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Her heart, once a vessel for Colin, so grand,
Now shattered over words that she can’t understand.
For he, in a moment of ardor and ire,
Accused her of trapping him with their mutual desire.
“Perhaps that was another part of your planned entrapment,”
All love seemed lost by his cold detachment.
His cruel spoken words like a dagger, did rend,
And had wrought her great sorrow without end.
“Pray believe, no snare was set, no chains fastened by me.
With love most sincere, I break your ties to me.”
“Penelope! Wait!” His words pierced through the air.
A cataclysm to the raging storm, he never thought to bear.
He watched her walk away, stood frozen still.
His chest left with a void, no one else would ever fill.
A fervent resolve surged through her fingers as she inscribed her own plight,
An article forged in the glimmer of night.
Dear gentle readers, do take heed,
For scandal occurs swift indeed.
A union once so near complete,
Has met its sudden and sure defeat.
Miss Penelope Featherington finds herself unclaimed once more,
A wallflower, as she was once before.
For this was a tale we all foretold,
Not all are meant for bands of gold.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown
Surrendering the manuscript to her publisher,
A sense of trepidation settled upon her.
The ton, with glee, would soon feast on her shame,
Whispers and rumors, disgracing her name.
The days that followed were bleak and gray,
A hollow ache where her heart once lay.
No correspondences, no invites came,
The only evidence of her existence was her tarnished name.
Yet on the third day, when all hope seemed to be lost,
Lord Debling came calling, despite the cost.
A man of science, patient, calm and kind,
With thoughts of distant shores occupying his mind.
Bowed his head, then met her face,
His voice devoid of scorn or disgrace.
“Miss Featherington, I must confess,
Your news has left me most perplexed.”
“You were apprised of Colins inability to love me,
A truth so plain that anyone could see.
A dream too bold, a hope too bright,
No right had I to wish for it at night.”
“I grieve to see the decree of fate’s cruel part,
But know I see your worth and noble heart.
Let not one person define your grace,
Nor harsh tongues your dignity debase.
If you’ll still have me, I’ll stand by your side,
Your shield and your friend, whilst being my bride.”
She stared, too stunned to speak at first,
For surely pity was the worst.
He did not love her, that she knew,
Yet kindness lit his azure hue.
She thought of love, how cruel and unkind,
How all her dreams had turned to dust behind.
Love now held no place in her life,
A fleeting dream, replaced by strife.
A lifeline was cast, a new path forged clear,
For Colin was gone, and Lord Debling was here.
And so with resolve, she accepted his hand.
Stepping towards a fate she had not planned.
His intention was to leave, this much she knew,
To icy shores where wild birds flew.
Their vows were meant to be of ease,
A quiet bond, free of fantasies.
She’d thought it a duty, a role to maintain,
A vow she’d made in wedded name.
Yet when he came with no demand nor claim,
But with a reverence, as he spoke her name.
His hands worshiped, his lips explored,
As if she were some treasure stored.
“Lovely,” he murmured, breath drawn deep,
“So sweet, so soft, so meant to keep.”
“You find me acceptable?” she breathed, unsure,
“Acceptable?” he laughed, “You are so much more.”
And when he led, she did not flee,
But met his touch, wild and unfree.
A gasp, a shudder, her core drawn tight,
Lost in the depths of desirous delight.
Not once, not rare, but night and more,
As if she were something to adore.
This was no fleeting act, no task resigned,
But passion, unyielding and unconfined.
The days that followed revealed a world both unexpected and new,
Genuine affection and a bond that quietly grew.
Though their days would be numbered, a thought that made her sigh,
She soon found his presence would not so readily say goodbye.
They’d break their fast, side by side,
A quiet calm with no need to hide.
Lord Debling spoke of lands afar,
Of untamed wilds and northern stars.
While Penelope spoke of books and dreams,
At last she felt both heard and seen.
They strolled along the garden wide,
His arm to hers, as a steady guide.
She reached for a rose, its petals so fair,
But a thorn had caught her unaware.
She gasped, withdrew, a crimson bead.
A fleeting pain of trivial need.
At once, he took her hand in his,
No thought, no pause, no word amiss.
His handkerchief, so soft, so light,
Pressed gently over a scratch so slight.
“My Lord, such care for but a thorn?
A trifling thing, so barely torn.”
He met her gaze, his voice sincere,
“No wound of yours is a small affair.”
By evening’s glow, they’d share a book,
Exchanging glances and subtle looks.
“My Lord, what is it?” she’d asked, for something lingered in his eyes.
“The tale is fine, I can’t deny, but it is your voice that does mesmerize.”
A blush heated her cheek, and her smile grew wide,
And in that moment, walls began to subside.
She spoke, then paused, hoping she had not caused a slight,
For what had slipped, had felt so right.
“Alfred,” his name, so intimate, so bare,
Hung between them in the air.
Her cheeks went warm, her voice unsure,
“Forgive me, for I misspoke, my Lord.”
“I prefer it so,” he said with ease,
“Let it remain, and no more of these
Titles that are meant to stand between.
Please call me Alfred, Penelope.”
Upon her desk, a parcel lay,
Wrapped with care in a simple way.
Inside, a book, its pages worn,
A traveler’s tale, much loved and torn.
His name, once scrawled upon its pages,
Now bared her name for all the ages.
She traced the ink, her breath held tight,
A token not of grandest might,
But something true, meaningful and rare,
A gift to show he placed her there.
The ballroom was bright, the music swelled,
Yet in the darkness of shadows, a tempest dwelled.
Lord Debling stood, his gaze like stone,
As he watched, unseen, yet not alone.
For Colin Bridgerton was far too near,
His whispers despairing, his meaning clear.
A hand outstretched, a pleading sigh,
All signs of a desperate lover’s try.
Yet, just as doubt and jealousy began to grow,
Penelope’s answer came, firm and low.
“My husband awaits,” was all she said,
No backward glance, not a tear was shed.
And in that breath, his chest grew light,
His foolish fear now put to flight.
The victory, at last, was finally his,
And oh, how very sweet it is.
That evening as they lay in bed,
She turned to him, and cautiously said,
“Tell me, Alfred, if you will,
Why haven’t you left for your voyage still?”
He looked away, then met her sight,
His gaze as deep as a starless night.
“Journeys change, as hearts may do,
And the course I now seek, lies with you.”
Her breath caught fast, her pulse unsteady,
No words at first, though her heart was ready.
“Love had left me torn apart,
A foolish dream, and a broken heart.
I told myself I’d want it no more,
But now, you are all I’m longing for.”
She closed her eyes, as her lips met his,
A promise sealed in a tender sweet kiss.
No maps, no stars needed to guide them through,
Just love, at last…long overdue.