Work Text:
In the dim glow of gas lamps, their brass fixtures polished to a warm gleam, the bar exuded a warmth beyond the fog-draped streets of Mayfair in Autumn. It wasn’t so comforting as Mondrich’s bar, but Colin Bridgerton found he could never find anything homely without his wife, his home.
Shelves behind the polished, mahogany counter held gleaming decanters of brandy and cut-glass bottles of gin, and the scent of smoke and leather lingered beneath the sharper tang of cologne.
In a shadowed corner of the room, Colin sat at a small round table with his brothers, Anthony and Benedict, spinning his glass lazily between his fingers. “You needn’t look so depressed, brother,” Anthony said with a smirk, leaning forward. “It is only one night, I’m sure your wife is doing just fine without you.”
“Yes, but is he doing fine without her?” Benedict jested, downing his whisky. “Honestly, Colin. You’ve been married a month, and you act as though leaving her side for a few hours is tantamount to exile.”
“I told you I did not wish to come,” Colin mumbled like a petulant child, slouching in his chair. “I was perfectly happy at home.”
“Yes, and you have been perfectly happy at home for several weeks now. If we did not intervene, you would happily sew yourself into Penelope’s side,” said Anthony. “But we miss you, brother, as does everyone else. Consider this an act of brotherly mercy.”
Colin, for all his brooding, couldn’t suppress the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “True mercy would be allowing me to spend another evening with my wife—”
“You have your whole life for that,” Benedict rolled his eyes heavenward. “I swear, brother, marriage has made you dull.”
“Leave him be, Benedict. Love-struck fool that he is.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Anthony,” Colin finally reached for his brandy, shaking his head. “Kate has made you so soft that a summer breeze could knock you over.”
They all chuckled at that.
In truth, Colin had been almost embarrassing in his reluctance to leave Penelope. Since their reunion at the Dankworth and Finch Ball, they’d hardly left their room, let alone their house. He’d explored every inch of her soft, pliant body ten times over, branding every new bit of skin with a kiss, finding every way he could make her come apart and delighting in each new sound she made.
They read on the settee in the adjoining room; sometimes she would sit in his lap as she edited his journal, kissing up and down his neck until he’d wrench the entries from her grasp, leaving them on the floor, forgotten.
He loved her, but it was far deeper than that. He feared he was obsessed with her. Her body, her smile, her scent. The way she twisted her body into his at night like a clingy cat, and closed her eyes when she ate something particularly good, or how her breasts rose to the heavens when she laughed, tightening in her corset.
God, he loved her.
Cheeks reddening at the memory, he said, “I think I might head out—”
“It’s been a half hour!” Benedict complained. “You cannot possibly be thinking of leaving so soon.”
“Penelope will be waiting—”
"Oh, Penelope will be waiting," Benedict echoed dramatically. “I told you, Anthony, we should’ve drowned the bastard in brandy."
Anthony, ever the eldest and thus the designated voice of reason, reached out and caught Colin by the sleeve. "Sit down, brother. If you leave now, you’ll only prove us right. The great Colin Bridgerton, undone by love.”
Colin narrowed his gaze, but there was no real heat in it. “I have not been undone so much as I have been put together.”
“Running off like a man chased by Cupid’s own hounds will not spare you from our teasing. Stay. One more drink before you slip back into matrimonial bliss.”
Colin hesitated, the weight of brotherly guilt expertly applied. Slowly, he sank back into his chair, “Fine. One more drink.”
Benedict’s grin widened as he poured the next round. “Deep down, you’ll thank us. I’ve saved you both from becoming love-struck fools who forget how to have fun.”
“One day you too will become a fool,” Colin said, holding his drink up in salute, “and then you will realise there is far more fun to be had with one’s wife.”
“Here, here!” Anthony chimed, and they both laughed at Benedict’s mock-disgust.
“Hey, you don’t—”
Colin’s easy smile faltered as Fife’s voice hit him from behind, all smug arrogance. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lord Whistledown himself!”
He turned his cold gaze to Fife, casually leaning against the bar, flanked by his cronies who all chuckled at his pathetic excuse for a joke. “Tell me, Bridgerton, still playing the part of the docile husband while your wife ruins reputations for sport?"
Colin’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into a fist around his glass.
Anthony’s voice was low and warning. “Ignore him, Col.”
But Fife wasn’t done. “Or maybe you’ve gone soft—so soft, in fact, you can’t even keep your woman’s sharp little tongue in check. Perhaps it’s time you put a muzzle on the bitch.”
The words hung in the air like a spark in a dry field.
Colin stood so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the wooden floor. Anthony’s hand shot out to stop him, but Colin shook him off, eyes dark with a fury his brothers rarely saw.
“What did you just say?” Colin said, voice low and dangerous.
Fife’s smirk widened. “What? You’ll write a stern letter to Lady Whistledown about it?”
The first punch landed before anyone could react. Fife stumbled back, clutching his jaw with a look of genuine shock. The room fell into stunned silence—no one had ever dared lay a hand on Fife, especially not Colin Bridgerton, arguably the most harmless of the Bridgerton brothers.
But Colin wasn’t done.
“You don’t speak about my wife,” Colin growled, slamming Fife against the bar. “Not ever.”
Fife tried to recover, throwing a lazy punch, but Colin caught it with ease and delivered another blow to his gut. The cronies, suddenly less brave without their leader’s smugness, took a collective step back.
“Colin!” Anthony barked, grabbing his brother’s arm. “Enough. You’ve made your point.”
Breathing hard, Colin let Fife slump to the ground like the pathetic heap he was, eyes still burning with rage.
“Next time, keep my wife’s name out of your filthy mouth,” Colin muttered, straightening his cuffs and ignoring the throbbing pain of his bloody knuckles. “Be careful—you don’t want to find yourself as the next subject of her next article.”
“You better watch yourself, Bridgerton, everyone will know what you’ve done!”
“Will they?” Colin smirked, despite himself. “You forget, my wife’s words carry weight. Far more than yours, I should wonder. Trust me, she’s got a way of making fools of men like you with nothing more than her pen and a few well-chosen words.”
As the brothers ushered him out, Benedict clapped a hand on Colin’s back, half-proud, half-exasperated. “You know, for a man who’s gone soft, you hit like a damn prize-fighter.”
“Well. Mondrich has been training me.”
Anthony shook his head with a rare grin. “You know everyone will hear about this.”
Colin exhaled sharply, the anger finally draining from his shoulders. “Let them. It’ll be a lesson for anyone who dares to disrespect my wife.”
When Colin returned home and immediately ventured up to his bedroom to find Penelope, his heart was still racing from his confrontation with Fife. All of this anger and tension, however, melted away from his body the moment he saw his Penelope, stood by the mirror in a simple, white nightgown, fiery curls cascading down her back. The warm candlelight danced across her pale, freckled skin, and for a moment, Colin forgot everything except her.
She turned at the sound of him entering, and she immediately beamed, rushing forward to kiss him with an adorable eagerness that made him melt even further into the ground. He kissed her deeper when she attempted to step backwards, swallowing her giggle as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her head.
“I missed you, my dear,” he sighed, hands around her waist pulling her closer than was physically possible.
“You’ve been gone scarcely an hour!” she laughed, flushed as she fiddled with his open collar.
“And every minute I yearned for you.”
“Your brothers must’ve gotten quite sick of your shenanigans.”
“Quite,” he grinned, still breathing her in, “but they will know next time not to force me to part from my gorgeous wife.”
“I was the one who forced you. I thought you needed this—time away, different…company.”
He looked immediately affronted as he removed his face from her neck. “Pen, the only company I wish for is yours. Do you…want this? Space from me, I mean. Because I will gladly give it to you, I can break my fast in the gardens, and I know putting my desk next to yours was rather presumptuous but—”
“Ssh, my silly man,” She kissed him hard to silence him, and he forgot his panicked ramble in at instant. “I love you,” She cupped his cheeks. “There is nothing that makes me happier than being with you. I apologise if I assumed you needed distance—”
“I do not,” He shook his head keenly.
She giggled, kissing his nose. “Then there is no reason for us to ever be apart, is there?”
He grinned at that, but when she went to take his hands, she noticed the slight wince he tried to hide. Colin, of course, tried to cover his hands, but she knew him intimately, every look, every sound. His knuckles were bruised and already swelling from the punch he’d thrown earlier.
“Colin, what on Earth happened?” Penelope gasped, concern flooding her features as she gently caressed his wounded hands. All he could focus on was the way her movement had pushed her breasts together, beneath her gown, causing his mouth to water.
“It’s nothing,” Colin said, but his voice betrayed him.
“Nothing?” she said, a little laugh escaping her lips, though it held no humour. “Colin, you’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?” Her gaze softened, her fingers now tracing the swollen skin. “Haven’t you?”
He sighed. “I... I may have gotten into a bit of a disagreement with Fife.”
Penelope’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fife?” she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief. “Colin, you didn’t—”
He cut her off gently, his voice quiet but firm. “I didn’t start it. He…he insulted you, and I couldn’t just sit there. It got... out of hand.”
Penelope’s heart squeezed as she realized the weight of his words. Her husband, the calm and collected Bridgerton, had lost control all for her. She felt a surge of warmth flood her chest, followed by a pang of guilt. “I didn’t want you to get hurt over me,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with concern as she guided him to sit on the bed.
“I’ll never apologise for standing up for you,” Colin murmured, his voice low and sincere as she took his hand, her thumb brushing over the bruises. “You’re worth more than that. You are my wife.”
Penelope's heart fluttered, and she gently took his hand in both of hers, pressing soft kisses to his knuckles as if to ease the pain. “But you shouldn’t have had to do that, Colin,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You shouldn’t have been put in that position because of me.”
“I would do it again a hundred times over, Pen. It is not your fault that people are cruel and unforgiving, that they cannot see your brilliance.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head, leaning in to kiss him gently. “I love you so much,” she whispered against his lips.
“I know,” Colin replied with a quiet chuckle. “And I love you, too.” He pulled her into his arms, holding her close to his chest.
“How much damage?” she mumbled, voice laced with mischief.
Colin grinned. “A broken nose. The bruises will take a while to heal, but not as long as his bruised ego, I should gather.”
She giggled then, and he revelled in the sound, pressing his forehead to hers. “I will always defend you, Pen,” he whispered, kissing her again. “Always.”