Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington was not supposed to be here. But, she refused to leave now that had tasted what it felt like... freedom.
The drawing room of Lord Granville’s townhouse, filled with smoke, laughter, and at least three bare-shouldered duchesses playing cards with a naked footman. It was scandalous and rich with gossip that only ever reached the corners of the walls at the Ton's balls. Oh, to witness it first hand, to be part of the greater scheme of mayhem, the right amount aloofness and a sprinkle of salaciousness.
She smiled to herself as she welcomed a life lived entirely by her own design.
It had all started with a broken heart. Or rather, a bruised ego, which was arguably worse.
“I would never court Penelope Featherington,” Colin had said, his voice carrying with infuriating clarity over the string quartet at her mother’s ball. Penelope had paused mid-step after running after Eloise, she swallowed, and the words had gone down like splinters.
The pain was sharp, but what followed was a strange, freeing clarity. She was done. Done pining. Done hiding. Done living under her mother’s thumb, or behind Eloise’s judgment, or in the shadows created by Colin's cruel kindness. She wasn't a woman to any of them, she was a burden, a follower, just Pen. Well, she was done for good with all three of them.
She needed to marry or just disappear.
So when Genevieve Delacroix—her confidante and reluctant co-conspirator—had gently proposed an escape route, Penelope didn’t hesitate.
“Henry Granville owes me a favor,” Genevieve had whispered one late afternoon while adjusting Penelope’s new lavender pelisse. “He runs… gatherings. The kind where a clever girl might find herself a scandalous husband, or a route out of London entirely.”
Penelope blinked. “What kind of gatherings?”
Genevieve gave a dramatic sigh. “The fun kind, darling.”
And thus began the best time of her life.
Penelope offered her services to Sir Henry, who was delighted by the prospect of Lady Whistledown herself running background checks on his guest list (“Think of the scandalous accuracy, my dear!”). She wrote under a pseudonym, of course. Her articles now served to promote the right attendees and subtly warn the desperate debutantes of dangerous libertines with clap.
In return, she gained entry to the underground of London society. Every Thursday, she slipped from her window wearing rouge, confidence, and a dangerously low neckline Genevieve swore was “just enough cleavage to negotiate a ship to the Americas.”
Which brought her to tonight.
Penelope, seated on a velvet chaise beside a waxed gentleman with questionable sideburns, was winning a round of a card game where clothing was increasingly optional, though she’d cleverly wagered her gloves, a ribbon, and a slipper. She was laughing—actually laughing—when a familiar voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Miss Featherington?"
It was not a question. It was an accusation wrapped in disbelief.
Penelope turned her head slowly, and her heart dropped straight into her stomach.
Anthony Bridgerton. Of course.
His cravat was undone. His coat hung off one shoulder. His eyes were glossy and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days and hadn’t slept for a fornight. In short, he looked precisely like a man who had been recently dumped by the love of his life and had also torched his only remaining familial relationships.
Perfect.
She stood with practiced grace, smoothing her skirts and raising her chin. “Viscount Bridgerton,” she said coolly. “How unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” His voice cracked. “You’re—you’re here. At Granville’s. You—why?”
“I’m playing cards,” she replied sweetly. “Would you care to join us? Lord Dunbridge just lost his cravat. The stakes are high.”
The Viscount had been a mess after he declared his love for Kate Sharma and she packed and left the next day to Prussia with duty to her sister spoken with regret. He had been drinking too much, bedding too many whores, and rethinking his life choices like the king of brooding he was. He had contemplated leaving everything behind to follow her, but she rejected his proposal and his love, he was an adult with responsibilities he couldn't put behind just because he thought himself in love. So instead, he moved onto the next myriad of problems in his life: his family taking offense because of how he conducted himself this season. Daphne was angry he was sacrificing "the love of his life for a few ledgers". Colin was still angry at him for the tongue-lashing he gave him after learning he had gone to see Marina Thompson- now Lady Crane. Eloise was another matter entirely, but she seemed to hate him all the same, even if he didn't exactly know what he did to her. And his mother blamed his rashness and stubbornness for the whole Sharma debacle. Benedict, he could try, women were far too difficult for the capacity of his brain right now.
When he left White's in a haste to seek his brother and beg for forgiveness for the Royal Academy fiasco- he had to make a fool of himself for thinking his brother would be glad to know he supported his artistic endeavors- he had not expected to find this.
Anthony blinked. Twice. “What the hell is happening?”
“Oh,” she said, plucking a grape from the nearby crystal dish, “I’m looking for a husband. Or a ship. Whichever is less tiresome.”
Anthony ran a hand through his hair, making it somehow worse. “Penelope, you can’t—this is—you’re—what about your reputation?!”
She leaned in, lips brushing the rim of her glass of whiskey. “That’s the beauty of having already ruined it, Anthony. It’s terribly freeing.”
She could see the exact moment her words settled, his eyes widening slightly, his ears turning a deep red, and then the way his gaze involuntarily roamed over her maroon stained lips and her very noticeable bosom, lifted like sinful ripe fruit ready to sink his teeth into.
He swallowed hard. "You cannot possible mean-"
But her smirk was all the answer he needed.
She had indulged into everything and spared no parts. How terribly delicious was it all.
He then looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “You're still a genteel bred lady, you shouldn't be here! You cannot marry some degenerate lord with syphilis you meet over a game of undress baccarat!"
She laughed—a real one. “And yet, you’re here. Should I assume you are looking for a degenerate lord with syphilis to marry?”
The look on his face was absolutely worth it.
Behind them, a new round of music struck up, something jazzy and French and wholly inappropriate. Penelope turned back toward her table, but Anthony caught her wrist—not hard, but just enough to pause her.
“What happened to you?” he asked softly, and for a moment, his voice wasn’t angry, just… lost. This was not the sweet, quiet and proper Penelope Featherington he watched grow up, attached to his sister's hip like they were conjoined twins, whispering and giggling in the corners of his house.
This Penelope had turned into a fallen woman. She needed saving before she became a Siren and sung many ships to a voyage, including her own. He couldn't help it though, peeking again at her low neckline, and then at her too-knowing blue eyes. She still wore her smirk.
Penelope didn’t pull away. “I decided to stop waiting,” she said. “For your brother to see me. For Eloise to forgive me. For the entire Ton to let me in. For my mother to pawn me like cattle on the next desperate nearly dead lord. I thought, why rot away, when I can leave and enjoy the pleasures life has to offer in the process?"
Anthony stared at her. And then, very slowly, he let go.
Someone behind them yelled, “This is the first call to the Undergarments Waltz!” and Benedict Bridgerton—Benedict, who definitely hadn’t expected either of them to be here—spat his wine across the room.
“Bloody hell,” Benedict muttered. “What is happening?”
Anthony turned, deadpan. “I came here looking for you to talk and maybe hopefully gain my brother's forgiveness, yet, I stumble upon the ruination of Penelope Featherington, who says she's is searching for a degenerate husband, and I’m apparently the villain in a French tragicomedy.”
Penelope winked at Benedict, who looked halfway impressed and flustered by having someone so dear to their family before him in such a state.
“Well,” Benedict said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I suppose we’ve all come undone."
He tipped his head in a faux gallant gesture and a wink to the redhead as a parting, and with a firm but gentle tug guided his older brother to another room so that he could give him the talk if he was going to be at the Granville's.
"Are you just going to leave her there? Did you know-", but Benedict cut his rushed strained words.
"She has managed to avoid me like the plague, I have not seen her once in the few soirees I've attended too, and, if this is her choice, I am gentleman and will not get in her way..." then with a wicked smile he looke back at their family friend. "Though I wouldn't mind if she desired for me to get under those skirts."
He barely dodged his brother's punch to his shoulder.
They spoke in a heated exchange after that, both agreeing to agree to disagree, because their brotherhood was much more important than whatever each thought the other did.
But Anthony couldn’t stop watching Penelope—not the Penelope he thought he knew, but this version. The one who laughed too loudly, said what she wanted, and was willing to scandalize society in search of freedom.
And Penelope?
She felt Anthony’s gaze like heat at her back.
It could complicate some things, but she'll be long gone before any of them caught up to her.
A question lingered in her mind like a soft whisper:
Should she indulge in a known rake delicacy before she departed this wretched place?