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Penelope has been Lady Whistledown for long enough to know the telltale signs of gossip moving through a room. In fact, she can see it happening right at this very moment.
It’s rolling through those in attendance at Lady Bridgerton’s annual Hearts and Flower ball like a wave that can’t be stopped. And it’s not long until the wave in question rolls right into the very refreshment table she’d perched herself at.
She sips her lemonade demurely, eyes locked on the dance floor, but ears firmly trained on the pair of matchmaking mama’s who’ve come in search of refreshments.
“-- and out on the terrace where anyone could see. Well, everyone getting air did see.”
“And he just attacked Lord Fife without preamble?”
“According to Lady Cowper. Though she has been known to miss a detail or two when relaying gossip. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if hadn’t seen the Viscount loading the Fife boy into a carriage.”
“Yes, Violet’s third has always been so charming— so amiable! Who knew he was hiding such a terrible temper!”
Penelope’s heart lurches when she realizes they’re talking about Colin, but it isn’t until she makes her way out to the terrace in question that she’s able to piece together the full picture.
Despite the fact that the commotion has clearly died down, there are no shortage of members of the Ton talking about the fight that had apparently broken out between Colin, and Lords Fife, Cho, and Stanton. It’s nearly impossible for Penelope to wrap her head around the news herself— that is, until she takes in the sight of a pair of servants hastily cleaning up at the scene of the crime. Shards of broken glass glimmer on the paved floor, but all Penelope can focus on is the bloodied cravat grasped in one of the servant’s hands. That’s all it takes for her to turn on her heel and head back inside where it’s far too easy to slide back into the shadows and slip away unnoticed.
Colin had come back so changed from his most recent tour she barely recognizes the man he’s pretending to be. Deep down though, Penelope still knows him. Has to believe that the old Colin— the one she’s always loved— is still buried deep beneath his shiny new exterior. Which is why she doesn’t need to ask where he might have fled to. She already knows.
The Bridgertons have quite the extensive library on the main floor, but Penelope knows that Colin, much like his father before him, has always preferred the intimacy of the smaller collection tucked away on the second floor.
She knocks when she gets there. She’s not even really sure why she does it when she never has before. But it’s too late to take it back, and it’s not long before Colin materializes in front of her.
Everything about him is tense— guarded as though bracing for another fight. Perhaps because he’d assumed the only person with half a mind to seek him out would be Anthony. Even then, Penelope supposes Anthony only would have done so to berate him for his actions, so it’s no surprise Colin still appears to be on the defense.
She doesn’t blame him for startling the moment he finally registers her presence. Penelope had planned to keep Colin at arms length all season, phasing him out of her life before he’d even returned from his latest tour of the continent. A necessary means to protect whatever had been left of her poor, mangled heart— still fragile in all the places she’d tried her best to patch it up after he’d broken it with his callous words last season.
And then, Colin had found out about Lady Whistledown, and it’d been far too easy for the both of them to avoid each other. So perhaps it shouldn’t be all that surprising to watch the expression on his face slacken into one of near disbelief as he takes in the sight of her standing on the other side of the door.
Colin’s always been a charmer first, and a talker second. Penelope’s always loved the fact that conversation between them has always flowed easily. That, in the rare cases where silence has befallen them, it’s always been of the companionable variety. The silence that stretches between them now, though? Heavy with disorienting weariness? That’s the sort of silence Penelope doesn’t know what to do with.
She doesn’t miss it when his eyes flit down toward the medicine chest she’s cradling in front of her like some sort of shield. She’d made a detour to the kitchens to grab it from the pantry the moment she’d seen the bloodied cravat, hoping she wouldn’t need it but knowing she probably would.
For a fleeting moment, her stomach churns at the thought of Colin turning her away. Penelope wouldn’t blame him for it. Part of her had always feared his opinion of her would shift the moment he discovered her secret. For the first time since her feet had carried her in his direction, Penelope falters, wondering if it had been a mistake. It’s Colin, who puts her out of her misery, as though perhaps sensing the moment doubt had started to creep in. And a sense of relief washes over her when he pushes the door open just wide enough for her to slip through.
Penelope ducks under his arm, brushing past him without a word, and then follows him back over to the settee by the window after he shuts the door. It’s only now that he’s bathed in a combination of the pale moonlight coming from the window and the roaring fire from the hearth just across from them that she’s finally able to get a good look at him.
Her eyes rake over his form from head to toe, assessing the damage as best she can. There’s a sizable cut over his right brow, a split on his full lower lip, and a bruise already beginning to form on his chin. It’s his hands look as though they’ve taken the brunt of it though, and Penelope tries not to wince when she takes in the sight of his bloodied knuckles.
“I assure you it looks worse than it really is,” he offers, gingerly settling back down on the settee and downing what remained of the brandy in his glass before setting it aside. “In fact, I can also assure you the other…gentlemen…faired far worse.”
He spits out the word ‘gentleman’ through gritted teeth, and Penelope makes a mental note to circle back to that. For now, she doesn’t trust herself to speak so she says nothing at all, carefully setting the medicine chest down next to his empty glass on the side table.
They’re quiet as Colin watches her scan through the contents of the chest before she finds the bottle she’s looking for, the smell of antiseptic impossible to ignore as she pours some onto a clean cloth. It’s fairly clear what Penelope means to do, but Colin still pulls back when she reaches first for his injured right hand.
“Let me—”
Colin shakes his head. “You’ll ruin your gloves…”
“You can buy me new ones,” Penelope shrugs. Then, when he keeps his hand cradled to his chest, she hastily removes her gloves gloves altogether, propriety be damned.
“Please?” She tries again, this time holding one small hand, palm outstretched, in the space between them.
Colin hesitates for a moment longer before finally laying his right hand in hers. She’s gentle as she cradles it while running the cloth over his knuckles, relief washing over her when she discovers nothing more than a few superficial scrapes beneath the blood and grime. His left hand, however, is an entirely different story.
The fury within her that’s been lying in wait sparks to life when Colin hisses in pain as she carefully drags the cloth over it.
“Three against one, Colin? Honestly,” Penelope says, the words coming out sharper than she’d intended them to.
“You know, I expected as much from Anthony. He’s always had a bit of a short fuse. But you? I’ve never known you to be a fighter,” She continues. “Then again, I suppose I don’t even really know you at all anymore. Is this all part of your new persona, then? Just couldn’t resist putting on a show for everyone out on your mother's terrace?”
Truth be told, Penelope’s not even sure if she’s more upset at him for fighting in the first place, or more upset over the fact that he’d sustained physical injuries in the process of doing so. She’s got half a mind to have a go at him about the importance of self-preservation. The Colin she knows has always been carefree, sure. Perhaps more prone to lead with his heart versus his head at times— but she’s never considered him to be particularly brash or reckless.
“Three against one…” she mutters again, as though perhaps repeating the facts will help her wrap her head around them. “What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Colin mumbles, slouching back into the settee as she wraps up his hand.
Her eyes shoot up to his at the sound of his voice. “What?”
“I said I wasn’t. Thinking, that is.”
Penelope shoots him a pointed look, to which Colin sighs in defeat before elaborating.
“Fife was out there holding court with Cho, and Stanton, and a few others. He said something about you and then I wasn’t thinking at all anymore. I just…” he trails off, shrugging as though to gesture at the state of himself. “And just to be perfectly clear, I didn’t do it because he ran his mouth out in the open. I would have gladly shut his mouth for him even if we’d been the only two people around for miles.”
Penelope drops his hand in the process of taking a step back, chewing over his response as she busies herself with rummaging through the medicine chest again.
It would be just like Colin to get himself into a fist fight if only for the sole purpose of defending a lady’s honor. Even so, she can’t quite wrap her head around the idea that it was her honor he’d apparently been defending. Especially not after all that had transpired between them.
She can feel the weight of Colin’s eyes on her profile as she takes her time selecting a pot of medicated ointment and clean strip of gauze. He’s still watching her just as closely when she turns back toward him, squeezing into the space between his splayed legs so she can get a better look at the cut on his brow bone.
There’s a strange sort of feeling that comes along with standing this close to Colin Bridgerton. Aided and abetted by the way his inquisitive blue eyes trace the features of her face. A feeling that starts with a swoop in her stomach and ends with her heart thumping painfully beneath her ribs. She doesn’t even realize she’s been holding her breath until she tilts his face to the side and forces Colin to look away.
“And what did he say about me exactly?” She asks quietly, smoothing the ointment onto his brow bone with gentle fingers.
“It does not bear repeating,” Colin says.
“People talk, Colin,” she says plainly. “I suspect they’ll be even more inclined to do so as a result of the spectacle you made.”
There’s no heat or agitation behind her words— she’s merely stating a fact— but Colin still has the good sense to look a little ashamed, as though suddenly understanding that in the process of trying to defend her honor, he might have just ensured that Fife’s words would travel further than they would have if he'd just let it go.
“I’m sorry, Pen. All I could think of in the moment is that I’d already made the mistake of forsaking you once when I should have stood up for you. I couldn’t fathom the thought of doing it again.”
“Will— will you write about it?” He asks.
“I must. It would be…suspicious if Whistledown did not,” Then, once she’s mustered up enough courage, she adds, “Does that bother you?”
“Yes, but not in the way you might assume.”
It’s the most they’ve talked about Whistledown since he found her out after following her to the printers, first under the guise of getting her to explain what he’d done to earn her ire. Then out of concern for her safety when he’d watched her get into a hired hack unchaperoned.
“I understand why Whistledown must,” Colin continues. “But I’ve been reading over old issues ever since I discovered it was you behind the moniker and…well, you’re so lovely. It pains me more than you know that you do not speak of yourself more kindly.”
“Whistledown does not print falsities. I have only ever reported on what is true— even in regard to myself,” she says quietly.
There’s a long, heavy silence that settles over them while Penelope makes meticulous work of packing up the medicine chest. For a while, the only sound that accompanies the faint clink of bottles and pots going back in their respective cubbies is that of Colin’s measured breathing. Finally, when there’s nothing left for her to do, Penelope turns back to face him again.
“Are you still very cross with me?” Colin asks, as though sensing she’s preparing to close herself off again now that she’s finished patching him up as best she can. “Please don’t be, Pen. I’ve hardly been able to bear it for all these months. Tell me what to do— whatever it is I must do to win back your favor, I promise you I shall do it and gladly.”
The part of Penelope’s heart that’s still bruised selfishly wants to hold fast to the stalemate she’s been diligently keeping them locked in. But how can she continue to be cross with Colin Bridgerton at all when he’s pleading with her like this?
When his voice is thick and weighed down by the pain of living with the knowledge of her disappointment? When she’s watched him from the shadows since his return, floating around Mayfair, devoid of all the emotion, and passion, and excitability that he’d had before. Glorious traits and qualities she’s quietly spent nearly all her life adoring, but that Colin had now chosen to conceal behind the carefully crafted armor he’d come back donned in. When he’s been so diligent in ensuring that same armor hasn’t slipped a day since his return, but there’s no denying now that she— plain old Penelope Featherington— is the reason that very same armor is finally starting to fall?
There’s a heavy silence that falls over them, and distantly she wonders who’ll be the first to break it. If her traitorous heart will put Colin out of his misery first, or if her own lack of a response will eat away at his own curiosity until—
“What are you thinking?” Colin asks suddenly.
“I’m still thinking about how incredibly foolish you’ve been,” Penelope murmurs. "About how you could have at least made it a fairer fight in your favor by roping in Benedict or Anthony..."
There’s not much need for her to draw close again, but it’s as if her feet are moving of their own accord, bringing her forward until her knees knock against his. She takes another step closer when Colin shifts to make space for her, before plucking his left hand up from where it’s resting on his thigh. Carefully, she brushes her thumb over the bandage she’d expertly applied over his swollen knuckles.
He won’t be able to write in his journal for a while. As a writer herself, Penelope knows how much it’ll kill him to forgo putting pen to paper for however long it takes for the swelling to subside. Suddenly, the thought of Colin willingly sacrificing a daily ritual he loves so much without a second thought— of sacrificing it for her— makes Penelope’s heart feel like it’s being squeezed in a vice grip.
“I’m also thinking about how nobody’s ever stood up for me like that before,” she continues after a moment. “About how you can’t possibly know how much it means to me that you would.”
The hope shining in the open expression on his face suddenly makes him look so young— less like the polished man he is today, and much more like the boy she’d knocked off his horse all those years ago. And maybe that’s why Penelope tips her head, brushing her lips over the injured hand in her grasp before she can think better of it, as though childishly believing that a simple kiss will help it heal faster. There is nothing childish about the way Colin’s eyes close at the barely there touch of her lips though, or the way she shivers when the breath he lets out washes over her and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
Penelope feels bolder when his eyes are closed— when she doesn’t have to worry about the way that remarkable shade of blue leaves her head feeling dizzy, and her knees feeling like they’re moments away from buckling under the weight of Colin’s gaze. Bold enough to let her own armor fall for just a moment. To let her head take a backseat to her heart.
She’s gentle as she places his hand back down, carefully cradling his face between her palms instead, warm fingers tracing over curves and lines her eyes have long since memorized. Marveling over the way his furrowed brow smooths under her careful exploration. Over the way Colin slowly reaches up to cover her right hand with his, splaying it out beneath his own just so he can nuzzle into her touch. And then, with one final brush to his bruised cheekbone, Penelope leans in and presses a soft kiss against the injury there, too.
Colin swallows hard, breathing her name out with a sort of reverence that makes her own breath catch in her throat.
“Are you planning to kiss all of my bruises away?” He rasps.
“Perhaps I am. But only if…”
“Only if…?”
“Only if you tell me where else it hurts,” she whispers back.
She’d felt brave when she said it, but much of her courage melts away when Colin’s eyes snap open and bore into hers.
Perhaps in the back of her mind, Penelope had known she’d been playing with fire all along. Perhaps that’s part of the reason she’d always felt drawn to Colin, as though she were Icarus and he, her very own version of the sun. But despite how exhilarating its always felt to fly so near— to bask in his warmth and blinding radiance— Penelope has read enough fables and myths over the years to know the truth of what might transpire if she flies any closer.
Desperate to save herself before she gets scorched, she clears her throat and moves to take a step back, hoping and praying Colin will show her a shred of mercy, follow her lead, and pretend as though the last few seconds had never transpired at all. But Colin must have picked up whatever semblance of bravery she’d dropped because instead of letting her go, he halts her retreat, pulling her back in much closer than she had been before with his good hand.
“That is a very generous offer, Miss Featherington,” he rasps.
“And one that a true gentleman such as yourself would politely decline,” she reasons in yet another attempt to save herself from embarrassment.
“Ah, but wouldn’t a true gentleman also make it a point to properly thank a lady for diligently patching him up?”
His movements are slow as he lifts his free hand up toward her face, the feel of his fingertips burning a delicious path across the curve of her cheek as he slowly, carefully, brushes a loose curl away and tucks it behind her ear.
This time, the silence they slip into feels heady and intoxicating.
She knows Colin’s waiting for her to say something— anything. But his hand cupping her cheek…the heat radiating off his chest…the puff of his warm breath fanning across her lips…all of it is suddenly too much, and she can’t seem to find it in her to say anything at all.
Colin cocks his head to the side, regarding her for a moment longer before he nods to himself as though he’s found whatever answer he’d been hoping to needle out of her. He tilts his head a fraction of an inch closer to hers, blue eyes blazing with a heat that makes her breath catch in her throat. Penelope’s heart is the next to betray her, fluttering to life so furiously under Colin’s attention in a way she’s forbidden it from doing for so long. And when his eyes flit down to her parted lips, she’s half convinced it’s moments away from setting itself ablaze, right there beneath her ribs.
“Have you ever been kissed Penelope?” He whispers.
She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak and watches on as the action makes the corners of Colin’s lips quirk up into a warm smile.
“I would be honored to be your first if you’d let me,” he says. “Would you let me…?”
It would be ridiculously easy to let herself get swept up in him. To give into the magnetic pull that’s all but begging her to stop resisting and close the last remaining gap between their bodies herself. And Penelope has loved him for so long— has dreamt about what it might feel like to one day, finally feel the curve of his lips pressed against her own. It’s everything she’s ever wanted. But the reality of it. Of all the steps they’ve taken to lead them to this moment— of a quiet voice in the back of her mind suddenly questioning why it is that Colin’s offering at all when he’d been very clear that the idea of any sort of romance ever transpiring between them was unthinkable? All of it suddenly comes crashing down around her when the tip of his nose slides against the bridge of hers. It’s as if the light touch is all it takes for her to find her voice again, words slipping out of her and settling between them before she even really has a chance to mull them over.
“Colin, I don’t want you to kiss me because you feel like you have to. Because you’re trying to thank me or—”
“I’m not trying to kiss you because I think I have to,” Colin cuts in quickly. “I’m trying to kiss you because I want to. Because I’ve never known agony like I have these past few months without you in my life. I want to kiss you because I’ve wasted so much time looking everywhere for what’s been right in front of me this whole time. Because now that my heart sees you, Penelope, I never want to stop— never want to look at anyone or anything else.”
“Please,” she begs. “Do not say things you don’t mean.”
“But I do mean it,” he says fervently. “I want to kiss you because you see me, Penelope. Because you’ve always seen me both for the man I am and the man that I hope to be. I want to kiss you, and then, if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life striving to be the kind of man who’s truly deserving of all the warmth and kindness you give so freely— a man deserving of your mind, and your heart, and your soul.”
The vulnerability in his eyes and in his voice is a stark contrast to the confidence with which he uses the pad of his thumb to trace the curve of her bottom lip.
“Colin, we are friends,” she breathes out.
“Yes,” he says, breathing the word out like it pains him to do so before letting his hand fall away from her face.
“But I’d very much like to be so much more than friends,” she adds. “And I’d very much like for you to kiss me now.”
She’s barely gotten the words out before Colin’s surging forward and the warmth of his mouth is finally, finally, sliding against her hers. And if Penelope thought a simple brush of Colin’s thumb against her lips had felt like heaven, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of his lips brushing against her own.
Kissing him is exhilarating and achingly sweet in a way that none of her dreaming ever could have prepared her for. But when her bottom lip slips between the both of his, drawing an involuntary gasp from the back of her throat, it turns into something altogether searing. Penelope comes alive under the burning brand of his mouth, and under the warmth of his large hands at her waist, fingers flexing into the soft satin of her gown before he pulls her flush against him.
And just when Penelope thinks she could very well spend forever tucked away with Colin, kissing him in the tiny library that has become their sanctuary, the very object of her affection pulls back with a pained hiss.
She’d been so caught up in the moment she’d almost forgotten about why they even found themselves alone together to begin with. But a quick glance at Colin’s split lip serves as a fairly good reminder.
“Sorry,” she says through a wince as she regards the injury in question.
It’s a bit more swollen than she’d remembered it being, and she can feel a flush working its way across her cheeks at the realization that she’s partially to blame for that.
“I probably made it worse, didn’t I?”
“Worth it, though,” Colin grins.
He winks and she giggles despite herself, giving his shoulder a playful shove. Colin simply chuckles, tightening his hold on her waist.
“Does it hurt?” She asks, brushing her fingertips over the spot in question.
“If I say yes will you kiss it better?”
“You’re incorrigible!” She laughs.
“But…?”
“But…I suppose I did promise, did I not?”
Humming in agreement, Colin doesn’t skip a beat before adding, “And it’s probably for the best that you follow through. We can’t very well start our courtship on broken promises, can we?”
“Courtship? I don’t recall anything in your speech about courting,” she teases.
“I thought it was implied,” Colin pouts.
“That’s still not a question,” she says, biting back a grin.
“For god’s sake, Penelope Featherington, are you going to let me court you or not?”
“Yes,” she says through a giggle. “Yes, you can court me, Colin Bridgerton.”
And then, careful to avoid causing him any more pain, Penelope cradles his face between her palms before dropping a feather light kiss to the injury in question.
“How’s that?” She murmurs, pulling back as far as Colin’s grip will allow. “Better?”
“Too soon to say, I fear,” he says. “Perhaps you should try once more. You know, just to make sure it really heals up right.”
Penelope smiles softly at him, feeling all at once like she’s setting herself up for a lifetime of indulging him with stolen kisses just like the one she presses to his lips at his behest. And as he kisses her back— gentle so as not to cause further injury— Penelope can’t help but think that living out the remainder of her days indulging in Colin Bridgerton seems like a wonderful way to spend a lifetime indeed.