Work Text:
Lord Featherington says, “My daughter does not want to marry you, Lord Bridgerton.”
What Anthony wants to say is I do not want to marry her either. Instead, he says, “I know.”
Archibald had arrived at his study five minutes earlier and Anthony had wordlessly poured him a glass of whiskey and slid it across his desk. He had not touched it yet; he hadn’t even glanced at it.
Lord Featherington sighs. “Everyone does. My darling may try to hide it but her… distaste for this impending marriage is clear.” He taps an envelope on the desk. “Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and now she is cursed to marry a man she doesn’t love.”
Anthony feels his lip curl. Cursed? “There are worse things than marrying a Viscount.” He sips his whiskey, relishing in the familiar burn. “Much worse men.”
“True,” Archibald agrees. “There are much worse fates than the one you will give her.” The subtle threat doesn’t escape Anthony’s notice. Archibald is known for his ruthless business practices; a trail of blood and death has allowed for his luxurious lifestyle. “Although I have a few requests for you regarding your marriage to my daughter. My beloved, my favorite.”
Already something he and Penelope do not have in common. He wasn’t his father’s favorite (Benedict), nor his mother’s (Colin). “And those are?”
“If you have a mistress or affairs in your marriage, you will not hide it from my daughter.” Anthony opens his mouth ready to defend himself; Archibald holds up his hand and silences him. “It has not escaped my notice, or my wife’s, that my daughter’s… appearance is not everyone’s favorite. It is a sensitive topic for her and it would hurt her more if you force yourself to lie with her rather than simply not.”
Archibald’s hand falls back to the desk, resting near the still-untouched glass. Anthony says, “I do not mind her appearance, she’s beautiful in her own way.” Penelope’s gifted bosom has not escaped his notice. “And, I am a gentleman. I do not plan to lay with anyone other than my wife.”
Archibald laughs at the brazen dig. “Sure, you don’t. Still, there are others who will enjoy my daughter’s presence if you do not. If you have affairs, my daughter must be allowed to as well.”
Anthony blinks and acquiesces. The chance will not be given for Penelope to lay with anyone other than him. She is his wife, after all. “You speak as if Penelope knows of the acts.”
Lord Featherington smirks. “My daughter has a voracious love of learning. Do you truly think she has not insisted I inform her of the acts? I took her to a brothel and had the women there teach her some things. I’m sure she has returned without me knowing as well.”
“A brothel?” Anthony’s appalled. “Women are not meant to be in brothels.” Archibald raises an eyebrow. He corrects himself, “Upper-class women are not meant to be in brothels.”
“And why not? Because it is improper; Because she is not meant to have knowledge about her own body? I am her father. I am meant to prepare her for the world where she is seen as property rather than a person, where needed information is kept from her to keep her down. I did so.”
Anthony’s hackles rise. “Still, it is improper,” Archibald snorts, “for a lady of her standing to be in brothels. There were less forward ways for her to be taught.”
“Penelope would not have accepted those. She prefers a hands-on approach to learning. I do not understand why you are complaining. My daughter will not have to be taught many things, if you decide to lie with her.” Archibald grimaces, then mutters, “My sweet girl.”
Anthony sighs and rubs his forehead. “I shall agree to your terms, not that there will be a need for them.”
Archibald looks him over, lazily. He drawls, “We shall see.”
Anthony knows it’s a challenge and he’s nothing if not competitive. “We shall.”
“Another thing. My daughter has a tendency to be uncomfortable outside of her comfort zone. Something your marriage will be. In order to make her transition into a married woman more suitable to her needs, I want your honeymoon location to be in our estate in the Irish Countryside. It is Penelope’s favorite.”
Anthony agrees. “Is there anything else, Lord Featherington?”
Archibald slides an envelope across the desk. “My daughter’s dowry.” He taps his finger against the envelope. “With some extra.” He leans back. “For good fortune in your upcoming nuptials.”
A bribe, Anthony translates. The envelope crinkles in his quiet office as he opens it. A check rests inside, signed and dated, for an amount of… Anthony blinks. Fifty thousand pounds. “This is more than a little extra.”
Archibald stands. “No, that is only a tenth of what my daughter is worth.” Finally, he drinks down his whiskey in a smooth, familiar motion. “If I find that you have not treated my daughter with the respect she deserves, I will kill you myself.” Anthony’s blood runs cold. “Good night, Lord Bridgerton. I shall see you bright and early at the altar tomorrow.”
Anthony’s office door closes behind the departed Baron. Anthony tugs his cravat and slumps down. His hand reaches for the tumblr inches away but he stops.
Lord Featherington would not find the humor in him being hungover on his wedding day.
Penelope smooths her hands down her pale green wedding dress, finding some meager pleasure in the feeling of the delicate embroidery beneath her fingers. Her father steps into the room as she admires the elegant diamond earrings he gifted her with.
He closes the door softly and she hears the orchestra begin to play. Luckily, classical music is long and she has a good five more minutes until she actually has to leave the safety of this room. His steps are heavy as he comes to stand behind her. “Are you ready, my daughter?”
Penelope turns her boundless hair flying free around her shoulder, the curled ends reaching the small of her back. She considers the question, tossing it around her mind like a ball. Then settles on, “yes,” because her father has ensured her future the best he can with a truthful threat, a check, and a satchel full of cash alongside her packed belongings headed toward the countryside. “I am ready, father.”
Archibald blinks and pulls a flask from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “A final drink for the road, darling.”
Penelope’s red lips pull into a smile and she nods. Archibald unscrews the top and holds it up as a makeshift cheer. “To your future as a married woman, I wish you all the fortune in the world.” Penelope’s eyes water and Archibald chides, “None of that, my dear, you’ll ruin all your hard work.” True, she thinks. A black streak down her pale cheek is the last thing she needs today.
The tears teetering on the edge of her waterline dry, Penelope takes the flask and cheers before pouring the liquor into her mouth like a waterfall. The whiskey goes down easy after years of practice hidden under her father’s desk. “If I need aid after, you will help me.”
“As long as I’m alive, my dear. I will always assist you.”
She returns her father’s flask, no matter how much she wants another drink, and worms her way into his side, savoring her final moments as Lord Featherington’s daughter before becoming Lord Bridgerton’s wife.
(Fifteen minutes later, Penelope and Anthony are pronounced husband and wife under an ornate arch and Anthony tastes whiskey in her mouth.)
One, she journals every morning.
The morning after their arrival in Ireland, Anthony wakes to an empty bed.
He expected to wake to snoring, drooling, or mumbling Penelope in a slovenly state that women are rare to be seen in. Hoping to find her disorderly and unkept with horrendous bed hair in that gorgeous, tempting dark blue nightgown she entered his room wearing the night before, escorted by only a bit of perfume in her hair that Anthony could smell on his… their sheets. Instead, her soft, warm, supple body that he easily embraced during the night was absent.
Sighing, Anthony pressed his face into Penelope’s space breathing in the delicate scent of her citrus and rose perfume. He had yet to learn what Penelope’s distinct scent was. And if he was going to find out, he’d need to leave this bed. He mulled over the choices in his mind, sleep or Penelope, hitting them back and forth with a mallet.
Entering the dining room, fully dressed and groomed, Anthony finds Penelope sitting at one far-head of the table with a large platter of pastries, dried meats, and fruit in front of her. He greets Penelope with a warm “good morning, wife.” Penelope looks up from her journal and blinks. Similar to last night, her face is bare of makeup.
Her eyes bore into him for a few moments until she responds with a soft ”good morning, husband.” The night before, their wedding night, Penelope expressed her desire to take it slow. To learn about each other before they consummate, “just in case,” she said, then slipped under their sheets. Anthony knew what she meant. In case, they required an annulment.
Anthony’s hand lingers over the back of the chair at the closer head of the table. With a click of his tongue, he walks over and sits beside Penelope in a side chair. Penelope looks up at him and blinks. She points her quill at him, a gold piece with a rather elegant feather (the Baron truly spoils her), and asks, “What are you doing?”
Anthony leans back in his chair summoning his inner-Benedict and allows a light-hearted smirk to grace his face. “Hopefully, sitting beside my wife and eating breakfast,” Benedict’s energy fades. “If you wouldn’t mind that is.”
Another stare. Must she examine his soul this way? “I don’t mind.” Penelope places her plate in front of him. There are crumbs and a half-eaten pastry left on it; Anthony doesn’t mind. “No need to waste another plate considering the maid comes once a day.”
That was something Archibald forgot to mention. Penelope requested for no servants to escort them to their home, only leaving the groundskeeper who doubled as a cook to prevent them from starving and the maid, the groundskeeper’s wife. They lived a mile down the road, Anthony saw their home on the carriage ride here. Penelope greeted them through the window with a bright smile, a wave, and kisses bestowed with fingertips. He was determined to receive that warmth from her eventually.
He had struggled to dress himself, not that he’d ever admit that. Hm, something they had in common, they’re both spoiled rotten. Anthony eats her leftover pastry in one bite. He hadn’t eaten since that last inn that day before. Penelope giggles behind her hand. Shoving down his manners, with a full mouth, he asks, “What?”
She shakes her head; her animated hair moves with the subtle movement. “Nothing,” she says, voice clouded with choked-down laughter. “I was hungry too. Ravenous, really.”
He swallows and asks, “Did you eat like this?”
Penelope scrunches her nose, leans closer, and whispers, “Worse.”
Anthony snorts and pours himself a glass of water. A comfortable silence grows, the only sounds are his chewing and Penelope’s quill scratching against the paper. Minutes pass, the weight of hunger in his stomach is gone and he asks, “What are you writing?”
Penelope’s quill lifts from the paper. She doesn’t look at him this time, just shrugs, and mumbles, “Just journaling. I like to journal in the morning.”
“Every morning?”
“Every morning.”
Anthony hums, resisting the urge to lean forward to sneak a peek. She’s his wife, not a sibling, he’ll need to respect her boundaries. Not tiptoe around them and aggravate until she lashes out. But he can ask, “Have I made an appearance in today’s content?”
This time, she looks at him. And with her blue eyes shining with mirth, she answers, “yes.”
Two, she enjoys a nice drink.
Despite being on his honeymoon, Anthony still has some meager tasks to complete. Mostly sending letters full of tasks and advice to Benedict; his hand cramps up multiple times due to his need to never do things by halves. Hours after breakfast, he exits his office with a stiff back and in need of a stiffer drink. He enters their room and finds Penelope lying on the light pink chaise in front of their much-large-than-needed windows. He feels as if he’s stepped into a museum.
Penelope’s hair is decorating her shoulders and tossed about the chaise. Sunlight floods the area and Penelope’s eyes are closed taking in warmth. She’s dressed in a light green nightgown that compliments the chaise in a way he never knew possible. And… he looks at the lazed hand hanging off the chaise. There’s a glass of dark liquor in her hand.
Anthony steps forward and Penelope lazily turns her head to the side. She greets him with a smile and takes a sip of her drink. “Done working already, husband?”
He nods, absentmindedly. “What are you drinking?”
Penelope sits up fully and grabs a decanter from the ground. “Something my father sent ahead of us. It’s a delicious woodsy thing.” She holds the glass aloft. “Want some?”
Anthony tugs at his neck, even though he hasn’t worn a cravat since they arrived. “Very much so.” He walks over, ignoring the once over Penelope gives him and the tingles it brings. His fingers brush hers when he accepts the glass. He sips and sighs at the taste. “Delicious, indeed.” He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Penelope’s cheek enjoying the brief hitch in her breathing. He runs his nose down until his lips are hovering over her neck. “Like you,” he whispers.
Penelope kisses the corner of his mouth and purrs, “How would you know?” Her voice always has little twists and turns as if it’s always on the precipice of something.
“It’s an instinct, wife.” Anthony corrects his posture and asks, “May I sit with you?” They’ve shared a bed for many nights now. And, truthfully, he misses her warmth.
Penelope nods and leans forward, allowing Anthony to sit behind her. Slowly, as if waiting for him to deny her, she leans back and rests her back to his chest; he doesn’t. Anthony raises a hand and glides it over Penelope’s hair. He compliments her. “Your hair is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” she says, then jokes, “Yours is not so bad.”
Anthony huffs out a laugh.
Minutes later, he asks, “Did you have a drink before our wedding?” Penelope’s unbounded laugh — a true genuine laugh full of heaving and clutched sides — lingers in his mind for days and he vows to make her laugh like that as much as he can.
Three, she has an Irish accent.
Anne, the maid, cleans early. At the darkest hour of the morning before the sun rises because “she has a sensitivity to light. Too much sun and pain explodes behind her eyes,” Penelope said, during one of their nightly talks. A ritual he started to learn more about her; every night they share a story or an anecdote.
Anthony told her of one of his favorite childhood memories with Benedict, who had climbed so high into a tree he was scared to come down. Anthony went to get him and ended up scared as well. “Father, eventually, had to come up and get us.” Penelope only snorted behind her hand and he made a mental reminder to up the ante the next night.
Penelope tells him of a time she went stargazing with her grandmother. “On my mother’s side,” she adds. “Surprisingly, she’s nicer than my father’s mother. Now, that woman makes my mother look heavenly.” Anthony grimaces and soothes his discomfort by running a hand through Penelope’s hair. She lays beside him in another magnificent nightgown, her chin resting in her palm, elbow pressed into the covers.
During a summer with her grandmother, she had taken Penelope outside wrapped in blankets stolen from their beds and they sat in the grass. “She described the constellations to me.” Penelope extends her other arm and points toward the ceiling, her head follows the motion. “She pointed up at the sky and told me the names.”
Penelope looks back at him with a beautiful smile on her face and a nostalgic look in her eyes. “I remember like it was yesterday.”
“So, you could tell me the constellations, then?”
“Of course.”
Anthony jumps out of bed and tugs the blanket, Penelope comes with it. She laughs, breathlessly. He’s never heard her laugh like that. Hm. “Why are you pulling me?”
Penelope rolls off the blanket allowing Anthony to gather it in his arms. “We are going outside and you are going to teach me the constellations.”
Penelope blinks; Anthony’s grin is hurting his cheeks but he hasn’t felt this much excitement in over a decade. “Anthony, it is freezing outside.”
He shakes the blanket. “That’s what this is for. Come, we shall share our body warmth too.” He unravels the blankets and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. He walks over to the bottom of their bed. Penelope narrows her eyes. Anthony’s nerve weakens. “Unless-”
Penelope’s face breaks into a wide smile and she crawls hastily to the edge of the bed and wraps her arms around his waist. “You’ll keep me warm?”
“Always,” he vows.
The minute Penelope opens the door, she shivers. Anthony pulls her closer to him. He guides her over to a flowerless bed of grass and they sit. Penelope’s tucked between Anthony’s legs with his chin resting on her head. “You know, I cannot look up like this?”
Anthony clicks his tongue. “A shame.”
Penelope wiggles, laughing, and Anthony removes his chin from her head instead pressing a quick kiss to her hairline. “Okay, my love, teach me some constellations.”
She sticks her hand out of the blanket to point but yanks it back in when it’s hit by the cold air. “Good lord, how did she do this? It’s freezing out there.” Anthony was right, the blanket and body warmth does keep them warm and cozy.
“Let’s use my arm.” He points at a random place in the sky. “What’s that?”
“That is nothing. Here.” She moves his arm to the right. “You point, I guide.”
Penelope teaches him of the Milky Way, Orion, Taurus, and Ursa Minor. Anthony listens intently to the twists and turns of her voice; how it dips when she says certain words. “Now, in Ursa Minor there’s…um.”
Anthony looks down, Penelope’s shaking her head. “Oh my, I can’t remember it in English. It’s um-”
In English, he thinks. “What do you mean in English, wife?”
“My grandmother is Irish, so she taught me in Irish,” she explains, rushing. “But I can’t remember the name of that star in English.” She huffs and slacks more against him.
Anthony says, “So tell me in Irish,” beneath her ear before kissing her there.
Penelope’s breath hitches. “You do not speak Irish.”
Another kiss, lower on her neck. “I do not care, teach me.”
Penelope trembles. She licks her lips and says, “It’s called An Réalta Thuaidh.”
The Irish words slip effortlessly from her lips and something in Anthony’s head clicks: so, that’s what that is. The subtle changes in her voice; the momentary lapses in her speaking. Penelope continues, “it is a symbol of guidance, direction, and hope. Since it almost never moves, it is said, if you can find the North Star, you’ll always have a way to guide yourself home.”
Something else clicks. Home. Anthony smiles against her temple. “I like the sound of that.”
Penelope hums and retrieves his relaxed arm and pulls it beneath the blanket. “You don’t mind the accent?”
Anthony’s eyebrows scrunch. “No, why would I?”
Penelope’s dejected. “My mother hates it and insists I cover it. She says it makes me sound stupid. If that’s the case, she really shouldn’t mind. All she ever wanted was for me to be dumber and stop reading all the time.”
Anthony thinks about his words before announcing, “I do not think you could ever sound stupid.”
Penelope turns and looks at him. “Truly?”
“Truly. You are a smart woman and it shows with every word you say.”
Penelope swallows and looks down for a bit. “Even like this.” Her Irish accent is smeared all over her voice, a small lilt tilting her words. It’s her voice just different from what he’s used to.
He rubs his nose against hers. “Especially like that.”
Penelope smiles. She rests her forehead against his and moves her face closer. Her lips brush against his own. Anthony’s heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. And despite the cold, he’s hotter than he’s ever been in his life.
“So,” she says, breathily, her accent bright. “Will you kiss me?”
Anthony nods, mindlessly, and brushes his lips against hers. “Absolutely.”
Anthony moves slowly, gently caressing Penelope’s lips with his own, enjoying the familiar hitch of her breath at his touch. Penelope moans softly and wraps an arm around his neck. Despite her odd angle, Anthony’s kiss is everything she’s dreamed of. Penelope pulls away, Anthony follows, pressing desperate kisses to her lips. “I should’ve-” She whines. “I should’ve done this sooner,” she sighs between Anthony’s loving attack.
At that, Anthony pulls away, licking his lips enjoying the taste of her. Finally, he says, between heaving breaths, “No, my love, this was perfect.” Home, he thinks. That’s definitely what this is.
Four, she can cook.
Anthony barges into their room. The door slams against the wall with a clunk. “Wife,” he shouts, faux-agonized. “We’re going to starve!”
Penelope flips the page in her book, then drawls, “Why are we going to starve, Anthony?” Truly, he can be so dramatic sometimes; not something she expected from him but entertaining nonetheless.
Anthony looks at her, removing the hand from his eyes. “Husband,” he says. “Amend that, please.”
Penelope sighs. “Husband,” she corrects. “Why are we going to starve?”
“Bram is sick! Anne just notified me.” Penelope glances out their window, the sun’s just peaking over the horizon. “She said the sun isn’t bright enough to cause pain yet.”
She nods. “Please settle yourself. We’re not going to starve, darling.” Penelope stands, side-stepping the tray holding her journal and a pot of ink. At Anthony’s insistence, she’s begun spending longer hours in their bed — eating and journaling with her husband lying beside her. “I shall prepare breakfast for us. Come.”
Anthony follows her. “You can cook, since when?”
“Since my mother forbade our servants from feeding me for three days for getting a new dress dirty.” Anthony recoils at her frank response. They pass through the dining room and step into the kitchen. “Now, I can’t make elaborate things but I can make us a nice platter for breakfast. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.” He leans down and lays a quick kiss to her lips. “How can I help?” Penelope talks him through the motions and together they manage to create a simple but nonetheless delicious platter of pastries, dried meats, and fruits — a favorite of Anthony’s now.
“So, cooking is relatively easy,” is what Anthony takes away from this experience.
Penelope swallows the bite of pastry in her mouth. “No, darling, we did not cook. All of these things were already prepared for us. We can have another platter for lunch but we’ll need to cook dinner.”
Anthony lays his head in Penelope’s lap. “Can you light the stove, my love?”
Penelope laughs, breaking into a wheeze-like cough. Anthony sits up; Penelope holds out her hand to calm him. “I’m fine, darling. Just too hard of a laugh.” Anthony settles back down on her lap. “And, yes, I can light the stove. It is not that hard. I’ll teach you.”
Anthony hums, pushing his face into her stomach; Penelope bats at him, playfully.
He moves to his back so he can look up at her. He knows the perfect story to tell her tonight.
Anthony doesn’t want to return home.
He lays on the bed. Penelope lying on his chest pressing warm kisses to his skin. Penelope doesn’t mind; she takes the dwindling time in stride. She dreads the trip but rejoices at the mention of seeing her father and Eloise and “all the Bridgertons, really, darling.”
Anthony smiles. “You are a Bridgerton now, have been ever since Eloise brought you home.”
He feels Penelope’s lips pull into a smile against his neck. “Was I always yours?”
“No. I hadn’t thought of you that way.” He rubs a hand over her back enjoying the silk beneath his hand. “But you’re mine now and that’s all that matters.” Irish mumbles are spoken against the underside of his chin. “I do not understand that, darling.”
She hums and mutters an apology. It doesn’t escape his notice that she didn’t translate. He’s learning but the alphabet alone is straining his voice like nothing else. He whispers, “Does translating for me bother you?”
More Irish with the shake of her head. “I do not mind. You do not mind my accent or my language. And despite your troubles, you are trying to learn. That is more than I could ask for.”
This is what he doesn’t want to stop, and why he doesn’t want to go home. What if they break under the pressures of society: the rules, the people, the pleasantries? “Promise me something.”
Penelope sits up on her knees with a smile and pushes her hair away from her face. “What?” Anthony runs a hand through her hair, getting snagged on the tangles.
“Promise me we will talk to each other. When we return to Mayfair,” he clarifies. “Promise me we will work to continue this relationship we have crafted. Promise me we’ll still have breakfast together once a week. Promise me we’ll still share our stories and care for each other and lo-” Anthony cuts himself off; Penelope runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Promise me we will not let society ruin us.”
She straddles his legs and scatters feather-light kisses across his face. “I promise,” she whispers against his lips. “Will you do the same?”
He says a horrible mispronounced Irish word. “Aontaím.”
Penelope laughs, softly. Her body performs a familiar hitch with the bright sound. “Ah, you agree, do you?” Her accent warms his soul and eases his worries.
“Yes, very much so. I want this to work, no matter where we are.”
Penelope mumbles more Irish against his cheek before pecking his lips. It’s what she said earlier; what she neglected to translate. He asks, “What does that mean?”
She simply hums against his throat. “Nothing important.”
The next day, consoled of his worries with a multitude of kisses and untranslated Irish murmurs, Anthony helps Penelope pack. Or rather, “check the spare bedroom for stragglers, please,” Penelope asks, shutting and clasping the last of their luggage aside from their shared luggage set aside for their travels.
The groundskeeper helped move their luggage to a spare bedroom when they first arrived just so they wouldn’t be tripping over the trunks. And for the last few days, Penelope has been rudely awoken by her mid-afternoon cat nap by Anthony’s loud swears when he does.
“Of course, my love,” he responds.
Anthony scours the room for missed items; he checks the closet, desk drawers, under the bed. Nothing’s been left behind. After a final glance, he steps toward the door and the floorboard under his foot creaks. And since he’s nothing if not curious, Anthony pries it up. It doesn’t need much, just a few wiggles and it slips out the spot.
Cash. Large bundles of cash beneath the floor. At first glance, it’s thousands of pounds. Anthony pulls some out, examining them like he’s never seen cash before. Must be Archibald’s, he rationalizes. For a rainy day. Or the day he becomes wanted for his many crimes. Until he unearths a letter and folded papers tucked underneath.
Anthony reopens the letter, noticing the broken seal.
Dia duit Penelope,
My beloved daughter.
I hope your travels weren’t too strenuous. And if it was, I hope your seasickness wasn’t too troubling. Your mother has been hounding Phillipa and Prudence preparing them for the upcoming season.
Just to inform you, darling; your future son is the only boy I will accept as the future Baron Featherington. Your husband will simply have to accept that. Speaking of your husband, how is he treating you? I hope you are content, if anything, in your marriage.
But, if not, the Agnew’s are willing to help you escape to your Grandmother’s and there’s a decent amount of money in your familiar hiding place for you to flee with. You are a smart woman, as I raised you to be, and no man will stand in your way; not even me.
However, if you are, at the very least, content in your marriage. I must applaud you. You have taken a treacherous hand and flipped your way into a successful marriage. What a talented gambler you are. You could’ve folded and taken the easy way out but you stayed at the table. And that takes courage. I am so proud of you, my dear.
Now, will you continue your writing when you return? If you require assistance to deliver your columns, I can have that arranged. I know you prefer to deliver them yourself but know it’s available. Now that I think of it, I’m sure you know how to sneak out of Bridgerton House.
In only nineteen years of life you have achieved things others only dream of… and I cannot wait to see what you do next. Even if that law-abiding husband of yours is now a part of our family.
Sincerely,
Your Loving Father
Anthony’s heart beats entirely too fast in his chest. Gambler? Writing? Column? He knew Archibald broke the law on a large scale but he didn’t think Penelope followed in his footsteps.
He unfolds the pamphlet. And in Penelope’s handwriting is the beginning of a Lady Whistledown column detailing the start of the season.
Anthony drops his head into his hand.
For the first time during their honeymoon, Anthony wakes first.
His sleep was disrupted by the thought of his wife possibly being Lady Whistledown or associating with her in some shape or form. Anthony rolls over and looks at her.
A small candle lit on Penelope’s nightstand shines perfectly against her face, allowing him to see her at the darkest point of the night. Her hair is more of an orange-red in the light.
Despite his reservations, Anthony reaches out and spins a curl around his finger. Penelope sighs and snuggles further into the pillow. How wonderful she is. He rubs a knuckle over her cheek and she snores, a small vibrating thing that wiggles its way out of her mouth.
Anthony brushes his nose against hers. Another snore, a deeper thing with lower pitch. It’s hard to believe that this woman, his sweet wife, could be the woman behind the column revealing tons of society scandals and secrets.
Yet, in spite of his apprehension, he can’t dispel the budding love he has for her.
Five, she’s Lady Whistledown.
A few days after they arrive in Mayfair the first Whistledown of the season is sold.
Anthony reads it at breakfast. The beginning is the exact same as the one under the floorboards written in Penelope’s elegant handwriting. He sets the pamphlet down and taps Penelope’s foot under the table. She looks at him mid-bite with a wide-eyed look then hums, questioning.
He leans closer; Penelope does as well. He whispers, “Dia duit.” Penelope gives him a closed-mouth smile, she has the most beautiful lips.
And in the most musical voice, she says, “May God be with you, too, my love.” No, he thinks, there’s nothing wrong with her being Lady Whistledown. It’s an outlet for her creative ways, not unlike Benedict’s paintings or Francesa’s pianoforte. Sure, she destroys people’s lives on occasion, airing their dirty laundry for everyone to see. But, men do worse on a daily basis.
Her father included. Who is Anthony to judge?
Penelope slips a pair of teardrop diamond earrings through her lobes. Anthony watches her from their bed, the suit he’s wearing a heavy contrast to the relaxed and mussed state of covers. He’s insisted that the maids only fix it up once a week. “Must you go,” he complains.
He would love to strip off his suit, take a bath, and rest beneath the warm covers but dinner is in thirty minutes and Penelope’s leaving to her parents for their weekly dinner.
She gives him an amused glance through the mirror. “I must,” she says. “I’ll only be gone a few hours. Dinner with my family.” He can tell she doesn’t want to do that, her tone heavy with impending exhaustion. “Then, after-dinner drinks and cards with my father.” At that, she’s much brighter so Anthony doesn’t mind her leaving so much. “Will you be asleep when I return?”
“No,” he says, assuredly. “I do not want to sleep without you.”
Penelope walks over to her vanity and spritzes a vanilla-scented hair spray onto her hair from a pearl-colored bottle then brushes it through with her fingers, loosening her curls in a manner he adores. After brief farewells to the rest of the family, Anthony escorts her across the way to Featherington Manor and in a horrid distortion of manners: she kisses him hard then runs up the porch steps, throws open the door, and yells, “I’m home.”
She turns and gives him a regretful look (because Portia will scold her like nothing else) and blows him a kiss before shutting the bright-colored door.
After dinner, Anthony heads to bed early. His wife may not be there but her scent is all over the sheets and pillows. He buries himself in it adding a small spray of her vanilla hair spray to add to the illusion.
He extinguishes all the candles but one on Penelope’s bedside table and reads a good fifty pages of Wuthering Heights because Penelope enjoys it and eventually they’ll run out of stories to tell each other.
The words are merging together and his eyes are falling closed when he feels it — a swell of stress and worry festering in his gut. Anthony wrangles his suit back on to the best of his ability. He’s straightening his cravat using a corner of Penelope’s vanity when he sees her.
The unmistakable figure of his wife slipping out of her family garden and into a hired hack.
So, Anthony does what any reasonable and rational worried husband would do.
He follows.
Her father asks, “Does your husband know you’re using these family dinners to sneak out and commit crimes?”
She rests her half-smoked cigar in the ashtray. “No, father, he does not.”
“Will you tell him?”
“Not now,” Penelope says. Archibald raises his eyebrows and levels her with a look. “Maybe, not ever,” she admits.
“And, why is that?”
Penelope allows her eyes to roam the study even though she knows it like the back of hand, and holds an exact copy of it in her mind for the day it finally changes. She doesn’t want to see her father’s knowing gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Penelope,” he warns. “Do not lie to me.”
She looks at him, moving her eyes lazily, and sighs. “I love him and he will loathe me if I tell him.”
“Will he?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Very well, my dear. A drink?”
Penelope rubs her forehead hoping to ease the pain swelling behind her eyelids. “Please.”
The first night he follows her, and hears her organizing Lady Whistledown’s (maybe her) affairs with that brilliant Irish accent, Anthony races against the clock to beat her home.
He barely manages to strip off his wrinkled suit, blow out the candles, and slip beneath the sheets before Penelope slips into the room. She attempts to be quiet but he hears the folds of her dress rustling and her jewelry drop into the dish.
He feels the mattress dip under her weight as she slides her torso against his back until her lips are against his neck. “Anthony,” she whispers. He longs to turn his head to the side and kiss until she can’t breathe then admonish her for the dangerous double life she’s been living.
He does neither. He lets Penelope whisper his name four more times until he feigns waking up, something his youth allowed him to practice in spades. “My love,” he says, groggily, and rubs at his eyes; the room is rather dark after all.
“I just wanted you to know I’ve returned home,” she whispers and kisses the skin under his ear.
He shivers and whispers, “Thank you for letting me know.” He lifts his arms and Penelope snuggles into his side. He buries his nose in her hair and, alongside the classic vanilla, there’s a faint woodsy scent of cigars.
“I missed you,” he whispers, then settles a warm kiss on her cheek.
She mutters Irish words against his lips. “I missed you too, darling.”
Penelope hates lying to Anthony: her husband, her love, her only.
But he would not take kindly to her being an author of various destructions across the Ton.
So she lies and her father kindly corroborates, implicitly repaying her for the time the Royal Guard ransacked their home searching for the incriminating documents she held in her bosom, and Penelope’s guilt festers in her gut like an untreated wound.
Some nights, she lies awake considering telling Anthony her secrets only to fall asleep and dream the same. Only he screams himself hoarse and calls for the Royal Guard to take her away; the Royal Guard finds nothing to implicate her due to her father’s teachings; she returns to her husband ashamed and sees nothing but hatred in his eyes.
She’ll return to Ireland with an annulled marriage and her father’s support but never again will her feet touch English soil.
Penelope wakes gasping for breath and jumps when Anthony’s hand touches her shoulder. He asks, “Bad dream?”
Shaking her head, she corrects him. “A nightmare.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Penelope turns and looks at him. His eyes are wide and accepting in the morning light, nothing like the burning hatred and anguish of his nightmarish counterpart. She considers telling him briefly but decides, “No,” she says. “No, thank you.”
Anthony rests his forehead against her temple. “Another time, perhaps.”
Penelope only nods, not wanting to speak anymore lies that she has too.
The next day, under the cover of night, Penelope slips out of her childhood home with liquor on her breath and smoke in her hair. Her hired hack takes her the third route to the printer’s where she delivers the “tenth column of the season” with ease.
The printer smiles and says, “Give my congratulations to the madam.”
“Of course,” she responds and slips away.
The hack moved down the street at her insistence, in preparation for the different return route. Penelope maneuvers her way through a crowd of smoking patrons loitering outside a tavern. She keeps her head on a swivel but barely sees the hulking presence of a man before he clamps a hand over her mouth.
Penelope screams and yelps when he grabs her in a bruising grip and drags her into an alley.
He slams her back into a wall of brick. Her head hits the wall hard and her vision distorts. “Pleas-” she starts before the man’s shoved away from her. A hand wraps around her wrist and tugs her behind them. Even in her possibly concussed haze, Penelope recognizes the scent.
“Leave,” her husband commands. “Now!”
The man slinks out of the alleyway muttering harsh curses under his breath. Anthony spins around to pull her to his chest; Penelope grips his lapels in trembling fists. “How bad are you hurt, my love?” Anthony feels the back of her head and mutters, “You’re not bleeding.”
She can’t speak. Anthony lowers himself so they’re face-to-face. “Penelope,” he calls. “Penelope.” She can’t tell if she’s trembling in his grip or if he’s shaking her.
He rises to his full height and rests his lips to her forehead. “My love,” he whispers against her temple. “How are you feeling?”
That she can answer. “Terrified.”
“If the attacker comes back, my dear. I will protect you all the same.”
She shakes her head and whispers, “I am only afraid of the attacker, Anthony. I am terrified of your reaction.”
“To what?”
“The fact that I…” Penelope licks her lips. “I am Lady Whistledown.”
And to her surprise, Anthony simply responds, “I know.
Anthony managed to wrangle his seemingly-catatonic wife into his carriage.
The entire ride to his not-yet-relinquished bachelor lodgings, she rested against his side sobbing quietly. He had a strong feeling nothing he said would help so he simply held her, only letting her go to sit her on the couch and stir up a fire.
He gets on his knees before her and rests his hands on her thighs. He squeezes softly and she glances at him before returning her glance to the floor. He begs, “Please look at me, my love.”
She doesn’t. But she mutters, “I’ve felt so guilty about not telling you.” A harsh sob makes her chest lurch. She looks at the ceiling and clutches a hand to her chest. With a trembling voice, she continues, “Every second of the day, I’ve been carrying around the guilt of hiding this from you and…you already know. My nightmares filled with you looking at me with hatred have haunted me for weeks… and you already know.”
Anthony blinks. She sounds so defeated.
Penelope laughs, brutally, and drops her head into her hand; her fiery hair creates a shield for her to hide behind. Anthony hates the sound — it tears at his heart. Her vanilla scent wafts around them and the familiarity eases the pain in his chest. He grabs her hands and lays kisses all over her palms; her head remains hung.
Anthony fills the silence. “I’ve been following you for weeks. For, I could not simply leave you alone in your endeavors knowing the dangers that a lone woman faces. When I found out that first night, I laid awake while you slept and thought about your famed enterprise.”
The fiery curtain moves and Anthony feels her eyes on him even if he can’t see the beautiful blue. “And what did you think?”
Anthony proclaims, “I think you are a magnificent and brave woman who I am honored to be married to. And nothing you could do could ever make me look at you with hatred. Ever. You can let go of the guilt now, my dear.” A kiss on the inside of her wrist. “For I bear no ill will toward you.” Finally, she looks at him. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his.
She whispers, “Truly?”
“Truly.”
Penelope whispers, “Grá mo chroí thú; Mo chuisle.”
Anthony pushes her hair away, looking through her curtain. “Would you mind translating for your English husband?”
Penelope sits up, revealing her face to him, in all her red-rimmed eyes and red-nosed glory. “You are the love of my heart; my pulse,” she translates. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t love her back; he doesn’t hate her and that’s more than she ever hoped. She rephrases, “I love you, my husband.”
Plus one, he loves her too.