course. I merely wished to assure you that I am addressing the matter.”

A moment of quiet passed between them, and just as Penelope prepared to take her leave, Anthony stepped closer, his face mere inches from hers. The unexpected proximity made her breath hitch, and her pulse quickened.

“Anthony..” She began, her voice faltering. “What are you –”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth – that same rakish smile that had likely conquered countless hearts in London’s ballrooms. He leaned closer, so near that propriety seemed but a distant memory. His fingers tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, his touch sending an unexpected tremor through her. And then his lips descended to her soft skin.

The brief kiss to her cheek was both shocking and improper.

“What are you doing?” Penelope demanded, stepping back.

“Merely being intimate with my… lover.” He teased, the word rolling off his tongue with deliberate ease.

Her response was a derisive scoff. “We need not maintain this charade when we are alone.”

Anthony’s smile grew more pronounced. “Who says it is a charade?”

The challenge hung between them like a delicate thread, vibrating with unspoken tension. Penelope, unwilling to engage further, turned and walked away – leaving Anthony watching her retreat with a triumphant expression.

The night wrapped around them, holding the secrets of their complicated arrangement – a performance that seemed to be blurring the lines between calculated strategy and something far more predictable.

Chapter Text

The moment Penelope reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber, she turned the key in the lock with trembling fingers, ensuring her solitude. She rested her back against the solid door, the cold wood grounding her as she tried to make sense of her racing heart and the unfamiliar heat rising to her cheeks.

Her hand instinctively drifted to the spot on her cheek where Anthony’s lips had grazed her skin. The memory of it was seared into her mind – the brush of warmth, the deliberate softness of the gesture, and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air between them.

Anthony Bridgerton had kissed her.

The thought repeated itself over and over, as though her mind refused to accept the improbable truth. Anthony Bridgerton, the Viscount, an influential and one of the wealthiest lords in London, had kissed her. The same Anthony Bridgerton who was admired, envied and desired by nearly every eligible lady of the ton.

And yet, he had kissed her; Penelope Featherington. The perennial wallflower, the girl perpetually overshadowed by her family’s scandals and her own garish wardrobe.

Her fingers pressed lightly against her cheek again as though to confirm the sensation, and she let out a small, incredulous laugh. “What a preposterous thing.” She murmured to herself.

Her emotions warred within her. Irritation bubbled up at Anthony’s audacity, his teasing nature so evident in that smirk he always wore when he thought he had bested her. How dare he use their pretense of courtship to toy with her so? But then, another part of her – one she scarcely dared to acknowledge – thrilled at the memory. The kiss, brief though it was, had awakened something entirely new in her, a giddy realization that she had been noticed, desired, even if only in jest.

She exhaled deeply, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought entirely. “If he thinks he can leave me flustered so easily, he is sorely mistaken.” She muttered under her breath.

Straightening her spine, Penelope resolved to turn the tables on Anthony. The idea of wiping that infuriating smirk off his face brought a spark of determination to her eyes. Yes, she would find a way to make him rue his teasing.

Her scheming was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “My lady, may I come in?” Came the voice of her maid, Rae.

Penelope sighed, her moment of solitude slipping away. She unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing Rae to enter. The maid gave her a questioning look but said nothing as she began her nightly routine of unfastening Penelope’s gown and loosening her corset.

As the tight stays were released, Penelope felt her shoulders relax, but her mind remained restless, her thoughts circling back to Anthony. Sliding onto the edge of her bed, she allowed a small, mischievous smile to creep onto her lips.

“Let us see how the Viscount enjoys playing this game.” She whispered, her voice low and determined. For the first time that evening, she felt a semblance of control return to her.

—--

The ballroom was already abuzz with lively chatter and the strains of violins when Penelope Featherington entered with her family, her lemon-colored gowns now a thing of the past. Instead, she wore a gown of soft lavender, its delicate embroidery bringing out the luster of her auburn curls and the brightness of her blue eyes. The transformation, though subtle, was enough to catch the eyes of the ton.

True to her nature, Penelope had planned to cling to the fringes of the room, observing rather than participating, to gain gossip that would be drafted on her next Whistledown column. Her arrival ahead of the Bridgertons offered her the rare luxury of slipping into her role as a wallflower without the overbearing presence of Anthony. Yet, her strategy was foiled as gentleman after gentleman approached, bowing low and engaging her in pleasant conversation.

Lord Hensley was the first, commenting on the elegance of her gown. Sir Ralston followed, keen to discuss the latest play at Drury Lane, and then came Lord Remington, his polished manners and easy charm drawing out Penelope’s warm laughter.

For Penelope, it was both flattering and bewildering. She had spent years being overlooked, a fixture against the walls, yet now, with just a touch of refinement in her attire and the lingering association with the Bridgertons, she found herself the center of attention.

Half an hour passed, and the Bridgertongs made their entrance, their arrival causing a ripple of whispers and turned heads. Anthony, flanked by his mother Violet, Benedict, and Eloise, wore his usual air of authority and grace, though his gaze was sharp, scanning the room instinctively.

After the requisite courtesies to the hosts, the group was intercepted by Lady Danbury, her cane tapping rhythmically against the polished floor. Her sharp eyes gleamed with mischief as she greeted them.

“Ah, Lord Bridgerton, always the epitome of punctuality.” She drawled, her words dripping with irony. “It seems you’ve left your intended to fend for herself this evening.”

Anthony, his brow furrowing, replied with practiced politeness. “Good evening, Lady Danbury. Miss Featherington is quite capable of navigating society. I see no cause for concern.”

“Capable, indeed.” Lady Danbury retorted, her smile widening. “She’s attracting more suitors than a debutante at her first ball. A wise man might consider that leaving her unguarded is a gamble.”

Violet, intrigued, leaned closer. “Penelope? Drawing suitors?”

“Quite the flock.” Lady Danbury confirmed, her tone teasing. “She looks radiant this evening, does she not? It’s no wonder the gentlemen are flocking to her. A shame you arrive so late, Viscount. They’ve had the field to themselves.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. Without another word, he excused himself, his stride purposeful as he moved through the throng in search of Penelope.

It did not take long to find her. The vibrant hue of her curls was unmistakable, and there she stood by the refreshment table, her smile lighting up the space around her. The sight brought Anthony a moment of relief, but it was short-lived. His eyes narrowed as he saw Lord Remington leaning slightly toward Penelope, his expression animated as he spoke. Worse still, Penelope appeared utterly engaged, her laughter ringing out softly as she responded.

Anthony’s frown deepened, his steps quickening as he made his way to the pair. He interrupted their exchange with a clipped. “Lord Remington.” His voice polite but firm.

Remington straightened, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Ah, Viscount Bridgerton. A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Anthony replied, his tone betraying little pleasure at all. “I trust you will excuse us. I must steal Miss Featherington for a dance.”

Penelope blinked, startled, but before she could protest, Anthony offered his arm, his expression leaving no room for refusal.

As they moved toward the dance floor, Penelope looked up at him, her brow arching. “That was rather abrupt, my lord.”

Anthony glanced down at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I was unaware you had grown so… popular.”

She could not help the slight smirk that tugged her lips. “Is it so surprising that I might enjoy a conversation or two?”

Anthony stopped abruptly, turning to face her. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, his usual mask of control faltered. “It is surprising.” He admitted, his voice low. “How much I disliked seeing it.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, but she quickly schooled her expression . “Perhaps you should have arrived earlier, my lord.”

Anthony’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. “Perhaps I should have.” He conceded, leading her into the dance.

Chapter Text

The following morning was one of bright sunshine and chirping birds, the kind of day that might inspire levity in the most serious of men. Yet, as Anthony Bridgerton strode up the path to the Featherington residence, a dark cloud of irritation clung to him. The events of the previous evening still gnawed at his pride, not to mention his growing unease over the gaggle of gentlemen seemingly intent on vying for Penelope’s hand.

He adjusted his cravat impatiently, nodding briefly to Briarly, the Featherington butler, who welcomed him at the door. Briarly, with his usual polished demeanor, led Anthony to the drawing room where the Viscount expected, as was customary, a private audience with Miss Penelope Featherington.

Instead, the sight that greeted him brought him to an abrupt halt.

The room, decorated in its usual outlandish tones, was abuzz with conversation and laughter. A cluster of gentlemen surrounded Penelope, maintaining a respectable distance but nonetheless exuding an air of keen attentiveness. Lord Remington, ever the polished charmer, leaned slightly forward, clearly captivated by whatever Penelope was saying, while Lord Hensley nodded enthusiastically, his admiration poorly disguised.

Anthony’s pleasant expression, carefully rehearsed for the visit, shifted immediately into a frown. His jaw tightened, and the flowers in his hand crinkled slightly under the pressure of his grip. It was Portia Featherington, however, who approached him with an eager smile, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Ah, Viscount Bridgerton!” She exclaimed, her voice tinged with a note of triumph. “How delightful of you to call on our dear Penelope this fine morning.”

“Lady Featherington.” Anthony replied, bowing stiffly. His tone was even, though a thread of irritation wove through his words. “I must admit I was unaware Miss Featherington was expecting so many callers this morning.”

Portia, oblivious to the edge in his voice, clasped her hands together in delight. “Neither did we! But after last night’s ball, it seems the eligible gentlemen of the ton could not resist showing their interest. Such a pleasant surprise for our Penelope, do you not agree?”

Anthony inclined his head in a tight nod, unwilling to voice the truth: that he found the entire situation anything but pleasant.

Portia, evidently satisfied, turned back to the room and called out with practiced sweetness. “Penelope, my dear, Viscount Bridgerton has come to pay you a call!”

At her mother’s words, Penelope turned, her bright smile faltering slightly as her eyes met Anthony’s stormy gaze. She rose gracefully, excusing herself from her current conversation with a polite nod to her suitors. As she approached Anthony, her brows furrowed in curiosity.

“My lord.” She greeted, her tone warm but measured. “I had not expected you this early. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Anthony managed a strained smile, offering her the flowers he still clutched. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Featherington. These are for you.”

“Thank you.” Penelope said, accepting the bouquet with a gentle smile. Her sharp eyes, however, did not miss the tension in his posture. “You appear… troubled.”

“Not troubled.” Anthony corrected swiftly, though his tone betrayed him. “Merely… surprised. You seem to have attracted quite the audience this morning.”

Penelope tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. “Should I apologize, my lord? It would seem the attention I have drawn displeases you.”

Anthony stiffened, unwilling to admit the truth outright. “Not at all. I merely find it curious that the gentlemen of the ton have only now come to appreciate what I have long known.”

Penelope blinked, her expression softening slightly before she masked it with a coy smile. “How gracious of you to say so.”

Lord Remington, sensing Anthony’s arrival had drawn Penelope away, took a step forward, clearly intent on reclaiming her attention. Anthony’s gaze flicked toward him, darkening.

“Miss Featherington.” Anthony said quickly, his voice firm. “Might I have a word with you in private?”

Penelope hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Of course, Lord Bridgerton. If you would excuse me, my lords.” She turned towards her other callers.

Anthony offered her his arm, which she accepted with a slight curtsy to the room. As they moved to the quieter corner of the room, Anthony exhaled, though his tension did not entirely ease.

“You are quite popular this morning.” He remarked, his tone edged with something between annoyance and begrudging admiration.

Penelope, amused by his demeanor, replied. “Am I to blame for being gracious to those who sought my company? Perhaps, my lord, you should have arrived earlier.”

Anthony’s lips twitched, but he did not smile. “Perhaps I should have. It seems I have underestimated your charm, Miss Featherington.”

Penelope tilted her head, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “A costly misstep, my lord.”

Anthony regarded her for a moment, then sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Indeed. One I shall not repeat.”

—--

The early afternoon sunlight cast a golden hue across Hyde Park, dappling the ground through the sparse foliage of late spring. The gentle hum of London’s fashionable set promenading filled the air, their laughter and conversation mingling with the clip-clop of horses from nearby carriages. Among them walked Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington, an ostensibly serene pair, though a closer look revealed undercurrents of tension brewing between them.

Anthony strode with purpose, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he fought to maintain a semblance of composure. Penelope, in contrast, moved with an unhurried grace, her gloved hands clasped lightly around her parasol, its lace casting delicate patterns on her face. The contrast between his agitation and her calm only heightened the storm gathering within him.

For three days now, the pattern had been unbroken: every time Anthony called upon Penelope, another suitor was already there or soon arrived, eager to bask in her attention. That, however, was not the worst of it. No, it was the camaraderie – the growing ease – between Penelope and Lord Remington that needled him like a thorn under his skin. And today, his patience had reached its limit.

“Penelope.” Anthony began, his voice carefully measured but with an unmistakable edge. “It has not escaped my notice that you are in exceedingly high demand of late.”

Penelope tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Indeed, Anthony. It would appear that my charms, long overlooked by society, are finally being recognized. Quite gratifying, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her tone was light, but there was no mistaking the barb beneath her words. Anthony stiffened, his jaw tightening as he struggled for an appropriate response.

“I cannot help but observe.” He continued, ignoring her subtle jab. “That one particular gentleman has been rather… persistent in his attentions.”

Penelope feigned innocence, tilting her parasol slightly to shield her from the afternoon sun. “Oh? To whom do you refer?”

“You know very well to whom I refer.” Anthony snapped, his composure slipping. “Lord Remington.”

Penelope’s smile widened, though her eyes remained sharp. “Ah, yes. Lord Remington has proven himself quite charming company. He is an excellent conversationalist, and I find his wit… refreshing.”

Anthony’s brows furrowed deeply. “And what, pray, do you discuss that is so invigorating?”

“Many things.” She replied airily, enjoying his discomfiture. “He has a particular fondness for Lady Whistledown’s writings, which is quite rare among gentlemen, I assure you. His insights are most —”

“Lady Whistledown.” Anthony interrupted, his irritation becoming evident. “Surely, you do not base your esteem for a man on his opinion of the anonymous gossip writer.”

“Why not?” Penelope countered, her voice calm but her eyes glinting with mischief. “It shows he is willing to appreciate wit and cleverness, even if it comes from an unexpected source. A rare quality, wouldn’t you agree?”

Anthony’s frown deepened, his irritation bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “Penelope.” He said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “You seem to forget that you and I are to marry. These… interactions with other gentlemen are becoming increasingly inappropriate.”

Penelope met his gaze evenly, her expression cool. “Forgive me, my lord, but I have forgotten no such thing. You, however, seem to forget that while the Queen has decreed our union, we are not yet engaged. Until that time, I am still a debutant and, as such, perfectly within my rights to receive and entertain suitors.”

Her words, delivered with calm precision, struck their target with unerring accuracy. Anthony’s jaw clenched and his fists curled at his sides. He could not refute her argument, infuriatingly true as it was.

After a tense silence, he said. “Very well, if that is how you see it. Perhaps we should expedite matters.”

Penelope arched a brow. “Expedite matters?”

“Yes.” He said, his voice resolute. “I shall propose at once. That will put an end to this nonsense and ensure no gentleman entertains any delusions about claiming your hand.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a slow, calculating smile, her eyes gleaming with challenge. “And what makes you think, my lord, that I would accept such a proposal delivered out of jealousy rather than good reason?”

Anthony’s lips parted, caught off guard by her sharp riposte. “I –”

“You seem quite confident in your position.” She continued, her tone as icy as her gaze. “Yet you fail to recognize that my acceptance of your suit is not genuine, only to humor the Queen’s decree. Perhaps you should consider what it is that makes your proposal preferable to the attentions of, say, Lord Remington.”

Anthony stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. The formidable Viscount, master of negotiations and leader of his family, found himself utterly unprepared for the fire in the eyes of the woman before him.

Penelope turned her gaze back to the path ahead, her expression serene once more. “Shall we continue our walk, my lord?” She asked sweetly, leaving him to stew in his thoughts as they resumed their promenade.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sunlight bathed the streets of Bond Street in a golden glow, casting warm hues over the fashionable throng that bustled along the pavements. The gentle clatter of carriage wheels and the lively chatter of the ton filled the air, but nothing was quite as arresting as the sight of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton seated at Gunter’s Tea Shop, in plain view of all society, across from none other than Miss Penelope Featherington.

It was, by all accounts, an unexpected sight.

Gunter’s was a place of frivolity, a haven for young couples seeking to exchange soft smiles over delicate spoonful of ices. It was a world away from the clubs and gentlemen’s gatherings Anthony was accustomed to, where cigars and brandy reigned supreme. And yet, here he was, a man of undeniable stature and seriousness, perched at a dainty wrought-iron table, forced to endure the ordeal of a lemon ice while the whole of London watched.

His discomfort was not overt – Anthony Bridgerton was too controlled a man to reveal anything so easily – but Penelope, who had made something of an art form out of observing him, could see it plainly. The slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed soundlessly against the pristine tablecloth, the manner in which he shifted in his seat as though the very idea of being at Gunter’s was an affront to his dignity – it was, to put it mildly, deliciously amusing.

“You are staring.” Anthony remarked dryly, stirring his untouched ice with the edge of his spoon.

Penelope’s lips twitched. “Am I?”

“Quite shamelessly, I might add.”

She lifted her spoon to her lips, taking a delicate bite of her raspberry ice. “Well, it is not every day one sees the Viscount Bridgerton seated at a place so… lighthearted.”

Anthony sighed, his gaze flickering briefly to the crowd. Several matrons and debutantes were already whispering behind their gloved hands, their curious gazes flitting toward their table. “I suppose I ought to be grateful that my suffering serves as a spectacle for the ton.”

Penelope laughed softly, tilting her head. “Suffering? Anthony, surely you exaggerate.”

Anthony’s gaze returned to her, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Penelope, I do not believe you understand the gravity of my predicament. I have endured duels of wit with Lady Danbury, endless political debates with my fellow peers, and the unruly chaos of my own siblings. Yet, I dare say none of those trials have been quite as trying as sitting here, consuming a confection made of frozen citrus while Lady Throwbridge watches me as though I were a caged animal at the Royal Menagerie.”

Penelope suppressed a giggle, lifting her spoon to hide her smile. “I had no idea you harbored such an aversion to sweets, my lord.”

“I do not.” He admitted, his tone exasperated. “I merely resent the necessity of indulging in them under such scrutiny.”

“Ah, but that is the price of courtship, I’m afraid.” Penelope teased, her crystal blue eyes gleaming. “Surely, you did not think you could win a lady’s favor without enduring a bit of discomfort?”

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting from exasperation to something far more intent. “And tell me, Penelope, have I won any of your favor thus far?”

A lesser woman might have faltered under the weight of his gaze, under the sheer intensity with which Anthony Bridgerton regarded her. But Penelope was not a lesser woman. She met his eyes steadily, amusement still dancing in hers.

“You have been most persistent.” She allowed, lifting her spoon to take another bite of her ice. “It is admirable, truly.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Admirable.” He muttered. “That is hardly the response a man hopes to receive.”

“And yet it is a response, is it not?” She countered.

Anthony huffed a laugh, a rare, genuine chuckle escaping his lips. “You delight in vexing me, do you not?”

“Not at all.” Penelope said airily. “Though I must admit, it is a rather enjoyable pastime.”

Anthony took a deep breath, as if to steel himself against further teasing. He eyed his lemon ice with something akin to resignation before finally relenting and lifting his spoon. If he was to play the part of a doting suitor, he supposed he must play it well.

As the spoonful of lemon ice met his tongue, Anthony’s expression remained impassive, but Penelope did not miss the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I shall not tell a soul if you despise it.” He swallowed, his brows knitting slightly. “It is… tart.”

Penelope smiled, resting her chin delicately on her gloved hand. “I find it quite fitting, actually.”

Anthony raised a brow. “How so?”

“Because, my lord.” She said, eyes dancing with amusement. “You are equally sour when faced with matters outside of your control.”

Anthony barked out a laugh, his rich chuckle drawing the attention of a few onlookers. He shook his head, his irritation forgotten, if only for a moment. “You are impossible, Penelope Featherington.”

“Perhaps.” She conceded with a playful smile. “But you are here, are you not?”

Anthony studied her, the mischief in her gaze, the way the sunlight illuminated the fiery strands of her hair. Yes, he was here. And he would remain, lemon ice and all, if it meant staying by her side.

For despite his discomfort, despite his reservations, there was one thing he was certain of – he would not back down. Not now. Not ever.

The afternoon air at Gunter’s was filled with the gentle hum of polite conversation, the occasional clink of silver against delicate china, and the distant laughter of children playing in Hyde Park. Seated beneath the shade of a floral awning, Violet Bridgerton, flanked by her daughters and the formidable Lady Danbury, sipped at her tea, her gaze drifting every so often toward the table where her eldest son sat in the company of Miss Penelope Featherington.

It was a sight Violet could not have envisioned even a mere fortnight ago — Anthony, the ever-dutiful, ever-serious Viscount, gracing a tea shop with his presence for the sole purpose of courting a young lady. And yet, there he was, attempting to partake in a dish he clearly did not enjoy, all for the sake of Penelope.

Violet, ever one to encourage the course of true love, turned her attention to Lady Danbury and addressed her with mild curiosity. “I must say, Agatha, I am delighted by your company, as always, but I had not expected you to take such an interest in Anthony’s courtship that you would accompany us on this fine afternoon.”

Lady Danbury, ever sharp, let out a knowing hum as she lifted her cane and tapped it lightly against the ground. “Oh, my dear Violet, there are very few things in this world that I would not make an effort to see unfold. A Bridgerton in the throes of courtship, for one. But more importantly, I would not dare miss the spectacle of your son making an utter fool of himself over a Featherington.”

Francesca, who had been quietly observing the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, stifled a laugh behind her teacup. “You do make it sound rather dramatic, Lady Danbury.”

Agatha Danbury fixed her with a knowing look. “That is because it is, my dear girl. A Viscount who has evaded matrimony with the skill of a seasoned general suddenly lavishing attention upon a young lady he has known for years but never once regarded as a potential wife? If that is not worth observing, I do not know what is.”

At this, Violet chuckled, though there was a warmth in her eyes as she regarded her son once more. “I must admit, I have never seen Anthony quite so… determined. He has always been decisive, yes, but this courtship – it is unlike him. There is a sincerity to it, a steadfastness that I had not expected.”

Lady Danbury smirked. “Then you shall be pleased to know that her Majesty shares your curiosity.”

Both Violet and Francesca turned their heads at once, their brows lifting in perfect unison.

“The Queen?” Violet repeated, blinking in astonishment. “The Queen is interested in my son’s courtship?”

Lady Danbury nodded, taking a slow sip of her tea before replying. “Indeed she is. It seems our good Queen finds their match to be – how did she phrase it? – ‘oddly unique’.” She tilted her head toward Anthony and Penelope’s table. “Your son, the most eligible bachelor in London, a man with an ironclad reputation for eluding matrimonial traps, suddenly ensnared not by a diamond of the first water, but by the ton’s most infamous wallflower? A woman who, with merely a change of her wardrobe, has set London’s gentlemen into a frenzy? Oh, my dear Violet, her Majesty finds it all very entertaining.”

Francesca, ever perceptive, leaned in. “Do you think she will interfere?”

Agatha’s lips curled into a smirk. “Not in the way you fear. I suspect she simply wishes to see the matter through – after all, Anthony’s disastrous wedding attempt last season was quite the spectacle. Perhaps she wishes to witness whether this time, he truly succeeds.”

Violet let out a soft sigh of relief, though a small smile lingered on her lips. “Well, I daresay she will not be disappointed. Anthony may have been a reluctant suitor once, but there is no reluctance in him now.”

Through all of this, Eloise had remained uncharacteristically silent, her teacup untouched, her gaze fixed on the couple in question. Unlike her mother and sister, her thoughts were not on the Queen’s interest in the courtship, nor on Anthony’s sudden transformation into a besotted suitor. No, her thoughts were far darker, tangled in the complexities of a past she could not quite let go of.

Why, precisely, was the Queen so interested in Penelope?

The possibility gnawed at her. Could it be that the Queen had finally uncovered Penelope’s secret? That she knew – truly knew – who Lady Whistledown was?

Eloise’s fingers tightened around the handle of her cup. It was the only explanation that made sense. The Queen had been hunting for Whistledown’s identity for some time now. What if, instead of exposing Penelope outright, she had instead put Anthony in a position where he had no choice but to protect her?

Was that why her brother was courting Penelope? Was this some noble attempt to shield her from the Queen’s wrath, a repayment for the way Penelope had, in her own way, saved the Bridgertons from scandal season per season?

Eloise exhaled sharply, trying to steady her thoughts. Her mind warred between bitterness and reluctant understanding. Anthony had advised her – no, instructed her – to consider why Penelope had written what she had written. To think of it not as a betrayal, but as something else.

And now, watching the two of them together, the way Anthony looked at Penelope – not with duty, nor obligation, but with something resembling… warmth – Eloise wondered if she had been wrong to assume the worst.

Perhaps her brother was not merely protecting Penelope.

Perhaps, in his own stubborn, infuriating way, he had fallen for her.

The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth, not because she begrudged them happiness, but because she had spent so long convincing herself that Penelope had meant to hurt her, that she had never truly been her friend.

But had that been true?

Had she been so consumed by her own feelings that she had ignored the possibility that Penelope had suffered just as much, if not more?

A twinge of regret twisted in Eloise’s chest.

Would Penelope even entertain the idea of rekindling their friendship?

Or had she already been replaced – first by the gentlemen who now flocked to her, and not by her own brother?

Her thoughts were cut short when Lady Danbury let out a chuckle. “Look at them.” She murmured, eyes twinkling. “Would you have believed it possible last season?”

Violet followed her gaze and smiled softly. “No.” She admitted. “But I must say, I have never seen Anthony smile quite like that since… well, since he was a boy.”

Eloise’s gaze snapped back to Anthony and Penelope. And indeed, there it was — that rare, fleeting thing.

Anthony Bridgerton was smiling.

Eloise swallowed down the lump in her throat and averted her gaze, resigning herself to the bitter truth.

Perhaps it was time she extended a hand in peace.

Perhaps it was time she let her friend go.

Chapter Text

The grand expanse of Green Park was alive with a spectacle the likes of which the ton had never before witnessed. The air was thick with the scent of sugared almonds and freshly baked tarts as vendors called out their wares, children tugged excitedly at their mothers’ skirts, and ladies in their finest muslins clutched their parasols, their eyes alight with eager anticipation. Towering over them all, in the center of the fair, stood the monstrous air balloon, its silken exterior rippling slightly in the afternoon breeze. It was a sight that had drawn even her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, to witness the so-called miracle of flight, and where the Queen went, so too did the entirety of the ton.

Amongst the sea of spectators, Penelope Featherington made her arrival, as was customary, in the company of her family. Lady Portia Featherington led the way with her usual peacock-like strut on full display, with Prudence preening beside her in a rather unfortunate shade of yellow. Behind them, Philippa, clinging to the arm of Mister Albion Finch, giggled at something her husband whispered in her ear, oblivious to the world around them.

Penelope, though accustomed to her family’s antics, felt the familiar stirrings of discomfort as they entered the crowd. The Featherington name had long been synonymous with scandal, and while her own recent transformation had forced the ton to re-evaluate their perception of her, she knew all too well how fickle their admiration could be. A single misstep, and she would once again be the subject of their ridicule.

It was in the midst of these thoughts that she heard her name being called.

“Miss Featherington!”

Penelope turned in time to see Violet Bridgerton making her way toward her, a warm smile gracing her features.

“Lady Bridgerton.” Penelope greeted with a polite curtsy, only to stiffen slightly when she noticed another figure following in the Dowager Viscountess’ wake.

Anthony.

He moved through the crowd with effortless grace, his long strides purposeful, his presence commanding. And though Penelope had spent far too much time in his company of late, she still felt her breath hitch when he reached them.

“My lady.” Anthony greeted Portia with all the courtesy his rank demanded, before shifting his attention to Penelope. With a confidence that sent a thrill of unease through her, he took her gloved hand and, without hesitation, pressed a kiss upon it.

It was a fleeting touch, a mere brush of lips against silk, yet the implication was undeniable.

Penelope could hear her mother’s suppressed squeal of delight as Portia fanned herself dramatically. “Oh, my! How very devoted you are, my lord.”

Anthony did not so much acknowledge her words, his attention solely on Penelope. “May I have the honor of escorting you on a stroll, Miss Featherington?”

Though the words were spoken as a question, it was evident that Anthony fully expected her acquiescence.

Ever the opportunist, Portia beamed and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, of course! Do take her along, my lord. And, naturally, one of your dear sisters will serve as chaperone, will they not?”

Anthony inclined his head, turning slightly. “Francesca?”

But before Francesca could so much as part her lips, another voice cut in.

“I shall go.”

Anthony’s brows shot up as he turned toward Eloise, who had stepped forward with uncharacteristic haste.

He regarded his sister warily, then flicked a glance at Penelope, whose expression remained perfectly composed. Though the faintest tension flickered in her features, she gave a near-imperceptible nod.

Anthony exhaled through his nose. “Very well.”

With that, he placed Penelope’s hand in the crook of his arm, his grip steady, warm, unyielding.

And so, with Eloise trailing behind, the Viscount and his intended set off through the fair, their path winding through the lively stalls, the murmurs of the ton following in their wake.

Though Eloise clearly wished to speak, Anthony ensured she was granted no such opportunity.

He kept Penelope engaged in private conversation, his voice pitched low, his focus entirely on her. He asked whether she had seen the plans for his recent renovations at Bridgerton House, whether she had read the novel he had recommended last week, whether she thought the silk gloves on display at the milliner’s tent were of sufficient quality. It was all so utterly mundane, yet there was an intimacy to it – a quiet, deliberate attention that spoke of his growing regard.

It was only when they reached the confectionary tent that they were interrupted.

“Bridgerton! I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned the gentlemen’s clubs altogether.”

Anthony’s expression darkened the moment he laid eyes on the speaker.

Lord Fife.

A man whose penchant for drink and loose women was matched only by his ability to irritate Anthony beyond reason.

Fife smirked as he rocked back on his heels, his gaze flickering to Penelope with something resembling amusement. “And here I see the reason for your absence. I must say, Bridgerton, it is quite the sight – our most esteemed Viscount, utterly besotted.”

Anthony’s grip on Penelope’s hand tightened fractionally.

Fife, emboldened by the lack of immediate retaliation, pressed on. “I had thought your standards somewhat higher. But I suppose even the finest lords have their moments of weakness.” He gestured lazily towards Penelope, his tone mocking. “A Featherington, of all things. And the smallest and roundest of the lot, no less.”

The words hit their mark.

Though she had long since steeled herself against such comments, Penelope still felt the familiar sting. She kept her chin high, her lips pressed together, refusing to give Fife the satisfaction of a reaction.

But Anthony – Anthony reacted.

With measured precision, he stepped in front of her, his stance protective, his gaze filled with unmistakable warning.

“I advise you, Fife, to tread very carefully.” He said, his voice deceptively calm. “For if you utter one more disparaging word about Miss Featherington, I will have no choice but to call you out.”

Fife blinked. “You – what?”

Anthony did not waver. “You heard me. A duel, my lord. Pistols at dawn. Though given your appalling lack of honor, I daresay you would not even make it to the field.”

A hush fell over the surrounding crowd.

Anthony’s voice, firm and unwavering, rang through the air. “Let it be known, here and now, that Miss Featherington is the perfect woman to be my Viscountess. And I count myself immeasurably fortunate that she has accepted my suit.”

Penelope’s breath caught.

Anthony turned his gaze upon her, his expression softening ever so slightly. “If that means I must forgo the clubs, so be it. For there is no greater pleasure than being in Miss Featherington’s company.” He returned his attention to Fife, his jaw tightening once more. “If the rest of you were not so blind, you would see that no woman in this room – no woman in all of London – can compare to her wit, her intelligence, and her grace.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered onlookers.

Anthony, seemingly unfazed, turned his back on Fife entirely and offered Penelope his arm once more. “Shall we continue our stroll, my lady?”

Heart pounding, Penelope placed her hand in his without hesitation.

As they walked away, Eloise – who had remained utterly silent throughout the exchange – stared at her brother as though she had never truly seen him before.

For the first time in her life, she had no words.

—--

The Bridgerton estate lay cloaked in the quiet hush of midnight, its grand facade bathed in silvery moonlight. The hour was late – too late for any respectable young lady to be traipsing about unattended. But respectability had never been Eloise Bridgerton’s foremost concern.

Clutching her shawl tightly about her shoulders, she tiptoed across the marble floors of Aubrey Hall, her slippered feet making no sound as she slipped through the side door and into the night. The cool air nipped at her skin, but she paid it no mind, her heart hammering with singular purpose.

She had to see Penelope.

She had spent the entire evening restless, thoughts of their fractured friendship gnawing at her, refusing to be ignored. And if she could not get a moment with Penelope at the fair, then she would simply seek her out in the only way she knew how.

With the Featheringtons’ garden just beyond the hedgerow, Eloise made her way toward the narrow path she had traversed countless times before. She had nearly reached the edge of the estate grounds when —

“Well, well.”

The deep, unmistakable voice sent a shock of alarm through her.

Anthony.

Eloise froze, turning to see her brother emerging from the very path she had been about to take. His stance was relaxed, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting on the top button of his waistcoat as though he had all the time in the world. A single brow arched in silent inquiry.

Eloise swallowed. “What – what are you doing here?” She demanded, trying to mask her guilt with indignation.

Anthony’s lips curled into something wry and knowing. “I might ask you the same thing, dear sister. What possible business does an unmarried debutant have sneaking about at such an ungodly hour?” He made a show of glancing behind her. “Without a chaperone. And without our dear mother’s knowledge, I presume?”

Eloise fidgeted, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “I merely wished for a breath of fresh air.”

Anthony let out a low chuckle. “Is that so? And tell me, Eloise, does fresh air only exist in the precise direction of the Featherington estate?”

Eloise opened her mouth, then closed it, her face tightening. There was no point in lying – Anthony, blast him, already knew the truth.

Still, she lifted her chin defiantly. “I do not owe you an explanation.”

Anthony exhaled through his nose, his amusement fading into something steadier, sterner. “No, perhaps not. But I will give you an answer to the question you are too stubborn to ask.” He took a deliberate step forward. “Penelope will not see you, Eloise.”

The words struck like a blow.

Eloise’s lips parted, but whatever she had been about to say faltered and died on her tongue.

She tried again. “I was not –”

Anthony cut her off, his tone gentler, though no less firm. “Yes, you were.” He studied her, his dark eyes betraying neither satisfaction nor cruelty, only truth. “She has made her choice. She has decided to remove herself from your life, and she will not go back on that decision.”

Eloise’s jaw tightened as she struggled to maintain her composure. “And who are you to decide that for her?”

“I am not deciding anything.” Anthony replied evenly. “I am merely the messenger.”

Eloise inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling a bitter sting behind her eyes. She blinked it away, willing herself not to give in to the wave of emotion rising within her.

Anthony, perhaps sensing her distress, sighed. “I know this pains you.” He said, not unkindly. “But Penelope has determined her course. She has no wish to engage with you, Eloise. Not now. Not even after she marries me.”

A fresh jolt of hurt sliced through her.

She had known, of course. She had felt Penelope’s avoidance, had seen the way her former friend turned away when their paths crossed. But to hear it spoken so plainly…

Eloise clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. “That is not fair.” She murmured.

Anthony was silent for a long moment before he inclined his head. “Perhaps not. But it is what she wishes.”

With that, he straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. ‘Now, unless the night air has given you sufficient clarity, I suggest you return inside before you do something truly reckless.”

His meaning was clear.

With a final glance at her, Anthony turned on his heel and strode back toward the house, his figure disappearing into the shadows.

Eloise remained rooted to the spot, her breath uneven.

And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she turned and made her way toward the Featherington gardens.

The house stood dark and quiet, save for the single flickering candlelight coming from Penelope’s chamber.

Eloise exhaled, a glimmer of hope unfurling within her. Pen was still awake.

Gathering a small stone, she tossed it toward the window – just enough force to garner attention, not enough to break the glass.

She waited.

Nothing.

The light remained steady, the curtains unmoved.

Eloise bit her lip, then bent down to pick up another stone. This time, she threw it with more force, the small clack of impact sounding through the night.

Still, no response.

Instead, the flickering light within the chamber dimmed — then vanished entirely.

A moment later, the curtains were drawn closed.

Eloise stared, the full weight of realization settling over her like a leaden shroud.

Anthony had been right.

Penelope would not see her.

She had truly, irrevocably, shut Eloise out.

The lump in Eloise’s throat grew unbearable, but she refused to let it break free. Instead, she turned stiffly on her heel and walked away, her shoulders squared, her pace unhurried.

But inside, she felt as though a door had closed forever.

Chapter Text

The morning had proven particularly taxing for Anthony Bridgerton, as the House of Lords found itself embroiled in endless debate over proposed legislation. The usual decorum of the august chamber had given way to heated arguments among the peers, their voices echoing off the ornate walls as they wrestled with matters of state.

Such pressing duties had, much to Anthony’s chagrin, prevented him from paying his customary morning call to Penelope Featherington. He had, at least, dispatched his most reliable footman with a carefully penned note expressing his regrets.

As the afternoon waned, having finally balanced his ledgers and addressed the mountain of correspondence that had accumulated upon his desk, Anthony made his way to the drawing room where his family had gathered for tea.

“I see that you have finally come up for air.” Violet remarked, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she set aside her embroidery with a knowing smile.

“I have indeed, mother.” Anthony replied with a half-smile. “And I intend to make good use of my reprieve. I shall be calling upon Miss Featherington.”

At this, Violet’s smile widened, her satisfaction evident. “How very devoted of you, my dear. It pleases me beyond words to see how attentively you court her.”

Benedict, seated by the window with a paintbrush idly twirling between his fingers, chuckled. “Attentively? Mother, let us not undersell our dear Viscount’s efforts. It is rather more akin to a man determined to secure the last ticket to Vauxhall on a summer’s eve. An unrelenting pursuit.”

Anthony shot his brother a pointed look, though his irritation was tempered by the good-natured jest.

“Persistence.” He corrected. “A virtue, I should think.”

Eloise, who had thus far remained silent, lounging with a book in hand, turned a page before speaking, her voice carrying an air of disinterest. “If that is the case, then you shall be most displeased to find that Penelope will not receive you.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed at this unexpected remark. “Whatever do you mean?”

Without lifting her gaze from the text before her, Eloise replied matter-of-factly. “I mean that Penelope is probably not at home. She should be at the orphanage by now.”

Silence fell over the room.

Violet’s lips parted slightly, curiosity flickering across her expression. “The orphanage?”

Anthony turned fully to face his sister. “And how, pray, do you come by this information?” His tone was measured, but there was an unmistakable edge of interest.

Eloise, at last, deigned to glance up from her book. “Because, brother dear, contrary to what you may think, I am still the longest acquaintance Pen has. And I have known for some time that Penelope has made a habit of volunteering at the orphanage on this particular day of the week. She assists the sisters, spends time with the children, and –” She made a vague gesture with her hand – “generally does charitable things that would make mother swoon with delight.”

Violet, as if on cue, let out a soft gasp, her hand coming to rest over her heart. “How wonderful.” She breathed, a genuine warmth suffusing her features. “I have always known Penelope to be kind-hearted, but this… this is truly remarkable.”

Benedict, having momentarily ceased his teasing, nodded in agreement. “Most Viscountesses only begin their charitable works once they have secured their title. And yet here she is, already tending to those in need without expectation or obligation.” He glanced at his elder brother. “It seems you have chosen wisely, Anthony.”

Anthony, though he had yet to speak, found himself deeply moved by this revelation. He had always known Penelope to be considerate, her kindness extending far beyond mere politeness or societal expectation. But to know that she devoted her time to those less fortunate – without spectacle, without seeking recognition – only deepened the growing admiration he held for her.

His mother watched him keenly, noting the flicker of emotion that passed through his expression. “She will make a fine Viscountess.” Violet murmured.

Anthony exhaled softly, as if centering himself. “Yes.” He agreed. “She will.”

Despite the knowledge that Penelope was not at home, he was not deterred.

With a determined stride, he made his way to retrieve his coat, ignoring Benedict’s knowing smirk as he did so.

The Featherington estate stood as grand and ostentatious as ever, its gilded embellishments glinting in the daylight as Anthony stepped from his carriage and strode up the marble steps.

Briarly, the Featherington butler, answered his knock with his usual composed demeanor, though there was a brief flicker of surprise at the sight of the Viscount.

“Good day, my lord.”

“Good day, Briarly.” Anthony returned with a polite nod. “I have come to call upon Miss Featherington.”

Briarly hesitated for the briefest moment before inclining his head. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that Miss Penelope is not presently at home. She is expected to return later this evening.”

Anthony, having anticipated this answer, remained unruffled. He adjusted the cuff of his glove before asking. “She is at the orphanage, then?”

The butler’s expression did not betray his surprise, though Anthony did not miss the faint flicker of it in his eyes. “Indeed, my lord.” Briarly confirmed, his voice carefully neutral.

Anthony gave a satisfied nod. “I see. Thank you, Briarly.”

As the butler made to close the door, Anthony turned back toward his waiting carriage and instructed his coachman. “To the orphanage.”

And with that, the Viscount of Bridgerton set off once more, his resolve to see Penelope Featherington stronger than ever.

—--

The scent of freshly baked bread and the lingering aroma of lavender filled the air as Anthony Bridgerton stepped past the threshold of the modest orphanage. The walls, though plain and unadorned, radiated a warmth that did not stem from finery or grandeur but rather from the very essence of those who dwelled within. It was a stark contrast to the gilded halls of Mayfair, yet there was something profoundly humbling about the place.

His presence did not go unnoticed. A small cluster of children – some clutching threadbare dolls, others with wooden toys – stood near the doorway, their wide, curious eyes fixed upon him. The sisters, clad in their simple habits, exchanged brief glances, whispering amongst themselves at the sight of a gentleman so finely dressed standing at their door.

Anthony had, of course, made generous donations to charitable institutions in the past. As Viscount, it was his duty to do so. Yet, to stand here in person, to be regarded as an unfamiliar face despite his contributions, struck him with an unexpected sense of humility.

A senior nun, her face lined with wisdom and kindness, stepped forward. “My lord.” She greeted cautiously, her hands clasped before her. “May we be of service to you?”

Anthony straightened, inclining his head politely. “I was given to understand that Miss Penelope Featherington is presently here.” He stated with measured decorum.

At the mention of Penelope’s name, the sisters exchanged knowing glances. Their eyes softened, and though their initial wariness did not abate, there was not a certain fondness in their demeanor.

The senior nun regarded him carefully. “Miss Featherington is dear to us all.” She said with a gentle yet discerning gaze. “Might I inquire as to your purpose in seeking her out?”

Anthony did not take offense. If anything, he found himself admiring their protectiveness over Penelope. That they would not seek to guard her reputation, even against a man of his station, was a testament to the regard in which they held her.

With all the confidence befitting a man of his rank – but with an uncharacteristic softness lacing his words – Anthony spoke. “I am her suitor, ma’am. And soon, I shall be her husband.”

A hush fell over the gathering of sisters. A few of the younger nuns let out hushed giggles, one even covering her mouth as if to stifle her amusement. The senior nun, though composed, allowed the corners of her lips to lift ever so slightly.

“Well then, my lord.” She said, amusement barely concealed in her tone. “In that case, I see no reason to delay your meeting with Miss Featherington.”

With that, she beckoned him to follow her through the stone corridors, where the sound of laughter echoed through the halls.

—--

Anthony had seen Penelope in many lights before.

He had seen her beneath the chandeliers of grand ballrooms, where the glow of a thousand candles illuminated the golden hues in her hair. He had seen her in the quiet drawing rooms of their respective homes, where the scent of tea and perfume clung to the air.

But here – bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun, her curls bounding with each movement, her smile unfettered and pure – she was unlike anything he had ever beheld.

The children clung to her skirts, their laughter ringing in the air as she twirled with them in a playful dance. A small boy clapped his hands in delight as Penelope crouched beside him, tucking a stray curl behind his ear with the gentleness of a mother.

Anthony felt something shift within him.

His heart, steady and measured even in the face of Parliament’s fiercest debates, now pounded with an unfamiliar urgency. He swallowed thickly, unable to tear his gaze away.

She was beautiful.

No, beautiful was too small a word.

She was radiant.

His reverie was interrupted as the senior nun called out. “Miss Featherington.”

Penelope glanced up, and the moment her gaze landed upon Anthony, her lips parted in surprise. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before she quickly composed herself. She whispered something to the children before dusting off her skirts and making her way towards them.

As she reached them, she first offered a polite greeting to the sister before turning to Anthony. Her curtsy was graceful, her voice even. “My lord.”

The nun, still watching the interaction with thinly veiled amusement, looked between the two before addressing Penelope directly. “The Viscount has introduced himself as your suitor, dear child. Is this claim to be believed?”

Penelope’s gaze snapped to Anthony, a hint of reproach in her eyes. Yet, he only grinned in response – proud, unrepentant.

She inhaled softly, as if gathering her patience, before turning back to the sister with practiced composure. “Yes, sister.” She confirmed. “Lord Bridgerton and I are… courting.”

Satisfied, the nun gave a knowing nod. “Very well, my dear. I shall leave you to speak.” With a final smile, she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving the two alone.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, Penelope murmured. “Must you always be so dramatic?”

Anthony smirked. “It is not drama, my lady. It is merely the truth.”

She sighed, though there was no true irritation in it. “What brings you here?”

His smirk softened into something more earnest. “I came to see you.”

Her lips parted slightly, taken aback by his frankness.

Before she could formulate a response, he gestured toward the playing children. “I had not known of your work here.”

Penelope hesitated, then glanced toward the children fondly. “It is nothing of note.” She said quietly. “Only something I have done for years.”

Anthony studied her, the admiration in his gaze deepening. “It is everything of note.”

A pink flush crept across her cheeks. She turned her gaze downward, seemingly unsure of what to say to such sincere praise.

Anthony took a step closer, lowering his voice. “You astound me, Penelope.”

She looked up at him then, her crystal blue eyes searching his.

For a fleeting moment, the air between them felt charged – something unspoken lingering in the space where words failed.

The distant chime of the orphanage’s clock shattered the moment, reminding them of their surroundings.

Clearing his throat, Anthony extended his arm. “May I escort you home?”

Penelope hesitated, then – ever so slowly – placed her gloved hand upon his offered arm.

As they walked through the orphanage halls together, Anthony could not help but feel that today, he had come to know Penelope Featherington in a way he never had before.

And perhaps, just perhaps – he had never been so enraptured in all his life.

Chapter Text

The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the polished mahogany of Penelope’s writing desk as she settled into the quiet solitude of her bedchamber. The weight of the evening pressed against the window panes, casting elongated shadows upon the pale blue wallpaper.

Mrs. Varley had left a neat stack of correspondence upon her desk earlier that afternoon, and now, with her tea cooling beside her, Penelope sifted through the familiar handwriting of her solicitor, a warm note from Aunt Petunia, and a few other mundane inquiries. It was only when she reached the last missive, its seal bearing the modest crest of the orphanage, that her breath hitched.

She broke the wax with practiced ease, unfolding the parchment with delicate fingers. Her eyes skimmed the words, and almost immediately, she let out a quiet gasp.

Rae, who had been methodically folding freshly laundered linens near the hearth, glanced up at once. “Miss?” She inquired, her brow furrowed in mild concern. “Are you unwell?”

Penelope swallowed, her lips parting slightly as if to respond, yet words eluded her for a moment. She lowered the letter to her lap, fingers still gripping the parchment as though it might vanish if she released it.

“There is nothing to be alarmed about, Rae.” She said, though her voice lacked its usual assuredness.

The lady’s maid, who had attended to her since her first season, was not easily convinced. She set down the linens and approached, casting a wary glance at the letter. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but it is a rare thing to see you so taken aback by a letter. What news does it bring?”

Penelope hesitated before exhaling softly. “It is from the orphanage.”

Rae blinked in surprise. “The sisters? But you were only there the other day.”

“Yes.” Penelope murmured, her gaze returning to the neatly inked lines. “They wished to extend their gratitude.”

“For what, miss?”

Penelope glanced up, still grappling with the weight of the revelation. “For a donation.” She paused before adding. “A very large donation.”

Rae’s brows knit together in confusion, but when Penelope finally met her gaze, there was an understanding that passed between them. The lady’s maid’s eyes widened, realization dawning upon her. “Lord Bridgerton?” She asked, though the answer was already clear.

Penelope gave a slow nod. “Three thousand pounds.”

Rae’s hands flew to her mouth in astonishment. “Three thousand? Oh, miss, that is a fortune! The sisters and the little ones will do so well with that sum. They will not have to worry about food, nor repairs, nor the coming winter!” She laughed, almost giddy with the thought of it.

A warmth bloomed in Penelope’s chest at the thought of how much the donation would aid the orphanage, but beneath it lay another, far more perplexing feeling – one that she could not quite name.

Rae, ever perceptive to her mistress, tilted her head with a knowing look. “I daresay, miss, his Lordship would not have made such a grand gesture were it not for you.”

Penelope’s fingers tightened around the letter. “You think so?”

The maid scoffed, returning to her duties with a light shake of her head. “I know so.” She said airily, gathering the last of the linens. “It is clear as day to anyone with eyes that the Viscount is quite taken with you. A lady does not receive such devotion from a gentleman unless his heart is well and truly engaged.”

Penelope’s cheeks warmed at the suggestion, but she schooled her features into neutrality. “Lord Bridgerton is a man of means. A donation of such size is hardly a strain upon his purse.”

Rae smirked, her arms full of folded sheets. “That may be true, but gentlemen of means do not go about tossing three thousand pounds at orphanages for just anyone.” She gave Penelope a pointed look before adding. “Mark my words, miss, the Viscount will be a fine husband to you.”

With that, she bustled out of the room, leaving Penelope alone in the quiet glow of the candlelight.

Penelope remained seated, staring at the letter as her thoughts swirled like autumn leaves caught in the wind.

Did Anthony truly make such a gesture because of her?

Her mind warred with itself, torn between reason and an unfamiliar, fluttering warmth that threatened to take root in her heart.

She had always known Anthony to be a man of duty, bound by obligation and the expectation of his title. Their courtship, however unconventional, was one she had come to believe was more for the sake of propriety than for any true regard he might hold for her. Yet, his actions of late seemed to tell another story.

The way he looked at her – truly looked at her, with something intense and unreadable in his dark eyes. The way his touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary when he offered his arm. The way he leaned in when she spoke, as if every word she uttered held weight.

And now this.

A sum so grand, gifted not for society’s approval, not for recognition, but for a cause she alone held dear.

Penelope exhaled, pressing her palm lightly against her chest as if to steady the racing of her heart.

Could it be that Anthony Bridgerton was not simply performing the role of a besotted suitor, but rather… was one?

And yet – she did not dislike it.

After a long moment, she reached for her quill, dipping it into the inkwell with steady fingers.

If Anthony Bridgerton had indeed gone to such lengths, then he would hear from her.

—--

Among the many discoveries Anthony Bridgerton had made during his courtship of Penelope Featherington, her profound love of literature stood foremost. While he had long known of her literary discussions with Eloise, it was only now he truly understood the depth of her passion for the written word. Indeed, whenever he called at the Featherington residence, Portia invariably had to summon her youngest daughter from the library.

On this particular afternoon, Anthony made an unprecedented request of Lady Featherington – to allow him to join Penelope in the library rather than having her called to the drawing room. Portia, ever eager to secure her daughter’s marriage to the Viscount, readily agreed, though naturally insisting that Penelope’s maid remain present as chaperone.

When Anthony entered the library, the sight before him quite stole his breath away. Penelope reclined upon her favorite chaise by the window, the afternoon light casting an ethereal glow about her person. Her auburn curls caught the sunlight like burnished copper, her cream-white skin seeming to glow with an inner radiance. But it was her eyes that held him transfixed – as blue and endless as the summer sky, currently lost in the pages before her.

The Featherington library was not grand like those of Bridgerton House or the palatial residences of Mayfair, but it was Penelope’s sanctuary. The afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, casting golden rays upon the well-worn spines of her favorite novels. The scent of parchment, ink and polished mahogany lingered in the air, blending with the faint floral perfume that always seemed to cling to her.

She had been utterly engrossed in her reading, her mind traveling far beyond the confines of her home, when the soft rustling of fabric and the clearing of a throat pulled her from her reverie.

“Viscount Bridgerton, my lady.” Rae announced dutifully.

Penelope blinked, momentarily startled to see Anthony standing before her instead of waiting in the drawing room as decorum dictated. The sight of him – tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably handsome in his finely tailored coat – was enough to momentarily still her thoughts. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, held a warmth that sent an unfamiliar flutter through her chest.

Rae, ever the diligent chaperone, curtsied and stepped back, keeping the door slightly ajar.

Anthony inclined his head in greeting. “Penelope.”

“Anthony.” She returned, rising and offering him a polite curtsy.

“You look positively lovely today.” He murmured, his voice laced with something softer than his usual jesting tone.

A warmth spread across her cheeks, the unexpected compliment catching her off guard. On any other occasion, she might have brushed it aside with a wry remark, but something in his expression – earnest, unwavering – made her simply respond. “Thank you, my lord.”

Anthony’s lips curved ever so slightly, as though pleased with her acceptance of his words. Then, as if recalling the purpose of his visit, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a neatly folded envelope, extending it toward her.

“Your earnings.” He said simply.

Penelope took the envelope without hesitation, her fingers brushing against the fine parchment before she slipped it between the pages of her book, as though tucking away a secret. “I appreciate your trouble.” She murmured.

A silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, yet weighted with something unspoken.

Penelope, never one to shy from addressing the unacknowledged, finally spoke. “Eloise came to see me.”

Anthony exhaled a soft hum, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. “I suspected she might.”

“I turned her away.” She admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

Anthony’s expression softened, though there was no reproach in his gaze. “That was your choice to make. You need not feel guilty for it.”

She searched for his face for any trace of disappointment, but found none. He spoke with such quiet understanding that it unsettled her. Was it possible he truly held no resentment?

“I saw her that night.” He continued. “Tried to dissuade her, but my sister is a Bridgerton through and through – headstrong, relentless, and entirely incapable of heeding sound advice.”

A breath of laughter escaped Penelope before she could stop it. “A true Bridgerton trait, I see.”

“Indeed.” Anthony replied, his lips quirking into a smirk. “It is both our greatest flaw and our most admirable quality.”

Penelope let the moment settle, before she folded her hands nearly in her lap and, after a pause, said softly. “Thank you.”

Anthony’s brow arched. “For what, precisely?”

She lifted her gaze to his, her expression unreadable. “The orphanage.” She said simply.

A flicker of surprise crossed his features, his lips parting as though caught off guard.

“I know about the donation.” She continued, her voice quiet but firm. “The sisters wrote to me.”

Anthony did not speak at once. He had not intended for her to learn of his contribution – it was not done for accolades or recognition. It had been for her.

But before he could form a response, Penelope smiled – a rare, radiant smile so genuine it seemed to light the very room.

Something in Anthony’s chest tightened.

It was the first time she had looked at him that way – without hesitation, without reservation – since Cornwall.

He could not stop himself.

Standing, he reached for her, extending a hand.

Penelope hesitated only briefly before placing her fingers in his palm, expecting perhaps that he meant to kiss her knuckles as was proper. Instead, in one swift motion, Anthony pulled her into his embrace.

A gasp left her lips, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest in protest, but his arms – strong, unyielding – held her firmly.

“Anthony –”

“Shhh.” He whispered, his lips brushing against the crown of her curls.

Penelope stiffened, propriety warring with the undeniable warmth of his embrace. But as the seconds passed, and as she felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, something within her softened.

Anthony exhaled, his voice a low murmur against her temple. “I did not give the money for recognition, nor for charity’s sake alone. I did it because you care for them. Because I knew that even with all your success, you could not openly give without drawing suspicion.” he pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. “I only wish to support you, Penelope. I will do everything I can to make you happy.”

Her breath caught.

She had never doubted his sense of duty, nor his commitment to their courtship, but this – this was something else entirely.

She did not need to see his face to know he meant every word.

And so, for the first time since their courtship began, she did not pull away.

Instead, she let herself lean into his warmth, into the quiet comfort of his presence, and simply let herself feel.

Chapter Text

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the dark wood-paneled walls of Anthony’s study as he strode inside, the faint scent of tobacco and aged leather greeting him. He had come directly from Featherington House, his mind still entranced by the lingering memory of Penelope in his arms, her softness, her scent, the way she had not pulled away. His thoughts were far too occupied for him to notice, at first, that his sanctum had already been invaded.

It was only when he heard the distinct clink of crystal against wood that his gaze lifted to find Benedict reclining in one of his armchairs, a generous pour of Anthony’s finest brandy in hand. His younger brother, ever at ease, regarded him with a low, amused smirk as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

“Ah, there you are.” Benedict drawled lazily. “I was beginning to think you had been kidnapped. Or worse – saddled with a particularly dull conversation with mother about floral arrangements.” He took a sip before adding. “Though, judging by your expression, it seems something far more interesting has occurred.”

Anthony, instead of his usual exasperation at his brother’s intrusion, merely smiled – a rare, unguarded sort of expression that made Benedict straighten in his chair.

“Well, that is unsettling.” Benedict remarked, setting his glass down with deliberate slowness. “Where is my perpetually vexed, brooding, and insufferably duty-bound elder brother? And what, pray, have you done with him?”

Anthony, still in high spirits, let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Can I not simply be in a good mood?”

“You?” Benedict scoffed. “No, I daresay it is unnatural. The last time you were in a good mood, I believe you were a boy of eight, and that was only because father had allowed you to ride his stallion unchaperoned.”

Anthony merely smirked at his brother’s jest, dropping into the chair opposite him, still lost in the afterglow of his earlier visit. Benedict, keen observer that he was, narrowed his eyes.

“This newfound cheerfulness..” He mused, stroking his chin in mock contemplation. “Would not happen to have anything to do with a certain Miss Featherington, would it?”

At the mere mention of Penelope’s name, Anthony felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards once more. He could not help it. His mind betrayed him, pulling him back to the hushed stillness of the library, to the sensation of Penelope’s delicate frame pressed against him, the silken strands of her fiery curls against his jaw. She had not resisted him. The fact alone sent a thrill through him he could scarcely contain.

Benedict observed the faraway look in Anthony’s eyes and let out a bark of laughter. “Good Lord.” He said, shaking his head. “I never thought I would live to see the day when my elder brother – the Viscount Bridgerton, known for his unshakable resolve and utter devotion to duty – would be reduced to daydreaming over a woman.”

Anthony’s gaze snapped back to his brother, his expression schooling into one of careful neutrality, but it was too late. Benedict had seen it. He had seen the way Anthony melted – softened – at the mere mention of Penelope. And if Benedict saw it, others would too.

“You are insufferable.” Anthony muttered, reaching for the decanter and pouring himself a drink, if only to distract himself.

“And you, brother, are besotted.” Benedict countered, grinning as he leaned forward. “You may as well admit it. There is no shame in it, you know.”

Anthony exhaled, fixing his brother with a level stare. “And if I were?” He challenged. “Would it be so great a sin to be romantically inclined toward the woman I am to marry? The very woman our mother has long wished to be part of the family? Is it not, after all, what she has always dreamed of us? To marry for love?”

Benedict raised his brows at that, his smile taking on a knowing quality. “Ah.” He murmured. “So you do admit it, then.”

Anthony tensed, realization creeping in like an unwelcome guest.

Did he?

Benedict, sensing his elder brother’s momentary lapse into silence, seized his opportunity. “Let us examine the evidence, shall we?” He said, ticking off his fingers one by one. “One – you have been in a significantly better mood since beginning your courtship with Penelope. Two – you no longer grumble about having to attend social calls if it’s with her. In fact, you seek them out. Three – at the mere mention of her name, you positively glow, brother. Glow.”

Anthony scowled. “I do not –”

“You do.” Benedict interjected. “Four – you have not so much as looked at another woman since your return from Cornwall. And lastly, five – if I were to mention Penelope now, I am quite certain you would either sigh wistfully or fall into another one of those ridiculous daydreams.”

Anthony opened his mouth to refute him, but no words came.

Because, blast it all, Benedict was right.

He inhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his glass.

Benedict grinned in triumph. “There it is. That dawning realization.” He leaned back in his chair, immensely pleased with himself. “You, dear brother, are in love.”

Anthony swallowed.

Love.

The word settled over him, unfamiliar yet strangely fitting.

He had long convinced himself that love was a foolish, dangerous thing. That it made men weak, left them vulnerable. And yet – Penelope made him feel alive. She challenged him with her reluctance and intelligent quips, softened him, made him want.

Perhaps love was not the burden he had always feared.

Perhaps, with her, it was something else entirely.

Perhaps, with Penelope, his love can be fully returned.

Still, he was not about to grant Benedict the satisfaction of a full admission.

Instead, he smirked and lifted his glass in a mock toast. “If I were in love..” He said smoothly. “Would it truly be such a terrible thing?”

Benedict chuckled. “No, Anthony.” He said, shaking his head. “It would not be terrible at all.” He took another sip of his drink before adding slyly. “Though I do wonder how our dear brother Colin will take the news.”

Anthony scoffed. “Colin has no right to protest. He has spent the last two years gallivanting across the world while leaving Penelope to endure countless seasons without so much as a thought to securing her hand.”

“True.” Benedict conceded. “But that will not stop him from being utterly dramatic about it.”

Anthony waved a dismissive hand. “Let him throw his tantrum. He will have to accept the inevitable.”

Benedict grinned. “The inevitable being that you, Anthony Bridgerton, are well and truly smitten.”

Anthony merely shook his head, unable to fight the smile tugging at his lips. He finished his brandy in one swift motion and rose from his seat. “Drink my brandy, Benedict, but do not test my patience.”

Benedict lifted his glass in mock salute. “To your inevitable surrender, dear brother.”

Anthony only chuckled as he strode toward the door, but as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, his smile did not face.

Because, perhaps for the first time, he did not fear surrendering at all.

—--

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Hastings’ London residence, casting golden patterns upon the polished parquet floors. The drawing room, tastefully adorned with pale blue silk drapes and gilded furnishings, bore the unmistakable touch of the Duchess of Hastings. Yet, for all its elegance, Anthony Bridgerton found himself restless as he paced the Aubusson rug beneath his feet. It was an uncommon thing for the Viscount to feel unmoored, yet here he was, having sought out his sister – a rarity in itself.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Daphne Basset, Duchess of Hastings, entered with her usual grace. Her brows lifted in mild surprise upon seeing Anthony there.

“Anthony.” Share greeted, a gentle smile on her lips as she advanced toward him. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit? I regret to inform you that Simon is not at home.”

Anthony’s shoulders loosened with what could only be described as relief. “Good.” He said, voice warm with amusement. “It is you I came to see, not your husband.”

Daphne’s eyes widened slightly. “Indeed? Well, this must be of some consequence then, if the indomitable Viscount Bridgerton has sought his sister’s counsel. Come, let us sit before I expire from curiosity.”

She led him to the brocade-upholstered settee while a maid arrived with a silver tray bearing tea and delicate lemon biscuits. Once the tea had been poured and the maid dismissed, Daphne leaned forward, eyes alight with intrigue.

“Now.” She said, stirring her tea but never taking her gaze from Anthony. “Out with it, brother. I have rarely known you to seek advice, least of all from me.”

Anthony exhaled heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. “It concerns… Miss Featherington.”

“Penelope?” Daphne’s teacup halted midway to her lips. “Has something happened? Has she been slighted in some way?” Her face tightened with concern, her affection for the young lady evident.

“No, nothing of the sort.” Anthony reassured her quickly. “Our courtship progresses well enough. She has not rejected my attentions – yet.” He added with a dry chuckle.

“Then what is it?” Daphne prompted, setting her cup down and giving him her full attention.

Anthony hesitated, his jaw working as he tried to formulate his thoughts. “I..” He cleared his throat. “Last night, I spoke with Benedict. We discussed, among other things, my courtship. And it appears I have come to a rather startling realization.” He fixed his sister with a look that was equal parts bewildered and vulnerable. “Daphne, I fear I may have fallen in love with Penelope Featherington.”

Daphne’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. Then, quite suddenly, her expression transformed into one of radiant delight. “Anthony!” She exclaimed. “That is the most wonderful news! Mother will be beside herself with joy. And Penelope – dear, sweet Penelope – oh, she will be so very happy.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably. “Will she?” He asked. “That is the crux of my dilemma, Daph. What if she does not? What if, when she learns the depths of my affections, she finds them unworthy?”

“Unworthy?” Daphne frowned, tilting her head. “Anthony, whatever makes you say such a thing?”

“My past.” He admitted, his tone grim. “My reputation. I am no stranger to scandal, Daphne. My name has been whispered alongside too many ladies of questionable repute. Penelope may find it difficult to reconcile the man I was with the man I wish to be.”
Daphne’s expression softened as understanding dawned. “This is about the Sharmas, is it not?” She asked gently. “About the elder sister?”

Anthony winced slightly at the mention of Kate Sharma, the woman who had once, to his dismay, captivated his heart. But now, the memory of her was a pale shadow compared to the vibrancy Penelope brought into his life. He shook his head. “No, Daphne.” He said with conviction. “The Sharmas do not occupy my thoughts any longer. Since the day I made my intentions clear with Penelope, it is as though they have ceased to exist in my mind. I think only of her – of her wit, her warmth, her maddening ability to best me in conversation.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile before he added. “And I find myself utterly enraged when other gentlemen dare vie for her attention.”

Daphne released a breathless laugh. “Oh, Anthony.” She murmured, eyes twinkling. “You are well and truly lost.”

“Hopelessly so.” Anthony agreed with a humorless chuckle. “But tell me, sister. What am I to do? How do I make her see past my many flaws?”

Daphne reached across and took his hand in hers. “You show her what we have always seen.” She said softly. “That you are more than a rake of past seasons. You are a man of integrity, of responsibility. You have shouldered the burdens of this family with unflinching devotion. Let her see that Anthony Bridgerton, and I assure you, she will have no cause to doubt your heart.”

Anthony’s throat tightened as her words settled within him. “You are certain?”

“Entirely.” Daphne said, squeezing his hand. “Penelope Featherington is a clever woman, brother. She will look beyond the past and see the man you are now. And if she does not..” She added with a teasing smile. “Then she is not half so clever as I believe her to be.”

Anthony laughed softly, then leaned over to kiss her temple. “You always know precisely what to say.”

“I am your sister.” Daphne replied, returning the kiss. “It is my duty, after all.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the ornate windows of Queen Charlotte’s private parlor, where Penelope Featherington found herself seated across from the formidable monarch. The delicate china teacup trembled ever so slightly in her hands as she attempted to maintain her composure. The usual bustling activity of the palace had been reduced to an almost eerie silence, as the Queen had dismissed every last servant – even the ever-present Brimsley – leaving Penelope alone with her Majesty.

“Miss Featherington.” The Queen began, her voice a measured amalgamation of sovereign command and inquisitive curiosity. “Pray, how do you find the current season?” Her dark eyes, sharp and discerning, observed Penelope with the precision of a naturalist examining a specimen of peculiar interest.

Penelope inhaled slowly, willing her countenance to project composure despite the disquietude rolling beneath. “The season, your Majesty, has proved… singularly eventful.” She answered, her voice measured yet underpinned by a tremor of vulnerability. “Both as Lady Whistledown and as myself.”

“Eventful.” The Queen echoed, her lips curving in a knowing smirk. “Indeed, how could it be otherwise when once balances the weight of dual identities? Do indulge me: what morsels of yet-undisclosed scandal have eluded the ton’s collective notice?”

A flush of self-consciousness suffused Penelope’s cheeks as she allowed herself a faint, guarded smile. “Forgive me, your Majesty, but Lady Whistledown must retain some mysteries: it is, after all, the essence of her intrigue.”

The Queen’s laughter, clear and unrestrained, resonated like the crystalline chime of a clock at the turn of the hour. “Quite so.” She conceded, eyes twinkling with approval. “You wield words as deftly as a duelist his rapier. And yet, one wonders how heavy that rapier becomes when wielded with such consistency.”

Penelope’s gaze faltered momentarily, her thoughts turning toward the long nights spent composing her scandal sheets in solitude. “There are moments, your Majesty.” She confessed softly. “When the weight of it seems nearly insurmountable.”

“As is often the case with power.” Charlotte replied. “It grants influence, yet exacts its toll. But come now, Miss Featherington, surely you can spare a crumb or two of that vast repository of knowledge.”

Penelope hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, your Majesty, there are whispers that Lady Margaret Abernathy has been seen in the company of a certain young baron despite her declarations of disinterest this season. And Lord Weatherby –” She paused, glancing about as though the walls themselves might betray her. “-- has been observed frequenting Covent Garden under rather.. Intriguing circumstances.”

The Queen’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Indeed? Covent Garden? How deliciously scandalous. And the baron, I presume, has the good fortune of being titled?”

“Newly so.” Penelope confirmed. “His inheritance arrived most conveniently alongside his sudden affection for Miss Abernathy.”

“Fortuitous timing.” Charlotte mused. “And as yourself?” She prompted after a moment of reflection. “How fares Miss Featherington, now that society deigns to cast a more favorable gaze upon her?”

Penelope set her cup aside, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer as she composed her thoughts. “I have been most fortunate, your Majesty.” She replied, choosing her words with the precision of a diplomat. “Lord Bridgerton has demonstrated commendable attentiveness, and society has – of late – grown more… accommodating.”

“Ah, yes. The Viscount.” Charlotte said, her brow arching with deliberate intrigue. “A gentleman of considerable reputation, albeit one recently reformed, or so it is said. His charitable endeavors at the orphanage have stirred many hearts.”

“Indeed.” Penelope agreed, her cheeks warming with an involuntary blush as she recalled the Viscount’s solicitous manner and the unexpected tenderness that lurked beneath his resolute exterior. “His efforts are genuine, I believe.”

“A rare trait in men of consequence.” Charlotte remarked, her tone laced with wry skepticism. “Too often, altruism serves as little more than a performance for public approbation. Yet, your Viscount… he does not seem the sort to squander his time on hollow gestures.”

Penelope gave a small nod. “He possesses a steadfastness that extends beyond the demands of propriety, your Majesty.”

The queen regarded her young companion with a calculating expression. “And so we arrive at the crux of the matter.” She said, settling more deeply into her chair. “You wonder, perhaps, why I summoned you today?”

“The thought did cross my mind.” Penelope admitted with a nervous laugh.

Charlotte set her teacup aside with deliberate grace. “I desired to speak with you not as monarch to subject but as woman to woman. And I bear no remorse for having maneuvered events to facilitate your marriage with Lord Bridgerton.”

Penelope blinked, her brow knitting in surprise. “You feel no remorse, your Majesty?”

“None.” The Queen affirmed with a slight shake of her head. “Had I not intervened, the ton would have cast you aside, relegating you to the ignominy of spinsterhood – an outcome undeserved for one of your intellectual prowess. Society delights in devouring the exceptional. I merely ensured that you were placed within the sanctuary of a family renowned for their loyalty and unity.”

Penelope’s throat constricted with emotion, the weight of the Queen’s words settling upon her like a protective mantle. “I am… deeply humbled by your consideration.”

Charlotte’s gaze softened, a rare glimpse of maternal affection in her otherwise inscrutable countenance. “When I married King George..” She said, her voice assuming a reflective timbre. “I was but a young girl sent from foreign shores to wed a man I had never laid eyes upon. My first instinct was to flee.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You attempted escape?”

“Indeed.” Charlotte confirmed, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I saw the gilded confines of the palace and felt the enormity of the crown’s burden pressing upon me. Yet, as the days unfurled, I discerned the man beneath the crown — his vulnerabilities, his humor, his devotion. Our marriage, though orchestrated by politics, became a partnership forged in affection.”

“And you believe such a transformation possible for me and Lord Bridgerton?”

“Possible, yes.” The Queen replied. “Marriage is an endeavor requiring patience, forbearance, and an unwavering resolve to cultivate mutual respect. Love may follow, or it may not. But devotion, my dear, can be nurtured when both parties choose to engage with sincerity.”

Penelope exhaled slowly, absorbing the gravity of the Queen’s counsel. “I shall endeavor to follow your wisdom, your Majesty.”

Charlotte’s eyes twinkled with sudden mischief. “A word of caution: the Bridgerton men possess an unyielding charm. Do take care, Miss Featherington, lest you find yourself thoroughly ensnared.”

Penelope’s cheeks deepened to a scarlet hue as the Queen chuckled, the sound rich with knowing amusement. As the parlor door opened, signaling the audience’s end, Penelope Featherington rose and curtsied, departing the room with measured steps but an undeniably buoyant heart. The Queen’s words lingered in her mind like the resonance of a distant, melodious bell – a testament to the complexities of love, duty and the tantalizing mystery that awaited her in the days to come.

As she descended the marble staircase, Penelope pondered the enormity of the Queen’s revelations. The monarch’s calculated orchestration of her marriage to Anthony Bridgerton had not stemmed from mere caprice but from a genuine, if unconventional, concern for her welfare. And perhaps, Penelope mused, there was wisdom in the Queen’s assertion that love might bloom in the most unexpected of gardens. The future, once a terrifying chasm of uncertainty, now appeared as a tapestry awaiting the threads of her own design.

—--

The sun hung low over Mayfair, casting dappled shadows upon the cobbled streets as the afternoon air buzzed with the symphony of commerce. Merchants called out their wares with hearty enthusiasm, their stalls a vibrant tableau of fresh produce, silk ribbons and glimmering trinkets. Amidst this lively scene, Penelope Featherington walked with measured steps, her gloved hands clasped before her while her maid followed a discreet pace behind.

Having recently departed from the gilded confines of Queen Charlotte’s palace, Penelope found herself reluctant to return home. The solitude of her chamber would afford ample opportunity for contemplation – a prospect she was not inclined to welcome after the Queen’s revelations. And so, she had requested her carriage be directed toward the market, hoping the bustle of town life might provide some distraction.

She paused at a milliner’s stall, tracing the delicate lace of a bonnet with idle interest. Her thoughts, however, remained tethered to the Queen’s parting words. Love, the monarch had said, might arise from the soil of mutual respect and shared resolve. But could such a bloom take root when the foundation was duty rather than desire?

“Penelope!” A voice, familiar and bright, punctured her reverie.

Penelope turned, her eyes widening as she beheld Violet Bridgerton approaching with her daughter, Eloise, at her side. The Dowager Viscountess exuded her usual warmth, adorned in a lavender gown that complemented the soft color of her hair. Beside her, Eloise appeared markedly less at ease.

“Lady Bridgerton.” Penelope greeted with a practiced curtsy.

“Come now, my dear.” Violet said, dismissing the formality with a wave before enveloping Penelope in a maternal embrace. “We are soon to be family, after all.”

Penelope forced a smile, though her chest tightened at the reminder. “Indeed, Lady Bridgerton.”

“And what brings you here, unaccompanied by your mother? Or, perhaps, by my son?” Violet teased, eyes twinkling.

“Her Majesty summoned me for tea this morning.” Penelope answered hesitantly. “I thought a stroll through the market might help settle my thoughts thereafter.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Eloise stiffen.

“Tea with the Queen!” Violet exclaimed, feigning astonishment. “Such an honor, though I cannot say I am surprised. Your elegance and wit has evidently earned royal favor.”

Penelope inclined her head modestly. “Her Majesty is… most perceptive.” She replied.

Violet cast a quick glance between the two young women. Sensing the tension that crackled like a storm held at bay, she patted Penelope’s arm. “Come, why do we not step into that tea shop across the street? I have just spotted an old acquaintance with whom I must exchange a few words. Meanwhile, you two can enjoy some refreshments.”

Without waiting for protest, Violet shepherded them toward the establishment, handed Eloise a coin for the tea, and departed with an encouraging smile.

The tea shop into which the young ladies were ushered was a small, charming establishment with dark mahogany paneling and lace-draped windows. The scent of bergamot and warm scones lingered in the air, mingling with the low murmur of subdued conversations. A brass clock on the mantel ticked steadily, each second stretching the silence between Penelope and Eloise as they settled into a corner table. Eloise toyed with her gloves, her eyes darting from the porcelain teapot to the street beyond.

“So..” Eloise ventured at last, her voice strained. “How was your day?”

“Pleasant enough.” Penelope answered coolly.

“And… tea with the Queen? That must have been quite the occasion.”

“It was tea.” Came the curt reply.

Eloise’s jaw tightened. “Penelope.” She said, exhaling sharply. “Must we converse like this?”

“Like what?” Penelope’s crystal blue eyes finally met Eloise’s, their usual warmth replaced with an icy detachment.

“Like strangers.” Eloise said, her voice faltering. “I know I have erred, Pen. I judged you harshly, and I allowed my indignation to eclipse the years of friendship we shared. For that, I am truly sorry.”

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line, her breath shallow as the weight of her hurt and the echo of Eloise’s words coiled tightly within her chest. “You did not merely judge me, Eloise.” She said softly. “You condemned me. You flung words with the precision of a duelist, each one striking true.”

“I was hurt.” Eloise admitted. “I felt betrayed.”

“As did I.” Penelope countered, her voice trembling. “Did you think it easy to write those columns? To hear you laud Lady Whistledown’s wit while simultaneously decrying her existence? I endeavored to protect you – and your family – from scandal. And how did you respond? You turned away and left me adrift.”

Eloise’s eyes glistened. “I was a fool. I see that now. I should have opened your letters. I should have sought understanding rather than retreating into indignation.”

“You returned them unopened.” Penelope said, the memory rekindling a sharp pang of hurt. “Letter after letter, until I ceased to write.”

A tear traced Eloise’s cheek. “Is there no hope for us, then? No path to mend this breach?”

Penelope exhaled, her heart warring between the desire to forgive and the need to shield herself from further pain. “I have grown weary of being cast aside by those I cherish.” She said at length. “First you, then Colin. I can no longer expend energy on bonds that others break so readily.”

Eloise’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

From across the room, Violet’s return was evident as she lingered near the entrance, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Penelope straightened, adjusting her gloves. “I shall remain civil for the sake of your mother.” She said with quiet resolve. “And for Anthony. But beyond that, Eloise, you must accept that the door you closed so decisively may never again be opened.”

Eloise gave a tearful nod, understanding at last the depth of the wound she had inflicted.

As Violet approached, Penelope rose and curtsied. “Lady Bridgerton.” She said with a polite smile. “Thank you for the tea. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return home.”

Violet’s eyes flickered toward her daughter, then back to Penelope. “Of course, my dear. Safe travels.”

With measured grace, Penelope departed, her maid hastening to follow. Eloise remained seated, her eyes fixed on the door through which Penelope had vanished, her expression a tapestry of regret and sorrow as the weight of their fractured friendship settled around her like a heavy cloak. Outside, the bustling market seemed muted as she walked toward her waiting carriage, her heart heavier than when she had arrived. The Queen’s words about the unpredictability of affection lingered in her mind, but it was the brittle remains of a once-cherished friendship that occupied her thoughts as the horses trotted away from the square.

Chapter Text

The rain had yet to fall, but the sky above Bridgerton House bore the bruised hues of an impending storm. The wind carried the faint scent of petrichor through the open window of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton’s study, ruffling the neatly stacked correspondence upon his mahogany desk. He sat with furrowed brow, quill poised midair as his eyes traced the columns of ledgers before him – figures that, though significant to the running of his estate, failed to hold his attention this evening.

The sharp creak of the door drew his gaze upward. His hand stilled as Eloise stepped into the study, her shoulders hunched, her face pale and tear-streaked. It was a rare sight indeed; his sister, ever defiant and resolute, stood fragile and unguarded. At once, Anthony rose from his chair, concern knitting his brow.

“Eloise?” He asked softly, approaching her with measured steps. “What has happened?”

Her lips parted as though to answer, but no sound emerged. Instead, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms about him as her sobs broke free. Surprised yet instinctively protective, Anthony embraced her, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other gently rubbed her trembling shoulders.

“There now.” He murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Let it out, sister. Whatever troubles you so, we shall face it together.”

Eloise clung to him, her breaths hitching between sobs. The damp warmth of her tears seeped into the fabric of his waistcoat, but Anthony paid it no mind. He needed no further inquiry to guess the cause of her distress. Penelope Featherington, the only soul who could so thoroughly unsettle his sister.

After several moments, her cries softened into ragged breaths. Anthony guided her to the chaise lounge near the hearth, lowering her onto the cushion before taking the seat beside her.

“It is Penelope, is it not?” He prompted gently.

Eloise gave a jerky nod. “She… she will not forgive me.” She choked out. “I tried, Anthony. I truly did. But she was so cold. Distant. I have lost her.”

Anthony’s chest tightened at the anguish in her voice. He took her hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Time, Eloise.” He said with quiet conviction. “Wounds of the heart require time to mend.”

“But what if time only solidifies her resentment?” She whispered.

“Penelope is not a woman who clings to bitterness..” Anthony replied. “Her heart is too generous for that. She has endured much – your rejection, Colin’s obliviousness, the burden of her secret. It is understandable she should build walls to protect herself.”

Eloise looked down at their joined hands, her thumb tracing the embroidery of his cuff. “I was so cruel to her.” She said, voice cracking. “And she tried to reach me. I returned every letter unopened.”

“You erred.” Anthony acknowledged. “As we all do, when our pride is wounded. But now you must grant her the grace you once sought for yourself. Give her space. Demonstrate your remorse not with words, but with patience and steadfastness. Let her see that you remain the friend who cherished her long before Lady Whistledown’s quill stirred society.”

She sniffed, nodding slowly. “You truly think she will come round?”

Anthony reached into his coat, withdrew a crisp, folded handkerchief, and dabbed away her tears. “I do.” He said. “The roots of your friendship run deep. Such bonds are not severed easily.”

Eloise offered a watery smile, taking the handkerchief from him to wipe her nose. “Your coat is quite ruined, you know.”

“If my greatest inconvenience this day is a tear-stained coat, I count myself fortunate.” Anthony replied with a wry smile.

She gave a shaky laugh, then sobered, her gaze sharpening with curiosity. “Anthony, do you truly wish to marry Penelope? Or is it merely duty compelling you?”

The question caught him unguarded, though perhaps it should not have. Eloise, ever perceptive, would naturally discern the complexity of his engagement. He leaned back, exhaling softly as his thoughts turned to Penelope – the warmth of her laugh, the keen wit she wielded beneath a mask of demureness, the quiet strength with which she bore her burdens.

“There was a time..” He began. “When I might have answered differently. When I viewed marriage as an obligation to be fulfilled rather than a partnership to be cherished.”

“And now?” She pressed.

Anthony’s lips curved faintly. “Now..” He said. “I find myself thinking of her more often than I ought. Her voice lingers in my mind long after she has gone. I envision a future with her not out of duty, but desire.”

Eloise studied him for a moment, then gave a nod of satisfaction. “Good.” She said simply. “She deserves a husband who sees her worth beyond her writing. Promise me, Anthony. Promise me you will never cause her pain. It would not do to have a third Bridgerton break her heart.”

“I swear it.” Anthony vowed. “I shall devote myself to her happiness and safeguard her heart with my own.”

Eloise stood, her smile faint but genuine. “Then perhaps..” She said softly. “All will indeed be well.”

As she left the study, Anthony returned to his desk. But his eyes no longer lingered on ledgers and figures. Instead, his thoughts were with the woman who had unexpectedly captured his heart and the sister who, at long last, was ready to fight for their friendship.

—--

The Featherington household lay silent beneath the weight of slumber, the gentle creak of settling wood and the distant hoot of an owl the only signs of life. Yet within her bedchamber, Penelope found no such peace. Sleep eluded her, her thoughts ceaseless in their torment, the echoes of the day’s events haunting her with merciless clarity.

Eloise’s tearful presence, the ghost of their once-unbreakable bond, had been a wound reopened rather than healed. And beneath it all, the lingering ache of Colin’s betrayal festered still, and agony she had learned to mask behind smiles and polite conversation. But here, in the solitude of night, the walls she had built crumbled.

Unable to bear the suffocating weight in her chest, Penelope threw on a shawl and slipped into the gardens. The air was cool, crisp with the remnants of an autumn breeze, and the sky above was an endless tapestry of stars. She inhaled deeply, willing the freshness of the night to cleanse her troubled mind. Yet no amount of fresh air could chase away the sorrow clawing at her heart.

Her composure shattered, and a sob tore from her throat. One became another, then another, until she pressed a hand to her lips in a feeble attempt to stifle the sound. Tears streamed freely, and for once, she allowed herself the indulgence of grief.

But then – a sound.

Footsteps.
Penelope’s breath caught, and she stiffened, instinctively gripping the edges of her shawl as if they could shield her from view. Her heart hammered wildly as she turned, expecting perhaps a housemaid or one of her sisters. Instead, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the shadows.

Anthony Bridgerton.

Clad in dark trousers and an open-collared waistcoat, he was the very picture of quiet authority, the flickering lamplight casting shadows over the chiseled angles of his face. But what unsettled her most was the softness in his gaze, the concern etched between his brows as he beheld her tear-streaked visage.

“Penelope.” He murmured, his voice rich, steady. A contrast to her own fragile state.

She swallowed thickly, willing her voice to be steady. “A-Anthony..” She said, though it wavered. “What are you doing here?”

He halted his steps, as if wary of startling her, and clasped his hands behind his back in a manner that spoke of restraint. “Eloise told me that you spoke today.” He said carefully. “I thought – I hoped – you might allow me to inquire after your well-being.”

The kindness in his tone unraveled what little resolve she had left. Penelope exhaled shakily, a fresh wave of emotion rising within her. She wanted to tell him she was fine. She wanted to reassure him, to brush aside his concern with the same practiced ease she employed with others.

But she could not.

Her throat tightened, and she turned her face away, blinking furiously against the tears that threatened to spill anew. She could not allow him to see her like this. She was to be his wife, was she not? What sort of viscountess crumbled so easily?

Yet Anthony understood.

He did not press her for words, nor did he stand idly by in silence. Instead, he closed the space between them with careful, measured steps. And then – without hesitation, without propriety – he reached for her.

His arms enveloped her, firm and warm, and Penelope found herself pressed against the solid breadth of his chest. She stiffened at first, caught between shock and the awareness of how utterly improper this was. If they were discovered in such an embrace, there would be no choice but to secure a special license at dawn.

But she did not resist.

Because, in truth, she had never felt safer.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips as she allowed herself to sink into his hold. “I –” She tried, but her voice broke.

“Hush.” Anthony whispered, his hand smoothing over the crown of her hair, his touch light, soothing. “You do not have to explain. Not tonight.”

But she needed to.

She clutched at his lapel, her fingers twisting into the fabric, as if anchoring herself to him. “I turned her away.” She confessed, her voice hoarse from unshed tears. “Eloise. She came to me, and I – I could not –” A sob wracked her frame. “I cannot forgive her, not now at least.”

Anthony exhaled, his grip tightening around her. He knew what Eloise had meant to Penelope. Their friendship had been something singular, something few could claim to understand. And yet, Eloise had shattered it. Colin had shattered it. And here Penelope stood, struggling beneath the weight of her own heartache.

“You did what you felt was right.” Anthony murmured. “And that is all that can be expected of you.”

“But it hurts.” She whispered.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy yet oddly comforting. Anthony continued to hold her, his palm trailing gently along her back, his other hand coming to rest at the curve of her waist.

When at last her sobs subsided, she tilted her head, peering up at him with those striking blue eyes – swollen though they were, they still held a beauty that rendered him breathless. “Do you think everything will be alright?”

Anthony brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his touch lingering as he cradled her face. “I do.” He said solemnly. “And I will be at your side, through all of it.”

A tremulous smile ghosted over her lips. “Thank you.” She whispered.

And that was when it happened.

Something shifted in the air between them, something that neither of them had quite anticipated. His hand remained against her cheek, his thumb tracing absent patterns along the soft skin. She was looking at him – truly looking at him – and for the first time, Anthony realized just how much he longed to taste the lips that trembled beneath his gaze.

And so, he did.

He bent his head, brushing his lips against hers – hesitant at first, testing, as if giving her the chance to pull away. But she did not. Instead, she yielded, her own lips parting in the softest of sighs.

The taste of her was intoxicating. Warm, sweet, and wholly uncharted. His hand slipped from her cheek to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer still. When she gasped softly against his mouth, he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before sliding within.

Penelope shivered, a moan escaping before she could suppress it. She clung to him, her hands fisting in his coat, as though afraid he might disappear if she let go.

Time lost meaning. There was only heat, only touch, only the breathless exchange of something far more dangerous than mere affection.

When at last they parted, their breaths came ragged, their bodies still molded against one another. Anthony’s gaze darkened as he took in the sight of her – disheveled, kiss-bruised, and devastatingly beautiful.

And then, in the quiet of the night, he spoke the words he had long since come to accept.

“I love you.”

A sharp inhale. A widening of those sapphire eyes.

And for the first time in her life, Penelope Featherington had no words.

Chapter Text

The Featherington drawing room was, as always, an exhibition of ostentation – an excess of floral upholstery, gilded trimmings, and an unfortunate overuse of lace. However, this morning, it was not the decor that held the room captive in an air of suspense, but rather the palpable tension between Viscount Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington.

Portia Featherington, ever the keen observer when it suited her, took immediate notice. She watched, lips pursed, as Penelope demurely poured tea, her hands far too precise, too careful – as if the simple act of serving might grant her reprieve from acknowledging the very large, very present Viscount seated before her.

Anthony himself sat rigidly, one leg crossed over the other, his hands clasped with such force that his knuckles whitened. His expression was unreadable, though beneath the composed mask, Portia suspected something far more troubling stirred within him. A brief glance between the two, the fleeting dart of Penelope’s gaze to her lap, the way Anthony’s jaw tensed – oh, something has transpired between them.

“How lovely it is to have such a devoted suitor.” Portia finally declared, breaking the silence with a saccharine smile. “My lord, to call upon Penelope at such an early hour – why, it speaks of great affection, indeed.”

Penelope flushed. “Mama –”

“Indeed, Lady Featherington.” Anthony interjected smoothly, though his voice held an edge of urgency. “I must confess, it is not only mere affection that brings me here, but a matter I should like to discuss with your daughter in private.”

Portia’s brows lifted, intrigue lighting in her sharp eyes. “In private, you say?” She tapped a finger against her teacup. “Well, I suppose a turn about the gardens is in order, then.”

And so it was settled.

Penelope’s maid followed dutifully at a respectful distance as the couple meandered through the well-manicured Featherington gardens, the early morning light casting a gentle glow upon the dewy leaves. The gravel crunched beneath their measured steps, but not a word was spoken between them – at least, not at first.

It was Anthony who broke the silence, his voice steady yet laced with something vulnerable, something that Penelope had never quite heard from him before.

“About last night –”

At once, Penelope stiffened.

Anthony noticed. He always noticed.

He exhaled heavily, turning to face her fully. “I meant what I said, Penelope.” His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. “I am in love with you.”

Penelope’s breath hitched.

It was one thing to hear such words whispered under the veil of moonlight, tangled in the throes of emotion. It was quite another to hear them spoken now, in the full clarity of day, with the weight of consequence looming over them both.

“You cannot –” She began, only to falter when she saw the sincerity in his face.

“I can.” He corrected gently. “And I do.”

“Anthony.” She whispered, voice tight, as she forced herself to reason with him. “Ours is a courtship arranged by her Majesty. It is a matter of duty, not affection. You – you are the Viscount. You have responsibilities, obligations to your family, to your title. You should not allow yourself to be misled by — by —”

“By what, Penelope?” Anthony challenged, his voice growing stronger. “By the idea that my love is dictated by duty rather than my own heart?”

She opened her mouth, but he pressed forward, his tone now urgent, impassioned.

“If what I feel is not love, then why is it that I long to touch you, to see you, to hear your thoughts before I even know my own?” His voice dropped to something raw. “Why does my heart falter when you enter a room, only to race as if it cannot bear to be without you? Why do I find myself undone at the mere notion of another man holding your attention, stealing your laughter, claiming your hand?”

Penelope’s lips parted, but no words came.

“And why..” He whispered. “Does it pain me so deeply to know that my own brother once occupied a place in your heart that I can only pray you will allow me to take?”

His confession was a thunderclap in the silence between them.

Penelope swallowed, her throat thick with emotion. She had never – never – imagined Anthony Bridgerton capable of such words, such sentiment. And yet, here he stood before her, eyes shining with unshed tears, his vulnerability laid bare like an open wound.

She wanted – oh, how she wanted – to reach for him, to cradle his face in her hands, to wipe away the grief that trembled upon his lashes. But she could not move, rooted in place by the sheer magnitude of what he was offering her.

He inhaled deeply, composing himself, though his voice was gentler now. “I do not expect an answer from you, Penelope.” He assured her. “I would not wish to burden you with such a thing. But know this – I am grateful for this courtship. It grants me time. Time to know you, to prove to you that my feelings are real, that they are not born of obligation but of something far greater.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for her hand. When she did not pull away, he clasped it between both of his own.

“I vow to spend our lifetime together loving you.” He murmured, his thumb brushing the back of her gloved hand. “And should you allow me, I will be the best husband I can possibly be. And I will spend every day – every hour – making you fall in love with me.”

He smiled then, a small hopeful thing.

“I do hope, however..” He added with wry amusement. “That we might at least dispense with this awkwardness, if only to spare ourselves the scrutiny of our families.”

That, at least, drew a small breath of laughter from Penelope – shaky, uncertain, but laughter nonetheless.

Anthony’s expression softened, as if he had found a single sliver of hope in her reaction.

For the first time since the night before, Penelope allowed herself to wonder – perhaps, just perhaps – if love had been standing before her all along.

—--

The afternoon sun cast a gentle glow through the tall windows of Madame Delacroix’ modiste shop on Bond Street. The establishment, known for its exquisite fashions and discreet service, had closed its doors to regular patrons for the day, though one particular visitor remained. Penelope Featheringtong sat perched upon a velvet settee in the private fitting room, a cup of untouched tea cooling before her.

Madame Genevieve Delacroix, with her characteristic French accent and shrewd eyes, observed her young friend with unconcealed interest. She noted the distant look in Penelope’s eyes, the way her fingers absently traced the embroidered pattern on her reticule, the slight furrow between her brows that betrayed a troubled mind.

“You ‘ave been most distracted today, ma chérie.” Genevieve remarked, setting aside a length of sprigged muslin she had been examining. “One might think the Queen ‘erself has commanded you to perform at court, such is the worry upon your face.”

Penelope startled slightly, as though pulled from a deep reverie. “I do apologize, Gen. I fear I am poor company today.”

“Nonsense.” Genevieve replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But something troubles you, non? Perhaps it would ease your mind to speak of it.” She poured fresh tea into Penelope’s cup, the fragrant steam rising between them. “After all, we ‘ave shared greater secrets than whatever weighs upon you now.”
Penelope hesitated, her gaze dropping to the tea before her. The burden of Lady Whistledown was indeed their shared secret, but what troubled her now felt somehow more intimate, more personal than even that scandalous alter ego.

“It is… Lord Bridgerton.” She finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Genevieve’s perfectly arched eyebrow rose with interest. “The Viscount? Ah, I suspected as much. Your courtship progresses, then?”

“It progresses in a most unexpected manner.” Penelope confessed, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “He called upon me this morning, and… oh, Gen, I scarcely know how to make sense of it all.”

The modiste leaned forward, her dark eyes alive with curiosity. “What ‘as ‘appened, ma chérie? Surely it must be something significant to leave you in such a state.”

With halting words that gradually gained momentum, Penelope recounted the morning’s encounter in the garden – Anthony’s declaration of love, his passionate avowal of feelings she had never imagined could be directed toward her plain self.

As she spoke, Genevieve noted the heightened color in Penelope’s cheeks, the way her eyes brightened when describing particular moments of tenderness from the usually stern viscount.

“I see.” Genevieve said thoughtfully when Penelope had finished. A knowing smile played at the corner of her lips. “‘Ave you and the Viscount been… intimate, Miss Penelope?”

“Madame Delacroix!” Penelope gasped, scandalized by the forwardness of the question. Her face flushed crimson, the color extending down her neck to disappear beneath her modest neckline.

Genevieve laughed softly. “Forgive me, chérie. I sometimes forget the delicate sensibilities of the ton. Among those of my station, such matters are discussed with less.. ceremony.”

Penelope glanced toward the door, as though fearing someone might overhear, despite knowing they were quite alone. “We have not been… that is to say…” She took a steadying breath. “There has been an embrace. And… a kiss.”

The modiste’s expression brightened with undisguised delight. “Ah! And this kiss – it was not merely a peck upon the hand or cheek, I presume?”

Penelope shook her head, unable to meet Genevieve’s gaze. “No, it was… rather more than that.”

“And tell me, ma petite.” Genevieve pressed gently, her voice lowering to a confidential tone. “What did you feel when the Viscount kissed you?”

The question hung in the air between them, weighted with implication. Penelope swallowed hard, unbidden memories flooding her mind – the firm pressure of Anthony’s lips against hers, the surprising softness of them, the clean scent of his cologne, the steady strength of his arms around her waist.

“I felt…” She began, then faltered, struggling to articulate sensations she had never expected to experience. “I felt… good.” She admitted at last, her voice scarcely audible. “When he touches me, it is as though my body has been set aflame, yet not unpleasantly so.”

Her words came more freely now, like water breaking through a dam. “There is a warmth that spreads through me whenever he is near, particularly when he shows such generosity of spirit. The way he supports my charitable endeavors without question. How he has never once pressured me to mend relations with his siblings, particularly Eloise, despite how awkward it must make family gatherings. He allows me my feelings, Genevieve, respects them even when they must inconvenience him greatly.”

Penelope’s fingers twisted in her lap as she continued. “And then to hear him say he… loves me. Not merely likes, but loves. It seems impossible, utterly impossible.”

Genevieve’s smile spread slowly across her face, genuine and warm. “Ma chérie, from what you describe, I suspect you may have developed tender feelings for the Viscount yourself. If you have not fallen completely in love with him already, you stand precipitously close to the edge.”

Penelope’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. “Surely not! I cannot have –” She broke off, her brow furrowing in confusion. “It has always been Colin who –”

“Who has never noticed you.” Genevieve finished gently. “While his brother sees you clearly.”

“But how could Anthony Bridgerton, of all people, truly love me?” Penelope asked, genuine bewilderment in her voice. “I am not –”

“You are not what?” Genevieve interrupted, her tone suddenly sharp. “Not beautiful? Not accomplished? Not worthy? Miss Penelope, you underestimate yourself most grievously.”

The modiste set aside her teacup with a decisive clink. “You are intelligent – more so than most of the simpering debutantes who parade through the ballrooms of Mayfair. You are kind, with a generous heart that seeks to help those less fortunate. You possess wit and humor that make you delightful company. You are well-read, articulate and possess a talent for writing that few can match.”

Genevieve’s eyes softened. “And yes, ma chérie, you are beautiful, though you have been tight not to see it. Your hair glows like autumn fire, your complexion is flawless, and your figure, when properly adorned, is most becoming.”

She leaned forward, taking Penelope’s hands in her own. “As a genteel bred lady with these qualities, you are indeed the perfect choice for a wife – and a viscountess. Is it truly so difficult to believe that Lord Bridgerton has recognized what others have been too blind to see?”

Penelope sat in stunned silence, unaccustomed to hearing herself described in such glowing terms.

After a moment, Genevieve spoke again, her voice gentle but direct. “Do you like the Viscount, Miss Penelope? Truly?”

When Penelope did not immediately answer, the modiste squeezed her hands reassuringly. “You need not answer now. It is something to contemplate in the quietude of your heart.”

She released Penelope’s hands and reached for the teapot, refilling their ups with practiced grace. “Consider this – you and Lord Bridgerton are already engaged in a courtship that might lead to marriage. If affection has blossomed between you, is that not a fortunate turn of events? Many in your position marry without the blessing of mutual regard.”

Genevieve’s voice took on a wistful quality. “A love match, ma chérie – what could be more wonderful? Your union need not be merely practical or advantageous. It could be founded on genuine affection, respect and desire.”

The modiste sipped her tea, allowing Penelope time to absorb her words. “Think on it, ma chérie. There are worse fates than finding oneself in love with one’s future husband, non?”

Penelope remained silent, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window. The afternoon light cast her features in a golden glow, illuminating the thoughtful expression that had settled upon her countenance as she contemplated a possibility she had never before entertained – that she, Penelope Featherington, spinster and wallflower, might indeed be falling in love with Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of one of London’s most distinguished families.

The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and new realizations, while outside the window, the fashionable world of London continued its relentless pace, unaware of the quiet transformation taking place within the walls of Madame Delacroix’ establishment.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered through the damask curtains of Violet Bridgerton’s private drawing room, casting a warm golden glow upon her hands as they worked deftly at her embroidery. The room was her sanctuary, a carefully guarded haven amidst the perpetual whirlwind that accompanied the raising of eight children – now grown, yet still capable of creating sufficient chaos to test the patience of even the most equable of mothers.

The delicate silken threads passed through the linen beneath her practiced fingers, forming an intricate pattern of bluebells and forget-me-nots. Violet found a peculiar peace in these quiet hours devoted to her needlework, a meditation of sorts that allowed her mind the luxury of wandering freely while her hands remained productively engaged.

It was an unspoken rule within Bridgerton House that the Dowager Viscountess was not be disturbed during these precious moments of solitude. The servants had been instructed accordingly, and even her children – willful as they might be in other matters – respected this one inviolable boundary.

Thus, when a tentative knock sounded upon the paneled door, Violet’s head lifted in surprise, her needle pausing mid-stitch. She frowned slightly, perplexed by this unexpected intrusion upon her private hours.

“Who calls?” She inquired, her voice carrying the gentle authority that had guided her family through the years since Edmund’s untimely passing.

“It is Anthony, mother.” Came the reply, the deep timbre of her eldest son’s voice carrying through the polished oak door.

Violet’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise. For Anthony to disturb her sanctuary, something of significance must surely be afoot.

“You may enter.” She permitted, setting aside her embroidery hoop as the door opened to reveal the current Viscount Bridgerton.

Anthony stepped into the room with uncharacteristic hesitation, his tall frame seeming somehow diminished by what appeared to be a curious mixture of determination and embarrassment. His usual commanding presence had softened, reminding Violet startlingly of the boy he had once been, approaching her with some childish confession or request.

“Good afternoon, mother.” He greeted her, standing rather awkwardly before her.

“Anthony.” Violet acknowledged with a small nod. “I must confess to some surprise at seeing you here at this hour. You know well that I prefer not to be disturbed during my needlework.” A hint of gentle reproach colored her words, though there was no genuine censure in her tone.

Anthony cleared his throat, his fingers idly adjusting the perfectly aligned cuffs of his jacket. “Indeed, mother, and I would not presume to intrude were the matter not of the utmost importance.”

Violet regarded her son with increasing interest. It was rare to see Anthony – who had shouldered the responsibilities of the viscountcy with such stoic commitment since his nineteenth year – display any sign of uncertainty.

“What troubles you, my son?” She inquired, gesturing for him to take the seat opposite her own. “What matter is so pressing that it could not await a more convenient hour?”

Anthony remained standing, his posture rigid with what Violet now recognized as nervous energy. He drew a deep breath, his gaze meeting hers directly.

“I find myself in need of your assistance, mother.” He stated, his voice measured despite the evident tension in his bearing. “There is something in your possession which I… require.”

Violet’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as comprehension dawned. Though Anthony had not specified the nature of his request, a mother’s intuition – honed through decades of observing her children – allowed her to divine his purpose with remarkable clarity. The recent weeks had not escaped her notice; she had observed with quiet satisfaction the transformation in her eldest son as his courtship with the youngest Featherington progressed from an arrangement of convenience to something altogether more meaningful.

A warm smile spread across Violet’s face as she rose from her chair, her embroidery entirely forgotten. “I shall return momentarily.” She informed him, gathering her skirts as she moved toward the door with purpose.

Anthony remained where she had left him, his brow furrowed in puzzlement at her swift departure. Violet made her way through the familiar corridors of Bridgerton House to her private chambers, where she approached a rosewood jewelry box situated upon her dressing table. With reverent fingers, she extracted a small velvet case from its depths before returning to the drawing room where her son awaited.

Anthony stood precisely as she had left him, his expression betraying his confusion at her actions. Violet approached him with measured steps, extending her hand to present him with a small box of crimson velvet.

“I believe this is what you seek.” She said softly, her voice rich with maternal understanding.

Astonishment transformed Anthony’s features as he accepted the proffered box. His lips parted in surprise, his gaze shifting between the velvet case and his mother’s knowing smile. With hands that trembled almost imperceptibly, he opened the box to reveal the treasured Bridgerton engagement ring – a brilliant diamond encircled by six perfectly matched pearls, set in a band of polished gold that gleamed in the afternoon light.

A smile of pure joy, reminiscent of the carefree boy he had once been, illuminated Anthony’s countenance. For a moment, the weight of the viscountcy seemed to lift from his shoulders as he gazed at the heirloom with undisguised admiration.

“It is exquisite.” He murmured, his fingers hovering reverently above the jewel. “Even more beautiful every time I see.”

He looked up from the ring to meet his mother’s gaze, wonder evident in his expression. “How did you know what I intended to ask? I had not even spoken the words.”

Violet reached out to caress her son’s cheek, a gesture she had not made since he was a boy. “Your affection for Miss Featherington has become increasingly apparent with each passing week.” She explained, her voice tender with understanding. “It was merely a matter of time before you would seek to formalize your attachment. The progression of courtship to proposal is, after all, the natural order of things.”

Anthony closed the jewel box with careful precision, his fingers tracing the soft texture of the velvet. There was a vulnerability in his expression that Violet had not witnessed in many years.

“Do you believe she will accept me, mother?” He asked quietly, the question revealing an uncertainty that few besides Violet would ever be permitted to glimpse. “You once hoped it would be Colin who would marry Penelope. I recall quite clearly how you listed her first among the eligible young ladies you thought suitable for him.”

Violet regarded her firstborn with a mixture of affection and understanding. How curious that this man – who navigated the complex waters of society and business with such confidence – should harbor doubts about his reception from a young woman whose regard was evident to all who observed them together.

“Anthony..” She said gently, placing her hand upon his arm. “Penelope would be most foolish to decline such an offer, and whatever else Miss Featherington may be, she is certainly not foolish.”

She squeezed his arm reassuringly. “As for my earlier notions regarding Colin and Penelope – I freely admit I was mistaken. I had thought their similar ages and temperaments might make them well-suited, but I see now that it is you who deserves to welcome Penelope into our family officially.”

A look of surprise crossed Anthony’s features. “You truly believe so?”

Violet’s expression softened further, a distant look entering her eyes as memories from years past surfaced. “Do you know, your father predicted this very much.”

“Father?” Anthony’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But Penelope was but a child when he –”

“Indeed she was.” Violet confirmed. “Scarcely out of leading strings. I recall with perfect clarity watching her play with Eloise in the gardens. Edmund observed her for some time, and then turned to me with that particular smile he wore when he had discerned something that eluded everyone else.”

Violet’s voice took on a wistful quality as she recounted the memory. “‘That little one,’ he said to me, ‘will be our daughter someday, Violet. Mark my words – she possesses the very qualities that will make her an exceptional viscountess for our Anthony.’”

Anthony appeared dumbfounded. “How could father possibly have known? She was a child – I was barely more than a youth myself.”

“Your father had an uncanny ability to see the true nature of people.” Violet replied, her eyes bright with emotion. “Even then, young as she was, Penelope displayed a certain grace, cleverness, and a quiet dignity that set her apart. Edmund recognized in her the makings of the woman she would become – a woman worthy of standing at your side.”

She took both of his hands in hers, the velvet box nestled between their palms. “I cannot express how it gladdens my heart to see his prediction coming to fruition. To welcome Penelope not merely as an honorary Bridgerton, as she has been through her friendship with your siblings, but as my daughter in truth.”

Violet’s eyes searched his face. “You do love her, do you not, Anthony?”

“Without reservation.” Anthony answered without a moment’s hesitation, his voice firm with conviction. “With all that I am.”

Relief and joy suffused Violet’s features. “Then I may rest easy, knowing my stubborn eldest son marries not merely from duty, but from the deepest affection. Your father would be so very pleased.”

She released his hands, stepping back to regard him with maternal pride. “I cannot wait to witness your wedding day, Anthony. To see Miss Featherington walking toward you, to become the next Viscountess Bridgerton.”

Anthony grinned, his expression alight with anticipation. “Nor can I, mother. Nor can I.”

He carefully tucked the precious velvet box into the inner pocket of his jacket, where it rested close to his heart. “Thank you.” He said with genuine gratitude, bowing over her hand with formal respect that belied the intimate nature of their conversation.

As he turned to depart, the afternoon sun caught the profile of his face, and for an instant, Violet was stuck by his resemblance to Edmund – not merely in feature, but in the quiet joy that now illuminated his countenance. It was the look of a man who had found his heart’s desire and was reaching out to claim it.

The door closed softly behind him, leaving Violet alone once more with her embroidery and her thoughts. She resumed her seat, lifting the abandoned hoop to her lap, but her fingers remained still upon the delicate stitches. Instead, she gazed out of the window in the spring afternoon, her mind occupied with visions of another Bridgerton wedding, another Bridgerton bride – and the satisfaction of knowing that Edmund, wherever he might be, was smiling upon them all.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the well-worn road and the occasional jostle of the carriage did little to quell the anticipation that thickened the air within the Featheringtons’ traveling coach. The scent of fresh countryside air filtered faintly through the small opening in the window, yet it was overpowered by the rich perfume Portia Featherington had generously applied before their departure.

Seated primly across from her daughters, Portia’s gloved hands were folded in her lap, though her fingers tapped restlessly against the silk of her gown, a clear indication of the excitement brimming within her. The invitation to Aubrey Hall had been a triumph, an indisputable sign of their family’s elevated status now that Penelope was being courted by none other than the Viscount Bridgerton himself.

“Oh, what a grand affair it shall be!” The redhead mama exclaimed, her eyes alight with delight. “A full week at Aubrey Hall, mingling with one of the most esteemed families in the ton! This is precisely what I have always dreamed of for this family. And to think, we are to be welcomed early – before the rest of society arrives. It is quite the distinction, I must say.”

Penelope, seated beside her sister, merely nodded, offering her mother a small polite smile. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of her shawl as she gazed out of the window, watching the rolling countryside pass them by.

“Of course, it is only natural.” Portia continued, lifting her chin with pride. “Given your connection to the Viscount, my dear, we are now regarded as almost family.”

Prudence, who had been absentmindedly adjusting the lace trim on her sleeves, turned to her younger sister with a sly smile. “And speaking of the Viscount..” She drawled, her tone laced with curiosity. “Do you suppose he shall make an offer by the end of the week, Penelope?”

Penelope stiffened. She had anticipated such a question, yet hearing it spoken aloud made her stomach tighten with a peculiar mixture of apprehension and something… far less unpleasant.

“I —” She hesitated, glancing at her sister’s expectant expression. “I do not claim to know the Viscount’s exact intentions.”

Prudence scoffed. “Oh, come now, sister. You must at least suspect that he has plans to propose soon. It has been weeks since your courtship began. And really, is that not the purpose of it all?

Penelope swallowed, lowering her gaze to the fabric of her gown. She did suspect as much. In truth, with the way things had been progressing between her and Anthony – the lingering glances, the stolen moments, the unspoken intimacy between them – she could not deny that the prospect of a proposal seemed more certain than ever.

And yet, she dared not voice such thoughts aloud, particularly not to her mother and sister, who would undoubtedly allow their excitement to spiral into an uncontrollable frenzy.

Portia, however, needed no further encouragement to share her thoughts on the matter.

“Oh, he shall propose.” She declared with a satisfied nod. “It is all but inevitable. After last season’s disaster with Miss Sharma, the Bridgertons cannot afford another failed courtship. Their family’s reputation – particularly that of the Viscount – depends upon it.”

Penelope’s stomach twisted at the mention of Anthony’s past entanglement. It was true that his broken engagement had caused quite the scandal, though it had since faded into the background of society gossip. Still, she did not wish to think that his impending proposal was motivated by duty or obligation rather than by –

She quickly shook the thought away.

“And let us not forget..” Portia continued, adjusting the feathered adornment in her bonnet. “Lady Bridgerton adores you, Penelope. Why, I daresay she may be just as eager for this match as I am.”

Penelope forced another smile, offering a nonchalant shrug. “It matters not when the proposal occurs.” She said lightly, choosing her words carefully. “Whether before or after the ball, so long as we marry without scandal, that shall be more than enough.”

Portia beamed, clearly pleased with her daughter’s practical outlook.

Prudence , however, narrowed her eyes slightly. “You are awfully composed about the whole affair.” She noted. “One would think you would be giddy at the thought of securing such a match.”

Penelope merely smiled, diverting her gaze back to the window.

If only her family knew the truth – that the decision had already been made, that the Queen herself had decreed their union, and that there had never truly been any uncertainty about whether she would one day be Viscountess Bridgerton.

But they did not know. And for now, she would keep it that way.

The carriage rocked gently as it continued along the path, drawing ever closer to Aubrey Hall and to the week that would, without question, change everything.

—--

The grand carriage bearing the Featherington crest rolled steadily along the gravel pathway leading to Aubrey Hall, its gilded wheels crunching softly beneath the weight of its passage. The Bridgertons, a formidable and well-bred assembly, stood at the entrance, their poised yet expectant expressions betraying varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.

At the forefront of the welcoming party stood Anthony, his broad shoulders squared with an air of authority, yet there was an undeniable flicker of impatience in his dark eyes as he awaited the sight of her. Beside him, his mother, Violet, wore a warm and practiced smile, the very image of a gracious hostess, while his siblings – Benedict, Eloise, Hyacinth and Gregory – stood in varying states of anticipation, each entertained by their own musings about the Featheringtons’ impending stay.

As the carriage came to a halt, Anthony made no move to wait upon the footman’s service. Instead, with uncharacteristic haste, he stepped forward, reaching for the door and pulling it open himself.

The first to descend was Portia Featherington, her gown a striking shade of saffron that, despite the vibrancy, did little to complement the rich greens and golds of Aubrey Hall’s autumnal surroundings. She preened at the sight of their stately welcome, her gloved fingers adjusting her bonnet as though she were arriving at court.

Prudence followed next, casting a quick, darting glance at the Bridgerton assembly as though already weighing her prospects amongst them.

Then, finally, Penelope.

Anthony felt the breath lodge in his throat at the sight of her. The golden afternoon light caught in the strands of her red hair, casting a warm glow upon her porcelain complexion. Her eyes, ever perceptive and watchful, lifted to meet his, and for the briefest of moments, the world around him blurred into insignificance.

Had it truly only been a handful of days since he had last seen her? It felt as though it had been an eternity.

Recovering swiftly, he extended his hand to her, his grip firm yet reverent as he helped her alight from the carriage. He did not relinquish her fingers immediately, savoring the warmth of her skin against his own before, at last, guiding her hand to the crook of his arm.

“Welcome to Aubrey Hall, Miss Featherington.” He murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

She glanced up at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise before she schooled her features into careful neutrality. “Thank you, my lord.” She replied softly, though the pink tinge that dusted her cheeks did not escape his notice.

As he led her forward, the others quickly took up their roles. Benedict and Gregory, ever eager to escape the formalities of welcome, took it upon themselves to escort Portia and Prudence to their respective rooms, while Anthony remained steadfast in his duty of guiding Penelope to her own chambers.

He was pleased to note that, by some sheer stroke of fortune – or more likely, the influence of his mother — Penelope has been assigned a suite in close proximity to his own.

A most convenient arrangement indeed.

The afternoon had passed in peaceful ease, allowing the travelers ample time to rest and refresh themselves following their long journey. The Featherington ladies had indulged in a restorative nap, after which they reconvened with their hosts for an afternoon tea served in one of Aubrey Hall’s bright and airy parlors.

It was here, amidst the genteel clinking of porcelain and the idle chatter of the ladies, that Anthony made his move.

“I should like to take a turn about the gardens.” He announced, setting his teacup down with deliberate care. His gaze flickered to Penelope, who had been seated primly beside her mother, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. “Miss Featherington, would you care to accompany me?”

All conversation ceased.

Portia and Violet turned their attention toward the pair, their expressions betraying a shared yet unspoken understanding.

Violet, ever quick to facilitate such matters, smiled encouragingly. “Oh, what a splendid notion. The gardens are quite breathtaking at this time of year, are they not?”

Portia, catching on at once, thinking that this might be the opportunity for the Viscount to propose, nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, they are! Penelope, you must go, dear girl. A bit of fresh air shall do you well.”

Penelope, caught rather unprepared by the sudden turn of events, hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly over the fabric of her skirts. “I —” She glanced at Anthony, then at her mother before quickly composing herself. “Perhaps, my lady’s maid should accompany us?” She suggested, ever mindful of propriety.

Before Portia could respond, Eloise, who had been lounging quite unceremoniously in her seat, abruptly straightened.

“Oh, do allow me.” She interjected, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I find myself in need of some air as well.”

Anthony turned his gaze toward his sister, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Eloise merely grinned.

“Very well.” He conceded, rising from his seat. He turned back to Penelope, extending his arm once more. “Shall we?”

With a small, almost resigned sigh, Penelope placed her fingers atop his sleeve. “If you insist, my lord.”

And with that, the trio departed toward the gardens, leaving behind two exceedingly pleased matrons who were already whispering excitedly amongst themselves.

Chapter Text

The gentle Kent countryside offered a splendid backdrop as the days passed in delightful succession at Aubrey Hall. the sprawling estate, with its verdant lawns and blooming gardens, had become a haven of camaraderie as the Bridgertons and Featheringtons formed bonds that grew stronger with each passing day, well before the remainder of the ton would descend upon them for the Hearts and Flowers Ball.

On this particular afternoon, as was tradition when the family retreated to their country home, the Bridgertons had arranged for a game of Pall Mall. The ancient lawn game had long been a source of both entertainment and fierce rivalry among the siblings, their competitive spirits manifesting in ways that would have shocked polite society had they been witnessed beyond the private grounds of Aubrey Hall.

“I do hope everyone remembers the rules.” Anthony announced, his voice carrying the authority of being the Viscount as he stood with his prized mallet – a black instrument of calculated destruction that had earned the moniker “the mallet of death” through years of ruthless play. “Though I suspect my siblings require no reminder of how to properly sabotage one another.”

The youngest Bridgertons, Hyacinth and Gregory, had been relegated to spectators, their protests silenced by Violet’s gentle reminder that they would have their turn when they were of an age to withstand the competitive machinations of their elder siblings.

“One might think we were raised by wolves rather than the most respected Lady Violet Bridgerton in London.” Benedict remarked with a mischievous grin as he selected his mallet, a blue one that had served him well in previous games.

“I assure you Penelope, Miss Featherington..” Daphne said, turning to the Featherington sisters with a warm smile that belied her own competitive nature. “We are perfectly civilized in all other aspects of life. It is only during these games that we reveal our true natures.”

“How reassuring.” Penelope replied with a gentle laugh, her delicate hands adjusting the pale yellow ribbons of her bonnet. The soft shade complemented her red curls far better than the garish colors her mother typically insisted upon, and Anthony found his gaze lingering upon her longer than propriety might allow.

The game commenced with great ceremony, each player striking their ball with varying degrees of skill and strategic intent. Eloise played with a focused determination, while Prudence approached each turn with a hesitancy that suggested she feared the game might somehow compromise her marriageability. Francesca, who had arrived with Daphne and the Duke of Hastings the previous day, displayed a quiet competence that often allowed her to advance while her more boisterous siblings were distracted by their rivalries.

“Your turn, brother.” Benedict called to Anthony, his expression innocent despite the gleam in his eyes. “Do try to avoid the shrubbery this time. I believe Cook is still finding colored balls among the vegetables from our last match.”

Anthony approached his ball with calculated precision, his form perfect as he positioned himself for the stroke. Just as he was about to swing, Benedict sighed loudly, causing the Viscount to falter momentarily.

“I beg your pardon.” Benedict offered, not appearing remotely apologetic. “Something caught in my throat.”

“Indeed.” Anthony muttered, his eyes narrowing as he completed his turn, sending his black ball rolling across the lawn with impressive speed.

The game progressed with much laughter and strategic maneuvering, the players advancing toward the final wicket with varying degrees of success. When Benedict’s turn arrived, he approached his ball with an exaggerated flourish that immediately raised Anthony’s suspicions.

“What are you planning, brother?” Anthony inquired, his tone wary.

“Nothing beyond what is permitted by the sacred rules of Pall Mall.” Benedict replied, before delivering a powerful strike that sent his ball careening into Anthony’s, displacing the Viscount’s prized black sphere and sending it rolling toward the lake at the edge of the playing field.

The collective gasp from the Bridgerton siblings quickly transformed into cheers and applause as Anthony’s advantageous position was thoroughly decimated.

“Well played, Benedict!” Eloise exclaimed, offering her brother an approving nod. “I do believe this is the first time Anthony has been properly bested since last summer.”

“You are mistaken, sister.” Daphne corrected, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “I distinctly recall sending his ball into the rose bushes last off-season. Mama was most displeased with the damage to her prize blooms.”

Anthony accepted his fate with a resignation born of years of sibling warfare, though his eyes promised retribution in future matches. “It seems I shall be taking a scenic detour to retrieve my ball.” He announced, moving away from the group with as much dignity as one could muster when bested at Pall Mall.

It was then that Daphne, with a subtlety that would have made even Lady Whistledown proud, seized her opportunity. When her turn arrived, she appeared to miscalculate her stroke, sending Penelope’s ball veering in the same direction as Anthony’s.

“Oh! How terribly clumsy of me.” Daphne exclaimed, her performance convincing to all save her siblings, who exchanged knowing glances. “I do apologize, Penelope.”

Penelope sighed, observing her ball’s trajectory with a mixture of amusement and resignation. “Is this how one becomes initiated into the Bridgerton Pall Mall Society? By having one’s ball banished to the furthest reaches of the estate?” She laughed softly.

Prudence approached her sister with genuine concern. “Shall I accompany you to retrieve it? The grass might stain your gown.”

“I shall manage.” Penelope assured her with a gentle smile. “It seems the Bridgertons consider sabotage an art form in this particular game. I shall simply have to locate my ball and return to the course as swiftly as possible.”

As Penelope made her way toward the lake, the remaining players continued their match, though Daphne could not help but cast a satisfied glance in the direction the redhead had departed.

The lake at Aubrey Hall glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, its surface disturbed only by the occasional water fowl or fish breaking the surface. As Penelope approached, she discovered Anthony kneeling at the water’s edge, retrieving his ball from where it had embedded itself in the muddy bank.

Upon hearing her approach, the Viscount looked up, surprise giving way to pleasure as he recognized her. “Penelope.” He greeted, rising to his feet with his prize clutched in his hand. “Has one of my siblings claimed you as their victim as well?”

Penelope smiled, the expression transforming her features in a way that caused Anthony’s breath to catch. “Daphne.” She confirmed, her tone indicating no ill will. “Though I suspect her aim was more precise than she would have me believe.”

Anthony laughed softly, the sound warming Penelope in a manner that had nothing to do with the pleasant spring day. “I must apologize for my family’s relentless competitive nature.” He said, absently wiping mud from his ball. “We were raised to pursue victory with perhaps more vigor than is entirely proper.”

“I had ascertained as much from Eloise’s stories.” Penelope replied, her gaze scanning the lakeside for her own ball. “Though I confess I did not anticipate experiencing it quite so directly without having officially joined your ranks.”

Anthony’s expression softened at her words. “You have been family long before any official declaration might make it so.” He said quietly. “The Bridgertons recognized your worth many years ago, Penelope. Some of us..” He added with a meaningful look. “Merely required more time to fully appreciate the treasure in our midst.”

A becoming blush spread across Penelope’s cheeks, the color rivaling the sunset that would later grace the western sky. She averted her gaze, overwhelmed by both his words and the intensity with which he delivered them.

“Now..” Anthony said correctly sensing her discomfort and graciously offering a change of subject. “Where did your ball find its resting place?”

They both scanned the area, their search ending when Penelope pointed toward the center of the lake where a small yellow sphere bobbed gently upon the surface.

“Oh dear.” She sighed, resignation evident in her tone. “It seems I shall have to concede defeat. Unless you happen to have a fishing rod concealed about your person, my lord.”

“Forfeit? A Bridgerton never allows their own or their partner to surrender.” Anthony declared with such conviction that Penelope momentarily forgot the ball in question was hers and not his. “Particularly not when the cause of defeat was the machination of my sibling.”

Before Penelope could protest, Anthony had already removed his boots and set them carefully aside. “My lord – Anthony..” She corrected, remembering his preference when they were alone. “There is no need for such gallantry. It is merely a game.”

“Is it?” He questioned, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that suggested they were discussing matters far more significant that a wayward Pall Mall ball. “Perhaps to others. But I find I cannot bear to see you disadvantaged, particularly due to my family’s interference.”

Without further discussion, he waded into the lake, his fine breeches and stockings immediately soaked by the chilly water. Penelope watched with a mixture of horror and admiration as he swam with powerful strokes toward her floating ball, his form cutting through the water with practiced ease.

The minutes that passed felt interminable to Penelope, who could not help but worry about the temperature of the water. Everyone knew the lake at Aubrey Hall remained stubbornly cold well into summer, and the spring weather, while pleasant, had not yet warmed the depths sufficiently.

When Anthony finally returned to shore, water streaming from his clothing and hair plastered to his forehead, he held aloft the yellow ball like a conquering hero displaying his trophy. “For you, Penelope.” He said, extending the dripping prize toward her.

Penelope accepted it with hesitant hands, but her eyes were fixed upon Anthony’s face, noting the slight bluish tint to his lips. “You are thoroughly soaked.” She observed, concern evident in her voice. “And freezing, by the look of you. Was retrieving a ball truly worth risking your health?”

“For you?” Anthony replied without hesitation, his gaze unwavering. “I would brave far colder waters and greater perils without a second thought.”

Penelope’s breath caught at his declaration, her heart racing beneath the modest neckline of her day dress. “You should return to the house immediately and change into dry clothing.” She advised, practical concern overtaking her emotional response. “I would not have you fall ill on my account.”

“Your concern warms me sufficiently.” He countered, a smile playing at his lips despite the evident chill that had settled into his frame. Before she could respond, he reached out and captured a lock of her hair that had escaped her bonnet, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that bordered on impropriety. “Though I would not object to being fussed over by you should I develop a sniffle.”

The intimacy of the moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken feelings and promises. Just as Penelope opened her mouth to speak – though what she might have said, she herself was uncertain – Benedict’s voice rang out across the grounds.

“Anthony! Penelope! The game has concluded, and we have a victor!” His voice carried on the breeze. “Though I regret to inform you both that it is neither of you!”

The spell broken, Anthony reluctantly released Penelope’s curl. “It seems we are summoned back to civilization.” He said, regret evident in his tone. “Though I find I am not particularly interested in which of my siblings has claimed victory today.”

“No?” Penelope questioned, gathering her composure despite the rapid beating of her heart. “What does interest you then, my lord?”

Anthony’s smile transformed his face, lending it a boyish charm rarely witnessed in the ballrooms of London. “I believe, Miss Featherington, that is a discussion best saved for when I am not dripping lake water onto your slippers. Though I promise you, it shall be worth the wait.”

Together they turned back toward the distant figures of their families, Penelope clutching her rescued ball and Anthony leaving wet footprints upon the grass – both of them carrying the memory of a moment that transcended a simple game of Pall Mall.

Chapter Text

The chandeliers cast a warm glow across the dining table at Aubrey Hall, illuminating the array of silver and crystal that adorned the polished mahogany. The Bridgertons and Featheringtons were gathered for the evening meal, their conversations a pleasant hum beneath the gentle clink of fine cutlery against Sevres porcelain. Yet despite the lively atmosphere, one could not help but notice the conspicuous emptiness of the chair at the head of the table – the seat reserved for the Viscount.

“Lady Bridgerton.” Portia Featherington remarked, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, her orange silk gown catching the candlelight in a most unfortunate manner. “I cannot help but observe that Lord Bridgerton has not joined us this evening. I do hope nothing is amiss?”

Violet Bridgerton glanced towards the vacant chair with a flicker of concern crossing her elegant features. She turned her attention to John, Anthony’s valet, who had discreetly entered the dining room and now stood at attention near the doorway.

“John.” Violet inquired, her tone carrying the perfect balance of authority and maternal concern. “Pray tell, what keeps my son from joining us this evening? It is most unlike Anthony to absent himself from dinner, particularly when we are entertaining guests.”

The valet, a picture of propriety in his somber attire, bowed slightly before responding. “My lady, I regret to inform you that Lord Bridgerton has taken ill with a chill. He requested that I convey his sincerest apologies to the assembled company. He has retired to his chambers for the evening.”

A ripple of concern passed across the table, most notably affecting Penelope, whose delicate features could not disguise her sudden distress. She knew, of course, the cause of Anthony’s ailment – his gallant retrieval of her Pall Mall ball from the lake’s frigid waters earlier that day. The knowledge that his current discomfort was a direct result of his chivalry on her behalf caused a wave of guilt to wash over her.

“How severe is his condition?” Violet asked, maternal concern evident in her voice. “Should we summon Dr. Bellweather?”

“No need for such measures, my lady.” John assured her with practiced confidence. “His lordship merely requires rest and warmth. I have already administered hot tea with honey and lemon, as per your standing instructions for such ailments.”

Violet nodded, though her eyes betrayed her lingering concern. “Please have Cook set aside a portion for Lord Bridgerton. It would not do for him to go without nourishment, particularly when fighting off a chill.”

“As you wish, my lady.” John replied with another bow before taking his leave.

Penelope’s fingers twisted the napkin in her lap, her thoughts entirely consumed by the absent Viscount. The conversation around her continued, but she heard nothing of Benedict’s amusing anecdote about a wayward pheasant during yesterday’s shooting party, nor Prudence’s barely concealed attempts to direct the conversation toward her own accomplishments at embroidery.

When a momentary lull in the conversion presented herself, Penelope gathered her courage and addressed her hostess. “Lady Bridgerton..” She began, her voice soft yet determined. “Might I offer to deliver Lord Bridgerton’s meal to his chambers myself? I — I feel somewhat responsible for his condition, and it would ease my conscience considerably to see that he is properly tended to.”

All eyes turned toward Penelope, causing a becoming blush to spread across her cheeks. In London, such an offer would have been met with shocked disapproval, for a young unmarried lady to enter a gentleman’s private chambers, even one to whom she was all but betrothed, was beyond the bounds of propriety. Yet Aubrey Hall operated under different rules, particularly when the family had retreated from town for the season.

Violet’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she regarded the young woman who so thoroughly captured her eldest son’s heart. “That is most thoughtful of you, Penelope. I believe Anthony would appreciate such attentiveness from you.” Her eyes, warm with affection, met Portia’s across the table, a silent communication passing between the two mothers. “When we are in the country, we need not adhere quite so rigidly to London’s dictates of propriety.”

Relief flooded Penelope’s features as she nodded gratefully to the Dowager Viscountess. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

After the final course had been cleared away, the party dispersed according to custom – the men retreating to the game room for brandy, cigars and cards, while the ladies adjourned to the drawing room for tea. Penelope, however, excused herself from both groups, instead following a maid who carried a silver tray laden with Anthony’s supper.

The corridors of Aubrey Hall were quieter than usual as Penelope made her way to the east wing where the family’s private chambers were located. Her heartbeat quickened with each step, not merely from the anticipation of seeing Anthony, but from the knowledge that she was venturing into territory strictly forbidden by the rules of society.

Upon reaching the ornately carved door of the Viscount’s chambers, Penelope raised her gloved hand to knock softly upon the polished wood. “Lord Bridgerton?” She called, her voice barely above a whisper. “Anthony?”

When no response came, she tried once more, rapping her knuckles with slightly more force against the door. Still, silence greeted her.

Concern overtaking her usual adherence to propriety, Penelope cautiously turned the brass handle and eased the door open, peering into the dimly lit chamber beyond. The room was warmed by a generous fire in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the elegantly appointed space. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing four-poster bed where Anthony lay, his form nestled beneath several blankets, his eyes closed in what appeared to be slumber.

Taking the tray from the maid who had accompanied her, Penelope whispered. “Thank you, I shall see to Lord Bridgerton myself.”

The servant curtsied and withdrew, closing the door behind her with a soft click that seemed to Penelope as loud as a thunderclap in the hushed room. For a moment, she remained frozen near the entrance, acutely aware of the impropriety of her situation – alone in a gentleman’s bedchamber, with said gentleman abed. Yet her concern for Anthony’s wellbeing overrode her trepidation, and she carefully moved toward the bedside table where she placed the tray.

Gathering her courage, she settled gently upon the edge of the mattress, her gaze drawn to Anthony’s sleeping countenance. Even in repose, his features maintained their handsome authority – the strong line of his jaw, the aristocratic nose, the dark lashes resting against his cheeks. It seemed impossible to Penelope that such a man, admired and pursued by countless debutantes across multiple seasons, had chosen her – plain, overlooked Penelope Featherington – as the object of his affections.

“Anthony..” She called softly, reluctant to disturb his rest yet knowing he required nourishment. When he did not stir, she removed her glove and placed the back of her hand against his forehead, a gesture so intimate it caused her breath to catch. “Goodness, you’re burning with fever.” She murmured, unable to contain her worry.

At the sound of her voice and the cool touch of her hand, Anthony’s eyes fluttered open, disorientation giving way to pleasure as he recognized his visitor. His larger hand moved to capture hers, preventing her from withdrawing. “Penelope.” He whispered, her name a caress upon his lips. “What brings you to my chambers at this hour? Not that I am displeased to find you here, but it would cause quite the scandal if we were discovered.”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed at his words, though she did not attempt to reclaim her hand from his grasp. “I — I brought your supper.” She explained, gesturing toward the tray with her free hand. “You missed the evening meal, and I.. that is to say, I felt responsible for your current state. After all, had you not retrieved my ball from the lake, you would not now be suffering with this chill.”

Anthony shifted to a sitting position, the blankets falling away to reveal that he wore only a loose white shirt, the ties at the neck undone to expose a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. Still holding her hand, he raised it to his lips, placing a tender kiss upon her knuckles. “Nonsense.” He assured her, his voice husky from sleep. “I chose to enter the water of my own accord. Besides, a minor discomfort is a small price to pay for the pleasure of your company now.”

“You have a fever.” Penelope insisted, attempting to maintain her composure despite the effect his proximity was having upon her senses. “Perhaps we should send for Dr. Bellweather. I could go now and –”

Before she could rise, Anthony tugged gently on her hand, keeping her firmly at his side. “I require no physician.” He said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Merely rest and.. Perhaps some assistance with my meal? I find myself rather weak from hunger.”

The hint of mischief in his gaze belied his claimed infirmity, but Penelope found herself unable to deny him. With a soft sigh that did little to disguise her fondness, she reached for the tray and settled it upon her lap. Breaking off a piece of bread, she offered it to him, her heart racing at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

Anthony accepted her offering with a grateful smile, his eyes warm with affection. “I find myself thoroughly enjoying being tended by you, my lady.” He remarked, his voice dropping to a timbre that sent a pleasant shiver down Penelope’s spine.

She continued to feed him small portions of the meal, her initial awkwardness giving way to a comfortable rhythm. With each bite he accepted from her hand, the space between them seemed to diminish, the air growing thick with unspoken feelings.

When Anthony declared himself satisfied after consuming half the meal, Penelope handed him a goblet of water, which he drank deeply before setting it aside. “Thank you.” He said, his gratitude extending beyond the simple act of delivering his supper.

Rising from the bed with the tray in hand, Penelope prepared to take her leave, knowing that propriety – even the relaxed standards of the countryside – demanded she not linger in his chambers. “I should return to the drawing room before my absence is noted.” She said, though her reluctance was evident in her voice.

“Must you go so soon?” Anthony inquired, his eyes holding hers captive. “Could you not stay a while longer? I find your company far more restorative than any medicine.”

Penelope hesitated, knowing his request transgressed the boundaries of propriety, yet unable to deny the longing in her own heart to remain at his side. With a soft sigh of surrender, she returned the tray to the bedside table and resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. “I cannot stay long.” She cautioned, her practical nature asserting itself. “Our mothers will surely notice my extended absence.”

“Of course.” Anthony agreed, though his expression suggested he would happily risk scandal for a few more precious moments in her company. He reclaimed her hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles upon her palm. “Thank you for your care, Penelope. It means more to me than I can adequately express.”

“It is only natural that I should be concerned for your wellbeing.” She replied, attempting to downplay the significance of her actions. “We are courting, after all.”

Anthony’s smile deepened, his eyes reflecting the firelight. “Natural, perhaps, but not obligatory. Your compassion is but one of the many qualities that endear you to me.” He raised her hand once more to his lips, his kiss lingering that propriety would allow. “I promise to devote myself to your happiness and care with equal fervor. I shall love you endlessly, Penelope, ensuring you never doubt your worth or your place in my heart.”

Penelope’s pulse quickened at his declaration, her breath catching in her throat. The past weeks had brought such a transformation to her life – from overlooked wallflower to the cherished beloved of the most eligible bachelor in London. Sometimes it seemed like a dream from which she feared awakening.

Her conversation with Madame Delacroix suddenly sprang to her mind, the modiste’s parting words echoing in her thoughts: “When a woman cannot bear to be parted from a gentleman, when his presence brings joy and his absence causes distress, when his smile alone can lift her spirits and his touch quickens her pulse – that, ‘ma cherie, is love.” With sudden clarity, Penelope recognized the truth of her own feelings.

“You must rest now.” She said softly, deflecting from the emotional current that threatened to overwhelm her. “Tomorrow the ton begins to arrive for the ball, and as Viscount, you must lead your family in receiving them.”

Anthony’s expression transformed into a playful pout, reminiscent of his younger self. “Must I let you go so soon?” He asked, though his tone indicated he already knew the answer.

Before relinquishing her hand, he ventured a request that sent her heart racing anew. “Penelope, might I kiss you before you depart?”

Her eyes widened at his boldness, her ears burning with a blush that spread rapidly to her cheeks. In London, such a request would have been unconscionable. Even during a formal courtship, kisses were stolen in shadowy corners of ballrooms or briefly exchanged in gardens under the distant eye of a chaperone. Yet here, in the privacy of his chambers, with no prying eyes to judge them…

“Yes..” She whispered, the single syllable carrying the weight of her newfound understanding of her feelings. “I suppose it would only be fair, considering you caught this chill on my behalf.”

Anthony’s smile was radiant as he raised his right hand to cup her cheek, his touch impossibly gentle as he leaned forward. The first brush of his lips against hers was hesitant, as though he feared she might change her mind. But when she did not withdraw, his confidence grew, his other arm encircling her waist to draw her closer.

The kiss deepened, Anthony’s lips moving against hers with growing hunger. He captured her lower lip between his teeth, the gentle pressure eliciting a gasp of surprise from Penelope. Taking advantage of her parted lips, he deepened the kiss further, his tongue seeking hers in a dance as old as time.

Penelope found herself pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, her hands instinctively clutching at his shirt, the fine linen bunching beneath her fingers as she sought to anchor herself amidst the storm of sensations overwhelming her. The world beyond Anthony’s chambers ceased to exist, reduced to nothing more than the rapid beating of her heart and the intoxicating feeling of being held in his arms.

Only when the need for breath became too great did they part, their foreheads resting against each other as they struggled to regain their composure. Anthony’s voice, when he spoke, was rough with emotion. “God, I love you, Penelope.”

The raw sincerity in his voice neatly undid her. Reluctantly, she released her grip on his shirt, smoothing the fabric with trembling hands as she created a necessary distance between them. “I really must go.” She whispered, though every fiber of her being protested the separation.

Rising from the bed on unsteady legs, she straightened her gown and attempted to restore order to her appearance. “Good night, Anthony.” She said, her voice betraying the tumult of emotions churning within her. “Rest well.”

Anthony made no move to detain her, though his eyes followed her every movement with unmistakable longing. “Good night, my love.” He replied, his voice a velvet caress that accompanied her to the door.

As Penelope slipped from his chambers into the darkened corridor beyond, her fingertips unconsciously rose to touch her lips, still warm from his kiss. The full realization of her feelings could no longer be denied – she had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Anthony Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

The spring air carried the sweet fragrance of blossoms as carriages rolled up the gravel drive of Aubrey Hall, their polished wood gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Footmen in the Bridgerton livery stood at attention, ready to assist the arriving nobility as they descended from their conveyances. In the grand entrance hall, the Bridgerton family had assembled in a dignified reception line, their finest attire reflecting the momentous occasion for tonight, the Hearts and Flowers Ball – an event that had graced the social calendars of the ton for years.

Anthony Bridgerton, the Viscount, stood at the fore, his commanding presence enhanced by his impeccably tailored day attire. The black superfine of his coat accentuated his broad shoulders, while his cravat, folded into an intricate style that his valet had spent nearly an hour perfecting, gleamed white against his tanned skin. Beside him, his mother, the Dowager Viscountess Violet Bridgerton, presented an elegant figure in her gown of lavender silk, a color that had become her signature since the passing of her beloved husband.

The Featheringtons stood alongside their hosts, with Portia Featherington’s gown of shocking yellow threatening to outshine the spring blooms that adorned the entrance hall. Prudence fidgeted beside her mother, while Penelope, resplendent in a gown of cornflower green that actually complemented her complexion, kept stealing glances at Anthony when she thought no one was observing.

“Lady Danbury.” Announced the footman as the formidable dowager made her entrance, her cane tapping sharply against the marble floor.

“Ah, Lady Bridgerton.” Lady Danbury proclaimed, her voice carrying across the hall with practiced authority. “I see you have once again orchestrated what shall undoubtedly be the social event of the season – even if we are not in London.”

Violet stepped forward to greet her old friend with genuine warmth. “Lady Danbury, how delightful that you could join us. Your presence always elevates any gathering.”

“Naturally.” The elder woman replied with a knowing smirk. “Where else would I be? The Hearts and Flowers Ball is a tradition I have enjoyed for years.” Her sharp eyes shifted to Anthony, then to Penelope, and back again, a knowing glint sparking in their depths. “Lord Bridgerton, I observe that you appear to be in excellent health. I had heard rumors of an indisposition following a rather impromptu swim.”

Anthony’s composure did not falter, though a slight color rose to his cheeks. “Your sources are remarkably well-informed, as always, Lady Danbury. However, I assure you I am in perfect health.”

“Indeed.” She replied, leaning slightly on her cane. “And Miss Featherington, you look positively radiant this morning. The country air must agree with you tremendously.”

Penelope curtseyed, her cheeks coloring delicately. “You are too kind, Lady Danbury.”

“I am rarely accused of excessive kindness, child.” The older woman retorted with a bark of laughter. “Merely of excessive honesty.” With that, she moved along, allowing the next guests to be received.

The Cowpers arrived shortly thereafter, Cressida’s mother, Aramintha Cowper’s calculating gaze immediately assessing the gathering with the precision of a general planning a campaign. “Lady Bridgerton.” She greeted, her curtsy measured to the exact degree appropriate for a viscountess. “What a charming tradition, these country balls. So.. rustic.”

“Yet elegant enough to attract the finest families in England.” Violet countered smoothly. “Including yours, of course.”

Lady Cowper’s smile remained fixed as she moved along, her mother following in her wake, already whispering observations to be disseminated among the assembled guests.

“I admire your restraint, Mother.” Anthony murmured, a hint of amusement warming his voice. “I believe Father would have been considerably less diplomatic.”

“Your father..” Violet replied with a fond smile. “Would have made his displeasure known in a manner that would have rendered the Cowpers speechless for a fortnight. However, as hosts, we must demonstrate greater civility.”

As the reception line continued to receive guests, the scene shifted many miles away to the Bridgerton residence in London, where an unexpected arrival was causing a stir of a different sort.

The immaculately maintained entrance of the Bridgerton townhouse was disturbed by a sharp rap on the door. Humboldt, the family’s head butler for over two decades, proceeded to answer with his usual dignified pace, expecting perhaps a late delivery or a message from one of the family’s many acquaintances.

Upon opening the door, however, the butler’s customary impassive expression faltered momentarily, betraying a flash of genuine surprise before his professionalism reasserted itself.

“Master Colin.” He intoned, stepping aside to allow entry to the bronzed young man who stood on the doorstep, his traveling clothes slightly rumpled but still bearing the unmistakable quality of garments purchased in the finest establishments of Europe. “We had not expected your return so soon.”

Colin Bridgerton, the third son of the late Viscount, stepped into the entrance hall with the easy grace that characterized all the Bridgerton men, depositing his hat and gloves into the butler’s waiting hands. His normally mischievous countenance bore the weathered look of one who had traveled far and witnessed much, yet his eyes retained their characteristic sparkle.

“Humboldt.” Colin greeted with genuine warmth. “How fare the hallowed halls of home? I trust you have kept everyone in line during my absence?”

The butler permitted himself a small smile, a rare departure from his usual stoicism. “I have endeavored to do so, sir. May I inquire as to how your travels have treated you? You return to us rather earlier than anticipated.”

Colin’s expression brightened, his natural enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. “Oh, Humboldt, the sights I have witnessed! The Parthenon bathed in Grecian sunlight, the canals of Venice reflecting the moon’s glow, the ancient streets of Rome teeming with history beneath one’s very feet!” He gestured expansively, his voice carrying the excitement of a young man who had explored worlds previously known to him only through books. “I have dined with counts in France and traded barbs with merchants in Mediterranean ports. The world, Humboldt, is far vaster and more magnificent than even Mother’s tales suggested.”

“Indeed, sir.” The butler replied, his tone suggesting genuine interest despite his restrained demeanor. “Your experiences sound most enlightening.”

Colin glanced around the eerily quiet entrance hall, the absence of his siblings’ usual commotion suddenly registering. “Speaking of mother, where is everyone? I had expected to be mobbed by at least Hyacinth and Gregory by now, demanding souvenirs and stories.”

Humboldt clasped his hands behind his back, assuming his position of formal delivery of information. “The family is currently at Aubrey Hall, sir. They are hosting the annual Hearts and Flowers Ball this evening.”

“Tonight?” Colin’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yes, sir.” Humboldt confirmed. “The event was moved forward in the social calendar this year, at Lady Bridgerton’s discretion.”

A contemplative expression crossed Colin’s features as he considered this information. The annual Hearts and Flowers Ball had been a fixture of his childhood, a time when Aubrey Hall came alive with music, laughter, and the subtle machinations of the marriage market. To miss it would be to miss an opportunity to surprise his family in grand fashion – a prospect that appealed greatly to his theatrical nature.

Coming to a swift decision, Colin nodded decisively. “Humboldt, please have Worthing attend me in my chambers immediately. I shall require a proper shave and appropriate attire for the ball.” His hand absently stroked the stubble that had accumulated during his journey. “If I am to present myself as a gentleman returned from his grand tour, rather than a vagabond who has wandered in from the roadside, I shall need his expertise without delay.”

“Very good, sir.” Humboldt replied with a bow, hiding his amusement at the young master’s impulsive decision. “I shall inform your valet of your return and your requirements.”

As Colin bounded up the stairs with the energy of a man half his age, Humboldt permitted himself another small smile. The Bridgerton household would soon be complete once more, and if he knew anything about the family he had served so faithfully for so many years, Master Colin’s surprise appearance at the ball would create precisely the sort of dramatic scene the Bridgertons seemed to attract wherever they went.

The Hearts and Flowers Ball would indeed be memorable this year, perhaps even more so than Lady Bridgerton had planned.

—--

The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Anthony’s study at Aubrey Hall, casting golden rectangles across the polished wooden floor. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the mildness of spring day, warding off the persistent chill that seemed inherent to country estates regardless of season. The room, with its shelves of leather-bound tomes and furnishings of rich mahogany, provided a fitting backdrop for the commencement of the Hearts and Flowers Ball.

Anthony stood behind his desk, his posture betraying none of the nervous anticipation that thrummed beneath his composed exterior. His family was arranged before him – Benedict lounging with artful negligence in an armchair, Eloise perched on the window seat with barely concealed impatience, Francesca sitting primly on a settee beside Daphne, whose husband, the Duke of Hastings, stood at her shoulder. Violet Bridgerton occupied the chair closest to the fire, her serene countenance observing her children with quiet pride.

“With her Majesty’s attendance confirmed..” Anthony began, his voice carrying the authority that had been thrust upon him at too early an age. “It is imperative that every detail of tonight’s proceedings reflects the dignity of this family. The Bridgerton name has always commanded respect, and never more so than when we host the Hearts and Flowers Ball.”

“Is this why you’ve summoned us all here, brother?” Benedict inquired, his tone light but his eyes attentive. “To remind us of our family honor before we have even had a chance to tarnish it this evening?”

Anthony leveled a look at his younger brother that might have quelled a less confident man. “I have summoned you, as you put it, to ensure that each of you understands your responsibilities for tonight. Benedict, you shall serve as escort to Eloise and Francesca. The Queen has always shown particular interest in our family, and with two Bridgerton daughters of marriageable age present, you must ensure they are properly presented and partnered for the opening set.”

Eloise made a sound suspiciously like a groan, though she quickly disguised it as a cough when her mother’s gaze fell upon her. “Must I really be paraded before her Majesty like some prize heifer at a country fair?” She muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“Yes.” Came the unanimous reply from nearly every other occupant of the room.

“Hastings.” Anthony continued, nodding to his brother-in-law. “I trust you will attend to Daphne and mother? Your title ensures they will receive the precedence they deserve in the receiving line.”

Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, inclined his head in easy acquiescence. “It shall be my pleasure to escort the two most formidable women of my acquaintance.” He replied.

“And you, Anthony?” Daphne inquired, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Whom shall you be escorting this evening? Perhaps a certain lady with red hair who has been the subject of much discussion in recent days?”

A slight color rose to Anthony’s cheeks, though his expression remained dignified. “Indeed.” He confirmed, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with studied nonchalance. “I shall be escorting Miss Featherington throughout the evening’s festivities.”

Violet’s face illuminated with quiet delight at this announcement, though she said nothing, allowing her children their moment of banter.

“The entire evening?” Daphne pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Anthony, do you intend to propose to Penelope tonight?”

The question, though not unexpected, nonetheless caused a momentary break in Anthony’s composure. The room fell silent, all eyes fixed upon the Viscount as he paused, caught between brotherly exasperation at his sister’s directness and the desire to share his intentions with his family.

Drawing a measured breath, he looked at each of his siblings in turn, his gaze finally settling on his mother. A smile, rare and genuine, transformed his features from their usual serious mien to something younger, almost boyish in its hopefulness.

“Yes.” He admitted, the single syllable carrying the weight of his conviction. “That is indeed my plan.”

The study erupted in a chorus of delighted exclamations. Daphne clapped her hands together in a most unladylike display of enthusiasm, while Francesca’s more reserved nature betrayed itself only in the widening of her eyes and the soft “Oh!” that escaped her lips. Benedict rose from his chair to clap his brother on the shoulder, his usual teasing set aside in favor of sincere congratulations.

Even Eloise, who had maintained a frosty distance from her former best friend since the revelation of Penelope’s secret identity as Lady Whistledown, offered a grudging smile.

“Oh, my dear.” Violet said, rising from her chair to approach her eldest son. “Have you considered the manner in which you shall ask for her hand? The rose garden is particularly beautiful at twilight, with the fairy lights we have had strung through the arbors. Or perhaps the lake pavilion? I believe your father proposed to me on the stone bench beneath the willow tree.”

“The North gallery would provide remarkable privacy.” Daphne suggested. “With the moonlight streaming through the windows and reflecting off the ancestral portraits. Most romantic.”

Anthony raised a hand to stem the flow of well-intentioned suggestions. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I have already determined the setting of my proposal.” His voice carried a quiet certainty that silenced even his mother’s eager planning. “I shall ask for Penelope’s hand in the grand ballroom, immediately following our waltz.”

“In public?” Francesca inquired, her voice soft with surprise. “But Anthony, that is hardly traditional.”

“Nor is it private.” Benedict added, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Most gentlemen prefer to make such declarations away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.”

Anthony moved to stand before the hearth, his silhouette outlined by the dancing flames as he turned to face his family once more. “Penelope has spent a lifetime being overlooked by society.” He said, his voice taking on a quality that none present had heard before – tender yet fierce in its conviction. “She has been relegated to the wall at countless balls, her intelligence and wit appreciated only by the precious few who took the time to discover the remarkable woman behind the shy exterior.”

He began to pace slowly, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture reminiscent of their father when he had been deeply moved. “She deserves to be celebrated before the entire ton. I wish for every person who ever dismissed her to witness as I declare my devotion. For every matron who deemed her unworthy of a second glance, every gentleman who failed to request a dance, to see precisely what I see – a woman of extraordinary grace, eloquence, and beauty, both within and without.”

Anthony’s voice grew stronger, imbued with an emotion that caused Violet’s eyes to glisten with unshed tears. “I want the world to know that Penelope Featherington – soon to be Bridgerton, if she accepts me– is the most desirable woman in England, and that I, Anthony Bridgerton, count myself fortunate beyond measure to have won her hand in marriage.”

The room fell silent as his declaration concluded, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire and the distant preparations for the ball echoing through the grand house.

It was Violet who broke the silence, crossing the room to place her hands on her son’s face, a gesture she had not made since he was a boy. “Your father would be so very proud of the man you have become.” She whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “And of the woman you have chosen to love.”

She embraced him then, an embrace he returned with equal fervor, before she stepped back and composed herself once more into the dignified Viscountess. “Very well. The grand ballroom it shall be. And I have no doubt whatsoever that she will accept your proposal with joy.”

A knowing look passed between mother and son, an unspoken acknowledgment that Violet had observed what perhaps Anthony had not yet realized – that Penelope’s feelings for him ran just as deep as his for her.

“Now then.” Violet declared, her practical nature reasserting itself. “We must all prepare for the evening. The guests will begin arriving at the banquet within the hour, and the Bridgertons shall be ready to receive them with our customary grace.”

As the family dispersed to their respective chambers to dress for the ball, Anthony remained in his study a moment longer, gazing out the window toward the gardens where guests had already begun to stroll in their finery. Tonight, he would ask Penelope Featherington to become his wife, his viscountess, his partner in all things. The thought filled him with certainty he had never before experienced – not in matters of business, nor duty, nor any of the myriad responsibilities that had defined his life since his father’s untimely death.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Anthony Bridgerton was looking toward the future not with calculation or obligation, but with hope.

Chapter Text

The chandeliers cast their golden glow upon the grand ballroom at Aubrey Hall, illuminating the scene with a most enchanting brilliance. Garlands of spring flowers adorned the walls and pillars, their delicate perfume mingling with the scent of beeswax candles and ladies’ perfumes. The orchestra, positioned upon a raised dais at the far end of the room, played a lifting melody that carried through the air, providing the perfect accompaniment to the evening’s festivities.

This particular ball had garnered more attention than most, for her Majesty Queen Charlotte herself had deigned to attend, seated regally upon a gilded chair slightly elevated from the dance floor. Her shrewd eyes missed nothing as she observed the gathering with particular interest in one couple – Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington – having privately decreed their union in a moment of royal matchmaking.

Penelope Featherington was a vision this evening, her transformation from wallflower to sought-after debutante evident in her confident bearing. Her gown, a shade of blue so reminiscent of the famous Bridgerton hue that it could hardly be coincidental, complemented her fair complexion and auburn tresses marvelously. The modiste had outdone herself with the creation – delicate embroidery adorned the modest neckline, while the empire waist and flowing skirts moved gracefully with each step she took.

Anthony Bridgerton, ever attentive to his intended, had not left her side the entire evening. His tall, commanding presence in his impeccably tailored evening attire drew admiring glances from many a young lady, but his eyes remained fixed solely upon Miss Featherington.

“I believe her Majesty wishes to speak with us.” Anthony murmured, his breath warm against Penelope’s ear as they made their way across the ballroom.

Penelope’s gloved hand tightened almost imperceptibly upon his arm. “Oh dear.” She whispered, her voice barely audible. “Whatever could she wish to discuss?”

“Courage, my lady.” He replied with a reassuring smile. “We shall face her Majesty together.”

The crowd parted as they approached the royal presence, and a hush fell over those nearby, eager to witness the exchange. As they reached the Queen, they executed perfect bows, Anthony’s deep and formal, Penelope’s curtsy graceful and precise.

“Your Majesty.” Anthony intoned respectfully, keeping his head slightly bowed. “It is our greatest honor to welcome you to Aubrey Hall.”

Queen Charlotte’s piercing gaze assessed them both before she spoke, her German accent still detectable despite her many years in England. “Lord Bridgerton, Miss Featherington. I trust your courtship progresses satisfactorily?”

The direct inquiry caught them momentarily unawares. Penelope’s cheeks bloomed with a becoming blush, while Anthony cleared his throat discreetly.

As Anthony opened his mouth to respond for them both, as was proper, the Queen raised a bejeweled hand to silence him.

“I expect more from the two of you.” Her Majesty declared, her tone brooking no argument. “The ton watches most carefully. I shall be most displeased if this season concludes without the announcement I anticipate.”

With a dismissive wave, she added, “You may go. I believe the orchestra prepares for a waltz.”

They retreated with appropriate deference, walking the prescribed number of steps backward before turning away from the royal presence.

“Well.” Penelope breathed, once they were beyond the Queen’s immediate hearing. “That was rather direct.”

Anthony’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Her Majesty has never been one to mince words.”

The first notes of the waltz began to fill the air, and couples moved eagerly toward the center of the ballroom. Anthony stepped before Penelope, executing another perfect bow as he extended his hand.

“Miss Featherington, would you do me the honor of this dance?” His voice was low, meant only for her ears in the crowded room.

Penelope’s gaze flickered to the dance floor, then back to his face. Though they had danced before, the waltz remained a scandalous choice for many, requiring a closeness between partners that was quite thrilling in its intimacy.

“With pleasure, my lord.” She replied, placing her gloved hand in his, a delicious tremor running through her at the contact, even through the layers of fabric that separated their skin.

As Anthony led her to the floor, he leaned close once more. “You look utterly enchanting tonight, Penelope. Every eye in the room has been upon you.”

“I rather think they watch you, my lord.” She countered with newfound confidence. “Or perhaps they simply wonder why the Viscount Bridgerton has chosen to court the least promising Featherington daughter.”

Anthony’s expression grew serious as he positioned himself before her, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers. “They wonder no such thing. They see precisely what I see – a woman of intelligence, beauty and grace who shall make an exceptional Viscountess.”

As the music swelled and he guided her into the first steps of the waltz, Penelope’s heart raced not merely the pretty compliments of a practiced gentleman, but a truth he held dear.

The ballroom seemed to fade around them as they moved in perfect harmony, each turn bringing them closer to the future the Queen herself had decreed.

—--

The grand ballroom of Aubrey Hall was alive with music and merriment, the couples engaged in the intimate patterns of the waltz, their figures creating a kaleidoscope of colors as they twirled across the polished floor. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow upon the proceedings, illuminating the finery of the ton as they celebrated what was already proving to be the most talked-about event of the season.

It was amid this elegant revelry that Colin Bridgerton made his entrance, somewhat disheveled despite his hasty efforts to make himself presentable after his journey. His skin bore the sun-kissed evidence of his travels abroad, a marked contrast to the pale complexions of London’s elite who had spent the winter months sheltered from the harsh elements. His cravat, though expertly tied, showed signs of having been arranged in haste, and there remained about him the faint aroma of travel and distant shores.

Colin’s eyes swept across the crowded ballroom, searching for the familiar faces of his family. Lady Violet Bridgerton was engaged in conversation with several matrons of society. While Benedict appeared to be charming a circle of young ladies near the orchestra. Daphne and her husband were gracefully engaged in a conversation with lesser lords, and Francesca was nowhere to be seen – likely having escaped to the pianoforte in a quieter room. His gaze finally settled upon his sister Eloise, who had strategically positioned herself at the refreshment table, a location that offered both sustenance and a convenient excuse to avoid potential dance partners.

With determined strides, Colin navigated through the throng of guests, approaching the refreshment table where Eloise stood, a glass of ratafia in one hand and a small confection in the other. He cleared his throat gently to announce his presence, careful not to startle her.

“I see some things never change, dear sister.” He remarked with a playful grin. “Still using the lemon tarts as a shield against would-be suitors?”

Eloise turned, her eyes widening with astonishment as she beheld her brother. The glass in her hand tilted precariously, nearly spilling its contents upon her pale blue evening gown.

“Colin!” She exclaimed, her voice louder than was strictly proper in such a setting. “Good heavens!”

Colin’s smile widened at her reaction, clearly pleased by the effect of his unexpected arrival. With gentle care, he took the glass from her trembling hand and set it upon the table before gathering her into a warm embrace.

“I have missed you terribly, sister.” He murmured, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable.

For a moment, Eloise remained rigid with shock, but as the reality of her brother’s return registered in her mind, she returned his embrace with equal fervor, proprietary momentarily forgotten in the joy of reunion.

When they finally separated, Eloise’s words tumbled forth in a torrent of questions. “When did you return? How was the Mediterranean? Are you merely passing through London? What on earth are you doing at Aubrey Hall tonight of all nights? You look positively bronzed – did you spend the entirety of your travels without a proper hat?”

Colin laughed, the rich sound drawing curious glances from nearby guests. “One question at a time, if you please! I arrived in London just this morning. The Mediterranean was as beautiful as the poets claim, though the food in Greece surpassed all expectations. And as for my presence here tonight, I called upon Humboldt immediately upon my return and learned that the family was hosting a ball here at Aubrey. I could hardly miss such an occasion, could I?”

“But to travel directly from the docks to London to Aubrey..” Eloise marveled. “You must be exhausted.”

“The prospect of surprising my family provided all the invigoration I required.” Colin replied, helping himself to a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “Now, how are the others? I have yet to greet mother, and Anthony must be nearby playing the dutiful host.”

Eloise’s expression flickered almost imperceptibly at the mention of their eldest brother. “Mother is entertaining Lady Hawthorne and her circle by the windows. Anthony is… otherwise engaged this evening.”

Colin nodded absently, his gaze already drifting across the ballroom. “And what of Penelope? Is she in attendance tonight? I sent her several letters during my travels, but curiously received no replies. I trust the Featheringtons are well?”

At the mention of Penelope’s name, Eloise’s posture stiffened noticeably, her fingers tightening around her fan. A shadow of anxiety crossed her features before she composed herself with visible effort.

“The Featheringtons are perfectly well.” She replied, her tone carefully measured. “They have managed to navigate the season thus far without any notable scandal, which I imagine must be something of a record for Lady Featherington.”

Colin chuckled at this observation, unaware of his sister’s discomfort. “And Penelope? She must be here tonight – we have always shared at least one dance at every ball since her debut.”

“Colin..” Eloise began, an unusual hesitancy in her voice. “Perhaps you should first greet mother and –”

“I shall do so directly after I have found Penelope.” He interrupted, already turning away from the refreshment table. “It would be remiss of me not to pay my respects to your oldest friend.”

As Colin began to move toward the edge of the ballroom, Eloise’s hand shot out to grasp his arm with surprising strength.

“Colin, wait!” She urged, her eyes darting nervously toward the center of the dance floor. “There is something you should know before –”

But her brother, with the characteristic Bridgerton stubbornness, gently extricated himself from her grip. “Whatever it is can surely wait, El. I merely wish to say hello to Penelope and ensure that she is well.”

With that, he strode purposefully toward the perimeter of the ballroom, his height affording him a clear view over many of the assembled guests as he searched for the distinctive auburn curls of Miss Featherington.

It was at that precise moment that a curious hush descended upon the gathering, the musicians faltering in their melody as attention shifted collectively toward the center of the ballroom. Even Colin found himself arrested by the sudden change in the atmosphere, his quest momentarily forgotten as he turned to observe what had captured the interest of the entire assembly.

There, in the midst of the now-silent crowd, stood his eldest brother, Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of their illustrious family, lowering himself to one knee before a radiantly beautiful young woman in a gown of muted blue. The lady’s auburn curls were arranged elegantly atop her head, adorned with pear-tipped pins that caught the light of the chandeliers.

Colin’s breath caught in his throat as recognition dawned. The woman – whose gloved hand Anthony now held reverently in his own as he looked up at her with uncharacteristic tenderness – was none other than Penelope Featherington.

The expression of shock that overtook Colin’s features was mirrored by many in the room, though for entirely different reasons. As Anthony’s voice, clear and unwavering, began to speak words of devotion and proposal, Colin remained frozen at the edge of the gathering, a tumult of unexpected and confusing emotions warring within his chest.

Eloise had finally caught up to him, her hand once more upon his arm, but this time in a gesture of support rather than restraint. “I did try to warn you.” She whispered, her voice barely audible above the collective gasp that followed Anthony’s formal request for Miss Featherington’s hand in marriage.

Colin could form no reply as he watched, with growing disbelief, as Penelope – shy, overlooked Penelope who had always reserved her brightest smiles for him – gazed down at his brother with shining eyes and gave her answer to the Viscount Bridgerton’s proposal.

Chapter Text

The splendid ballroom of Aubrey Hall, illuminated by hundreds of beeswax candles housed in crystal chandeliers, cast a golden hue upon the dancers as the waltz drew to its inevitable conclusion. The notes from the orchestra strained with exquisite precision, each instrument contributing to the final crescendo that signaled to the couples that the dance was reaching its end. Feet moved in practiced unison across the polished floor, silks and satins swirling as ladies were guided by their gentlemen partners in the final turns.

As the music faded, couples bowed and curtsied to one another, the ladies with gloved hands holding their skirts just so, the gentlemen with heads inclined at the perfect angle – all according to the dictates of propriety that governed their world. Yet amidst this choreographed dispersal, one couple remained steadfast in the center of the floor, as if time had suspended itself around them.

Anthony Bridgerton, renowned throughout the ton for his impeccable stubbornness and steadfast adherence to protocol, stood with his hand still clasping that of Miss Penelope Featherington, his other hand maintaining its position at her waist. His dark eyes, usually so guarded and controlled, now revealed a warmth and vulnerability that few had ever witnessed.

Penelope Featherington, resplendent in her gown of muted blue that complemented her fair complexion and auburn tresses, felt the weight of curious glances from the assembled nobility. Even Queen Charlotte, from her elevated position, leaned forward slightly, her royal interest piqued by this deviation from the expected.

“My lord.” Penelope whispered, her voice barely audible above the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the crowd. “The dance has concluded.”

A subtle smile played at the corners of the Viscount’s mouth as he gazed down at her, seemingly oblivious to the spectacle they were creating.

“I am well aware, my lady.” He replied, his voice low but clear. “Yet I find myself unwilling to relinquish your company just yet.”

“The ton will talk.” She cautioned, though there was a breathless quality to her admonishment that betrayed her own reluctance to step away.”

Anthony’s smile widened, revealing a rare glimpse of the man beneath the title – the man who, over these weeks of courtship, had revealed himself to her in quiet conversations and stolen moments.

“Let them.” He declared, with a confidence born of his position. “I care not for their opinions, only for what is right. And what is right, at this moment, is to stand before you and the entire ton and demonstrate the depth of my regard.”

He took a small step backward then, though he maintained his hold on her hand, creating just enough distance between them to properly see her face – to allow her to see the sincerity in his.

“Miss Featherington..” He began, his voice carrying now with deliberate intent, ensuring those nearest could hear every word. “Over these past weeks, I have had the privilege of discovering the remarkable woman you truly are. Behind the quiet demeanor that so many have failed to appreciate lies a mind of exceptional wit, a heart of boundless compassion and a spirit of admirable resilience.”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed with becoming color, yet she did not look away from his intense gaze. Around them, the murmurs grew as guests realized that something extraordinary was unfolding.

“I entered into our courtship with expectations formed by duty and obligation.” Anthony continued, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on the back of her gloved hand. “Yet I stand before you now utterly transformed by the experience. What began as a matter of honor has blossomed into something I had never anticipated - indeed, something I had convinced myself I might never know.”

Violet Bridgerton, standing at the edge of the floor with Benedict and Francesca gathered around her, pressed a handkerchief to her lips, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Beside her, Lady Danbury clutched her cane with such force that its end winced through Benedict’s foot, though he dared not interrupt the moment with complaint.

“In you, Penelope Featherington..” Anthony proclaimed, his voice gaining strength with each word. “I have found not merely an exemplary candidate for the role of Viscountess, but the perfect companion with whom I wish to share all my remaining days. Your intelligence graces our conversations, your kindness enhances our family, and your beauty – both within and without – captivates me utterly.”

A collective gasp arose from the assembly as the Viscount, with fluid grace that belied the monumental nature of his actions, lowered himself to one knee before Penelope. From his breast pocket, he withdrew a velvet box, which he opened to reveal a ring of considerable antiquity and undeniable value – the Bridgerton betrothal ring, worn by viscountesses for generations.

“I kneel before you not as the Viscount Bridgerton, but as Anthony – a man who has found himself irrevocably in love with the most extraordinary woman of his acquaintance. Penelope, would you do me the immeasurable honor of becoming my wife?”

The silence that descended upon the ballroom was absolute. Even the musicians, who had been preparing the next set, stood frozen with instruments half-raised. Queen Charlotte forward in her chair, her royal countenance betraying uncharacteristic emotion at the tableau before her.

Penelope stood transfixed, her eyes wide with wonder as she gazed down at the man before her – the formidable Viscount Bridgerton on bended knee, his expression one of naked hope and vulnerability. For a moment, she appeared overcome, her free hand rising to her throat in a gesture of disbelief.

Though she had anticipated a proposal eventually – their courtship had, after all, been initiated under the Queen’s directive with the expectation of matrimony - the public declaration of his affection, the evident sincerity in his eyes, struck her heart with unexpected force. The planned match that had once seemed a mere social arrangement now revealed itself as something far more profound.

With remarkable composure that belied her inner tumult, Penelope smiled down at him, a smile of such radiance that it seemed to illuminate her entire being. In that moment, those who had dismissed her as a mere wallflower saw clearly the beauty that Anthony Bridgerton had recognized – the inner light that transformed her countenance and lent her a grace beyond mere physical attributes.

“Yes.” She replied, her voice soft yet steady, carrying across the hushed ballroom with perfect clarity. “Yes, I will marry you, my lord.”

A visible wave of relief passed over Anthony’s features, followed by an expression of such unbridled joy that even those who knew him best scarcely recognized the usually stern viscount. With reverent care, he slid the ancient ring onto her finger, then raised her hand to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss upon her knuckles.

“God, I love you, Penelope.” He murmured, the words meant for her alone, yet passionate enough that those nearby could not help but overhear.

The ballroom erupted in applause, led by the enthusiastic approval of the Bridgerton family. Lady Featherington appeared on the verge of fainting from sheer delight, while her other daughters looked on with expression that mingled surprise with undisguised envy. Even Queen Charlotte deigned to offer a regal nod of approval, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.

As Anthony rose to his feet, never relinquishing his hold on Penelope’s hand, the newly betrothed couple stood together at the center of the admiring throng. Penelope’s face shone with happiness, yet those who observed her closely might have noticed that she held something back – words unspoken that matched his declaration of love.

Instead, allowed herself to bask in the joy of the moment, in the approval of society, and in the knowledge that this man – this proud, honorable, and now evidently besotted viscount – had chosen her above all others. Her own feelings, complex and deepening with each passing day, remained for now a private matter, treasured within her heart until she could share them in a moment less public, yet no less sincere.

And at the edge of the ballroom, unnoticed amidst the general jubilation stood Colin Bridgerton standing beside his sister Eloise, newly returned from his travels, his expression a complex mixture of shock, confusion and an emotion he himself could not yet name as he witnessed his eldest brother pledge his life and heart to the woman who had long been his own dearest friend.

Though the air within Aubrey Hall brimmed with merriment and music, Colin Bridgerton stood still amidst the swirling gaiety – his countenance shadowed, his chest tight with something unnamable and unwelcome.

He watched from across the ballroom, eyes fixed on the newly affianced couple – his eldest brother Anthony, ever poised and dignified, leading Penelope Featherington, radiant and smiling, through the crowd as guests pressed near to offer their congratulations. She was glowing, that much was undeniable – her face aglow with a happiness so genuine, it cleaved through Colin’s composure like a knife through silk.

The orchestra struck up a new melody, light and sprightly, and yet it fell on Colin’s ears like a funeral dirge. The room, once familiar, now felt foreign. His hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders stiffened. There was a pounding at his temples – not of music, but of something dangerously close to fury.

His sister Eloise, sharp-eyes and attuned to every flicker of emotion in her brother, had not failed to notice the storm brewing beneath Colin’s polished veneer. She followed the direction of his gaze and felt her stomach twist.

“Colin.” She said, linking her arm with his in a hasty attempt to ground him. Her voice was light, but edged with tension. “Wherever do you think you’re going?”

“To speak with Penelope.” He answered curtly, never once turning his head to acknowledge her.

Eloise gripped his arm tighter. “Now?” She asked, a tremor of incredulity in her voice. “Brother, the ton has only just begun to take in the news. They are to be married. It would be most ill-timed to interrupt –”

“There is nothing to celebrate.” Colin cut in, finally turning his face toward her. His voice, though not shouted, was tight and low – dangerous in its restraint. “This engagement is… wrong. Anthony and Penelope – they cannot be.”

Eloise blanched. Her spine straightened, and she stepped in closer to him, shielding her expression from the curious glances of nearby guests.

“Colin Bridgerton.” She hissed beneath her breath, her eyes scanning the room for any sign that their exchange had drawn attention. “Have you taken leave of your senses? You speak of scandal at your own family’s ball!”

He shook his head, his gaze returning to Penelope, now laughing gently at something Anthony had said. The image cut him anew.

“You don’t understand, Eloise.” He muttered. “You couldn’t possibly –”

“I understand well enough to know that whatever tempest is raging within you, now is not the hour for it.” Her voice was stern, laced with desperation. “You will not make a scene brother. Do you hear me?”

But Colin had already stepped back, readying to make his way through the crowd. Eloise reached again, trying in vain to hold him back – her efforts as ineffectual as grasping at mist.

And then – as though summoned by providence – a figure intercepted his path.

“Well, well.” Came the voice of Benedict Bridgerton, a touch of amused warmth curling around his words. “If it isn’t the long-lost traveler himself.”

Colin paused.

Benedict clasped him by the shoulders, a grin on his face. “You’re a ghost, you know that? Vanish for months and reappear on the very evening our eldest brother decides to cause a stir by becoming engaged. One might almost believe you planned your return for dramatic effect.”

Colin offered a strained smile. “I only arrived in London this morning. Humboldt told me there was a gathering here tonight.”

“Ah.” Benedict nodded, clapping a hand on his brother’s back. “And so naturally, you galloped halfway across the countryside to join us. Must have missed us terribly.”

Eloise, still close at hand, caught Benedict’s gaze and tilted her head ever so slightly – her eyes wide with silent meaning. Benedict, ever the intuitive one, took the cue at once.

“Come.” He said suddenly. “Let’s walk the gardens. I want to hear every detail of your travels before our younger siblings descend upon you like a pack of gossiping hens.”

Colin hesitated.

“The air in here is far too heavy.” Benedict continued easily. “I daresay you look like you could use a breath of fresh air. Unless, of course, you mean to upstage Anthony’s engagement with a scandal of your own?”

That earned a pointed look from Eloise, her lips pressed into a thin line of warning.

With reluctance – and a simmering frustration he could not yet name – Colin allowed himself to be steered away. As they moved past the open doors and onto the cool flagstones of the terrace, the music and laughter of the ballroom faded behind them, replaced by the soft rustle of night wind through the hedges and the distant song of nightingales.

Benedict kept his tone casual, light. But his eyes flickered sideways every so often, gauging his younger brother’s expression, trying to decipher the storm beneath the calm.

Colin walked in silence for a time, hands behind his back, his face unreadable in the moonlight. Eloise followed just behind them, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.

And within, beneath the crystal lights of the ballroom, Anthony and Penelope continued their turn through the room – wholly unaware of the discord they had unknowingly stirred in the heart of the man who once believed she would always belong to him.

Chapter Text

The formal gardens of Aubrey Hall presented a stark contrast to the riotous merriment within the ballroom. Here, amidst precisely trimmed hedgerows and marble statuary kissed by moonlight, the evening air carried the subtle perfume of late-blooming roses and distant lavender. Gravel crunched beneath their evening slippers as the three Bridgerton siblings made their way deeper into the relative solitude offered by the manicured landscape.

Benedict guided them toward a secluded alcove where a stone bench sat beneath an ancient oak tree, its leaves casting dappled shadows across the path. The sounds of the orchestra had faded to a distant murmur, ensuring their conversation would remain private – a necessity given Colin’s current disposition.

“Here.” Benedict declared, gesturing toward the bench. “We may speak freely without fear of being overheard.”

Colin remained standing, his posture rigid as he gazed back toward the illuminated windows of the ballroom, where silhouettes of dancers could be glimpsed through the glass. His hands were clasped behind his back with such force that his knuckles had turned white, betraying the turmoil that his carefully composed face attempted to conceal.

“Shall we discuss what transpired within?” Benedict inquired after getting whispers from Eloise on what Colin’s words are after seeing Penelope and Anthony’s engagement. His tone gentle yet as he studied his younger brother’s profile. “I confess, your reaction to Anthony’s betrothal was not what one might have expected from a devoted brother.”

Eloise positioned herself strategically between Colin and the path back to the house, her arms folded across her chest in a posture that, while unladylike, effectively communicated her determination to prevent any hasty departure.

“There is nothing to discuss.” Colin replied tersely, his gaze still fixed upon the distant ballroom. “I am merely surprised by the suddenness of it all. Anthony has known Penelope for years, yet never showed the slightest interest until my departure.”

Benedict arched an eyebrow. “Their courtship has been the talk of London these past weeks. Surely you received word of it during your travels?”

“I received no such intelligence.” Colin snapped, finally turning to face his siblings. In the moonlight, his features appeared sharper, more pronounced in their displeasure. “Had I known, I would have returned sooner to –” He stopped abruptly, seeming to catch himself.

“To what, precisely?” Eloise interjected, her voice carrying a note of challenge. “To prevent the match? By what right would you interfere in Penelope’s happiness?”

Colin’s jaw tightened visibly. “Penelope cannot possibly be happy with Anthony. They have nothing in common. He is all duty and sternness, while she is –” He faltered, searching for words. “She deserves someone who appreciates her wit, her humor, her kindness.”

“Someone like you, perhaps?” Benedict suggested, his tone carefully neutral despite the pointed nature of his question.

A flush spread across Colin’s features, visible even in the dim light of the garden. “I did not say that.” He protested, though the vehemence in his denial betrayed its insincerity. “I merely consider myself better acquainted with Penelope’s character than Anthony could possibly be.”

Eloise gave an unladylike snort. “Better acquainted? You, who spent the majority of the past year gallivanting across the continent? Meanwhile, Anthony devoted himself to learning every aspect of Penelope’s character during your absence.”

“A few months of attention hardly constitutes true understanding.” Colin argued. “I have been Penelope’s friend for years.”

“Friend.” Eloise repeated, the word laden with skepticism. “Is that truly how you would characterize your relationship with her? A benevolent acquaintance who occasionally deigns to dance with her at balls when no more suitable partner presents herself?”

Colin stiffened as if struck. “That is unfair, Eloise. I have always held Penelope in the highest regard.”

“Have you indeed?” Eloise challenged, taking a step closer to her brother. The moonlight caught the fire in her eyes as she continued. “Then perhaps you might explain your declaration at Lady Featherington’s ball last season? The one where you proclaimed, in the hearing of half the ton’s most eligible bachelors, that you would not dream of courting Penelope Featherington?”

Colin blanched, his expression transforming from indignation to horror in an instant. “I–I never said such a thing.” He stammered, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed his faltering memory.

“You did.” Eloise insisted, relentless in her pursuit of the truth. “After consuming rather too much of Lady Featherington’s punch, you responded to Fife’s teasing with those exact words. Words that were subsequently published in exquisite detail by Lady Whistledown the very next morning. The morning when you depart for your grand tour.”

Benedict, who had been observing the exchange with the contemplative air of one witnessing a particularly fascinating play, nodded solemnly. “I recall the column well. Mother was most displeased.”

Colin’s face had drained of all color, his earlier anger giving way to a dawning realization. “Whistledown published my words?” He whispered, the implications clearly taking root. “But I never meant – that is to say, I was merely deflecting Fife’s ridiculous insinuations.”

“At Penelope’s expense.” Eloise added pointedly. “Did you spare a thought for how she might feel, reading such a categorical rejection in London’s most widely circulated scandal sheet?”

Colin sank onto the stone bench, his legs seemingly unable to support him any longer. He ran a hand through his carefully arranged curls, heedless of how the gesture disrupted their fashionable styling. “I had no idea.” He murmured, genuine distress evident in his voice. “Penelope never mentioned it in a letter.”

“Why would she?” Benedict asked quietly, taking a seat beside his brother. “What lady wishes to remind a gentleman that he has publicly declared her unworthy of a man’s attention?”

“Unworthy?” Colin’s head snapped up, his expression horrified. “I never considered her unworthy! It was merely that –” He faltered, struggling to articulate a justification that now seemed hollow even to his own ears.

“It was merely that you took her for granted.” Eloise supplied, her tone softening somewhat at the evident remorse in her brother’s demeanor. “You assumed she would always be there, waiting in the wings for those moments when you deigned to notice her.”

A heavy silence descended upon the trio as Colin absorbed this brutal assessment of his behavior. The distant melody of the orchestra had shifted to a melancholy waltz, the notes drifting through the night air like ghosts of opportunities lost.

“Your thoughtless words did more than wound her pride.” Eloise continued after a moment. “They effectively ruined her prospects on the marriage mart. What gentleman would pursue a lady so publicly rejected by a Bridgerton? The damage to her reputation was considerable.”

Colin’s shoulders slumped under the weight of this revelation. “I had no intention of causing her harm.” He said softly, genuine anguish in his voice. “Penelope has always been… important to me.”

“Yet not important enough to consider the consequences of your careless words.” Benedict observed, though there was no cruelty in his assessment, merely the clarity of an elder brother who had witnessed the follies of youth.

“And now Anthony has offered for her.” Colin murmured, as if speaking the words aloud might help him accept their reality. “Anthony, who never showed the slightest interest in Penelope in the long years we have known her.”

“Perhaps because he, unlike you, was capable of seeing beyond his initial impressions.” Eloise suggested. “Anthony has discovered in Penelope qualities that you, in your blind complacency, failed to recognize until they were claimed by another.”

Colin flinched at the brutal accuracy of his sister’s assessment. “You believe I have only noticed Penelope’s worth because Anthony has claimed her?”

“Have you not?” Benedict inquired, his artist’s eye noting the subtle play of emotions across his brother’s features. “Consider carefully, Colin. When did you first feel this… disquiet regarding Penelope? Was it upon learning of her betrothal to Anthony, or had you previously acknowledged these feelings?”

Colin opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, the truth of Benedict’s question striking him with unexpected force. He stared down at his hands, now clasped loosely between his knees. “I always valued her.” He said at last, his voice barely audible. “Her letters were a comfort during my travels. I found myself eagerly anticipating her accounts of London society, missing her particular way of observing the world around her.”

“Yet you never once considered her as more than a friend.” Eloise pressed, determined to make her brother confront the reality of his situation. “Never once thought to court her yourself.”

“I never thought–” Colin began, then stopped, the inadequacy of his defense painfully apparent. “That is to say, Penelope was always… Penelope.”

“And now she is to be Viscountess Bridgerton.” Benedict concluded gently. “Anthony’s wife. Our sister. A position she has accepted with evident joy, if her expression in the ballroom was any indication.”

Colin’s head dropped forward, the fight seeming to drain from him entirely. “She did appear happy.” He admitted, the words clearly costing him. “I have never seen her smile in such a manner.”

“Because Anthony sees her.” Eloise stated simply. “Truly sees her, in a way you never bothered to do until it was too late.”

A heavy silence descended upon the garden alcove, broken only by the distant strains of music and the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Colin remained seated, his posture that of a man confronting a painful truth long ignored.

“What am I to do now?” He asked at length, his voice carrying the rawness of newly discovered regret.

Benedict placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You are to return to the ballroom and offer your sincere congratulations to Anthony and Penelope.” He said firmly. “You are to be gracious and supportive, as befits a Bridgerton. And tomorrow, when the sting has lessened somewhat, you are to examine your heart and determine whether your current feelings are genuine or merely the result of wounded pride.”

“And if they are genuine?” Colin asked, raising his gaze to meet his brother’s. “What then?”

“Then you must bear them with dignity.” Eloise answered, her tone gentler than before. “For Penelope’s happiness must now be your primary concern, if you truly care for her as you claim.”

Colin nodded slowly, the gesture of a man accepting a difficult but necessary truth. “You are right, of course.” He acknowledged. “Both of you. I have been… selfish.”

“Not selfish.” Benedict corrected. “Merely human. We often fail to recognize the value of what we have until it is beyond our reach.”

With a deep breath, Colin rose from the bench, his composure gradually returning as he straightened his evening attire. “I shall offer my congratulations.” He declared, his voice steady despite the emotion that still clouded his eyes. “And I shall mean them, for Anthony is our brother, and Penelope…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Penelope deserves every happiness.”

Eloise studied her brother’s face for a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what she saw there. “Come.” She said, extending her arm to him. “Mother will be wondering where we have disappeared to, and I believe she has prepared a special late supper in the small dining room to celebrate the engagement.”

Chapter Text

The grand ballroom of Aubrey Hall seemed even more resplendent upon their return, as if the brief interlude in the gardens had somehow enhanced the brilliance of the chandeliers and the vibrancy of the assembled guests. Couples had once again taken to the polished floor, moving with practiced elegance through the intricate patterns of a country dance. The orchestra played with renewed vigor, perhaps inspired by the romantic spectacle they had witnessed earlier in the evening.

Benedict, Eloise and Colin paused at the threshold, momentarily overwhelmed by the contrast between the quiet intimacy of the garden and the bustling animation of the ballroom. Eloise, ever practical, was the first to speak.

“We must locate Anthony and Penelope without delay.” She remarked, her eyes already scanning the crowded room. “It is imperative that congratulations be offered before the evening concludes. Anything less would be remarked upon.”

Benedict nodded in agreement, his gaze similarly sweeping across the assembly. “Perhaps they have retired to the card room.” He suggested, noting the absence of the newly betrothed couple among the crowd at the edge of the ballroom. “Or they might be receiving felicitations from mother’s acquaintances near the refreshment table.”

Colin, however, had already discerned what his siblings had not. His attention was fixed upon the center of the dance floor, where the crowd had instinctively created a space of reverence around the Viscount and his intended. Anthony guided Penelope through the figures of the dance with consummate grace, his typically stern countenance softened by an expression Colin had rarely witnessed upon his elder brother’s face. For her part, Penelope moved with newfound confidence, her steps perfectly matched to Anthony’s, her face illuminated by a smile of such genuine happiness that it caused a painful constriction in Colin’s chest.

“There.” He said quietly, inclining his head toward the couple. “They have taken to the floor once more.”

Eloise followed his gaze, a small smile touching her lips at the sight of her dearest friend looking so content. “How well they complement one another.” She observed. “I confess, I had not anticipated such a match, yet now it seems the most natural thing in the world.”

Benedict placed a hand upon Colin’s shoulder, the gesture both supportive and restraining. “Come.” He urged gently. “This is the perfect opportunity to approach them between dances. A brief expression of goodwill is all that is required.”

Colin stood immobile, his earlier resolve crumbling as he observed the unmistakable affection in Anthony’s manner toward Penelope. The careful way his brother’s hand rested at her waist, the attentive tilt of his head as she spoke, the private smile they exchanged at some shared observation – all spoke of a genuine attachment that Colin had not anticipated.

“I cannot.” He said at last, his voice scarcely audible above the music. He turned to Benedict, an uncharacteristic vulnerability evident in his expression. “Forgive me, but I find I lack the fortitude required for such a performance at present.”

With a slight gesture, he indicated the direction of the couple, who had just completed a particularly intricate figure to the evident admiration of onlookers. “They appear so… content.” He added, the word clearly insufficient to convey his meaning. “I fear my presence would introduce a discordant note to their evening.”

Benedict studied his younger brother’s face carefully, noting the conflict that played across his features. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded once, his decision made.

“Eloise.” He said, turning to their sister. “Would you be so kind as to inform mother that Colin has arrived unexpectedly from his travels? Explain that he is somewhat fatigued from his journey and that I have undertaken to keep him company for the remainder of the evening.”

Eloise hesitated, her gaze shifting between her brothers with evident concern. “Are you certain that is wise? Mama will expect –”

“Mother will understand.” Benedict interrupted gently. “You know as well as I that she possesses an uncanny ability to discern the emotional state of her children. She will not press the matter tonight.”

Still Eloise lingered, her attention now fixed upon Colin, whose composure appeared increasingly fragile as the dance progressed and the moment of confrontation drew nearer. “Will he be alright?” She inquired softly, as if Colin were not standing before them.

Benedict’s expression softened, his customary good humor giving way to the genuine concern of an elder brother. “He shall be.” He assured her, offering a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I will remain with him throughout the evening. You need not fear any breach of decorum or resulting scandal.”

He lowered his voice, adding. “Trust me in this, Eloise. Some wounds require privacy to examine properly.”

After a moment’s further consideration, Eloise nodded her acquiescence. “Very well.” She conceded. “I shall inform mama of Colin’s arrival and your intention to act as his companion. I presume you will avail yourself of father’s study?”

“Indeed.” Benedict confirmed. “The location offers both seclusion and the medicinal benefits of Anthony’s excellent brandy.”

Eloise cast one final troubled glance at Colin before gathering her skirts and moving purposefully toward Lady Bridgerton, who stood conversing with Lady Danbury near the musicians’ dais. Her slim figure was soon lost among the colorful assembly, leaving the brothers alone at the edge of the ballroom.

Benedict turned to Colin, noting the rigid set of his shoulders and the tightly controlled expression that spoke of imminent emotional collapse. With the sensitivity that made him an exceptional artist, Benedict recognized that his brother required immediate extraction from the scene.

“Come.” He said quietly, placing a hand beneath Colin’s elbow to guide him. “Let us retire to more private quarters where we might converse without an audience.”

Colin offered no resistance as Benedict steered him toward a discreet side door that led to the family’s private wing. As they departed, the orchestra reached the finale of the piece, and applause erupted throughout the ballroom. Neither brother looked back to see Anthony raise Penelope’s gloved hand to his lips in a gesture of tender devotion that set the matrons sighing with approval.

The corridors of Aubrey Hall grew progressively quieter as they left the public spaces behind, the sounds of celebration fading to a distant murmur. Their footsteps echoed softly against the polished oak floors as Benedict led the way to their late father’s study – a sanctuary of masculine comfort that had remained largely unchanged since Edmund Bridgerton’s untimely passing.

Upon entering the room, Benedict moved immediately to the sideboard, where crystal decanters gleamed in the light of the single lamp that had been left burning. The familiar scent of leather-bound books, beeswax polish, and the faint trace of Anthony’s preferred tobacco created an atmosphere of comforting nostalgia.

“Brandy, I think.” Benedict remarked, selecting one of the decanters and pouring generous measures into two glasses. “Anthony always maintained that it was the most effective remedy for troubled spirits.”

He handed one glass to Colin, who had taken up a position by the hearth, staring into the embers of a fire that had burned low in their absence. The flickering light cast shadows across his features, accentuating the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the troubled furrow of his brow.

“I apologize for my behavior.” Colin said at length, accepting the brandy without looking up. “It was unworthy of a Bridgerton.”

Benedict sank into one of the worn leather chairs that flanked the fireplace, stretching his long legs before him. “There is no need for apologies between brothers.” He replied, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Though I confess myself curious as to the precise nature of your objection to Anthony’s match.”

Colin took a deep draught of his brandy before answering, welcoming the burning sensation that momentarily overshadowed his emotional discomfort. “I scarcely understand it myself.” He admitted, his voice rough with suppressed feeling. “Upon seeing them together, I experienced the most peculiar sensation – as if something precious had been stolen from me, though I had never recognized its value while it was in my possession.”

“Perhaps because you never truly considered it yours to possess.” Benedict suggested gently. “Penelope has been a fixture in our lives for years, yet you have shown no inclination toward romantic attachment until this evening.”

Colin ran a hand through his hair, heedless of how the gesture disrupted its careful styling. “I know.” He acknowledged, the admission clearly costing him. “I have been blind – criminally so. Penelope was always… there. Constant. Reliable. I never imagined that might change.”

“Most especially not through Anthony’s intervention.” Benedict observed, his perceptive gaze never leaving his brother’s face. “It is one thing to lose a lady’s attention to a stranger, quite another to lose them to one’s own brother.”

Colin gave a hollow laugh, devoid of any humor. “Is that what troubles me so deeply? Mere jealousy? How petty I must seem.”

“Not petty.” Benedict corrected. “Human. We often fail to recognize our own hearts until circumstances force us to confront them directly.”

A silence fell between them, broken only by the occasional pop and hiss from the dying fire. Colin moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds of Aubrey Hall without truly seeing them. His reflection in the glass revealed an expression of such profound melancholy that Benedict felt a surge of genuine concern for his typically ebullient brother.

“What will you do now?” Benedict inquired after a time, his voice carefully neutral.

Colin’s shoulders rose and fell in a barely perceptible sigh. “What can I do? The betrothal has been announced before the entire ton, with the Queen herself in attendance. Anthony has claimed Penelope fairly, and by all appearances, she has accepted him gladly.” He turned from the window, his expression one of resignation. “I shall congratulate them tomorrow, when I have mastered myself sufficiently to offer felicitations without betraying my… confusion.”

“And then?” Benedict prompted.

Colin drained the last of his brandy, setting the empty glass upon the mantelpiece with deliberate care. “And then I shall return to my travels.” He declared, a newfound resolve in his voice. “Greece still holds many wonders I have yet to explore, and distance may provide the perspective I currently lack.”

Benedict studied his brother thoughtfully. “Running away rarely resolves matters of the heart.” He observed. “The feelings you have discovered this evening will not dissipate merely because you put an ocean between yourself and their object.”

“Perhaps not.” Colin conceded. “But they might diminish sufficiently to allow me to face Anthony and Penelope with genuine goodwill upon my return.” He attempted a smile that did not reach his eyes. “After all, what choice do I have? Penelope will be my sister by marriage. I must learn to think of her as such.”

Benedict rose from his chair and approached his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder in silent support. “The heart is not so easily commanded.” He said quietly. “But time is a powerful healer, and you possess greater strength than you credit yourself with.”

Colin nodded, grateful for his brother’s understanding yet unwilling to indulge further in self-pity. “Another brandy, I think.” He suggested, forcing lightness into his tone. “And then perhaps you might tell me of your latest artistic endeavors. I find I have had quite enough of my own thoughts for one evening.”

Benedict, perceiving Colin’s need to retreat from the painful topic, obliged by refilling their glasses and launching into an animated description of his recent experiments with a new painting technique. As the night deepened and the sounds of the ball gradually diminished, the brothers remained sequestered in their father’s study, finding comfort in fraternal companionship while the celebration of Anthony and Penelope’s betrothal continued without them.

In the ballroom, Eloise had delivered her message to Violet Bridgerton, whose intuition immediately grasped what remained unspoken. With a knowing glance toward the dancing couple and a gentle squeeze of her daughter’s hand, the dowager viscountess had simply nodded and returned her attention to her guests, trusting Benedict to tend to Colin’s wounded heart while she ensured that Anthony and Penelope’s evening remained unmarred by any hint of discord within the family.

Some revelations, after all, came too late to change the course of events – but perhaps not too late to foster the growth of wisdom and, eventually, acceptance.

Chapter Text

The hour had grown most indecent.

The chandeliers in the grand ballroom had long been extinguished, their glow replaced by moonlight filtering through gauzy draperies. The music had ceased, the laughter faded into silence, and the echoes of slippered feet upon marble floors had stilled. The guests had retired, their bellies full and their heads giddy with champagne and gossip – the central morsel of which was none other than Viscount Bridgerton’s public proposal to Miss Penelope Featherington.

Aubrey Hall, in its dignified slumber, bore the remnants of festivity in wilting floral arrangements and half-drunk glasses left behind on polished surfaces.

The cream of London society, who had filled the ballroom with their finery and gossip mere hours before, had retired to their chambers, the ladies to remove their elaborate coiffured and gentlemen to loosen their starched cravats.

Even the Bridgertons, renowned for their stamina at social gatherings, had succumbed to the exhaustion that followed hosting the entirety of the ton. All save one – Benedict Bridgerton, the second son, whose restless spirit and brandy-warmed blood propelled him through the silent passageways of his family home.

Down a quiet corridor, Benedict strolled with a languor only the mildly inebriated could afford. His cravat had come loose, his steps not quite so precise as they had been at the start of the evening. The scent of brandy clung to him as insistently as the candle smoke that curled in the air. He had not set out with direction, only the faint hope of locating his elder brother.

He found him – Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and now newly affianced – descending from the upper floor with Penelope Featherington at his side. Her maid trailed behind at the appropriate distance, maintaining the thin veil of propriety that such late-night companionship demanded.

Benedict raised a brow. Interesting.

Before he could speak, Anthony’s voice rang out, low but unmistakably commanding. “Benedict. What keeps you from your bed at such a scandalous hour?”

Benedict chuckled dryly. “I might return the question, dear brother. Though I daresay I am not the one parading his betrothed about the house like a ghost in muslin.”

Penelope blushed faintly, though she did not pull away from Anthony’s side. The Viscount merely narrowed his eyes at his brother’s levity, though there was no real malice in it.

“We were only returning from the library. Penelope could not sleep, and I thought a volume of Shakespeare or Addison might soothe her restlessness. The maid can attest.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Came the soft voice of the maid from behind.

Benedict waved a hand as if to dispel the air of propriety that had settled. “No need for explanations. I am no chaperone. Merely a bearer of news.”

Anthony’s features shifted, alert now. “What sort of news?”

Benedict sobered, the glint in his eyes fading. He gestured toward a drawing room whose doors lay slightly ajar. “Come. this is not for corridors and candlelight.”

Once within the modest parlour – its walls lined with delicate chinoiserie panels and the soft ticking of a French clock echoing through the space – the three settled, Penelope on a cushioned settee, the brothers in chairs beside her. Her maid took her post discreetly near the door, far enough to allow conversation, close enough to preserve decency.

Benedict exhaled. “Colin has returned.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Penelope stiffened at once, her spine rigid, her gloved hands curling into the folds of her gown.

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “Returned? From the continent?”

“This very evening.” Benedict replied. “Unannounced. He appeared in the ballroom after your proposal – which, I might add, he witnessed.”

Penelope’s breath caught.

“And?” Anthony’s voice was clipped.

“He… did not take the news with joy. I found him in a state of visible agitation. Eloise attempted to stall him – quite valiantly – but he intended to speak with Penelope. With both of you.”

Anthony straightened. “He did not.”

“No.” Benedict said. “I intervened. I took him aside, got him to breathe air from the gardens, and when that was not enough – fed him brandy, and brought him to his chambers before he could do or say anything that might make this evening a lasting disaster.

A brittle silence followed.

Penelope, ever composed, lifted her chin. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, but laced with steel.

“So. He returns. And already believes he is entitled to an opinion on matters that do not concern him.”

Anthony turned to her. “Pen…”

She held up a hand gently. “No, my lord. Allow me.”

Benedict leaned back, watching the red-haired young woman with new regard.

“Colin Bridgerton.” Penelope said, her voice unwavering. “Once stood in the midst of his peers and declared that he would never – never – dream of courting me. That I was… not the sort of woman to inspire such interest. I heard it. I read it. Whistledown, in her infinite mischief, made certain the ton knew it too.”

Anthony’s hands curled into fists. Benedict’s eyes flicked to him, wary.

“It is one thing to be unwanted.” Penelope continued. “But to be humiliated? To have one’s worth declared so little by a man I…” She paused, swallowing hard. “... by a man I once counted a friend – it is something cannot be easily forgiven.”

Anthony reached for her hand and took it gently. Penelope did not pull away.

“Colin.” She said. “Has no say in our engagement. He forfeited any claim he might have had on my future the moment he opened his mouth with such cruelty. You..” She turned to Anthony, her eyes softening. “Chose me. And I chose you. That is all that matters.”

Anthony looked at her as though seeing her anew – not just the clever, kind-hearted girl who had been Eloise’s shadow, but a woman who had suffered, endured, and emerged stronger than anyone had given her credit for.

Benedict, observing all this, could not help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Well.” He said at last, breaking the heavy quiet. “It seems I need not worry about your affections being so easily shaken.”

Penelope arched a brow. “You did worry?”

“For a moment. You must forgive me – I have a terrible habit of underestimating people. It is a Bridgerton flaw, I suspect.”

Anthony rose to his feet, still holding Penelope’s hand. “Thank you Benedict. For keeping Colin from doing something rash.”

Benedict stood as well. “You are welcome. I shall continue to monitor him until morning. He drank enough to fell a cavalry horse, so I doubt he will stir before noon.”

Penelope rose to her feet, smoothing the folds of her evening gown. “My lord, as I once expressed regarding some of your siblings, I wish to have as little interaction with Colin as propriety allows. His presence changes nothing of what has transpired between us.”

The declaration hung in the air, bold and unyielding. Benedict found himself marveling at the transformation of the once-shy wallflower who had orbited the periphery of their social circle for years. The woman who stood before them now bore little resemblance to that retiring creature.

“Well said, Miss Featherington.” Benedict remarked with genuine admiration. “Our brother’s thoughtless words nearly damaged your reputation irreparably. Your forbearance is more than he deserves.”

Anthony’s posture gradually relaxed, though a shadow of concern still lingered in his eyes. “Colin shall be formally informed of our engagement at breakfast tomorrow. I expect him to comport himself with the dignity befitting a Bridgerton, regardless of his personal sentiments.”

“As your brother, I shall ensure he behaves accordingly.” Benedict promised, rising somewhat unsteadily to his feet. “Now, I believe we have kept Miss Featherington from her rest long enough. The hour grows exceedingly late.”

Penelope nodded graciously. “Indeed. I thank you for your discretion in this matter.”

As they prepared to depart the drawing room, Anthony gently placed his hand upon Penelope’s elbow – a brief, proper touch that nonetheless conveyed a depth of feeling that did not escape Benedict’s notice.

“I shall escort Miss Featherington to her chambers.” Anthony announced. “Benedict, I suggest you seek your own bed. We shall have much to discuss on the morrow.”

Benedict offered a theatrical bow, the effects of the brandy still evident in his movements. “As you command, my lord Viscount. I bid you both a most pleasant night.”

As Benedict watched his brother and Penelope depart, arm in arm with the lady’s maid trailing dutifully behind, he could not help but smile despite the complications that Colin’s return would inevitably bring. For in Miss Penelope Featherington, it seemed Anthony had found not merely a bride, but a partner equal to the challenges of becoming the next Viscountess Bridgerton – even those challenges that came in the form of wayward younger brothers.

The corridors of Aubrey Hall fell silent once more, the inhabitants unaware that with the dawn would come not merely a new day, but the next tumultuous chapter in the intertwined lives of the Bridgertons and the unexpected young woman who had captured the heart of their formidable Viscount.

Chapter Text

Golden morning light streamed through the tall windows of Aubrey Hall, illuminating motes of dust that danced upon the air like miniature constellations. The grand estate stood in comparative silence following the previous evening;s festivities, as most of the ton had departed for London with the dawn, their carriages forming a grand procession down the winding country roads.

The Bridgerton and Featherington families, however, remained in residence – ostensibly to celebrate the newly announced engagement between Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington, though the atmosphere within the ancestral home was charged with an undercurrent of tension that belied the joyous occasion.

The families had broken their fast together in the morning room, partaking of coddled eggs, freshly baked bread, and preserves from the Bridgerton orchards. Lady Violet Bridgerton had presided over the meal with her customary grace, though her eyes had frequently darted to the empty chair where her third son should have sat. Benedict had assured her that Colin would eventually emerge from his chambers, albeit with a head rendered most delicate by the previous night’s excesses.

It was approaching the noon hour when Colin Bridgerton finally made his appearance in the drawing room, where the families had congregated for conversation and light entertainment before luncheon. His entrance was met with immediate exclamations of delight from his younger siblings.

“Colin!” Hyacinth Bridgerton, the youngest of the brood, abandoned all pretense of ladylike decorum as she bounded across the room to embrace her recently returned brother. “You’ve been gone an age! Did you bring me anything from your travels?”

“Must you always be so mercenary, Hyacinth?” Gregory, the youngest Bridgerton son, remarked with a roll of his eyes, though he too rose eagerly to welcome his brother with a firm handshake that transformed into a warm embrace.

Violet approached her son with measured steps, her eyes brimming with maternal affection. “My darling boy.” She murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek. “How we have missed your presence.”

Colin returned their greetings with a distracted smile, his eyes scanning the room until they alighted upon the figure of Penelope Featherington, seated primly beside Anthony on a brocade settee. The color drained from his face as he beheld the tableau they presented – Anthony’s hand resting possessively upon the settee behind her shoulders, Penelope’s red curls glinting copper in the sunlight that bathed them both in an almost celestial glow.

Anthony, ever attuned to the undercurrents of tension in a room, noted Colin’s fixed stare. With deliberate care, he rose to his feet and extended his hand to Penelope, who accepted it with graceful poise, rising to stand beside him. The subtle positioning spoke volumes – they were a united front.

“Colin.” Anthony greeted, his voice carrying the weight of his title. “How good of you to join us. I trust you slept well?”

The underlying meaning was not lost on those who knew of the previous night’s events. Benedict, lounging by the window with a sketchbook, coughed discreetly into his handkerchief to mask his amusement.

“Well enough.” Colin replied tersely, his gaze never leaving Penelope’s face. He swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt. “Pen, I… that is to say…” He faltered, seemingly at a loss for words in a manner most uncharacteristic for the normally silver-tongued Bridgerton.

“Yes, Mr. Bridgerton?” Penelope responded, her voice as cold and brittle as January frost. Gone was the warm, effusive young woman who had once hung upon his every word; in her place stood a poised lady whose demeanor suggested polite indifference.

Colin straightened his shoulders, gathering his courage. “Is it true, then? Are you truly engaged to my brother?”

The question, so badly stated, caused Lady Portia Featherington to gasp at the impropriety, while Eloise Bridgerton’s eyes narrowed to slits as she observed the exchange from her position near the pianoforte.

“Yes.” Penelope replied simply, the single syllable devoid of emotion.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room, broken only by the gentle ticking of the mantel clock and the distant calls of gardeners tending to the estate grounds beyond the windows.

Colin’s face contorted with an emotion that flitted across his features too quickly to name. “Might I… that is, would you permit me to speak with you privately? Perhaps a turn about the gardens would –”

“No.” Penelope interjected, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “If you have something to say to me, Mr. Bridgerton, you may say it here. I have no desire for private conversation with you. I am present for morning tea with my hosts, as propriety dictates.”

Colin stiffened as though struck. His gaze darted from Penelope to Anthony, then to his mother, silently imploring assistance. Violet could only return his look with sorrowful eyes, her hands clasped tightly in her lap – a rare instance where maternal intervention would do more harm than good.

“I merely wished to offer my sincere apologies.” Colin finally managed, his voice strained. “For my unconscionable behavior last season. And surely..” He added, turning to his elder brother with a hint of desperation. “Anthony would not object to allowing us a brief moment of privacy? After all, I have known you Pen – Miss Featherington – far longer than he has.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched visibly beneath the skin. His eyes darkened dangerously, pupils dilating with barely contained fury. Those familiar with the Viscount recognized the signs of his legendary temper threatening to emerge - the same fire that had earned him the nickname ‘the bane of London ballrooms’ among the matchmaking mamas of the ton.

Just as Anthony appeared on the verge of delivering a scathing retort, he felt a gentle pressure on his hand. Penelope had reached out to him, her delicate fingers giving his a reassuring squeeze. Their eyes met in silent communication, hers calm and resolute. Anthony’s breathing steadied as he gazed down at her, momentarily forgetting the presence of others in the room.

With deliberate slowness, he raised her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss upon her knuckles – a gesture both tender and possessive. “The decision.” He said without looking away from Penelope. “Is not mine to make. Though we are betrothed, Penelope is her own person, with autonomy to determine with whom she converses. If she wishes to speak with you, Colin, then so be it.”

The smugness in Anthony’s tone as he returned his attention to his brother was unmistakable, as was Colin’s visible irritation at the intimate gesture he had just witnessed.

“Penelope.” Colin tried again, abandoning formality in his desperation. “Please. I beg you for but a moment of your time. I must explain myself fully.”

Penelope regarded him with a stare as impassive as marble. “I find I have no interest in your explanations, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Now, now.” Portia Featherington interjected, her gaudy morning dress rustling as she shifted in her seat. “We must remember that our families are soon to be joined in matrimony. It would hardly do to have discord among relations, would it? Better to air any grievances now than to allow them to fester.”

“Indeed.” Lady Violet added softly, her eyes moving between her sons and the young woman who would soon become her daughter by marriage. “Perhaps, my dear Penelope, it might ease future family gatherings if you were to hear what Colin has to say?”

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked to Anthony, who gave her a nearly imperceptible nod – a silent assurance that he would support whatever decision she made.

“Very well.” She conceded after a moment, though her tone remained frigid. “However, I have no wish to speak with Mr. Bridgerton alone. I would prefer the presence of at least one other person, in addition to my lady’s maid.”

“I shall accompany you.” Anthony declared immediately, his protective instinct evident in every line of his posture.

“That will not be necessary, brother.’ Eloise spoke up, rising from her seat with determined grace. “I believe it would be best if you remained here with the family. I shall act as chaperone.”

Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but Penelope interjected. “Eloise’s suggestion has merit, my lord.” Though her relationship with Eloise remained strained, Penelope recognized the wisdom in avoiding a situation where the Bridgerton brothers might come to blows. “A lady’s presence would be most appropriate.”

Anthony’s reluctance was palpable, but he eventually inclined his head in acquiescence. “As you wish.”

Colin’s relief was evident, though it dimmed somewhat when Penelope turned to summon her lady’s maid with crisp instruction to follow them into the gardens. As the trio prepared to depart, with the maid trailing at a discreet distance, Anthony stepped close to Penelope once more.

“Should you require me.” He murmured, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “You need only send word. I shall be at your side in an instant.”

The intensity of his gaze brought a flush of color to Penelope’s cheeks – the first genuine emotional response she had displayed all morning. “Thank you, my lord.” She replied softly. “But I assure you, I am quite capable of managing a conversation with your brother.”

“Of that.” Anthony responded with a hint of pride. “I have absolutely no doubt.”

With a final lingering look, Penelope turned away to join Colin and Eloise at the french doors that led to the gardens. The mid-morning sunshine cast her figure in a golden glow as she stepped outside, her posture straight and her head held high – every inch the future Viscountess Bridgerton, regardless of whatever words Colin might impart.

Left behind in the drawing room, Anthony watched from the windows their departure with a mixture of concern and admiration. Benedict sidled up beside him, nudging his shoulder with fraternal familiarity.

“She’ll handle him admirably.” Benedict observed quietly. “Our Miss Featherington has developed quite a formidable spine.”

“Indeed she has.” Anthony agreed, his eyes still fixed on the garden where Penelope’s emerald morning dress could be glimpsed between the hedgerows. “And he is not ‘our’ Miss Featherington, brother. She is mine.”

Benedict’s eyebrows rose at the uncharacteristic display of possessiveness from his usually stoic brother. “Well, well.” He murmured with a knowing smile. “It appears our Viscount has not only offered his name and title, but his heart as well. How utterly fascinating.”

Anthony said nothing in response, but the slight curve of his lips betrayed him. As he turned back to rejoin the family gathering, his thoughts remained in the garden with the copper-haired young woman who had, against all expectation, become the center of his world.

Chapter Text

The Aubrey Hall gardens stood resplendent in the late morning sunshine, a masterpiece of horticultural design that had been cultivated over generations of Bridgerton stewardship. Meticulously trimmed hedgerows formed elegant pathways between vibrant flower beds, while ancient oaks provided dappled shade against the climbing sun. At the heart of this pastoral idyll lay a marble fountain, its waters cascading melodiously into a basin adorned with carved nymphs and satyrs — a touch of classical beauty imported from Italy by a previous viscount with a passion for the Renaissance.

It was toward this fountain that Colin, Penelope, and Eloise directed their steps, with Penelope's lady's maid following at a respectful distance. None spoke as they traversed the gravel pathways, the crunch of stone beneath their feet providing the only soundtrack to their procession. The tension between them was palpable, hanging in the air like the humidity before a summer storm.

Upon reaching the stone bench that curved elegantly around one side of the fountain, Colin gestured toward it with a forced smile. "Shall we sit?" He offered, lowering himself onto the cool stone surface without awaiting their response — a small breach of etiquette that did not go unnoticed by either lady.

Penelope remained standing, her emerald morning dress catching the light as she positioned herself before the fountain. The rushing water behind her seemed to amplify her stillness, her posture as rigid as a queen receiving an unwelcome supplicant. Her lady's maid positioned herself several yards away, close enough to observe but far enough to afford them a measure of privacy.

Eloise glanced between her childhood friend and her brother, her keen eyes assessing the situation. With a slight shake of her head directed at Colin, she communicated what should have been obvious — Penelope would not be persuaded to sit beside him.

Colin rose hastily to his feet once more, his hands fidgeting with the lapels of his coat. "P-Penelope." He began, his customary eloquence deserting him in the face of her glacial demeanor.
"Whatever you wish to say, Mr. Bridgerton, I suggest you proceed with haste." Penelope interjected, her voice as crisp as autumn frost. "I have no desire to spend a moment longer than necessary in your company."

Colin appeared momentarily stunned by her directness, his mouth opening and closing like a fish suddenly plucked from water. The Penelope Featherington he had known — or thought he had known — had always been soft-spoken, accommodating, even deferential in his presence. This poised, austere woman before him seemed an entirely different creature.

"If you find yourself unable to speak." Penelope continued, adjusting her gloves with deliberate precision. "Then I shall take my leave."

"No!" Colin exclaimed, the word bursting forth with unexpected force. He composed himself, drawing a deep breath before continuing. "Miss Featherington — Penelope — I must offer my most profound apologies for the unconscionable words I uttered at your mother's ball last season. I assure you, they did not reflect my true sentiments. It was utterly ungentlemanly to speak so carelessly, especially in the company of others."

The fountain's gentle splashing filled the silence that followed his declaration.

"I have spent the night haunted by the memory of my thoughtlessness." Colin continued when Penelope offered no response. "I would do anything to erase the harm I have caused to your reputation and your..." He hesitated, swallowing visibly. "Your sensibilities. Indeed, if it would prove my sincerity and restore your good name, I would offer you my hand in marriage."

Eloise inhaled sharply, her eyes widening to saucers. "Colin!" She exclaimed, unable to contain her disbelief. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Penelope is betrothed to Anthony!"

Colin's gaze remained fixed on Penelope, searching her face for any sign that his declaration had moved her. He found none. Her expression remained as impassive as carved alabaster, though perhaps a slight hardening around her eyes betrayed her inner thoughts.

"Is that all you wished to say?" Penelope inquired after a lengthy pause, her tone suggesting she was inquiring about nothing more consequential than the weather forecast.

" I— Yes." Colin faltered, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I merely wished to convey my deepest regrets for my behavior and assure you of my sincere contrition."

"Hmm." Penelope hummed, the sound devoid of warmth. "Your apology is noted, Mr. Bridgerton, as is expected of a gentleman who has recognized his error. However, you must understand that words, once spoken, cannot be unsaid. The damage inflicted upon my reputation and my person by your careless declaration remains, regardless of how many times you profess regret, sincere or otherwise."

She adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, a gesture that appeared almost regal in its deliberation. "I will accept your apology as a matter of necessity, given that we are to become family through my union with Lord Bridgerton. I shall behave with appropriate civility in your presence when circumstances demand it. I have no wish to create discord among your siblings and your mother, whom I hold in the highest esteem." Her emphasis on the last phrase made it abundantly clear that Colin was excluded from this sentiment.

Having delivered her measured response, Penelope turned away from him, her skirts swishing against the gravel as she prepared to depart. Eloise moved to follow, relief evident in her posture that the uncomfortable encounter had reached its conclusion without further incident.

They had taken no more than three steps when Colin's voice rang out behind them, his words slicing through the tranquil garden air like a blade. "Did my brother compromise you?"

Both women froze mid-step before turning slowly to face him, twin expressions of outrage and disbelief transforming their features.

"I beg your pardon?" Penelope's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, each syllable enunciated with precision.

Eloise stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Have you completely lost your wits, Colin? How dare you suggest such a thing? Of Anthony, no less!"

Colin's face had flushed crimson, though whether from embarrassment at his own audacity or from the jealousy that seemed to emanate from his very being was impossible to discern. "What other explanation could there be?" He demanded, a petulant note entering his voice. "There is no reason for Penelope to marry Anthony unless he has... unless something transpired that necessitated such an arrangement."

Eloise's jaw dropped in naked incredulity. "I cannot believe what I am hearing." She declared, her voice rising despite the propriety that dictated ladies should not raise their voices out of doors. "Do you think so poorly of our brother? Anthony, who has sacrificed his youth to ensure our family's security and happiness after father's death? Anthony, who has never — not once — failed in his duty as Viscount or as head of our family?"

She took a step closer to Colin, her finger jutting accusingly toward his chest. "Anthony may have earned a reputation as a rake in certain circles, but he has always conducted himself as a gentleman toward ladies of breeding. Unlike some I could name." She added pointedly.

"Penelope has been like family to us for years." Eloise continued, her indignation gathering momentum. "She has been welcomed into our home, included in our gatherings, treated with the utmost respect by every Bridgerton — save, apparently, you. During their entire courtship, Anthony has never uttered a disparaging word about Penelope or the Featheringtons. Can you claim the same?"

Colin's expression darkened. "I merely seek to protect her." He insisted, though his tone lacked conviction. "Anthony's... proclivities have hardly been a secret. Indeed, they have featured prominently in Lady Whistledown's publications for all the ton to read."

Penelope stepped forward then, her previous composure giving way to righteous anger. "Anthony." She stated with such emphasis that none could mistake her meaning — she referred to Anthony alone. "Did not compromise me, Mr. Bridgerton. I accepted his suit and his proposal with full knowledge and wholeheartedness."

Her cerulean blue eyes flashed with an emotion that rendered her momentarily breathtaking. "The Viscount has demonstrated his worthiness through his devotion to his family, his honor, and his integrity. Even if we were to erase the past and your cruel declaration had never been uttered, if I were presented with a choice between you and Anthony, I would choose him without hesitation."

Colin recoiled as though she had struck him. "Because of his title?" He asked bitterly, the jealousy now naked in his voice. "Is it the prospect of becoming Viscountess that has captured your heart so thoroughly?"

The sharp crack of palm meeting cheek resounded through the garden before either Penelope or Colin had registered Eloise's movement. Colin's head snapped to the side from the force of his sister's slap, a scarlet handprint blooming rapidly on his skin.

"You have gone too far." Eloise declared, her chest heaving with emotion. "You have no right — no right whatsoever — to impugn the characters of either Anthony or Penelope. If anyone should be examining their behavior, Colin Bridgerton, it is you."

She stepped back, straightening her posture as she gathered her dignity around her like a cloak. "I shall inform mother of every word you have uttered here today. We shall see how she receives your accusations against her eldest son and his intended bride."

With that pronouncement hanging in the air, Eloise grasped Penelope's arm and turned on her heel, marching back toward the house with such purpose that her lady's maid had to quicken her pace to keep up. Penelope allowed herself to be led away, though she cast one final glance over her shoulder at Colin, who remained frozen beside the fountain, one hand pressed to his reddened cheek.

As they traversed the garden paths back toward Aubrey Hall, Eloise's stride gradually slowed, her initial fury giving way to concern. "Penelope.." She ventured, her voice softer now that they were beyond Colin's hearing. "I must apologize for my brother's abominable behavior. I have never been so mortified."

Penelope released a shaky breath, the perfect composure she had maintained throughout the confrontation beginning to crack. "It is hardly your responsibility to apologize for him, Eloise."

"Nevertheless.." Eloise insisted. "His words were inexcusable. To suggest that Anthony would—" She broke off, seemingly unable to even complete the thought.

They walked in silence for several paces before Penelope spoke again, her voice barely audible over the rustling of their skirts against the gravel. "Did you mean what you said? About Anthony?"

Eloise glanced at her with surprise. "Every word. Whatever his faults — and I assure you, as his sister, I am well acquainted with them all — Anthony has always placed family above all else. He is stubborn, overbearing, and occasionally insufferable, but he is honorable to his core."

A faint smile touched Penelope's lips. "Yes." She murmured. "He is."

Something in her tone caused Eloise to study her more closely. "Penelope.." She began cautiously. "I know our friendship has been... strained of late. But I hope you know that I wish for your happiness, truly. And if that happiness is to be found with my brother — with Anthony — then you have my support, for whatever that may be worth."

Penelope's steps faltered momentarily. She turned to face Eloise, their eyes meeting in a moment of genuine connection that had been absent for too long. "It is worth a great deal." She replied softly.

The two women continued toward the house, their path taking them past blooming roses and carefully tended herb gardens. Behind them, the lady's maid followed dutifully, her presence ensuring propriety even as the two friends began, tentatively, to rebuild the bridge between them.

Inside Aubrey Hall, Anthony Bridgerton stood at the drawing room’s window, his tall figure silhouetted against the golden light as he watched the approaching figures of his sister and his betrothed. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly at the sight of them, though his brow remained furrowed with concern.

"They return." He announced to Benedict, who lounged in a nearby armchair with a volume of poetry.

Benedict closed his book and rose to join his brother at the window. "And Colin?"

"There is no sign of him." Anthony replied, his tone unreadable.

Benedict studied his brother's profile for a moment before commenting. "You know, I believe our Miss Featherington may be precisely what this family needs — someone who can stand their ground against the infamous Bridgerton temperament."

A ghost of a smile touched Anthony's lips. "Indeed."

As Penelope and Eloise drew nearer to the house, Anthony's gaze remained fixed on the copper-haired figure whose unexpected entrance into his life had altered its course so completely. Whatever had transpired in the garden between her and Colin remained to be revealed, but one thing was abundantly clear to the Viscount — Penelope Featherington possessed a strength of character that matched his own, and in that knowledge, he found a profound and unexpected contentment.

Chapter Text

The morning following the unfortunate confrontation in the gardens had dawned gray and overcast, as though the very heavens themselves reflected the discord that had settled upon Aubrey Hall like an unwelcome shroud. By mid-morning, the Featherington carriage had departed for London, Lady Portia Featherington having declared with characteristic determination that preparations for her daughter's wedding to the Viscount could not be delayed by familial discord. The sight of their departure — Penelope's auburn hair visible through the carriage window as she gazed back at the estate — had stirred something profound in Anthony's chest, a mixture of longing and protective fury that threatened to overwhelm his customary composure.

The Bridgertons, by contrast, had chosen to remain at their ancestral seat for several days longer, though the atmosphere within the grand house had grown decidedly strained. The servants moved about their duties with hushed efficiency, instinctively recognizing the tension that crackled through the corridors like electricity before a storm.
True to her word, Eloise had recounted to Violet every detail of Colin's shocking accusations regarding Anthony and Penelope. The dowager viscountess had listened in stunned silence as her daughter related not only Colin's insinuation that Anthony had compromised Penelope, but also his bitter suggestion that the young woman's acceptance of the Viscount's proposal was motivated solely by his title and fortune.

The revelation had sparked a conflagration of outrage among the Bridgerton brothers. Benedict, normally the most even-tempered of the siblings, had turned positively volcanic, pacing the length of the morning room while delivering a blistering assessment of Colin's character that would have made a sailor blush. Anthony, however, had simply gone very still — a reaction that those who knew him well recognized as infinitely more dangerous than any display of histrionics.

It was perhaps inevitable, then, that when Colin emerged from his self-imposed seclusion late that afternoon, the confrontation between the brothers erupted with the force of a powder keg. Anthony's fist had connected with Colin's jaw before anyone could intervene, sending the younger man sprawling onto the Persian carpet of the library with a sickening thud.

"How dare you?!" Anthony had snarled, standing over his brother with his chest heaving and his dark eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you impugn the honor of the woman I intend to marry, or suggest that her feelings are motivated by anything other than genuine affection."

Colin, blood trickling from his split lip, had stared up at his elder brother with a mixture of shock and something that might have been shame. "Anthony, I—"

"No." The Viscount had cut him off, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You have said quite enough."

It had taken the combined efforts of Benedict, Daphne, and the Duke of Hastings to prevent Anthony from issuing a formal challenge. Violet, arriving on the scene with her typical impeccable timing, had surveyed the tableau with the practiced eye of a woman who had raised eight spirited children.

"That is quite enough!" She had declared with the quiet authority that could still reduce grown men to chastened schoolboys. "Anthony, son, while I understand your indignation, violence is not the solution to this family's troubles. Colin, you will retire to your chambers immediately and remain there for the next three days to contemplate the consequences of your unconscionable behavior."

Now, as the shadows lengthened across the grounds of Aubrey Hall, Violet Bridgerton made her way through the familiar corridors toward her eldest son's study. She had spent the better part of the day in contemplation, her needlework lying forgotten in her lap as she wrestled with the complexities of her children's entangled hearts. The situation required delicate handling — a mother's wisdom rather than a patriarch's command.

The study door stood slightly ajar, revealing Anthony's tall figure silhouetted against the window that overlooked the estate's rolling parkland. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid with the weight of responsibility he had carried since his father's untimely death. He possessed an authority and gravitas that Edmund Bridgerton would have been proud to witness, yet Violet's maternal heart ached for the carefree young man he might have been under different circumstances.

"Anthony?" She called softly, tapping gently on the doorframe.

He turned at the sound of her voice, his expression immediately softening. "Mother. Please, come in."

The study reflected its occupant's meticulous nature — leather-bound ledgers arranged with military precision, correspondence sorted into neat piles, and the heavy mahogany desk that had belonged to his father positioned to command a view of the gardens. It was the domain of a man who took his responsibilities seriously, who understood that the welfare of an entire family rested upon his shoulders.

Violet settled herself into one of the wingback chairs that faced the desk, smoothing her dove-gray morning dress as she studied her son's face. The events of recent days had etched new lines around his eyes, testament to the strain he had been under.

"How are you bearing up, my dear?" She inquired, her voice gentle yet probing.

Anthony moved to the chair opposite her, though he seemed disinclined to sit. "I am well enough, mother. Though I confess I am more concerned with how Penelope has weathered Colin's... outburst."

"She struck me as a young woman of considerable fortitude." Violet observed. "I believe she will recover from this setback admirably."

"Yes." Anthony agreed, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "She possesses a strength of character that continues to astound me. But that does not excuse Colin's behavior, nor does it diminish my anger at his implications."

Violet nodded thoughtfully. "You are quite right to be protective of your betrothed. It speaks well of your regard for her. However, I must ask — how are you managing your own feelings regarding the... history between Penelope and Colin?"

The question hung in the air between them, touching upon the insecurities that Anthony had tried so desperately to suppress. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he replied.

"I want only what is best for Penelope." He said carefully. "If her happiness lies elsewhere, then I would... I would endeavor to accept that outcome with grace."

"Even if it meant releasing her from your engagement?"

Anthony's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I have given her my word, mother. More than that — I have given her my heart. But I will not hold her to promises made if she finds herself unwilling to honor them."

Violet's eyes filled with tears at the quiet dignity of his response. Here was her son, prepared to sacrifice his own happiness if he believed it would serve the woman he loved. It was both heartbreaking and utterly characteristic of the man he had become.

"My darling boy." She murmured, rising to place a gentle hand upon his arm. "While your nobility does you credit, I believe you underestimate Miss Featherington's feelings for you. From what I observed during their stay, she appears quite devoted to your suit."

A shadow of a smile crossed Anthony's features. "I pray you are correct. But regardless of Colin's sentiments on the matter, mother, nothing will prevent me from marrying Penelope if she will have me. I hope that is understood."

"It is indeed." Violet assured him. "Though I confess, as a mother, it pains me to see discord among my children. I had hoped... but perhaps that was foolish of me."

Anthony's expression softened as he registered the sorrow in his mother's voice. "You are the wisest woman I know, mother, and far from foolish. But some situations admit of no perfect resolution."

"No." She agreed sadly. "But perhaps there are ways to minimize the suffering for all concerned."

Something in her tone caused Anthony to regard her more sharply. "What do you propose?"

Violet returned to her chair, folding her hands in her lap as she chose her words carefully. "I have a favor to ask of you, Anthony. And I want you to know that if you refuse, I will understand completely."

"Name it." He replied without hesitation. "If it is within my power, I will grant it gladly."
"Even if it involves considerable expense and inconvenience?"
Anthony inclined his head. "You have my word."
Violet drew a deep breath. "I would ask that you be... generous with Colin. Extraordinarily so."
Anthony's brow furrowed in confusion. "In what manner?"

"I believe it would be best for all concerned if Colin were to resume his travels." Violet explained. "He had originally planned to visit the Ottoman Empire and the island of Malta before his premature return. Perhaps... perhaps he might be encouraged to complete that journey, with sufficient funds to ensure his comfort and safety."

Understanding dawned in Anthony's dark eyes. "You wish me to finance his extended absence."

"I know it is a great deal to ask." Violet continued hurriedly. "Particularly given his recent behavior. But I fear that his continued presence here will only serve to deepen the rift between you both. Time and distance may provide the healing that proximity cannot."

Anthony was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the gardens where, just days before, his brother had questioned the honor of the woman he loved. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured and thoughtful.

"How much do you think would be required for such an undertaking?"

"A considerable sum." Violet admitted. "Perhaps three thousand pounds to see him comfortably established for a year or more."

Anthony nodded slowly. "It shall be done. I will arrange for the funds to be transferred to his account within the week."

Violet's relief was palpable. "You are certain? It is no small amount, and after what he said about Penelope—"

"It is precisely because of what he said about Penelope that I agree to your request." Anthony interrupted quietly. "If his absence will spare her further pain, then the expense is inconsequential."

Tears gathered in Violet's eyes as she gazed upon her eldest son. "Your father would be so proud of the man you have become." She whispered.

Rising from her chair, she approached him with the fluid grace that had made her one of the most regaled ladies of her generation. Anthony bent slightly to accommodate her shorter stature as she reached up to cup his face in her gloved hands.

"Thank you, my darling." She murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "For your understanding, for your generosity, and for becoming the man this family needed you to be."

As she turned to leave, Anthony caught her hand gently. "Mother? Do you think... Do you believe Penelope and I can be happy together, despite everything?"

Violet smiled, her eyes twinkling with the first genuine joy she had displayed in days. "My dear Anthony, I have watched that young woman look at you when she thinks no one is observing. Whatever she may have harbored for anyone in the past, they pale in comparison to what I see in her eyes when she regards you."

"And what do you see?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Love, my son. Pure, uncomplicated, devoted love."

With that benediction, Lady Violet Bridgerton swept from the study, leaving her eldest son alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that, despite the turbulence of recent days, his future held the promise of extraordinary happiness.

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast long shadows across the polished mahogany floors of the Featherington drawing room, where bolts of silk and satin lay scattered like fallen petals across every surface. The estate, once known for its somewhat gaudy yellow décor, had transformed into a bustling hive of matrimonial preparation. Servants hurried to and fro, their arms laden with samples of lace and ribbon, while the sweet fragrance of orange blossoms—brought fresh from the florist that very morning—perfumed the air.

Lady Portia Featherington moved through the chaos with the precision of a general commanding her troops, her silk morning dress rustling with each determined step. She had taken to wedding planning with the fervor of one who had waited far too long to see her youngest daughter properly settled, and with a Viscount, no less.

"Penelope, my dear, do come away from that window." Portia called, her voice carrying across the room where her daughter stood lost in contemplation. "Madame Delacroix shall arrive presently, and we must discuss the creation of your wedding gown."

Penelope Featherington — soon to be Lady Bridgerton — turned from her position by the tall windows that overlooked the bustling streets of Mayfair. The autumn light caught the copper highlights in her copper curls, which had been arranged in a more sophisticated style befitting her elevated station. Gone were the garish pastels that had once dominated her wardrobe, replaced now with elegant creams and soft blues that complemented her complexion beautifully.

"Of course, mama." She replied, her voice carrying a distracted quality that did not escape her mother's notice.

As if summoned by their conversation, the renowned modiste entered the drawing room with a flourish, followed by two assistants carrying what appeared to be the most exquisite fabrics London had ever witnessed. The silk was the color of fresh cream, embroidered with delicate seed pearls and the finest Brussels lace.

"Mes dames." Madame Delacroix announced with her characteristic French accent. "The fabric, she is magnifique, no? Fit for a Viscountess, certainly."

Portia clasped her hands together in delight. "Oh, it is beyond anything I could have imagined! Penelope, you shall be the most beautiful bride in all of England."

As the modiste began her work, pinning and adjusting the gown's elegant lines, Penelope found her mind wandering once again to the events at Aubrey Hall. The memory of that fateful evening seemed to play in an endless loop — Anthony's passionate declaration, Colin's misguided accusations, and the way her heart had remained stubbornly unmoved by the third Bridgerton son's belated offer of marriage.

"Miss Featherington." Madame Delacroix's voice brought her back to the present. "You seem quite lost in thought. Perhaps you are dreaming of your wedding day, oui?"

"Indeed." Penelope murmured, though her thoughts were far more complex than simple bridal fantasies.

Later, as the florist — a thin, nervous man named Mr. Grimsby — spread his offerings across the drawing room table, Penelope attempted to focus on the task at hand. White roses, he suggested, or perhaps peonies? The seasonal chrysanthemums were quite lovely, and orange blossoms, naturally, for good fortune.

"What think you, Penelope?" Her mother inquired, examining a particularly robust arrangement. "The white roses are classic, befitting the dignity of the Bridgerton name."

"They are lovely, mama." Penelope agreed absently, her fingers trailing over the delicate petals of a single bloom.

But even as she nodded and made appropriate responses to the florist's suggestions, her mind remained preoccupied with far weightier matters. The image of Anthony's face — so tender when he had confessed his feelings, yet marked with concern whenever Colin's name arose in conversation — haunted her thoughts.

How could I have been so blind?She wondered, comparing the two brothers in her mind. Anthony, with his unwavering sense of duty and his capacity for deep, genuine emotion, stood in stark contrast to Colin, whose thoughtless accusations had revealed a character far beneath what she had once imagined.

That evening, after the modiste and florist had departed, Penelope sat in her private chambers, brushing her hair before the mirror. The room was softly lit by candles, casting dancing shadows on the rose-colored wallpaper. She had dismissed her lady's maid, seeking solitude to sort through her tumultuous thoughts.

I have not told him. She realized with a start, her brush pausing mid-stroke. I have not told Anthony that I love him.

The revelation struck her with surprising force. In all the excitement of their engagement, the scandal that had precipitated it, and the whirlwind of wedding preparations, she had never properly returned his heartfelt declaration. No wonder he looked troubled whenever Colin's name was mentioned — he must believe she still harbored feelings for his younger brother.

The very thought filled her with distress. How could Anthony know that her heart had already turned completely toward him? That the woman who had once penned passionate letters to Colin Bridgerton now found herself entirely indifferent to his charms?

Her contemplation was interrupted by a gentle knock upon her door.

"Come in." She called softly.

Lady Portia entered, her face bearing an expression of barely contained excitement. She had changed from her morning dress into an elegant evening gown of deep purple silk, her graying hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure.

"My dear child." She began, settling herself in the chair beside Penelope's dressing table, "I have just received the most wonderful news. Lord Bridgerton has sent word that their family have returned from Kent and he wishes to call upon you tomorrow morning. It seems he has some matter of importance to discuss regarding the wedding arrangements."

Penelope's heart fluttered at the mention of Anthony's name. "Did his message say anything more specific, mama?"

"Only that he wished to speak with you privately, though of course, propriety demands that I be present as well." Portia's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Perhaps he wishes to discuss the marriage settlements, or the guest list for the wedding breakfast."

But Penelope suspected it might be something far more personal. The troubled look she had observed in Anthony's eyes suggested he had concerns that went beyond mere wedding logistics.

"I shall be pleased to receive him." She said quietly, though her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing him again.

"Excellent." Portia declared, rising from her chair. "I shall have Cook prepare those lemon cakes he seemed to enjoy so much at tea last time. A gentleman's stomach is often the surest path to his good humor."

As her mother departed, Penelope returned to her reflection in the mirror. Tomorrow, she would have the opportunity to set things right with Anthony. She would find the courage to tell him what her heart had been trying to express — that her love for him was real, deep, and entirely unclouded by any lingering attachment to his brother.

The autumn wind rattled the windows of her chamber, but Penelope felt a warmth spreading through her chest. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

—--

The morning mist still clung to the perfectly manicured hedgerows of the Featherington garden when Lord Anthony Bridgerton arrived at the estate. True to his word given to Lady Portia the evening prior, he had come at the earliest hour deemed proper for morning calls — precisely ten o'clock, as befitted a gentleman of his standing.

He alighted from his elegant barouche with the practiced grace of one born to privilege, his dark blue superfine coat cut to perfection across his broad shoulders, his Hessian boots polished to a mirror shine. In one gloved hand, he carried a bouquet of the finest hothouse roses — white blooms touched with the palest pink at their edges — while his other arm bore a small velvet box containing French bonbons from Gunter's, the most fashionable confectioner in all of London.

Briarly, the Featherington butler, received him in the marble-floored entrance hall with the deference due a Viscount.

"Good morning, my lord." Briarly intoned with a respectful bow. "Lady Featherington and Miss Featherington await you in the morning room."

Lady Portia received him with barely concealed delight, her morning dress of deep rose silk rustling as she curtsied. "Lord Bridgerton, how good of you to call upon us so promptly. I trust you slept well?"

"Indeed, Lady Featherington." Anthony replied, executing a perfect bow before turning his attention to Penelope, who sat demurely upon a settee upholstered in cream silk. She looked uncommonly lovely in a morning dress of soft lavender muslin, her copper hair arranged in elegant ringlets that framed her face becomingly.

"Miss Featherington." He said, his voice taking on a warmer tone as he approached to present his offerings. "I hope you find these small tokens agreeable."

Penelope accepted the flowers with a gentle smile, inhaling their delicate fragrance. "They are beautiful, my lord. Your thoughtfulness never fails to touch my heart."

After the proper courtesies had been observed, and tea had been served in the finest Featherington china, Anthony made his carefully planned request.

"Lady Featherington, I wonder if I might prevail upon your generosity to allow Miss Featherington and myself to take a turn about your gardens? The morning air appears most salubrious, and I confess I have been longing for a moment of quieter conversation."

Portia's eyes sparkled with approval. "Of course, my lord. Though propriety demands that Rae accompany you, naturally." She gestured toward Penelope's lady's maid, a sensible young woman who had been standing discretely in the corner of the room.

The Featherington gardens, while not as extensive as those at Aubrey Hall, were nonetheless charming in their own right. Graveled paths wound between carefully tended flower beds, and ancient oak trees provided dappled shade over secluded benches. It was to one such bench — carved from honey-colored stone and positioned beneath a particularly grand specimen of English oak — that Anthony guided Penelope, with Rae following at the respectful distance that propriety required.

As they settled themselves upon the bench, Anthony turned to study Penelope's face with the focused attention that had become so familiar and dear to her.

"Penelope.." He began, his voice carrying the warmth that seemed reserved for her alone. "Pray tell me, how do you fare? I confess myself concerned that you appear somewhat... pensive this morning."

Penelope's lips parted, and she released what could only be described as a deep, weary sigh — a sound that spoke of sleepless nights and troubled thoughts.

"In truth, my lord." She replied, her voice carrying the refined cadence of her station while betraying a hint of fatigue. "These have been exceedingly busy days since our return to London. Indeed, it has been... relentless. Since our return, Mama has seen fit to wage a veritable campaign upon my schedule. Modistes, florists, menus, musicians — there is no respite, not even for the sake of luncheon.”

Anthony chuckled softly, his expression a mixture of sympathy and teasing.

“I do beg your pardon that none of us were there to spirit you away from her tyranny. We had tarried too long at Aubrey Hall.”

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes intent upon her face. "But I give you my word that from this moment forward, you shall not face these preparations alone. Both my mother and I shall provide whatever assistance you require."

As if to demonstrate his commitment, Anthony's tone became more businesslike, though no less warm. "Indeed, I have already taken the liberty of making certain arrangements. This very afternoon, I shall call upon both Madame Delacroix and Mr. Grimsby to ensure that all accounts for your trousseau and the wedding flowers are transferred to the Bridgerton coffers. It would be unconscionable for your family to bear such expenses when you are soon to become a member of ours."

Penelope looked up at him, surprised, a hesitant smile forming. “That is generous of you.”

“It is no more than your due.” He said gently. “Moreover, I shall call upon the Archbishop this very afternoon to secure our license. I confess I have no wish to delay matters more than is necessary.”

Penelope’s heart fluttered in her chest at the quiet determination in his voice. He spoke not merely with obligation, but with conviction — as though her wellbeing were his chief concern.

Yet beneath her grateful expression lay a stirring of guilt. She had thought again and again on the matter last night, but still — she had not said the words. Not once had she told Anthony she loved him.

Seeing the softness in her eyes fade into something more guarded, Anthony leaned closer.

“You are troubled.” He said. “Is it Colin?”

She looked up, startled. Her silence betrayed her.

Anthony sighed and looked away for a moment before continuing.

“I feel it only right to tell you — he has been duly reprimanded. I am not proud of it, but I struck him. The moment he cast aspersions upon your name, upon your motives — I could not remain passive.”

Penelope blinked. “You struck him?”

Anthony nodded, grim.

“And mother confined him to his chambers for three days. She hoped it might compel him to reflect. I believe... I believe Colin has always fancied himself noble in sentiment, but blinded himself to reality. He did not see you — not truly — and for that I am wroth with him.”

Penelope opened her mouth, but words caught in her throat. Her mind reeled.

“He will not trouble you further.” Anthony continued. “Mother and I have agreed that he shall go abroad again. A second grand tour — as long as he likes. I will fund it, and see to it that his lodgings are comfortable. Perhaps with distance... He may finally see reason.”

Her brow furrowed, sorrow warring with relief.

“I do not wish to be the reason your family parts from him again.”

Anthony took her hand then, his touch gentle, and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss over her glove.

“You are not. This was Colin’s own doing. And truth be told, I think he shall benefit from the solitude. My brother is not unkind, Penelope. Merely... young in spirit. He will come to understand, in time.”

Penelope swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. His steadiness, his thoughtfulness — it moved her beyond what words could express.

“Still.” She said softly, “It grieves me that your mother and your siblings must part from him again.”

Anthony stood then, brushing a hand against the lapel of his coat, and offered her a warm, reassuring smile.

“He shall return — and when he does, he will find us happily wed, and, God willing, more mature in judgement. Until then, think no more on it.”

Glancing at the delicate gold timepiece that hung from his waistcoat, Anthony's expression became apologetic. "Much as it pains me to curtail our time together, I fear I must take my leave. My appointment with the Archbishop cannot be delayed, and there are several other matters requiring my attention before the day's end."

He gave a signal to Rae, who had lingered respectfully at a distance. The maid curtsied, stepping forward to attend her mistress.

Penelope rose, dipping into a graceful curtsy of her own.

“Thank you, my lord. For the flowers, and...” Her voice caught. “...For thinking always of my comfort.”

He bowed deeply, his eyes lingering on hers.

“I think of you always, Penelope.”

As the Viscount's tall figure disappeared down the graveled path that led back to the house, Penelope remained standing by the bench, her gaze fixed upon the direction he had taken. The morning sun caught the highlights in her copper hair, and a gentle breeze stirred the ribbons of her morning dress.

"Miss?" Rae's voice, soft with concern, finally penetrated her reverie. "Are you quite well? You appear somewhat... distant."

Penelope turned to her faithful maid with a rueful smile, the realization hitting her anew with all its frustrating force. “I am well, Rae.” She replied, her eyes still trained on the empty path. “Only... I forgot to tell him.”

“Tell him what, miss?”

Penelope lowered her gaze, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

What she could not say — what propriety and her own shyness prevented her from admitting even to her trusted maid — was that once again, she had failed to find the courage to speak the words that burned in her heart. Once again, Anthony had left her presence without knowing that his feelings were not only returned, but returned with an intensity that sometimes frightened her with its depth.

The irony was not lost on her. She, who had once poured her heart onto paper in passionate letters to Colin, could not find the words to tell the man she truly loved that her heart belonged entirely to him.

Chapter Text

The weeks had passed in a whirlwind of silk fittings, flower arrangements, and endless consultations with tradespeople, until suddenly — as if time itself had conspired to quicken its pace — the morning of Penelope's wedding to Viscount Anthony Bridgerton had arrived with all the inevitability of dawn breaking over Mayfair.

The bridal chamber at Featherington House had been transformed into a sanctuary of feminine preparation. Soft morning light filtered through ivory silk curtains, casting a golden glow upon the room where the future Viscountess sat before an ornate gilt mirror. The wedding gown — that masterpiece of Madame Delacroix's artistry — hung from a mahogany armoire like a shimmering promise, its seed pearls catching the light like captured starlight.

Penelope sat motionless upon a delicate chair upholstered in rose damask, her reflection staring back at her with eyes that betrayed a tempest of emotions. Her copper hair had been arranged in an elaborate coiffure befitting her new station, with pearl-tipped pins securing the elegant curls that would soon be crowned with the Bridgerton family tiara. Yet despite the transformation that surrounded her, she remained lost in contemplation, scarcely able to comprehend that within the hour, she would cease to be Miss Penelope Featherington forever.

The soft rustle of silk announced her mother's arrival before Lady Portia Featherington appeared in the doorway. Gone were the garish yellows and shocking pinks that had once dominated her wardrobe; in their place, she wore a gown of deep midnight green that lent dignity to her bearing and softened the lines of care that years of social climbing and financial worry had etched upon her features.

"My dearest girl." Portia said softly, her voice carrying none of its usual brisk authority. "Are you quite ready? The carriage awaits, and the Bridgerton family has already departed for St. George's."

Penelope's gaze met her mother's in the mirror, and Portia immediately perceived the wariness that clouded her daughter's usually bright eyes — the look of a young woman standing upon the precipice of an entirely new existence.

Without hesitation, Portia moved across the room with a grace that spoke of her own well-bred upbringing, settling herself upon the small ottoman beside Penelope's chair. With infinite tenderness, she gathered her youngest daughter's trembling hands within her own, noting how the soft kid gloves could not entirely conceal their slight tremor.

"My girl." She began, her voice taking on the warm cadence of maternal affection that her daughters had rarely heard in recent years, "I perceive that you are troubled. Pray, tell me what weighs so heavily upon your heart on what should be the happiest of days."

Penelope's lips curved in a tremulous smile — an expression that spoke of gratitude for her mother's uncharacteristic gentleness, yet failed to mask the deep uncertainty that plagued her thoughts.

"Mama." She whispered, her voice carrying the refined diction of her station while betraying the vulnerability of youth. "I confess myself overwhelmed by fears that I dare not voice, yet cannot seem to banish from my mind."

Portia's expression softened further, her maternal instincts — so long channeled into social machinations and marriage arrangements — now focused entirely upon comforting the child who sat before her.

"Tell me, dearest." She urged gently. "Whatever troubles you shall trouble me as well, and perhaps together we might find some measure of peace."

The unexpected encouragement in her mother's voice seemed to unlock the flood of anxieties that Penelope had been harboring in secret. "The prospect of becoming a Viscountess is... daunting beyond measure." She admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I remind myself that I am a Featherington, and that our family has never been accused of cowardice. Indeed, having weathered the storms of society's censure and the challenges that have befallen our household, I should possess the fortitude to face whatever lies ahead."

Portia nodded approvingly. "Indeed, my child. We Featheringtons may not possess the ancient lineage of some families, but we have something far more valuable — an indomitable spirit that refuses to yield in the face of adversity."

Yet even as she spoke these encouraging words, Penelope's expression grew more troubled. "But mama.." She continued, her voice taking on the cadence of one confessing her deepest fears. "What if Lord Bridgerton should find me... lacking as a wife? I believe myself capable of managing the domestic affairs of a great household — indeed, I have studied such matters extensively in preparation for this day. But the more intimate duties of matrimony..." Her voice faltered, and a delicate blush colored her cheeks.

Understanding immediately, Portia squeezed her daughter's hands with gentle reassurance.

"Moreover.." Penelope continued, her voice growing more distressed. "I confess myself terrified that I shall prove inadequate as a mother. What knowledge have I of nurturing children, of providing them with the guidance and affection they require? I fear I shall disappoint not only my husband but any children Providence may bless us with."

At these words, Portia's eyes took on a distant quality, as if she were gazing not at her daughter but into the depths of her own experiences and regrets. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of hard-won wisdom.

"My dearest Penelope." She said softly. "Do you imagine that any woman — regardless of her station or education — enters into matrimony feeling perfectly prepared for all that awaits her?" She paused, her thumb tracing gentle circles over her daughter's knuckles. "Do we not all harbor such fears?"

The rhetorical question hung in the air between them like a bridge of understanding, connecting mother and daughter across years of misunderstanding and unspoken regrets.

Portia's voice took on a quality of raw honesty that Penelope had never heard before. "I am acutely aware, my child, that I have not been the manner of mother that young ladies write poems about — not the gentle, nurturing soul that Lady Violet Bridgerton represents to her children. I have been... practical, perhaps to a fault. Demanding, certainly. But I hope you understand that every decision I made, every harsh word I spoke, was born of my desperate desire to see you and your sisters safely established in a world that shows precious little mercy to women without protection."

As she spoke, Portia's grip on her daughter's hands tightened slightly, as if she could somehow transfer her own hard-earned strength through touch alone.

"I did what I believed necessary to ensure your survival in society, given the... precarious circumstances your dear father's financial mismanagement left us in. Perhaps my methods were not always kind, but they were born of love — a fierce, protective love that would move heaven and earth to secure your well-being."

Penelope felt her throat constrict with emotion as she recognized, perhaps for the first time, the sacrifices her mother had made and the burdens she had carried alone.

Portia continued, her voice growing stronger with conviction. "But you, my dearest girl, possess qualities that I never had. You are the cleverest of all my daughters — your wit is sharp as any blade, yet tempered with a compassion that I sometimes fear I lack. Your love of literature, particularly those romantic novels you devour with such enthusiasm, has given you insights into the human heart that formal education could never provide."

She paused to cup Penelope's face gently, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You have already demonstrated your capacity for deep, enduring affection. I have observed how you care for the Bridgertons, how you extend kindness even to those who have not always deserved it. These qualities will serve you well as both wife and mother."

"But if you find yourself uncertain.." Portia added with a slight smile. "Then perhaps we might embark upon this journey of learning together. I may not have been the perfect mother, but I am not too proud to acknowledge that there is always room for improvement. We shall discover together how to be the best mothers we can be — you to your future children, and I, belatedly, to you and your sisters."

At these words, a single tear escaped to trace a silver path down Penelope's cheek. The raw emotion in her mother's voice, the acknowledgment of past mistakes combined with the promise of future support, touched her heart in ways she had not expected.

"Mama.." She whispered, her voice thick with feeling. "I only hope that I might possess even a fraction of your resilience. You have faced every challenge with such determination, such unwavering strength..."

Before she could complete the thought, Portia rose gracefully from the ottoman and moved to frame her daughter's face with both hands, her touch infinitely gentle.

"My darling child." She said, her voice ringing with absolute conviction. "You possess not merely a fraction of that strength — you have inherited it in full measure and improved upon it with your own generous heart. You are everything I am, and everything I could never quite manage to become. You are my daughter, and that means you are capable of conquering any obstacle that dares to stand in your path."

The sincerity blazing in her mother's eyes, combined with the weight of a lifetime of unspoken love and sacrifice, finally broke through the last of Penelope's defenses. For the first time in memory, she understood that beneath her mother's sometimes harsh exterior lay a heart that had beaten solely for the welfare of her children.

At last, a genuine smile — radiant and full of newfound confidence — bloomed across Penelope's features like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

"Then I am ready, mama." She declared, her voice steady and sure. "I am ready to become Lady Bridgerton, and to embrace whatever joys and challenges await me in that role."

Portia stepped back with obvious pride, her own eyes bright with tears of joy and relief. "Then let us go, my dear. Your future awaits, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you shall embrace it with all the grace and courage befitting the remarkable woman you have become."

With that declaration ringing in the air between them, mother and daughter prepared to leave the bridal chamber — one to give away her youngest child, the other to begin the greatest adventure of her life.

The journey from Featherington House to St. George's, Hanover Square, passed in a blur of London's familiar streets transformed by the golden light of late morning. The Featherington carriage, bedecked with white ribbons and blossoms for the occasion, rolled smoothly over cobblestones worn smooth by countless other brides who had made this same pilgrimage to matrimony.

Penelope sat beside her mother in the plush interior, her wedding gown arranged with meticulous care to prevent crushing the delicate fabric. The seed pearls adorning her bodice caught the light that filtered through the carriage windows, creating tiny points of brilliance that seemed to dance with each gentle sway of the vehicle. In her gloved hands, she carried a bouquet of white roses and lily of the valley — flowers chosen for their symbolism of new beginnings and the return of happiness.

As the carriage turned into Hanover Square, Penelope's breath caught in her throat. St. George's Church stood before them in all its neoclassical grandeur, its Portland stone façade gleaming in the autumn sunlight. The church, favored by the nobility for fashionable weddings, had been transformed for the occasion. Garlands of white roses and ivy adorned the entrance, while liveried footmen stood at attention beside the steps.

But it was the crowd gathered outside that made Penelope's heart race with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Members of the ton had assembled in their finest morning dress, eager to witness the union of the Viscount Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington — a match that had surprised many but delighted those who favored romantic attachment over mere social convenience.

"Courage, my dear." Portia murmured as their carriage drew to a halt. "Today you marry not only for love, but for the security and happiness you have always deserved."

The carriage door opened, and Penelope accepted the assistance of a footman as she alighted with the grace that years of deportment lessons had instilled. The whispered conversations of the gathered crowd created a gentle susurrus of sound, but she paid them no heed. Her attention was focused entirely on the church doors, beyond which awaited the man who would become her husband.

As she climbed the steps to the church entrance, her heart hammered against her ribs with such force that she wondered if the congregation might hear it echoing through the sacred space. The heavy doors swung open, revealing the interior of St. George's in all its magnificent splendor.

The church had been adorned for the occasion with an abundance of white flowers — roses, peonies, and jasmine created cascading arrangements that filled the air with their delicate fragrance. Ivory silk ribbons marked the pews reserved for family and close friends, while hundreds of beeswax candles cast a warm, golden glow throughout the nave.

But Penelope's eyes were drawn inexorably to the altar, where Anthony stood waiting in the full dress attire befitting of his title. The dark blue coat, adorned with gold braiding and worn over pristine white breeches, emphasized his commanding height and the breadth of his shoulders. His dark hair had been arranged in the fashionable style, and even from this distance, she could see the intensity in his dark eyes as they met hers across the length of the nave.

Beside him stood Benedict, serving as his brother's groomsman, while the rest of the Bridgerton family occupied the front pew. Violet Bridgerton, resplendent in deep purple silk, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, while the younger Bridgerton siblings watched with expressions ranging from joyful anticipation to barely contained excitement.

The organ began to play — the soaring notes of Purcell's "Trumpet Voluntary" filling the sacred space with triumphant melody. This was the moment Penelope had dreamed of since childhood, yet now that it had arrived, she felt as though she were floating through a dream.

Her father having passed seasons prior, it was her brother-in-law, Mister Albion Finch, who offered his arm to escort her down the aisle. Though not the father she had lost, he performed his duty with dignity and obvious affection for his wife's youngest sister.

Each step down the aisle brought her closer to Anthony, and with each step, she could see his expression more clearly. The love shining in his eyes was unmistakable — still a bit tempered by uncertainty or concern about her feelings, but blazing with the confident joy of a man about to marry the woman he adored.

When they reached the altar, Albion Finch placed Penelope's hand in Anthony's with the traditional words: "I give this woman to be married to this man." But Anthony's response was not merely the expected acknowledgment — his fingers closed around hers with such gentle possession that she felt her remaining nervousness melt away like morning mist before the sun.

The Archbishop of Canterbury himself had come to perform the ceremony, a mark of the esteem in which the Bridgerton family was held. His voice, aged but still commanding, filled the church as he began the ancient words that would bind them together.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."

As the familiar words washed over her, Penelope found herself studying Anthony's profile. Even in profile, she could see the slight smile that played about his lips, the way his eyes never left her face. When the Archbishop reached the portion about impediments to the marriage, Anthony's grip on her hand tightened slightly — perhaps remembering the dramatic failure at his previous attempt at matrimony with Miss Sharma.

But no voice was raised in objection. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of silk gowns and the occasional sniffle from Violet Bridgerton's direction.

"Anthony Edmund Bridgerton." The Archbishop intoned. "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Anthony's voice rang out clear and strong, carrying to every corner of the church: "I will."

The same question was posed to Penelope, and though her voice was softer, it carried no less conviction: "I will."

Then came the moment for the exchange of vows — not the standard words of the prayer book, but personal promises that Anthony had requested permission to include.

Anthony turned to face her fully, taking both her hands in his. His voice, though soft enough for intimacy, carried clearly in the hushed church.

"Penelope." He began, his dark eyes holding hers with unwavering intensity. "I promise to love you not merely as my wife, but as my dearest friend and most trusted confidante. I vow to protect not only your person, but your dreams, your hopes, and your generous heart. I promise to see you not as the world sees you, but as you truly are — brilliant, courageous, and more beautiful than any woman has a right to be."

His voice grew stronger as he continued. "I promise to be worthy of the gift of your love, and to spend every day of our marriage proving that you made the right choice in accepting me. Before God and these witnesses, I pledge my heart, my life, and my eternal devotion to you."

When it came time for Penelope's response, she found that the words she had practiced seemed inadequate for the moment. Instead, she spoke from her heart:

"Anthony." She began, her voice growing stronger with each word. "I promise to care for you with the same constancy that the sun rises each morning. I vow to be your partner in all things — your comfort in sorrow, your companion in joy, and your strength when the burdens of your position grow heavy."

She paused, thinking of all the unspoken words between them, all the feelings she had kept locked in her heart. "I promise to show you what I have kept silent too long — that you are the finest man I have ever known, and that my care for you grows stronger with each passing moment. I vow to be the wife you deserve, the mother your children will cherish, and your faithful companion until my last breath."

The exchange of rings followed — simple gold bands that would mark them as husband and wife to all the world. As Anthony slipped the ring onto her finger, his voice was barely above a whisper: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

Finally, the Archbishop pronounced the words that would change their lives forever: "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. I now pronounce you man and wife."

Anthony needed no further encouragement. With infinite tenderness, he cupped Penelope's face in his hands and kissed her — not the chaste peck that convention demanded, but a kiss that spoke of deep love and infinite promise. The congregation erupted in applause, but neither bride nor groom heard it, lost as they were in the perfect moment of their union.

As they broke apart, Anthony's eyes were bright with unshed tears of joy. "Lady Bridgerton." He whispered against her ear, the title sending a thrill through her entire being.

"My lord husband.” She replied, her voice filled with wonder at how perfectly the words fit.

Hand in hand, they processed down the aisle as the organ played triumphant music and rose petals — thrown by young ladies in the congregation — created a fragrant carpet beneath their feet. The sun streaming through the stained glass windows cast jeweled patterns of light across their path, as if heaven itself were blessing their union.

Outside the church, more well-wishers had gathered, and the newlywed couple paused on the steps to receive congratulations. But Penelope had eyes only for her husband — a word that still seemed miraculous in its reality.

As they climbed into the Bridgerton carriage that would take them to the wedding breakfast at Bridgerton House, Anthony caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

And as their carriage rolled through the streets of London toward their new life together, both bride and groom knew that they had found in each other not merely a spouse, but the missing piece of their very souls.

Chapter Text

The wedding breakfast at Bridgerton House had been a triumph of refined elegance and familial warmth. The dining room, bedecked with cascades of white roses and trailing ivy, had hosted the cream of London society as they toasted the union of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and his new bride. Yet as delightful as the celebration had been, both bride and groom found themselves eager to begin their married life in the privacy of Aubrey Hall.

The journey from London to Kent had taken the better part of the afternoon, their elegant traveling coach making good time along the well-maintained roads. Penelope, now the Viscountess Bridgerton, sat beside her husband in comfortable silence, watching the familiar countryside roll past the windows. The autumn landscape was painted in shades of gold and amber, the trees displaying their finest array before winter's arrival.

As the imposing façade of Aubrey Hall came into view, Penelope felt her breath catch in her throat. Though she had visited the estate before, the knowledge that she now approached it as its mistress lent the moment a profound significance. The Palladian mansion stood resplendent in the late afternoon light, its honey-colored stone walls and classical proportions speaking of centuries of Bridgerton heritage.

The coach drew to a smooth halt before the grand entrance, where the household staff had assembled to welcome their new mistress. Mr. Greyson, the distinguished butler who had served the Bridgerton family for nigh on thirty years, stepped forward with evident pleasure as Anthony handed Penelope down from the carriage.

"My lord, my lady." Greyson intoned with a deep bow, his weathered face creased with genuine delight. "On behalf of the entire household, may I extend our most heartfelt congratulations on your marriage. We are deeply honored to welcome the new Viscountess to Aubrey Hall."

Beside him stood Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper whose domain encompassed the smooth running of the vast estate. A woman of middle years with kind eyes and graying hair arranged in a neat chignon, she curtsied deeply to Penelope.

"My lady." She said warmly. “It is my greatest pleasure to finally welcome you home. The staff has been eagerly anticipating this day, and we are all at your service."

Penelope, still adjusting to her new title and the deference it commanded, smiled graciously. "Thank you both. I am most grateful for your welcome and look forward to working with you in the management of the household."

Anthony, observing his wife's slight weariness after their long day, immediately took charge with the natural authority of one born to command.

"Mrs. Fairfax." He addressed the housekeeper. "I should be most obliged if you would prepare a hot bath for her ladyship immediately. The journey has been lengthy, and I am certain she would welcome the opportunity to refresh herself before dinner."

"Of course, my lord. I shall see to it directly."

Anthony turned to where Rae, Penelope's faithful lady's maid, stood waiting beside their luggage. "Mrs. Fairfax will also show you to your quarters, Rae. I trust you will find them comfortable and suited to your needs."

"Thank you, my lord." Rae replied with a respectful curtsy.

Anthony offered his arm to Penelope with the gallant courtesy that had become second nature. "Come, my dear wife. Allow me to escort you to your chambers."

As they ascended the grand staircase, its mahogany banister gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers, Penelope marveled anew at the elegance surrounding her. Rich Persian carpets muffled their footsteps, while portraits of Bridgerton ancestors gazed down from gilded frames.

"I thought.." Anthony said as they reached the family wing. "That you might wish to rest before dinner. The day has been... eventful, and I would not have you overtax yourself on our first day as husband and wife."

His consideration touched her deeply. "You are most thoughtful, my lord. A respite would indeed be welcome."

Anthony paused before an ornately carved door, his hand resting upon the brass handle. "These are your chambers, my darling. I hope you will find them to your liking."

He opened the door with something approaching ceremony, and Penelope stepped across the threshold into what was now her private domain. The intake of breath that escaped her lips was involuntary — the apartment was far grander than anything she had imagined.

The sitting room was decorated in shades of rose and cream, with silk wallpaper depicting delicate pastoral scenes. Elegant furniture arranged around a marble fireplace created intimate seating areas, while tall windows draped in rose damask overlooked the estate's gardens. Fresh flowers — white roses and peonies — filled crystal vases, their fragrance perfuming the air.

Beyond lay the bedchamber itself, dominated by a magnificent four-poster bed carved from dark mahogany and hung with curtains of rose silk. The walls were adorned with paintings of serene landscapes, and a delicate escritoire sat beneath windows that would flood the room with morning light.

"Anthony." She whispered, turning to him with wonder-filled eyes. "It is beyond anything I could have dreamed. The luxury, the attention to detail... surely this is fit for a queen."

His dark eyes warmed with pleasure at her obvious delight. "Nothing is too fine for my Viscountess." He replied, bringing her gloved hand to his lips. "I shall leave you to rest now, my dear. Shall we say eight o'clock for dinner? That should allow you ample time to refresh yourself and settle in."

"Eight o'clock would be most agreeable." She agreed, though she felt a flutter of nervous anticipation at the thought of their first evening as husband and wife.

Anthony seemed to sense her slight trepidation, for he stepped closer and cupped her face gently in his hands. "All will be well, my darling. We have all the time in the world to become accustomed to our new life together."

With that reassurance, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and departed, leaving Penelope alone in her sumptuous new surroundings.

She had barely begun to explore the elegant appointments of her sitting room when a soft knock came at the door. Mrs. Fairfax entered, followed by Rae and two housemaids carrying steaming pitchers of water.

"My lady." The housekeeper said with a warm smile. "Your bath is prepared in the adjacent chamber. If you would be so kind as to follow me?"

The bathing chamber proved to be another marvel of luxury. A large copper tub, lined with fine linen, sat before a cheerful fire. Rose petals floated on the surface of the steaming water, and soft towels warmed on a rack nearby. The scent of lavender and orange blossom filled the air.

"How thoughtful." Penelope murmured, genuinely moved by the care taken for her comfort. "Thank you, Mrs. Fairfax, and please extend my gratitude to the maids who prepared this. Such attention to detail does not go unnoticed."

The housekeeper beamed at the praise. "It is our pleasure to serve you, my lady. Shall I remain to assist, or would you prefer privacy with your maid?"

"Rae shall attend to me, thank you. That will be quite sufficient for now."

After the staff had withdrawn, Penelope allowed Rae to help her from her traveling dress — a creation of deep blue silk that had served admirably for the journey but now felt confining after the long day.

As she settled into the warm embrace of the scented water, Penelope felt the tension in her muscles begin to ease. The heat soothed away the physical weariness of travel, but her mind remained active, turning over the momentous changes in her circumstances.

Rae, ever observant of her mistress's moods, noticed the distant expression that had settled over Penelope's features.

"My lady." She said gently as she arranged fresh linens. "I trust the water temperature is to your liking? Is there aught else I might do to increase your comfort?"

Penelope roused herself from her reverie with a somewhat forced smile. "The water is perfect, Rae. There is nothing more you need do at present."

But Rae, who had served as Penelope's confidante through many trials and tribulations, was not easily dismissed. She had witnessed her mistress' courage in the face of society's censure, her cleverness in managing the household accounts, and her secret identity as Lady Whistledown. Yet she also recognized the vulnerability that Penelope sometimes tried to hide.

"Forgive my impertinence, my lady.." Rae said with a knowing smile. "But might that worried expression have something to do with... the wedding night?"

Penelope's head snapped up, her cheeks immediately suffusing with color. "Is my concern so obvious upon my countenance?"

"Only to one who knows you well." Rae replied gently. "But perhaps I might remind you, my lady, that you have married the Lord Anthony Bridgerton — a gentleman whose reputation with the fairer sex is... considerable. If anything, you should be anticipating the marital embrace rather than fearing it."

Penelope's flush deepened, and she sank lower into the water as if seeking to hide her embarrassment. "That is precisely what troubles me, Rae. His lordship's previous... associations... were with women of remarkable beauty and sophistication. The opera singer, Miss Rosso, was renowned for her exotic allure. And the Sharma sisters — both were acknowledged for their beauty and one was a diamond of the first water."

Her voice grew smaller as she continued. "I am nothing like those women. I have neither their stunning beauty nor their worldly experience. What if... what if I disappoint him?"

Rae's expression softened with maternal affection as she regarded her mistress. Despite Penelope's sharp intellect and her success as Lady Whistledown, she remained vulnerable to the insecurities that had plagued her since childhood.

"My dear lady." Rae said with gentle firmness. "You speak as one who has not observed his lordship's behavior these past weeks. Have you not seen how he looks at you? The way his eyes follow your every movement as if you were the most fascinating creature in all of creation?"

She moved closer, her voice taking on the tone of one imparting precious wisdom. "I have had the privilege of chaperoning your courtship, my lady, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that Lord Bridgerton is a man utterly besotted. He smiles in your presence as I have never seen him smile with another. He seeks every opportunity to be near you, hangs upon your every word as if it were gospel truth."

Rae paused, allowing her words to penetrate Penelope's self-doubt. "These are not the actions of a man settling for second best, my lady. These are the actions of a man who has found his heart's desire and can scarcely believe his good fortune in winning her."

The truth in Rae's observations was undeniable, and Penelope felt her cheeks warm — this time with pleasure rather than embarrassment. The memory of Anthony's tender looks, his protective gestures, and the genuine affection in his voice when he spoke to her could not be dismissed.

"Do you truly think so?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I know so, my lady. In all my years of service, I have never witnessed such devotion as his lordship shows you. You need have no fear of disappointing him — if anything, I suspect you shall find the opposite to be true."

With renewed confidence bolstered by her maid's reassurances, Penelope felt ready to conclude her ablutions. "Thank you, Rae. Your counsel is, as always, invaluable."

Rae helped her from the tub, wrapping her in warmed towels before assisting with her evening toilette. For dinner, they selected a gown of deep emerald silk that complemented Penelope's coloring beautifully. The bodice was cut fashionably low but remained entirely proper, while the skirt fell in elegant folds to the floor.

As Rae arranged Penelope's copper hair in a simple but becoming braid adorned with a green ribbon, she offered one final piece of advice.

"Remember, my lady, that his lordship chose you — not for your dowry, not for social advancement, but because he cares for you. Hold fast to that truth, and all will be well."

With her confidence restored and her appearance perfected, Penelope made her way to the dining room, ready to begin her first evening as the mistress of Aubrey Hall and the beloved wife of Anthony Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

The final course had been cleared away with practiced efficiency, the servants moving like shadows through the grand dining hall of Aubrey Hall. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the mahogany table where Anthony Bridgerton, now Viscount, sat opposite his bride of mere hours. Penelope's auburn curls caught the golden light as she carefully folded her napkin, her movements betraying the nervous energy that had settled upon her like morning mist.

"Come, my wife." Anthony said, rising from his chair with the fluid grace that marked his station. "I believe it is time I properly acquainted you with your new home."

Penelope accepted his proffered arm, her gloved fingers trembling slightly as they settled upon his sleeve. "I confess, I am most eager to see those chambers which were previously beyond my reach as merely your sibling's companion."

They walked in companionable silence through the familiar corridors, though everything seemed transformed in the lamplight. The very air seemed to hum with the weight of their new circumstances — no longer the Viscount and his sister's dearest friend, but husband and wife, bound together by vows spoken mere hours before.

"Here.” Anthony paused before a long corridor lined with portraits. "Is our family gallery. Nine generations of Viscounts and Viscountesses of Bridgerton have gazed down from these walls." His voice carried a reverence that made Penelope's heart flutter. "Your portrait shall hang here soon, as the wife who brought such grace to our line."

Penelope's cheeks warmed at his words. "I pray I shall prove worthy of such an honor, my lord."

"Anthony.” He corrected gently. "We are husband and wife now, Penelope. Such formalities are no longer necessary between us."

They continued their progress, Anthony's commentary weaving the history of each room like a tapestry. The private parlors, adorned with family treasures collected over generations. The morning room where his mother took her correspondence. Each space seemed to whisper of the lives lived within these walls.

But it was when they reached the library that Penelope truly came alive. Her eyes widened as she took in the floor-to-ceiling shelves, the leather-bound volumes that seemed to stretch endlessly upward.

"Oh, Anthony." She breathed, her reserve momentarily forgotten. "It is even more magnificent than I had recalled."

His smile was indulgent, pleased by her obvious delight. "I thought you might appreciate it. But this is not all." He guided her to a smaller adjoining room, where fresh shelves awaited, empty and ready. "Your personal study, my wife. For your own collection, your correspondence, your... other pursuits."

The meaning behind his words was clear — of course he knew of her secret identity as Lady Whistledown, though they had not much spoken of it directly. The gesture touched her more deeply than any grand display of wealth might have.

"You are too kind.” She whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"It is not kindness, Penelope. It is respect for the woman I have married — all aspects of her."

As they climbed the stairs toward the family chambers, Penelope's nerves began to reassert themselves. Each step seemed to echo with the weight of expectation, of duties both spoken and unspoken.

"I must explain about the arrangements.” Anthony said as they reached the upper corridor. "The master's chambers..." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. "My mother continues to occupy them. The memories of my father are too precious to her still. I could not, in good conscience, ask her to remove herself."

"Of course." Penelope replied quickly. "Your consideration for Lady Bridgerton's feelings does you great credit. I would not dream of disturbing such sacred memories."

"You are remarkably understanding.” He said, relief evident in his voice. "My chambers have been arranged in the east wing, removed from the general family quarters to afford us privacy. And yours..." He stopped before the familiar elegant door, its brass handle gleaming in the lamplight. "Directly across from mine."

Penelope's breath caught as the implications of their proximity settled upon her. Close enough for propriety, yet separate enough for... what? Her mind raced with possibilities both thrilling and terrifying.

"Would you like to retire now to your chambers?" Anthony asked, his voice carefully neutral.

With trembling fingers, Penelope turned the handle and stepped across the threshold. She had observed it earlier, but the room beyond was a vision of feminine elegance — soft colors and creams, delicate furnishings that spoke of careful thought and preparation. A fire crackled warmly in the grate, and fresh flowers adorned the mantelpiece.

"It is beautiful." She said, though her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

Anthony stepped into the room behind her, and she was acutely aware of his presence— the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne, the soft sound of his breathing. When she turned to face him, she saw something flicker across his features — concern, perhaps, or recognition of her obvious discomfort.

"Penelope.” He said softly, moving closer until he stood just within arm's reach. "I want you to understand something of the utmost importance."

She lifted her eyes to meet his, finding them warm with an emotion she could not quite name.

"You need feel no pressure regarding... the expectations that typically accompany a wedding night." His words were carefully chosen, respectful. "I am aware that such intimacies can be daunting for a lady of gentle breeding. I want you to know that I would never presume to force my attentions upon you."

Penelope's lips parted in surprise, but he continued before she could speak.

"What I mean to say is this — we shall not consummate our marriage until such time as you feel prepared and willing to do so. I respect you far too much to demand what you are not ready to give freely."

The kindness in his voice, the genuine concern for her comfort, should have filled her with relief. And indeed, part of her was grateful for his consideration. But another part — a part she barely acknowledged even to herself — felt something that might have been disappointment.

"You are very good to me." She managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You are my wife." He replied simply. "Your happiness and comfort are now my responsibility and my greatest concern."

He reached for her hand then, and she found herself removing her glove without conscious thought. His fingers were warm as they enclosed hers, and when he raised her hand to his lips, the touch of his mouth against her bare skin sent a shock of sensation through her entire being.

"Sleep well, my dear Penelope." He murmured against her knuckles. "Tomorrow we shall begin our life together properly."

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Penelope standing alone in the center of her beautiful new chamber. The silence seemed to press against her ears as she stared at the door through which he had departed.

It took several long moments for the full impact of the exchange to settle upon her. Anthony had been nothing but respectful, considerate of her supposed maidenly fears and reservations. He had promised to wait, to allow her to come to him in her own time.

But as she sank slowly onto the edge of her bed, Penelope felt a hollowness in her chest that had nothing to do with gratitude. For in all his careful consideration, in all his respectful distance, he had not once asked what she might want. He had assumed her reluctance, presumed her fear, and while his kindness was admirable, it left her feeling strangely bereft.

The truth — a truth she could barely admit to herself — was that she was not unwilling. Nervous, certainly. Uncertain of what was expected, undoubtedly. But the thought of truly becoming Anthony's wife in every sense did not fill her with dread.

Rather, it filled her with a longing she scarcely understood, a desire to bridge the careful distance he had placed between them. She touched her hand where his lips had been, the skin still tingling from his gentle kiss, and wondered how she might find the courage to tell him that his consideration, while appreciated, was perhaps unnecessary.

For Penelope Bridgerton — and how strange that name still sounded, even in her own mind — beginning to discover that she possessed desires of her own, desires that extended far beyond the comfortable friendship she and Anthony now shared.

The question was whether she would ever find the boldness to voice them.

—--

The weeks that followed their wedding night passed like pages from a beautifully illustrated book, each day bringing new discoveries and gentle intimacies that served to weave the threads of their union ever tighter. Aubrey Hall, with its sprawling grounds and ancestral dignity, had become their private sanctuary — a place where the weight of London society's expectations could not reach them, where they might explore the delicate art of becoming truly husband and wife.

Each morning found them walking the serpentine paths of the estate's gardens, Penelope's arm linked through Anthony's as they discussed everything from the philosophy of Mr. Locke to the proper cultivation of roses. The morning light seemed to favor her complexion, Anthony noted, bringing out the copper highlights in her hair and lending her skin a luminous quality that made his breath catch in his throat.

"I confess." Penelope said one such morning, pausing beside a particularly flourishing bed of peonies. "I had not expected to find such peace in the countryside. London, for all its diversions, can be quite overwhelming."

"Indeed." Anthony replied, his gaze lingering on her profile as she bent to examine a particularly full bloom. "I find myself reluctant to return to the chaos of the Season. Here, we are simply Anthony and Penelope — not the Viscount and Viscountess with all their attendant obligations."

It was during their second week that Anthony had proposed resuming her riding lessons. Penelope had not been on horseback since her childhood, and the prospect filled her with equal measures of excitement and trepidation.

"I fear I shall make a poor showing." She confided as they approached the stables. "It has been years since I last attempted to mount a horse."

"Nonsense." Anthony replied with that easy confidence that marked all his movements. "It is rather like dancing — once learned, the body remembers the steps."

He selected a gentle mare named Buttercup, whose placid temperament seemed well-suited to Penelope's nervous disposition. With infinite patience, Anthony guided her through the basics — how to hold the reins, how to maintain her seat, how to communicate with the animal through subtle shifts of weight and pressure.

"There." He said, walking alongside her mount as they made their first circuit of the paddock. "You see? You have not forgotten after all."

The pride in his voice warmed her more than the afternoon sun, and when he reached up to adjust her posture, his hands lingering perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary on her waist, she felt that familiar flutter of anticipation that had become her constant companion.

Their afternoons were spent in the library, that hallowed space where knowledge and comfort intermingled like old friends. They would settle into adjacent chairs, books in hand, occasionally reading aloud passages that struck them as particularly amusing or profound. Tea was served precisely at four, accompanied by delicate cakes and sandwiches that Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, prepared with obvious pleasure in serving the new Viscountess.

"Listen to this." Penelope said one afternoon, looking up from her volume of Miss Austen. "'The little things are infinitely the most important. Do you not think there is great wisdom in such a sentiment?"

Anthony lowered his own book — a treatise on estate management that he had been pretending to read while actually watching the play of sunlight across his wife's features. "I find myself increasingly convinced of it." He replied. "These quiet moments, these simple pleasures... they seem to hold more significance than all the grand gestures society deems necessary."

Their eyes met across the small table that separated them, and in that moment, the air seemed to thicken with unspoken understanding. Anthony's gaze dropped to her lips, and Penelope felt her breath catch. But then, as if remembering himself, he cleared his throat and returned to his book, leaving her with that familiar sensation of anticipation unfulfilled.

Perhaps the most poignant of their shared experiences came during their third week, when Anthony led her to the small clearing. The grave of Edmund Bridgerton, Anthony's father, was marked by a simple but elegant headstone, surrounded by the wildflowers that Violet had planted in his memory.

"I wanted you to meet him." Anthony said quietly, his voice carrying a vulnerability that made Penelope's heart ache. "Father would have adored you, I think. He always said that a man's greatest fortune was to marry a woman who could match his mind as well as his heart."

Penelope knelt beside the grave, placing her hand gently on the weathered stone. "I wish I could have known him more." she whispered. "From all that your family has told me and all that I could remember, he was a man of remarkable character."

"He was." Anthony agreed, his own hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "I often wonder what advice he might have given me about... about being a husband. He made it seem so effortless, the way he loved mother."

The raw honesty in his voice made Penelope turn to look at him, seeing in his face the boy who had lost his father too young, who had been thrust into responsibilities beyond his years. Without thinking, she rose and placed her hand against his cheek.

"You need no guidance in that regard." She said softly. "Your kindness, your consideration... they speak to a heart that knows instinctively how to love."

For a moment, they stood frozen in that tableau, her palm warm against his skin, his eyes dark with emotion. Then, slowly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers — not the quick, almost furtive kisses he had been stealing, but a real kiss, tender and full of promise.

When they broke apart, both were breathing unsteadily.

"Penelope." He began, his voice rough with feeling.

"I know." She whispered, though what exactly she knew, she could not have said.

It was that very evening, as they sat in the drawing room after dinner, that Penelope found the courage to voice the proposal that had been forming in her mind for days.

"Anthony." She began, her fingers twisting in her lap as she struggled for the right words. "I have been thinking about our... arrangements."

He looked up from the correspondence he had been reviewing, his attention immediately focused on her with that intensity that never failed to make her pulse quicken.

"Oh? What manner of arrangements, dear wife?"

"Our sleeping arrangements." She said, her cheeks warming even as she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I wondered if perhaps... that is, I thought it might be beneficial if we were to... to share a bed. Not for any particular purpose." She added hastily. "But simply to grow accustomed to each other's presence. So that when we return to London, we might be more... comfortable with such intimacy."

The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity. Anthony's face was unreadable, and Penelope felt panic begin to rise in her chest. Had she been too forward? Too presumptuous?

"I think." He said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "That is a most sensible suggestion."

The relief that flooded through her was so intense it left her momentarily light-headed. "You do?"

"Indeed. It would be... practical." The word seemed to stick slightly in his throat. "To become familiar with each other's habits, our patterns of sleep. Yes, quite practical indeed."

What he did not say — what he could not say — was that the prospect of holding her through the night, of waking to find her warm and pliant in his arms, was both his deepest desire and his greatest torment. For weeks, he had been exercising a restraint that grew more difficult with each passing day, each stolen glance, each accidental touch that sent fire racing through his veins.

That first night, they approached the bed with the awkward formality of strangers, each acutely aware of the other's presence. Anthony wore his nightshirt with painful propriety, while Penelope was swathed in a modest nightgown that covered her from shoulders to toe. They lay side by side, careful not to touch, both staring at the canopy above them in the darkness.

"Good night, Penelope." Anthony whispered.

"Good night, Anthony."

But as the nights passed, familiarity bred not contempt, but a sweet torture of proximity. Penelope would wake to find Anthony's arm around her waist, his body curved protectively around hers. Anthony would stir to discover her head on his shoulder, her hair spread across his chest like silk. Neither spoke of these unconscious intimacies, but both treasured them.

During the day, Anthony's stolen kisses became more frequent, more lingering. A brush of lips against her temple as he helped her from the carriage. A gentle kiss pressed to her knuckles as he bid her good morning. Quick, sweet kisses on her lips when they found themselves alone in corridors or alcoves.

Each gesture, meant to be gentle and undemanding, only served to inflame Penelope's growing frustration. She wanted more — so much more — but the words to express such desires seemed to lodge in her throat. How could she, a proper lady, ask her husband to... to what? She was not even entirely certain what she was asking for, only that the ache inside her grew stronger with each passing day.

"You seem pensive this morning." Anthony observed as they sat beside the lake, their picnic spread on a blanket beneath the shade of an ancient oak. "Are you quite well?"

"Perfectly well." Penelope replied, though her voice carried a note of strain that made him frown. "I was merely thinking about our return to London."

Indeed, their idyllic honeymoon was drawing to a close. Parliament would reconvene within the week, and Anthony's duties as both Viscount and member of the House of Lords demanded his presence. The thought of leaving their sanctuary, of returning to the watchful eyes and wagging tongues of the ton, filled them both with reluctance.

"I confess, I am loath to cut short our time here." Anthony said, his hand finding hers where it rested on the blanket. "These weeks have been... extraordinary."

"They have." Penelope agreed, her fingers tightening around his. What she did not say was that she had her own reasons for needing to return to London. Her Majesty had made it quite clear that Lady Whistledown's absence from society's pages could not be prolonged indefinitely. The ton was growing restless for gossip, and Penelope's secret identity demanded her return to the source of London's most scandalous secrets.

"Perhaps." Anthony said, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of her hand. "We might extend our stay just a few more days. Parliament can surely manage without me a little longer."

The temptation was enormous, but Penelope knew they could not delay much longer. "As much as I would love nothing more than to remain here with you, I fear duty calls us both back to London."

Anthony studied her face, noting the slight tension around her eyes, the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth. "You are eager to return to society?"

"Not eager, precisely." She said carefully. "But I do have certain... obligations that require my attention."

He accepted her explanation without question, though something in her tone suggested there was more to her reasoning than simple social duty. But Anthony had learned that the Queen had been truly invested in her after knowing she is Whistledown.

"Then we shall return." He said simply. "But I want you to know that these weeks with you have been the happiest of my life."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest tighten with emotion. "And mine." She whispered to herself.

As they packed their belongings and prepared to leave Aubrey Hall, both Anthony and Penelope carried with them a collection of precious memories — morning walks and afternoon rides, quiet evenings by the fire and sweet, sleepy mornings in each other's arms. They had grown closer, more comfortable, more attuned to each other's needs and desires.

Yet for all their newfound intimacy, they remained, in the most fundamental sense, strangers to each other's bodies. The careful restraint that Anthony maintained out of respect for her supposed innocence, and the bashful reticence that prevented Penelope from voicing her true desires, had created a gulf between them that neither quite knew how to bridge.

As their carriage rolled away from Aubrey Hall, carrying them back to the complexities of London life, both wondered if they would ever find the courage to cross that final threshold that would make them truly, completely, husband and wife.

Chapter Text

The familiar sights and sounds of Mayfair greeted Anthony and Penelope as their carriage rolled to a stop before the imposing façade of Bridgerton House. The bustling energy of London seemed almost overwhelming after the tranquil weeks they had spent at Aubrey Hall, where the only sounds had been birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves in the ancient oaks.

"Home at last." Anthony murmured, though his voice carried a note of reluctance that Penelope understood all too well. Their honeymoon sanctuary had been perfect in its simplicity — here, they would once again be thrust into the complex machinations of the ton, with all its attendant expectations and obligations.

Before they could fully alight from the carriage, the front door burst open with characteristic Bridgerton enthusiasm. Hyacinth and Gregory came tumbling out, their faces alight with joy at seeing their eldest brother and his new bride returned to them.

"Penelope!" Hyacinth cried, launching herself into her sister-in-law's arms with such force that Penelope nearly stumbled. "Oh, how we have missed you! Gregory has been positively insufferable without someone to properly appreciate his terrible jokes."

"My jokes are not terrible." Gregory protested, though he was grinning as he swept Penelope into his own embrace. "They are merely too sophisticated for your juvenile sensibilities."

"Children, children." Came Violet's gentle admonishment as she appeared in the doorway, her face wreathed in smiles. "Do allow poor Penelope to catch her breath before you smother her with affection."

But even as she spoke, Violet moved forward to envelop both Anthony and Penelope in a warm embrace, her maternal instincts clearly delighted to have them safely returned to the fold.

"My dear boy." She whispered to Anthony, her voice thick with emotion. "And my precious Penelope. How good it is to have you home."

Behind her, Benedict emerged with considerably more dignity than his younger siblings, though his relief was palpable. "Brother." He said, clasping Anthony's hand firmly. "I must say, your timing is impeccable. Another week of managing the estate accounts and I might have been driven to actual madness."

"The accounts are in order, I trust?" Anthony inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Perfectly." Benedict assured him. "Though I confess, I have gained a new appreciation for the burdens of your position. How you manage it all without losing your sanity is beyond my comprehension."

Eloise hung back slightly, her usual confidence tempered by an uncertainty that made Penelope's heart ache. Their friendship — once so close, so unshakeable — had been strained by revelations and misunderstandings, and both women seemed unsure how to bridge the gap that had formed between them.

"Eloise." Penelope said softly, nodding towards her. "How lovely to see you."

"And you." Eloise replied, accepting the acknowledgment but with a stiffness that spoke of their unresolved tensions. "I trust your wedding journey was... pleasant?"

"Most pleasant indeed." Penelope confirmed, though she caught the careful way Eloise avoided her eyes.

Throughout these reunions, Anthony found his attention drawn repeatedly to his mother. While her smiles were genuine and her warmth unfeigned, there was something in her eyes — a shadow of worry that she thought herself clever enough to hide. But Anthony had known Violet Bridgerton longer than anyone, had watched her weather storms and celebrations with equal grace, and he could read the subtle signs of her distress as easily as he might read the morning paper.

"Come." Violet said, bustling them toward the house. "You must be quite fatigued from your journey. Let us get you settled, and then we shall have a proper tea to celebrate your return."

"Actually, mother.." Anthony began, but Violet was already herding them inside with the determined efficiency of a general marshaling her troops.

"Nonsense." She declared. "I will not hear of anything but your immediate comfort. Mrs. Wilson has prepared your favorite cakes, Penelope, and Cook has outdone herself with the evening's menu. We shall have a proper family gathering to mark the occasion."

The afternoon passed in a whirlwind of conversation and laughter, with the younger Bridgertons peppering Anthony and Penelope with questions about their honeymoon while Benedict regaled them with tales of his temporary stewardship. Yet through it all, Anthony's attention remained partially fixed on his mother, noting the way her smile never quite reached her eyes, the slight tension in her shoulders that spoke of burdens carefully concealed.

Dinner was a lively affair, with the family table feeling complete once again. Hyacinth and Gregory competed for Penelope's attention, sharing gossip and observations about London society with the irreverent humor that had always endeared them to her. Benedict entertained them with stories of his latest artistic endeavors, while Eloise contributed her own sharp observations about the books she had been reading.

"You simply must tell me about the library at Aubrey Hall." Hyacinth said, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I have been dying to know if it truly has first editions of every important work published in the last century."

"Very nearly." Penelope confirmed with a smile. "Though I confess, I was quite overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the collection. Your brother has been most generous in allowing me to make use of it."

"As if I would dream of denying you access to books." Anthony interjected with fond amusement. "I value my life too highly to come between you and literature."

The comment drew laughter from around the table, but Anthony noticed that his mother's smile remained strained, her participation in the conversation mechanical rather than genuine.

When the meal concluded and the family began to drift toward the drawing room for their customary evening tea, Anthony made his decision. He could not spend another moment wondering what troubled his mother — not when her distress was so palpable, despite her attempts to conceal it.

As they settled in the drawing room, Anthony positioned himself strategically near his mother, waiting for the right moment to speak privately. The opportunity came when Penelope became engrossed in a card game with Hyacinth and Gregory, while Benedict and Eloise debated the merits of various artistic movements.

"Mother." Anthony said quietly, moving to sit beside her on the settee. "Might I have a word?"

Violet's hands stilled on her teacup, and for a moment, her carefully maintained composure wavered. "Of course, my dear. What is it?"

"I think." Anthony said gently. "That is precisely what I should be asking you. What troubles you so? And please do not attempt to tell me that nothing is amiss. I have known you far too long to be deceived by your gracious smiles."

The color drained from Violet's face, and she set down her teacup with hands that trembled slightly. "I... I am sure I do not know what you mean. I am merely delighted to have you and Penelope returned to us."

"That sentiment may be true." Anthony conceded. "But it is not the whole truth. Come now, mother. Out with it."

Violet looked up at him with something approaching panic in her eyes, as though she had been caught in some terrible deception. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, her internal struggle clearly visible.

"Mother." Anthony pressed, his voice patient but implacable. "Whatever it is, we can face it together. But I will not allow you to carry this burden alone."

The weight of his certainty — his refusal to be deterred by her protestations—seemed to break her resolve. With a deep, shuddering sigh, she looked around the room at her other children, still occupied with their various pursuits.

"Children." She said suddenly, her voice carrying a note of authority that immediately commanded attention. "I believe it is time you retired to your chambers. The evening grows late, and we have had quite enough excitement for one day."

"But Mama!" Hyacinth protested, her cards still in hand. "We have not yet finished our game."

"The game can resume tomorrow." Violet replied firmly. "Off with you now."

Eloise looked up from her debate with Benedict, confusion creasing her brow. "Is something wrong, Mama? You seem rather... abrupt."

"Nothing is wrong." Violet assured her, though her voice lacked conviction. "I simply think it best that you all get a good night's rest."

Benedict rose from his chair, stretching languidly. "Very well, I shall retire to my chamber and continue my sketches. The lighting in here was becoming rather poor for detailed work anyway." He shot a meaningful look at his younger siblings. "At least in my room, I can work without constant interruption."

Gregory and Hyacinth exchanged disappointed glances but began to gather their cards. "Must we truly stop now?" Gregory asked plaintively. "Penelope was just beginning to appreciate my superior strategy."

"Your strategy consists entirely of cheating." Hyacinth retorted. "Penelope was merely being too polite to mention it."

"I do not cheat." Gregory declared with mock indignation. "I simply play with greater creativity than you possess."

"Children." Violet said again, her tone brooking no argument. "To bed. Now."

As Penelope began to rise from her chair, preparing to follow the others, Violet gently placed a hand on her arm. "Penelope, my dear, if you would remain for a moment? I should like to speak with both you and Anthony."

Penelope settled back into her seat, her eyes moving between her husband and mother-in-law with growing concern. The tension in the room was palpable now, no longer hidden beneath polite conversation and familial warmth.

When the last of the younger Bridgertons had departed, closing the drawing room door behind them, Violet stood and moved to the window, her back to the couple. Her shoulders were rigid with the effort of containing whatever news she bore.

"Mother." Anthony said softly, his voice carrying both patience and command. "Please. Tell us what has happened."

For a long moment, Violet remained silent, her hands clasped tightly before her. When she finally turned to face them, her expression was that of a woman bracing herself for battle.

"The Sharma family." She began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Has returned to London."

The words hung in the air like a physical presence, heavy with implication. Anthony felt the blood drain from his face, while beside him, Penelope's sharp intake of breath was audible in the sudden silence.

"All of them?" Anthony asked, though his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

Violet nodded, her eyes fixed on her son's face with a mixture of sympathy and apprehension. "They are guests of Her Majesty along with Prince Friedrich, staying at the Queen's invitation. The entire family — Lady Mary, Miss Edwina..." She paused, her throat working as she struggled to voice the final name. "And Miss Kathani Sharma."

The name fell between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of shock and memory throughout the room. Anthony's face had gone completely white, while Penelope sat frozen, her mind racing with the implications of this revelation.

"Kate." Anthony whispered, the name escaping him like a prayer or a curse.

"Yes." Violet confirmed, her voice gentle but firm. "Kate. They arrived three days ago, and the Queen has already begun planning entertainments in their honor. The entire ton is abuzz with speculation about their return."

Penelope found her voice at last, though it came out smaller than she intended. "How... how long do they intend to stay?"

"I do not know." Violet admitted. "The Queen's invitation was somewhat vague on that point. But given the fanfare surrounding their arrival, I suspect it will not be a brief visit."

Anthony stood abruptly, moving to the fireplace where he gripped the mantel with both hands. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames.

"Does she..." he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "Does Miss Sharma know that I am... that Penelope and I are...?"

"Married?" Violet finished gently. "I believe the entire ton is aware of your recent nuptials, my dear. It was rather the event of the Season."

The irony of the situation was not lost on any of them. Anthony had married Penelope in part to the Queen’s demand, an escape to the complications of his feelings for Kate Sharma and his failed nuptials with her sister Miss Edwina, only to have those very complications return to London just as he and his new bride were beginning to build their life together.

"Anthony." Penelope said softly, rising from her chair to move toward him. "We shall manage this. Whatever comes, we shall face it together."

He turned to look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a storm of emotions —regret, fear, and something that might have been guilt. "Penelope, I..."

"You need not explain." She interrupted gently. "I understand the situation perfectly well. Miss Sharma was... is... important to you. That does not diminish what we have built together."

But even as she spoke the words, Penelope felt a chill settle in her chest. For all their growing closeness, all their sweet intimacies and shared moments, she knew that Anthony's feelings for Kate Sharma had once threatened to consume him entirely. The question now was whether those feelings still held the power to destroy the fragile happiness they had found in each other's arms.

"What do you recommend, mother?" Anthony asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil she could see in his eyes.

Violet looked between her son and daughter-in-law, her heart aching for them both. "I recommend that you conduct yourselves with dignity and grace, as befits your positions. You are the Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton. Miss Sharma is a guest in our society, nothing more."

"And if we encounter them at social functions?" Penelope asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Then you will be polite and cordial, as you would be to any acquaintance." Violet replied. "But you will remember that you are husband and wife, united in purpose and affection."

Anthony nodded slowly, though the tension in his shoulders suggested that the prospect filled him with dread. "When is the first event where we might encounter them?"

"Lady Danbury is hosting a soirée tomorrow evening." Violet said quietly. "I believe the Sharmas will be in attendance, as will most of society. It would be... noticeable if you were to absent yourselves."

"Then we shall attend." Anthony said with quiet determination. "We shall face this head-on, as a united front."

Penelope nodded her agreement, though inwardly she felt as though she were preparing for battle. Tomorrow evening, she would come face to face with the woman who had once held her husband's heart so completely that he had been prepared to abandon everything for her sake.

The woman who, despite all their growing intimacy and affection, might still possess the power to tear their marriage apart before it had truly begun.

Chapter Text

The flickering light of a thousand candles cast dancing shadows across the opulent ballroom of Danbury House, transforming the familiar gathering space into something that felt both magical and ominous. Lady Agatha Danbury, resplendent in deep purple silk that complemented her formidable bearing, surveyed her domain with the satisfaction of a general who had successfully arranged her troops for battle.

Tonight's soirée held particular significance, for it served not merely as another entertainment for the ton, but as a carefully orchestrated welcome for Her Majesty's most honored guests. Prince Friedrich of Prussia, now married to the radiant Edwina Sharma—or rather, Princess Edwina — had returned to English shores with his bride and her family, their presence lending an air of international glamour to the proceedings.

"A most impressive gathering." Murmured the Dowager Countess of Pemberton to her companion, Lady Cowper, as they observed the arriving guests from their strategic position near the refreshment table. "One might almost forget that we are in London rather than some continental palace."

Indeed, the Prince's entourage had brought with them an exotic elegance that seemed to elevate the entire affair. Edwina, now bearing the title of Princess with grace befitting her new station, moved through the crowd like a vision in sapphire silk, her happiness evident in every graceful gesture. Beside her, Prince Friedrich maintained the dignified bearing that had first caught the Queen's attention, his obvious devotion to his bride touching even the most cynical of observers.

But it was not the royal couple who commanded the most attention this evening. Rather, it was the anticipated arrival of another party entirely — one whose presence promised to add an element of drama that the ton had been eagerly anticipating since news of the Sharmas' return had spread through society like wildfire.

The evening had progressed with the usual pleasantries and careful social maneuvering when the master of ceremonies' voice rang out across the ballroom with practiced authority.

"The Right Honorable Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Viscountess Penelope Bridgerton!"

The announcement seemed to pause the very air in the room. Conversations halted mid-sentence as every head turned toward the entrance, where Anthony Bridgerton stood with his bride of mere weeks. The couple presented a picture of elegant unity — Anthony in his perfectly tailored black evening coat, his bearing every inch the confident viscount, while Penelope glowed beside him in a gown of sapphire silk that complemented her auburn hair to perfection.

Yet those with keen eyes might have noticed the subtle tension in Anthony's shoulders, the way his jaw was set just a fraction too tightly, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hand as he adjusted his gloves. The past months had seen remarkable progress in his relationship with Penelope — what had begun as a reluctant arrangement orchestrated by the Queen had blossomed into something that resembled genuine affection, even happiness.

Where once Penelope had met his advances with sharp retorts and barely concealed disdain, she now smiled at his jests, allowed his gentle touches, and had even begun to seek out his company of her own accord. Their recent honeymoon at Aubrey Hall had seen them sharing not only conversations and meals, but a bed — though their physical intimacy remained carefully restrained, much to both their private frustrations.

Anthony had every reason to feel content, even triumphant. His marriage, once seen as a burden imposed by royal decree, had evolved into something precious, something worth protecting. And yet, as he stood on the threshold of Lady Danbury's ballroom, he felt as though he were walking into a lion's den.

The cause of his discomfort was not lost on him. Somewhere in this glittering crowd was Kate Sharma — the woman who had once held his heart so completely that he had been prepared to abandon duty, family, and social standing for her sake. The woman whose rejection had left him hollow and desperate, seeking solace in marriage to another.

"Anthony." Came Penelope's soft voice beside him, pitched low enough that only he could hear. "Remember, I am here. We face this together, as we have faced everything else."

Her words, gentle yet firm, seemed to penetrate the fog of his anxiety. He turned to look at her, this woman who had become so much more than he had ever dared hope, and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Yes." He murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Together."

Without conscious thought, he lifted their joined hands and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles, the gesture so natural and instinctive that it spoke of genuine affection rather than mere performance. The simple act of connection seemed to steady him, reminding him of what he had rather than what he had lost.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by their hostess, whose sharp eyes missed nothing of importance. Lady Danbury approached them with the measured steps of someone who understood the delicate nature of the evening's proceedings.

"Viscount, Viscountess." She greeted them with a warmth that carried just a hint of steel beneath its surface. "How delightful to see you both looking so radiant. Marriage clearly agrees with you."

"Lady Danbury." Anthony replied, offering a bow that was respectful without being obsequious. "You have outdone yourself this evening. The gathering is magnificent."

"Indeed." Penelope added, her voice carrying the musical quality that had always been one of her most attractive features. "The arrangements are quite breathtaking. You have created an atmosphere worthy of royalty itself."

"As was my intention." Lady Danbury replied with satisfaction. "Her Majesty's guests deserve nothing less than perfection. I trust you have both recovered from your wedding journey? The countryside can be so... restorative."

The slight emphasis on the final word suggested that their hostess was well aware of the challenges they might face this evening. Anthony felt a surge of gratitude for the older woman's discretion and understanding.

"Most restorative indeed." He confirmed. "Though we are pleased to be back in London and resume our place in society."

As they spoke, Anthony was acutely aware of the attention they were receiving. The ton had gathered in all its glittering glory, and their appearance as a married couple was providing exactly the sort of spectacle that society lived for. Fans fluttered as matrons whispered behind them, while younger ladies regarded Penelope with expressions ranging from envy to curiosity.

"How lovely they look together." Commented Lady Featherington to Lady Cowper, though her tone suggested she was not entirely pleased by her daughter's obvious happiness. "Though I must confess, I had not expected the match to progress so smoothly."

"Indeed." Lady Cowper replied, her own fan moving in calculated rhythm. "One might almost believe it to be truly a love match."

The observation was not without merit. Anthony and Penelope moved through the crowd with an ease that spoke of genuine partnership, their conversations flowing naturally, their awareness of each other's presence evident in every gesture. When Anthony guided her through the throng with a gentle hand at her waist, when Penelope laughed at his quiet observations, when they shared those small, intimate smiles that seemed to exclude the rest of the world — it all painted a picture of a couple who had found something real amidst the artifice of arranged marriage.

Yet Anthony's composure was tested when his gaze swept across the room and landed on a figure that made his breath catch in his throat. There, standing beside a potted palm and engaged in animated conversation with Princess Edwina, was Kate Sharma.

She was exactly as he remembered, yet somehow different. The months since their last encounter had refined her already striking beauty, lending her an air of worldly sophistication that made her seem almost otherworldly. Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate style that showcased the elegant line of her neck, while her gown of deep emerald silk seemed to make her skin glow like polished marble.

But it was her eyes that held him captive — those dark, expressive eyes that had once looked at him with such passion, such conflict, such desperate longing. Now they were trained on him with an intensity that made the crowded ballroom seem to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a moment of recognition that felt both eternal and devastating.

Kate's conversation with Edwina faltered as she became aware of Anthony's presence, her graceful composure wavering just slightly. For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other across the crowded room, the weight of their shared history hanging between them like a physical presence.

"Anthony?" Penelope's voice, soft and questioning, broke through his reverie like a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Is everything quite all right?"

He turned to his wife, seeing in her eyes the understanding and concern that had become so precious to him. She knew. Of course she knew. Penelope had always been remarkably perceptive, and she would have to be blind not to recognize the significance of Kate's presence here tonight.

"Yes." He said, his voice perhaps a shade too controlled. "Everything is perfectly fine. Shall we pay our respects to the Prince and Princess? It would be remiss of us not to offer our congratulations on their marriage."

Penelope nodded, though her eyes remained watchful. "Of course. It is only proper that we should acknowledge Her Majesty's guests."

As they began to move through the crowd toward the royal couple, Anthony felt as though he were walking through a dream — or perhaps a nightmare. Each step brought him closer to Kate, closer to a confrontation he had hoped never to face. Yet beside him, Penelope walked with quiet dignity, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her presence a constant reminder of the life they had built together.

The ton watched their progress with barely concealed fascination, sensing the drama that was about to unfold. Conversations became more animated as speculation ran rampant about how the evening's players would conduct themselves. Would the Viscount acknowledge his former attachment? Would Miss Sharma maintain her composure? And most intriguingly, how would the new Viscountess navigate these treacherous social waters?

As they drew nearer to their destination, Anthony could hear the musical sound of Kate's laughter mingling with Princess Edwina's, the familiar cadence of it hitting him like a physical blow. He had once lived for that sound, had treasured every moment when he could coax it from her lips. Now it seemed to mock him, a reminder of everything he had lost and everything he had tried to forget.

"Your Highnesses." Anthony said as they approached the royal couple, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "Allow me to present my wife, Penelope, Viscountess Bridgerton."

Prince Friedrich turned toward them with the practiced grace of royalty, his smile warm and genuine. "Viscount Bridgerton, how good to see you again. And Lady Bridgerton, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last."

"Your Highness." Penelope replied, executing a perfect curtsy. "May I offer my congratulations on your marriage? Princess Edwina, you look absolutely radiant."

Edwina's face lit up with genuine pleasure. "How kind you are to say so. And may I return the sentiment? I was so delighted to hear of your marriage to Lord Bridgerton. You both look wonderfully happy."

The words were spoken with such sincerity that Anthony felt a pang of guilt. Edwina had always been sweet-natured, incapable of the social machinations that others might employ. Her happiness in her own marriage made her generous toward others, even in circumstances that might have proven awkward for someone less genuinely kind.

"Indeed we are." Anthony replied, his hand finding Penelope's and squeezing gently. "Marriage has proven to be... most rewarding."

It was then that Kate stepped forward, her movement graceful and deliberate. Up close, Anthony could see that her composure was not quite as perfect as it appeared from a distance. There was a tension around her eyes, a slight tremor in her hands that spoke of carefully controlled emotion.

"Lord Bridgerton." She said, her voice carrying that familiar slight accent that had always charmed him. "Lady Bridgerton. How... delightful to see you both."

The pause before "delightful" was so slight that most would have missed it, but Anthony caught it, just as he caught the way her eyes lingered on his face before moving to Penelope.

"Miss Sharma." He replied, his voice carefully neutral. "I trust you are well? London agrees with you, I hope?"

"Very well, thank you." Kate replied, her chin lifting slightly in a gesture he remembered all too well. "And yes, London is as... stimulating as ever."

Penelope, who had been observing this exchange with the keen intelligence that was her greatest asset, stepped forward slightly. "Miss Sharma, what a pleasure to meet you again. I have heard so much about your family's travels with Their Highnesses. How exciting it must be to see so much of the world."

The comment was perfectly proper, exactly what one would expect from a well-bred lady meeting a not so close acquaintance. Yet there was something in Penelope's tone — a subtle emphasis that suggested she was well aware of exactly who Kate was and what she had once meant to Anthony.

Kate's eyes sharpened slightly as she regarded Penelope with new interest. "Indeed, it has been most... educational. Though I confess, there is something to be said for the familiar comforts of English society. Some things, once lost, prove difficult to replace."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, though spoken with such sweet innocence that they might have been taken as mere social pleasantries. Anthony felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he recognized the subtle battle being waged between the two women.

"How true." Penelope replied smoothly. "Though I have found that new experiences often prove more rewarding than one might initially expect. Sometimes what we think we want is not what we truly need."

The conversation continued in this vein, each comment perfectly polite on the surface while carrying layers of meaning underneath. Anthony found himself caught between admiration for his wife's skillful handling of the situation and a growing sense of unease at the undercurrents swirling around them.

The evening stretched ahead of them like a minefield, each social interaction fraught with potential disaster. Yet as he stood there, watching Penelope navigate these treacherous waters with grace and intelligence, Anthony felt something shift within him. She was not merely enduring this trial — she was meeting it head-on, armed with wit and dignity that matched her adversary's.

For the first time since learning of Kate's return, Anthony began to believe that perhaps they might emerge from this evening not just unscathed, but stronger than before.

Chapter Text

The amber glow of candlelight flickered across the opulent drawing room of Bridgerton House as the family carriage wheels finally ceased their rhythmic clatter against the cobblestones outside. The evening's soirée at Lady Danbury's had concluded with the usual flourishes of society — whispered gossip behind painted fans, the gentle tinkling of crystal glasses, and the soft rustle of silk gowns as ladies curtsied their farewells.

Violet Bridgerton, her hair still immaculately arranged despite the evening's festivities, settled into her favorite chair with a contented sigh. The soft silk of her evening gown pooled elegantly around her as she observed her children dispersing to their respective chambers. A maternal smile graced her features as she noted the flushed cheeks of her children, still glowing from their successful turns about the ballroom.

"Indeed, a most agreeable evening." She murmured to herself, adjusting the delicate pearls at her throat. "The family name continues to shine brightly in society's esteem."

However, as Violet's keen eyes followed Anthony's retreating figure up the grand staircase, her smile faltered slightly. Even a mother's loving gaze could discern the tension that seemed to emanate from her eldest son's usually confident bearing.

The couple’s shared bedchambers, adorned with rich burgundy drapes and furnished in the finest mahogany, should have been a sanctuary of marital bliss. Yet as Anthony Bridgerton entered, loosening his pristinely tied cravat with practiced fingers, the atmosphere felt as chilled as the November air outside their windows.

Penelope sat at her dressing table, her copper curls already released from their evening coiffure, cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. Her pale blue nightgown, trimmed with delicate lace, should have presented a picture of domestic tranquility. Instead, her reflection in the mirror revealed eyes that seemed to look through rather than at anything in particular.

"The evening was quite successful, was it not?" Anthony ventured, his voice carrying the careful tone of a man treading upon uncertain ground. He approached slowly, as one might approach a skittish mare. "Lady Danbury seemed particularly pleased with the turnout."

Penelope's brush continued its methodical strokes through her hair, each movement measured and distant. "Indeed." She replied, her voice as cool as morning frost upon a window pane. "Most successful."

Anthony frowned, settling himself upon the edge of their grand four-poster bed. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth and the distant sounds of London settling into slumber.

This pattern had persisted for three days hence — three days of monosyllabic responses and conversations that died before they could truly begin. At the Hawthorne soirée, Penelope had barely met his eyes during their obligatory dance. At Lady Trowbridge's afternoon tea, she had excused herself early, claiming a sudden headache. Each social gathering seemed to build another layer of ice around his wife's typically warm demeanor.

"Penelope.." Anthony began, rising from the bed and approaching her dressing table with determined steps. His reflection joined hers in the mirror, his dark eyes searching her face for some clue to her sudden coldness. "Pray tell me, what troubles you so? You have been... distant of late."

Her hand stilled for but a moment before resuming its brushing. "Have I? I confess I cannot fathom what you mean, my lord."

The formal address struck him like a physical blow. Gone was the intimate "Anthony" that had graced her lips with such tenderness in recent months. Now she spoke to him as she might address a mere acquaintance at a morning call.

"Come now." He pressed, his voice taking on a note of gentle insistence. "We are husband and wife, Penelope. Surely we need not stand on such ceremony in the privacy of our own chamber. If I have done something to displease you—"

"Displease me?" Penelope set down her brush with more force than necessary, the silver implement clattering against the polished wood of the dressing table. She turned to face him, and for the first time in days, her blue eyes met his directly. But instead of warmth, he found a sharp intelligence that seemed to dissect his very soul. "And what, pray tell, could you have possibly done to displease me, Lord Bridgerton? You have been the very picture of a dutiful husband."

The sarcasm in her tone was as cutting as a blade, delivered with the precision that had made Lady Whistledown's pen so feared throughout the ton. Anthony found himself momentarily speechless, taken aback by the venom beneath her typically gentle demeanor.

"Penelope, I—" He began, stepping closer, his hand outstretched as if to touch her cheek.

"If you will excuse me." She interrupted, rising gracefully from her chair and moving toward the small writing desk positioned near the window. "I have several correspondences that require my immediate attention. Lady Danbury has requested my thoughts on the arrangements for next week's charity bazaar, and I dare not keep such an esteemed member of society waiting."

The dismissal was so complete, so final, that Anthony found himself standing alone in the center of their bedchamber, his hand still extended toward empty air. The soft rustle of paper and the gentle scratch of quill against parchment filled the silence, each sound a reminder of the distance that had somehow grown between them.

As he finally retired to his side of their bed, Anthony stared at the ornate ceiling, his mind racing through every interaction, every glance, every word spoken between them in recent days. Yet no matter how thoroughly he examined his behavior, he could find no transgression that might warrant such treatment.

Unbeknownst to her husband, Penelope's quill trembled slightly as she attempted to compose what should have been a simple response to Lady Danbury's inquiry. The words blurred before her eyes as unwelcome memories surfaced — memories of a time when Anthony Bridgerton's heart had belonged entirely to another.

Kate Sharma. Even the name seemed to echo through her mind with painful clarity.

While society had believed Anthony to be courting the younger Sharma sister, Edwina, Penelope's sharp observations had revealed the truth long before the family themselves had recognized it. She had watched from the shadows of ballrooms as Anthony's eyes followed Kate's graceful movements across dance floors. She had noted how his jaw would tighten when other gentlemen paid Kate attention, how his voice would soften when speaking her name, how his entire being seemed to come alive in Kate's presence.

Her Lady Whistledown instincts had proven themselves accurate, as they so often did. But never had she wished more fervently to be wrong.

Now, with news of the Sharmas' return to London society spreading through the ton like wildfire, Penelope felt the familiar sting of inadequacy that had plagued her throughout her youth. How could she, plain Penelope Featherington, hope to compete with the exotic beauty and spirited nature of Miss Kate Sharma?

Anthony had spoken of love, yes. He had whispered sweet words in the darkness of their bedchamber, had held her as though she were precious beyond measure. But words could be forgotten, feelings could change, and hearts... hearts could remember what they had once treasured above all else.

As she set down her quill and gazed out at the moonlit London streets, Penelope could not shake the terrible certainty that Kate Sharma's return would bring with it the end of whatever happiness she had managed to claim as Anthony Bridgerton's wife.

The fire in the hearth continued to crackle softly, but its warmth could not reach the chill that had settled deep within her heart.

—--

The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue across Hyde Park's verdant expanse, transforming the fashionable promenade into a stage where London's finest displayed themselves like precious jewels against emerald velvet. Carriages rolled leisurely along Rotten Row, their occupants nodding graciously to acquaintances, while elegantly dressed couples strolled the serpentine paths that wound through carefully manicured gardens.

Lord Anthony Bridgerton, resplendent in a deep navy coat that accentuated his broad shoulders, walked with measured steps befitting his station as Viscount. His pristine white cravat was tied in the latest fashion, and his dark hair caught the sunlight as he inclined his head toward various members of the ton who paused to acknowledge the couple's passage.

Beside him, Penelope moved with newfound grace, her arm resting delicately upon his. Gone was the awkward girl who had once stumbled through ballrooms; in her place walked a woman of refined bearing, her coral silk walking dress complementing her auburn curls perfectly. The transformation had not gone unnoticed by society's keen observers, who whispered behind painted fans about how matrimony had elevated the former wallflower into a vision of elegance.

"My dear brother." called Daphne, the Duchess of Hastings, as she approached with her young son perched upon her hip and her husband, Simon, walking beside her with characteristic nonchalance. "What a perfectly divine afternoon for such an outing. Little Augie has been most insistent that he required fresh air and the company of his favorite uncle."

Anthony's stern features softened considerably as he regarded his nephew. "Indeed, Your Grace, though I suspect young Augustine is more interested in the prospect of purchasing ices from the vendor than in admiring nature's splendor."

"Anthony!" Exclaimed Hyacinth, appearing suddenly at his elbow with the boundless energy that marked her teenage years. "Mama says we might take refreshments in the pavilion if we complete our full turn about the park. Gregory has wagered me a shilling that he can identify more species of birds than I, though I maintain his knowledge extends no further than pigeons and sparrows."

"A most scientific endeavor." Anthony replied with barely concealed amusement. "Though I fear our brother's ornithological expertise may indeed prove limited."

The Bridgerton procession had drawn no small amount of attention as they made their leisurely progress along the fashionable route. Violet Bridgerton, magnificent in deep purple silk with her hair arranged beneath a fetching bonnet, walked arm in arm with Portia Featherington, whose chartreuse ensemble, while perhaps not in the most refined taste, nonetheless proclaimed her family's newfound prosperity.

"I must confess, Violet." Portia remarked in her characteristic forthright manner. "When I first learned of this match, I harbored some reservations. However, observing how splendidly my Penelope has blossomed under your son's care, I find myself most thoroughly pleased with the arrangement."

Violet smiled graciously, though her eyes remained fixed upon her eldest son and daughter-in-law. "Indeed, Portia, they present a most harmonious picture. Though I confess I have noted some... atmospheric disturbances of late."

The warmth of the afternoon sun seemed to work its gentle magic upon Penelope's spirits, and for the first time in days, Anthony observed a genuine smile gracing her features as she listened to Benedict regale them with tales of his latest artistic endeavors.

"You see, Penelope." Benedict was saying, his hands gesticulating enthusiastically. "The hero of my painting finds himself torn between duty and passion, rather like something from one of those gothic romances that ladies are so fond of consuming. Though I dare say my art possesses considerably more literary merit than such frivolous entertainments."

"Indeed, brother." Penelope replied, her voice carrying the first note of genuine warmth Anthony had heard in days. "Though I would caution against dismissing the emotional complexities found within such works too hastily. Often, what society deems frivolous contains profound truths about the human condition."

Anthony felt his chest tighten with relief at the sound of his wife's melodious laughter as Ben protested her defense of romantic literature. Perhaps whatever shadow had fallen between them was finally beginning to lift.

However, as their party rounded the curved path near the Serpentine, approaching the completion of their circuit, Anthony's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. There, advancing toward them with the measured pace of inevitability itself, walked a group that made his jaw clench involuntarily.

Prince Friedrich of Prussia, resplendent in military dress despite the peaceful nature of their outing, escorted a radiant Edwina on his arm. The former Miss Sharma had never looked more beautiful, her dark hair arranged in the Continental style that proclaimed her new status as a princess, her sapphire walking dress a testament to her elevated circumstances.

But it was not Edwina who caused Anthony's breath to catch. Behind the royal couple, maintaining the proper distance befitting their station, walked Lady Mary Sharma with Edwina’s elder sister Kate beside her.

"Lord Bridgerton!" Prince Friedrich called out with genuine pleasure, his accented English carrying across the distance between their parties. "What exceptional fortune to encounter you and your lovely bride on such a splendid afternoon."

Anthony forced his features into an expression of polite pleasure, though he could feel his jaw tightening despite his best efforts. "Your Highnesses." He replied, executing a precise bow. "What an unexpected pleasure indeed. Lady Mary, Miss Sharma." The latter greeting emerged somewhat stiffly, accompanied by the briefest of nods.

"Oh, Lord Bridgerton, Lady Bridgerton!" Edwina exclaimed with undiminished enthusiasm, seemingly oblivious to any undercurrents of tension. "Is this not the most perfect weather for promenading? Friedrich and I could not resist the temptation to take the air. The afternoon sun is so wonderfully warm, and the park presents such a lovely picture at this hour."

"Indeed, Your Highness." Anthony replied, his smile feeling as though it had been carved from marble. "The weather has proven most agreeable for such pursuits."

Lady Mary stepped forward with maternal grace. "Lady Bridgerton, how lovely you appear. Marriage clearly agrees with you most thoroughly."

But Penelope barely heard the compliment, for her attention had become fixed with horrible fascination upon Kate Sharma's countenance. Kate's dark eyes, those expressive features that had once haunted Anthony's dreams, were not focused upon her or upon the polite conversation being exchanged between their parties.

Instead, Kate's gaze rested with unmistakable intensity upon Anthony himself.

Penelope felt her grip upon her husband's arm tighten involuntarily, her gloved fingers pressing against the fine wool of his coat as though seeking an anchor in a suddenly turbulent sea. The afternoon warmth seemed to evaporate from her skin, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Her throat felt parched as though she had been walking through desert sands rather than London's most fashionable park.

Anthony, attuned to his wife's every movement and mood, felt the sudden tension in her frame immediately. Glancing down with concern, he noted the pallor that had crept across her features and the almost desperate quality of her grip upon his arm.

"I fear." He said with sudden authority, his voice cutting through Prince Friedrich's continued observations about the superior quality of English parklands. "That perhaps we have taken sufficient exercise for one afternoon. The ladies appear somewhat fatigued by our exertions, and I believe it would be prudent to seek the comfort of our pavilion."

Violet Bridgerton, ever alert to subtle family dynamics, nodded with immediate understanding. "Indeed, Anthony, what a thoughtful suggestion. The sun, while lovely, can prove rather taxing during extended exposure."

"Quite right, my lord." Portia Featherington agreed with characteristic decisiveness. "Penelope has always been somewhat delicate when it comes to excessive sun. Best to ensure she maintains her complexion."

Without another word, Anthony began to guide their party toward the elegant striped pavilion that had been erected for their comfort, leaving the Sharmas and their royal companions to continue their own promenade.

Penelope felt a wave of gratitude wash over her, though she dared not trust her voice to express it. The prospect of continuing polite conversation while Kate Sharma's eyes remained fixed upon her husband had seemed beyond her capabilities. Her limbs felt strangely leaden, as though the very air had become thick and difficult to navigate.

Yet as they settled beneath the cool shade of their pavilion, with servants bustling to provide refreshments and comfortable seating, Penelope found that her respite proved illusory. Though she attempted to focus upon the gentle conversation flowing around her — Gregory's boasts about his archery prowess, Hyacinth's spirited defense of her own accomplishments at the pianoforte — her attention kept wandering despite her best efforts.

From her vantage point, she possessed an unobstructed view of the park's main promenade, where other families and couples continued their leisurely circuits. And there, still visible in the distance, the Sharma party maintained their own stately progress.

But what caused Penelope's chest to constrict as though gripped by invisible bonds was the undeniable truth that Kate Sharma's attention had not wavered with distance. Even from across the park's expanse, it was painfully apparent where Kate's gaze continued to linger.

Anthony, seated beside Gregory at a small table, had produced a deck of cards to amuse his younger siblings. His laugh rang out as Hyacinth accused Gregory of attempting to peek at her hand, his features animated with genuine enjoyment of their sibling rivalry. The afternoon light caught the strong line of his jaw, the aristocratic bearing that proclaimed his breeding, the easy confidence that had first drawn society beauties to compete for his attention.

And Kate Sharma, Penelope realized with growing anguish, was observing it all with the intense focus of one drinking in a long-denied pleasure.

Each glance felt like a dagger twisting in Penelope's heart. The pain was so acute that she found herself pressing a hand to her chest, as though the gesture might somehow contain the anguish threatening to overwhelm her entirely. Her breath came in shallow, careful measures, for anything deeper seemed to intensify the crushing sensation that had settled upon her.

Here was confirmation of her deepest fears made manifest. Whatever feelings had once existed between Anthony and Kate Sharma had not been extinguished by time, distance, or the bonds of marriage that now tied Anthony to another. The lingering affection was as clear as though Kate had spoken the words aloud for all of society to hear.

And Penelope, for all her newfound confidence and social elevation, found herself once again that awkward girl who had loved hopelessly from the shadows, knowing herself to be forever second to more captivating rivals for the affections she treasured above all else.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of Violet Bridgerton's private sitting room, casting gentle shadows across the rose-colored silk wallpaper and illuminating the collection of family portraits that adorned the walls. The room, with its delicate furnishings and carefully arranged bouquets of hothouse flowers, bore the unmistakable stamp of feminine refinement that had been Violet's domain for over two decades.

Anthony stood before the marble fireplace, his usually impeccable posture betraying the weight of unspoken concerns. His dark coat hung perfectly upon his frame, his cravat tied with mathematical precision, yet there was something in his bearing that spoke of a man grappling with matters beyond his considerable control. His fingers drummed against the mantelpiece in an unconscious rhythm that would have been deemed most improper in any public setting.

Violet Bridgerton observed her eldest son with the keen eye of maternal experience, her own elegant figure arranged gracefully in her favorite chair of ivory damask. Her hair was styled in the sophisticated manner befitting a dowager viscountess, and her morning dress of deep lavender silk proclaimed both her refined taste and her continued adherence to half-mourning for her beloved Edmund, though many years had passed since his untimely departure.

"Anthony." She said at length, her voice carrying the gentle authority that had guided eight children through the treacherous waters of society and self-discovery. "Pray, cease your pacing and speak plainly. It has been many years since I have observed you in such a state of... agitation."

He turned from the fireplace, his dark eyes meeting hers with an expression that reminded her poignantly of the young boy who had once sought her counsel over scraped knees and wounded pride. "Mother." He began, then stopped, running a hand through his carefully arranged hair in a gesture that would have horrified his valet. "I find myself in need of your wisdom in matters of... domestic harmony."

"Ah." Violet set aside her needlework with deliberate care, folding her hands in her lap as she regarded her son with renewed attention. "I suspected as much. Penelope has seemed somewhat... subdued of late. Though she continues to fulfill her duties as Viscountess with admirable grace and efficiency."

"Indeed." Anthony agreed, his voice heavy with concern. "She has been everything society could wish for in a viscountess. Her correspondence is handled with precision, her management of the household staff is beyond reproach, and her conduct at social gatherings has been exemplary. Yet..."

"Yet you perceive that something has altered in her demeanor." Violet finished gently. "A mother learns to read such subtle changes, my dear son, and I confess I have noted a certain dimming of the light that typically shines in dear Penelope's eyes."

Anthony moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured gardens where gardeners tended to the autumn plantings with methodical care. "She smiles when called upon to do so, engages in conversation when propriety demands it, and performs every duty expected of her station. But the genuine warmth that once suffused her every gesture... it has become muted, as though she has drawn a veil between herself and the world."

"And when did you first observe this change?" Violet inquired, though her tone suggested she suspected the answer.

"It began.." Anthony said slowly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Following our encounter with the Sharma family in Hyde Park three days hence."

Violet nodded with the satisfaction of one whose suspicions had been confirmed. "Miss Kate Sharma, I presume, rather than her sister the Princess."

"You are remarkably perceptive, mother." Anthony turned back to face her, his expression troubled. "Though I cannot fathom why Penelope should feel... unsettled by Miss Sharma's presence. I have assured her repeatedly that she is my wife, my chosen partner, the woman I love above all others. Yet she seems to retreat further into herself with each attempt I make to reach her."

"Oh, my dear boy." Violet sighed, her eyes filled with maternal compassion tinged with gentle exasperation. "For all your considerable intelligence in matters of business and estate management, you can be remarkably obtuse when it comes to understanding the feminine heart."

Anthony bristled slightly at the characterization. "I beg your pardon, mother, but I have endeavored to be most attentive to my wife's needs and concerns. If she would but confide in me —"

"And therein lies your error." Violet interrupted with the decisive tone that had once quelled eight children's protests with surgical precision. "You expect her to confide fears that she herself may barely comprehend, emotions that society has taught her are neither rational nor becoming in a woman of her station."

"Then pray enlighten me." Anthony said, settling into the chair opposite his mother with the air of a man prepared to receive instruction in subjects previously beyond his ken.

Violet leaned forward slightly, her expression growing more serious. "Consider, if you will, the nature of Penelope's transformation. She was, for many years, regarded as the invisible wallflower of the Featherington family. She has known you for years, yet she only caught your interest this season, believing herself unworthy of your notice, watching as you pursued other women — women who possessed the beauty and confidence she felt she lacked."

Anthony winced at the accuracy of her assessment, remembering those seasons when he had indeed been blind to Penelope's worth, seeing only what society dictated he should value in a potential bride.

"Now." Violet continued. "She finds herself elevated to a position she never dared dream of attaining. She is your viscountess, your wife, the mistress of Aubrey Hall and Bridgerton House. Yet deep within her heart, I suspect she still harbors the fears of that young woman who believed herself inadequate."

"But surely she must know—" Anthony began.

"Must she?" Violet's tone grew more pointed. "Miss Kate Sharma was, if memory serves, a woman of remarkable beauty, intelligence, and spirit. She engaged your attention in a way that was obvious to anyone with eyes to see, despite your supposed courtship of her sister. And now she has returned to London, more sophisticated and worldly than ever, having lived abroad and moved in the highest circles of European society."

The truth of his mother's words settled upon Anthony like a weight. He had been so focused on reassuring Penelope of his current feelings that he had failed to consider how the specter of his past might appear to a woman still learning to trust in her own worth.

"You believe.." He said slowly. "That Penelope fears I might... what? That my feelings for Miss Sharma might reawaken?"

"I believe." Violet said with gentle firmness. "That Penelope fears she was merely a consolation prize, settled for when your first choice proved unavailable. She fears that Kate Sharma's return might remind you of what you thought you had lost, and that you might find your current happiness somewhat... pale by comparison."

Anthony's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "But that is utterly without foundation! Penelope is not a consolation prize — she is the greatest blessing of my life. What I felt for Miss Sharma was... it was infatuation, perhaps, or the thrill of conquest. What I feel for Penelope is entirely different. It is love in its truest, most profound form."

"Then you must make that abundantly clear to her." Violet said, her voice taking on the practical tone she had always employed when dispensing crucial guidance. "Not through words alone, Anthony, though those have their place. You must demonstrate through your actions that she is your priority, your first consideration in all things."

"How?" The single word carried the weight of a man prepared to move mountains for his beloved's peace of mind.

Violet smiled with maternal pride at his evident devotion. "In every public setting, ensure that your attention belongs wholly to her. When Miss Sharma enters a room, let your eyes seek Penelope first. When conversation turns to past acquaintances, speak of your wife with such obvious adoration that no one could question where your heart truly lies."

She paused, studying her son's face carefully before continuing. "Most importantly, my dear, you must understand that this is not about rational argument or logical persuasion. This is about a woman's deepest insecurities, fears that have been carved into her soul by years of believing herself unworthy. You must be patient, consistent, and utterly unwavering in your devotion until those old wounds finally heal."

Anthony nodded slowly, absorbing his mother's counsel with the gravity it deserved. "You speak from experience, I perceive."

"Every woman who has ever loved deeply has known such fears." Violet admitted quietly. "Even I, secure in your father's love as I was, occasionally wondered if some younger, more vivacious lady might catch his eye at a social gathering. It is the nature of our hearts to doubt what seems too wonderful to be real."

"Then I shall make it my mission." Anthony declared, rising from his chair with renewed purpose. "To prove to Penelope every day that she is not too wonderful to be real — she is simply wonderful enough to be mine."

Violet's eyes misted slightly at her son's declaration. "And what of Miss Sharma herself? She will undoubtedly be present at various social functions throughout the season."

"Miss Sharma." Anthony said with quiet conviction. "Is a chapter of my past that has been firmly closed. My present and my future belong entirely to Penelope. I shall make that truth so evident that neither my wife nor society at large could harbor any doubt upon the matter."

"Then you understand what must be done." Violet said, satisfaction evident in her tone. "Penelope requires not just your love, Anthony, but your absolute and visible devotion. She must see herself reflected in your eyes as the treasure you know her to be, until she can no longer doubt her place in your heart."

Anthony moved to his mother's chair, bending to place a gentle kiss upon her forehead in a gesture of gratitude that spoke more eloquently than words. "Thank you, mother. As always, your wisdom illuminates what my own understanding had failed to perceive."

"It is my greatest joy." Violet replied softly. "To see my children find happiness in love. Penelope is a daughter to my heart already, and I would see her doubts banished forever."

As Anthony took his leave, his step carried a renewed determination. Penelope was indeed the most important person in his life, the woman who had captured not just his attention but his very soul. It was time to ensure that she understood that truth not just in her mind, but in the deepest recesses of her heart where her old fears had taken root.

The afternoon light continued to stream through the windows as Violet returned to her needlework, a knowing smile playing about her lips. Some lessons, she reflected, were best learned through the wisdom of experience rather than the folly of youth. Her son would find his way to healing his wife's heart — of this she was certain.

Chapter Text

The Featherington ballroom had been transformed into a vision of opulent grandeur that would have been unthinkable mere seasons ago. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across walls draped in the finest silk, while hothouse flowers arranged in magnificent displays perfumed the air with jasmine and roses. The marble floors, polished to mirror brightness, reflected the swirling silks and satins of London's most distinguished guests as they moved through the intricate patterns of country dances and cotillions.

Penelope stood beside Anthony near the room's center, every inch the perfect viscountess in her gown of midnight blue silk adorned with seed pearls that caught the candlelight with each graceful movement. Her auburn curls had been arranged in an elaborate coiffure that spoke of both fashion and refinement, while sapphires at her throat proclaimed her elevated station to all who cared to observe.

Throughout the evening's first half, Anthony had remained devotedly at her side, his attention so completely focused upon her that several matrons had whispered approvingly behind their fans about the viscount's obvious adoration for his bride. He had claimed no fewer than three of her dances, including a waltz so intimate and perfectly executed that Violet Bridgerton had been moved to dab at her eyes with her lace handkerchief.

"My dear son appears quite besotted." Violet had murmured to Lady Danbury during a brief respite between sets. "See how his eyes never leave dear Penelope's face, even when conversing with others. It does my maternal heart such good to witness."

"Indeed." Lady Danbury had replied with characteristic directness, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. "The boy has finally learned to recognize treasure when it stands before him. About time, I should say."

As the evening progressed into its more mature phase, however, the natural rhythms of society began to assert themselves. Gentlemen retired to the card rooms or formed small circles near the windows to discuss matters of parliament, trade, and estate management, while ladies gathered in their own intimate groupings to exchange the more delicate gossip that could not be shared in mixed company.

"I fear I must abandon you momentarily, my darling wife." Anthony murmured against Penelope's ear, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of her neck. "Lord Lumley has requested my thoughts on the new agricultural legislation, and I dare not appear inattentive to matters that affect our tenants' welfare."

"Of course, my lord." Penelope replied with perfect grace, though her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly upon his sleeve. "Your duties to the estate must always take precedence. I shall occupy myself quite contentedly watching our guests enjoy themselves."

From her vantage point near the ballroom's elegant periphery, Penelope observed with maternal satisfaction as Eloise reluctantly took her place in a country dance with Lord Morrison, a perfectly respectable gentleman whom Violet had deemed suitable company for her still-unmarried daughter.

"Really, mama." Eloise had protested earlier with characteristic spirit. "Must I endure another evening of simpering conversation about the weather and the latest fashions from Paris? Lord Morrison possesses all the intellectual stimulation of a particularly dull piece of furniture."

"Eloise Bridgerton!" Violet had replied with gentle firmness. "Lord Morrison is a perfectly adequate partner for a country dance, nothing more. I do not expect you to marry the gentleman, merely to observe the basic courtesies that society expects of a young woman of breeding."

Now, watching her sister-in-law navigate the figures with resigned competence, Penelope allowed herself a small smile of amusement. Marriage had perhaps made her more sympathetic to Violet's maternal concerns, understanding as she now did the delicate balance required to maintain family honor while honoring individual inclinations.

Her sister-in-law's expression of barely concealed irritation would have been amusing under other circumstances, but Penelope found her attention inexorably drawn to the opposite side of the room.

Anthony stood in animated conversation with Lords Lumley and Thomas Dorset, his posture reflecting the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his social sphere. The discussion appeared to involve matters of some gravity, based upon the serious expressions adorning all three gentlemen's faces. Penelope felt a familiar warmth of pride as she observed how naturally Anthony commanded respect among his peers.

But then the other lords took their leave, bowing formally before dispersing to other conversations, leaving Anthony standing alone near one of the tall windows that overlooked the garden. He appeared to be taking a moment of respite from the evening's social demands, his expression thoughtful as he gazed out at the moonlit landscape.

It was at that precise moment that Penelope's world tilted upon its axis.

Kate Sharma appeared as though materialized from the very air itself, moving with that distinctive grace that had always set her apart from other ladies of the ton. She was magnificent in a gown of lavender silk that emphasized her exotic beauty, her dark hair arranged in the Continental style that spoke of her recent travels abroad. But it was not Kate's appearance that caused Penelope's breath to catch in her throat — it was the deliberate way she approached Anthony, the purposeful manner in which she positioned herself at his side.

From across the crowded ballroom, Penelope watched in growing horror as Kate engaged Anthony in what appeared to be an intense, private conversation. Anthony's expression had transformed from mild surprise to something approaching displeasure, his jaw tightening in a way that Penelope had learned to recognize as a sign of his growing irritation.

Kate, however, seemed undeterred by his obvious discomfort. She leaned closer, her lips moving rapidly as though speaking with great urgency. Her eyes never left Anthony's face, and there was something in her posture — a forward inclination, an intimacy of proximity — that spoke of familiarity, of shared history, of feelings that had never been properly laid to rest.

Penelope felt her hands begin to tremble as she gripped her fan with white-knuckled intensity. The sounds of the ballroom — the orchestra's music, the laughter and conversation of two hundred guests — seemed to fade to a distant murmur as her entire world narrowed to the tableau playing out across the room.

Anthony was shaking his head, his expression growing darker with each passing moment. Whatever Kate was saying, he was clearly rejecting it, his body language radiating disapproval and growing anger. But Kate pressed on, her beautiful features animated with what appeared to be desperation.

And then, with a gesture that made Penelope's vision blur with unshed tears, Kate reached out and placed her gloved hand upon Anthony's upper arm.

The intimate familiarity of the gesture struck Penelope like a physical blow. It was not the casual touch of a mere acquaintance, but something far more personal, more claiming. It spoke of a woman who felt she had the right to such contact, who believed her connection to Anthony transcended the normal boundaries of polite society.

Penelope's breath hitched audibly, and she felt moisture gathering in her eyes despite her desperate attempts to maintain her composure. Around her, the ballroom continued its glittering performance, but she felt utterly alone in her anguish.

Anthony's reaction was immediate and decisive. He stepped back, removing his arm from Kate's grasp with a movement that, while maintaining the appearance of gentlemanly courtesy, clearly conveyed his rejection of her touch. His face had darkened with unmistakable fury, and even from across the room, Penelope could see the angry set of his shoulders.

But it was in that moment, as Anthony turned slightly to disengage himself from Kate's proximity, that their eyes met across the crowded ballroom.

The devastation on Penelope's face must have been written clearly for all to see, for Anthony's expression transformed instantly from anger to alarm. Their gazes locked for one terrible, infinite moment, and in his eyes she saw recognition of her pain, understanding of what she had witnessed, and something that might have been guilt or regret.

Unable to bear another second of the public scrutiny she felt must surely be focused upon her humiliation, Penelope turned and fled. Her sapphire skirts rustled frantically as she pushed through the crowds of guests, murmuring apologies as she made her desperate escape from the ballroom that had moments before felt like a triumph.

The cool night air of the Featherington gardens struck her heated cheeks as she burst through the French doors leading to the terrace. Her carefully arranged curls had begun to escape their pins, and her breath came in short, painful gasps as she hurried down the gravel path that led away from the house and its blazing windows.

Behind her, she heard the sound of pursuing footsteps, the heavy tread of masculine boots against stone and earth. Anthony's voice called her name, but she could not bring herself to stop, could not face the explanations and reassurances that she knew would only serve to highlight the inadequacy of her own position.

"Penelope!" His voice was closer now, urgent with concern. "Penelope, please!"

His longer stride made pursuit inevitable, and she felt his hand close gently but firmly around her wrist as they reached the secluded rose arbor at the garden's heart.

"Please." He said, his voice rough with emotion. "You must allow me to explain—"

But Penelope wrenched her arm free of his grasp, the violence of the movement at odds with her usual gentle nature. She could not bear his touch, not when the memory of Kate's hand upon his arm was still fresh in her mind.

"Penelope." Anthony continued, his voice taking on a note of desperate confusion. "Are you angry with me? I know you witnessed my conversation with Miss Sharma, but I must tell you that it was she who sought me out. I had no desire to speak with her, indeed I tried to discourage—"

"I know." The words escaped Penelope's lips as barely more than a whisper, her back still turned to him as tears finally spilled freely down her cheeks.

The simple admission seemed to confound him more than anger would have. "Then... if you know that I did not seek her company, if you understand that the encounter was entirely of her instigation, why did you feel compelled to flee? If anything, you should have remained. You should have come to my side, shown all of society your rightful place as my wife, my viscountess, my equal in all things."

At this, Penelope finally turned to face him, and the moonlight revealed the full extent of her anguish. Tears had carved silver tracks down her cheeks, and her carefully applied rouge could not disguise the pallor of her complexion.

"My rightful place?" She repeated, her voice carrying a bitter note that Anthony had never heard from her before. "And what, pray tell, is that place when she is in the room? When she stands beside you as though she belongs there? When she touches you with such... such familiarity?"

"Penelope —"

"No!" The word erupted from her with unexpected force. "You say I should have remained, should have claimed my place at your side. But what you fail to understand is that seeing her hand upon your arm, seeing the way she looked at you, the way she spoke to you as though she had every right to your attention... it made me realize how tenuous my claim truly is."

Anthony's face reflected his growing confusion and alarm. "Tenuous? Penelope, you are my wife. You wear my ring, bear my name. How can your claim be anything but absolute?"

"Because.." Penelope cried, her carefully maintained composure finally crumbling entirely, "I know what I am! I know that I was not your first choice, that I was never the woman who captured your heart and held it captive. I know that when you look at her, you remember what it felt like to want someone with every fiber of your being. And I... I cannot compete with a memory, with a love that was denied rather than fulfilled."

The raw honesty of her words hung between them in the moonlit garden, more intimate and revealing than any physical embrace they had ever shared.

"You think.." Anthony said slowly, his voice barely controlled. "That my feelings for Miss Sharma supersede what I feel for you?"

"I think." Penelope whispered. "That part of you will always love her. And I think that seeing her again has reminded you of what you settled for when you married me."

"Settled for?" The phrase seemed to strike him like a physical blow. "Penelope, how can you possibly believe—"

"Because I love you!" The words burst from her with the force of a dam breaking, raw and desperate and utterly without artifice. "I love you with every breath in my body, with every beat of my heart, with every thought in my head. And that love makes me see things clearly, Anthony. It makes me understand that what we have, precious as it is to me, might be only a pale reflection of what you once felt for her."

The admission hung between them in the still night air, everything finally spoken that had festered in silence and secrecy for so long.

Chapter Text

The words hung in the moonlit air between them, raw and desperate and utterly without pretense. Anthony stood frozen, his dark eyes wide with an expression that bordered on wonderment, as though he had just witnessed something miraculous and impossible.

"Say that again." He breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper carried on the night breeze.

The simple request, spoken with such reverent disbelief, struck Penelope with unexpected force. She stood before him in her sapphire gown, tears still glistening on her cheeks like scattered diamonds, her carefully arranged composure completely shattered. The confession had torn from her lips without conscious thought, born of pain and desperation and the terrible fear of losing him.

"I..." She began, her voice catching on the weight of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her entirely. "I said that I love you."

Anthony's intake of breath was audible in the garden's stillness. Here was the woman who had penned the most cutting observations of society's foibles, who had wielded words like weapons in her guise as Lady Whistledown, standing before him with her heart laid completely bare. The irony was not lost on him that the woman whose written voice had commanded the attention of all London now struggled to speak her deepest truth.

"You love me." He repeated, as though testing the words against reality. "Penelope, you... you truly love me?"

The wonder in his voice, the almost boyish disbelief, broke through Penelope's pain like sunlight piercing storm clouds. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, but these carried a different weight — not just anguish, but the terrible vulnerability of complete honesty.

"So desperately." She whispered, her voice breaking on the admission. "So completely that it terrifies me beyond all reason. I love you, Anthony, though past seasons you barely knew I existed, and your courtship of Miss Edwina, and through every ball and soirée where I watched you charm other ladies while I remained invisible in the shadows."

Her words tumbled forth now like water through a broken dam, months of carefully guarded emotions finally finding voice. "I love your laugh when Gregory tells one of his absurd stories. I love the way your eyes soften when you speak of your father's memory. I love your fierce protectiveness of your family, your sense of honor, the way you've worked so tirelessly to be worthy of the Bridgerton name."

Anthony stood transfixed, scarcely daring to breathe lest he interrupt this outpouring of feeling he had longed to hear but never dared hope for.

"And it would destroy me." Penelope continued, her voice growing raw with emotion. "Utterly and completely destroy me, if you were to decide that your feelings for Miss Sharma superseded whatever affection you might hold for me. If you were to realize that our marriage was a mistake, that you had settled for less than what your heart truly desired..."

"Penelope—" Anthony began, stepping toward her with sudden urgency.

"No, please." She interrupted, raising a trembling hand to halt his approach. "Let me finish, for I fear I may never find the courage again. I know what I am, Anthony. I know that I am not the beauty who stopped your heart across a crowded ballroom. I am not the spirited goddess who challenged you at every turn and made you feel truly alive. I am simply... me. Plain Penelope Featherington who through some miracle I still cannot comprehend, found herself elevated to be your wife."

"But you are wrong." Anthony said, his voice carrying a note of fierce conviction that cut through her litany of self-doubt. "So utterly, completely wrong that I scarcely know where to begin correcting such a grievous misapprehension."

Penelope looked up at him through her tears, startled by the intensity of his tone.

"You have just made me." Anthony continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "The happiest man in all of England. Nay, in all of Europe. In all the world, if such a thing were possible to measure."

He took another step closer, his dark eyes blazing with an emotion so powerful it seemed to illuminate the very air between them. "Do you truly not understand what you have just given me? You — the most intelligent, the most perceptive, the most extraordinary woman of my acquaintance — have just told me that you love me. Not for my title, not for my fortune, not for the social elevation I might provide, but simply... me."

"Anthony—"

"I love you." He declared with such fervent certainty that it seemed to ring through the garden like a bell. "Only you, will always be you, completely and irrevocably you. What I felt for Miss Sharma was..." He paused, searching for words adequate to express the truth. "It was the infatuation of a younger man who confused passion with love, challenge with compatibility. It was fire that burned bright and hot and would have consumed us both had it been allowed to flourish."

He reached out tentatively, his gloved fingers ghosting across her tear-stained cheek with infinite tenderness. "But what I feel for you, my dearest Penelope, is something far more precious. It is the steady warmth of a hearth that will burn bright through all the seasons of our lives. It is love built upon genuine admiration, upon deep friendship, upon the certain knowledge that I am a better man in your presence than I have ever been alone."

Before Penelope could respond, before she could voice the doubts that still lingered in her heart, Anthony's hands found her waist and pulled her flush against him. The kiss that followed was neither gentle nor tentative — it was desperate, claiming, filled with months of careful restraint finally shattered.

For several heartbeats, Penelope stood frozen in his embrace, her mind struggling to process the sudden shift from anguish to ecstasy. But then her body awakened to his touch, and she found herself kissing him back with equal fervor. Her arms snaked upward from his chest to wind around his neck, her fingers threading through the dark hair at his nape in a gesture that was both tender and possessive.

The warmth of their bodies pressed together sent fire racing through Anthony's veins. He could feel every curve of her form through the silk of her gown, could taste the salt of her tears mingled with something uniquely, perfectly Penelope. This was his wife, his love, his heart made manifest in feminine form, and the knowledge filled him with a desire so intense it threatened to overwhelm his gentleman's restraint entirely.

Only when the need for breath became paramount did their lips finally part, though Anthony made no move to release her from his embrace. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the cool night air as he struggled to find words adequate to express the magnitude of his feelings.

"I wish to take you home." He murmured, his voice rough with barely controlled desire. "Now. This instant. I cannot bear another moment of public pretense when all I desire is to show you, in the privacy of our chambers, exactly how thoroughly and completely you are loved."

Penelope's eyes widened at the naked want in his voice, her cheeks flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with answering desire. "Right now?" She asked, her voice carrying a note of amused incredulity despite the emotion still thick in her throat. "Anthony, the ball is still in progress. Your siblings require chaperoning, my family and the guests will expect—"

"Benedict and my mother can manage the proprieties." Anthony interrupted with decisive certainty. "The Bridgerton House stands but one street away from your family's estate. We can leave the carriage for the family's use and simply... walk. A brief evening stroll between husband and wife, entirely proper and above reproach."

The suggestion was so deliciously scandalous — abandoning their hosting duties to steal away like lovers in the night — that Penelope felt her pulse quicken with anticipation. The practical part of her mind catalogued the dozen reasons why such behavior was inappropriate, but those concerns seemed suddenly insignificant when weighed against the promise in Anthony's eyes.

"Very well." She said at last, her decision made with the same decisive spirit that had once driven Lady Whistledown's most daring exposés. "But I shall hold you responsible if Lady Danbury comments upon our premature departure in tomorrow's gossip."

Anthony's grin was brilliant in the moonlight, transforming his features from handsome to absolutely devastating. "My darling wife." He said, catching her hand in his and raising it to his lips for a lingering kiss. "I shall gladly bear Lady Danbury's censure and that of all society if it means I might have you to myself."

Without further delay, he turned toward the garden's far boundary, where a small gate provided access to the mews that ran behind the Featherington towards Bridgerton properties. His grip on her hand was sure and warm, and Penelope felt herself caught up in the intoxicating rush of their mutual abandon of propriety.

Neither of them noticed the figure that had followed Anthony from the ballroom, drawn by concern and curiosity when she witnessed his abrupt departure. Kate Sharma stood concealed behind a marble statue of Diana the Huntress, her gown rendering her nearly invisible in the garden's shadows.

She had arrived in time to witness Anthony's passionate declaration, to see the way his entire being seemed to come alive in Penelope's presence. The kiss that followed had been a revelation — not the careful, restrained affection of a dutiful husband, but the desperate claiming of a man utterly, completely besotted.

As Kate watched the couple disappear through the garden gate, their soft laughter carried on the night breeze, she felt the last vestiges of her own hope crumble to ash. Whatever she had imagined might still exist between herself and Anthony Bridgerton had been thoroughly, irrevocably dispelled. The man who had once pursued her with such single-minded determination was gone, replaced by a husband so deeply in love with his wife that he seemed to glow with it.

The irony was not lost on her that she had returned to London harboring dreams of rekindling old flames, only to discover that Anthony Bridgerton had found something far more precious than the passionate infatuation they had once shared. He had found love in its truest form — and it belonged entirely to another.

As the sounds of the ball continued to drift from the brightly lit windows of Featherington House, Kate Sharma stood alone in the moonlit garden, finally understanding that some chapters of one's life were meant to remain forever closed.

—--

The grand entrance hall of Bridgerton House stood illuminated by the soft glow of wall sconces, their flickering light casting dancing shadows across the marble floors and painted portraits of generations past. The usual evening quiet that settled over the household during social engagements had given way to an air of expectancy, as though the very walls themselves awaited the return of their master and mistress.

Anthony's long strides echoed through the corridors as he swept Penelope into his arms with the ease of a man accustomed to physical exertion. Her skirts rustled against his dark evening coat, and her surprised laughter rang out like silver bells in the hushed atmosphere of their home.

"Anthony!" She protested with mock severity, though her arms wound naturally around his neck. "The servants will surely think us quite mad, abandoning propriety in such a fashion."

"Let them think what they will." He replied, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "Tonight, my dearest wife, I care nothing for propriety or appearances. Tonight, there exists only you and I."

A housemaid curtsied hastily as they passed, her eyes widening at the unprecedented sight of the usually reserved Viscount carrying his bride through the corridors like a man possessed. But Anthony's attention was entirely consumed by the woman in his arms, by the way the candlelight caught the auburn highlights in her hair and the flush of happiness that painted her cheeks.

"The door." He murmured as they reached their chambers, and Penelope obligingly turned the crystal handle with trembling fingers.

The master suite welcomed them with warmth and intimacy, the fire in the hearth casting a golden glow across the rich burgundy fabrics and polished mahogany furnishings. This was their sanctuary, the private world they had created together as husband and wife, and tonight it seemed to shimmer with new possibility.

Anthony set her down gently, his hands lingering at her waist as he gazed into her eyes with an intensity that made her breath catch. The moonlight streaming through the tall windows mingled with the firelight, creating an atmosphere of ethereal beauty that seemed fitting for this moment of profound connection.

"Penelope." He whispered, her name a prayer upon his lips as he reached up to touch her face with infinite tenderness. "My beloved wife."

She leaned into his caress, her eyes fluttering closed as she savored the gentle pressure of his fingers against her cheek. When she opened them again, they shone with love and trust and a newfound boldness that took his breath away.

"I love you." She said simply, the words carrying all the weight of months of secret longing and newfound hope. "Whatever comes tomorrow, whatever challenges we may face, know that my heart belongs entirely to you."

His response was wordless but profound, conveyed through the reverent kiss he pressed to her lips and the careful way his hands began to work at the pins securing her elaborate coiffure. Auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders like liquid copper, and he buried his fingers in their silken strands with a sigh of pure contentment.

She, in turn, unfastened the buttons of his coat, sliding the dark wool from his broad shoulders, followed by his waistcoat. He stood still under her hands, watching her with admiration and quiet hunger.

He turned her carefully, his fingers steady as they worked the small buttons down her back. The gown loosened, followed by the silken underlayers, until at last, she stood before him, bare as Eve in the garden — every curve, every line of her body kissed by the glow of the fireplace.

Anthony's breath caught. His desire for her, barely restrained all evening, now pulsed with an almost reverent desperation.

Without speaking, he undid the buttons of his shirt, shrugging it off, followed by his boots, breeches, and finally, the last barrier between them. He stood before her in full, unashamed nudity, his frame defined by strength and masculine beauty.

Penelope, though innocent, did not look away. Her gaze moved slowly, curiously, from his face to his chest — broad and faintly dusted with hair — then downward, her breath catching at the sight of his arousal. Her hand, delicate and unsure, rose to touch his chest, then traced the line of his jaw and the curve of his cheek.

“You are…” She breathed, voice caught in awe. “So beautiful.”

A groan escaped Anthony’s throat — not of pride, but of longing. “If I am.” He whispered. “It is only because you look upon me so.”

Their lips met again, more urgently this time. As their kiss deepened, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed — not once breaking the connection of their mouths. He laid her upon the soft coverlet, his body hovering above hers, braced by arms on either side. His gaze searched hers, asking a silent question.

She touched his cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of his lips. “I am yours, Anthony.” She whispered. “Take me… please.”

His breath shuddered at her words. Carefully, he began to explore her body — lips brushing the tender place beneath her ear, lingering on her neck and shoulder, then lower still. He kissed the curve of her breast, the hollow of her waist, each touch a vow of devotion, until she was trembling beneath him, her breath erratic, her hands tangled in his hair.

He worshipped her with all the skill and reverence of a man utterly besotted. When he at last reached the apex of her thighs and touched the warmth of her womanhood, she gasped, arching into his hand. His name fell from her lips like a prayer.

Anthony paused only once, lifting his head. “It may hurt, my love.” He said gently. “But only this once. I shall be slow. I promise you.”

She nodded, her eyes wide and trusting.

He positioned himself carefully, feeling her softness welcome him. With a slow, measured thrust, he joined their bodies at last. Penelope cried out — not from pain, but from the newness of it, from the overwhelming sensation of him filling her so completely. He stilled, caressing her cheek, whispering gentle endearments.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

Each stroke was deliberate, each kiss a reassurance. And as her body grew used to him, as her pleasure bloomed, she clung to him, whispering his name over and over in wonder.

The crescendo came together — a cry from her lips answered by a groan from his, their bodies tense and straining before falling into release. Anthony collapsed beside her, cradling her close, his chest rising and falling as he kissed her forehead.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked softly, worry coloring his tone.

Penelope nestled closer to him, her head resting on his shoulder. “No.” She whispered. “It was… beyond words. Wonderful.”

A pause, then a playful whisper. “May we do it again?”

Anthony laughed, a warm, delighted sound, and tilted her chin up for another kiss. “You may, my lady.” He said with mock solemnity. “If you grant your husband ten minutes to recover his dignity.”

He drew the coverlet around them, wrapping her in his arms with a contented sigh. As the fire crackled in the hearth and moonlight filtered through the curtains, they lay together in the serenity only true lovers know — a Viscount and his Viscountess, no longer burdened by fear or doubt, but bound utterly by love.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn spilled through the tall windows of Bridgerton House, bathing the room in a golden hush. The fire in the hearth had long since dwindled to a warm, flickering glow, its last embers keeping the chill at bay.

In the center of the grand four-poster bed, the Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton lay entangled beneath a soft cascade of ivory linens. Penelope stirred first, her lashes fluttering before her eyes slowly opened. A moment passed before the events of the night came flooding back — his touch, his whispered promises, the way he had looked at her as though she were his entire world.

And she smiled.

Her gaze shifted, finding Anthony beside her, bare-chested and still asleep, one strong arm curled possessively around her waist. His brow was untroubled, the worry that so often settled there smoothed away in slumber. He looked younger like this, more boy than Viscount.

As if sensing her gaze, his eyes opened. Those warm brown eyes met hers, and a slow, lazy grin tugged at his lips. “Good morning, Lady Bridgerton.” He murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

Penelope flushed. “Good morning, my lord.”

He tightened his hold on her and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. “If I had known what awaited me on this side of marriage, I’d have married you years ago.”

She laughed softly, trailing her fingers down his chest. “It is a pity it took us the Queen’s order for us to be together.”

“You made me the happiest man in the kingdom last night.” He said, pulling back to look into her face. “And not just for what we shared in this bed.”

“Oh?” She asked, arching a brow.

“You told me you love me, Penelope Bridgerton.” He whispered reverently. “And I intend to live every day proving to you just how much I love you in return.”

She reached up, cupping his cheek. “You already do, Anthony. I see it in all the quiet ways… You are always there. Even when I have not the courage to ask.”

They kissed again, slow and languid, unhurried by duty or decorum. It was a moment suspended in time — until a sharp knock came at the chamber doors.

“My lord, my lady?” Came the familiar voice of Penelope's lady’s maid, Rae. “Your family is assembled downstairs for breakfast.”

Anthony groaned and flopped onto his back. “Of course they are.”

Penelope giggled, slipping out from beneath the covers and reaching for her dressing gown. “You did spirit me away from a crowded ballroom with no explanation.”

“Let them gossip.” He muttered. “It was worth every second.”

The Bridgerton breakfast parlor was abuzz with conversation — or rather, speculation.

Benedict, seated near the window with a cup of coffee in hand, looked amused as he glanced over at Eloise, who had not ceased talking since they had arrived.

“They vanished.” She declared, stabbing a piece of toast. “Absolutely vanished. One moment, they were chaperoning. The next? Gone.”

“Perhaps they were simply… tired?” Hyacinth offered, though her eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Tired?” Benedict scoffed. “They looked anything but tired when they left. I happened to be near the garden when I saw them take off — not toward the carriages, mind you, but through the hedgerow.Like fleeing fugitives.”

Francesca, serene as always, merely sipped her tea and said nothing.

“Well.” Benedict drawled. “We must consider the possibility that Viscount Bridgerton finally decided to act upon his wedding vows in a rather… theatrical fashion.”

At that moment, Violet Bridgerton entered, her expression serene but knowing. “Children.” She said as she took her seat. “Whatever your imaginations are concocting, I suggest you temper them. Your brother is a married man. What is private between him and his wife is not fodder for the breakfast table.”

“But, mama.” Eloise said, exasperated. “They disappeared from a public event. A Featherington-hosted ball! I would argue it became a very public matter indeed.”

Violet gave her daughter a cool glance over the rim of her teacup. “And yet, I daresay the only thing scandalous about it is your insistence on discussing it with jam on your chin.”

Eloise scowled and dabbed at her mouth.

Just then, the door opened and in walked Anthony and Penelope, arm in arm. Anthony looked positively smug, and Penelope — though faintly flushed — wore the serene glow of a woman thoroughly loved.

The entire room stilled.

Anthony’s eyes danced with amusement as he took in his siblings’ expressions. “Do not get up on our account.” He said, sauntering to the sideboard. “Though I am flattered by the reception.”

Penelope offered a polite smile before taking the seat next to Francesca, who gave her a quiet, knowing smile.

Anthony loaded a plate, then turned to address the room with mock gravity. “In case any of you were concerned — Penelope and I are very well. Quite happy, in fact.”

“We can see that.” Benedict muttered under his breath.

“And.” Anthony continued, grinning. “We fully intend to chaperone you all in the future… But last night, I rather thought my wife had done her duty enough.”

Penelope bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Violet simply nodded, her smile faint but deeply satisfied. “Well then.” She said. “Now that we are all present, perhaps we may begin.”

And just like that, the moment passed — though the stolen glances, the faint smirks, and the raised brows continued through breakfast.

But Penelope did not mind. For across from her sat the man she loved — her husband, her partner — and though their union began in shadows and whispers, now, in the bright morning light, it shone clear and true for all to see.

—-

The afternoon sun cast dappled shadows through the ancient oak trees that bordered the Bridgerton estate gardens, creating a sanctuary of tranquil beauty far removed from the bustling household within. The carefully manicured hedgerows provided a natural screen, offering the luxury of solitude that both Anthony and Penelope had found themselves desperately craving after fulfilling their morning obligations as Viscount and Viscountess.

Upon a weathered stone bench, worn smooth by countless seasons, the couple had settled in comfortable intimacy. Penelope's emerald silk afternoon dress pooled elegantly around her feet, the fabric catching the filtered sunlight as she nestled against her husband's shoulder. Her gloved hand rested delicately upon Anthony's dark blue superfine coat sleeve, their fingers intertwined in a gesture both protective and possessive. The scent of late-blooming roses and lavender hung sweetly in the warm air, accompanied by the distant melody of birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves overhead.

Anthony's strong profile was softened by contentment as he gazed across the formal parterre, his usual commanding presence relaxed in this private moment. The weight of Penelope against his side felt both familiar and precious, a reminder of how profoundly his life had changed since their marriage.

"How has your day progressed thus far?" Anthony inquired gently, his voice carrying the warmth reserved solely for his wife. "I confess I have been curious about your morning endeavors, though duty kept me occupied with estate matters."

Penelope lifted her head slightly, her cerulean eyes bright with the satisfaction of accomplished tasks. "Oh, Anthony, it has been most fulfilling indeed. I began with correspondence — three letters to various charitable organizations regarding the winter relief efforts for the tenants, and another to Lady Abernathy confirming our attendance at her upcoming soirée." Her voice carried the confidence that had grown since assuming her role as Viscountess. "Mrs. Wilson and I reviewed the household accounts for the month, and I am pleased to report we are well within our projected expenditures. The new arrangement with the local merchants has proven most economical."

She paused, a small smile playing at her lips. "I also spent considerable time in the library, reviewing the estate records from Aubrey Hall. There are several improvements to the tenant cottages that I believe would benefit from our attention before the harsh winter months arrive."

Anthony's chest swelled with pride at her words. "You continue to astound me with your capability and compassion, Penelope. The tenants are fortunate indeed to have such a devoted Viscountess advocating for their welfare."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sound of gardeners working in the kitchen gardens beyond the hedgerow. Penelope's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Anthony's, and he sensed a shift in her demeanor — a tension that had not been present moments before.

"Anthony.." She began, her voice carrying an uncharacteristic tremor that immediately commanded his attention. She cleared her throat delicately, gathering her courage. "I... I must confess, there is something that has been weighing upon my mind since last evening."

He turned to face her more fully, his brow creasing with concern. "What troubles you, my love? You know you may speak freely of anything that concerns you."

Penelope's cheeks flushed a delicate rose, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze directly. "It is regarding... regarding your conversation with Miss Sharma last evening. I could not help but observe from across the ballroom when she approached you." Her voice grew smaller, more hesitant. "Though I could not discern the words exchanged between you, I could see... that is to say, your expression appeared most... displeased during your discourse with her."

The admission hung in the air between them, and Anthony felt his jaw tighten involuntarily at the memory. His free hand moved to cover both of their entwined ones, squeezing gently as he prepared himself for what he knew must be complete honesty.

"My dearest wife." He began, his voice grave but steady. "I am glad you have spoken of this matter, for I have no desire to harbor secrets between us. What transpired last evening was... most inappropriate on Miss Sharma's part, and I would have you know every detail rather than allow uncertainty to fester."

Penelope's breath caught slightly, but she nodded encouragingly, her trust in him evident despite her apprehension.

Anthony drew a deep breath, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. "Kate approached me with intentions that I found both shocking and deeply offensive to our marriage. She... she declared that her feelings for me remained unchanged from our time before, and that her return to England was motivated by her desire to... to rekindle what once existed between us."

The words fell heavily between them, and Anthony felt Penelope's form grow rigid against his side.

"She spoke of her supposed affection." He continued, his voice growing harder with indignation. "And when I firmly reminded her of my married state and my complete contentment within it, she had the audacity to suggest that... that such circumstances need not prevent our reunion. She claimed to understand that I had married for duty alone, and if an annulment proved impossible, she would be willing to... to accept the position of my mistress."

Penelope's sharp intake of breath was audible, and Anthony felt her entire body tense with shock and anger. Her eyes flashed with an emotion he had rarely witnessed in his gentle wife — a fierce, protective fury that transformed her delicate features.

"The absolute audacity!" She breathed, her voice trembling with indignation. "How dare she... how dare she presume to make such a proposition!" Her mind reeled with the implications, the sheer brazenness of Kate's suggestion causing her blood to run cold, then hot with righteous anger. "To suggest that you might... that any husband would abandon his wife for such an arrangement! And to lower herself to such a position... Miss Sharma is an accomplished woman of good family. Surely she might secure an honorable marriage with any number of suitable gentlemen if she wished. Why would she debase herself so?"

Anthony's heart ached at the pain and confusion in his wife's voice, and he shifted to face her more fully, his hands cupping her face gently.

"My darling, please understand — I was as appalled by her suggestions as you are now. Indeed, I was so incensed by her presumptions that I fear my response was rather more forceful than perhaps befitted a gentleman."

His voice strengthened with conviction as he continued. "I told her in no uncertain terms that her assumptions about my marriage were not only wrong but insulting to both my intelligence and my character. I made it abundantly clear that my union with you was not born of duty alone, but of the deepest, most profound love I have ever known."

Penelope's eyes widened, her anger temporarily overshadowed by wonder at his words.

"I told her." Anthony continued, his voice growing tender. "That whatever I believed I felt for her in the past was nothing more than infatuation — a shallow attraction to someone who challenged and vexed me at every turn. What I mistook for passion was merely the frustration of dealing with someone who seemed determined to oppose my every decision."

His thumbs traced gentle patterns on her cheeks as he spoke, his brown eyes intense with sincerity. "But what I have found with you, my beloved Penelope, is something far more precious and rare. With you, I have discovered warmth where there was coldness, devotion where there was conflict, and a love so pure and true that it takes my very breath away each time I look upon you."

Penelope's heart fluttered at his words, tears of joy threatening to spill from her eyes.

"I confessed to her." Anthony continued, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "That the mere thought of existing without you by my side fills me with such profound unease and heartache that I cannot bear to contemplate it. You are not merely my wife, Penelope — you are the very essence of my happiness, the foundation upon which my entire world now rests."

He paused, a rueful smile crossing his features. "It was then that I noticed you observing our conversation from across the ballroom. The moment I saw you, I knew I had to follow when you departed. Everything else — Kate's presence, her inappropriate suggestions, the entire ballroom — became inconsequential compared to my need to be with you, to ensure you understood the truth of my feelings."

Anthony's expression softened with the memory of their encounter in the moonlit garden. "And it was there, in your mother’s gardens, that you blessed me with the most precious gift imaginable — your declaration of love. To know that my feelings are returned, that you love me as deeply as I love you... Penelope, it is more than I ever dared hope for."

Penelope felt her heart swell with overwhelming emotion, the last traces of her anger at Kate's presumption dissolving in the face of Anthony's heartfelt confession. With her free hand, she reached up to gently guide his face toward hers, her eyes shining with love and gratitude.

"My dearest Anthony.." She whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "To know that you defended our love so passionately, that you see me as I have always longed to be seen... it fills my heart beyond measure."

As she drew closer, the afternoon sun seemed to pause in its journey across the sky, the garden around them fading into insignificance as they existed only for each other in that perfect, intimate moment. Her lips met his in a kiss that spoke of forgiveness, understanding, and a love that had weathered its first true test and emerged stronger than ever.

Chapter Text

The first pale rays of dawn filtered through the heavy brocade curtains of the Viscountess's bedchamber, casting a golden glow across the opulent room. The mahogany four-poster bed, with its rich burgundy hangings and fine linen sheets, bore testament to the night's tender intimacies. The dying embers in the marble fireplace still provided a gentle warmth against the morning chill that threatened to seep through the tall windows of Bridgerton House.

Penelope stirred beneath the silk coverlet, her auburn curls spread across the embroidered pillows like spun copper in the morning light. The events of the previous evening —their passionate lovemaking — had left her feeling cherished and deeply loved. Yet duty called, as it so often did for those of their station, and she could not ignore the gilded invitation that rested upon her escritoire.

With careful movements so as not to disturb her slumbering husband, Penelope began to ease herself from the warmth of their shared bed. The morning air kissed her bare shoulders as she pushed back the coverlet, her silk night rail providing modest coverage as she prepared to rise.

"Must you leave?" Anthony's voice came as a drowsy murmur, rich with the lingering satisfaction of their nocturnal devotions. His eyes remained closed, but his hand reached instinctively toward where she had lain moments before, finding only cooling sheets.

Before Penelope could fully escape the bed's embrace, Anthony's strong arms encircled her waist from behind, drawing her back against the solid warmth of his chest. His touch was both possessive and pleading, his fingers splaying across the silk of her night rail as he buried his face in the fragrant curve of her neck.

"Anthony.." Penelope breathed, her resolve wavering as his lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. The familiar heat began to pool in her stomach, her body instinctively responding to his nearness despite the pressing obligations that awaited her.

"Surely whatever summons awaits can spare you for another hour." He murmured against her skin, his voice still rough with sleep and desire. "I find myself most reluctant to relinquish my hold upon my wife when the morning brings such... inspiration."

His hands traced gentle patterns along her ribs, a touch that promised renewed passion should she surrender to his entreaties. The memory of their previous night's intimacy — tender yet fervent, a reaffirmation of their bond following the unsettling issues encountered the past months — made her heart flutter with temptation.

Penelope's breath caught as she felt the evidence of his renewed ardor against her back, and she could not suppress the soft giggle that escaped her lips. "My dearest, most insatiable husband." She said, her voice carrying both affection and gentle reproach. "You are absolutely incorrigible in your desires."

She turned in his arms, her hands coming to rest upon his chest as she met his heavy-lidded gaze. The sight of him — hair mussed from sleep and their earlier passion, eyes dark with want — nearly undid her resolve entirely.

"As much as it pains me to leave this sanctuary we have created.." She continued, her fingers tracing idle patterns through the dark hair on his chest. "I fear there is nothing to be done about Her Majesty's summons. No matter how thoroughly you might tempt me to remain abed with you — and believe me, my lord, you tempt me most grievously — it would be an unconscionable blunder for our family to dismiss the Queen's invitation for an audience."

Her voice grew more serious as she spoke of their royal obligation. "You know as well as I that Queen Charlotte's favor is not something to be trifled with. The Bridgerton name has long enjoyed her good graces, and I should not wish to jeopardize that standing through any perceived slight or tardiness on my part."

Anthony's expression shifted from desire to reluctant understanding, though his arms remained firmly around her waist. He knew she spoke the truth — the Queen's summons were not mere social invitations but commands that carried the weight of royal displeasure should they be ignored or treated with insufficient gravity.

"You speak with the wisdom befitting a Viscountess." He conceded with a rueful sigh, his thumbs stroking gentle circles against her waist. "Though I confess my more base instincts care little for royal protocols when they serve to separate me from my beloved wife."

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, then to each of her eyelids, before finally capturing her lips in a kiss that spoke of both farewell and promise. "Very well." He murmured against her mouth. "I shall endeavor to conduct myself as a proper gentleman and allow you to attend to your toilette."

With visible reluctance, Anthony loosened his hold upon her, his hands trailing along her arms as she slowly extracted herself from his embrace. The loss of her warmth left him feeling bereft, but he understood the necessity of her departure.

Penelope rose gracefully from the bed, the morning light playing across her figure as she moved toward the adjoining dressing room where her lady's maid would be waiting to assist with the elaborate ritual of preparing for a royal audience. The rustle of silk accompanied her movements as she paused at the doorway, glancing back at her husband with eyes that promised swift return.

"I shall endeavor to make my audience with Her Majesty as brief as propriety will allow." She said softly, her voice carrying both regret at their parting and anticipation of their reunion. "Perhaps when I return, we might find ourselves with fewer pressing obligations and more... leisure time to explore your earlier suggestions."

With that tantalizing promise hanging in the air, Penelope disappeared into her dressing room, leaving Anthony to contemplate the long hours ahead and the sweet reward that awaited her return to their private sanctuary.

—--

Three months had passed since that fateful evening at the Featherington Ball, when Penelope had finally found the courage to speak the words that had long resided in her heart. The confession of her love to Anthony had transformed not merely their marriage, but the very atmosphere of their household. Where once there had been polite formality and cautious affection, now there bloomed a passionate devotion that seemed to infuse every corner of Bridgerton House with warmth and vitality.

Penelope and Anthony had become quite shameless in their displays of affection, much to the simultaneous delight and exasperation of the Bridgerton siblings. Benedict had been heard to mutter that he could scarcely turn a corner without encountering the pair in some tender embrace, while Eloise declared that their constant billing and cooing was enough to put one off romance entirely. Francesca, for her part, seemed genuinely pleased by her brother's happiness, though she too had learned to announce her presence loudly when entering any room.

The brief return of the Sharma family had provided a fascinating epilogue to the previous season's drama. Miss Edwina's marriage to Prince Friedrich, the Queen's nephew, had been celebrated with appropriate grandeur, though the union appeared to be one of mutual respect rather than passionate attachment. The newlyweds had dutifully made their courtesy visit to Queen Charlotte, fulfilling the social obligations required of their elevated station.

Kate Sharma, however, had found herself in quite a different position. Her hopes of rekindling any sentiment with Anthony had been thoroughly dashed by his obvious devotion to his wife and his complete indifference to her presence. Society, with its keen sense for such matters, had quickly recognized that Miss Sharma's return held no romantic significance whatsoever. After a month of increasingly uncomfortable social encounters and pointed snubs from certain quarters, the elder Sharma sister had quietly departed England once again, this time with the understanding that her chapter in London society had been definitively closed.

Now, on this crisp autumn morning, Penelope found herself once again within the opulent walls of the royal palace, though under circumstances far more pleasant than her previous visit. The familiar figure of Brimsley, resplendent in his court livery, had greeted her arrival with his characteristic efficiency and led her through the maze of corridors toward the Queen's private apartments.

"Her Majesty awaits you in the Blue Drawing Room, my lady." Brimsley announced in his measured tones as they approached the elaborately carved doors. "She has expressed particular eagerness for your visit today."

The Blue Drawing Room was Queen Charlotte's favored retreat for intimate conversations, decorated in shades of celestial blue and gold that complemented her regal bearing. Tall windows overlooked the palace gardens, where late autumn flowers still provided splashes of color against the manicured lawns. The Queen sat in her preferred chair, an ornate piece upholstered in silk damask, her imposing presence softened by the gentle morning light.

"Your Majesty." Penelope said as her presence was formally announced, executing a perfect curtsey that would have made even the most exacting dancing master proud. Her emerald silk gown pooled gracefully around her as she bent low, the picture of aristocratic propriety.

"Ah, my dear Lady Bridgerton." Queen Charlotte replied, her voice carrying its familiar blend of authority and warmth. "Do come, sit beside me. We have much to discuss, and I find myself quite eager for our conversation."

The Queen gestured toward an elegant chair positioned across from her own, while a silent attendant moved forward to pour tea from an exquisite Sèvres service. The delicate porcelain clinked softly as the fragrant Earl Grey was served, accompanied by delicate cakes and preserves.

"I trust you are well, my dear?" The Queen inquired, settling back in her chair with evident satisfaction. "You appear to be positively glowing this morning. Marriage to the Viscount continues to agree with you, I presume?"

Over the months since learning of Penelope's secret identity as Lady Whistledown, Queen Charlotte had developed a genuine fondness for the young Viscountess. Their private audiences had become a source of considerable entertainment for the Queen, who relished having the first glimpse into the scandals and gossip that would soon set the ton ablaze. Penelope's sharp wit and keen observations had proven far more engaging than the simpering platitudes offered by most of her courtiers.

"Indeed, Your Majesty, I could not be more content." Penelope replied, accepting her teacup with practiced grace. "Lord Bridgerton has proven to be everything I could have hoped for in a husband."

"Excellent, excellent." The Queen murmured, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Now then, let us discuss the delicious particulars you have uncovered recently. I am particularly curious about the rumors surrounding Lord Pemberton's gambling debts and Lady Ashworth's rather questionable choice in companions."

For the next quarter hour, they engaged in animated discussion of the various scandals and intrigues currently captivating London society. Penelope shared her observations with characteristic insight, while the Queen listened with evident delight, occasionally interjecting with her own commentary or questions.

However, as their conversation began to wind down, Penelope found herself gathering courage for the request that had truly prompted her visit. She set down her teacup with careful precision, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

"Your Majesty.." She began, her voice carrying a note of hesitation that immediately captured the Queen's attention. "I must confess there is a particular matter I wished to discuss with you today. It concerns my... literary endeavors."

Queen Charlotte's eyebrows rose with interest. "Oh? Do continue, my dear."

Penelope drew a steadying breath. "I find myself in the position of... of wishing to retire my pen as Lady Whistledown, at least temporarily. I wonder if Your Majesty might grant me leave to do so?"

The Queen's eyes widened with genuine surprise, her teacup pausing halfway to her lips. "Retire Lady Whistledown? My dear child, surely you jest! The ton would be positively bereft without your weekly observations. Why, half of London rises each Wednesday morning purely for the anticipation of your latest revelations!"

But even as she spoke, the Queen's sharp gaze took in the subtle changes in Penelope's appearance — the new fullness to her figure, the particular radiance that seemed to emanate from within. A knowing smile began to curve her lips as understanding dawned.

"Although.." She continued more softly, her voice taking on a gentler tone. "I begin to suspect I understand the cause of your request. Lady Danbury, that dear, gossiping creature, has shared certain... confidential information with me regarding the Bridgerton household. Tell me, my dear, is it true? Are you indeed carrying the next generation of Bridgertons?"

Penelope felt her cheeks warm with a delicate blush, though she had anticipated this very question. The Queen's network of informants was legendary, and Lady Danbury's friendship with both the royal family and the Bridgertons made such intelligence inevitable.

"Your Majesty is remarkably well-informed, as always." Penelope replied with a shy smile. "Indeed, Anthony and I have been blessed with the most wonderful news. We are expecting our first child, and we thought it prudent to retreat to Aubrey Hall for the remainder of my pregnancy until the end of my confinement to ensure the safest possible delivery."

"Oh, my dear girl!" Queen Charlotte exclaimed, setting down her tea with such enthusiasm that the cup rattled against its saucer. "How perfectly marvelous! A Bridgerton heir — or heiress, naturally. The family must be beside themselves with joy."

The Queen's expression grew thoughtful as she considered the implications. "I can certainly understand your desire to focus on your health and the welfare of your child. Such matters must naturally take precedence over all other considerations."

She paused, tapping one jeweled finger against her chin in contemplation. "However, I confess myself most reluctant to see Lady Whistledown disappear entirely, even temporarily. Your observations have become such a delightful fixture of the social season."

Suddenly, her face brightened with inspiration. "I have it! What if we were to arrange for Lady Whistledown's work to continue in your absence? Lady Danbury, perhaps, along with whomever else you might trust to assist, could maintain the publication. This would serve the dual purpose of ensuring the ton remains none the wiser regarding your true identity while allowing you the freedom to resume your writing career — whether as Lady Whistledown or under your own name — when you return to London."

Penelope's eyes widened with grateful surprise. "Your Majesty, that is... that is extraordinarily generous of you. I confess I had not dared hope for such an arrangement."

"Nonsense, my dear." The Queen replied with evident satisfaction. "It is a solution that serves all parties admirably."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they sipped their tea, each lost in their own reflections. Finally, Queen Charlotte set down her cup and regarded Penelope with an expression of deep affection.

"You know, my dear Viscountess.." She began, her voice taking on a more intimate tone. "I find myself reflecting upon our first private audience together. Do you recall that morning? It seems a lifetime ago, though it has been but a few months."

Penelope nodded, her own expression growing solemn. "Indeed, Your Majesty. It was the same day you decreed that Anthony and I should wed. I remember it most vividly."

"As do I." The Queen continued, her eyes growing distant with memory. "I confess, I am exceedingly proud of what you have become, my dear. When you first came before me, you were a young woman consumed with guilt and despair, convinced that you deserved punishment for your writings as Lady Whistledown. You seemed almost... resigned to whatever fate might befall you."

The Queen's voice grew warmer as she continued. "But look at you now! You have blossomed into everything a Viscountess should be — gracious, intelligent, devoted to your husband and his family. Your marriage to Lord Bridgerton has proven to be not merely successful, but a genuine love match of the most enviable sort. And your literary talents have only grown more refined and sophisticated."

She leaned forward slightly, her expression earnest. "You and the Viscount have not merely fulfilled my royal decree — you have exceeded my greatest hopes. You have proven that love, true love, can indeed conquer any obstacle that life may present. Your union stands as a testament to the power of affection over mere convenience or social expectation."

Penelope felt tears prick at her eyes as she listened to the Queen's words. "Your Majesty, I... I cannot adequately express my gratitude for your wisdom in arranging our marriage. At the time, I confess I was terrified and uncertain, but now I see that your decree was the greatest blessing Anthony and I could have received."

She paused, gathering her thoughts. "Despite your occasional... spirited demands and unconventional methods, I have come to understand that Your Majesty has always been a champion of love. Your own devotion to His Majesty the King is legendary, and I believe that same romantic spirit guided your decision regarding Anthony and myself."

Queen Charlotte's eyes sparkled with pleasure at this observation. "You are quite perceptive, my dear. Indeed, I have always held the firm belief that marriages founded upon genuine affection produce the happiest households and the strongest alliances. Your union with Lord Bridgerton has vindicated that philosophy most thoroughly."

Penelope reached forward to take the Queen's hand, a gesture of intimacy that would have been shocking in any other context but seemed perfectly natural in this moment of shared understanding.

"Then allow me to thank you once more, Your Majesty, with all the sincerity in my heart. Your royal decree did not merely unite two people in matrimony — it served as the bridge that led Anthony and I to discover the deep, abiding love we had both longed for but never dared hope to find. For that gift, I shall be forever in your debt."

The Queen squeezed Penelope's hand gently, her regal composure softened by genuine maternal affection. "My dear child." She said quietly. "Seeing you both so thoroughly happy is payment enough for this old romantic. Now then, shall we discuss the arrangements for maintaining Lady Whistledown's legacy during your absence?"

x Fin x