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24 April 1815

Colin was not entirely certain how he got here.

Here, as it were, was standing in the garden of the Featherington estate, beyond the hours of propriety, a handful of small pebbles clasped in his hand like some ridiculous caricature of love-struck youth. It was not, by any measure, a position in which he often found himself, even after an evening of drink and revelry. The night was still, save for the faint rustling of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, leaving Colin with nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. And alone in his mind was not where he wanted to be.

He shifted the pebbles from one palm to the other, their quiet clatter breaking the oppressive silence, a means to still his restless hands. Better this, he thought, than fidgeting with his waistcoat or wringing his fingers like some pitiable wretch. In truth, his unease was a physical being now. His eyes found the dimly lit window he stood below, faintly illuminated by the flicker of candlelight. He could not be sure it was her room—indeed, he had no reason to be sure, never having crossed that intimate threshold—but the thought that it might be was somehow far more daunting than if it were not.

He willed his breathing to even, aware of the feel of the smooth pebbles in his damp hands. Damn Benedict and his penchant for the fanciful and romantic. It had been simple to declare his intentions at White’s, emboldened by his brother’s encouragement and the camaraderie of the hour. But here, standing on the precipice of truth and fear, self-doubt might win in the battle of wills. And while he would rather throw himself into the Thames than invite Benedict along for this venture, it might have given him the courage to follow through, for fear of mockery if nothing else.

No, this was a matter he must face alone, though whether it was a burden or a gift remained to be seen. The outcome of this foolish endeavour would determine all, and it seemed disingenuous to ascribe significance before the result was known. Yet was it not this very habit of endless rumination that had brought him here? Maybe that was telling. Or perhaps he needed to stop thinking altogether.

There was a reason his thoughts no longer obeyed him, a cause of this unwelcome vulnerability. And as his mind's eye reflected on what had led him down this path, he was painfully aware that the reason lie in the soft, beautiful hands of Penelope Featherington.

18 November 1814

The scent of the sea was intoxicating, though Colin had long since abandoned any attempt to describe it to others. The sharp tang of salt and the bracing freshness of the wind seemed to defy language, no matter how he tried to shape it into words. And he had tried, more times than he cared to admit. But he tired of the shuttering looks of boredom that fell over his audience, devoid of true interest, and so he no longer indulged them. The only one who seemed invested in his endeavours was Penelope.

He had never thought of their friendship as improper. How could he, when Penelope had been a constant presence in his life for as long as he could remember? The usual rules of society, which so rigidly separated gentlemen and ladies, had never seemed to apply to them. Penelope was simply Pen, and their bond was different. Unaffected by the expectations or judgements of the ton.

He thought of her as the sea breeze whipped through his hair, closing his eyes against the sensation. He was not an unperceptive man, and it had become clear to him, through the veiled remarks of his peers and the pointed inquiries of suitors, that his attentions had been interpreted by others as something more. He had dismissed such notions with casual indifference at the time, but now, standing on foreign shores, he wondered if he ought to be more intentional this coming season. He quite enjoyed society, for all its rules and pomp—or rather, more for the pleasure of testing its limits than for strict adherence to its rule. It was a delightful game in its own right, but by the end, he was more than thankful for the reprieve of travel.

He could not find it in himself to be melancholic about home just now, when he had been so ready for freedom. But he could feel a bloom of anxiety in his subconscious, as he awaited the post each day, hoping to hear from Mayfair or Kent. From Penelope, in particular. He had delayed further travel on the chance correspondence had been en route, but he only felt more foolish the longer he waited. Still, he clung to the comforting illusion that some trivial circumstance—misplaced letters, an unreliable courier—was to blame for the silence, and as he felt the sand sinking beneath his bare feat here on the shores in Barcelona, he decided to stay in his delusion just a little bit longer. 

29 March 1815

He had endured his first days back in Mayfair, his efforts toward self-improvement yielding swift and gratifying results. There was something exhilarating about the way the debutantes sought him, even if he had no intentions for the season. That was no matter: he was hardly the only man to admire the scenery without committing. If his travels had taught him anything, it was that the experience was what you made of it. Every moment had its lesson, he reasoned, and if nothing else, they’d given him a resilience that scandal, betrayal, and a boyhood full of condescension had failed to create. No longer could Anthony paint him as green and immature, made to feel small for his ignorance.

Not that his brother seemed inclined to do so now. Marriage had softened Anthony considerably—blessedly so. It would certainly curtail the meddlesome interventions he was famous for, which boded well for Francesca. Surely her debut would be spared the sort of heavy-handed interference that had plagued Daphne’s and Eloise’s.

The Queen's Tea was the first opportunity to truly test his mettle on the so-called marriage mart, and it was currently working to great effect. It was no wonder his brothers found success in these types of endeavours, and he was thankful that these debutantes did not seem phased by his history. On the contrary, they appeared enchanted by his stories—or, more accurately, by the idea of them—in a way his family hadn’t been since those first weeks after his return from Greece.

Or, perhaps, since Penelope had been. Before her silence.

He could hardly admit it, even to himself, but he missed her, deeply. He had consoled himself with the thought that she was merely occupied in the country, spending time with Eloise perhaps, comforting her after the dreadful end of the season. Even if Eloise had never cared much for society, being so publicly cast out, even temporarily, could leave its mark on anyone, even one as headstrong as she. Though in truth, Eloise had changed as well, now cleaving rather surprisingly to Cressida Cowper. He didn't pretend to understand that development, but it made his earlier assumptions about Penelope’s silence ring hollow. And he longed to get to the bottom of it.

He found her a short while later, standing alone and gazing out at the garden in her typical, bright visage. The sight stirred a quiet warmth in him, a nostalgia that he hadn’t anticipated. He felt the faintest flush creeping up his neck when she called him distinguished, a term he deflected at once, gesturing instead to his altered wardrobe as the culprit, rather than any innate change in his person. But when he remarked on the changes he had witnessed, with regard to Eloise and Cressida, she was citing that life had changed quickly. And then, with scarcely another word, she slipped away, her gaze avoiding his entirely. He stood rooted to the spot, blinking after her retreating form, bewildered. Somehow, he had even more questions than answers.

5 April 1815

By the time of Lady Danbury’s Four Seasons Ball, he was no closer to unravelling the mystery. He pushed the troublesome thoughts aside, determined instead to focus on the evening’s task: showing the ton just who he had become abroad. He had discovered, with some amusement, that when his travels were framed just so, even the previously indifferent gentlemen of society took an interest. A carefully worded anecdote, hinting at the more personal moments of his adventures, seemed to hold their attention. In truth, they had been quite impersonal and occasionally lonely, but he knew better than to share such details with this audience. If indulging in a bit of harmless embellishment earned him a place among their ranks, then so be it.

He was midway through recounting a vague tale about his contessa—a woman who, while not fictional, was the only true one of note from his travels—when the energy in the room shifted. As he glanced to his left, he was met with the most enchanting sight. The contessa, so vivid in his memory mere moments ago, faded entirely, as she paled in comparison to the startling, incandescent image in the periphery of his vision.

Her deep emerald gown skimmed her figure with such perfection it might have been crafted by the muses themselves. Her hair pulled to one side in brilliant auburn tendrils, held in place by a jewelled comb that he suddenly longed to touch. In fact, he longed to touch all of her. He stared, unrepentant, though he was hardly the only one captivated by her beauty.

By Penelope's beauty.

He took a tentative sip from his glass, still unable to look away. It was not as though he ever questioned Penelope's appearance; she had always been lovely. Perhaps it was simply the natural consequence the intimacies on his tour, the deeper awareness he now had of the fairer sex. That did not entirely explain why his heart fluttered in his chest as he watched her walk away, or why no other debutante had elicited so much as a flicker of the same response, despite all the effort he’d spent charming them over the past several days. Perhaps it was the wine.

His unease settled deeper as the night wore on, his eyes drifting to Penelope almost without his permission. He had done well over the last few days to distract himself from the lingering disappointment of the Queen's tea, but this felt heavier somehow. His effortless charm instead felt forced and awkward, so unlike him, and he feared this it was all coming apart at the seams.

Near the end of the evening, he had gathered once more with Lords Fife and Wilding, though his patience for their company had long since waned. So when Penelope rushed by him, clearly distraught, he set to follow her, ignoring the half-jesting remark about how much more fun he’d supposedly become this season. Shrugging off the backhanded compliment, he strode into the night, catching Penelope's profile in the dimly lit entrance.

Determined to break through whatever barrier had been erected between them, he showed her, too, how he had changed for the better. And he was met with unexpected ire and a "Good night, Mr. Bridgerton", something he could not recall Penelope ever using on him.

In truth, he immediately regretted inquiring further. It brought to the light, in the most horrifying, disgusting way, just how callous he had been at the end of the previous season. He recalled the exchange she was referencing; the same gentlemen he'd been entertaining earlier this evening had asked about his attachment to Penelope the previous season. And he'd assured them they were only friends. He vaguely recalled now, if he was to be truly honest with himself, that this assertion felt hollow. He'd doubled down, stating that he wouldn't dream of courting Penelope. Which now, in retrospect, was not only achingly mean but also patently untrue.

He had to make amends.

6 April 1815

Colin could not recall feeling quite so unsettled at the prospect of visiting Penelope. It was not a habit he had maintained in recent years, their interactions occurring more often during her visits to Bridgerton House. His own calls to the Featherington home had been few and, more often than not, for reasons unrelated to her. But knowing he was walking into a situation where he was unlikely to be welcomed was daunting, to say the least.

The expression on Rae, Penelope’s ever-loyal lady’s maid, did little to ease his fear. Her raised brow and tight-lipped smile told him all he needed to know: his concerns were entirely justified.

He took a deep breath, approaching an almost ethereal looking Penelope, seated on a garden bench none the wiser to his presence. And when she was made aware, her response was as he had expected.

The words poured from him before he could stop them. Apologies, confessions, his profound regret, his admiration for her enduring warmth, and the emphatic declaration that he could never, would never, be ashamed of her. Yet as her expression softened only slightly, he began to understand that her frustration stemmed not only from his actions but also from the ease with which he navigated society. She longed for that same sense of belonging, that same effortless acceptance, particularly on the marriage mart.

The notion of someone courting Penelope struck him unexpectedly, lodging a sharp, unwelcome ache in his chest. Yet even as he wrestled with the feeling, he found himself offering his assistance. He did not pause to consider the implications, or what this arrangement would entail. All he knew was that he wanted to help her, wanted her happiness, her good opinion of him restored.

Eager to gain her favour, he rose to his feet and extended his hand.

"Are we not friends?"

The word felt strange the moment it left his lips, ringing hollow in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He wished to take it back, to find something more meaningful. But before he could, she met his eyes with a startling intensity. Her ungloved hand slipped into his, and he could almost feel the faint rhythm of her pulse.

23 April 1815

As it happened, Penelope was a quick study, despite a few stumbles at first. Perhaps he was biased, but the nerves that plagued her in the company of other gentlemen were a foreign concept. She had always been open and candid with him, a dynamic so natural he had seldom thought to question it. Yet it was clear she wanted to move forward, and so he did the best he could to help her, even if Lady Whistledown had deemed him incapable of much.

This, however, led to a rather unorthodox conclusion on his part—that the best way to observe her progress would be to create a private setting under the pretence of a ball, with himself acting the role of suitor. It had a been a rather elaborate consideration, requiring no small effort to ensure his family was otherwise engaged and Eloise conveniently absent. But once he held her gaze over their glasses of lemonade in the Bridgerton drawing room, he realised too late that he had made a most grievous error in judgement.

It was as though she could see into the very depths of his soul. And he was extraordinarily fearful of what she might discover.

His next error came in the form of misjudging Eloise's return from the modiste, now forced to distract and send Penelope into hiding. Yet when he went to fetch her, intent on returning her sash, he found her reading through his private journal that he'd foolishly left on the desk in the study. It was a reckless thing, but his embarrassment had him lashing out in a way he so rarely did, knocking a candle to the ground and then managing to slice his palm open in the process.

And this was where he feared his error had instead become a gift.

For Penelope was suddenly there, deftly wrapping his injured hand with a cloth. She was so near that he could catch the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume, and he knew at once he would never forget it. He fought the urge to look at her, so many confounding, conflicting feelings running through his subconscious, he was not certain what would come out next. And he feared whatever it was would be the unfiltered truth.

Especially as his fingers tightened around hers, entirely of their own volition.

And so he simply bid her farewell, the safest course of action, departing on the promise that they would see one another that evening at the Full Moon Ball. Yet the events in that study weighed on him throughout the day, a puzzle whose simplicity belied its deeper significance.

She had complimented his writing.

At first, he had dismissed it as an attempt to placate him, a gentle reprieve offered in the wake of his outburst. But this was Penelope. He knew her too well to believe her deceitful, especially not with him. Her interest and praise were genuine. No, her words had been truth, and the knowledge sent an unfamiliar heat rushing through him. After she had gone, he had returned to the study, unable to resist revisiting the passages she had read. He had sat there for some time, vacillating between a sense of scandalised vulnerability and an almost exhilarating thrill.

By the time he climbed into the carriage with Eloise that evening, flexing his injured hand as though to test its strength, he had settled somewhere decidedly closer to the latter.

Eloise had unfortunately caught sight of Penelope as she made her hasty retreat, leaving Colin in an awkward predicament. Though he trusted his sister in most things, her continued avoidance of the topic of Penelope gave him pause. He briefly considered sharing the nature of his agreement with Penelope—her desire to find a match this season—but quickly dismissed the thought. If Penelope had not confided in Eloise herself, it was not his place to do so.

He imagined this was a wise choice, as the night progressed, because knowing his sister, she may try to meddle, at least from afar. And the longer the night went on, the less he wanted anyone, least of all Eloise, examining him too closely.

He had been recalling their lessons, those stolen afternoons filled with laughter and easy banter that always left them both a little lighter, their worries a little smaller, save for this afternoon. She had transformed in these encounters, he decided, though it was not something overt. It was the gradual confidence he helped to foster in her, the way her voice now carried a certain assurance when speaking with the gentlemen of the ton.

He wanted her to succeed in finding her match. He wanted her to find the love she deserved, the happiness she had long been denied in her family life. He wanted all these things for her—and yet, watching her take those first assured steps toward that future left him profoundly unsettled.

His eyes fell on her, radiant in the company of Lord Remington. There was nothing forced or guarded about her expression; it was genuine amusement, the sort that lit her features with a warm glow. And it was wholly unlike how she had begun the season.

It was, however, achingly familiar in another sense.

It was the way she had always been with him.

In a way that he had taken for granted. He stood unmoving, a silent observer, unable to approach. The delight on her face, for so long a source of joy for him, fuelled a bitter root of jealousy. He had unintentionally set himself up for failure in the Bridgerton drawing room, as a hypothetical suitor. For fantasy to be reality, as he wrestled with the realisation that he was actively competing for her attention. For her affection. And he feared he would not measure up. The jealousy is not a petty grievance. It was now very clear to him, by the beat of his heart and the flush on his cheeks, the catch in his breath whenever Penelope caught his eye, or the way his baser instincts screamed in protest whenever he saw her talking with another gentleman. It was coming together in the most contradictory way, but the clarity was undeniable.

He wanted her to choose him.

Colin was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he had panicked. Benedict, ever perceptive when it suited him, had clearly taken note of his pallor and vacant expression. His elder brother had leaned in with a knowing arch of his brow and inquired, with feigned nonchalance, whether Colin might prefer to leave.

The question had presented him with an unbearable choice.

On one hand, he felt compelled to remain; his sense of duty demanded it. Penelope had sought his guidance, his support, and to leave now would feel akin to abandoning her in the very moment her efforts began to bear fruit. Surely, it was his responsibility to stay, to observe, to ensure her success.

And yet, every instinct in his body cried out against it.

The longer he lingered, the more his resolve frayed, and the clearer it became that he was careening toward a path he did not yet have the courage to tread. To stay would mean torturing himself with visions of her with another suitor. Worse still, he feared that as the night wore on, as the levity and drink stripped away his composure, his traitorous heart would make itself known. And in doing so, he would ruin everything.

And so he chose self-preservation, and followed Benedict out the elaborate archway to a waiting carriage.

The ride was near silent, save for the muffled sound of hooves striking stone. Benedict reclined against the plush seat, his posture deceptively languid, though his narrowed eyes betrayed a sharp and shrewd assessment. Colin finally paused his nervous twisting of the ruby ring on his finger and met Benedict's gaze head on.

"What? What are you staring at?"

Benedict smirked, rapping the side of the carriage in signal.

"I think we will take a detour to White's!"

The driver called out his assent, and Colin huffed, dropping his gaze to his ring again.

"I think I have had enough drink for the night, brother."

Benedict tutted, his head cocked in mock contemplation. “Or perhaps, not nearly enough.”

Colin groaned, leaning back against the seat as the carriage rumbled onward.

By the time they arrived at the gentlemen’s club, Colin’s mood had soured further. The lively conversation and clink of glasses in the background proved more tolerable than Benedict's appraising silence, but only marginally. He turned his glass in slow, deliberate circles, the amber liquid catching the light. If answers were to be found in its depths, they remained elusive.

"Clearly something is troubling you, brother," Benedict offered finally.

Colin raised his eyes just enough to deliver a withering glance. “Brilliant observation. It’s a wonder we don’t all faint in awe of your intellect.”

It was rare for Colin to be callous or mocking with his words in such an obvious fashion, but it only emboldened Benedict. Like any elder sibling worth his salt, he saw an exposed nerve and pressed it mercilessly.

“You seemed perfectly content earlier in the evening,” Benedict mused, swirling his own drink with idle ease. "Which leads me to believe that whatever has you in this state occurred tonight. And,” he added with a gleam in his eye, “I did notice you spent a considerable amount of time in the company of Penelope Featherington.”

Colin tensed, his grip tightening on the glass despite his best efforts to appear unaffected. Benedict, of course, caught the slip instantly, his grin widening with insufferable satisfaction.

“In fact,” he continued, leaning forward as though imparting a great secret, “it seems you’ve been quite attentive to Miss Featherington of late. At every ball, every promenade, there you are, hovering near her.”

Colin met Benedict's gaze, his brow furrowed. "I have been helping Penelope find a suitor," he confessed, his voice low, as though saying the words aloud made them more real, "She wishes to marry this season and with no one to help her, I thought it the honourable thing to do. Especially after what I said last season." Benedict leaned forward, now clearly intrigued.

"Oh? And what, pray tell, did you say last season?"

Colin closed his eyes and sighed, cursing his bottle-weary head for its impertinence. "I…I said I would never dream of courting Penelope."

Benedict’s brows drew together in confusion. "Unprompted?"

"Not precisely. Lord Fife remarked on my dancing with her at the Featherington Ball and…inquired."

Understanding dawned on Benedict’s face, accompanied by a knowing smirk. “And I presume our dear Miss Featherington overheard this ill-advised proclamation and was suitably mortified?”

Colin winced, the memory a sharp pang in his chest. That Benedict had the audacity to refer to Penelope as ‘our dear’, as though he had any real claim to her or her regard, only added insult to injury. He downed another swirl of liquor in answer and Benedict chuckled.

"Well done, brother, " Benedict said, raising his glass in mock salute. "Though it does appear your efforts were well-received. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely this evening."

With a sigh he couldn't contain, Colin lowered his voice.

"Yes. She did."

"And that troubles you." It was not a question.

"No!" Colin’s reply came swiftly, his tone edged with a defensiveness that betrayed him. "No. I wish… I wish for nothing more than her happiness."

Benedict tilted his head, his expression sceptical and far too perceptive. "But…"

"There is no 'but', Benedict. I helped her, as I pledged to do. I've set her on a path that leads…"

In the weighty silence, Benedict filled in the words Colin could not bear to say.

"That leads her away from you."

Colin groaned, the sound low and despairing, as though Benedict’s words had unravelled him entirely. Defeated, he let his head fall forward with an unceremonious thud against the polished surface of the table. A warm, steady hand settled on his shoulder, Benedict’s grip firm and reassuring, though no less insufferable.

"While jealousy does not suit you, I cannot say I'm surprised." Benedict's tone was equal parts amused and sympathetic. "Nor, should I add, do I find it unwarranted." Giving up on all pretence of denial, Colin raised his head to stare at his brother.

"It's not merely jealousy, it's more complicated than that. I cannot… I cannot betray our friendship." He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair as though the effort of speaking had drained him. "She has trusted me, confided in me. If I let this surface, I would risk everything."

The admission hung heavy in the air between them, the truth of it stark and unrelenting. Benedict, for once, did not rush to fill the silence. Instead, he sat back, studying Colin with a rare and thoughtful intensity, his expression devoid of mockery or judgement. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet, carrying a gravity that cut through Colin’s turmoil with precision.

“I daresay, Colin,” Benedict began, his gaze unwavering, “you risk far more if you do not.”

24 April 1815

It had taken a few more drinks and loosened lips, with Benedict’s encouragement becoming increasingly insistent, to bring Colin to this current, precarious moment. His elder brother, ever ambitious in his schemes, had declared with maddening conviction that now, at this very hour, was the time to act. At first, the notion struck Colin as ludicrous, the stuff of sentimental novels, not the sober actions of a gentleman of the ton. But as the night went on, and the feeling of desperation crept in, Benedict’s vivid predictions of a future devoid of Penelope began to strike true.

The fears his brother painted—a lonely existence, marked by regret, while another man stood in the place Colin could not bring himself to claim—cut deep. And so, here he was, standing like a fool in the shadows outside her window, poised to alter the course of everything he had known.

There was only one thing left to do.

Turning the first pebble in his hand, he examined it briefly, as if the stone itself might offer him wisdom, then took aim at the dimly lit window above. The pebble arced through the air and struck the glass with a soft tap. When no movement followed, he tried again. And again. And again. He resolved to give up after the fifth pebble, and when that produced nothing, he lingered, considering his options. Benedict would surely ask tomorrow what had come from his efforts. He supposed he could always lie, perhaps tell him that he hadn't done it at all. A coward's retreat seemed almost preferable to what he was doing now: standing in the dark like a schoolboy, throwing stones at a lady’s window.

Just as he turned to race back across the square, dejected and melancholy, a silhouette appeared at the glass. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus, and blinked in surprise as the window creaked opened on its hinges. There stood an ethereal Penelope, a vision conjured from the depths of every forbidden desire he had never dared to entertain. Her auburn hair was loosely gathered, a few rebellious curls framing her face, flushed with warmth despite the chill. She leaned forward, wrapped in a dressing gown of pale muslin, her expression unreadable but her presence nothing short of luminous.

"Colin," she called softly, her voice carrying more incredulity than reproach, "what on earth are you doing?"

He pursed his lips together, his mind racing. He had spent the carriage ride and the moments before this summoning the necessary courage to be here, but he had given no thought to what he would actually say if she allowed him an audience. He quickly realised this error as he stuttered in the silence, and he heard a soft sigh from the open window above.

"Very well, I will be down in a moment," she conceded, disappearing back into the candlelit room. Colin exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the air as he turned his gaze downward. A hundred thoughts vied for dominance, none of them useful. By the time she emerged through the small staff door at the side of the house, wrapped in a delicate satin robe over her dressing gown, every coherent word he might have spoken had fled entirely. It was not lost on him how woefully unprepared he was for this moment, how unsuited he was to conceal the hopes now crowding his mind. Thoughts that lingered far too long on what lay beneath the silken layers of her robe, and far too little on what he ought to say.

“What is it, Colin?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady. Her tone was not impatient, nor was it particularly warm—merely curious, as though she could not quite fathom what had brought him here.

He opened his mouth to answer, but the sight of her standing there, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, continued to rob him of speech entirely. Her cheeks, kissed pink by the cold, and her hair, which gleamed like polished copper as it flitted in the light breeze, were enchanting, enticing. How could he possibly articulate what he felt when the words themselves were so meagre, too insufficient?

“Did you… want something?” she prompted, her head tilting ever so slightly, the faintest hint of bemusement curling at the corners of her lips.

Still, he said nothing. And then, as she turned to retreat—perhaps disheartened by his silence, or simply unwilling to stand in the cold—he reached for her wrist. His hand closed gently around it, halting her mid-step. She turned back, her brows lifting in surprise as his fingers pleaded with her, warm and unyielding against her bare skin.

“I—” he began, his voice rough from disuse and drink. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to untangle the knot of emotions. “I have not been entirely honest with you, Penelope.”

Her brows knitted, her lips parting slightly as she waited for him to continue, a measure of fear in her eyes that he could not bear.

"I—I know I said that I missed you, that night of the Four Seasons Ball. I know I apologised for my cruel comments, agreed to help you find your way this season. And...I do feel those things, I do want those things for you." His thumb moved to caress her wrist, feeling her pulse thrum erratically under his touch, and the mirrored flutter in his own chest made him bold.

“Watching you with Lord Remington tonight…I found myself wishing...I became jealous,” he admitted, the words tumbling out unbidden. “I didn’t understand it at first, but I see it now. I—” He faltered, his grip on her wrist loosening as if he feared he had already said too much. “I find myself wishing we were much more than friends,” he finished, the confession raw and unpolished.

Penelope’s breath hitched audibly, her free hand rising instinctively to the base of her throat. She stared at him, her expression an unreadable mix of astonishment and something softer, though he dared not name it.

Colin took a half-step closer, his gaze searching hers for any hint of rejection. His entire body ached with the desire to hold her, to press his lips to hers and surrender to the pull that had haunted him for longer than he would readily admit. And yet, even in his inebriated state, he knew the significance of such an act. This was not a boundary to be crossed lightly.

“May I kiss you, Penelope?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, delicate and exposed, as though to speak them more boldly might shatter their meaning. He felt the enormity of what he was asking—not merely the fleeting indulgence of a kiss, but permission for something far greater and more sacred.

As a gentleman of the ton, Colin had been shaped by a world that demanded he take, experience, and command with quiet authority. Men wielded their power—be it through title, wealth, or charm—not merely because they could, but because they were expected to do so. Such displays of certainty were, after all, what women were thought to admire. To ask, to defer, to relinquish even a shred of that control—such an act would be deemed a betrayal of the unspoken rules by which his peers lived. It smacked of vulnerability, of submission, of a weakness unbecoming a man of his station. A lack of masculine worth.

And yet, for all the weight of convention and expectation, Colin knew—deep within the marrow of his bones—that there existed no reality in which he could proceed without Penelope’s consent. Her desire must be as unequivocal as his own, for anything less would render the moment hollow. To kiss her without such assurance would be to rob both of them of the beauty of what this could be.

A beauty, he would discover, unmatched by any he had ever dared to dream.

Penelope's nod was resolute. Confident, unnervingly so. In that instant, Colin, who had prided himself on his charm and wit, felt wholly unmoored. It struck him with disarming clarity: she was the benefactor, and he the novice. What had moments ago felt like a daring step now seemed an act of surrender, one that would irrevocably alter the course of his life.

He closed the space between them, his movements reverent as he rose his palms to cradle her face, the delicate curve of her jaw. With gentle pressure, he tilted her waiting mouth toward his, their breaths mingling in the brief, trembling pause before the inevitable. Her eyes were wide and searching, trusting, needing, and they pulled him in like gravity after leaping from a seaside cliff, bound to crash into the watery depths below.

The first brush of their lips was tentative, teasing, a ghosting of contact made real only by Penelope's sharp intake of breath. He paused, drawing back to meet her eyes, seeking reassurance. But she did not falter. Her fingers curled gently into the fabric of his coat, an anchor in the storm, giving him the permission to let go.

He kissed her once more, deeper, slower, unhurried. Her lips were soft and pliant, yielding to him with a sweetness that made his chest ache, and a fire that left him wanting beyond reason. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever known. It gave form to everything he could not voice: the ache of his jealousy, the bittersweet torment of their friendship, the dawning realisation that his heart was no longer his own. He wanted to mark her, claim her, let her do the same, submit to her every whim, die a happy man in the comfort of her embrace.

When they broke apart, Colin felt as though the very air had been stolen from his lungs. The world as he had known it, as he had shaped it on his travels, had ceased to exist. Penelope was no longer the friend he had known for years, but the force that upended every certainty he had clung to. It was as though she had reached into the very fabric of his being, unravelling him with nothing more than a kiss.

It was a frightening, exhilarating and consuming consideration, and one he would choose again and again, in every lifetime.

He stared at her, his hands still cradling her, his heart pounding an irregular rhythm that echoed in his ears. He could no more look away from her than he could cease breathing. She was a force unto herself, a bright and unyielding flame, and he was the moth drawn helplessly toward her light.

Penelope’s voice, when it came, was soft but steady, though her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she stepped away. “Colin,” she began, the sound of his name like a prayer, “if you remember this in the morning—if you truly wish to call on me properly—then I am yours.”

Yours.

The word echoed through him, a quiet thunderclap that sent every nerve alight. She believed him to be drunk, acting out of sorts, when it had only served to give him clarity. It had tempered his resolve, his fight against what was proper and good, and allowed him to face the unfiltered truth that had been threatening to surface for far longer than he would admit.

He was desperately in love with Penelope.

Colin's heart swelled with a mix of emotions: joy, relief, and a newfound appreciation. He loved her—not in the safe, familiar way of friendship, but in a way that consumed him, that left him breathless. He knew that he would remember this moment, every exquisite detail, and he vowed to prove to Penelope that his feelings were genuine, unclouded by the haze of drink.

He smiled, reaching for her hand. "I assure you, Penelope, my feelings are sincere. I will call on you tomorrow, and every day after, until you believe me."

It was a promise not lightly made. He held her gaze, daring her to see the depth of his resolve. He would show her—not with grand declarations or fleeting gestures, but with steadfast devotion—that his heart was hers, wholly and without condition.

Penelope blinked, her breath catching audibly, and for a moment she seemed poised to speak. Instead, she simply nodded, then turned toward the Featherington house and disappeared through the door she'd emerged from moments before. Her absence was softened by the knowledge that this was not an ending, but a beginning.

For the first time in his life, Colin Bridgerton knew with absolute certainty what he wanted. And no force on earth—not doubt, nor fear, nor the expectations of society—would keep him from making her his.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Colin stood on the Featheringtons' doorstep, breath clouding in the chill of the morning air. Despite the alcohol, sleep had been elusive. Fleeting, half-formed fantasies of Penelope had pranced through his mind, filling the dark with echoes of her laughter, the softness of her gaze that had once escaped his notice. As his mind replayed these moments in vivid detail, he had become aware of another truth: for all his wanderlust, and all his newfound charm, he had never dared to envision a real future before. Not in the way he was now with Penelope.

A lifetime ago, perhaps he'd entertained the future with Marina. Yet even then, he never looked beyond the next step. Courting, engagement, Gretna Green—it had all been a matter of the present, with the future almost left to chance. As for the fleeting liaisons on his tour, they could scarcely compare. Their transience, their lack of depth, seemed almost laughable when measured against the intensity of what he now felt. Not that they were meant to, but they did cast everything into stark relief.

Now, the thought of a life shared with Penelope filled him with a profound sense of longing. Lazy afternoons spent in conversation, starlit evenings adorned with laughter, the sweetness of shared moments that felt almost tangible but also just out of his reach. He shifted from foot to foot, his usual confidence dampened by the hour and the sceptical gaze of the footman who had answered his knock.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton, but it is much too early for…callers,” the man said, his tone polite but firm.

Colin offered a strained smile, his hands fidgeting impatiently at his side. “I am well aware of the time, I assure you. But I must speak with Miss Featherington.”

The footman hesitated, his expression caught between propriety and the leniency often afforded to Colin, given his longstanding association with the household. Yet even such allowances, it seemed, had their limits.

“I fear Miss Featherington is likely still abed, sir. Might I suggest you return at a more… reasonable hour?” His words were polite enough, but there was no mistaking the faintly disapproving tilt of his brow.

Before Colin could press the matter further, a voice rang out from somewhere inside.

“Colin?”

He leaned slightly to peer past the footman, his heart leaping as Penelope appeared in the dim light of the hall. She stood beneath the archway to the drawing room, her hair loosely swept over one shoulder, a book clutched to her chest. Her light blue morning gown, simple yet elegant, seemed to catch the soft light, and for a moment, Colin found himself utterly unable to speak.

Her curious, slightly concerned tone startled him back to reality. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Forgive me, Pe—Miss Featherington,” he corrected himself quickly, the formality earning a quirked brow from her. “But it was important that I see you immediately.”

Penelope turned to the footman, who sighed audibly before retreating, no doubt to summon Rae or another maid as a chaperone. Colin knew their time was limited. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them swiftly, his eyes darting toward the adjoining corridors as though wary of interruption.

"Miss Featherington?" she teased, her tone questioning but amused as she lay her book on a nearby table.

He ignored the jab, reaching for her bare hand without care. Her soft gasp at the unexpected contact only urged him on. There was no time for formality, no room for hesitation. Not now.

“I had to see you,” he said, his tone desperate. “Last night, everything I said...it was the truth.”

Her expression softened, though her brow remained knit. “Colin, you were… overcome,” she said cautiously. “You can hardly expect me to—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his tone earnest. “I know I was, but you cannot mistake that for insincerity. If anything, it only stripped away the fear. Now, standing here—” He leaned in toward her, lowering his voice as though the moment were too sacred for anyone else to overhear. “I am well, Penelope. Clear-headed. No bottle-weary regret to speak of. I remember everything, and I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”

She stared at him, her body taut as if she wanted to speak but could not find the words. Colin saw the hesitation in her eyes, the conflict between trust and doubt, and it spurred him forward.

“I have gone over it all in my mind,” he continued, his words tumbling forth with a raw urgency as he let go of her palm. “All these moments, over the past several months, several years, if I am honest. And once the truth came to me, it was obvious. Last night was...it was the breath I needed wake up, to keep living. It was the moment everything became clear.”

He hesitated, his voice thick with emotion as he added, “I love you, Penelope. I love you, and I can no longer pretend otherwise.”

Penelope blinked rapidly, her cheeks colouring as she looked away briefly, seemingly overwhelmed by his words. When she met his gaze again, there was a steadiness in her eyes that made his heart pound, hard and unrelenting, against his ribs.

“You realise what you’re saying,” she said slowly, her voice trembling despite her valiant attempt to steady it. “You’re asking to overturn everything we’ve been. Everything we are. Our friendship, Colin…” She trailed off, her words faltering beneath the weight of what lay unspoken. It was as though the enormity of what he proposed defied comprehension, the very idea ludicrous even in suggestion.

And perhaps it was. Colin supposed he had the advantage in that regard; he had spent many restless nights wrestling with this truth, piecing together the fragments of his feelings until they formed the undeniable whole. For Penelope, this was sudden, unanticipated. A flicker of doubt formed deep in his chest, as he wondered if he had asked too much, too soon.

But the thought was intolerable, and he shoved it aside with an obstinacy born of desperation. “Of course I realise,” he said, his tone firm, almost defiant, as though the act of speaking could banish his uncertainty entirely. "And if you tell me… you would rather things remain as they are, that last night was nothing more than a flight of fancy for you, I will respect that. I remain your friend, Pen, as I always have."

He stepped closer, his hands reaching out toward hers once more. He hesitated just long enough to allow her to pull away, his heart nearly stalling as he waited. When she didn’t, when her hands remained still and warm before him, he closed his fingers around hers, the touch both careful and reverent.

“However,” he continued, his voice softening into something raw, “you told me last night that if I returned with intention, with all my faculties, you would be… mine.” He swallowed hard, the final word lingering on his tongue, feeling almost scandalous in its intimacy. “And in truth, Pen, whether or not that still holds true, whether you meant it or not—” He took a steadying breath, his eyes locking with hers as he spoke the words that had been etched into his soul.

“I am already yours.”

The emotion that swept across her face was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Her fingers wavered beneath his before suddenly tightening, pulling his hand closer as though it were an anchor in a storm she could not quite weather. She managed only a nod, her eyes bright with tears.

Colin’s breath left him in a rush, a mixture of relief and something much deeper. Her silent response was more powerful than any words she could have offered, and it struck him with a force that left him unsteady.

With gentle urgency, he guided her toward the drawing room, its door mercifully standing ajar. He knew it would test too many limits to close the door, and so he left it open to the corridor, suddenly aware of his body and hers in a way that felt indecent.

"I do…apologise for the impropriety," he admitted, though his tone was teasing. "I could not let it go on longer and bear to stand by while someone else…” He faltered, his jaw tightening before he finished, “While someone else claimed the place in your life that I want to fill.”

Her lips curved slightly, the ghost of a smile that was wonderfully wistful. “And what place is that, Colin?”

“The place of the man who stands beside you in all things,” he said without hesitation. “The place of the man who spends his life trying to make you as happy as you deserve to be. As happy as you make him.”

A breath of laughter escaped, tinged with exasperation and affection in equal measure. “You’ve always been rather impossible, Colin Bridgerton,” she murmured, eyes wide as though she could hardly believe him.

He laughed in kind, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight piercing through clouds. “And yet, here I am,” he replied, his smile wide and irrepressible.

She shook her head, still trying to make sense of him. “Very well, Colin,” she said, her voice laced with something that might have been surrender—or perhaps hope. "I suppose I shall have to see if you’re as determined as you claim to be.”

“You will see,” he promised, his voice warm with certainty. “Every day, if you’ll let me.”

Slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward, granting her every opportunity to retreat should she wish it. But he saw the same determination and reverence mirrored in her expression as he drew closer, his lips finally finding hers in the most perfect, soul-stirring kiss.

Rae was not surprised in the least that Mr. Bridgerton had chosen to call at this early hour. She had long been aware of Miss Penelope's affection for the young gentleman across the square, though she suspected few were privy to the extent and longevity. She had also observed a transformation in Mr. Bridgerton himself, a shift that perhaps not even he could fully comprehend. This season in particular, his regard for Penelope was growing at an exponential rate. He cared for her, not merely as a friend or confidante, but with a depth that revealed itself in small, profound ways: the way he leaned in to catch her soft-spoken observations, the way his gaze often lingered on her when he thought no one was watching. He cared for her mind, for her heart. It was thrilling and maddening to witness in equal measure.

And now, as Rae made her way through the house, her feet silent on the well-trodden Turkish carpets, she was curious what oblivious discussion she might endure this morning. Turning the corner toward the Featherington drawing room, she was met with the most scandalous, beautiful sight.

Rae stopped short, her breath catching as she took it in: Mr. Bridgerton, bent at an angle that spoke of both eagerness and reverence, his hand cradling Penelope’s face as though she were the most precious thing in the world. Penelope, drawn up on her toes to meet him, her fingers clutching the lapels of his morning coat as if he might vanish.

For a moment, she simply stood there, struck by the sheer poetry of the scene. It was a picture of love as it was meant to be: unguarded, unspoken, and utterly consuming. A rare and precious thing, particularly within the rigid confines of the ton.

A smile tugged at her lips as she stepped back into the shadows, her movements careful so as not to disturb them. Rae positioned herself near the entrance to the corridor, straightening a portrait frame that was already perfectly aligned, and resolved to intercept anyone who might intrude. From her post, she could hear the soft murmur of their voices, though she took great care not to discern the words. Instead, she busied herself with the fresh-cut flowers in a nearby vase, her hands steady even as her heart swelled with a quiet, almost maternal pride.

She allowed herself a brief indulgence: a vision of what might come next. The wedding that would surely follow, the joy that would fill these halls when Mr. Bridgerton no longer came as a visitor but as a husband. The children who would one day run through these corridors, their laughter echoing through the house, their mother’s wit and their father’s charm woven into their every word. Most of all, she thought of the quiet, unremarkable moments—like this one—that would define their happiness. Moments where love grew not in the bright glare of society but in the soft, steady light of morning, in the stolen glances and whispered promises that formed the foundation of a life shared.

When the butler appeared at the far end of the hall, Rae straightened and gave a discreet cough, just loud enough to alert the occupants of the drawing room. She engaged the butler in a detailed discussion of the evening’s dinner arrangements, allowing ample time for Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Penelope to compose themselves.

Some might say it was not her place to meddle in such affairs, but Rae thought differently. Love, true love, deserved whatever assistance one could give, regardless of station.

And if anyone in the household noticed that Miss Penelope seemed to float rather than walk for the rest of the day, or that her cheeks maintained a becoming flush long after Mr. Bridgerton's departure, well...Rae would simply smile and go about her work, keeper of secrets and tender of hearts, as all the best lady's maids must be. And in her case, if she played her cards right, the silent steward of happily ever after.