Chapter Text
Penelope had long been assured that she was a Beta. All signs pointed to it, after all. She hailed from an entirely Beta lineage—her mother, her father, and both of her sisters had all presented as such. Thus, when she reached the age of seventeen without a change, it was of no consequence. Betas, as was commonly known, often did not present until their eighteenth year. It was with this understanding that she made her debut into society, fully expecting that in due course, she would follow the same path as her family.
Yet when her eighteenth year came and went without any such presentation, the whispers began. By her second season, she had unwittingly become the subject of speculation, a curiosity amongst the ton. A rare case, they called her. Unheard of? No, but scarce enough to invite the most scandalous of theories. There were those who believed that to never present was a most tragic fate, for it was said that such individuals were born tethered to a mate whose life had been cruelly extinguished before their own birth.
If such a thing were true, then what a most wretched twist of fate had befallen Penelope Featherington.
How, then, mere months before her nineteenth birthday—just as the season had drawn to its close—did Penelope find herself in the throes of heat? And within the walls of Bridgerton House, no less?
“Pen—oh, Pen, is that you?” Eloise’s voice wavered with alarm before she turned to Penelope who was over visiting her during the off season, calling out in a frantic rush. “Mama! Mama, please, come at once!”
“What is the matter, Eloise?” Violet entered the room swiftly, only to halt as a sudden, unfamiliar scent reached her. “Good heavens—what is that?” She scarcely had time to finish before a sharp, pained groan tore through the air, drawing her gaze to the trembling figure before them.
“Mama,” Eloise whispered, eyes wide with disbelief, “I believe—she is going into heat. She is—she is presenting. As—” her voice caught, “as an Omega.”
“That cannot be,” Penelope gasped, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she doubled over from the sharp waves of discomfort. “I am a Beta. Or a mate less one—I cannot—it is impossible.”
“There is no time to dwell on impossibilities,” Violet declared. “We must remove her from here at once. She needs to be placed in a heat room. I shall speak with your mother—”
“No! No, not Mama,” Penelope pleaded, shaking her head vehemently. “I must return home.”
“You cannot go home smelling as you do,” Eloise argued. “Even if it is but across the street, every Alpha within the vicinity will catch your scent. They may—” she hesitated, her voice dropping into something near fear, “they may seek to harm you. You are in heat, Penelope. You are vulnerable.”
“And, my dear,” Violet added gently but firmly, “I do not mean to offend, but your household is comprised entirely of Betas. You require a proper heat room. One suited to an Omega.”
And that was how Penelope found herself being carefully guided through the halls of Bridgerton House, her body weak and trembling as Eloise supported her weight. But as they passed a slightly open door, Penelope suddenly halted, her grip tightening upon Eloise’s arm.
“Pen? Are you unwell?” Eloise asked, concern lacing her voice.
“Colin,” Penelope whispered, her breath shuddering. “I—Colin.”
Eloise frowned. “Colin? But, Pen, you know Colin left for his travels—you were there when he departed.”
But before Eloise could say more, Penelope’s knees buckled beneath her, sending her crumpling to the floor in a desperate, heart-wrenching sob.
“Colin! Colin!” she cried, the sound raw with longing, her scent shifting—deepening, intensifying—filling the corridor with an undeniable pull.
“Pen! What is happening to you?” Eloise exclaimed in alarm, her hands hovering helplessly as she turned her head and called out in panic. “Mama! Mama, please, come quickly!”
“What is the matter?” Violet’s voice rang with urgency as she approached, only to falter at the sight before her. “Why is she on the floor?”
“We were on our way to the heat room,” Eloise explained hurriedly, “but the moment we passed Colin’s chamber, she—she collapsed. She is sobbing, calling for him, and I—I do not know what to do.”
Violet’s sharp gaze flickered toward the partially open door, then back to Penelope, who trembled violently, her cries unabating. A thought—an inkling—began to form in her mind.
“I believe I may have an idea,” she murmured before swiftly stepping into Colin’s chamber. Without hesitation, she retrieved a garment—one that bore his scent—and returned to the hall, pressing it gently into Penelope’s trembling hands.
The effect was immediate.
Penelope’s sobs quieted at once, her breathing evening out as a deep, contented purr replaced her cries. She clutched the fabric close, inhaling deeply.
“Mmm… Colin,” she murmured dreamily, her voice thick with haze.
Violet exhaled, her suspicions confirmed.
“She is—” She hesitated, then looked to Eloise with unwavering certainty.
“She is Colin’s mate.”
When Penelope was first settled into the room, she scarcely understood what was happening to her. All she knew was that she ached—for something, for someone—a longing so deep it left her trembling. Colin’s shirt, clutched tightly in her hands, provided some measure of relief, and the steady presence of Eloise and Violet helped soothe her, though nothing could truly abate the overwhelming sensation coursing through her.
The days blurred together in a fevered haze, her awareness coming and going in fleeting moments. It was only on the third day, when the worst of her heat began to wane, that she became more lucid—just enough to hear voices beyond the door. She recognized them at once: Anthony and Benedict.
"Penelope presented in our home? And her mate is Colin? Is that what you are saying?" Anthony’s voice carried through the corridor, laced with incredulity.
"She is," Violet confirmed. "We only discovered the truth when she presented. She sobbed for Colin."
"Then why are we not doing anything?" Benedict demanded. "Why has no one written to Colin? He has a mate to attend to."
"Because Penelope has not given her consent to inform him," Violet stated firmly.
"But he is her mate," Anthony argued.
"And yet, the choice remains hers," Violet countered. "We shall not make this decision for her. That is final."
A pause. Then, Benedict spoke again. "Why did she present so late? That is what I wonder."
"I have pondered the same question," Violet admitted. "And she presented mere days after Colin left—just after his rut."
A weighted silence filled the hall before Anthony murmured, "Do you believe they are true mates?"
"That is exceedingly rare," Benedict replied, though uncertainty colored his tone.
"Rare, yes," Violet agreed. "But not impossible."
Penelope pressed a trembling hand to her lips, her heart sinking at their words. No. He cannot know. He must never know.
The memory clawed at her—the Featherington ball, the careless words she had overheard. Not to her face, no, but she had heard them all the same. Colin had spoken so thoughtlessly, so assuredly.
She was not what he wanted.
If it was true—if she truly was his mate—then he must never learn of it. For what could be more cruel than to bind a man to a fate he never wished for?