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The night of the Featherington Ball, after Colin confronted Jack Featherington, after she and Colin shared a lovely dance and a moment that felt almost suspended in time, Penelope found herself overcome with the need to put her heart into words. He had called her special. The word had lingered in her mind, echoing with a sweetness she dared not name. But to say what she truly felt aloud - to see his reaction, to risk witnessing the moment his warm affection turned to pity - was a courage she did not possess.
But she was Lady Whistledown. Words were her refuge, her strength. If she could not speak them, she could write them.
Colin was setting off on his next adventure in three days. And so, by the glow of a single candle, she penned her confession, sealed it with trembling fingers, and carried it with her through the rest of the night. Then, just before he joined a group of gentlemen preparing to take their leave, she stepped forward. Without explanation, without meeting his gaze for more than a fleeting second, she pressed the letter into his hand.
“Colin, thank you again for what you did for my family tonight. I look forward to our correspondence during your travels and thought, perhaps, you might enjoy having a letter to read at the start of your journey, perhaps on the ship. Read this,” she murmured, “when you are feeling alone.”
And then she turned away, before she could lose her nerve, before she could see whether he would slip it into his pocket or let it fall from his fingers.
My Dearest Colin,
I once told you that if you love someone, you should tell them assuredly, fervently, loudly. Your heroic actions tonight gave me the courage to take up my pen (with trembling fingers), uncertain whether this letter is an act of bravery or of folly. I no longer wish to keep within my heart a sentiment that has long taken root, though I never once dared hope it would find its way into your own heart.
I love you. I have loved you for an embarrassingly long time, so long that I scarcely remember a time before my heart belonged to you. It has been a quiet love, tucked away in the corners of my soul, content simply to exist, to warm itself by the light of your laughter, to cherish every kindness you have bestowed upon me as though it were a precious jewel. Never did I imagine you might return my affections, nor do I write now with any expectation – only the hope that as you depart upon your journey, you will carry with it the knowledge that you are deeply and truly loved, just as you are, regardless of the status of your purpose.
Because I love you, I wish for you all the happiness this world has to offer. Even if that happiness leads you far from me. Even if it places your heart in the hands of another – some radiant, wonderful woman, as you so deserve. My love is not the kind that demands or begs. It is simply yours.
I ask nothing of you, Colin, save that you do not let this confession burden you. If you should wish to speak of it, let it be in one of your usual letters to me, where there is no weight, no expectation, only the ease of our friendship. And if you do not wish to speak of it at all, then let us never mention it, and I shall think no less of you. My only wish is that you go forth into the world knowing there is one heart in England that beats a little faster whenever your name is spoken.
Write to me, if you will. I shall be waiting, as I always do, for your words.
Yours, in friendship and in love,
Penelope
Two days later, as Penelope made her way to her room after dinner, her lady’s maid, Rae, approached with a letter in hand, Colin’s familiar script unmistakable on the front.
Penelope froze. Her fingers itched to take it, to tear it open at once, but her heart wavered. She had not forgotten the sting of his words, spoken so carelessly, so publicly not fifteen minutes after she had placed her own letter into his hand. She had spent two days convincing herself that she cannot continue to love him. He would never court her.
What could this letter be? If he heeded her instruction and had not read her letter, it was likely an apology. Or worse, he had read it immediately and now sought to set her straight with a cool, dismissive response.
There were so many possibilities. All except the one she longed for most.
Wordlessly, she took the letter and carried it upstairs, setting it on her writing desk without so much as breaking the seal. Instead, she readied herself for bed, extinguished her candle, and lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. Sleep did not come. How could it, when that letter sat mere feet away, holding answers she was too afraid to face?
Time passed in restless torment, until at last, with a frustrated sigh, she sat up and reached for the drawer where she had tucked it away. With trembling hands, she pulled the letter free, turned it over once, twice, as though bracing herself for a blow.
Then, with a deep breath, she broke the seal and began to read.
My Dearest Penelope,
How can I begin to answer such a letter? How can mere words capture the way yours have unraveled me, have opened my eyes and, with them, my heart?
You pressed your letter into my hand at your mother’s ball with a soft smile and a quiet plea - that I wait to read it until I was alone on my journey. I swore to honor your request. My resolve lasted a single day. Forgive me, Pen, but patience has never been my virtue, and with such precious cargo burning a hole in my pocket, how could I resist? I stole away to my room, broke the seal, and with each line I read, my heart, foolish and blind as it had been, came awake.
And now, because of you, my journey must be delayed. Not indefinitely, of course, only long enough to see if I might bring my beloved wife with me.
I intend to call on you in the morning, at a respectable hour, as any proper gentleman would. But if you, like me, find yourself unable to bear the wait - if you, like me, are trembling with something that feels very much like hope - meet me in your garden at midnight. I will be a gentleman, as I have always been, but tonight I would be something else as well. A man who has seen the path before him with fresh eyes and knows, for the first time, exactly where it leads.
I always thought love would strike like lightning - sudden, brilliant, impossible to ignore. I never realized it might grow slowly, as steady as the tide, creeping into my heart with such quiet certainty that I failed to see it for what it was. But your letter reminded me. Of secret smiles shared across crowded rooms and the way your eyes dance when you speak of things you love. Of the evenings spent in your company, when conversation flows as easily as breath. Of the beautiful woman with titian hair and eyes as blue as the Aegean who makes me feel seen. Of a purpose - to stand by her and bask in her light.
You, Penelope. It has always been you.
I will see you in the morning. Or perhaps, if you are as impatient as I am, I will see you tonight.
Yours, in hope and in certainty,
Colin
Penelope gasped as she read Colin’s letter, her fingers trembling over the pages. Her heart pounded, skipping beats as her breath came too fast, her chest rising and falling. Only two nights ago, he had said he would never court her...and now, now it seemed he wished to marry her. Could it be true?
Her eyes darted to the clock. Ten minutes to midnight.
Without a second thought, she pulled loose the sleeping braid from her hair, running a brush through the auburn waves until they tumbled freely down her back. She wrapped herself in her robe, slipped on her slippers, and, as silently as her pounding heart would allow, made her way through the quiet house and into the garden.
The moon bathed the garden in silver light, casting long shadows across the hedgerows. And there, standing amid them, was Colin.
He was dressed simply, his brown coat left open, a navy shirt beneath it undone at the collar, no cravat to be seen. The sight of him - so at ease, so wholly himself - sent a fresh wave of emotion surging through her. He turned at the sound of her approach, and when he saw her, he smiled, wide, radiant, joyful. Before she could say a word, he strode toward her, caught her up in his arms, and spun her in a circle, laughter spilling from both of them.
Then he set her down, his hands warm on her waist, his dark blue eyes, dilated almost black in the moonlight, searching hers. One of his hands lifted, his fingers brushing softly against her cheek. And in that moment, in the way he looked at her, like she was something precious, something cherished, there was no room left for doubt.
Colin Bridgerton loved her.
“Thank you for your letter,” they both blurted at once, then laughed, giddy and breathless.
Colin’s smile softened as he cupped her face more fully, his thumb tracing a path over her cheekbone. “I love you, Penelope Anne Featherington. Forgive me for how long it took for my head and my heart to understand that love was there all along, growing with us.”
Penelope looked up into his eyes, her own brimming with joy. “I love you, Colin Christopher Bridgerton. Always.”
Colin exhaled a long, measured breath, his gaze flickering to her lips. “I promised I would be a gentleman,” he murmured, “but I find I am quite impatient to kiss you.”
Penelope tilted her chin up, eyes dancing with mischief. “Patience is a virtue,” she whispered. “But not my virtue.”
A slow grin spread across Colin’s face as he bent toward her, his hand firm against her cheek. Their lips met in the barest whisper of a kiss, a soft, reverent touch. Foreheads resting together, breath mingling in the cool night air, they paused only for a moment before Colin leaned in again, this time deepening the kiss, pulling her closer, holding her as though he never wished to let go.
And it was glorious.