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Chapter Text

The palace was adorned in festive splendor. The day meant to be the crowning jewel of London’s 1814 season, a grand affair culminating in the marriage of the Queen’s chosen diamond, Miss Edwina Sharma, to the most eligible bachelor of the year, the Viscount, Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Everything had been executed to perfection until that very moment. 

The Viscount had been nothing short of relentless in his pursuit of the young lady, despite the interference of her elder sister, who had successfully dissuaded many other perfectly suitable — and in some respects, superior — suitors. For while Lord Bridgerton was undeniably wealthy, he remained, after all, merely a Viscount

Still, the courtship had progressed . 

They had gone far beyond the brief courtship of the Queen’s previous Diamond, Miss Daphne Bridgerton, whose favoured match had ended before an engagement, let alone a wedding.

But Queen Charlotte should have known better than to trust the Bridgertons.

That family was as wealthy and influential as it was chaotic. In fact, it had been thanks to their predictably scandalous nature that she had unravelled the mystery of the elusive Lady Whistledown.

The Queen still harbored a few doubts, though only out of an excess of caution. In truth, only four individuals fit the profile, and three could be dismissed as improbable choices. She would admit to herself, and only to herself, that she had very nearly overlooked the answer. She lacked irrefutable proof, despite having sent investigators scouring London in search of her.

And yet, she was certain: the notorious writer was none other than the most unassuming and oft-forgotten Miss Penelope Featherington.

A girl overlooked by all, except when she was being ridiculed — even by herself, in her own publication. Whether that had been a deliberate act of consistency or a means to deflect suspicion, Charlotte could not say. What had betrayed her, however, beyond her words, was her unwavering attachment to the Bridgerton family. As Lady Whistledown, she always shielded them from true scandal, working behind the curtains to mitigate the backlash and consequences the family suffered; and as Penelope Featherington, she stood closer to them than anyone outside their own blood. She defended them with unwavering devotion, placing them above herself and even above her own kin, as though they were her true family.

Knowing this truth did little to ease the Queen’s irritation over this fiasco, or her concern for what the young woman might write of it.

Had the girl anticipated this turn of events? Did she know the details behind this scandal? Given her familiarity  with the parties involved, it was likely. And that, more than anything, vexed and displeased Queen Charlotte.

“A failed wedding, hosted by the Queen. As if I required such embarrassment,” she declared to her trusted confidante, who had joined her in the chambers where she had withdrawn to.

“It is hardly your fault, Your Majesty,” Lady Danbury replied with measured composure.

“Lady Whistledown will make it so. ‘Her Majesty has chosen poorly,’ she will write.” The Queen paused, her fingers tapping lightly against the arm of her chair. “My once-immaculate taste, called into question. Her words carry far too much weight for my comfort.”

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, we may very well find ourselves in a predicament beyond repair,” Lady Danbury said carefully before continuing with deliberate calm. “It would be prudent to consider—”

“Well, it must be repaired,” the Queen interrupted, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Lady Danbury inclined her head before suggesting, “Perhaps I may go and find Miss Edwina. There may yet be something I can do.”

The Queen turned sharply. “Brimsley.” Her faithful attendant stepped forward at once. “Escort the guests to the gardens and ensure that no one departs. The nuptials shall resume shortly, and we will proceed as planned.”

As Queen Charlotte continued to deliberate on her next move, Lady Bridgerton was shown into the room.

“I must extend my deepest gratitude to Your Majesty for such a splendid event,” she began, her voice warm with sincerity. “Every detail is simply breathtaking, and—”

The Queen cut her off with a wave of her hand. “While I do appreciate the adulation, Lady Bridgerton, unless you have come to inform me that your son and his bride presently stand before the altar, I fear I have little patience for such pleasantries. For this wedding to fail is entirely unacceptable.” Her sharp gaze shifted to Lady Danbury. “Yes, Lady Danbury, have you anything to say?”

Lady Danbury, ever poised, inclined her head. “As always, Your Majesty, I am humbled by your generosity of spirit.” But for once, she faltered. “Though, uh… though—”

Queen Charlotte arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “It is most unlike you to be at a loss for words, Lady Danbury.”

Gathering herself, Lady Danbury continued, “Though it pains us greatly, both Lady Bridgerton and I are in agreement that Miss Edwina must decide her own fate.”

“Well,” the Queen mused, a slow, disdainful smirk curling upon her lips. “I did not realize the diamond outweighed the Crown.” 

As she spoke, a plan was already forming in her mind. She could not compel this bride to see the ceremony through, they were correct, but she still had a groom. And, perhaps, another bride who would not dare defy her will. She had always been fond of the Bridgertons, after all. She had proven as much time and again. 

The mere prospect of their downfall will eclipse any thought of escape.

“It does not, Your Majesty,” Lady Danbury assured her swiftly, though her expression remained guarded. Before another word could be spoken, the doors swung open, admitting Lady Mary — the mother of the runaway bride — who entered in haste, her youngest daughter at her side.

“Forgive our intrusion, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.

“Your regret is noted,” the Queen replied coolly. “I do hope my efforts today have not been in vain.”

Lady Mary dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Far from it, Your Majesty.” She hesitated but then found her resolve. “Rather, today has served as further proof of the boundless care and devotion you hold for your people, ma’am.” Then, her voice grew firmer. “Edwina and I stand before you now in recognition of all that you—”

The Queen sighed, waving a hand in exasperation. “Is there not a soul alive who can address their Queen without resorting to sheer flattery?” She wondered, for a moment, whether Lady Whistledown would behave in the same manner, given her strikingly contrasting personalities. But at that moment, her sharp gaze settled upon Miss Edwina. “Child. Are you here to tell me that you will marry him, or not?”

Before the girl could respond - though her hesitation was already answer enough - the King entered.

The presence of the King, and Miss Edwina's attitude toward his ramblings, reminded the Queen why she had chosen to name the young lady her 'Diamond.' That same reminder of Miss Edwina's kindness — genuine and soft— also highlighted the strength she lacked to set clear boundaries or challenge the Bridgerton family, traits that were so vital for fitting into their world.

A strength her sister might have. 

The Queen had no doubt about what had transpired — though some might not have understood the swift manner in which the Viscount had assisted Miss Sharma, even before the bracelet had touched the ground. 

The man was focused on her, not on the woman in front of him at the altar.

Her Majesty knew, however, that the two sisters were bound by more than blood. Would a marriage survive the unraveling of that bond? They were the only family the older woman had, and, from what she had gathered, she had sacrificed much to secure a future for Miss Edwina.

The kindest and dearest to our hearts are those who wound us most deeply, and such a wound would likely sour and rot any semblance of affection between the couple.

A true shame, but the show must go on. As intrigued as she was at the possibility that their clear attraction might prevail, even if only through their sheer stubbornness, she was unwilling to take a chance and wager on that outcome, unlikely as it was. She wondered as she watched young Edwina assist their King.

And so, in that moment, she made a decision. Dismissing most of the guests attending her, she turned to Lady Bridgerton. "Lord Bridgerton would do well to prepare himself, for there shall be a wedding today, though his bride is not to be Miss Edwina."

Lady Violet struggled to grasp the Queen’s meaning. It became clear, however, as Charlotte went on, emphasizing that if her son wished to retain his title, he would see this marriage through with the bride of her choosing.

Then, once she was alone again, without hesitation she summoned Miss Penelope Featherington.

The weight of the Crown is that it is tangible. It is a physical reminder of position and power. That is why Lady Whistledown circulates her pamphlets rather than relying on whispered rumors. A whisper is fleeting, relevant only for as long as it is spoken, but ink upon paper holds permanence. The same cannot be said of true love, of course. It shifts. It forgets. It forces one to remember who they once were. And it compels them to choose, time and again, how they shall live with it.

And even if the couple to be did not share love between one another, they both truly loved, without reservations or conditions, their family — well, the one that would have become theirs if things went as the Queen wished.

And they would go as she wished because she was Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, and this was The Queen’s Will.

Chapter Text

The panic that clawed at Penelope's throat when she received the summons from the Queen was quickly replaced with calm objectivity as she considered the possibilities. The one she settled on, the most likely one, was that the Queen knew - or, at least, suspected - about her. If she had somehow discovered her identity as Lady Whistledown, it was not hard to suppose that she would want Penelope to suppress the story of the failed wedding and manipulate the Ton's feelings towards it. All of which Penelope was planning on doing, already drafting in her mind an article that would soften the blow and protect the family she held so dear.

***

Penelope, standing before the doors that separated her from Her Majesty, took a deep, steadying breath, straightened her posture and assumed the demeanor of Lady Whistledown. She could not predict what awaited her inside, but whatever it was, she would meet it with the composure that had come to define her other self.

Upon entering the room, she advanced with measured grace, curtsied deeply to the Queen, and remained silent, awaiting her monarch's first move. If the Queen sought to unsettle her, she had yet to meet the true strength of Penelope’s resolve.

“It is interesting,” the Queen began, rising from her throne and stepping forward, her tone sharp. “You are so utterly forgettable — despite the vividness of your attire. I recall your debut only because of your sister’s unfortunate fainting spell,” she remarked, her gaze assessing Penelope with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “Yet now, without knowing why you have come, you stand before me so unexpectedly strong and composed.” Penelope remained silent, her posture unwavering, and the Queen’s gaze narrowed slightly. "Why do you suppose you are here, young lady?" Her voice was commanding, yet tinged with a certain intrigue.

Penelope met her eyes and replied evenly, “Because I was summoned by Your Majesty.”

Charlotte smiled, her lips curling in mild amusement. "No flattery, then?"

"Is flattery necessary when one is expounding facts?" Penelope responded, her voice steady, despite her words.

The Queen regarded her for a moment, her gaze calculating. "I like you, child. Your frankness is a breath of fresh air, and for that reason, I shall be just as clear with you," she continued, her tone shifting. "You nearly escaped my notice entirely. Were it not for Miss Bridgerton, you would have gone unnoticed. She seemed a likely candidate — vibrant, bold, - but sorely lacking the subtlety needed for such an enterprise. She would have made a fine cover, had her own behavior not drawn so much unwanted attention."

Penelope kept impassive at the veiled confirmation. She knew better than to argue with her needling about Eloise. After all, she had worked tirelessly to prevent any rumors from tarnishing her friend’s reputation.

Knowing the situation offered no room for subterfuge, Penelope looked directly at the Queen and asked, “What is it that I can do to assist, Your Majesty?”

A sly smile spread across Charlotte's face. "Miss Edwina will not be marrying Lord Bridgerton. You will be his bride."

Penelope’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” she stammered, her eyes widening in disbelief. Surely she had not heard that correctly.

"You will be the next Lady Bridgerton," the Queen confirmed, her voice as cold as it was commanding.

“Why?” Penelope’s voice barely rose above a whisper, a mixture of confusion and disbelief in her tone.

The Queen’s gaze grew colder. "Because I am in need of a bride," she said, almost dismissively.

“But there is Miss Sharma," Penelope replied, her mind racing. Surely the Queen was aware of the circumstances surrounding the halting of the wedding, which had been abundantly clear to everyone present at the church. Penelope had seen it coming from a mile, and anyone with half a brain could have noticed it. The Queen was no fool; Anthony’s distraction was evident, especially when he had been helping Miss Sharma with her bracelet, all before the young Miss Sharma fled the church, leaving her supposed groom standing alone at the altar.

Charlotte gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, her gaze resting on Penelope with an expression that teetered between indifference and condescension. “Miss Sharma was a possibility, yes, but also a risk I am unwilling to take. That marriage could ruin them all, and I am not prepared to shoulder the humiliation of having orchestrated such a terrible match, or to bear that responsibility.”

Penelope could not argue with the Queen's assessment, but she knew the decision was not so simple. “But you could send Miss Edwina to Prussia,” she suggested, trying to spin her words and tantalize the Queen with another option than this. "Your nephew is still searching for a wife, and Prussian Blue is far more striking than Bridgerton Blue."

"You have begun weaving your tale with care, and I commend you for it. However, the bond between the Sharma sisters runs deep. Miss Sharma has already sacrificed her wealth, her youth and she would willingly sacrifice her own happiness for the security and joy of her sister. Do you truly believe that bond will survive this?" The Queen’s voice held a note of finality. "Do you think they will be able to mend their relationship if I send one to Prussia and force the other into a marriage with a man the first was promised to?"

Penelope absorbed the weight of the Queen’s words, understanding the delicate nature of the situation. The bond between the sisters would indeed be shattered, but, “ The marriage doesn’t need to take place today,” she offered cautiously.

Charlotte’s eyes darkened. “It will be today, or there will no longer be a Lord Bridgerton.” Penelope inhaled sharply, stunned, cornered. "The choice is yours, my dear," the Queen said, her voice dripping with finality. "Will there be Lady Bridgerton?"

Penelope’s mind raced. As much as she believed Miss Sharma might have been a fitting match for Lord Bridgerton, she knew that on this day, Miss Sharma would refuse. And Penelope couldn’t allow the outcome to happen.

“I... I don’t look like a bride,” Penelope said hesitantly.

The Queen’s smile was sharp as a blade. ‘Checkmate.’

Penelope’s eyes widened as Charlotte's voice rang out with authority. ”Do not worry, my maids were already anticipating your arrival,” she said, her voice laced with cruel amusement. Then, with a louder command, she added, “Brimsley, prepare Miss Featherington for her wedding.”

***

The church was once again crowded, filled with low murmurs.

The groom stood in his place, his face set in a rigid expression, ready for anything. He didn’t know who he would marry, but he would marry, and the bride would be chosen by the Queen’s will.

It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To fulfill his duty.

When the music began to swell and the doors opened, he almost didn’t dare to turn around. But when he did, confusion hit him in an unexpected wave.

At first, he didn’t recognize her.

All he saw was a figure draped in blue — a familiar shade, the very color of his family. The Queen had ensured that his future bride was adorned in their hues, and they seemed to complement her complexion beautifully.

Who would be the woman to stand beside him as Lady Bridgerton? From what he could see, she was pretty, with wide hips, and being chosen by the Queen, she would certainly not cause any social embarrassment.

Then, as she came closer, he saw the telltale features and stiffened, his widening eyes betraying his surprise.

Miss Featherington.

In that moment, it struck him that she surely had more than half a brain and was loyal - at least to the Bridgertons.

All these considerations led him to the undeniable conclusion: Miss Penelope Featherington possessed every quality required of a viscountess. She fulfilled every expectation he had set for his future wife.

Anthony recalled, with no small measure of reluctance, how she had attempted — albeit unsuccessfully — the previous season to warn Colin before Lady Whistledown’s damning article had been published. Colin had let it slip at White’s while recalling his engagement dinner and the strange questions Eloise had asked beforehand. It was clear that,  even before that, - they had discovered later that - Penelope had been the one who prompted Eloise to ask how a woman got with child. Had they been more suspicious, they might have investigated what had sparked her question and perhaps connected it to Miss Thompson’s haste to become Mrs. Bridgerton.

She was, beyond doubt, devoted to his family, protective. She would not be alone without him. And above all, if after so many years he had never loved her, nor she him, then surely there would be no risk of heartbreak between them. Had he but considered her before, none of this insurmountable mess would’ve come to pass. She would have been his viscountess, but the turmoil that had preceded this marriage, the pain that his actions had inflicted, might have been avoided.

His heart had suffered alongside the others, and despite it all, Anthony couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Who had he hoped to see? 

The answer, one he scarcely dared admit even to himself, was clear. Some foolish, desperate part of him had secretly hoped the Queen would have chosen Kate.

The woman he had finally admitted he wished to marry, the very one who had urged him to go through with the wedding to her sister.

The reality, however, was different.

It had been when he thought he was going to marry Edwina Sharma and it was when he was about to marry Penelope Featherington.

He would fulfill his duty, as he must. 

His mother had been explicit — if he refused the bride chosen by the Queen, there would be no Lord Bridgerton. No future for his house. He had no alternative.

In the end, he had received precisely what he had claimed to desire.

***

Penelope could see the many emotions flicker across Lord Bridgerton’s face before he masked them with the expression of duty once more.

It was the same she was doing.

Saving the Bridgertons.

This was what gave her the courage to walk alongside the Queen towards a fate she never thought would be hers, despite having, like every other Miss of the Ton, spent her whole life preparing for marriage.

A small part of her smiled ironically. Though it wasn’t supposed to be her wedding, it looked far better than anything her mother could have orchestrated. The improvised gown was much more subdued and suited her far better than the ostentatious yellow dresses Portia Featherington would have had her wear. Her hair had been styled more delicately, softening her features, and for once, she no longer resembled a poodle. The light makeup transformed her, making her feel like a woman rather than a child.

Lord Bridgerton hadn’t been the only one who didn’t recognize her at first.

Her mother only realised it was her when their eyes met. 

The shock upon her face was so stark, so unguarded, that Penelope felt a pang of hurt. Her family had not even noticed her absence. It was hardly the first time, yet, in that moment, the realization struck her with greater force — perhaps because this day marked the end of her life as a Featherington . Within mere minutes, she would bear a new name, a new place in society. She would be a Bridgerton.

In some unspoken way, she saw the same understanding dawn in her mother’s eyes — a mirrored sorrow, unfeigned and raw. The guilt, it seemed, was not an artifice. The expression was too exposed, too wholly unguarded to be a mere performance. A flicker of warmth stirred within her. 

As she made her way down the aisle, Penelope might have wagered that some among the guests had not even learned her name — nor would they, until the vows were spoken.

The priest was the only one who had been made aware of the bride’s identity, prior to the beginning of the ceremony.

Chapter Text

Shock rippled through the crowd, a silent yet palpable wave of disbelief. Though whispers were few, every guest keenly understood that they were merely spectators in the Queen’s grand spectacle, their presence rendered insignificant by the sheer weight of the unprecedented events unfolding before them.

This day would not be forgotten. The scandal of a groom left at the altar, followed by the presentation of a substitute bride — it was enough to make one reconsider ever becoming entangled with a ‘Diamond’. 

Surely, this was a punishment. What else could it be? Otherwise, why, among all the eligible young women of the Ton, had the Queen chosen the most infamous wallflower to take the place of the intended bride?

Despite the tension, and the undeniable awareness that this was far from the romantic spectacle expected of a Bridgerton wedding, the guests stepped forward, one by one, to offer their congratulations. 

The newlyweds stood together, composed yet unreadable, flanking their Queen as she watched the reactions with the sharp gaze of a hawk.

Beneath the murmurs and feigned civility, one unspoken question lingered in the air, heavy with anticipation.

What would Lady Whistledown write?

***

Despite being the center of attention, Penelope mentally formulated her next article. She tried to catch the whispers, to sense what questions were creeping among the guests, and when she was distanced from her husband — surrounded by attendees who knew nothing about her and were trying to figure out what had led the Queen to choose her above all others — she took the opportunity to drop targeted comments. 

Every word was a seed, destined to sprout in the evening's gossip and provide the foundation her next publication would build upon.

She had exchanged a few words with her mother, who, to her surprise, had been exceedingly kind, inquiring after her well-being, seeking to ensure that she was in good health. Penelope had gently silenced her, reminding her that they were in public, and that each of them had a part to play.

"Would you be able to send something for me to pass the night?" she asked, her voice soft. "And might you be able to join me tomorrow?"

Portia's expression tightened slightly, but she answered with a soft nod. "Lord Bridgerton is supposed to depart with his bride, dearest."

Penelope, however, dismissed her concern. "It seems unlikely that all will unfold as anticipated. There will, I believe, be at least a slight delay as we find our bearings in the new situation."

As she spoke, Penelope found herself struck by how much the situation with her mother resembled her marriage. For the first time, she saw her mother not as a distant, detached figure, but as a mother — truly, sincerely concerned for her. It was as Portia, for once, was acting as she had always done for her other daughters.

Penelope's emotions were torn between the desire for this new beginning and the scars left by the indifference that had marred their relationship. Before she could dwell too much on her mother,  as she received congratulations and sought her mother, she had noticed that the Sharma sisters weren’t the only ones missing. She had hinted that Miss Edwina’s choice was influenced by the chance to wear Prussian blue, while her own was based on her close ties to the Bridgerton family and how easily she would fit into their family. However, what had truly struck her was another absence, one that went unnoticed only because the guests and the Bridgertons were too distracted by the course of events to realize it. Had Eloise Bridgerton been present, there was no doubt she would have caused a scene. 

For a moment, she wondered where the Bridgertons thought Eloise was, but that didn't really matter at the moment. She, though concerned about what her friend's absence might mean, thought it was a blessing in disguise — one less scandal to manage. Being the center of attention wasn’t her preference, and finding herself in that position was uncomfortable, but the Bridgertons needed her. She would have time to reflect on her future afterward.

Now, there was no space for hesitation or sentimentality — only strategy.

And so, to ensure that no one questioned Eloise’s absence, she began to set her plan into motion. She consciously detached herself from her husband under the pretext of needing to use the ladies' room, and as she greeted a few guests, she casually dropped a comment: she would go find Eloise, who everyone knew had no desire to marry, and perhaps was hiding out of fear that Her Majesty, displeased, might decide to find her a husband.

“Perhaps, if she weren’t the Viscount's sister, it might have been her today,” she chuckled, as if the idea were absurd, yet at the same time suggesting there might be some truth to her own remark if the Queen’s choice had been a punishment for the Viscount. But, at the same time, she left another doubt hanging — maybe it was a logical choice, because Miss Penelope Featherigton was already integrated into the family and wouldn't cause any disruption. 

It didn’t matter which version they preferred to believe, ambiguous situations were the best for containing scandals.

After planting enough seeds — but leaving Eloise with plenty to explain — Penelope returned to her husband’s side, who was handling the situation with his usual composure. Not that she ever doubted him; years of politics had trained him to mask his emotions, just as she had learned to do.

But how much longer could they keep doing that?

She forced herself to breathe deeply, trying not to let the questions slip into her mind. But it was impossible to ignore them entirely. She watched him closely, and for the first time, she allowed herself a thought she had avoided up until now: what would their life together be like?

She understood the Queen’s move, but she didn’t like being the chosen pawn, especially when, upon encountering Colin, the past hit her like a memory too vivid to ignore. For a moment, she allowed herself to think about what she had wanted. Maybe it had been just a childish dream, but it had been her dream. And now, she would never have it, that dream had turned to ashes.

Colin, unaware of the turmoil swirling in her mind, smiled gently at her. He congratulated her — something he hadn’t done yet, because, like the other adult members of her new family, he had been helping to entertain the guests — and hugged her warmly. “Sister,” he called her, with the natural ease of someone who took it for granted that this was always their destiny. “You can count on me,” and as he embraced her, he whispered, “I’ll always be there for you, you’re special to me. You have always been.”

His words warmed her heart. But it was a fleeting warmth, quickly swallowed by a wave of melancholy. A few hours ago, those words would have changed her world.

Now, as she approached the man she had married, one thought stood out above all others: despite the looming conversation with Anthony about lovers — and the possibility of taking one herself — Colin had never been, nor would ever be, a consideration.

Even if it had been possible.

Though she had spent years dreaming of it, though every irregular heartbeat had always been for him, she would never choose to inflict that kind of cruelty.

Colin was a lost dream.

She inhaled slowly, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the fabric of her dress. She returned to her place at her husband's side.

Anthony. 

He was her future now.

That was the Queen’s will.

***

As the wedding and the celebrations carried on, the sounds began to seep into the palace, where the Sharma women remained, never once stepping outside.

***

Kate remained in the darkness of that small room after Anthony had left, lost in her thoughts. When the sounds of the festivities reached her, she understood — the wedding had happened.

She couldn't help but feel sad. And betrayed.

By whom? She wasn’t sure.

Her relationship with Edwina would never be the same. Soon, she would return to India, and for the first time in her life, she would be truly alone. Kate had always known she would return to India after the wedding, but not like this.

All of this because of a man.

How had she allowed herself to be reduced to this?

Anthony Bridgerton was no one to her.

Her family was everything.

Yet, not only had she failed to protect Edwina, but she had condemned her to a marriage she had never truly chosen. Not for the right reasons. And now, it had been sealed — not out of love, not out of desire, but out of duty.

A lump tightened in her throat.

That realization was worse than anything else. Because she knew that, no matter how much time might heal the wounds, her sister would never look at her the same way again.

Kate took a slow breath, trying to suppress the guilt suffocating her. But she couldn’t.

Not this time.

***

In another room of the palace, Edwina sat tearful with her mother, while the celebrations carried on without her. 

In the end, Kate had taken her place.

She was angry. Just minutes before they had parted, Kate had kept telling her she should marry Lord Bridgerton — and then she had gone and married him herself, without even calling for her.

Of course, the Queen had assured her she would arrange something with her nephew, and that Prussian Blue was far more beautiful than Bridgerton Blue. But that wasn’t the point. It was the betrayal. 

The fact that Kate had decided her future, and then she had stolen it from her.

Could she ever forgive Kate? She thought she could. But not right away. Certainly not in that moment.

And yet, she knew she would have to go to her, smile, and offer her congratulations — because that was the right thing to do.

***

It was only hours later, when she had calmed down and the guests were clearly beginning to leave, both girls decided to step out.

Kate walked alone, tall and straight, ready to face more harsh words — if not from Edwina, then at least from Mary and perhaps even Lady Danbury.

Edwina, on the other hand, walked alongside her mother, whose silent presence gave her the strength to endure yet another humiliation of the day.

However, when they all entered the same drawing room, they were surprised not to find Lord Bridgerton there. Instead, they saw each other — faces streaked with ruined makeup, still wearing the same dresses from hours before, now in even worse condition.

Then, from another entrance, Lord Bridgerton and Miss Penelope Featherington appeared.

Time seemed to freeze as everyone looked at one another.

An awkward silence filled the drawing room as all paths converged, even though understanding was slow to come.

Chapter Text

Penelope was surprised to find both of Sharma sisters in front of her. 

The timing was far from ideal. 

She had briefly considered finding a secluded spot and speaking with Anthony, and suggesting that he seek out the Sharma ladies, as they had been absent from both the ceremony and the reception and deserved the courtesy of being informed — by him, or perhaps by both of them, if he deemed it appropriate — of their marriage. Moreover, despite having greeted the guests, they had not truly spoken, and she hoped that a moment alone with him would change that. 

Surely, this wasn’t how she had expected it to unfold when she had suggested him to step into the palace for a moment.

Penelope turned to Anthony. She was trying to gauge his motions, and she caught a glimpse of his heartbreak. Her heart broke for him, but she knew now wasn’t the time to address it, to do something about it. Then she scanned the room: Lady Mary appeared lost in thought, while the older Miss Sharma seemed simply tired of everything. 

Then, her gaze shifted to Edwina, and something in her expression must have betrayed her, as the young woman hesitated only a moment before her eyes fell on Penelope’s hand, where the wedding band and engagement ring gleamed.

Both the Queen had chosen from her own collection and gifted them to the newlyweds, and that simple detail removed any lingering doubts Edwina might have had about Penelope’s role at Anthony’s side.

The next thing Penelope noticed, Edwina was moving toward her, and she barely had time to open her arms before the younger woman embraced her. Edwina wasn’t crying, but her words were heavy with apology, as she expressed her regret for condemning Penelope to a marriage she hadn’t wanted. Despite the strangeness of the moment, Penelope found herself offering comfort to the woman who had woken up believing she would become Lady Bridgerton by day’s end — the very position Penelope had now taken.

***

It was an odd sight — the bride who should have been and the bride who was, wrapped in a quiet embrace of understanding. Meanwhile, the man who was meant to wed one and had now wed the other stood frozen, watching the woman he loved.

Kate was not looking at him — she was looking towards Penelope Featherington.

No. 

Penelope Bridgerton.

His actual wife.

There was desire in Kate’s gaze, though for what, Anthony could not be certain. 

Did she long to be the bride in her place, or was it simply the instinct to comfort her sister?

He wished he could console her, wished he could be there for her, but he knew well enough to stay where he was when he saw Kate turn and walk away.

Away from whom?

Once again, he couldn’t say.

It was comforting to know that Lady Mary was following her, trusting Penelope enough to leave Miss Edwina with him.

Everyone had made their choices.

Anthony had believed he’d reached the point of no return, where stopping the marriage would only ruin Edwina. But in the end, there were even more casualties than he could have predicted. Because despite everything, he knew one thing for certain—Penelope Featherington had never dreamed of becoming Lady Bridgerton.

He remained silent, watching the two women who seemed to be comforting each other.

Until the Queen entered.

Anthony was wary of her, the knowledge clear in his mind of how his marriage came about. He hadn’t married Penelope out of love or friendship, a contract, or to avoid ruining her, but only to protect the title and his family.

And he would have married anyone to protect his family. 

***

The atmosphere in the room was heavy with tension when, with her usual authority, the Queen swept in. "It’s time for the newlyweds to take their leave," she declared, her voice firm and unquestionable. "Do not worry, Miss Edwina. I will see to you myself."

She then turned to the new Lady Bridgerton, and for a moment, exchanged a glance with her that Anthony couldn’t quite interpret. The look between them was one of quiet understanding, as if a conversation had passed between them without a word spoken. It left Anthony unsettled, wondering what role Penelope truly played in the events of the day.

With graceful poise, Penelope curtsied and made her way toward the door. But then, she paused and turned toward Anthony, meeting his gaze with an intensity he had never seen before.

"Will you join me, my Lord?" She asked softly.

Anthony hesitated for a moment, uncertain, but then he simply nodded, stepping forward and silently following his wife, once again under the Queen’s will.

***

The carriage ride to Bridgerton House was silent.

Both newlyweds were lost in their own thoughts. Anthony felt as if he was in a strange dream, while Penelope was mentally drafting the text for her next column.

Once they arrived at Bridgerton House, they were fortunate to find Eloise there. She must not have known about the marriage, as she asked, "What are you doing here?" in such a blunt manner that Violet immediately scolded her, "Eloise!"

Penelope, wanting to avoid revealing the absence of her friend and hoping she would get the hint, quickly responded, "I’m not sure what the plans are, I just followed my husband."

Eloise was shocked, but quickly fell silent, realizing that she should have known. She rushed toward Penelope, pulling her into a tight embrace and urgently whispering questions about what had happened.

Penelope chose to keep it brief, simply saying, "Edwina ran away, and the Queen chose me as the substitute bride."

Eloise tightened her embrace around Penelope, holding her for a longer moment before turning toward Anthony with a sharpness that made the room feel smaller. "This is all your fault," she said, her voice laced with accusation. "You’ve trapped her. You could have waited — get married another day."

Anthony’s head snapped toward her, his eyes burning with a mixture of frustration and desperation. He stepped forward, his tone low but intense. “Do you really think we could have waited, Eloise? Do you think I had a choice?” His voice thickened as he continued, “If I hadn’t married Penelope— if I hadn’t made her my wife today — I would no longer be Lord Bridgerton. We would have lost everything. Do you think we could survive without the privileges we’ve always had? None of us work. Daphne is married, but we would have become a burden to her. The life we’ve known would be gone. Our family would have fallen apart. Our father’s legacy — our Bridgerton legacy — would have vanished. My sacrifices, everything I have done, it all would have been for nothing."

He paused, trying to steady his breath, his fists clenched at his sides. “I didn’t want to trap her... but I had to save us.”

The room was thick with tension, the air almost suffocating. Anthony’s words lingered in the silence, heavy and unyielding. But he didn’t wait for any response. With a swift turn, he strode toward the door, and disappeared into his study.

***

Penelope let out a weary sigh and gently took Eloise’s arm, turning to the rest of the family with a small smile. "I fear I am quite exhausted," she said, her voice measured but warm. "And now that we finally have the chance, I would very much like to speak with my friend."

She glanced at her mother-in-law, hesitating for a brief moment before addressing her formally. "Would you be so kind as to have a room prepared for me, Lady Bridgerton?"

Violet, who had been watching her with an affectionate gaze, interrupted before she could say more. "Call me Violet, my dear. You are Lady Bridgerton now."

Penelope stiffened slightly, her lips pressing into a wry smile. The words still felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. The weight of her new title had not yet fully settled upon her.

Trying to shake off the thought, she continued, "Then, Violet, if it would not be too much trouble—"

"My dear, the rooms for the Viscountess have already been prepared," Violet began, but Penelope gently interrupted her.

"They were prepared for Miss Edwina." After a brief pause, she continued, "I wouldn't feel comfortable sleeping among her things." Penelope then added, "My mother should be sending me something, and tomorrow my things will begin to be moved. Perhaps it would be a good idea to start to send Miss Edwina’s possessions back to her, as well."

Violet almost flinched at the reminder but quickly regained her composure. "Of course, Penelope. I'll have another room prepared. Do you have any preferences?" It was fortunate that Penelope knew the house so well, having spent time here as a child. She could answer quickly, and the fact that Penelope had chosen a room on the opposite side of the family’s quarters was merely a side benefit — it would allow Penelope to slip away unnoticed that evening.

She would have to address the matter with her husband, before long. The very thought made her cheeks burn.

Benedict, the only man present - as Colin had taken on the task of distracting the younger Bridgertons -, blushed as well, when his gaze inadvertently met hers. He likely misunderstood the reason for her blush, attributing it to the choice of room so far from her future husband. Marriage consummation was expected, even in an arranged match, and while they no longer lived in barbaric times when the bride was seen for the first time at the altar, in a way, that was exactly what had happened.

The sight of Benedict only made Penelope's cheeks burn more, a mixture of his reflected embarrassment and the undeniable sympathy he felt for her. They both realized she was in the peculiar position of being as familiar as she was strange to them all.

Benedict wasn’t the only one having such thoughts. The fact that her mother-in-law likely shared similar concerns made Penelope’s blushing face mirror the hue of her red hair. If the mere thought of marital relations troubled her, perhaps because she knew they would soon be inevitable, she still tried to push the thought aside. There were more pressing matters at hand. She needed to know what Eloise had done throughout the day — and more importantly, she had to write her new column.

Lady Whistledown had work to do. 

If there was any hope of containing the damage, she needed to act fast.

The following day would be too important. Penelope have to see her mother and sisters, and likely explain how things came to be and why she was chosen. The few words they had exchanged showed her mother was more worried about her than she had ever expected. She had never thought her mother cared for their happiness, certainly not when she had trapped Prudence with their cousin Jack. Yet now, having practically married off all her daughters - Prudence still only engaged but with no way out for the current Baron Featherington - her mother had not been as jubilant as one might have expected.

But that was a problem for later. 

As Penelope ascended the stairs toward Eloise’s chamber, one thought took precedence above all others: she had to protect the Bridgertons.

And for the first time, as Viscountess, she could truly call them her family.

***

Once they were alone, Penelope noted with relief that Eloise had not openly revealed her ignorance of the events that had led to her sudden marriage to Anthony. That was the first thing she remarked upon, followed by a dry observation that she had, of course, noticed her absence and had taken it upon herself to spread a few remarks about fearing she might be the next to find herself saddled with a husband.

At that, Eloise promptly demanded an explanation. And once Penelope had told her everything, she reiterated her sympathy, shaking her head in bewilderment. "I still don’t understand how this happened."

The words stung. Penelope knew Eloise had not meant them unkindly, but if anyone should have understood that Penelope was a fitting choice to join the Bridgertons, it was her. Even if she had not been bound to her husband, she had long been bound to his family. And at least this way, she would not find herself suddenly alone among people who were hers in name but might never feel like hers in truth.

She pushed aside the hurt and turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. She coaxed the full story from Eloise, then scolded her for the risk she had taken, urging her to keep her head down. "Anthony was not exaggerating," she warned. "Had he refused to marry me, the Queen would have stripped him of his title — and she would not have it simply passed onto Benedict. There would have been no more Lord Bridgerton. At all"

Eloise fell silent at that, the weight of the statement settling between them.

Penelope exhaled, exhaustion creeping into her limbs. "I should rest," she murmured, "before I face Anthony."

And for once, Eloise did not protest.

The young woman was overwhelmed by the revelations of the day, and it was only later — much later, as she lay in bed — that her mind began to piece together the implications of it all.

Two questions lingered as sleep overtook Eloise:

"Why did the Queen choose Penelope?"

"And how did Penelope know that the rumors she spread would appear in Lady Whistledown’s column?"

***

After leaving Eloise, Penelope made her way to the viscount’s rooms, knowing Anthony would be in his study. She did not enter the actual bedroom. It felt strange enough to think of him as her husband — to stand in the private domain of Lord Bridgerton. She stood in that threshold, she paused for a moment, allowing the weight of reality to settle upon her before drawing a steady breath, and stepping into the private antechamber, moving toward the writing desk, and pulling out a sheet of parchment. Methodically, she arranged the inkwell and quill before setting to work.

She finished without interruption — not that she had expected any. Everyone, she was certain, was still coming to terms with the events of the day and the unforeseen shift that had altered all their lives.

Penelope had no illusions that Anthony would share a bed with her that night. She had spent enough time at Bridgerton House over the years to know how to slip in and out unnoticed — just as she had done countless times with Eloise. Still, she decided that, as his wife, she owed him at least the courtesy of knowing she intended to leave by evening.

She was uncertain how he would take it. But they were married, and it was only right that he be informed.

However, when she stepped into his study, she found him slumped over his desk, already deep in his cups. His gaze — unfocused but sharp enough in its resentment — lifted to meet hers.

"What do you want?" His voice was rough, hoarse with exhaustion and drink.

"Nothing," Penelope did not hesitate, her tone even. "Least of all from a man who, mere hours after marrying me, already resembles my father."

She turned on her heel and left him there — drowning in his own misery.

Anthony did not follow.

Instead, he collapsed where he sat, the weight of it all pressing him further into the dark.

Chapter Text

Penelope was more than irritated after seeing the state of her husband, but she had no intention of letting her foul mood affect anyone else. Finding a member of the household staff, she inquired about the state of her room for the night and requested that her dinner be brought there. She attempted to relax, reminding herself that there was still some time before she needed to leave.

She was certain Anthony would not come looking for her. She did not like it, but at least it gave her time to think about what to do next.

***

The next morning, Penelope woke feeling relatively well-rested and decided to join the rest of the family for breakfast, despite the uncertainty of the atmosphere she would find.

Upon entering the breakfast room, she was irritated, but not surprised, to see that her husband was absent. What did surprise her, however, was the sense of genuine relief she felt at the absence of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings.

Violet greeted her with a small, sad smile, while Benedict, ever the charmer, remarked, “You look positively radiant this morning, Lady Bridgerton. The sun must be envious.”

Penelope rolled her eyes with a scoff and a small smile, but before she could offer a retort, the youngest Bridgertons took Benedict’s words as an invitation for mischief. Their antics managed to lighten the tension that had settled upon her arrival, and for that, she was grateful.

Colin and Eloise joined them a little later, both of them slow risers, still groggy until breakfast arrived. Alongside their food, something far more invigorating was delivered as well.

Lady Whistledown’s latest column.

***

[...]whispers abound, my dear readers, as the Viscount’s marriage has unfolded in a most unexpected manner. Her Majesty’s decision to bless him with such a bride is, dare I say, curious. No one dares to question the Queen’s taste, of course, but one cannot help but wonder if this choice might be a subtle punishment, or perhaps a gift. The Viscount needed a wife, and the former Miss Featherington was known to be practically a Bridgerton - one who simply didn’t wear blue. A color, I might add, we have discovered suits her quite well.

And speaking of blue, rumour has it that our charming Diamond might be soon embarking on a trip, which could explain her actions at the altar. After all, why settle for Bridgerton Blue when one could wear a more regal shade? Such as Prussian Blue? [...]

***

After finishing breakfast and with no sign of Anthony, Penelope excused herself, taking the latest issue of Lady Whistledown as she made her way to his study. Her steps were steady, unwavering. No one stopped her. She was the new Viscountess, and this was her home.

When she reached the door separating her from her husband, she took a small breath and knocked. No response.

So she opened the door.

The sight that greeted her was nothing short of disgusting.

Anthony must have continued drinking and smoking long after she had left him the night before. Not only was it unhealthy, but the room reeked.

All morning, she had played the part of the usual Penelope — flustered, a little withdrawn, seemingly lost. It had worked well enough to keep even Eloise's inquiries and Colin's good natured familiarity at bay. But she had no intention of maintaining that act with her husband. Not when they were alone. Not now, not ever.

Stepping fully into the study, she shut the door behind her and approached the desk where Anthony lay slumped over, surrounded by empty bottles. After a brief glance around the room, she made her decision.

Gathering the scattered documents and setting them safely aside, she crossed over to the corner where a full pitcher of water sat waiting. With a firm grip, she lifted it — and promptly emptied the entire contents over his head. 

***

Waking up drenched in cold water was not a new experience for Anthony Bridgerton. But it had been many years since it had last happened — since his days at Eton, when discipline was drilled into him with ruthless efficiency.

He sputtered, cursing under his breath as icy droplets dripped from his hair onto his now-soaked waistcoat and shirt. His body tensed, muscles coiled with irritation as he glared at the culprit.

Penelope.

He wasn’t sure what to do with her.

No one had dared do such a thing since he had inherited the title. Not even his younger siblings had ever gone this far. And yet, small, demure Penelope Feath— no, Bridgerton, his wife — had. His fury flared, sharp and unrestrained, but Penelope met his glare without a trace of fear. Instead, she calmly placed that morning’s edition of Lady Whistledown in front of him, her expression unreadable.

“Read,” she commanded.

Anthony exhaled sharply, running a hand through his wet hair before reaching for the paper. He shook off the excess water dripping from his fingers, his jaw tightening as he scanned the column.

The words stared back at him, dissecting the events of the previous day.

He swallowed.

Penelope remained silent, watching him, waiting.

For once, Anthony Bridgerton was at a loss for words.

Despite his pounding headache, Anthony felt an odd sense of relief as he read. It could have been worse.

When he finally set the paper down, Penelope surprised him again — not by waiting for his reaction, but by speaking first.

And he blinked at her, not fully grasping what she had just said. “What?”

She huffed in irritation before repeating herself, more slowly this time. “Your behavior toward Miss Sharma was left out of the papers, but that cannot last forever.” Anthony frowned. He still wasn’t entirely sure what she was getting at, but she pressed on. “Miss Edwina and her mother will be leaving for Prussia in a few days. You need to decide whether you want Miss Sharma to stay—and, more importantly, how to proceed.”

His brow furrowed further.

She must have noticed his continued confusion, because she added, “If you wish to have an affair with Miss Sharma, I will not stand in your way — provided I am granted the same opportunity, of course - and, above all, the same level of discretion.” Anthony stiffened. Penelope held his gaze, unwavering, before continuing. “And you will be discreet. I will not tolerate any kind of humiliation from you. If necessary, ask Benedict for guidance — he certainly has much to teach you on the matter.”

“What exactly are you implying?” His voice was sharp, incredulous.

“Oh, so you can speak,” she remarked dryly before tilting her head. “I mean that your brother understands the meaning of subtlety. I have had to intervene very rarely to cover his scandals. The same cannot be said for you.” She gave him a pointed look. “In fact, I even had to arrange an indisputable evaluation for him because your actions made it look as though you had bribed his way into the Royal Academy. And perhaps you don’t see it as a scandal. But it will matter — to the one person who truly counts. Because rumors don’t just spread; they twist, they fester, they grow into something far worse. And believe me, the whispers — the ones fueled by jealousy, by resentment — will reach Benedict one day. And when they do, they won’t just hurt him. They could break him. And all because you do not understand subtlety.”

Anthony stared at her. “You intervened?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Oh, believe me, my lord, you wish I was treating you like a child..”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted whatever cutting remark she had been about to make. A maid entered, carrying a tea service.

And just like that, the woman who had been scolding him with the sharpness of a duelist’s blade transformed before his eyes. The irritated, unfamiliar Penelope vanished, replaced by the gentle, sweet version of her he had always known. No stammering, no blushing under attention, but still all soft smiles and warmth.

Anthony felt unmoored.

Had the last ten minutes been an alcohol-induced hallucination?

Apparently not. After the maid left, Penelope turned to him as if nothing had happened. “How do you take your tea?” she asked, perfectly composed.

He stared at her.

She prepared his cup, handed it to him, and took a sip of her own before speaking again. “I understand that you are still unwell, so we will discuss the rules of our marriage later. But you should know this: I will not be sent to the countryside. The Queen will not allow it.”

Anthony frowned. “Why not?” He hadn’t planned to send her away — but he also hadn’t realized how she had become so important to the Crown.

She looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“Because she chose me to save you,” she said simply. “If I were to leave, it would have all been for nothing.”

He still did not understand, and she must have seen it on his face, because she took pity on him.

“I am Lady Whistledown,” she said, her voice calm, measured. And then, with the space of a single breath, she finished, “And that is the only reason you still have your title.”

Anthony froze.

The revelation was staggering.

Penelope, ever composed, took one last sip of tea before standing. She made her way toward the door, then paused just long enough to glance back at him.

“I suggest,” she said, “You go and see Kate. Take someone with you — perhaps Benedict, or even your mother. Do not go alone. Decide what the two of you will do, and then we will decide how to handle this marriage.” Her next words sent a chill down his spine. “But know this: just as I did not hesitate to ruin my own family to save yours, I will not hesitate to destroy you if you undo everything I have done.”

And with that, she was gone.

Chapter Text

Anthony watched his wife leave the study, the door clicking shut behind her. He picked up the column again, his gaze fixed but unfocused. He was uncertain — uncertain about what to think, uncertain about everything.

Penelope was Lady Whistledown.

The young Penelope had written the piece that had softened the scandal surrounding their family, and this wasn’t the first time she’d done such a thing. Apparently, she had done something for Benedict as well.

He should have been shocked — perhaps he was. 

But what was worse was the thought that she was his wife.

He had married Lady Whistledown . And if what she’d said was true, the Queen had discovered her identity and chosen her as his bride because of it — perhaps that was the only reason Anthony still held his title.

They should have talked, that much was true.

But Penelope had also been right about one thing: he needed to speak to Kate.

But he couldn't go alone. Now, he was a married man.

Was it worse or better that he hadn’t married Kate’s sister?

Anthony wasn’t sure. His fate seemed sealed.

But he would have to clear things up with Kate. 

Perhaps even apologize to Edwina.

The thought of the young Miss Sharma made him grimace. It had been a terrible thing to do, and he would have killed anyone who had done the same to one of his sisters.

Finishing his tea, he rose and made his way to his chambers, thankful to avoid encountering anyone on his way. He needed to compose himself before heading to Lady Danbury’s residence.
As he entered his private sitting room, his eyes immediately fell upon the desk, where something appeared amiss. It didn’t take long for him to realise that Penelope — his wife, Lady Whistledown — had likely used it to write her column. The thought of her being here struck him unexpectedly. 

Taking a deep breath, he rang for his valet while quickly scribbling a message to Benedict on a piece of paper. Benedict was certainly the best brother to take with him. He would have the message delivered while he took a moment to compose himself and then follow his wife’s instructions.

***

Arriving at Lady Danbury's house, Anthony found himself facing difficulty in being received. It was Benedict who managed to convince the hesitant servant to finally allow them both entry. As they stepped into the drawing room, Anthony was met with the sharp gaze of Miss Edwina Sharma.

The young woman knew exactly why he was there, and from the look on her face, it was clear she understood she was not the Miss Sharma he sought.

She raised an eyebrow, a sarcastic smirk curling her lips. "Mr. Bridgerton," she greeted Benedict first, her tone more neutral, before turning to Anthony with a cold expression. "Viscount Bridgerton," her voice laced with disdain. "Judging by your expression, I’m certain I’m not the one you’re looking for."

Anthony opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a cruel laugh, stepping back slightly. “Where is your wife, then? Abandoned less than a day after your wedding, I see. And all this to see my sister, I suppose.”

Anthony sighed, feeling defeated and uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair, then met Edwina’s gaze, his voice low. “It was Penelope’s idea that I speak to Kate. She insisted.”

Edwina stared at him, disgust evident in her narrowed eyes. With a scoff, she turned on her heel and walked away without another word, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

Uncertain of what to do, Anthony stood still for a moment, watching her retreat. Benedict remained by his side in silence, like a shadow, giving him space to decide how to proceed. Anthony shifted uneasily on his feet, the tension building in the air, until, a few minutes later, the door opened once more.

Then Kate entered the room, followed by Lady Danbury, who took a seat across the room, giving them some space. Benedict, ever the silent companion, moved toward Lady Danbury and took a seat beside her, allowing Anthony the space he needed to face Kate alone.

Anthony’s gaze immediately moved to Kate, and he couldn’t help but notice how different she looked. She was pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and her posture was stiff, as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will.

Kate noticed him, but she did not speak. Instead, she simply stood still, her eyes meeting his, waiting for him to say something.

Anthony swallowed, his throat tight with the weight of the unspoken words between them. He knew he needed to speak, but the silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. Neither of them moved, caught in a moment that seemed to last forever.

Then, Anthony cleared his throat. “I read in Lady Whistledown that your sister plans to depart for Prussia,” he began, his voice steady but laced with something else, something deeper. “What are your plans?”

Kate paused for a moment, her gaze momentarily distant as she gathered her thoughts. Then, her eyes met his, resolute. “I shall return to India,” she replied, her tone cool. “My plans have not changed.”

Anthony’s lips quirked slightly, a hum escaping him. “You could stay,” he said softly, almost as if testing the air between them.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding. “You are married,” she retorted with disdain, her voice steady.

His jaw tightened, the words falling from him with a touch of bitterness. “Not by my choice.”

Kate exhaled sharply, a flicker of impatience crossing her features. “You could have refused,” she said, her words like a quiet accusation.

“I would have lost my title,” he replied, his voice edged with frustration.

“You made a choice,” she stated, her gaze unwavering, cold in its clarity.

Anthony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So, this is it? The end for us, then?”

“There was never an 'us,'" she shot back, her voice crisp and final.

Her words stung more than he cared to admit, but he pressed on, his voice low and almost desperate. “And what if there could have been?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze unyielding. “You are married,” she repeated, her words a quiet declaration of the insurmountable barrier between them.

He took a step closer, his frustration mounting, his words coming out before he could stop them. “And what if I went with you?” His voice was strained, laced with a longing he couldn’t hide. The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them, just as he had once regretted something similar with Siena.

Kate’s eyes held him with a knowing look, and she shook her head slightly. “You wouldn’t,” she said, her tone certain. “Because the Queen would not approve.” The unspoken words hung in the air: ‘and you would lose everything. All for nothing.’

Her words echoed in his mind, reminding him of something Penelope had told him, and it felt as if the weight of her wisdom pressed on his chest. The realization hit him, and before he could stop it, the words slipped out: “Penelope wouldn’t allow it.”

Lady Danbury, who had been forgotten by the two of them, let out a shaky breath of surprise. Both turned to look at her, and Anthony noticed his brother’s reaction — less surprised and more contemplative. Penelope had said that they hadn’t seen each other in the circles they both apparently frequented, but Benedict seemed to know something more, and Anthony didn’t like it. However, it wasn’t the moment to address it. He shifted his gaze back to Kate, who, in turn, looked at him with confusion, her brows furrowed.

Anthony suddenly realized what Kate must be thinking — she had only heard of his wife through Lady Whistledown. His wife had done herself no favors with her publication. Kate probably saw the former Miss Featherington, now Lady Bridgerton, as little more than a timid, shy girl with no prospects and no taste. Anthony knew Penelope didn’t like her appearance because he had heard the young woman complain about it herself. But Kate, of course, had no such knowledge. And despite the Queen choosing Penelope as his wife, it was far more likely that Kate saw it as a punishment.

‘Because she would punish me,’ he thought.

Whether it was for humiliating her sister or for humiliating her with his latest request, Anthony couldn’t say. But there was no doubt in his mind that Kate was disgusted by his proposal. He hadn’t said it in those words, but it was clear to her that he had gone there to ask her if she would become his mistress, his kept woman.

He was aware of Benedict’s silent presence, and the weight of Lady Danbury’s gaze, but he didn’t turn. His mind was on Kate, on the possibility of convincing her. 

But he could never avoid mistakes when it came to Kathani Sharma. He would always be the villain in her story, and he had to accept that. He couldn’t change it — not when he planned to marry her sister, and certainly not now, when he was married to another woman.

When no one spoke, he turned, gave a brief nod of greeting, and made his way to the door, fully aware that, at this moment more than any other, he was the villain in their story.

Just as Anthony reached the threshold, Lady Danbury’s voice, lower now yet still firm, reached his ears. “You made the right choice. A man who cannot keep his vows makes a poor lover, and an even worse husband.”

As Benedict followed after bidding his own farewells, Anthony couldn’t help but feel that another piece of his heart had been left behind.

But there was no turning back. He had a wife, a future to build, and a duty to uphold. This chapter was closed, and as much as it pained him, it had to be. He had done all he could — tested every possibility — and now Kate was lost to him. A part of him would remain with her, but he could not stop. He had to move forward. 

***

After yet another silent carriage ride, back at Bridgerton House, Anthony hurriedly got out of the carriage, rushing into his study, craving a drink for comfort before facing his wife. But when he opened the cabinet to grab a bottle, he was surprised to find that all his alcohol reserves were gone, including the hidden bottles

He had no doubt — it was Penelope, even before he found the note she had left.

"I don't want you to truly become like my father. Call me when you're ready to talk about our marriage."

Reading those few lines, a wave of realization hit him. The night before, perhaps, she had come to tell him what she planned to publish, but she had also accused him of acting like Archibald Featherington, barely hours after they’d wed.

Anthony felt his heartbeat quicken. He was nothing like Archibald, and yet... in some ways, she was right. Because she didn't know him completely, but she knew too much about him.

"Discretion," he thought, recalling her accusation. How many times, after his breakup with Siena, had alcohol dictated his decisions? How many times had he made a fool of himself? The illusion that a miracle had saved him was replaced with the truth: it was Penelope, his little wife, who had salvaged his reputation.

And yet, the same woman who had protected him was also the one who didn’t trust him. That truth bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

In the midst of these thoughts, still uncertain of what to do, a knock at the door startled him.

It was Colin.

Chapter Text

Anthony was surprised by his brother’s entrance, expecting Benedict to join him after he had left him so abruptly in the carriage. Meanwhile, Colin closed the door behind him and asked, “How are you, brother?”

Anthony immediately understood the intent behind the question and raised an eyebrow in response. “Shouldn't you be asking Penelope that?”

Colin let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Pen seemed rather occupied. She just learned you’ll be leaving for Brighton and rushed to her mother’s house to arrange what she wishes to bring along." He paused briefly before adding, his tone thoughtful, "She wasn’t prepared for marriage, and she has too much to manage to stop and think."

"Should you not assist her?" Anthony asked.

Colin gave him a look of utter disbelief. "Would you truly have me rummage through Penelope’s gowns?"

Anthony grimaced. No, certainly not. As much as he disliked admitting it, he had no desire for his brother to have access to his wife's personal belongings.

Colin smirked knowingly. "I see you understand. And perhaps you have realized something else as well, haven't you?"

Anthony regarded him warily. "What are you implying?"

"Your list," Colin said casually. "By now, you must see that Penelope fulfills every requirement you set for a wife. And, more importantly, she fits in well with our family."

"Miss Edwina would have adapted just as well," Anthony countered, though the conviction in his voice was lacking.

"Perhaps," Colin conceded, "but you would have spent your life searching for her sister in her. Penelope is quite different. And if you were to give her a true chance, I daresay you might find yourself in a rather good marriage after all. Think about it, Ant."

And with that, he left Anthony to his thoughts.

***

Colin was not wrong. Penelope was a suitable wife for a marriage of convenience, all the more so considering how, as Lady Whistledown, she had aided the family in ways he had never fully appreciated.

The Queen’s desire to have her close was evident, and in many respects, that alone would make her an even more advantageous Viscountess.

And yet, despite all the qualities he could now so plainly see — qualities he had seen even before being forced to marry her — he had never once considered her among the debutantes. He was not entirely sure why. He recalled thinking she was too young, yet she was the same age as Miss Edwina. He had assumed she would struggle in society, and yet, despite the shyness that seemed to afflict her, now that he knew she was Lady Whistledown, he understood that she likely knew people better than he did. In truth, they might complement each other rather well, and he should have realized it sooner, even from the conversations he had overheard between her and his younger siblings.

Even her appearance was not displeasing. He had seen her the day before in that hastily arranged gown. He sincerely hoped she had ordered new dresses from the modiste, for it was clear that her mother had done her a great disservice.

And that thought reminded him that he, too, had done her a great disservice.

Regardless of what she had told him, he should not have gone to Kate — not that day, perhaps not ever. It had been disrespectful to everyone involved, and in the end, he had not even apologized to Miss Edwina or Lady Mary. Nor had he said anything to Lady Danbury, though she had been present to witness the appalling spectacle he had made of himself.

While he did not regret leaving no stone unturned, he had no idea what he would have done if Kate had agreed. Perhaps it was for the best. Now, he could move on.

Perhaps he ought to write to them. He probably still should. If only to keep himself from behaving so abominably that he would have challenged any man to a duel for treating his own sisters in such a way.

Embarrassment, guilt, and an unsettling sense of uncertainty settled over him at the thought of speaking to his wife. For some inexplicable reason, he dreaded it far more than facing Edwina — the woman he had courted all season, the woman he should have married the day before, the woman he had humiliated by revealing, at the altar, where his heart truly lay.

And yet, it was the thought of his wife that left him feeling small. The girl he had scarcely spared a second glance for years — who now, he realized, had been the salvation of their family all along.

He longed for a drink but had no desire to go to White’s or Mondrich’s. With nothing to drink in his study and no strong liquor to be found in the kitchens — where he would also risk alerting the servants — he decided instead to join his family.

That decision led him to find Penelope teaching Hyacinth how to embroider.

Less than a day, and already it was evident how seamlessly she had woven herself into the family.

The sight softened him — until Penelope noticed him. Her smile turned stiff, and it became clear that she was far more unhappy than he had imagined, or than Colin had let on.

Her greeting was formal, distant. And when she inquired whether he needed her, he hesitated. He had intended to wait longer, to give her more time — but before he could say anything, she studied him, and something in his expression must have betrayed him.

For she simply said that she was helping Hyacinth and that they could speak after dinner.

And once again, she was saving him.

***

Dinner was a quiet affair — quieter than usual. Yet his mother seemed relieved. She watched him with cautious satisfaction, her gaze softening each time he reached for his glass of water.

He had decided not to drink before speaking with Penelope, but his mother’s reaction unsettled him.

Had she truly been worried? Had she feared finding him in some sorry state — disheveled, brooding, drunk beyond reason? And was the simple fact that he sat here, sober and composed, enough to ease her concerns?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Penelope had not spoken much, neither to Colin, nor to Eloise, nor even to the children. In fact, she had merely smiled at his mother’s attempts to engage her, murmuring polite replies, but she remained distant  — a silence that felt heavier with every passing moment. The absence of Benedict was barely registered in Anthony's mind. 

She had told him they would talk after dinner. 

This was his only thought.

For the first time that day, he found himself waiting for something with an unfamiliar sense of anticipation. 

He feared and longed for their confrontation. 

He didn’t want her to feel so uncomfortable, not in their home

***

After dinner, no one objected when the two of them took their leave.

In the study, it was just Anthony and Penelope.

He leaned against the desk, watching her as she settled into one of the armchairs. He gestured vaguely toward the liquor cabinet and joked, “I’d offer you something to drink, but there’s nothing left.”

She smiled, small and brief, before cutting straight to the matter at hand. “How did it go with Kate?”

Anthony exhaled. “She’s leaving for India.” His voice was steady, factual. “She’ll be out of our lives.”

The phrasing struck him the moment he said it.

It was eerily similar to what he had told Edwina just the day before.

‘she will return to India, as she wishes. And you and I will be free of her.’

When he was insisting that Kate’s presence wouldn’t be an issue, that their marriage would continue as planned.

Penelope must have noticed. There was something in her expression — an understanding that unsettled him.

With this argument out of the way, she shifted into business mode, her posture straightening. “I know Kate’s departure doesn’t mean you’ll be faithful,” she said evenly, “and I wouldn’t expect that of you. But I want the same freedom in return. Of course, I will be careful not to conceive.”

His brow furrowed. “And what exactly do you know about conception?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Enough to understand that it can be avoided — with the right partner.”

He was somewhat confused as to what she meant, but he countered, “You have responsibilities.”

She scoffed. “So do you. Which is why we should at least make a serious effort to produce an heir and a spare before you go back to sleeping your way through every opera house in London.”

Anthony clenched his jaw, tempted to ask how she knew about his indiscretions. But of course, he already had his answer. She was Lady Whistledown. She likely knew far more than he’d care to admit.

Perhaps he ought to ask Benedict for some lessons on discretion. She had, after all, highly recommended it.

That thought led him to another — she had mentioned doing something for Benedict regarding the Academy.

As if reading his mind, Penelope clarified, “I arranged for Benedict’s work to be assessed under a pseudonym, so that if he was accepted, he would know it was on merit.”

Anthony frowned. 

“There always are rumors,” she said, shrugging. “I did my best to suppress them.”

He stared at her. “How do you do these things?”

She tilted her head. “Anthony, do you really think my fortune came solely from Whistledown?”

That caught him off guard. “Fortune?”

“Yes, fortune.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “My father squandered my dowry, but I secured my own.” She reached into a drawer and handed him a document he had yet to examine.

His eyes skimmed over the figures. It wasn’t an enormous sum — not compared to his sisters’ dowries — but if this was solely Penelope’s earnings, it was nothing short of remarkable.

“In fact,” she continued, “this is just the portion allocated to you. Yesterday, I convinced the Queen to establish a trust, bound to our daughters or — should I choose to live in the countryside — my own financial security.”

Anthony looked up sharply. “You said the Queen wouldn’t approve of you leaving London.”

“I was sincere,” she admitted. “But she won’t live forever, and we are bound to each other until death. And believe me, Anthony, I do not intend to die soon.”

A strange chill ran through him. For the first time, he wondered if this was the real Penelope — the woman beneath the quiet demeanor, the sharp mind he had overlooked for years.

“I don’t intend to harm you, Penelope,” he said slowly. “Nor send you away.”

She hummed in response, noncommittal. Then, after a pause, she added, “You should talk to Benedict, explain yourself. Perhaps claim that you made the donation after his admission but later heard rumors that cast doubt on it.”

He was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “Thank you.”

Two words. Simple, yet they seemed to surprise her.

And that, more than anything, unsettled Anthony.

She didn’t trust him. That much was clear. She expected cheating — assumed it, even. And how could he blame her, after he had asked Kate to be his mistress that very morning?

Yet, somehow, it was this — her surprise at a simple thank you — that cut the deepest.

As he wrestled with the thought, Penelope, oblivious for once, continued. “I understand that this is your way of showing love,” she mused. “But it is also the way you make people doubt themselves completely.” She glanced at him. “It’s as if Colin had started publishing his diaries, only to find out later that the printing press was owned by you.”

Anthony swallowed, and then the conversation shifted, they spoke of Colin’s diaries.

Penelope admitted she had never read them but knew Colin well enough to be certain of their existence. “He’s an excellent writer,” she said with quiet conviction.

The comment struck Anthony. She was Lady Whistledown — she had built her entire persona on observing and revealing secrets — yet if she hadn’t read them, how did she know? 

And so there was the matter of the correspondence she had exchanged with Colin, which Anthony had only just discovered.

It bothered him. It had been improper.

Penelope, however, remained unbothered. “It’s not improper now,” she pointed out. “He’s my brother-in-law. A family member.”

Anthony didn’t argue. He agreed with everything — except when it came to fidelity.

“I won’t stop you from writing,” he conceded, to which she muttered something that sounded like, “As if you could.”  

He knew why — clearly, the Queen still expected her to publish.

“But you won’t go alone,” he added. “If you leave the house, the servants will accompany you. Or we’ll go together.”

She accepted without protest. In the end, she wouldn’t be able to go anywhere once she was pregnant.

He studied her, curiosity replacing the tension between them. “How do you plan to continue working now that you’ll be more visible as Viscountess?”

Penelope hesitated for only a moment before answering. “I listen,” she admitted. “That’s how I ensure the facts I print are true. But mostly, I rely on observation and a small network of friends.”

A pause. Then, as if deciding there was little point in keeping it from him, she added, “I also write plays.”

Anthony blinked. “Plays?”

“Yes. That’s how I became involved in Benedict’s circle.”

He hadn’t expected that.

And then, without thinking, he asked the worst possible question. “And no one—?” He stopped, but the implication hung in the air. Had someone ruined her?

The disappointment on her face was subtle, but it was there.

“No, Anthony,” she said simply. She wasn’t angry, just… tired. As if she had expected better of him and was resigned to being let down. “It’s late,” she murmured, standing. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Anthony exhaled slowly as she left the room.

Another mistake. One more in a day full of them.

He hadn’t meant to offend her. But he had.

He sighed, knowing he would spend another night in the study. 

Penelope had surely been given the Viscountess’s chambers — too close to his own. And even if there were other bedrooms, he had no desire to fuel further gossip among the servants by requesting another room.

In a few days, they would leave for their honeymoon in Brighton.

It had originally been planned for him and Edwina.

He supposed he would take the opportunity to get to know the woman who had become his wife.

There would be time for a real honeymoon later, after the season ended and Parliament was over.

For now, Brighton would have to do.

And so would learning to navigate marriage to a woman he had never truly seen until now.

Chapter Text

Anthony and Penelope had moved up their departure for Brighton to the following day. Apparently, Benedict — after returning from their visit to Lady Danbury’s home — had been sent by their mother to ensure everything was in order, which explained his absence at dinner.

Anthony felt equally grateful and irritated.

On one hand, he appreciated the prospect of sleeping in a proper bed that night and leaving London for a few days — especially while the Sharma sisters prepared to depart — when he could have gone for one of his morning rides and still run into Kate, when the only way to avoid being the subject of whispers would have been to stay inside, where he wouldn’t have had a moment’s peace.

On the other hand, however, he would have preferred to use his family as a shield between himself and his new wife — and perhaps even have someone to talk to, if only to avoid putting his foot in his mouth yet again and incurring the wrath of the second most powerful woman in the kingdom

Now, he understood why the Queen had chosen Penelope as his bride, but that didn’t change the fact that this situation was vastly different from what he had envisioned. Rationally, it was better this way. Colin had been right — he couldn’t look at Penelope and see Kate. But… he had prepared himself to marry Edwina, and she had prepared herself to marry him. She had expectations of him as a husband. He had courted her for an entire season, each interaction carefully measured, every step taken with purpose. With Penelope, everything had happened so suddenly. It had upended his carefully laid plans. She was familiar to him, but they were strangers in every way that  mattered to a marriage.

The carriage ride was mostly silent. Anthony had expected Penelope to pull out a book — she always did — but to his surprise, she was knitting instead.

"What are you doing?"

She didn't look up. "Knitting."

Anthony huffed. "Yes, I can see that, but what are you making?"

"A blanket."

"A blanket?" He was taken aback.

Penelope took a small, trembling breath before replying, her fingers tightening slightly around the yarn. "I didn’t have a trousseau. I never had suitors, and my father did not leave us in a position to keep what little had been prepared." She paused, her hands stilling over her work as she turned to gaze out the window, as if searching for something in the passing landscape.

It was strange to imagine that Lady Whistledown had nothing to say.

"The off-season was… difficult for us," she continued after a moment. "I couldn’t help much without revealing myself, and we sold my trousseau. What would have been the point of keeping it?" The question caught him off guard, even though it was purely rhetorical. Somehow, it still unsettled him.

"I know it isn’t necessary," she added quietly. "The Queen wrote to inform me that a new one is being prepared and will be waiting for me when we return. But I suppose… I wanted something that was mine."

Anthony took a moment to absorb her words before asking, "You said you had one — were any of your creations sold?"

Penelope lifted her chin slightly, a glint of defiance in her eyes. "Know this, Anthony Bridgerton — I am quite skilled with knitting needles."

He smirked. "Can you weave as well?"

"Not as well as I knit. It’s one of the few things I learned from my mother."

"But you weave stories like your namesake."

A small smile ghosted across her lips, the first true easing of tension since the journey began. "I didn’t know you were familiar with The Odyssey."

"My dear, I was the one who gave the book to Colin when you first met."

"Truly?" she asked, eyes widening in surprise.

So many years had passed that she had forgotten. And so, he told her the story — how he had returned home from Eton to find Colin speaking incessantly of his new friend, Penelope, so mature beyond her years. Anthony, having recently read The Odyssey, had given him the book, telling him he would find within its pages another clever and resourceful Penelope, wise beyond her time — just like his friend.

Colin had never been the sort to sit still, to lose himself in books, but he had devoured that one. And then, he had passed it on to Penelope.

She listened, enraptured, a delicate blush creeping onto her cheeks — one he chose not to scrutinize.

The silence that followed was different. No longer tense, no longer weighted with unspoken anxieties. Anthony didn’t want to shatter the fragile peace they had found.

There was much to think about, much to discuss. But they had time — some might say a lifetime. And for now, there was no reason to disrupt a moment of ease. 

***

The days they spent in Brighton served to bring them closer. Slowly, cautiously, they began to learn about each other.

Anthony spent his mornings at work, letters and ledgers spread across the desk of their borrowed seaside residence, while Penelope sat nearby, her knitting needles clicking softly in the quiet. As the days stretched on, those moments of shared silence grew less strained, more natural.

After a few days, she asked where he went each morning before joining her for breakfast. When he replied that he rode at dawn, her response must have amused him, for he lifted his gaze from his papers with a slight smile.

"You never told me you enjoyed riding," he remarked.

Penelope looked up, surprised. "I do. Or rather, I used to. I have not had many opportunities of late."

That was something he could remedy.

The following morning, he took her riding. At first, she was hesitant, her grip too tight on the reins, her posture stiff with uncertainty. Yet she was as cautious as she was determined, and it did not take long for her to grow comfortable in the saddle, reclaiming an ease she had not felt in years.

As they grew more at ease in each other's company, Penelope took note of the headaches that plagued the viscount in the evenings. One night, she hesitated before speaking, then asked if he might allow her to try something that had always helped Prudence.

Curious, he let her guide him to the settee, where she sat and motioned for him to rest his head upon her lap. He regarded her with skepticism but complied. Then she bid him close his eyes and listen.

"Listen to what?" he asked.

She did not answer — not with words. Instead, she began to stroke his forehead in slow, soothing motions, her fingers light against his temple. As she did, she hummed a soft melody, the sound gentle and lulling.

The quiet rhythm of her voice, the warmth of her touch — together, they did more to ease his pain than any remedy he had tried. And in that simple moment, something between them shifted.

Still, they were not yet ready to consummate their marriage. That kind of intimacy required absolute trust, and Anthony would not rush her. He had promised her time, and he would honor that promise. He did not press, did not demand. And she, in turn, found the courage not to withdraw from him.

Some nights, they simply talked.

They spoke of Kate and Edwina. Of the past and the futures they had once envisioned for themselves.

One evening, as they sat close, the sea breeze drifting through the open window, Penelope gathered her courage and spoke the words she had long held in silence.

"I cared for Colin."

Anthony did not flinch. He did not look away. He simply held her gaze, steady, waiting.

"I thought… for a long time, I thought he might see me one day," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "But he never did."

"And now?" he asked.

She exhaled slowly. "Even if I could… even if I had the choice… I would not take him as a lover." She turned to him then, meeting his eyes fully. "I made my peace with it long before this marriage — when he courted my cousin. I will not dishonor myself or you with thoughts of something that was never meant to be."

Something in his expression shifted — something deep and unspoken.

"I would not betray you, Penelope," Anthony said at last, his voice firm, certain. "I would not have done so to Edwina, and I will not do so to you." He paused, exhaling softly. "When I spoke to Kate, I believe it was out of a desire to have no regrets — to be able to look back and say, 'I tried everything, even the impossible.' But I do not know what I would have done if she had accepted."

His gaze shifted away, the weight of his own admission pressing upon him. " He looked away, embarrassment flickering across his face, but Penelope squeezed his hand gently.

"I understand," she murmured.

Anthony turned back to her, his expression resolute. "You shall have no need of a lover."

"And now, do you not say that merely out of pride?"

"You once told me I lacked discretion, wife," he said wryly. "I am quite certain you would be the first to know if I broke my word."

The words settled between them — not just a promise, but a truth.

And for the first time, she believed him.

Chapter Text

Returning to London felt strangely unsettling after spending nearly a fortnight away from their families and the Ton .

During the journey, for the first time, Anthony broached the subject of Lady Whistledown. He had not done so while they were in Brighton — perhaps because, away from London, the specter of her alter ego had seemed distant, almost inconsequential. But now, as they neared home, the thought surfaced.

How had her cover remained active while they were far from Mayfair?

Penelope explained, her voice even and assured, that she had left several articles half-written. She had speculated enough and penned sufficient material that, when combined with the inevitable scandal surrounding their marriage, Genevieve — her trusted modiste and confidante — would be able to craft convincingly authentic pieces with only minor alterations.

Anthony listened intently, unable to suppress a deep sense of admiration for his wife.

What she had built, the influence she wielded, was nothing short of extraordinary.

***

Upon their arrival, the family welcomed them with warmth and joy, yet something felt undeniably strange to Penelope.

She could not help but wonder if she had erred in refusing to consummate the marriage. The marriage would not be annulled, but she was certain that somehow people would know that it had not happened and that would undermine her position.

And now, she had not thought herself capable of it with the entire family present under the same roof. Nor did she feel at ease with the thought of sharing a bedchamber with Anthony — or residing in the Viscountess’s rooms. She was uncomfortable, and worse still, she and Anthony had never even discussed their living arrangements.

These were simple matters, or at least they ought to have been. Had they remained in Brighton, they could have continued as they had — adrift in their own peculiar arrangement, untroubled by the expectations of others.

But London was different. Here, they were not alone.

Even if she could have, she did not wish to drive their family away from Bridgerton House.

Not that the matter would be settled before the Season had run its course.

***

The journey had been long, and even a few minutes in the company of the family had left them feeling oddly disoriented.

It did not take long for the newlyweds to exchange a glance and, almost in unison, announce that they required a moment to rest before dinner.

They failed to notice the knowing looks exchanged between the Bridgerton matriarch and her eldest children, too intent on making a strategic retreat up the stairs.

Once there, they paused, regarding each other with the unspoken understanding that, despite their desire for rest, a conversation was necessary.

Neither of them had truly considered the realities of their daily life in London, and now the weight of it pressed upon them.

Without a word, they turned towards the Viscount’s chambers — where they were least likely to be disturbed so soon.

Even so, the thought of what the elder members of the family might assume made Penelope flush with mortification.

***

Upon entering the Viscount’s private sitting room, Anthony held the door open for his wife before closing it behind them with a quiet click . He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.

“Do you have a headache?” She asked with a hint of concern

“Not yet,” he replied, rubbing his temples nonetheless.

Penelope settled herself on a sofa and gestured for him to join her. Without hesitation, Anthony shrugged off his coat and stretched out beside her, resting his head in her lap and closing his eyes.

As her fingers traced soothing circles against his temple, she murmured, “We spoke of so many things, yet we never considered what it would be like to return here.”

Anthony let out a quiet chuckle. “At the very least, we are more at ease with each other now.”

She smiled at that, even though he could not see it. “What shall we do?”

“I believe we should continue sleeping apart for the time being and revisit the matter later.”

“During the honeymoon?” she asked, uncertainty lacing her voice.

Anthony opened his eyes then, his gaze steady as he answered, “Penelope, I will never impose upon you. If you wish for us to continue sleeping separately during the honeymoon, then that is what we shall do.”

A soft hum escaped her — a sound of both relief and lingering apprehension. But for the moment, she allowed herself to breathe easier.

After a pause, she asked, “If anyone inquires about our honeymoon, what shall I say?” She knew her mother and sisters would expect details, however little she might wish to provide them.

Anthony appeared thoughtful. “I must confess, I had not considered it. It was something I ought to have decided with…” He hesitated briefly before finishing, “my wife.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “And that is precisely what you shall do.”

Anthony thought her smile was quite beautiful.

They remained there, speaking in hushed tones, fortifying themselves for the onslaught of questions they would inevitably face at dinner and in the days to come. There was also the matter of hosting the Featheringtons for dinner — an obligation neither particularly relished, but they had to, given that the next wedding to take place would be that of Prudence to Lord Featherington.

Anthony was far from pleased about his new future brother-in-law, and Penelope felt much the same. Yet there was no undoing what had been arranged — her mother had seen to that. To break the engagement now would mean scandal, and scandal was something neither of them could afford.

***

The following days passed in a blur, with the newlyweds scarcely seeing each other.

Penelope was occupied assisting her mother in arranging a grand ball at Featherington House to celebrate Lord Featherington’s engagement. Whatever little time she had to spare, she used to reacquaint herself with the latest gossip of the ton — that is, when she was not attending lessons with Violet on the management of a household or spending time with Colin and Eloise, both of whom delighted in reminding her that soon they would be whisking her away for months.

Anthony would never admit it, but he missed her company. After having spent so much time in close proximity, the sudden distance felt unnatural. And yet, absence had done nothing to dull his appreciation of her presence.

Every time he did see her, it became increasingly evident how much of a disservice his mother had done to her.

The Queen, as promised, had sent an exquisite trousseau, complete with a collection of fine jewelry. Penelope had been utterly enchanted by the pieces, and Anthony, in turn, had been intrigued to discover how much she delighted in wearing necklaces.

It was a preference he had not known about, but one that had quickly become apparent — especially as he found himself far too often watching the delicate pendants gliding over her bodice.

Only a blind man would fail to notice how well her new wardrobe suited her, and Anthony was certainly not blind. He had been a rake — with a capital R , as his wife herself had pointedly remarked in her column.

And that thought led him to another, far less amusing one: he would have to prepare himself for the inevitable attention Penelope would draw from other men.

How many times had unattached gentlemen sought the company of wives in unwanted marriages? It was, after all, considered safe hunting ground. And no matter how much effort they were both putting into their marriage, theirs still fell into that very category.

***

Penelope had used the days following their return from Brighton to catch up on the latest gossip, and in doing so, she had come across something deeply concerning. While she had been away, Colin had tried to withdraw a significant sum from the Bridgerton accounts — something Anthony was undoubtedly discovering at that very moment. But unlike her husband, Penelope knew exactly where that money was supposed to go: Colin intended to invest in the mining enterprise of her cousin, Jack.

She had always harbored doubts about Jack, particularly after witnessing his rather determined pursuit of Cressida Cowper. But it wasn’t until the Queen’s generous gift and a subsequent visit to a jeweler — something she could now do freely, as the ton would assume she was simply managing her husband’s wealth — that she uncovered the truth.

The rubies Jack had once gifted her were counterfeit.

It had taken little effort to learn that Jack was gathering funds primarily from unsuspecting investors — the kind known not for their foolish ventures, but for their utter disregard for due diligence. These men did not always back doomed enterprises; sometimes their gambles paid off. But they placed their trust too easily, and that made them perfect prey.

Penelope was disappointed in Colin, but, as always, she would protect him.

***

After gathering all the necessary documentation — just in time for the Featherington ball — Penelope locked herself in the study with her husband to discuss their next course of action. It turned out that, unbeknownst to her, Anthony had already taken note of Colin’s attempt to withdraw funds and had swiftly put a stop to it. The younger Bridgerton had reluctantly agreed to wait for the investigators’ findings before handing over his money to someone who, despite now being family by marriage, was still a stranger. And if nothing else, his previous experience with the former Miss Thompson should have served as a reminder that being related to Penelope did not automatically make someone trustworthy.

Anthony had then admitted to his wife that he had always considered her the only truly good one among the Featheringtons —and that, in his eyes, she had always been a Bridgerton. The remark had made Penelope smile.

After hours of debate, they agreed that Anthony would be the one to confront Jack and put an end to the scheme, forcing him to return the money unless he wished to be exposed to the ton . Of course, they both knew that Jack would likely flee, but with any luck, he would leave the money behind. If that happened, Penelope could begin discreetly covering the financial gaps in her family’s affairs, though officially, it would be Lord Bridgerton who "rescued" the barony.

Their plan seemed flawless — except they had not accounted for Colin.

Eager to prove himself, Colin had confronted Jack on his own, forcing Anthony and Penelope to intervene just in time.

Penelope, as a woman, went largely unnoticed, especially with all eyes fixed on her mother’s theatrics — because, watching her, Penelope realized it was a performance.

Meanwhile, Anthony seized control of the situation, and Colin, rather than protesting, thanked his elder brother before stepping aside to assist Lady Featherington.

It was only then that anyone seemed to notice Penelope’s presence, and she dutifully stepped forward to "console" her mother.

The four of them deliberated, and while Colin’s interference had made the resolution less seamless than anticipated, the outcome was not entirely unfavorable. Jack would leave — he had until morning to disappear, and he would be wise not to take anything from Featherington House with him.

Anthony insisted that the stolen money be returned, but he also offered to replace the fraudulent dowry of the middle Featherington daughter, ensuring she would have both a settlement and a modest maintenance unless the next Lord Featherington chose to provide for her himself. Lady Featherington, visibly relieved, assured them that she had a way to secure the succession of the barony.

She did not explain further, but Penelope, recalling what Varley had done with George Crane’s letters, had a rather strong suspicion of what her mother intended. Still, she reassured her husband that everything was under control.

***

That evening, once they had returned home, the young couple retreated to Anthony’s study, where Penelope pulled out paper and inkwell, setting to work on the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

It was the first time Anthony had ever seen her completely absorbed in her passion. He had watched her embroider, knit, and ride, but nothing consumed her the way writing did. Her quill flew across the paper with practiced ease, each word blooming like inked flowers — beautiful but no less poisonous. Even without reading over her shoulder, he knew that someone, somewhere, would soon feel the sting of her sharp, black arrows.

At one point, she paused and turned to him, asking for his opinion on a couple of particularly salacious scandals. He was taken aback by the request, prompting her to explain that, until now, she had merely reported the gossip she overheard. But sometimes, even with thorough explanations, there were things she simply did not fully understand — things she lacked the experience to verify. And since she now had a husband who did have that experience, why not make use of his expertise?

Anthony was struck by the reminder of just how young and innocent his wife truly was. Yet, as he watched the blush creep up her cheeks, fascination warred with amusement — an indulgence he was unable to fully explore, as the study door suddenly burst open.

Eloise stood in the doorway, fury blazing in her eyes.

***

Eloise felt the sting of betrayal, a sharp and bitter taste on her tongue. Humiliation coursed through her veins as she struggled to contain the tempest of emotions raging within her. That Penelope — her Penelope — had been Lady Whistledown all along was a wound in itself. But that Anthony had known before her? That was a cut even deeper.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she fixed her gaze on Penelope, voice quivering with righteous indignation. “I thought we were friends. I thought I knew you. I believed my brother had ensnared you in this marriage, and yet…” Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, a mirthless laugh escaping her lips. “Do I know you at all? Have I ever?”

She took a step forward, eyes burning with unshed tears, her voice laced with scorn. “I look at you now, and all I feel is pity. You sit here, locked away in this house, scribbling your sordid little column with your husband at your side, dragging this city through the mud because you are too much a coward to face reality.” Her lip curled as she spat, “You are nothing, Penelope. A faded wallflower. And not even marriage to a viscount can change that. Tell me, did you blackmail the Queen? Is that why she allowed you to marry my brother? Was it your price for serving her?”

“Eloise,” Anthony’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding. His expression was thunderous as he took a step forward. “That is enough.”

Eloise’s jaw tightened, but she did not look away. “Do you defend her? When did she deceive the Queen? When did she trap you in a marriage? What does she have on you?"

Anthony let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, my dear sister, for once in your life, think beyond yourself. Penelope has saved us all. She spared Daphne the ruin of Lord Berbrooke, she protected Colin from the snare of Miss Thompson.”

Eloise scoffed. “He loved her.”

Anthony’s gaze darkened. “He would not have been happy. And you know it. Especially when I would have had no choice but to disinherit him.”

A sharp intake of breath filled the room. It was not Eloise who reacted first, but Penelope, her widened eyes darting towards her husband in astonishment.

Eloise frowned. “What?”

Anthony’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “I have no heir. Not yet. Benedict has no children. If something were to happen to the both of us, if Colin had married the then Miss Thompson, those children, non-Bridgerton children, would have inherited..”

Eloise crossed her arms. “And?”

His expression turned incredulous. “And? Are you truly this naive, sister? We are here — standing in this house — because for seven generations, our inheritance has passed from father to son.”

Penelope’s breath was still uneven, but she seemed to gather herself. Anthony turned to her then, his eyes momentarily softening before they hardened once more as he returned his gaze to Eloise. “But that is not all,” he continued. “You are angry about the words that have appeared in her sheets, but do you ever consider the scandals that did not?” His gaze pinned her in place. “She told me of your radical friend.”

Eloise paled. “I do not understand.” Her voice trembled, but Anthony was unmoved. He had seen the fire in her eyes moments ago; he knew she was not innocent in this.

“Oh, do not play coy, sister. I did not confront you because my wife assured me the matter had been handled. But I see now that you have learned nothing from the risks you placed upon this family.”

Eloise bristled. “As if you have never erred.”

Anthony tilted his head, almost smiling. “Oh, I have made mistakes. Many.” He exhaled, turning to Penelope with something close to reverence. “But I have learned from them. And I know this—” His fingers brushed her cheek in a gesture of quiet affection. “—I stand beside my viscountess, a woman who has safeguarded this family long before she could call it her own.”

For the first time since Eloise had entered the room, Penelope met Anthony’s gaze, her eyes glistening, her lips trembling into something like a smile. He held her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to his sister.

“Go to bed, Eloise,” he commanded. “Tomorrow, we will decide your fate.”

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“It means,” Anthony said smoothly, “that my wife and I shall determine the appropriate consequences for your actions.”

“Consequences?” She scoffed. “I am not a child.”

“Perhaps not. But you are not yet a woman.”

Eloise’s nostrils flared. “And she is?”

Anthony smiled. “By law, by society, by our family, and by me — yes.”

Before he could say more, Penelope finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “Go to bed, Eloise. Do as your brother commands.”

Eloise’s head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. “You do not get to order me about.”

Anthony’s voice rang with authority. “Oh, but she does, sister. She is my wife, and until you are married, she is the female head of this family.”

Eloise gaped at him, her fury barely contained. She rose abruptly, her glare searing into Penelope before she turned for the door.

Just before she exited, she paused, looking over her shoulder.

Her voice was low, dripping with venom. “I do not know what hold you have over my brother, nor what power you wield against him. But whatever it is, it will not last.”

And with that, she stormed from the room, leaving behind the heavy silence of the confrontation that had just unfolded.

Chapter Text

After the argument with Eloise, there was still the column to deliver to the printers, and Penelope insisted on going in person. Anthony vowed to find a way to make the process safer, but for now, this was what they had. So, he followed his young wife.

Under normal circumstances, Anthony would have been concerned about the danger Penelope seemed to be courting with her actions. But that night, he was just as worried that she might collapse at any moment — his sister’s harsh words had clearly wounded her.

That was why, when they returned home, Anthony did not part from Penelope at the top of the stairs.

Instead, he took her hand and led her to his room.

“What are you doing, Anthony?” she asked, curious and confused.

“You will sleep here,” he said as he began to remove the outer layers of his clothing.

“What? What do you mean?” she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her with a gentle smile. “I only wish to sleep with my wife. Please, Penelope, nothing will happen, I swear. But I would rest easier if you were in my arms.”

Something in his words must have been either terribly right or painfully wrong, because she broke into tears.

The weight of the evening — the hurt, the exhaustion — crashed down upon her all at once, and she rushed into his embrace.

Anthony was not sure what he felt. He had never been like this with anyone outside his family. But Penelope was family now, wasn’t she? She had been even before she took his name. She was now, as his viscountess.

And so, still partially dressed — though thankfully, as she wore a maid’s dress, she was not trapped in a tight bodice — they fell asleep together on the chaise lounge.

At some point in the night, Anthony woke. He knew he would suffer for it in the morning — his back would surely ache — but he did not move. Instead, he watched his wife, allowing himself to bask in this quiet intimacy.

Come morning, they would have to speak of Eloise and decide how to handle the fallout of yet another scandal — one which, thanks to his Lady Whistledown, was far less ruinous than it might have been.

And not for the first time, Anthony found himself appreciating the woman at his side.

The dull ache of longing for Kathani had not vanished, nor had the memory of what had almost been. He still missed her, in a way that felt sharp and fresh, a wound not yet closed.

But for the first time since it had all unraveled, he could breathe even in London.

He was no longer alone in shouldering the burden of his family.

He had his viscountess beside him.

***

The next morning, Penelope awoke to find herself nearly drooling on Lord Bridgerton’s chest.

A deep flush spread across her cheeks as she realized just how intimately they were entwined.

Taking advantage of his slumber, she allowed herself a moment of quiet observation. He was, without question, a handsome man — perhaps even more so in sleep, when his features were softened by rest. She traced the fine lines upon his face with her gaze, so absorbed in her contemplation that she almost missed the instant he stirred. Yet, when his eyes fluttered open, she remained still, transfixed. He smiled upon recognizing her — a small, drowsy smile, warm and content.

"Do you like what you see?" he murmured.

Heat flooded Penelope’s face, leaving her at a loss for words. Instead of answering, she made to rise, but Anthony tightened his hold on her.

“No,” he said, his voice still husky with sleep. “Stay. Let us rest a little longer.”

She tensed at the closeness of his embrace. “What will they think—”

“That we are husband and wife,” he interrupted, his tone calm and assured. “They, our family and the servants, shall likely be relieved, even if their assumptions would be… misguided.” Then, in a near whisper, one she might not have caught had she not been so attuned to him, he added, “Regrettably so.”

Her heart pounded, her breath unsteady. Anthony was right.

And so, she relaxed into his warmth, letting it soothe her.

They lay in companionable silence for several minutes before she finally asked, “What shall we do about your sister?”

He did not respond at once. For a moment, she thought he had not heard her, so steady was his touch as he idly traced patterns against her back. Then, at last, he spoke.

“The manner in which she spoke to you is intolerable, yet forbidding her anything would only breed resentment. Barring her from social engagements would hardly trouble her, and forcing her to attend would only make her all the more determined to cause a scandal.”

His reasoning was sound. Penelope considered for a moment before suggesting, “What if we sent her to Bath?”

“Bath?”

“To your Aunt Winifred. Francesca is sensible and will continue with her pianoforte lessons, but Eloise might benefit from her guidance.”

“My mother may not approve.”

“I expect she will not,” Penelope agreed. “But she cannot reach Eloise, and Francesca is to make her debut next Season. It would be wise to take precautions.”

Anthony exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose — a telltale sign of his frustration. When he had first learned of what Eloise had done, he had been utterly aghast, ready to mount a horse and ride to London that very instant. Penelope had soothed him, assuring him the immediate danger had passed and that, with the Queen’s warning still fresh, Eloise was unlikely to act again — at least not yet. That had been true then, but how long would it last?

Protecting his mother’s sensibilities was not his foremost duty as Viscount. And now, with Penelope at his side, he felt all the more certain of his position. He must act — not only for Eloise’s sake but for his younger sisters as well, particularly Francesca, whose debut, as Penelope had rightly reminded him, loomed on the horizon.

Decision made, he let out a breath and, upon hearing his own stomach growl, turned to Penelope with a lopsided smile. “Come,” he said. “Let us break our fast with the family.”

And so, they did.

***

Penelope retired to her chamber while Anthony summoned his valet, and they agreed to meet again in half an hour, once they had dressed for the day.

Anthony felt a twinge of melancholy at parting from her, though he had no reason to.

Despite a faint ache in his back, he had slept better than he had in years.

His traitorous heart still grieved for Kate, yet he could not help but wonder — had he married her or even Edwina, would it have ever been as effortless, as natural, as being with Penelope?

As expected, he was ready long before she was.

Left with time to spare, he turned his thoughts to what the morning might bring.

By now, Lady Whistledown’s latest issue had likely been delivered. He could only hope Eloise would keep her silence — for if her punishment had been important, arranging her move to Bath was nothing compared to what awaited him and Penelope.

They would have to allay his mother’s anxieties regarding the debts left by Lord Featherington, as well as the scandalous revelation within the column: that Lord Bridgerton himself would take responsibility for his wife’s family’s financial burdens.

His mother was certain to be distressed, unaware that not only was there a strong possibility the Lady Featherington had forced Lord Featherington to leave a considerable portion of his ill-gotten gains, but that Penelope’s own earnings were more than sufficient to restore stability. Perhaps not to improve or expand the estate — that would require Anthony’s own resources — but what funds remained would ultimately return to him, whether through her continued profits or whatever scheme Lady Portia had devised.

He had no doubt that if Penelope appeared untroubled, Lady Portia had the situation well in hand.

In this, she was her mother’s daughter. And Anthony did not doubt for a moment that it was by learning from Lady Featherington that Penelope had become the extraordinary woman she was — and his wife, by the will of the Queen herself.

That thought led him to another: Her Majesty would likely summon them before long. Perhaps only Penelope. Either way, their honeymoon would almost certainly be delayed.

Anthony was rather displeased by the prospect.

He would not admit it, it would not be fitting — duty must come first.

But at least Penelope was with him.

And that was precisely what he was thinking when he saw her approach — radiant as an angel, yet fierce as a Celtic warrior goddess.

***

The following days unfolded largely as Anthony had anticipated, with few notable variations.

Violet Bridgerton was not pleased to see her daughter Eloise sent to Bath, but seeing her respond sharply to Penelope, and knowing that the new season would be difficult for Francesca due to the inevitable scandals that would follow, she had to accept the situation.

As for the matter of Jack Featherington’s debts, all were settled with minimal loss. Moreover, Portia had managed to have a document delivered to the Featherington family's lawyer, a document seemingly drafted by Jack Featherington, in which he declared that he could not guarantee an heir and, to the best of his knowledge, no other relatives were eligible to claim the title. In the document, Jack also expressed his wish that, should Penelope Bridgerton, née Featherington, bear a male child during her lifetime, the child should be recognized as his heir, entitled not only to the family fortune but also to the title.

Anthony, though certain the document was a forgery, knew that no one would dare contest it, especially with the evident backing of the Crown for their family. Her Majesty seemed inclined toward such a solution, provided the young couple began working on having children soon. In fact, the Queen would have preferred the title of Lord Featherington to pass to the second child of the couple, as there were more titles than children—well, none at that point, of course.

Anthony watched as Penelope blushed, her cheeks turning a soft rose hue as she fumbled with her words, clearly caught off guard by the Queen's words.
“Your Majesty,” Penelope began, her voice trembling slightly, “I shall do my best to fulfill your wishes, of course.”

The Queen smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling with approval. “I have no doubt that you will, my dear. And I am certain that you would be quite satisfied too... if not more so, with a husband like yours.”

Anthony felt the heat rise to his face, his own ears burning at the implication of Her Majesty’s words. He cleared his throat, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, though he struggled to hide his growing sense of attraction to the idea.

“If Her Majesty believes that,” he began, his tone light, though a spark of amusement flickered in his eyes, “then it seems we should complete the preparations for our honeymoon.”

Penelope blinked in surprise, still flushed from the Queen’s words, but she quickly regained her composure, though her voice was still a little unsteady.
“Honeymoon?” she repeated, her brow furrowing as she glanced at him.

“Yes,” Anthony replied. “It seems only fitting. We cannot leave such matters in the hands of others. I do not think there is a better way to satisfy our Queen’s request than to start immediately, wouldn’t you agree?”

Penelope’s gaze shifted to the Queen, whose approving nod seemed to encourage their plans.

“And where, Lord Bridgerton, shall you take your new wife?” the Queen asked, a playful glint in her eye.

Anthony’s smile widened at the question. “Venice,” he replied confidently, his voice soft and assured. “It is enchanting at this time of year. The canals are filled with a certain magic, and the city... Well, it offers both tranquility and romance. Perfect for a newlywed couple.”

Penelope’s eyes widened at his suggestion.

The Queen’s gaze softened as she looked between the two, the warmth of her approval evident. “Well then,” she said, her voice filled with finality, “you two have much to look forward to. Venice will do you both well, I am sure.”

Chapter Text

Penelope had been surprised when Anthony suggested Venice for their honeymoon. However, he explained that all of Colin’s research had, in fact, passed through his desk. While Colin had chosen Greece for his first Grand Tour, Anthony had been captivated by Venice. He sincerely believed that, despite the climate being somewhat closer to that of London, the city would be well suited for them as a newlywed couple. Moreover, the journey itself would allow them to travel at a leisurely pace, savoring each stop along the way.

Penelope accepted his reasoning and found herself truly excited for the journey ahead.

Bidding farewell to her mother was bittersweet. It was not like when she had gone to Brighton. Perhaps it was because this time, she was traveling abroad—her first and possibly only time beyond the island she called home. Or perhaps, deep down, she knew that when she returned, she would do so as a different woman.

After four days of travel, they finally arrived in Paris.

Penelope was astonished by the city. Though it had so recently emerged from the turmoil of war, it brimmed with a certain effervescence, as if poised for a grand new era. The Bourbon Restoration had brought back a sense of stability, yet there was an undeniable energy in the streets — carriages rattled along the broad avenues, cafés were filled with lively conversation, and elegant ladies in Empire-waist gowns strolled through the gardens of the Tuileries.

She found herself enchanted by Paris.

During the day, they played their roles to perfection — a viscount and his new wife, dignified yet amicable, exploring the wonders of the city together. They attended an evening at the theatre, where Anthony introduced her to acquaintances, always keeping a polite distance between them. He guided her through the halls of the Louvre with the same composed demeanor, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, offering her insights into the paintings they observed.

But then, in the quiet moments, the space between them felt less defined.

One afternoon, they came across a young artist sketching portraits near the Palais Royal. On a whim, Anthony commissioned a quick drawing of them, and as the artist’s pencil traced their features onto the paper, Penelope felt something shift between them. And when he looked at the finished drawing — at them — his lips parted slightly, as if seeing something he had not before.

They spent only a few days in Paris, yet that first stop cemented a newfound intimacy . They were no longer merely speaking to one another; they were sharing experiences, weaving memories that would forever be theirs.

A few days later, they arrived in Turin.

Though neither of them was Catholic, they could not ignore the sacred landmarks and the grandeur of the architecture that graced the capital of the Kingdom of Savoy. They visited both the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, where the famed Holy Shroud was kept, and the magnificent Basilica of Superga, perched on a hill overlooking the city. The basilica, with its imposing dome and sweeping views of the Alps, left Penelope in awe of such artistry.

Anthony, however, seemed far more entranced by her than by the sights.

It was there, on the hill where the Basilica of Superga stood, overlooking the city bathed in the golden hues of late summer, that they shared their first kiss. A chaste touch of lips at first — hesitant, as if uncertain of its place between them. But when she did not pull away, when she looked up at him with quiet wonder, he kissed her again, slower this time, his fingers ghosting along the curve of her jaw before he stepped back.

He did not apologize. He did not speak at all. He only offered his arm, and she took it, heart pounding against her ribs.

Their journey continued toward Milan, where the city bustled with the remnants of its Napoleonic past. The streets were lined with neoclassical buildings, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of commerce and ambition. They marveled at the Duomo, its intricate spires reaching toward the heavens, and strolled through the grand Galleria de’ Cristoforis, a covered passage lined with elegant shops and cafés.

In public, their touch remained minimal, a guiding hand at the small of her back as they crossed a street, a brief press of fingers as he helped her into a carriage. But at night, in the privacy of their accommodations, their interactions changed. They shared their nights — not in the way a husband and wife traditionally might, but in ways that slowly eroded the distance between them.

From the moment they had first fallen asleep together on the chaise lounge in the Viscount’s drawing room, it had become increasingly natural for them to do so. A hand lingering against fabric. The quiet hush of breath between them. By the time they reached Venice, it was their new routine. Her virtue remained intact—Anthony had adamantly refused to claim her anywhere but in a proper bed, in a respectable hotel at their final destination. Yet, that did not mean their physical intimacy had not deepened.

Finally, they reached Venice — their destination, and the place where their adventure as husband and wife would truly begin. 

***

Having consummated their marriage meant that mornings stretched lazily into the afternoon, their bodies tangled in soft sheets, fingers tracing familiar and unfamiliar paths alike. But Penelope was determined not to let the opportunity to explore Venice slip away.

“We may never have another chance like this,” she reasoned one morning, propped on one elbow as she watched Anthony fight off the pull of wakefulness. “You have responsibilities in London, Featherington House to manage, and sooner or later, we’ll have children.”

Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face before sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her atop him. “Which is precisely why we should enjoy these mornings while we can,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep, pressing a lingering kiss to the hollow of her throat.

Penelope shivered but laughed, wriggling out of his grasp. “We can enjoy Venice and each other, you know. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He sighed dramatically but relented, watching with a mix of fondness and exasperation as she left their bed, already brimming with excitement for the day ahead.

Yet, even as they wandered through the city, Anthony couldn’t shake a feeling—a nagging sense that something was about to happen.

And then, it did.

“Penelope?”

The voice was unmistakable — warm, lilting, and so utterly familiar that for a moment, Anthony thought he must be imagining it.

But then he turned and saw her.

Siena Rosso.

She looked as radiant as ever, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders, her expression a mixture of delight and astonishment. But what sent a jolt through Anthony was not just seeing her—it was seeing her rush forward, arms outstretched, to embrace Penelope.

The two women clung to each other like old friends, laughing, speaking over one another, their words tumbling together in an easy, familiar cadence.

Anthony’s world tilted slightly.

His former mistress and his wife.

Knowing each other.

Being… friendly?

For one impossible second, he felt unmoored, caught between past and present, between what had been and what was. In some other life — one that did not exist — perhaps he could have had them both. But in this one, Siena was his past, and Penelope was his future.

And yet, it was clear they were already part of each other’s lives.

Penelope had often mentioned writing plays, clearly he didn't understand what was involved and should have asked more questions. As he pieced things together, it all suddenly made sense: her connection to Genevieve Delacroix, the secrecy around her work. A young debutante and an actress would have needed a clandestine place to meet, and a modiste’s shop had been the perfect cover.

Penelope had much to explain.

But first, he needed to remind them that he was standing right there.

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward, arching a brow. “Would either of you care to explain how, exactly, this came to be?”

Siena turned to him, her eyes lighting with amusement. “Lord Bridgerton,” she said, her voice still carrying that teasing lilt that had once driven him mad. “What a surprise to see you here. You look well.”

“I’m sure I do,” he replied dryly, shifting his gaze to Penelope. “You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do.”

Penelope only smiled, looking utterly unrepentant. Then she turned to Siena, grabbing her hands. “Oh, I have so much to tell you.”

And she did.

Siena joined them for the day, and Penelope recounted everything that had happened since she'd left, pausing now and then to offer the occasional explanation for Anthony’s benefit.

She described to him how, after her debut, she had to find a discreet way to deliver her writing to the theatre, and how Genevieve’s shop had proved to be the perfect cover. It was only after they’d become friends that she had the chance to meet Siena.

Penelope had known who she was, of course, but back then she hadn't met many people. It was only as she began to take advantage of the small freedoms her debut allowed, and the even smaller amount of attention she received, that she was able to connect with others.

But no one had carved out a place in her heart the way Siena had.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

***

As the days and weeks passed, Anthony found himself struggling with the bond between Penelope and Siena.
It caught him off guard, the ease of their conversations, the way they seemed to understand each other without needing to speak. 

On the surface, they couldn’t have been more different: one a viscountess, the other a performer. But the more he watched them, the more the differences faded, giving way to a striking, undeniable similarity.

It unsettled him, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

One evening, as he and Penelope walked hand in hand along the Grand Canal, gondolas gliding beside them, he finally gave voice to the thought that had been quietly circling in his mind.

“You and Siena,” he said softly. “You’re more alike than I realized.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so?”

He nodded, turning to face her more fully. “It’s in the way you carry yourselves. Your strength. Your fire.” He hesitated, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Even Kate had it.”

Something flickered across her face, a brief shadow of emotion, but she remained silent, waiting.

Anthony gave a short, rueful laugh and shook his head. “Simon once told me I had a type.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and his voice softened. “And maybe he was right. Every woman who has ever truly mattered to me has had that same fire in her eyes.”

Penelope tilted her head, studying him. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

He took her hand in his, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “It means fire can be many things. It can destroy, yes, but it can also warm, protect, illuminate. It gives life.”
He paused, letting the words settle between them. “You, Penelope — You are the warmth I never knew I needed. You are life.”

She smiled at that , not just with her lips, but with her whole face, her whole being, and in her eyes, he saw it all: the fire, the tenderness, the quiet, unshakable strength that had taken root in his heart.

***

That conversation had shifted something. And since Penelope had missed Siena deeply, it felt only natural that, somehow, the rest of their time in Venice began to include her. 

It hadn’t been planned, but it felt inevitable. As if it had always been meant to be.

Fortunately, Siena was kept busy with rehearsals. Unfortunately, the opera she was preparing happened to be one of Penelope’s own.

This, of course, meant that his wife was frequently occupied: meeting with performers, discussing revisions, and, to Anthony’s growing chagrin, charming a veritable parade of artists, poets, and overly expressive intellectuals who all seemed to adore her just a little too much.

He wished they had more time alone, but even in his frustration, he could not help but feel proud of her.

He watched Penelope in candlelit salons, speaking with confidence, her words captivating those around her. He had always known Penelope to be intelligent, but here, she was something else entirely, someone who belonged to this world of creativity and passion.

And though he longed to have her to himself, he could not deny the truth: seeing her like this, so utterly in her element, was a joy unlike any other.

He felt like a lucky man to be able to see her blossom, be herself, and call her his wife.

***

After three months in Venice, it was time to start thinking about returning home, a necessity made even more pressing by a discovery that changed everything: Penelope was expecting a child.

Anthony should have known. In hindsight, the signs were all there.

He wasn’t ignorant in such matters — far from it. He had spent every night with his wife, since the night they had consummated their marriage, not a single day had passed without him losing himself in her. And yet… he had missed it.

It was Siena who noticed first.

“You’re with child, Penelope,” she said one morning, hands planted firmly on her hips as she looked her friend over with narrowed eyes.

Penelope blinked, utterly taken aback. “I— what?”

Siena laughed, a low, knowing sound. “Oh, my dear. How do you not see it? You’re tired all the time, your appetite is a mess, and last night the smell of wine made you grimace. I’ve seen enough women in the company go through this. Trust me. You’re with child.”

Anthony, who had been leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, suddenly straightened.

“A Child?” The word tasted foreign on his tongue, as if saying it aloud would make it real. His heart pounded.

Penelope turned to him, eyes wide. “I—Siena, are you sure?”

Siena gave her a knowing look. “You should see a midwife, of course. But yes, I am quite sure.”

Anthony exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. How had he not seen it? It was so obvious now. Every moment replayed in his mind, her slight fatigue, the way she had turned away from certain foods, how she had curled against him in bed, seeking warmth.

He had been blind.

Yet even as the shock settled, something else bloomed within him. A slow, deep warmth spread through his chest.

A child.

His child.

His gaze locked with Penelope’s. “Are you—” He paused, the words catching in his throat. “Are you happy?”

Anthony hadn’t expected to ask that question, and yet, in that moment, he felt strangely vulnerable.
Things between them had been going well, and having children was always part of the plan. But so much of their marriage had happened so suddenly, and he couldn’t help but fear how this might shift the delicate balance they had only just begun to build.

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a moment, she was silent. Then, slowly, her features softened into a smile, hesitant at first, then radiant.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I am.”

Something in Anthony shifted. Without thinking, he crossed the room, cupped her face with both hands, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, then to her forehead.

“Then I am happy too,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Returning to England felt strangely unreal. When Penelope had left, she knew she was leaving London as a girl and would return as a woman. In that, she had been right,  but she had never imagined coming back on the brink of motherhood, nor had she expected to find the house empty.

She and Anthony had sent letters announcing their return, yet no one seemed to have returned to the city. Even Featherington House remained closed for the off-season, which was rather unusual, considering that the country estate was undergoing renovations. In the last letter she had received, her mother had made no mention of joining either Philippa or Prudence.

Philippa had still been on her honeymoon when they last heard from her, while Prudence had recently married Dr. Henry Dankworth. Her mother’s illness had forced him to return to his family estate, and so the wedding had not been delayed. As far as Penelope knew, however, once Lady Dankworth’s health had stabilized, they had managed to leave for their honeymoon.

She remembered feeling both excited and melancholic at missing her sister’s big day, but she had been happy for her. Her mother had written that it was a love match, adding — almost in disbelief — that she had never expected to see her daughters marry for love.

At those words, Penelope had barely suppressed a wry smile. Her mother had certainly not been referring to her,  both of them knew her marriage had been born solely of the Queen’s will.

Penelope knew her marriage was a good one. Her feelings for Anthony deepened with each passing day. And yet, she could never bring herself to believe he might love her in return. It simply wasn’t possible.

Anthony had once loved Siena, then he loved the older Miss Sharma, while he had courted the younger one, women so unlike her in every way.

She had become his wife only because of the Queen’s will. She could never forget that. Nor should she.

And still, despite the veil of melancholy that had briefly assailed her, she felt genuinely happy for her sisters.

That did not change the fact that she had expected her mother to be there, to find her waiting for her upon her return.

***

As Penelope wondered about her mother’s whereabouts, Anthony stepped into the study and found a small stack of letters addressed to him, one of them was from Lady Portia Featherington.

When he joined his wife, he found her seated on a small settee, visibly concerned, holding a letter clearly written in her mother’s handwriting. 

He approached gently and, in a reassuring tone, said: “Darling, there’s no need to worry about your mother. She’s at Aubrey Hall with my mother and my siblings. She probably assumed they’d all return before we arrived.”

Then he added, “I also found some other letters for you. They weren’t forwarded to us, apparently our mothers wanted us to enjoy Venice without distractions.” He set the bundle down on the table in front of her.

Intrigued, Penelope reached for the letters and began reading while Anthony settled beside her.
She discovered that Philippa and Albion had returned from their honeymoon.  Philippa was expecting a child. Prudence, it seemed, was still traveling, and also with a child. According to her letter, she and her husband had stopped to stay with some of his relatives, and would resume their journey once she was feeling better.

It was the first time Penelope had ever received a letter from her eldest sister. Despite the usual complaints, which Penelope could almost hear as she read, the excitement of impending motherhood came through clearly between the lines.

Anthony had been reading over her shoulder, giving her space in case she wanted privacy. But Penelope had no secrets from him. Turning slightly, she said with a small smile:

“Well, the next generation is truly on its way.”

When she met his eyes, she saw her joy reflected in his own. They were both excited for what was to come.

***

The family's return from Aubrey Hall was filled with joy, made all the sweeter by the revelation of Penelope’s pregnancy.

Yet their arrival in London brought with it an unforeseen surprise.

Neither she nor Anthony had fully considered the implications of their circumstances. With Featherington House just across the street, their child set to inherit the barony, and Portia now widowed,  having successfully married off all her daughters, Violet had deemed it perfectly natural to accept Lady Featherington’s invitation to move in with her. She had brought the younger Bridgertons along, and the arrangement had already been settled by the time they set foot back in town.

Penelope had not wanted it.

She had never voiced it, but the very idea unsettled her. And yet, to her surprise, Violet had been insistent, “It is merely across the street, dearest,” her mother-in-law had said airily, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You and your husband shall have your privacy, and truly, this is what a marriage requires: time, just the two of you.”

Penelope understood Anthony’s mother, of course. But Bridgerton House had never seemed so vast in her memories as it did now, with everyone gone.

And yet, that feeling of emptiness did not last. Life, as always, carried on. The Season had begun, Francesca was making her debut, and as Penelope’s pregnancy progressed, she and Anthony settled into a new rhythm.

Her confinement would not begin until late May, which meant she had ample time to witness, and wholeheartedly support, the unfolding romance between Francesca and Lord Kilmartin.

She had, of course, informed Her Majesty that the Season’s newly declared Diamond had already given her heart to someone else and not the Queen’s favourite suitor.
The Queen, after listening to Penelope’s assessment, had, albeit with some reluctance, agreed not to interfere.

“Very well, Lady Bridgerton,” she had said. “Lord Samadani shall have another bride. But I expect this to be settled neatly. I will not have another Bridgerton scandal.”

***

Not all the obstacles to Francesca’s happiness came from outside the family.

Violet herself had believed Lord Samadani to be the better match, and she could not comprehend how the Queen had allowed Penelope to sway her decision in favor of the Earl of Kilmartin.

To Violet’s eyes, it was obvious,and perplexing, just how much influence Penelope had begun to exert over Her Majesty. Their growing closeness had not gone unnoticed. She had even heard whispers that Lady Bridgerton’s marriage had not been the result of a spontaneous royal whim, as many believed.

But such rumors never lasted—not when Lord and Lady Bridgerton so clearly mirrored what she and Edmund had once shared. Their marriage seemed less like a trap and more like a fortuitous coincidence, an union for which Her Majesty had claimed credit, and taken great care to preserve.

And yet, though Violet bore no ill will toward her daughter-in-law, something continued to trouble her. The whispers always died down the moment Penelope and Anthony appeared together in public, radiating warmth and familiarity. And still, Violet had seen her son leaving the house at odd hours.

From her window at Featherington House, she could see her former home, a view she found herself drawn to more often than she liked to admit. And it was from there that she had seen him, more than once, slipping into a carriage in the dead of night.

Though Violet had always prided herself on seeing the best in her children, there were limits, even for a mother. One night, she had caught sight of a maid, just one of many indistinct faces in a household that size, following Anthony into the waiting vehicle.

She had not spoken of it. Not yet. She couldn't. 

It seemed like a recent development, it could only upset Penelope, and it wouldn't do anyone any good.

And yet, the truth was impossible to ignore.

He was leaving.

His wife, heavy with child, remained behind in that grand house, alone but for the servants.

And that, more than anything, filled Violet with a quiet, aching sorrow.

It was far too late to return to Bridgerton House.

She had made her choice.

Now, all she could do was watch.

And hope that Francesca's marriage wouldn't be like this.

***

The truth was not what Lady Violet Bridgerton imagined.

Anthony was not being unfaithful to his wife.

The mere suggestion would have been laughable, if not for his mother’s quiet, watchful eyes, drawing her own conclusions from his late-night departures.

Penelope had mentioned it to him. Violet’s remarks had stopped focusing on Francesca’s prospects or the progress of Penelope’s pregnancy. Instead, she had begun asking oddly specific questions, about his work, about how much he visited White’s. Penelope said that his mother suspected something. And it hadn’t taken long for Rae to confirm it: she had seen a faint light in the room known to be the Dowager Viscountess’s.

Anthony had no way of confronting his mother without revealing everything.

And though he wished that Penelope would stop her clandestine deliveries of that infernal column, he had long since accepted that she would not be swayed. If she hadn’t been pregnant, she would have continued to do it herself.

The only compromise he had managed to secure was that, during her pregnancy, he would personally escort Rae to the press whenever an urgent delivery was required. If not him, then Madame Delacroix would serve as the intermediary.
And that, only because Penelope, carrying his child, understood that their child’s safety came first.

It was hardly the resolution Anthony had hoped for. But at least it kept her safe.

Penelope herself had admitted it wouldn’t go on forever. But so long as the column existed, it would remain hers,  her voice, her creation, and she would continue to care for it, as she always had.

Anthony knew he would continue to go with her to deliver the column in the future, with any luck his mother would never actually question him. 

He didn't want to lie to her, he never had to.

And it was for this reason that, when the matter of Francesca’s courtship with Lord Kilmartin had arisen, Anthony Bridgerton had been firm, perhaps even blunt, in taking the side of his sister and his wife.

***

Anthony had been sitting with Penelope, joined by his mother, when he began recounting to her how he had ended up courting Miss Edwina Sharma.

His wife watched him, clearly intrigued by a story she had never heard before, and he turned to his mother in a calm voice.

“Do you remember, Mother, during Daphne’s season, when you told me I was failing in my duty? That Father would have been ashamed of me for not securing the continuation of the Bridgerton line?”

Violet looked at him, startled, as if she didn’t recall the moment.

Anthony was quietly hurt by this, but continued, “Of course, now it’s clear that what you were really trying to do was arrange a match between Simon and Daphne… But the result was that I accepted Lord Berbrooke’s proposal for Daphne, and gave up my mistress.”

Violet gasped. “Anthony!” she whispered, bringing a hand to her chest.

Penelope simply widened her eyes. Anthony knew she had already guessed where he was going with this.

“I loved Siena,” he continued, his voice softer, more sincere. “And losing her hurt.”

Violet’s gaze softened, touched, perhaps, by the unexpected confession. Anthony turned to Penelope, who looked at him with tenderness, and then back to his mother.

“I left her, cruelly, to do my duty. I was grieving, and I hurt her. And because of that pain, I entered the new season determined to fulfill my role, and so I pursued the most dazzling debutante in society. I was wrong again. I hurt more people than I can count, all because I was afraid to suffer.”

He paused, turning to Penelope and clasping her hands gently.

“I should not have feared pain. Love is worth the sorrow it may bring.”

Then he looked back at his mother.

“Francesca is not like me. She understood that duty is not where happiness lies, and she was brave enough to admit it. She could have continued her courtship with Lord Samadani, but instead she chose to follow her heart. And I believe she can be happy . Only she can decide what brings her joy .”

Turning again to his wife, he added, “Not everyone is lucky enough to…” He hesitated, then finished quietly, “…to find love elsewhere.”

Penelope’s eyes glistened with emotion. Anthony hadn’t meant to make her cry, nor had he planned to reveal his feelings this way, but it was necessary. And he would make it clear later that it wasn’t only for Violet’s benefit.

When he looked back at his mother, her expression had hardened.

“You speak of love and fortune,” she said sternly, “and yet you leave your wife at all hours. Have you returned to your mistress? Do you go running to her when she calls?”

The question struck him like a blow. He had no mistress, but there had been a moment, not so long ago, when he had offered another woman, Kate, the chance to become one. Shame flooded him before he could respond—

And then Penelope laughed. “If Siena, Miss Rosso, were in town, I might actually be offended that we haven't invited her to dinner yet!” she said, amused.

Anthony turned to her, while Violet, visibly perplexed, said “What?”

Penelope turned gracefully toward her mother-in-law. “It’s true that Anthony has been frequenting artistic circles, and the hours are irregular, but he does it for me.” She paused, then continued. “Violet, I assume my mother has spoken to you of the situation in which my father left us… But what even she doesn’t know is that I’ve helped in part by finding a way to earn money.”

Anthony stared at her, surprised by how naturally she spoke. She wasn’t lying, but she certainly wasn’t telling the whole truth either.

“I began adapting plays,” Penelope explained calmly. “And even though I no longer need to write for income, I continue because I enjoy it. I have no intention of stopping. But I can’t deliver my scripts in person anymore, not now,” she said, touching her belly lightly. “Anthony agreed to help. At first he accompanied me, and now he goes with my maid, who’s quite familiar with that world. He doesn’t leave me, not really. And when he does, it’s only for a few hours, and it’s for me.”

Violet seemed to wrestle with her thoughts. “And the woman?” she asked at last. “Siena?”

Penelope smiled softly, as she often did when thinking of her friend. “Siena is my friend, she is in Venice,” Penelope said, and then, with a blend of sweetness and mischief, added, “In fact, Siena was the first to suspect I might be with a child.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. The subject clearly made Violet uncomfortable as much as confused, and she merely murmured something under her breath. Anthony took that as his cue to call for fresh tea and steered the conversation toward safer territory, sure that, at the very least, he had given his mother much to reflect on.

In the following days, Anthony noticed a subtle shift in his mother’s demeanor. And he wasn’t the only one, because just a few days later, Francesca arrived at Bridgerton House and, unusually animated, embraced both him and Penelope tightly, thanking them.

Their mother had given her blessing to her union with Lord Kilmartin.

Afterward, Francesca stayed to talk wedding details with Penelope. She wanted an intimate and peaceful ceremony, something simple. 

And she would have it.

Just as Lord Samadani would have the grand affair the Queen had envisioned. For as soon as Penelope had confirmed that Her Majesty would not oppose Francesca’s marriage, she had swiftly arranged for Lord Samadani to be introduced to the delightful Miss Deben, the fourth daughter of a viscount. She was a young woman with a keen mind and a warm disposition, one who longed for a family as grand and vibrant as both her own and the marquess’s. More importantly, she harbored no fear of leaving England behind. As the youngest of her siblings, she had spent her life under their careful protection, and now, she yearned to forge her own path.

Even the Queen had loved that match.

***

While Penelope was occupied with the two weddings — one in which she was involved as the bride of the family patriarch, and the other because both Lord Samadani and his future marchioness were well aware they owed their happiness to Lady Bridgerton — Anthony barely had time to embrace a sleepy wife in passing.

He had never imagined that one day he would want to speak to his wife about feelings, or that she would be the one to make it impossible.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, Penelope had never been like anyone else. 

And though he accepted her silent request for space, he would not forget it.

He wasn’t blind to the strain she was under, the pressure of so many events and a pregnancy drawing nearer each day, and if his duty as her husband was to be by her side and lighten her burden, he would do so, without hesitation.

Despite all the unspoken emotions and feelings, joy filled their days. 

Even more so when husband and wife couldn’t help but notice, and comment among themselves, how Lord KillMartin’s cousin had clearly caught Colin’s attention. Officially, it was her travel stories that fascinated him, but they both knew it was more than that. After all, Colin had never asked the Sharma sisters so many detailed questions about India as he now did Miss Michaela Stirling.

And yet, amid all that happiness, one shadow still lingered.

Eloise.

***

With the joyful news of Francesca’s impending marriage, Eloise returned to London.

Daphne, regrettably, could not join them, as she was now too far along in her own pregnancy to travel. Penelope had not expected Eloise’s arrival — truthfully, she had long since given up hoping for it — and yet, as their eyes met across the drawing room, she saw that Eloise, too, was taken aback.

She had known she would find Penelope here. That much had been inevitable. But she had not expected to find her like this — her figure unmistakably round with a child, the weight of impending motherhood resting upon her like a quiet, undeniable truth.

For a moment, Eloise simply stared.

And then, as if something within her had cracked wide open, she surged forward, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

“Penelope!” she gasped, her arms wrapping tightly around her. The embrace was fierce, almost desperate, as though she had been starved of the connection for far too long. And then the words tumbled out in rapid succession, as they always did with Eloise — sharp, concerned, relentless.

“How do you feel? Should you even be standing? And where is Anthony? Why on earth has he left you alone?”

The poor man, as it happened, was at Parliament. He would never have willingly left her side if it had not been for unavoidable duty.

But Penelope could scarcely process an answer.

The warmth of Eloise’s embrace, the urgency in her voice — it was as though a bridge, long broken, had begun to mend itself in that instant.

It was not a full reconciliation, not yet. There was still a lot of silence, wounds both spoken and unspoken, that could not be so easily undone.

But, it felt like a new beginning, a chance to rebuild.

And at that moment, it was enough, Penelope didn't think she could be happier, she had everything she wanted and more.

Chapter Text

The months following the return of Lord and Lady Bridgerton passed swiftly.

Lord and Lady Kilmartin chose to settle in their London townhouse, postponing their journey to Scotland in order to be present for the birth of their future niece or nephew — and, because they could not help but notice the first stirrings of affection between their dear Colin and Michaela. 

Francesca had informed her husband that her brother was quite obviously in love, though he struggled to admit it — even to himself — after being burned the previous year when he had proposed to a lady who saw him only as a means to secure her future and that of the child she was carrying.

John, in turn, revealed that his cousin had once been married. She and her husband had had no children, and upon returning to England she had resumed her maiden name and taken on the role of a merry widow — perhaps because it was easier, or perhaps it was her way of shielding herself from the pity society was unwilling to bestow.

Both Francesca and John concluded that their respective loved ones might benefit from a little guidance. So, during the many evenings spent in one another’s company, they made subtle efforts to convey that the other was trustworthy, that they would not judge, and that it was far better to risk heartbreak than to live with regret.

While these gentle interventions had little effect on Michaela, the same could not be said for Colin, perhaps because his brothers gave him far more to consider.

One evening, aided unwittingly by Benedict and following his clever wife’s advice, Anthony confessed to his younger brother that there was more to the infamous way he had treated the Misses Sharma than anyone knew. Before penning a proper apology, the last time he had seen Miss Kathani Sharma, he had, in fact, asked her to become his mistress.

Colin was, predictably, outraged. And when Anthony added that the lady had, quite sensibly, refused his offer, Colin asked, “And if she had accepted? Would you truly have betrayed Penelope with her? Are you betraying her now?”

Anthony took a slow sip of his Scotch before replying. Within a month, he would find himself once again defending his honour against accusations of betrayal. “I have not betrayed my wife. How you can believe that, after all you have seen between us, is beyond me. And as for Miss Sharma… I honestly do not think I would have betrayed Penelope. Not even had Kate accepted.”

When silence met his words — an incredulous, charged silence — Anthony found himself giving explanations he had never been forced to give his sweet Penelope. She had always known him more deeply than his own family. The thought made him smile, momentarily distracted, until a jab from Benedict brought him back to the present.

“I am quite serious,” he said at last. “I do not believe I would have pursued Kate — not for long, in any case. Had she accepted, she would have proven herself a different woman than the one I believed myself to love.”

“So you truly loved her then?” Colin asked, his tone softer now.

“I don’t know if I could truly call it love,” Anthony admitted. “I did not know her well enough to feel a deep, all-consuming affection. We shared little that might have formed the foundation of the kind of loving relationship I now have with my wife. But I was drawn to her. I admired her. I was infatuated. And had circumstances been different, perhaps we might have grown together, perhaps we might even have come to love one another. But in this life, she would never have been my wife. She would never have been the mother of my heir. And the passion that once pulled us together would, in the end, have been the very thing to burn us both.”

“Do you regret marrying Penelope?”

Anthony smiled. “ I cannot regret marrying the woman I love. And if I had the chance to do it all again, I would pursue her from the very beginning. After all, she ticked every box on my blasted list .”

That earned a snort from Benedict, who appeared thoroughly entertained.

Anthony went on, “But I do regret the people I hurt along the way. That is not, however, why I bring all this up. Despite the way my marriage began, we were able to move forward because I had no lingering doubts. That indecent proposal I made to Miss Sharma was necessary, if only to ensure that nothing remained unresolved when I began anew with Penelope. Without that closure, we might never have been vulnerable enough to truly love one another.”

And Anthony believed every word he said, even if, perhaps, he would never have uttered them without Penelope’s urging. Now, he realised it had not been solely to help Colin and Michaela, it had been to mend his own relationship with his brothers. “Love requires vulnerability,” she had told him. And, as always, she had been right.

“So, you do love her then? You’re certain of it?” Benedict asked, bringing him back to the moment once more, and sounding far more surprised than Anthony liked.

But he merely smiled. “You are not the first person I ought to have told.”

***

Somehow, that evening proved decisive, for within a few days, no one in the Ton could doubt the fervour with which Mr. Colin Bridgerton pursued Miss Michaela Stirling. Some remained sceptical, of course. After all, not so many months prior, the Viscount had done much the same with the youngest Miss Sharma.

But Colin knew there was no comparison. Anthony had not pursued the woman he truly loved.

He tried to explain this to Michaela, but she insisted they needed more time to know one another.

Colin accepted her terms, he would have waited a lifetime to make her Mrs. Colin Bridgerton.

Fortunately, he had to wait only a single season. Soon after they departed for Asia, Michaela wished to show him the lands of her childhood, and to visit her late husband’s grave. Colin understood how much it meant to her, and with no obligations in England to tie him down, he followed her to the other side of the world, though not before embracing his dearest friend, his brother, and the little Lords, well — Lord Featherington and the Bridgerton heir.

***

To the surprise and envy of many, Penelope Bridgerton had given birth to twin sons.

The arrival of the future Lord Bridgerton and the young Lord Featherington brought joy to many hearts, but above all, it wrought a profound transformation in their father.

Fear was the first to come . The memory of Hyacinth’s birth surged vividly to the forefront of the Viscount’s mind the moment he learned that his wife had gone into labour prematurely.

To see her flushed and crying out, while the physician attended her, filled him with a dread he could scarcely articulate. It mattered not that no one had voiced the terrible question aloud, he could not silence the one echoing in his heart. And when her cries did not cease after the infant Edmund had been handed off to a nurse, and the physician turned back to her with an alarm written plain upon his face, terror overcame him.

In that moment, Anthony realised he could not live without her.

He had known he loved her, he had known it for months. But it was in that terrible instant that the full force of his love struck him. How utterly he belonged to her. How foolish he had been, waiting for the perfect moment to confess what she most deserved to hear, risking that he might lose her without her ever truly knowing it, not from his own lips.

As the second child entered the world, he whispered the words to her — I love you — but even then, he feared she would believe he spoke them only because she had borne his beautiful sons: Edmund, heir to the viscountcy, and Elliot, the new Lord Featherington.

It was for that reason that Anthony made a decision that very day, one that would strengthen the bond they already shared. He resolved to court her, to ensure she knew, without question or doubt, that his heart belonged solely and irrevocably to her.

Wishing to make his efforts both meaningful and unique, Anthony turned to his soon-to-be sister-in-law, Michaela. She had travelled the world, and he was certain she could provide a suggestion as singular and unexpected as Penelope herself. With uncharacteristic humility, he confessed his shortcomings: he was not a man of eloquent letters like his wife or his brothers, nor did he possess Benedict’s talent with a brush. He lacked the particular quirks that defined other couples — Finch’s passion for cheese, or the Dankworths’ delight in all things morbid. And when he had pursued the woman he once thought he might marry, he had done so following every tired cliché society expected of a man in his position.

But for his wife, he desired something entirely different — something that could only ever be theirs.

Michaela had listened patiently, moved by the unexpected vulnerability in his words, and agreed to help.

She taught him the art of origami, a discipline of patience and precision, which, to his surprise, suited him far better than expected. Under her guidance, he learned to fold delicate figures, shaping flowers and birds with a skill that soon became startlingly refined. But she did not stop there. She introduced him to the form of the haiku, poetry distilled to its purest form — brief, but brimming with emotion.

At first, Anthony struggled to grasp its rhythm, the weight of each syllable, the depth required in so few words. And yet, with time, and the books Michaela had thoughtfully provided, he discovered a way to express his feelings in a voice entirely his own.

Thus, alongside the more conventional tokens of affection — bouquets, jewels, and other such gifts — began to appear small paper creations, each bearing a carefully composed verse.

Penelope adored them. She gathered the fragile tokens in a basket as though they were the most precious of treasures. And whenever doubt or melancholy crept in, she would reach for one of those delicate paper blooms and unfold it, reading the words he had left for her.

Then, with the same careful attention she had learned from Michaela, she would fold it once more, returning it to its former shape with reverence, an act that, though silent, seemed to reaffirm the strength and resilience of the love they had built together.

***

And so the years passed. 

More marriages were celebrated, and new children joined the family. 

Yet while much had changed, some things remained constant, and among them, Lady Bridgerton’s correspondence.

Despite the ever-growing number of recipients, she remained steadfast in her dedication to maintaining each of her letters with the same care and constancy as ever.

Among those she wrote to was Edwina of Prussia, the woman once intended to marry her husband, yet who had never held any resentment toward Penelope for becoming Viscountess in her stead. 

It had been the Queen’s will, and all parties had accepted it long ago.

Their letters had always been sincere, and in one such exchange, Princess Edwina confided her intention to return to England, and expressed her wish to see Penelope once more. Yet when the day approached, the letter Penelope received contained another revelation: Edwina would not be arriving alone. Her sister, Kathani, would be accompanying her.

Life had taken its own unexpected course. In India, Kate had once more encountered Thomas Dorset, Anthony’s old friend, the very gentleman once meant to distract her at the races. He had since become a diplomat posted to the subcontinent, and over time, their acquaintance had deepened into something far more enduring. They had married, and when Thomas was later assigned to Prussia, Kate had followed him there.

The Sharma sisters — once torn apart by painful conflict — had found their way back to forgiveness and reconciliation.

But though Edwina and Kate had mended their bond, the same could not be said for Kate and Anthony.

Edwina, who no longer harboured any tender feelings for the Viscount, could not predict how he and her sister would receive one another after so many years. And as a true friend, she wished to prepare Penelope, not to dissuade her from attending, but simply to forewarn her.

Penelope felt a flicker of unease . 

However solid her marriage to Anthony was, however certain she was of his love, she could not deny that old ghosts still lingered at the edges of her heart.

Anthony agreed to accompany her to the palace to meet Edwina, and, inevitably, Kate. He was not blind to her anxiety. He took her hand in his, fingers entwined throughout the entire journey, and more than once, between gentle kisses, he murmured his love for her, soft reassurances that never once rang hollow.

The meeting took place at court. Edwina accepted the Viscount’s polite bow, then turned to Penelope with a warm smile and took her hands in a gesture of true affection. And yet, despite her intention to focus entirely on her friend, Penelope found herself distracted.

Her gaze, unbidden, sought out Kate. And Kate, in that very moment, was looking at Anthony.

That alone made Penelope’s eyes flicker toward her husband, but he was not looking at Kate.

He was looking at her.

And though Penelope, in the briefest of instants, had searched his expression for regret, she found none. There was only concern — for her. Because to Anthony, she was all that mattered. No one else in the room held any significance.

They had always known it, of course. They had come to understand it years ago.

But now, in that quiet, crystalline moment, they had proof.

The past was just that — the past.

What they shared was real. Their love had not been born of duty or expectation, but had bloomed, silently and resolutely, in the space between familiarity and devotion. Perhaps it had taken root the very moment they realised it was no longer the Queen’s will that bound them together, but their own longing — to fall asleep and awaken beside one another, day after day, to choose each other, not once, but over and over again with each passing year.

And so they would continue to choose one another — day after day, for the rest of their lives.