Archive of Our Own ^beta

-PROLOGUE-

It began with little more than ink set to parchment.  
Some guessed it was written in a moment of madness.
Not the frenzied kind—no storm of passion, no ink-blotted desperation.
But the quiet kind.
The kind that settles in after too many nights of pretending not to feel anything.
The kind that comes not with thunder, but with the sound of only one’s own breathing for too long.

It wasn’t lengthy.
It wasn’t signed.
It didn’t name names.
It simply… told the truth.
In a few soft lines.
With just enough courage to be dangerous.

The paper was thick, good quality, the sort reserved for things meant to last. The penmanship was steady in most places, but slipped once—mid-thought—where the truth must have been hardest to write.
It was folded with care, but no ceremony. 
No wax, no seal.  
It had not been meant for the world.
Only for one person, to be read in candlelight and quiet.
But by midnight, it was in the hands of someone who wasn’t meant to see it.
No one saw it dropped, no one saw it picked up.

Hours later, when a knock came to a heavy door in Bloomsbury, almost no words needed to be exchanged as the paper was passed from one small, clean hand to one large as a bear paw and stained black. 

‘Print it.’ 

And by the time the press began to roll,
the world was already changing.
By morning, it was everywhere.
Folded into breakfast napkins, smuggled into pockets.
Read aloud behind fans and over teacups.

It had no name.
But it made one’s heart ache like something once known and nearly forgotten.

Theories bloomed like wildflowers.
A scandal, a secret courtship.
A betrayal made public.
A love too long hidden to stay hidden any longer.
Those who read it felt a curious flutter in their ribs, as if the words had reached into their very bones and stirred something long dormant.
Everyone claimed to know the truth.
Everyone thought they recognized the prose.
No one was right.

Except, perhaps, the one who had written it, and the one it was meant for. 

From that moment on, everything changed.
Because once a truth is released into the world—
not shouted, not claimed, but merely stated—
it does not vanish.
It circles.
It sings.
It waits.
And in time, it finds a quiet place to land.
So it was with the letter.
And though no names were written, no voices rose to claim it, it settled into the the minds and hearts of all who read it.  

Somewhere deep in the marrow of the city, a nightingale stirred.  Not a bird of bright plumage or spectacle, but the kind who sings only in darkness,
and only for one person at a time.

And on that morning—
For the first time in years—
Everyone listened. 

My Dearest Love,

As I write this, I have barely left your side and yet you feel so far from me.  Did you feel it too?  The pull when we separated, as if we are not meant for such actions?  I’ve spent these last countless months wondering, but now I know it to be true; to be away from you is to feel intense sadness.  To cease breathing normally or perceive anything around me with anything nearing delight.  

I lived on mere scraps of joy for so long, and I would not wish it on even my greatest foe.  

You have entranced me, body and soul without reason, without sense.  Outside the bounds of society, and I find myself longing for your touch incessantly.  Would you quiver under my fingertips the way I imagine?  Would your eyes darken in the way that tells me you feel the same?  Do you know your eyes are like the sea?  The most remarkable shade of blue one has ever beheld.  I’ve spent so much time staring at the water, and yet it is always your face I see in the waves.  It calms my soul.  

Where once I was jagged edges and splintering ends, I have now become smooth to the touch.  My love for you has softened me into clay at your beautiful hands.  Work me into whatever shape you prefer and I shall maintain it, as long as you will keep me with you always, darling.  You have made me a selfish being, for I now know I need all of you.  How can I go on without your gaze, without your touch upon my skin?  Surely, you would not wish me to perish.  Please give me what I need, of what I am so afraid to ask.  

Will it ruin our long friendship if I tell you how ardently I love you?  Would you shudder at my touch in awe or in revulsion?  Have I been standing at this precipice all along?  When I finally step off the ledge, will I find myself plummeting down to the abyss, or will you help me to fly into your reassuring embrace?  

You know not what you own, of that I am quite sure.  And do let me state unequivocally.  That which you possess is indeed my heart, every last bit of it.  

You are my home, of this I am most certain.  I could travel the world thirty times over and never feel the way I do standing in your presence for a mere five minutes.  When I look at you, I see our future so clearly- the endless joy, even the sorrows that would come with sharing my earthly life with you.  You must put an end to my torment at once.  If you do not feel as I do, will you not just speak the words to me?  I admit, I wish not to hear them.  But being so close to you and not knowing is a fate worse than death.  Please say you will be mine.  

Yours Always-

 

-RAE-

The morning air was still tinged with a bite of chill, the grass underfoot cool and damp from the lingering dew. Rae closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the rising sun paint her cheeks, a small, private luxury before the day fully unfurled. When Miss Penelope had suggested a turn about the back garden, Rae had barely managed to contain her grin before grabbing a sun hat, basket, and a pair of gardening shears. She’d followed the other woman out the rear door to the grand house, shadowing her with a quiet devotion that felt more like sisterhood than service on mornings like this.  As she surveyed the rose bushes, searching for blooms ready to be clipped, she considered the quietness that had hung around her mistress since she’d risen. Something had happened the previous evening—of that much, Rae felt certain. She had spent enough time in this house, enough hours smoothing rumpled bedclothes and picking up discarded ribbons, to sense the subtle shifts in Miss Penelope’s moods. Whatever it was, it had left her unusually quiet, her bright eyes clouded and distant as she wandered the garden paths.

Rae let her shears whisper against a rose stem, collecting a vivid yellow bloom for a small arrangement she hoped might brighten Penelope’s vanity table. She suspected the source of her lady’s distress might be the third-born Bridgerton. Though she had only been in the employ of the Featherington family for a year, she had pieced together enough to know that Mr. Colin Bridgerton held a peculiar place in Miss Penelope’s heart—a fact both obvious and fiercely guarded. She had watched as countless letters from the young man went unread and unopened, their edges growing soft and worn from the passage of time, until Rae had begun collecting them in an empty hatbox to save herself the trouble of restacking them every time a new one arrived.

The sharp crunch of boots on gravel drew Rae’s attention, and she straightened, peering through the climbing ivy that framed the garden’s low stone wall. There, striding across the lawn with a determined but uncertain step, was Colin Bridgerton himself—skin tanned, hair a touch too long, and a vaguely sheepish expression on his face. She bent her knees in a curtsy, dipping her head just enough to disguise the way her eyes lingered on his form.

“Good morning,” he murmured, managing a nervous smile. “I was hoping for a moment with Pen- uh, Miss Penelope. I saw you out here and thought she might be nearby.”

Rae bit back a smile, her head still bowed. Wise of him to avoid the house if at all possible. The Featherington drawing room was a battlefield of fluttering lace and sharp-edged glances, a place where even the most self-assured man might find himself outflanked. But the garden—yes, the garden might be more safe. “Yes, of course,” she replied, turning smoothly on her heel and leading him toward the shaded corner where Penelope sat with her back to the morning sun, her head bent over a fresh sheet of Whistledown. Rae cleared her throat gently. 

“Rae?” Penelope looked up, her expression shifting from surprise to wary curiosity as her eyes flicked past Rae’s shoulder.  “C-Colin,” she stammered, her gaze dropping back to the paper in her hands. “What… what brings you here?”

“I wished to speak to you about…” He hesitated, glancing at Rae, who gave another curtsy before moving toward the rose bushes once more, letting her back turn but her ears remain attentive. “About last night,” he continued, sliding onto the bench beside her, the fabric of his coat catching the light as it fanned out behind him. “Or rather… about my behavior last evening. And also, last season."  Rae kept her hands busy, carefully snipping at the thorns of a particularly stubborn bloom, but her mind sharpened, each word from the bench behind her striking like a low chime. She had long since learned the art of eavesdropping without being caught, a skill cultivated in kitchens and sculleries, perfected in drawing rooms and shadowed alcoves.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you owe me nothing,” Penelope replied, her voice tight but measured. Rae felt her fingers slip slightly on the shears and forced her grip to steady. “I admit, I spent much of the last several months rather vexed with you. But…” She paused, and Rae held her breath, the rustle of leaves suddenly too loud in the quiet morning. “You were merely telling the truth. You should not be vilified for being truthful.”

“Pen—”

Rae, moving as if pulled by an invisible string, shifted her position slightly, leaning against the garden wall, her shears forgotten for the moment. Penelope’s face had gone pale, her gaze fixed intently on the paper in her hands. She had folded it neatly, her thumbs pressing hard against the creases. Rae’s heart gave an uncomfortable twist. Whistledown. Of course.

“You didn’t actually let me apologize, Pen,” Colin said, his voice tinged with something close to desperation. Penelope’s eyes remained stubbornly downcast, her lashes casting small, sharp shadows across her cheeks.

Rae watched him lean in, his expression shifting to something almost boyish, as if he had forgotten for a moment the weight of their history. “What do you think of that?” he asked, nodding toward the paper in her lap.

Penelope blinked, clearly thrown. “Huh?”

Colin’s lips quirked up in a familiar, lopsided grin. “Rather different direction for Lady Whistledown, is it not?”

Penelope’s expression tightened. “I suppose,” she replied carefully, her eyes flicking up to his face for the barest second. “Have you seen it?”

“Just,” he said, leaning in a fraction closer, his gaze drifting over her face with the intensity of a man searching for something lost. “What do you think would possess her to print something like this?”

Penelope gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps she has grown tired of the same old stories. She does pose it as a mystery to be solved.”

Rae felt a cold prickle of dread crawl up her spine. A mystery. A letter. Something about this felt terribly, horribly familiar.

“I suppose we should solve it, then,” Colin said, his tone suddenly bright, as if he’d struck upon a truly clever idea. “Together.”

Rae watched as Miss Penelope’s head snapped up  “Pardon?”  

“If Lady Whistledown is inviting people to solve the mystery of to whom this letter was written, we should at least make an attempt to do so.”  Colin seemed quite proud of his plan.  Rae rolled her eyes, but a moment later frowned at something he’d said.  Lady Whistledown had printed a mysteriously letter?  

That…

She shook herself from the strange, prickly sensation that was washing over her and tried to focus on the drama that was unfolding in front of her at the moment.  Penelope was frowning herself now, addressing Colin more directly than Rae had seen her manage before.  “And since when do you like or even trust her enough to do as she suggests?”  Colin shrugged.  “I’m afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to this season, Mr. Bridgerton.”  

“Such as?” he challenged amiably.  

Penelope Featherington leveled him with a hard gaze.  “I need to find a husband.”  

“I- you…uh,” he sputtered, clearly surprised at her answer.  “I guess I didn’t, I mean it didn’t occur to me…”  

“It didn’t occur to you,” she clarified in a sharp tone, “that I wanted, as every other young woman of the ton, to find a match and get out of my mother’s house?” 

Colin had the good grace to look sufficiently cowed at that.  “I apologize, Pen.  I’m afraid I assumed that you held similar views to my sister on the matter.”  At the reference to Eloise, Rae stiffened.  While she didn’t fully understand the falling out, she knew how deeply it had affected the woman in this garden. “Is that why you and she are quarreling?”  The expression on Penelope’s face made his jaw twitch for a moment.  “Apologies,” he followed up quickly.  “Well Miss Featherington, I would be more than happy to sing your praises to the eligible men at the club for as long as you wish.”  

Rae had to bite her tongue practically to the point of bleeding in order to keep from shouting to him that his brand of ‘singing’ had caused her quite a bit of heart ache in the past.  Her mind flashed back to that night, the night of the Featherington ball,  when she’d watched rather helplessly as Penelope had sobbed herself to sleep. “That…is unnecessary, Colin,” she heard the young woman murmur.    

“I insist,” he stated softly.  “If I can repair what I’ve broken, I will do it.  Pen, I know you likely didn’t read my letters…”  He raised his brow in question and she frowned.  He swallowed and then reached out, his hand gently gasping her forearm.  Rae’s mouth dropped open in shock at his brazenness.  “Right.  Well, let me just state unequivocally how very much your friendship means to me.  I’m-”

“You’re right,”  Penelope cut in, raising the parchment aloft toward him.  “We should figure out who wrote this.” He regarded her with surprise for a moment.  

“I- really?”  

Rae tried to move slightly, hoping for a better angle of her lady’s face as she nodded her head at the bachelor.  

“This is most excellent!  You love a good mystery,” he stated. 

“No,” she replied with a breathless chuckle.  “I don’t.  I always turn to the last page.  You love a good mystery, Colin.”  

“Well you love a good romance then,” he countered easily, before pausing.  A faraway expression took over his countenance.  “You… love a good romance.  I…”  He coughed awkwardly, and Rae swallowed over a lump in her throat.  “I should never have assumed you would not wish to have a husband.”  The maid watched as he seemed to work through something in his mind for a moment.  “Either way, you are the most brilliant person in the ton, which means you are perfect for solving this.”  

Penelope smirked at him.  “And what of you?” Something shifted between them.  Rae could feel it from her spot against the trunk of the giant oak in the garden.  Colin scooted closer to the other woman on the bench.  

“I’ve… been told my smile is quite charming,” he offered with a grin and Miss Penelope chuckled.  Colin’s smile widened, seeming quite pleased with himself.  “I believe this could be just the thing to get our friendship back on track, Pen.”  She seemed troubled, but Rae kept her distance, choosing to stay hidden behind the ivy.  “That is, if you really forgive me as you say.”  He raised an eyebrow challengingly and Rae held her breath.  

“Okay,” Miss Penelope finally agreed in a small voice, her face oddly blank. 

“Brilliant!” he stated, positively beaming.  “Come to Hyde Park tomorrow morning and we can start work during a promenade.”  He stood then, taking a bow before turning to make his way out of the garden.  When his eyes met Rae’s in the morning sun, she allowed her mouth to quirk up on one side, and Colin had the good grace to look cowed for a moment, maybe even a bit embarrassed.  He bowed to her before taking his leave.  

Rae watched him walking away, coat still trailing behind him ridiculously.  All she could do now was hope Mr. Bridgerton knew what he was doing.  

-PENELOPE-

Penelope slipped back into the house, the door creaking shut behind her, and felt the warmth of the garden fall away, replaced by the cool, shadowed stillness of the hallway. She paused, one hand on the wall to steady herself, her pulse still racing, her cheeks still flushed from the impossible, unexpected closeness of Colin Bridgerton.

And yet, beneath the giddy swirl of her pulse, a darker memory tugged at her, sharp and bitter. She had promised herself, after that dreadful night when she had overheard him laughing with his friends—‘Are you mad?’—that she would never allow herself to hope again.

She could still see the scene so clearly, even now. The way the candlelight flickered across his handsome face in her very own garden as he held court amongst the other bachelors.  She had felt each syllable like a slap, the casual cruelty of his tone cutting deeper than she had ever thought possible. From that moment on, she had promised herself she would be stronger, that she would never again let herself be so foolish, so fragile.

And yet...

And yet today, she was feeling herself crumbling all over again.

Her fingers drifted to her arm, brushing the spot where his hand had rested, the warmth of his touch still clinging to the fabric, a ghost of heat in the cool, shadowed hallway. She could still feel the slight pressure of his fingers, the warmth of his breath as he leaned close, the way his eyes had searched her face as if trying to memorize every detail.

She let herself drift into the memory for a moment, her pulse quickening as she recalled the way his thumb had brushed, just briefly, against the inside of her elbow. The warmth of his touch, the steady weight of his hand, the slight tremor in his voice as he said her name. She had felt the world narrow to that single point of contact, the solid, reassuring pressure of his hand anchoring her to the earth even as her heart took flight.  She leaned back against the cool plaster wall, her eyes drifting shut, and allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that his touch had meant something, anything. That his apology had been more than just a reflexive act of politeness, that his gaze had lingered not out of habit, but out of longing. That he had felt the same warmth, the same breathless anticipation, the same impossible, aching hope.

Her lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, her heart fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. She felt giddy, almost dizzy, her mind spinning with the memory of his touch, the warmth of his voice, the way he had looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. She couldn’t help but wonder, just for a moment, what it might feel like to truly belong to him, to walk into a room and know that his eyes would seek her out, that his smile would soften at the sight of her.

She took a slow, steadying breath, her fingers drifting across her bodice, the soft fabric warm under her palm, and felt her pulse thrum beneath her skin. She had never felt so alive, so breathless, so dangerously close to happiness.  Penelope made her way to the staircase, anxious to return to her room to reflect alone on what had just happened.  Then, she heard it—a burst of brittle, cutting laughter, echoing from the drawing room.

“Oh, they’ll say anything to keep a girl dangling,” her mother’s voice, sharp and dismissive, cut through the haze of her happiness, slicing into her like a blade. “An apology today, a flowery compliment tomorrow, and the poor fool will believe she has a chance. It’s a cruelty, really.”

Penelope froze, her hand tightening on the banister, her pulse stuttering painfully in her chest. She should move on, slip up the stairs before they noticed her, but her feet refused to obey. She felt rooted to the spot, her heart pounding painfully in her chest, the echoes of Colin’s voice and her mother’s cutting words tangling together in her mind.

The unmistakably shrill tone of Lady Cowper’s voice joined her mother’s, dripping with disdain. “Oh, indeed. And the more practiced they are, the more convincing. They’ll look you right in the eye, speak as if you’re the only woman in the room, and then turn around and dance with the next pretty face without another thought.”

Portia gave a sharp, brittle laugh. “Precisely.  Words are just air and noise leaving a man’s mouth. Words mean nothing without action. A gentleman’s apology is often just a prelude to his next indiscretion. They’ll flatter a girl to keep her quiet, to keep her believing she stands a chance, even when they have no intention of following through.”

The tightness in Penelope’s chest grew unbearable. She felt the warmth of the garden slip further away, the ghost of Colin’s touch turning to cold, empty air. She had been a fool. She had let herself hope, even for a moment, that his kindness meant something, that his apology was more than just a well-rehearsed line.  But even as she slipped further up shadowed stairwell, her heart aching with every step, she could still hear his voice in her mind, low and earnest, his eyes dark and warm as he said her name.

And no matter how she tried to banish the memory, to crush it beneath the weight of her own bitter practicality, it lingered, clinging to her like the scent of crushed flowers on her sleeve.

-JAMES-

James Mattingly arrived at Mondrich's just as the light began to turn golden, slanting through the windows in streaks of amber. The place was crowded, a low hum of masculine voices blending with the occasional clatter of billiard balls and the crisp ring of crystal glasses. He gave his name at the door, was waved in without question, and made his way to a corner seat near the wide, smudged panes overlooking the street. No one had asked who had invited him. That was part of the charm.

He settled into his seat, ordered a scotch, and opened a book he had no intention of reading. His eyes, however, strayed to a group of young lords trading theories about the letter. The wayward note had clearly infected every corner of the ton by now, carried along like an overripe piece of gossip on the backs of servants and fluttering fans. James caught fragments of the conversation as he swirled his glass absently.

“Lady Trowbridge could have a letter written about her,” one man mused, leaning on his billiards cue as if it were a crutch for his wit. “But it could be just about anyone.”

“What about the Bridgerton girl?” another called out, bending low for his shot. “The mouthy one who got herself in hot water?”

“No,” a third man slurred, his vowels rounding into each other like a drunkard tripping down a staircase. “Too much work. But the one that’s always with her? She is at least quiet. Although, other than tits, I don’t really see what she has to offer.”

James felt a flicker of irritation but masked it with a slow swirl of his scotch. The liquid caught the light, glowing like molten honey.

“You’re surely right, Cho,” a new voice cut in from behind him, low and sharp. “She only has intelligence, character, and a sharper wit than any two of you put together. But yes, by all means, we should all keep score like it’s archery.”

There was a pause, a ripple in the room’s rhythm. One of the lords snorted. “Didn’t know you were a fan of hers.”

“I’m merely a fan of accuracy,” the voice replied evenly.

Intrigued, James turned to find a man settling into the chair opposite him, his sharp eyes flicking over the room like a falcon sizing up its prey. He had the kind of features one might describe as classically English, though his expression held a mischief that undercut the severe line of his jaw.

“And of theatrics, apparently,” James noted, his mouth quirking at the corners.

The stranger smirked. “Only when they’re earned.”

They clinked glasses, the sound crisp and clear in the smoky air.

James extended his hand, his voice warm and light. “James Mattingly. Struggling philosopher, occasional tutor to people who claim they read Kant.”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” the other man replied, taking his hand with a firm but not aggressive grip. “Painter, inescapable family.” He leaned back in his chair, giving James an appraising look. “So, go on then. Give me some tutelage. What is Mr. Immanuel Kant’s theory?”

James grinned, lifting his glass to his lips. “Don’t be a maggot to me, and I won’t be a maggot to you.”

Benedict’s eyes twinkled. “Seems simple enough, James.”

They both took a long sip, the silence between them growing companionable.

“So what’s this letter I keep hearing about?” James asked, setting his glass down.

Benedict groaned. “Not you too,” he muttered, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I just escaped a house full of women who would not stop talking about it.” He drained his glass and gestured for another. “They are talking about the letter that was printed in Whistledown.”

James frowned. “Whistledown?”

“Do not tell me you have never heard of Lady Whistledown,” Benedict said, eyes widening in mock disbelief. “She is anonymous and writes of gossip as if composing sonnets on the meaning of life. Everyone hates to love her, or loves to hate her, I suppose. But the point is, no one can escape her.”

James gave the other man an appraising look, his mind whirring. “You speak like someone who has been written about a time or two.”

Benedict gave a half-smile, one shoulder lifting in a lazy shrug. “Perhaps. And you, Mattingly? Are you prepared to have your every sin immortalized in print?”

James chuckled. “My sins are far too trivial to warrant ink.”

Benedict grinned, tipping his glass. “Then you haven’t lived.”

Just then, a broad-shouldered figure approached the table, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he took in the two men.

“Ah, our Mr. Mondrich,” Benedict greeted him, a genuine warmth in his voice. “What do you make of the infamous love letter?”

Mondrich, a large bear of a man, poured each of them a fresh measure of scotch, his deep voice carrying easily over the din. “Bloody letter,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It has everyone by the bollocks, doesn’t it?”

James let out a bark of laughter, caught off guard by the bluntness. He raised his glass in salute. “And yet you seem immune.”

Mondrich chuckled. “Thankfully, my Alice is not one of them. She read it once and said she found it dull.”

“Wise woman,” James agreed, raising his glass.

“The wisest in the ton,” Mondrich said with a knowing grin.  “In case anyone asks.” 

Benedict leaned back, swirling his drink. “And so well-trained.”

Mondrich gave him a light cuff on the shoulder before dropping into an empty chair at their table. From the billiard table, another burst of laughter erupted—someone had turned the letter into a drinking game. James watched them for a moment before turning back to his new companions.

“So, you paint,” he said to Benedict, not quite a question.

“I try,” Benedict replied. “And you write?”

“Usually. Lately, I’ve just been revising.”

“To what end?”

James shrugged, his gaze distant for a moment. “Sometimes the act of fixing is more comforting than finishing.”

Benedict studied him for a beat, his eyes sharpening. “A philosopher’s affliction, I imagine.”

“You two are exhausting already,” Mondrich noted, filling his own glass. “Talk about literally anything else. Politics. Shoes. Crumpets.”

“Shoes are political,” James said, setting his tone to deadpan.

Mondrich choked on his drink, and all three of them burst into laughter, the sound echoing off the high, smoky ceiling.

Outside, the light had fully faded, leaving only the warm glow of gas lamps and the flicker of candles against the club’s dark wood walls.

-ANTHONY-

Anthony Bridgerton was just trying to eat his egg.

It was, objectively, a fine egg. Poached. Lightly seasoned. Not that he would ever know, because every time he lifted his fork, someone would start in again.

“Maybe it’s for Lady Featherington,” Gregory guessed, stabbing at his own egg.

“It doesn’t have to be our neighbor,” Francesca said calmly, spreading jam on her toast with the precision of a surgeon. “I’m only saying it could be someone we know.”

“It is someone we know,” Eloise snapped. “That’s the entire point of the scandal.”

“I heard someone say it might be about Queen Charlotte herself,” Hyacinth offered primly. “Perhaps an anonymous footman fell in love with the woman in power.”

“Then he’s got a death wish,” Anthony muttered.

“Anthony…” Kate warned mildly as she stirred her tea.  He shot her an innocent smile, and she smirked in return.

“Do you think it’s Cressida Cowper?” Gregory said around a mouthful of bacon. “Because if it’s not, she’s still going to claim it is, so we might as well prepare for it.”

“She would not,” Eloise argued. “Besides, who wants some idealized metaphor draped in ink and self-pity?”

“Self-pity is romantic now,” Benedict muttered. “Haven’t you heard?”

Hyacinth’s eyes went wide. “What if it’s for Lady Danbury?”

“What if it’s from Lady Danbury?” Gregory added with a grin.

“Gregory,” Violet chided lightly, sipping her tea.

“I heard someone say it was about a housemaid in Mayfair who once touched a marquess’s hand by mistake, and now he writes her poems under an alias,” Benedict said, bending toward his younger siblings like he was passing along a long-held secret.

Eloise rolled her eyes. “That’s the novel I was telling you about, Benedict.”

Anthony exchanged a long-suffering look with Kate as Hyacinth lifted a teaspoon to examine her reflection.

“I hope it’s someone truly unexpected,” she said.

“Someone like Penelope?” Gregory blurted, far too loudly, just as Colin reached for the butter.

Colin froze, knife hovering. “Wait, what?”

“I said—”

“No, I heard you.”

“Would you object to that, brother?” Kate asked Colin carefully, her mouth mostly hidden behind her teacup. Anthony frowned and shook his head at her for engaging. She raised an eyebrow in a way that made him shift in his seat.

Colin opened and closed his mouth several times, looking rather like a fish.

“I…”

“Do you not think it’s possible that it could be addressed to her?” Eloise pressed, voice sharp.

“Wait a moment,” Colin frowned. “From what I understand, you’re not even speaking to her.”

“What difference does that make?” she snapped.

Colin blinked, wordless again.

“Penelope looked beautiful at Lady Danbury’s ball,” Hyacinth announced with authority, through a mouthful of marmalade.

“She looked—” Colin gestured vaguely, toast forgotten. “...lovely, yes. But that doesn’t—” He cut himself off. “How do you even know what she looked like?”

“Frannie told me,” Hyacinth shrugged. Then she leaned over, dipped her bacon into her soft egg, and shoved it into her mouth.  “Sh’called’er dishharming.”

“What?” Anthony asked, already giving up on his egg and reaching for a muffin instead.

Francesca cocked her head. “Alarming?”

“I heard ‘dish arming,’” Benedict noted. “No idea what that means.” He grinned and took a bite of his own perfectly warm eggs.

Colin shrugged, flustered. “I just—Pen’s always been... Pen. It’s possible someone’s finally noticed she’s—”  He waved a hand vaguely, as if that would fill in the blanks for him.
“…noticeable, I suppose.”

Three seconds of silence followed.

“Did you write it, brother?” Benedict asked, smiling indulgently.

“What? No!” Colin gaped.

“Would you tell us if you did?” Francesca asked, raising a single brow.

“I—yes? I think so?”

“You’re lying,” Hyacinth said flatly. “You’re making that face you make when you’re lying.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I—who even brought this up?” Colin asked, flustered.

“Gregory did,” Benedict offered unhelpfully.

“Are you implying no one noticed her until she put on a better dress?” Francesca asked, voice calm and sharp as cut glass.

“I noticed her,” Gregory offered, raising his hand.

“Gregory’s eating with his mouth open,” Hyacinth tattled.

“I never said she needed to change!” Colin cried.

“Children, please,” Violet said gently, massaging her temple.  Anthony looked at his mother and felt his anxiety ratchet higher. Could he really leave her here alone with this pack of animals and gallivant off to the continent with Kate? He caught his wife’s eye. She smirked.

Yes.

Yes, he could.

“You’re only saying she had to change to be worth writing about,” Benedict said, almost cheerfully.

Anthony sighed.

“No! I’m saying—she’s always been beau—” Colin groaned, rubbing his face. “God, you’re twisting my words.”

“Are we?” Francesca murmured, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

“I never said—” Colin stopped himself, then stood abruptly. “You’ve all gone mad,” he muttered, storming from the room.

“No argument here,” Anthony said, just as a scone sailed across the table and hit him in the shoulder.

“Hey!”

“That wasn’t even aimed at you,” Eloise grumbled.

Hyacinth drummed her fingers on the table. “Maybe it’s the Smythe-Smith girl with the eyebrows.”

Gregory smacked a palm to his forehead before reaching over for Colin’s forgotten toast.  

Anthony picked up his egg. It was cold. 

Of course it was.

He sighed, and ate it anyway.

-COLIN-

The study had become something of a safe haven since his return. Familiar, unchanging, and quiet. At least, when no one else was barging in.

Colin sat at the desk, quill in hand, eyeing the half-finished list in front of him like it might rearrange itself into something useful. Names of eligible gentlemen—each annotated with some hastily scribbled adjective or social credential. He had tried to be objective.

He had failed.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, or at least he didn’t think so. None of the bachelors of the ton seemed quite good enough. Rupert Wilding had nice teeth, but his father had dropped dead from heart failure at a young age. Colin would never want that to happen to Penelope. Then there was Henry something-or-other, set to be the next Earl of Bath, but that would take her too far from London. And the less said about reprobates like Reginald Fife, the better. Even men like Thomas Dorset, whom he had once admired as a friend of Anthony’s, had their flaws—like the small matter of a bastard child living near Brighton, whose mother had been a servant in his house only a few short years ago.

The door creaked open without a knock, and he glanced up, already schooling his features. Anthony strolled in with his usual mix of authority and exhaustion, Benedict trailing behind with two scones and none of the dignity of the Viscount.  

“We leave in three days,” Anthony announced, not bothering with a greeting. “You’ll have the house to yourself, more or less, except for all the other people living here, I suppose. I expect it to still be standing when we return. I’ll know if even a single chair has been moved.”

Colin’s brow furrowed. “And to where are you going?”

“To Edwina’s wedding,” said Benedict through a mouthful of pastry. “Friedrich, remember? Prince, excellent cheekbones, probably quite dull, but very blond. I’m to play master of the house while Anthony and Kate drink their way through Pfaffstetten.”

Colin smirked. “Gesundheit.”

Anthony shot Benedict a warning look. “I’ll still be in charge.”

“Oh, naturally,” Benedict said, settling himself on the edge of the desk. “More importantly, what’s all this?” He gestured to the papers scattered across the desk. “Are you looking for a suitor?” He feigned shock. “Have I missed the grand unveiling of your giant feather?”

“You’re quite the card this morning, brother,” Colin sighed. “No. They’re for Penelope.”

There was a pause.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “She… asked you to do this?”

“Well. No. I offered.”

“Of course you did,” Benedict said cheerfully. “Women love unsolicited matchmaking. Nearly as much as they love being compared to one’s mother, I believe.”

“She’s… considering her options,” Colin said, glancing at the papers. “I thought I might help.”

“She is looking to marry this season?” Anthony asked slowly, as if parsing each word.

Colin hesitated. “I believe she would like to leave Lady Featherington’s house. But it’s strange,” he added, more to himself than to them. “She’s never seemed truly invested in finding a husband before. Not until after she had that row with Eloise.”

“That is interesting,” Benedict replied slowly, leaning in just enough to make Colin shift in his chair. “Did… did something happen at the end of the last social season that could cause such a change in her, brother? Maybe something she had previously been reluctant to admit, but now realizes it’s a lost cause?” He batted his eyes, looking every inch the insufferable tit he was being, and Colin felt something heavy settle on his chest. “Or perhaps she’s just confused.”

Colin shot him a sharp look. “She’s not confused.”

“No,” Benedict said, grinning. “You are.”

Colin leaned back, gripping the arms of his chair a bit too tightly. “In return, she’s helping me with something. The letter.”

Anthony blinked. “The… what, the love letter that was published?”

Colin nodded. “It’s fascinating. No signature, no intended recipient—at least not openly. But it’s clearly meant for someone.”  He leaned back in his chair, the rough leather creaking beneath his weight, his fingers drumming a restless, uneven rhythm against the armrest as he watched his brothers think through their next rejoinder.  

“Brother, why exactly are you so determined to unmask the author of this letter?” Benedict asked, his tone light, his brow arched in that infuriating, knowing way that made Colin want to stab him with an oyster fork. “I mean, it seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it? All this fuss over a scrap of sentimental nonsense?”

“I don’t give a damn about the letter,” Colin allowed, his voice purposely even.  “I want to unmask Whistledown. If I can figure out who wrote the letter, I can figure out who they gave it to. And if I can figure out who they trusted with it, I can get one step closer to exposing that vicious, meddling—”

He broke off, running out of appropriate words.  Benedict’s brow arched a little higher, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Vicious and meddling, is she?” he drawled, his tone still light, but his eyes gaining a sharpness to them that made Colin wholly uneasy. “Seems a bit harsh, does it not?”

“And clever,” he added, sidestepping his brother’s question.  “She’s far more clever than I am,” he stated. “And for that, I’ll need Penelope’s help.”  He raised his eyebrows. 

Anthony leaned over the desk, a strange expression on his face.  “So you will help her find a husband, and…” 

Benedict let out a low, incredulous chuckle, his lips curving into a small, secretive smile as he dropped into a leather club chair opposite the desk, biting into his second scone. “And you’ll get to spend all that time with her, as well,” he surmised, his voice almost taking on a sing-song quality that brought to mind years of teasing at the hands of his older brothers.   “A happy coincidence, indeed.”

Colin clenched his jaw, knowing that Benedict was trying to illicit a reaction from him.  Ten years ago when he’d been taunted over Penelope, it had worked.  Hell, even then months ago, it had clearly worked.  He would not allow it to happen again.  “I’ve…missed her,” he said cautiously.  He watched as something in Benedict’s expression changed, softened. “She didn’t write to me at all while I was gone this time.”

Anthony scoffed loudly.  “Write to you,” he muttered, before looking over at his brother.  Realization slowly dawned on the oldest of the Bridgerton siblings.  “You and Penelope... write to each other?” he repeated, his voice an octave higher than normal.  

Benedict let out another low, incredulous chuckle, his eyes bright with a sudden, wicked amusement that made Colin roll his eyes.  “Need I remind you, brother- you will be gone soon enough,” the spare grinned.  “So it will be everyone else’s problem soon enough.”

The door creaked again, and this time it was Eloise who entered. She paused, clearly suspicious to find her brothers all in one place. “Oh no. What are you plotting?”

“Colin has a plan,” Benedict said, grinning like a cat who had just discovered a particularly tasty morsel. “He’s going to play matchmaker to Miss Featherington while simultaneously hunting down a secret author in hopes of unveiling Lady Whistledown. It’s a completely reasonable strategy, and I think we should all support it.”

She fixed him with a flat stare. “What have you done?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing!” Colin said quickly, spreading his hands. “I offered to help Penelope find a match this season.”

Eloise’s expression didn’t change. “That’s… noble of you,” she said, with dangerous calm. “To assume she needs your help.”

Colin flushed. “It’s not— that is to say…”

She arched a single brow challengingly.  

“She’s helping me, too,” he said quickly. “With the letter.”

“The mysterious declaration of love,” Benedict added, waving a hand dramatically. “With the trembling vowels and emotional unraveling and all that rot.”

“Oh, yes,” Eloise said dryly. “That narrows it down to roughly every man and woman in London.”

“No,” Colin insisted. “There’s a connection. I’m certain.”

Eloise’s mouth twitched. “You’re always certain, but how often are you right?”

“I just want to know who wrote it.”

“And then what?” she prodded softly.

Colin blinked. “What?”

“What do you do once you find them?” she repeated, voice quiet but sharp.

He didn’t have an answer.

Benedict, mercifully—or not—intervened. He had been rifling through the papers on the desk and now held one up, eyes bright with mischief. “This list is insulting,” he said. “Dry, generic, dull. You sound like a tax collector choosing a wine.”

He glanced at Eloise. “What do you think, El? Anything stand out to you?”

She scanned the list over his shoulder and frowned. “It’s missing half the eligible men of the season.”

“And one very obvious name,” Benedict said. He tore off a corner of parchment and scribbled something down.

“What are you doing?” Colin asked warily.

“Fixing your mistake,” Benedict replied. “There.”

Colin raised a brow. “And who is this perfect suitor, if I may ask?”

Benedict handed the scrap to Anthony. His eldest brother took it, eyes narrowing as he read the name. He hesitated for a beat, then gave a dry, almost grudging nod. “That’s either the smartest idea you’ve had in years…” He clapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Or the most ludicrous.”

Anthony left without another word.

“What?” Colin demanded.

Benedict turned to Eloise and handed her the scrap. She glanced at it, went perfectly still, then crumpled the paper in her fist and turned on her heel. “You are such an arse sometimes,” she snapped, storming out.

Colin stared after her, utterly baffled. “What—what was that?”

Benedict just shrugged, looking annoyingly satisfied. “Oh, I think she’ll get over it. Eventually.” 

-GENEVIEVE -

The bell above the shop door gave its usual irritated little jingle, like it resented being part of such undignified errands.

Genevieve Delacroix glanced up from the counter just in time to see Miss Elizabeth Barrigan sweep into the room like a perfume-scented gust of disapproval, all feathers, ribbons, and audacity. Lady Barrigan followed a step behind, already sighing.

“Mama, you’re walking like you’re in mourning,” Elizabeth hissed. “People will think you are ill. Or worse—poor.”

“They will think I’m tired,” Lady Barrigan replied flatly, “Because I am.”

The snort escaped Gen’s mouth before she could properly put her hand up to cover.  She quickly turned it into a cough before she pasted on a serene expression and gave the requisite nod.

“Ladies Barrigan. Welcome.”

Elizabeth launched straight into her mission. “We need something fashionable but timeless. Soft but structured. French but not French.” She waved a hand at the millinery section. “And none of those dreadful periwinkle bonnets. As I was just saying to Miss Cressida—I do not wear defeat.”

Lady Barrigan sighed. “You’d be lucky to wear anything but disappointment at the rate you’re going.”

“Mama!” he daughter gasped, mouth dropping open.  

“It is your fourth year, Lizzie.”  Gen let her eyes volley back and forth between the two women.  She had no interest in getting in the middle of their impending argument, not when she had gloves to fold in the back if they were just going to stand here and bicker. 

“We’ve had several new deliveries,” she said instead, pointing toward the back wall. “May I interest you in something in ivory lace? Or perhaps a warmer tone? Early spring is prone to cool winds.”

Lady Barrigan sniffed. “No one cares what the weather’s doing on a wedding day, Miss Delacroix. Only what the bride’s chin looks like under the veil.”

Elizabeth ignored her. “We’re not planning anything yet, obviously,” she said no one in particular, “but it doesn’t hurt to consider options.”  She moved to the wall closest to her and ran a finger along the bolts lined up on a shelf.  “There is every possibility he has written it for me.”  

Lady Barrigan muttered something that sounded like, “There is nothing to indicate that.”

Elizabeth forged ahead, blithely ignoring her mother. “Mr. Oliver Hartley- Thorne has a serious, brooding quality, don’t you think? Sort of windswept and literary. Like a man who might have a compass and a ruined castle.”

“He’s a second son,” Lady Barrigan reminded her. “With a modest inheritance, no title, and, from what I hear, a job. You may as well elope with a shopkeeper.”

Genevieve's mouth twitched.

“Besides,” the older woman continued, examining a pair of lace gloves with surgical detachment, “he hardly looked captivated at the ball. I thought he was paying little to no attention to you.  In fact, his countenance seemed to be focused on his friendship with the Bridgerton boy.”  She frowned.  “I can never remember their order.”

Gen, reorganizing a display of hatpins, dropped one.  She bent to retrieve it slowly, carefully, like the floor might collapse if she moved too fast.  Then suddenly there, through the front window, filtered sunlight made a halo of dust in the air, he appeared.  Benedict Bridgerton and his new friend, Oliver. Strolling along the cobbled street as if they had nowhere to be and nothing weighing them down. Benedict was laughing—really laughing, the kind that made him lean back and slap a hand over his heart—and Gen could just make out the tilt of Oliver’s amused smile.  

“Oh,” Elizabeth scoffed. “Well yes, friendship is important to men as much as women, obviously.  I would never deny him that after marriage.  But what I can eventually provide him is a much greater asset.”

“Lizzie!” 

The daughter rolled her eyes.  “No one is here, mama.  Besides, I am certain the letter published in Whistledown was meant for me.  As he is the only one I spoke to at Lady Danbury’s ball, it must be him.  Plus, he is a writer.”  She huffed a bit as Miss Delacroix herself exhaled slowly, brushing off her skirts with unnecessary care.  

She hadn’t let herself daydream in weeks. Not since the last time Benedict had lingered too long at the counter, asking whether white or silver waistcoat fabric would be more ‘becoming a future famous oil painter’. Not since he’d complimented her eyes with an absent little grin and then promptly tripped over a footstool.

He was kind.

Kindness was dangerous.

And he was a Bridgerton. She was—this. A shop. A name people remembered only because she could guess their glove size on sight.  Outside, Oliver said something, and Benedict tilted his head, then looked briefly—directly—through the window.

Gen turned away before she could catch her own expression reflected in the glass.

“Miss Delacroix,” Lady Barrigan called, as if no time had passed, “this bonnet is shaped quite like a turnip.”

“I’ll make a note of that, my lady,” Gen murmured, voice steady.

Elizabeth was still at it. “I think a March wedding would be tasteful. Before the season gets crowded, but late enough to avoid snow. And we’ll honeymoon in Bath. Or the Lake District. He seems like a man who enjoys a dramatic mist.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “He seems like a man who currently enjoys not being married.”

Gen straightened the ribbon tray that had somehow come loose. “Will you be wanting that bonnet wrapped, my lady?” she asked.

Lady Barrigan waved her off. “Heavens no. We’re browsing. Not committing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Elizabeth said, craning her neck up.  “I’ve been working on my chin for weeks now.”

Genevieve cast another glance out the window, where Benedict had just reached up to brush a stray curl from Oliver’s brow, his hand lingering a fraction longer than strictly necessary.  “You should look at the lace, miss.  You never know,” she said with a knowing smile, the kind that could mean anything or nothing, depending on how closely one was paying attention.  “Anything is possible.” 

-AGATHA-

The chandelier above Lady Danbury’s drawing room glinted faintly in the candlelight, catching on the rim of every goblet like a knowing wink. The air reeked faintly of cigars expensive liquor. A haze of smoke curled toward the low ceiling, where it drifted lazily, as if the chandelier were trying to pretend it hadn’t seen anything.  The room was hushed but taut, filled with the kind of practiced silences that only women who had survived multiple seasons—and multiple husbands—could maintain.

“It’s far too sentimental to be from a man,” declared Lady Pemberton, who had once written a letter of her own that got published in The Gentlewoman’s Monthly and had never let anyone forget it.

“Unless he’s French,” murmured Lady Fairleigh into her wine goblet, setting off a ripple of laughter.

“It’s riddled with longing,” said Mrs. Price, a woman fairly new to the area, “but there’s something unseemly about it, don’t you think? It lacks... restraint.”

Lady Fairleigh turned to her like she’d grown another head. “Why on earth would one want restraint in a love letter?”

“I maintain it was written by a man,” Lady Pemberton said, stubbing out her cigarette as she leaned forward. “A very lonely one.” She turned to look expectantly at their hostess. “What do you think, Lady Danbury?”

Lady Danbury studied her cards, took a slow sip of her brandy, then placed the glass down with deliberate precision. “It does seem to confuse yearning for depth,” she said. “A very modern mistake.”

“I think it’s someone married,” slurred Lady Cawthorne, whose wineglass had become a depository for her ill-gotten winnings. “Otherwise why be anonymous? Cowardice is the hallmark of lonely wives. Trust me.”

“I do,” Lady Danbury drawled, laying down her hand. “Three of a kind. And just enough cynicism to win the pot.” She scooped the coins toward her with one ringed hand, then raised a brow when a new voice joined the fray.

“My husband thinks it was written by a poet,” someone offered from the chaise—just as the scent of cherry brandy reached them. “But I think my sister has something to do with it.”  All heads turned toward Prudence Dankworth, née Featherington, who was sitting more upright than usual, the very picture of a woman delighted to be taken seriously for once.  “Penelope,” she clarified, smoothing her skirts. “She’s always been odd, but recently it’s even more obvious. Flighty. Nervous. And she’s always writing, you know. Scribbling in the mornings, hiding pages in her desk. If anyone were to write something like that—something simply begging for attention—it would be her.”

Lady Danbury turned her head slowly toward the younger woman. “And does your dear sister know that you are here feeding her to the wolves?”

Prudence’s eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open in shock. Clearly, she hadn’t expected to be addressed quite so directly.

“Wait,” one of the other women whispered. “Is she the chubby one?”

“Yes,” came the hissed out reply.

“I don’t think she meant it to be about her,” Prudence clarified quickly. “Well, it wouldn’t be terribly believable, would it?”

“Heavens, no,” Danbury replied, taking a sip of her drink. “Thank goodness. No one should receive a love letter unless they’ve met the required... circumference of affection.”

There was an uncomfortable titter.

Prudence, undeterred, plunged ahead. “I just think it sounds quite like her. It’s all very… flowery and hopeful, isn’t it? She’s always had her head full of dreams. And now that she’s trying a new look—well.” She flopped back inelegantly into her seat. “And she’s always written inappropriate letters to that Colin Bridgerton.”

Lady Danbury turned her head just slightly. She didn’t speak for a moment. She simply lifted her cigarillo to her lips and took a thoughtful drag.

As a close friend of the family, Danbury had always kept an eye on the Bridgerton children—viewed them a bit as her own, in fact. And it had been obvious to her for years that the youngest Miss Featherington had carried a torch for Edmund and Violet’s often-forgotten third son. But she had begun to wonder whether it was quite so one-sided as it once had been.  Anyone with two eyes and half a brain could see Colin’s reaction to her new wardrobe. It was less who is she and more how long has this been true.  She stubbed out her cigarillo in the same dish as her winnings and glanced around the table with a faint smile.

“I think Miss Featherington has always been more observant than she lets on. As for the letter—whoever wrote it, they did not mean for it to remain secret. They wished to be found. Which makes them a fool, yes, but a clever one. The worst kind—for society.”

She reached for her biscuit.

“And the best kind—for stories.”

-MRS. VARLEY-

Portia Featherington swept through the market like a general surveying a battlefield, skirts hitched just enough to imply she was on a mission of great social consequence. Mrs. Varley trailed behind with a ledger, a quill, and three precariously balanced crates of root vegetables.  They were right in the middle of it.  Portia had declared she was hosting a private salon for the visiting fictional Duchess of Cornwall, pressuring vendors into donations under the guise of cultural patriotism.

“Two dozen cream puffs,” Portia said briskly, tapping a tray at the baker’s stall. “I am honoring the most regal lady of the season. Possibly of the century. The Queen may even send a footman.”

The baker squinted. “And… you’ll pay?”

Portia gasped like he’d just questioned the existence of choux itself. “Sir, surely you wouldn’t charge for supporting the peerage?”

Varley stepped forward, expression blank. “We’ll need those boxed. The Countess of Stanton who will be attending has a cream allergy.  Or she’s... died. I forget.”

The man, completely flustered, started boxing pastries immediately.  

As they moved from stall to stall, Varley updated the largely fake ledger, while Portia whispered about the upcoming Cowper ball. “You know, I’ve heard they’re having dancers brought in from Florence. Florence! Desperate.”

Varley raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were fond of Lady Cowper.”

“I said I admired her nerve, dear,” Portia replied. “Throwing a ball with that carpet? Bold.”

They paused at the fish stall. The vendor asked for coin. Lady Featherington raised her voice without skipping a beat. “If you insist on charging so much for your smoked herring, we’ll simply have to purchase our oysters elsewhere. Perhaps from Jameson’s cousin’s husband.”

There is no Jameson’s cousin’s husband.

The vendor caved anyway.

As they shuffled back toward the carriage—loaded with stolen floral arrangements, discount lace, and twelve meat pies—Portia finally deigned to mention her youngest daughter.

“Penelope’s been quite strange this season,” she said vaguely, then added, “Emotional. You know how she gets.”

Varley made a noncommittal noise, tucked a loose scroll back into the ledger, and muttered, “Come next season, she will be on the shelf for good and we can make her do the shopping.”

Lady Featherington rolled her eyes. “What do you think of this purple tulle?”

Varley grimaced.  “Absolutely suffocating, mum.”

Portia beamed. “Perfect.”

-COLIN-

“-and I can’t help but think this seems to have been written by a man.  What do you think?” 

Colin allowed his eyes to keep cautiously darting toward the doorway, foot jittery under the table.  His tea cup sat untouched on the table in front of him.  He was worried that if he so much as picked it up, he would be spilling the liquid all over the Featherington dining room.  How the woman opposite him was so calm, he could not fathom.  When he had made the outlandish suggestion that they put their heads together to work out the mystery that intrigued the entire ton, Colin had never expected Penelope to agree. 

In truth, his initial aim had been to use her admittedly larger intellect to try to help narrow down who their anonymous gossip author could possibly be.  Since then, however, Colin had simply felt the urge to find ways to spend as much time with his friend as he could.  Their handful of planned ‘spontaneous’ promenades at Hyde Park and market run-ins could only last but a few minutes at a time.  But then, Penelope had sent a note to him, announcing that her house was empty and they would have plenty of time and space to discuss the makings of the letter at length.  

“Pen, it’s not…”  He hesitated and frowned, before looking back over at the doorway.  “Are you quite sure we should be doing this here?” 

Penelope had already opened her mouth to respond, but instead paused, blinking her large eyes at him.  “What do you mean?”  She furrowed her brow in what was a rather adorable fashion, and Colin had to squeeze his hand into a fist to keep from reaching toward her to smooth the line with the pad of his thumb.  

“I just feel a bit…”  Colin awkwardly raised his tea cup to his lips in order to give his hands something to do.  “…exposed?”  Penelope loudly cleared her throat, and Colin felt a sting of warmth at the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, and he forced himself to take a long sip of the now cold beverage.    “I simply mean that your mama could return at any moment.  And what we are doing, it could be viewed as rather scandalous, could it not?”  Her mouth opened in shock, creating a perfect ‘O’ shape that made Colin squirm in his chair again.  Penelope got a strange expression on her face before snapping her jaw shut and turning her attention to scribbling something on the parchment before her.  He took another sip from his tea, gaining him time to think through his next sentence.  “I would never want to put you in such a position, Pen.”  

“That’s not a concern,” she retorted dismissively, not even looking up at him. 

Colin frowned at her.  Something felt off.  He very well knew that their current situation was precarious at best.  The only thing standing between them and a forced marriage proposal was a young lady’s maid and a rather increasingly absent-minded butler.  Come to think of it why had she suggested such a location for a clandestine meeting?  And more importantly, why exactly had he agreed to it?  “Penelope, why is this not a concern of yours?”  

She continued scribbling.  “I simply do not believe it to be an issue.”  

This contention startled him, and he felt his entire body tense as he frowned at the woman who sat opposite him.  “Pen, how the devil-“

“Because it doesn’t matter!” Penelope replied sharply, cutting him off. She shot him an exasperated look and Colin tipped his head back in surprise.  He placed his tea cup back on its saucer.  A moment later, she seemed to remember herself and allowed her expression to soften once more.  “I…”  She let out a chuckle.  “Colin, I trust Rae.  And Briarly.  They will alert us the moment they see the Featherington carriage approaching.  I understand you could likely think of nothing worse than being forced into a marriage with me.  But I fully believe it would not ever come to that.”  

He frowned at her, feeling more confused by the moment.  A million questions tickled at his tongue and his brain, but one was at the forefront.  “And why is that?” Colin asked, and he could hear the strangled quality to his own voice.  

“Because we have behaved rather inappropriately for years,” Penelope replied with a shrug.  She tapped her quill against the parchment as a smirk appeared on her lovely face.  He felt a jittery sort of energy shoot through his chest and his gut, and he swallowed down the sudden bitter taste in his mouth that reminded him of blood.  

“We do not-“ he sputtered in defense, but was cut off by the red head.  

“We are not courting, yet we regularly dance together and we write to each other at length.”  Colin could feel his breathing becoming more labored by the second.  “We consistently use our Christian names with each other, even in mixed company.”  She wrinkled up her nose at him, her smile not quite reaching her eyes in a convincing manner.  “I know it was not your intention, and I would no longer make the mistake of thinking otherwise.  I truly do understand now.”  He watched her take in a shuddering breath and then square her shoulders.  “As it is though, I believe I could strip bare and lay myself out on this very table and the thought wouldn’t even occur to you.”  Colin now couldn’t deny the intent movement in his trousers.  Suddenly, he was finding it very hard to take in breath through his open mouth.  “In fact, my mother could come upon us and she would do little more than scold me for wasting your time when you could be out, looking for a lady you may actually marry.”  

Colin blinked at her, his mouth drying out as it hung open in surprise.  Had she really just said…?  Bare?  On the table?  He eyes slid down to the polished wood between them and allowed the idea to take hold of him for one delicious moment- her back arched, hair trailing over her shoulder, breasts jutting magnificently upward, begging for his hands or his mouth.  He shifted in his seat again, now fully uncomfortable as he opened and closed his mouth over and over.  He was sure he would look rather like a fish to any by-stander.  Even that idea, the one of someone else seeing them in this state, didn’t deter his stubborn body.

“The truth is that no one would ever force you into that, because everyone wants more for you,” Penelope continued, seemingly more to herself than to him.  “If you ever did something that could be interpreted as an untoward overture by others, it would get dismissed as inadvertent.  The ton wants better for you than the chubby unattractive third daughter of a destitute Baron who died under mysterious circumstances.”  The idea that she saw herself that way made Colin’s chest ache.  Didn’t she see how good she was?  If thirty seconds ago, he felt the urge to worship at the altar of her body, now he wanted nothing more to collect her in his arms and place a tender kiss to her temple.  

What was happening to him?    

“Okay,” she murmured, somehow managing to turn her attention back to the task that had brought him across the square in the first place.  “It talks here about having spent time looking at the water.”  Colin watched as Penelope drew her lower lip into her mouth, biting down on the tender flesh.  He heard a shaky whimper, and was horrified a moment later to realize it had come from him.  Thankfully, it didn’t seem to register with the woman opposite him.  “So it could be a fisherman, maybe someone who works at the docks.”  He kept his eyes on her as she quirked her mouth up on one side, a slight frown on her face.  “Or maybe someone who travels a lot.”  At that, her eyes slid up from the parchment before her to meet his gaze.  Colin felt his breath still in his lungs.  “Are you sure it’s not you?” she gently ribbed with one arched brow.  He squirmed in seat again.  Had she any idea what she was doing with so little effort?  

“Pen…” he warned, his voice gaining a raspy edge that somewhat surprised him.  “Who exactly do you believe I would have written to?” 

Her.  

Penelope.  

The answer to his own question was so strong and sudden, Colin almost fell backwards out of his chair.  He forced out a cough before setting a grin on his face that he hoped came across as ‘winning’, but felt more ‘pained’.  “I believe the last lady to whom I wrote letters never responded to me.  I doubt she even read them.”  He reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, feeling the heat of his skin. 

Penelope coughed at that, but still wouldn’t meet his eye.  “Maybe someone who works as a sea bather?”  

 “…did she?” he finished cautiously, ignoring her interjection.  

Their eyes met across the table, and the humor drained from her face, to be replaced by a quiet sort of sadness that made Colin want to look away.  However, something about her expression, so open to him, stole the breath from his lungs and he fond he could barely even blink for fear of losing one second with her.  He watched as her own breath hitched.    “Colin…” she whispered, her chin trembling.  

“Pen?” he murmured back softly, furrowing his brow.

Her tongue slipped out of her mouth to lick her lips, and Colin felt it in his gut.  “…I-“

The pocket door slid open and Penelope’s maid entered quickly.  “Excuse me miss, but Mr. Bridgerton needs to leave at once.”  Colin’s eyes widened in panic and he looked between the two women even as he rose from his seat.  

“Rae will take you out the servant’s entrance in the back,” Penelope explained as she gathered her notes with a calmness that he did not feel one ounce of.  “Wait a few minutes, make a wide berth to the edge of the garden, and-“

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod.  “Pen, will I see you tonight at the ball?” 

“Yes, now go,” she urged with a grin, jerking her chin toward her maid, who nodded primly before turning and walking away at a good clip.  Colin only looked back at the red head for a moment before trailing after the maid, through the back channels of Featherington House.  They passed by the kitchen, a larder and pantry, and then they were out in the garden.  Colin squinted into the sunlight, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes.  

“Miss…?” 

“Rae,” she filled in, making her mouth very small, but her eyes were insistent on his face, taking in more than Colin felt comfortable with.  

He nodded.  “Right,” he answered with what he hoped was a warm smile.  He gave her a bow.  “Thank you, Rae.”  She gave a nearly imperceptible nod in response, and Colin nodded back before peeking over the nearest hedge.  Lady Featherington and her housekeeper were exiting the family’s carriage in front of the house.  Okay, so he just needed to-

“Excuse me, Mr. Bridgerton?”  Colin stilled and then slowly spun to look at Penelope’s maid once more.  “Miss Penelope is… she’s very special,” she said quietly, her eyes on him again.  “And she has always cared for you a great deal.”  He inhaled deeply, trying to calm the way his heart jittered in his chest.  Before he could reply, she gave him a curt nod and swept back into Featherington House, leaving him alone in the garden.      

-CRESSIDA-

Cressida adjusted the angle of the mirror, tilting it slightly to catch the afternoon light as it filtered through the lace curtains. She turned her head, studying the sharp line of her jaw, the elegant curve of her neck. Her maid fussed with the last pin in her hair, twisting the final golden strand into place before stepping back with a murmur.  Cressida dismissed her with a flick of her fingers, her eyes never leaving the glass. She leaned closer, inspecting the faintest hint of a freckle on her right cheekbone. She would have it dealt with in the morning, perhaps with one of those new lemon tinctures the French so adored.

She had no intention of allowing a single flaw to mar her appearance tonight.  The Cowper ball promised to be the highlight of the season, and she would be its centerpiece. She had already chosen her gown—a masterpiece of sky blue silk, the exact shade to set off her eyes and complement her pale complexion. The neckline dipped just low enough to draw attention without straying into vulgarity, and the bodice fit like a second skin, cinched to emphasize her small waist. She would outshine every girl in the room, as she always did.

Her mind drifted to the eligible bachelors who would undoubtedly seek her out this evening. James Mattingly had shown a particular interest of late, his eyes lingering a fraction too long at Lady Danbury’s last soiree. He was tall and well-formed, with a pleasing jawline and a fortune that, while not as vast as the Bridgertons’, was certainly respectable. She might consider him, if only to pass the time until something better came along.

But then, there were the Bridgerton brothers. Her mother had been droning on about them since before Cressida’s first season, dropping unsubtle hints about how perfect it would be to secure a match with one of their brood. Cressida had always found it a bit tiresome, the way her mother’s eyes lit up at the mere mention of their name. Still, she had to admit there was a certain appeal to becoming a Bridgerton by marriage.

Anthony, the Viscount, was obviously spoken for, and Benedict... well, he had a certain roguish charm, but he seemed too inclined toward scandal and artistic nonsense for her taste. She needed a man who would focus on her, not on paintbrushes or sketchbooks.  

But Colin—Colin was different. Handsome, with a broad chest and mischievous eyes that hinted at a sharp mind, if not an entirely steady one. He had always been the most attractive of the brothers, in her opinion, though maddeningly indifferent to her charms. He spoke to her politely enough, danced with her when the occasion demanded it, but never sought her out as he should. 

As any sensible man should.

Perhaps she had been too subtle? Perhaps he required a more obvious signal of her interest, a clearer invitation to pursue her. Men were often slow to grasp such things, particularly when their heads were full of food and travel, as Colin’s always seemed to be. She would make a point of engaging him tonight, of catching his eye in that way she had perfected—the slight tilt of her head, the slow, knowing smile that had brought lesser men to their knees.  Cressida’s lips curved at the thought, and she glanced down, adjusting the silvery bracelet around her wrist. Yes, she would be more direct. She would catch his eye and hold it, let her gaze linger just a heartbeat too long, and then turn away with a subtle flick of her fan. Let him wonder.

Make him want.

Her fingers paused on the clasp, her reflection momentarily forgotten. A small, unpleasant thought crept into her mind—the image of Penelope Featherington, with her round cheeks and hideous gowns, always hovering at the edge of the Bridgertons’ circle. Colin had been seen speaking to her more than once this season, his expression oddly attentive. Cressida dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Penelope was nothing, a gnat buzzing around the periphery of society, tolerated only because her family’s remaining wealth had managed to cling to some semblance of respectability. She was hardly a threat.

Still, Cressida’s jaw tightened. She would keep an eye on that one, just in case. No one would steal her spotlight, least of all a girl with hair the color of a rusted coin and the fashion sense of a blind child.  She straightened, taking one last, critical look at her reflection. Yes, she would dazzle tonight.  And if it took a little more effort to ensnare Colin Bridgerton’s attention, so be it. She had never shied away from a challenge.

With a final, satisfied smile, she swept from the room, her skirts trailing like the tail of a comet.

Tonight, she would shine brighter than any of them.

-PENELOPE-

The ballroom was a living, breathing thing, alive with the hum of conversation and the sharp clatter of crystal against porcelain. Light from the massive chandeliers overhead refracted through the crystal glasses and gem-studded gowns, casting a dizzying array of colors across the polished marble floor. The air in the hall was thick with perfume and the warm, slightly metallic tang of candle smoke.

Penelope stood at the refreshment table, the cool glass in her hand a welcome relief against the heat creeping up her neck. Her pulse had been fluttering since she’d arrived, a strange sense of anticipation thrumming beneath her skin. She felt alive, startlingly so, every nerve ending buzzing with the peculiar, unsettling sensation of being truly seen for the first time in far too long.
She had just managed to slip her empty glass onto a passing footman’s tray when a familiar voice drawled over her shoulder.

“Miss Featherington,” came a warm, slightly teasing voice, accompanied by the faint, clinking chime of a brandy glass against the table. Benedict Bridgerton leaned in beside her, his gray-blue eyes alight with the easy mischief of a man who never took these events quite as seriously as the rest of his family. Beside him stood another gentleman, taller and leaner, with sharp, intelligent eyes and the kind of easy confidence that suggested he knew his way around a dance floor.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Benedict’s grin widened as she turned to face them, his glass held loosely in one hand.

Penelope forced a small, polite smile, though her heart still fluttered traitorously. “I should be more inclined to enjoy them if my dance card weren’t so endlessly… empty.” She winced internally, realizing too late how self-deprecating it sounded, but Benedict only chuckled, the sound low and genuinely amused.

“An oversight I am able to immediately correct, actually. May I present Sir Oliver Hartley-Thorne, a friend in the arts who is here for the season.” Benedict gestured grandly, as if presenting a particularly fine painting or an exotic specimen newly arrived from some distant, glamorous corner of the world. “I thought it only proper that he be introduced to the finest dancers in London.”

Oliver stepped forward, bowing with a touch of theatricality that Penelope found both charming and a little disarming. His dark eyes never left hers, and his smile was warm, easy—the sort of smile that suggested he had a half-dozen sisters who had taught him precisely how to flatter a young woman without seeming overly forward.  Penelope arched a brow, letting her gaze flick between the two men. “If you are attempting empty flattery on me, you will have to try harder than that. I am quite immune to the charms of a pair of bored second sons with too much time on their hands.”

“Ah, but you forget,” Benedict said, lifting his glass in a mock toast, “we are not merely bored second sons. We are artists. Men of vision. Dreamers of impossible dreams.”

“Is that what you call it?” Penelope replied, reaching for a second glass of champagne to hide the slight tremor in her fingers. “I had rather thought you were a pair of overgrown schoolboys with a fondness for brandy and bad poetry.”

Oliver let out a bark of laughter, clinking his glass against Benedict’s. “Oh my, Miss Featherington.” He turned to address Benedict. “She looks to be all rounded edges, but she’s a bit sharp, isn’t she?”

Penelope felt herself flush at the stranger’s words, a hot, prickling sensation that spread up the back of her neck and into her cheeks. Benedict leaned in, his expression turning sly, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “Careful what you say, Oliver. You never know where she lurks and what she hears.”

Her heart gave a small, panicked flutter, but she forced herself to keep her expression carefully neutral. She would not let them see her nerves, not now, when she had finally begun to feel a flicker of something like confidence.

“And what, pray tell, is your opinion of her, sir?” she replied, her tone cool and faintly challenging.

Benedict’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned in even closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I hear she’s quite the observer. A collector of secrets. The sort of person who knows everyone’s business but keeps her own heart locked up tight.”

Oliver gave a low, theatrical gasp, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “A tragic figure indeed. How terribly romantic. And who do you suppose her to be? A lovelorn heroine who had her heart broken? Or perhaps a vengeful ghost, haunting the edges of society?”

Penelope narrowed her eyes, feeling her cheeks warm with a mixture of irritation and something dangerously close to embarrassment. “You are both ridiculous.”

“Oh, come now,” Benedict said, straightening with a dramatic flourish. “You cannot deny that the entire party is buzzing with talk of our dear Lady Whistledown and her mysterious disappearance. The ton is practically foaming at the mouth for her return.”

Penelope felt a small, hot flare of defiance spark in her chest, and she lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing. “Perhaps she is tired of being taken for granted. Perhaps she is tired of being treated as a thing, a curiosity, and not as a person. Perhaps she wants to see the ton on their knees for once, begging for her to return, instead of treating her like a foregone conclusion.”

There was a brief, startled silence, broken only by a cough from Oliver. Benedict’s eyes flicked to his friend, a subtle, silent exchange that Penelope almost missed, but not quite. She felt the faint, tingling burn of eyes on her, a dozen curious glances from nearby guests who had overheard her sharp, defiant tone.

Oliver cleared his throat, recovering his usual easy grin as he straightened and offered her a slight, admiring nod. “Well said, Miss Featherington. I suppose even phantoms deserve their due.”

Benedict raised his glass again, his eyes never leaving Penelope’s. “To the ghosts in our midst,” he said, his voice soft but edged with something sharp and knowing. “Let us hope they will not haunt us forever.”

Penelope felt a small, shivery thrill run down her spine as she raised her own glass in response, her heart still fluttering with a mixture of pride and unease. She took a long, steadying sip, letting the bubbles burn away the lingering taste of defiance on her tongue.  Just as she set down her glass, her pulse still fluttering from the sharp, unexpected satisfaction of her retort, she nearly collided with a young woman hovering near the edge of the dance floor. The girl had her back to the wall, eyes wide as if she were trying to absorb every detail of the room without actually being noticed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the girl whispered, immediately reaching to steady Penelope’s elbow. “I should not have stood here, but I was trying to avoid Lady Brittlesby, and this seemed the safest corner.” She blinked, clearly mortified at having admitted such a thing.  At this, Penelope glanced over at the Dowager Countess, who looked as glum as ever in the corner surrounded by gossiping mamas.  She smirked at the younger woman. “I promise I’m not usually this forward.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You’ve chosen the perfect hiding spot, truly. Lady Brittlesby never ventures near the potted palms. She says they remind her of funerals.”

The girl let out a breathless, relieved laugh. “Of course she does. I should have known. My brother calls her the ‘Mama of Melancholy,’ but I always thought that too cruel a title.” She hesitated, then added with a nervous flutter of her hands, “Though I suppose a thing may be both true and unkind, which makes it no less true.”

Penelope’s eyebrows rose in appreciation. “You sound like a philosopher.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “Oh, I only dabble. My brother says I think too much for a girl, which likely means I think just enough.” She ducked her head, a small, shy smile creeping onto her lips. “I’m Beatrice Baker. Second of three, if that explains anything.”

“Ah,” Penelope said, her own smile widening. “A middle child. That does explain quite a bit.”

Beatrice’s eyes flicked down to the ribbons of her gown. “Is it terribly obvious? I do try not to fade into the wallpaper, but I fear it’s my natural state.”

Penelope hesitated, then gave her a small, conspiratorial wink. “You’d be surprised how often the quiet ones end up making the loudest impact.”  

“Miss Featherington,” came the sharp, slightly nasal tone of Cressida Cowper. Penelope’s spine stiffened instinctively before she turned to take in the woman ten paces from her. “I hadn’t realized you’d be attending my ball this evening.” The tall blonde looked down her nose with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “How charming to see you making the most of your… limited opportunities.”
Penelope felt a hot flush creep up her neck, her earlier confidence flickering like a candle in a draft. She opened her mouth to reply, her mind scrambling for something sharp, something witty, when another voice, warm and steady, cut in.

“Miss Featherington,” she heard a voice announce, and turned to see Lady Danbury striding calmly into the fray. “I have been wanting to introduce you to James Mattingly, and now seems as grand a time as any.” The older woman’s sharp, knowing smile sent a wave of warmth through Penelope’s chest, her pulse skipping a beat as Lady Danbury stepped aside to reveal a tall, caramel-skinned man with a warm, inviting smile.

“James, this is Miss Penelope Featherington, one of the most charming and well-read women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.” Lady Danbury’s gaze cut to Cressida, one brow arched in silent, devastating judgment, and Penelope felt the petty, vindictive thrill of a well-placed verbal jab land true.

Penelope watched as Cressida’s smile froze, her pale eyes flicking between James, Lady Danbury, and Penelope with barely disguised irritation. Penelope felt a rush of gratitude, her pulse quickening as James turned his full attention to her, his gaze warm and reassuring. She gave a quick curtsy, suddenly afraid to bow her head for fear that when she looked up, he would have been but a mirage.

“Would you honor me with a dance?” he asked, extending his hand with a graceful, effortless confidence that made her heart give a small, startled flutter.

Penelope hesitated for only a moment, her eyes flicking to where Benedict, Oliver, and Colin were watching from across the room. She managed a small smile in Benedict’s direction before her gaze shifted to Colin. His expression was tight, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with something that she would have mistaken for jealousy if it was anyone else.

“Yes,” she said, her voice bright with a confidence she hadn’t realized she possessed. “I would like that very much.”

James offered his hand with a slight, self-deprecating smile, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “I promise to tread only on the parts of your gown I can reasonably repair.”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink as she placed her hand in his, letting him guide her to the floor. “I will take my chances, Mr. Mattingly. But if you ruin my hem, I expect you to reimburse me in Bath buns.”

“I could never forgive myself for ruining a gown that suits one so splendidly,” he replied as they took their places, his touch light yet confident. “But you’ve discovered my one true weakness. The Bath buns, I mean. Though I should also confess a fondness for charming dance partners.”

She smiled, feeling a rare, warm flicker of confidence as they moved into the opening steps of the waltz. “You may find your dance card filling quickly if you keep saying things like that, sir.”

He leaned in, just enough for her to catch the faint scent of bergamot and leather, his voice pitched low. “And risk making the other gentlemen jealous? I think not. It’s far more entertaining to have the whole room guessing my intentions.”

“Oh? And what should they guess?” she asked, her voice holding a slight tremor. “That you are a daring flirt with a sweet tooth and a talent for ruining hems?”

“Precisely,” he said, spinning her lightly, his grip firm but not possessive. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

She laughed—a bright, clear sound that startled even her. It felt good to laugh. To dance without a care. To be seen, if only for a few fleeting minutes, as simply Penelope, and not the odd, overlooked girl with too many unflattering bonnets and too few suitors. She wished, almost desperately, to feel a rush at the way his fingers grasped her waist, his handsome face holding none of the storied history she wanted it to have. Her mind slid backwards, snagging on a jig at night under the stars when her heart had seized almost violently in happiness.

Shaking herself slightly, Penelope focused on the man in front of her, her pulse still skittering with the leftover rush of defiance. She felt eyes on them—some curious, some approving, and one pair in particular that burned more intensely than the rest. She had felt that same gaze for years, but always turned toward other, more beautiful women.

Women to whom she could never compare.

James, for his part, seemed to sense it too. His eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder, catching something—or someone—before he leaned in once more, his voice conspiratorial. “You know, Miss Featherington, I rather suspect we have an audience.”

She blinked up at him, momentarily thrown, her pulse fluttering in her throat. “I guarantee, Mr. Mattingly, that no one is looking at me.”

His lips curved into a warm smile. “Lady Danbury said you were so sharp and observant, and yet, you truly don’t see it, don’t feel it? The eyes that seem to search only for you, even in a crowd?”

She felt a warm, tingling rush of something unfamiliar, like fear but more dangerous.

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the room, James slowed their steps, his hand lingering just a fraction longer than necessary as he released hers, eyes bright and warm. “Miss Featherington, it has been a genuine pleasure. I hope you’ll allow me the honor of another dance someday.”

“Only if you remember the Bath buns,” she answered with a grin, bowing her head and stepping away as their hands dropped.

As she slipped toward the terrace to catch her breath, her gaze caught on the willowy brunette lurking in an alcove, eyes holding a sadness that made Penelope’s chest ache. The cool night air hit her cheeks as she stepped outside, the sounds of the ballroom fading into the background. She leaned against the stone balustrade, willing the violent swirl of emotion to calm somewhat.

The cool night air hit Penelope’s cheeks as she stepped onto the terrace, the sharp chill a welcome contrast to the heat still radiating from her skin. She felt the pulse in her throat, quick and fluttering, as if her heart had yet to catch up with the rest of her. The sounds of the ballroom faded behind her, the music and laughter muffled by thick velvet drapes and the solid stone walls of the grand estate.
She moved to the edge of the terrace, leaning against the smooth, cold balustrade, her gloved fingers tightening against the stone as she forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. She felt lightheaded, as if the world had tipped slightly on its axis, throwing her off balance in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

For one wild, dizzying moment, she had let herself believe that she had been seen, truly seen, by someone other than a passing acquaintance or a curious observer. That she had been more than a wallflower, more than a shadow slipping through the edges of a gilded world that had never quite known what to make of her.  She closed her eyes, the cool night breeze brushing against her flushed cheeks, and tried to slow her racing pulse. She would remember this night, she decided. She would carry it with her, a small, bright ember of defiance and hope, even when the rest of the world forgot her.

But then she heard footsteps—sharp, purposeful, the heavy tread of boots on marble—and her eyes flew open, her breath catching in her throat as she turned.

Colin stood in the shadows just beyond the pool of candlelight, his shoulders tense, his gaze locked on her with a fierce, unsettling intensity. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling with the rough, uneven rhythm that made her uneasy.

“Colin,” she said, her voice cracking in the silence . “You startled me.”

He took a step forward, his shadow stretching long and thin across the polished marble floor. She felt the sudden, oppressive weight of his presence, the heat of his gaze like a physical thing pressing against her skin.  “A gentleman asked me to dance,” she said, her voice bright and too high, the words tumbling out in a rush as she struggled to fill the silence between them. “Lady Danbury introduced him, Mr. Mattingly.  And he was so… He said the color of my gown suited me, and he was so thoughtful and kind, and—”

Her next word was cut off.  Colin, swooping toward her with an alacrity she was not prepared for, pressed his lips against hers, large hand wrapping around one side of her neck.   She gasped into his mouth, her pulse leaping in her throat as she stumbled against him, her free hand coming up instinctively to press against the warm, solid plane of his chest. She felt the hard, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin layers of his waistcoat and shirt.  This was not the soft, chaste brush of lips she had imagined in her quieter moments, the tentative, trembling press of affection from him that she had dreamed of since girlhood. It was a desperate pressing of mouths that left her breathless and reeling, her mind fuzzing at the edges.  

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

He wrenched himself back, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and wild in the moonlight. For a single, breathless moment, they stood frozen, the cool night air swirling around them like a whisper, a warning, a promise.  He released her wrist, his fingers flexing once before he let his hands drop to his side, his gaze flicking to the ground as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. She felt the sting of his absence like a slap, the sudden, icy rush of isolation that followed the loss of his warmth.

“I…” His voice was hoarse, the word forced out like a confession. He swallowed, his throat working against some unspoken, unbearable weight. “I apologize.”

Penelope felt something inside of her crack open, a deep, aching fissure that sent a wave of nausea rushing up from her stomach. She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her lips, her mind reeling with the sudden, dizzying dissonance of it all.

“You… you apol—” She couldn’t finish the word, couldn’t force it past the tight, constricting knot in her throat. She felt the world lurch beneath her feet, the cold, unforgiving marble tilting dangerously as her pulse thundered in her ears.

"Pen," he whispered, reaching toward her again half-heartedly.  

“No,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as they touched her lips, still tingling from the unexpected, searing heat of his kiss. She felt a sharp, burning sensation in her chest, a bright, flaring pain that threatened to tear her apart from the inside out.

She turned and walked away, her pulse still hammering in her ears, her mind a chaotic swirl of hurt and hope and a thousand unanswered questions. She didn’t look back, and Colin didn’t follow.

-LORD REMINGTON-

Lord Remington would swear he had no intention of being in the garden.

The ballroom was overheated and overpopulated with people who insisted on discussing reform as if it were fashionable. He’d excused himself on the premise of seeking air and found himself wheeled to the edge of the Cowpers’ terrace, where the night was cooler, the music was muffled, and—most importantly—no one was talking to him.

That alone would have been reward enough.

But fate, that foppish playwright, had something else in store.

Through the veil of ivy and shadowed lanterns, he had spotted them: a young man and a young woman, frozen in the middle of something electric. He recognized the man at once—he was one of the middle Bridgerton sons, all tousled hair and wounded artist face. The woman… he did not know. Fiery red hair, a magnificently-cut gown. Round shoulders like a muse from Greek mythology.  

They were arguing, or maybe not.  She was animated, he was still as stone.  

Then he’d kissed her.

It was not a particularly long or passionate-looking kiss, but he could feel the crackle of something hit like lightning even from where he sat.  Remington tilted his head slightly, wheels tucked into the shadows.

Well now.

The woman had pulled away like she’d just remembered her name, rank, and reputation. He said something. She said just one or maybe two words before turning and striding away as quickly as her short legs could carry her.  The Bridgerton boy- maybe the ‘C’ one- stayed behind, swaying slightly. He looked like someone had opened him up and rearranged his very structure.

Remington sipped from a silver flask tucked discreetly at his side.

“Who are you?” he murmured, not to Bridgerton, but to the girl—whoever she was.

He made a mental note: redhead, silk, eyes like a woman halfway between heartbreak and revolution. She would not be hard to find. He was very good at remembering faces. Names could come later.  He wheeled himself back toward the main hall, letting the music swell around him as he re-entered the crowd.  As he crossed back into the ballroom, the light and laughter rushed up to greet him like a tide of taffeta and lemonade.

He barely noticed.

Because what he’d just seen—that kiss, that girl, that look on Chester Bridgerton’s face like he’d just confessed something catastrophic without using a single word—it was the kind of thing Whistledown would kill for.

A secret held in plain sight. A scandal not yet scalded by gossip. Intimacy dressed as impulse.  Remington felt the thrill settle low and satisfying in his ribs.  He had it.

 And no one else did.

He moved smoothly through the crowd, nodding once at Lady Cowper, once at a Viscount’s wife, once at a gentleman whose name he never bothered to remember. All the while, one thought prickled at the back of his neck like a too-expensive collar.

If rumor was to be believed—and it always was, eventually—Lady Whistledown was in this very room. Possibly sipping lemonade. Possibly flirting. Possibly smiling at him right now, with maddening anonymity and ink-stained hands tucked in gloves.

He smiled, slow and feline.

“Let’s see who blinks first.”

-CHARLOTTE-

“My paper is late.”

The statement dropped like cannon fire over the serene sounds of birdsong and fork clink. Somewhere in the distance, a string quartet stopped playing, instinctively sensing doom.  Brimsley didn’t flinch. He simply bowed, very slightly, and pretended his blood pressure wasn't already on the rise for so early in the day.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve made inquiries—”

“My paper.” Charlotte’s voice rose, slicing through the morning calm. “The only thing in this entire bloody country written by someone with wit, and it has failed to appear.  Again.”  She stabbed at her pineapple again. This time it squelched audibly.  Brimsley tried not to glance at the fruit tray. He suspected the next one to bleed would be him.

“She’s never missed this much,” the Queen continued, waving her fork like a sword. “Do you remember when the Wickham boy was thrown from his horse last year?  She even managed a line about ‘stallion temperaments.’”

“I do recall that.”

“She called his fall ‘more dramatic than the ton's collective gasp at a second cousin’s low neckline.’” Charlotte snorted. “That woman is vicious. I like her.”

Brimsley cleared his throat. “We believe she may be... re-ordering her priorities.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “What, has she taken up embroidery? Found religion? Been murdered?”

“There are no reports, ma’am.”

“Then I want rumors. Good ones,” she sniffed as she speared a grape with her fork.  

“Of course.”

“And call for Lady Danbury.”

Brimsley blinked. “Lady Danbury, ma’am?”

“Yes. I’ve long suspected she knows exactly who our anonymous author is.  If there is someone who knows anything about it, it’s Agatha. That woman could extract the deepest of secrets over lukewarm tea. I want her now.”  A footman entered with a tray of tarts. The Queen pointed a spoon at him without looking.  “That one. Interrogate him.”

Brimsley intercepted smoothly. “That's not Whistledown.  He’s only just brought the pastries, Your Majesty.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at the young man. “Fine. But if no one has answers by tomorrow, I will behead someone. And it might be him. Or you. Or one of the dogs. No one is safe.”  The footman dropped the tray. The Pomeranian nearest to him stirred, sniffed a tart, and immediately went back to sleep.  Charlotte took a dramatic sip of tea. “The ton is useless. I heard someone the other day posit that the love letter was written by Lord Featherington. Lord Featherington, Brimsley. A man who once tried to toast himself at a wedding.”

“It was… memorable, Your Majesty.”

“He cried during the soup.”

Brimsley coughed.  “It was quite good soup.”  

“Brimsley,” the Queen frowned.  “He’s been dead for over a year.”  

He smirked.  “Well, that does put a bit of a hole in that theory then.”  

She set her cup down with a clatter. “Someone is holding out on my gossip. I can smell it. And if Whistledown has decided to go quiet just as the season is turning juicy, I want her smoked out. I want whispers. I want scheming. I want four marriage proposals and at least one fainting spell.”

“I’ll begin compiling a list of eligible fainting candidates, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

She paused. “And tell Lady Danbury I expect scandal before luncheon. Or at the very least, an indecent rumor about a duke.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Charlotte looked out the window, eyes sharp with imperial hunger.

“I am not in the mood for peace, Brimsley. I want fireworks.”

-DAPHNE-

The post arrived with a soft shuffle of footsteps and the faint clatter of porcelain. Daphne looked up from her embroidery—not because she was particularly interested in finishing it, but because the air had shifted.  The tray arrived with two envelopes—both thick with implication.

“Two letters for you, Your Grace,” her butler said. “One from London. One from… also London.”

“Truly, we are an international household,” she murmured, accepting the tray.  “Would you mind fetching me some wine, Jeffries?  I think I’m going to need it.”

“Of course, ma’am.”  He smirked at her and left the room.  

The handwriting on the top envelope was unmistakable. Colin, in that dramatic, slanted sprawl that always looked like it had been dashed off mid-swoon, had written to her.  The second had a heavy, sure print to it that she didn’t recognize at first.   

She opened Colin’s first.

Dearest Daph,

I hope all is well in your idyllic little corner of the world. I imagine there are crocuses or some other flower in bloom. Here in London, the weather is often dreary, but the company increasingly less so.  You have likely already seen the premiere Lady Whistledown paper and the letter that was printed therein.  It has caused quite a bit of an uproar amongst the ton.  While it has been considerably overblown by the lot of them, it has also stirred up a rather unexpected sort of reflection within me. Not unpleasant, simply complicated.  

 

Things that were once safe and comfortable now feel unsettled.  I find myself ruminating on the same blue eyes day and night, something I hadn’t considered until recently.  I feel as if I am simply trying to stay afloat, but struggle not to drown every day.   If you were here, I’d ask your opinion.  You’ve always been the one who I could rely on for honesty.   But as you’re not, consider this the next best thing- a vague letter that says very little and means far too much. 

 

 I won’t bore you with more details in letter form, but if you have any advice, I would be grateful. How I wish I could walk the gardens at Clyvedon and listen to your wise words at length.  Failing that, if you could at least send a bottle of that ridiculous elderflower liquer I know you keep, I would be most grateful.  

 

  

Yours in distress,

 

Colin

Daphne had just finished reading the first letter when Simon appeared in the doorway,  Jeffries on his heels.  He watched the servant deposit the bottle and a set of glasses before glancing over at his wife, looking far too pleased with himself.  “Wine already?  Uh oh, what is it, war?” he asked mildly.

She held the letter up. “It’s worse. It’s Colin.”

Simon crossed the room to pour himself a glass of whatever she was having before settling beside her on the chaise. “What’s the poor boy done now? Fallen into a hedge?  Ridden his horse into another lake?”

“He’s written a vague, somewhat desperate letter asking for an invitation without ever actually saying the word.”

“So the usual, then.”

Daphne unfolded the page again, smoothing the creases as if it might reveal more sense upon a second read.  “Oh, he’s in love,” she murmured after another minute.  Holding it out for Simon to take, she reached for the second one.  

Hyacinth.

Oh lord.

She reached over and filled a lead crystal goblet with too much wine and took a large gulp before allowing her eyes to focus on the words in front of her.  

Daphne,

 

If I am right in my estimation, you will be receiving a letter from Colin shortly, all but begging for an invitation to visit you at Clyvedon.  Do not make this offer to him.  I fully believe something has happened between he and a rather close neighbor of ours.  It seems our brother is attempting to leave even in the middle of the season now, not content to wait until the last ball has ended before he runs.   

  
Yours in vigilance,

 

Hyacinth

 

P.S. If I am wrong, I will forfeit my Christmas present this year.

Daphne snorted so hard she nearly spilled wine down the front of her gown.  She rose from her seat and glanced over at her husband.  “Oh,” he noted.  “He’s in love.”  

“I said that out loud not five minutes ago.”

“I hadn’t seen the evidence yet. That,” he said, pointing to a particularly overwrought loop of Colin’s signature, “is a man in emotional peril.”  He re-read the letter as Daphne looked on.  “Should we invite him to visit?”  Without another word, Daphne passed him Hyacinth’s letter next.  He read the first few lines to himself and then let out a snort.  “Well, she’s properly figured him, hasn’t she?”

She frowned over at her husband.  “What do you mean?” 

“Is she not referring to the Featherington girl?” He raised an eyebrow.  “The short one, with the…”  He made a vague gesture near his chest and Daphne gave him a playful smack.  

“You sir, are terrible,” the duchess stated, leaning over to kiss him.  “Honestly, I don’t know.  If Hyacinth is indeed talking about Penelope, it would be rather…sudden, wouldn’t it?” 

Simon cocked his head to the side.  “Would it?”  Daphne stilled at the question, blinking at her husband.  “Daphne, I saw something between them long ago.  The first time we ever danced, at Vauxhall, I noticed them together.”  He turned his body so it was facing hers more fully.  “The Bridgerton family is close and very loving.  But…”  Daphne frowned.  “…sometimes I think you might be too close to see things.  I believe this to be one of them.”  

At his words, Daphne sank into the dark velvet of the chaise, thoughtful.  Colin had always shared an unusual closeness with the young woman—one that seemed to raise Eloise’s ire more with each passing year.  Daphne would be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t noticed the way the their childhood co-hort had always looked at her older brother.  It had been written off by a young Daphne as a silly infatuation that would be grown out of at some point.  But maybe it wasn’t that at all, maybe it never had been.    

One thing was certain, however.  It was time for Colin to start running toward something again.  She rose from her seat and swept over to the desk that was positioned in the corner.  Seating herself, she pulled out two sheets of parchment and began writing.  

Dearest Colin,

 

Your letter arrived on a day when I very much wanted reminding of what it feels like to be at the start of something—when everything is still raw and uncertain and thrilling. Thank you for trusting me with it.

 

I understand why you’d hesitate. After what happened with Marina, it’s only natural to doubt your own instincts. But I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Your capacity for love has always been your greatest strength. You feel things deeply, even when you act is if you do not.

 

I won’t pretend to know the full shape of what you’re feeling now. But I will say this: I’ve seen you wear many expressions over the years, but there is one that always seems to be just for her.  You wore it back at Vauxhall, once. I thought nothing of it at the time, but Simon noticed too. Sometimes, it takes an outsider to see what’s been right in front of us.

 

I am not extending an invitation to visit at this time.  I believe you need to stay in London for now.  But please do write back when you’re ready to face exactly what is feeling so complicated.  

 

 

With all my love,

Daphne

 

 

“Too gentle?” she asked, craning her head around to look at her husband, who was reading over her shoulder.  

 “Positively scathing,”  he answered with a smirk, dropping a kiss to her neck.  “Send it immediately.”

-ELOISE-

Eloise had always considered the park her sanctuary—a place to escape the suffocating expectations of society, to stretch her legs and her mind without the ever-present eyes of the ton tracing her every move. Today, however, the familiar paths felt narrower, the air sharper, every clipped word from passing ladies grating against her nerves. She felt restless, untethered, a kite cut from its string and drifting aimlessly on the wind.

She had wandered too far from the usual promenading routes, letting her feet carry her toward the quieter, less manicured corners of the park. Here, the carefully maintained gravel paths gave way to soft earth and dappled sunlight, the neatly trimmed hedges giving way to wild, tangled branches.  Her thoughts drifted to the note she’d received yesterday, feeling her skin start to grow warm.

When she had written to Theo weeks prior, Eloise had done so with no expectations.  She had only wanted to further apologize for her actions and the fallout that had occurred as a result.  But then there had been an envelope addressed to her the day before after breakfast.  She had stolen away to read and then read again, having missed his plain, unadorned words.  It gave Eloise a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in many months.  Her shoulders relaxed now, her breath coming a little easier as the sounds of polite chatter faded behind her.

That’s when she saw her.

Penelope stood beneath a wide, sun-dappled oak, her head tipped back, eyes closed, her face bathed in golden light. Her bonnet dangled from one hand, the other clutching a small leather-bound notebook to her chest. A gentle breeze tugged at the loose tendrils of her red hair, setting them dancing around her face like flames, and for a moment, she looked like some fierce woodland sprite, untamed and untethered, a creature of stories and secrets.

Eloise froze, one foot still half-raised in the act of taking a step. She felt a strange, unexpected flutter in her chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with her usual sense of indignation or impatience. It felt like… awe. Recognition. She had seen Pen a thousand times before—had laughed with her, whispered with her, relied on her—but maybe she had never truly seen her.  

She took a slow, unsteady breath, her hand drifting to her own throat as if to calm the sudden thrum of her pulse. How had she never noticed the quiet confidence in the way Pen held herself when she thought no one was watching? The sharpness in her eyes when they scanned the world around her, not merely observing, but consuming, absorbing, recording. Penelope had always been the one to listen, to nod along to Eloise’s rants about society and its injustices, to play the role of the faithful, supportive friend without ever demanding the spotlight for herself.

But perhaps that had been the problem. Perhaps Eloise had never truly considered that Penelope might have her own story, her own passions, her own ambitions that extended beyond the periphery of Eloise’s own life.  She felt a pang of something like shame, sharp and unrelenting, needling at the back of her mind. She had always prided herself on being the clever one, the insightful one, the friend who saw the world clearly while others stumbled through it blindly.

But how clearly had she ever seen Penelope?

She took a hesitant step forward, her hand reaching out instinctively before she pulled it back, curling her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. What would she even say if she approached her now? She felt the words tangling in her throat, a thousand unspoken apologies and confessions, each one sharp enough to cut.

But then Penelope’s eyes opened, her head turning just slightly, as if sensing the weight of Eloise’s stare. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, their eyes met across the patchwork of shadow and sunlight, the space between them humming with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths.  Eloise felt her pulse stutter, a moment of pure, breathless uncertainty. And then, before she could lose her nerve, she took another step forward, her boots sinking into the soft earth, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Pen,” she called, her voice wavering but determined, her chin lifting as she closed the distance between them. “Would you… would you care to walk with me?”

Penelope blinked, her expression flickering between surprise and something Eloise couldn’t quite name. She hesitated for a heartbeat, her gaze dropping to the notebook still clutched to her chest, the leather worn smooth from years of use.  For a moment, Eloise thought she might refuse, might turn away and leave her standing there with her half-formed regrets and too-late revelations. But then Penelope’s shoulders relaxed, her chin lifting just slightly, and she slipped the notebook into her reticule, her free hand brushing the loose tendrils of her hair back from her face.

“I suppose I could manage that,” she said, her tone carefully light, but the faint tremor in her voice betrayed her. She took a slow, deliberate step toward Eloise, the distance between them shrinking by another careful inch.

Eloise felt something inside her ease, a tight, knotted thread loosening in her chest as she fell into step beside her friend. They walked in silence for a moment, the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet the only sound between them, the dappled sunlight flickering over their faces as they wove their way through the trees.

“I have missed you,” Eloise said finally, the words slipping free before she could second-guess them. She glanced sideways, catching the slight, startled lift of Penelope’s brows, the way her lips parted as if to protest before she caught herself.

“I have missed you as well,” Penelope replied, her voice quieter, more guarded, but no less sincere. She met Eloise’s eyes for a fleeting moment, and in that brief, fragile instant, Eloise felt something finally unwind in her.  Penelope managed a small smile, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “I thought it better to take the air than linger indoors and risk another lecture from my mother on the importance of making an impression. She’s quite convinced I could find myself a duke if I would only talk less and smile more.”

Eloise snorted, falling into step beside her as they began a slow circuit of the gravel path. “Talk less than you already do?  Oh, but you are fortunate, then. I hear my brother has taken it upon himself to assist you with such matters.” She flicked her eyes sideways, her tone sharpening slightly with sisterly skepticism. “I trust he isn’t being a complete nuisance?”

Penelope’s step faltered just a fraction, the suddenness of the question catching her off guard. “Oh. You’ve heard about that?”

Eloise shrugged, her bonnet swaying gently as they passed beneath the dappled shade of an overhanging willow. “Of course. One cannot help but overhear such things when one’s brother begins prowling around ballrooms with the air of a matchmaking dowager.” She tilted her head, watching Penelope’s expression carefully. “I assume he’s being his usual… tumultuous self?”

Penelope’s lips curved into a small, wistful smile. “Oh, you know Colin. He means well, even if his methods can be a bit... chaotic.” She glanced down, fingers nervously twisting the drawstring of her reticule. “It is rather sweet of him, though, to try. I know it’s a hopeless cause, but it is... kind of him to make the effort.”

Eloise arched a brow. “Hopeless? Surely there are at least a few eligible gentlemen worth considering?”

Penelope hesitated, her cheeks warming despite the cool morning air. “Well,” she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on the path ahead, “there are no real prospects. At least, none that I would call... realistic.”

Eloise’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of curiosity sparking in their depths. She had known Penelope for years—long enough to notice the slight, instinctive tightening of her friend’s grip on her reticule, the faint, telltale pink that crept up her cheeks, and the way her lashes fluttered when she tried to avoid a direct question.  El hummed, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “No one has captured your attention, then?”  Penelope’s blush deepened, and she gave a small, unconvincing shrug, her eyes still trained on the gravel beneath their feet.

Eloise felt a strange prickle at the back of her mind, a whisper of something she had not yet fully understood. She thought of the small, creased scrap of parchment currently tucked beneath the hairbrush on her vanity—a note with a single name scribbled in Benedict’s hurried hand. The odd, breathless sensation that had overtaken her when she read it, as if a door had creaked open somewhere in the depths of her mind, revealing a shadowed corner she had never thought to examine.  She glanced at Penelope now, at the slight tension in her friend’s small frame and felt that strange whisper again. It was the same nagging sense that had crept over her that morning in the study, when she had glanced down at that name.  The feeling that perhaps she had missed many things that had been right in front of her all along.

“Pen,” Eloise said, her voice softer now, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “Is it possible…?”

Pen frowned, shaking her head before Eloise has even finished speaking.  “It’s not, that is I don’t…”  She exhaled a shaky breath and then stopped in her tracks.  “There will never be..” she stated quietly, causing Eloise’s eyes to widen at her oldest friend’s bluntness.  She opened her mouth to respond, but Penelope was already shaking her head again.  “He said… well, it doesn’t matter, truly.”  The shorter woman wouldn’t meet El’s gaze.  “I don’t matter.”  

Eloise’s breath caught, her pulse a sharp, insistent drumbeat in her ears as she stared at Penelope, really stared at her, perhaps for the first time. She felt the weight of a thousand small moments settle onto her shoulders—the shared glances, the quiet smiles, the way Pen’s eyes had always lingered just a little too long when Colin entered a room, her careful, attentive silence when he spoke, the way her cheeks flushed at the mere mention of his name. It all came together with a sudden, shattering clarity, like the snap of a whip.  She had felt that same whisper in her mind as when she first read that name scrawled in Benedict’s careless hand, and this time it cut straight to the bone. Penelope had always been the observer, the one who watched from the edges, who took note of every secret word and stolen glance. She had always been the one to see what others missed, to capture the secrets of the ton with a precision that bordered on the ruthless.  

And yet, Eloise realized now, she had never seen Penelope.

She took a slow, unsteady breath, her mind racing back over the years—their whispered conversations in darkened corners, the way Penelope’s eyes would brighten when Colin appeared, the way her sharp tongue would soften just a fraction when he teased her, the quiet, unspoken yearning in her voice when she spoke of the future, always with a wistful note that Eloise had never truly understood.

Not until this moment.

“Oh,” Eloise whispered, her throat tight, the word slipping free before she could stop it. She felt her pulse stutter, her fingers curling into the fabric of her skirts as a deep, aching sadness took hold of her. “Oh, Pen.”

Penelope glanced up, her eyes wide, startled by the raw, unguarded note in Eloise’s voice. For a brief, breathless moment, Eloise thought she might deny it, might wave off her suspicions with a nervous laugh or a self-deprecating quip, but then Penelope’s shoulders sagged, her gaze dropping to the ground, her fingers twisting nervously around the strings of her reticule.

It was all the confirmation Eloise needed.

She felt a strange, wrenching sense of loss, a bitter, unspoken regret for all the years she had taken Penelope’s steady, loyal presence for granted, had leaned on her without ever truly seeing her.
“Penelope,” she hummed again, “I had no idea.”  Penelope managed a tight, wavering smile, her chin lifting just slightly as she forced herself to meet Eloise’s gaze, her eyes bright with unspoken words and unacknowledged dreams.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice sounding fragile. “I know.”

-ALBION-

The drawing room was probably a touch too warm for this much dairy.

A spread of cheese and little cakes had appeared, as he had requested something soft and restorative for their first family gathering since the Cowper ball.  The women would need to gossip   Prudence was already on her second cup of tea. She was curled in a chair near the fire like a satisfied cat, while her husband Harry stood behind her, absently braiding the tassel on a curtain.

“Brie mine,” Albion Finch said solemnly, holding up a slice with his fork in the direction of his amused wife.  

Harry Dankworth blinked. “Was that a joke or a declaration?”

“Why not both?”

Philippa giggled into her tea. “He’s been making puns all morning. I think it’s charming.”

Prudence sniffed. “You didn’t think it was charming when he tried it during your wedding vows.”

“He said ‘I camembert to be without you,’” Philippa reminded. “Which we weren't even serving.”

“I panicked!” Finch stated defensively.  

Harry was earnestly buttering an oatcake with something deeply pungent.  “This one tastes a bit like dirty stockings,” he said, delighted. “But… expensive ones. Stockings you’d inherit.”

Finch nodded sagely. “That’s the Roquefort. It will stay with you for a while.”  Penelope, curled up on the same settee as always, let out a tiny chuckle that drew his attention.  His youngest sister had always struck him as something of an enigma, but she’d gotten even more confusing this newest social season.  She had seemed more prone to sneaking off on her own, carrying a journal with her everywhere that she was constantly scribbling in.  He made a note to continue to keep an eye on her.  She needed someone to watch over her, and it seemed Lady Featherington had other things on her mind as of late, so Albion would take it upon himself to make sure Penelope stayed safe.   

“They say blue cheese is an acquired taste,” Finch continued, shaking himself. “Much like the season, much like marriage, much like—if we’re being frank—your wife’s singing voice.”

“Excuse me,” Prudence huffed from her spot on one of the sofas. “I was commended by a French Marquis.”

“You were commended,” Finch agreed. “He was just unclear on what for.”

By the window, Penelope still said nothing.  She stared out the window, the curve of her shoulder tense even in stillness. Her cup sat untouched beside her, half-full and cooling.  Finch caught the glance, just briefly, and softened.  She always seemed to be searching for something.  “Penelope, as a dear sister, if I start waxing philosophical about Double Gloucester, you’re honor-bound to stop me.”  She didn’t answer, merely gave him a small smile.  

“I think love is when you eat the unbecoming cheeses along with the plain ones,” Harry offered, absolutely sincere. “Even the ones that smell like regret.”

"You should embroider that on a handerchief for him," his lovely wife teased, getting a nasty look from her sister in response.  “I thought Francesca looked lovely last night,” she then offered, clearly completely changing the subject without context. “I hadn’t seen her dance that much in ages.”

“She danced three times,” Finch said.

“Exactly! A marathon.”

Prudence leaned forward. “Who was the man with Cressida all night?  The one with the nice teeth?” 

“Ah, James Mattingly,” Finch said, with a glint of amusement. “An earl, if you can believe it.  Seems to enjoy solitude.  I’ve spoken to him a couple times at Mondrich’s.”

“He seemed very quiet,” Prudence observed.

“He’s observant,” Finch corrected.

“I liked him,” Harry added. “He thanked me when I stepped on his foot.”

“Penelope,” his wife called.  Her sister looked over at them.  “I believe I saw you dance with him, did I not?”  

Penelope took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.  “You did.”  

“Oh, where was I?” Prudence piped up with a sour expression.  

Phillipa shushed her before going on.  “Well, how did you find him?  Was he charming?  Did he move well?”

“Are his teeth even nicer close up?” Prudence added.

“He was um…”  She seemed to be truly struggling for some reason to come up with an adjective for the handsome stranger she’d danced with only a few nights prior.  “…tall,” she finally finished quietly, before turning back to the window again.  

Before Albion could question her further, a knock interrupted them. A footman entered, bowed, and crossed to Penelope with a small folded card on a tray.  She blinked out of her thoughts and took it delicately. Her fingers hovered over the wax seal a moment before she broke it.

Her eyes scanned the page. Her lips parted. Just slightly.

She stood.

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “It seems I’ve been invited to tea.”  As the door closed behind Penelope, there was a short pause.

Prudence blinked. “But she was already at tea.”

Harry frowned, genuinely perplexed.  “D’you think they have better cheese at that household?”  Finch didn’t look up from his plate.

“Unlikely. I’ve done a study.”

-GREGORY-

Gregory hadn’t meant to walk into this mess.  

He’d merely been looking for biscuits.  

But the sideboard in the hallway had clearly been ravaged by someone who had been left in turmoil with only shortbread to comfort them.  So Gregory had gone further in search of sustenance.  That’s when he heard it- the unmistakable creak of the front door opening, followed by Mr. Humboldt’s deep baritone, calm as ever.  

“Miss Featherington, welcome.”  

Gregory froze and then peeked around the corner to take in the sight of the young lady stepping into their home for the first time in many months.  Before he could step forward to greet her, the youngest Bridgerton brother heard a sort of choking noise, and turned to see Colin.  His fully grown, supposedly sophisticated older brother was currently hiding himself amongst the folds of a sitting room’s heavy velveteen curtains, as if he was attempting to become one with the upholstery.  

“What the devil are you doing?” he whispered loudly.  “Are you pretending to be an overgrown fern?” 

Colin didn’t move, not even his mouth.  “She’s here.” 

“She’s-“ Gregory frowned.  “Huh?”  

“Pen,” his brother explained.  “Eloise invited her for tea, but she didn’t know if she was going to come.  Oh!”  Greg watched as Colin fully slid behind the curtain to cover himself.  Before he had a chance to outwardly question his older sibling’s sanity, he heard two sets of footsteps approaching.  One heavy and sure, one light and tentative.  His eyes widening as Penelope and Humboldt rounded the corner together.  

“Oh, Gregory,” Penelope greeted warmly.  “Hello.”  She gave him a smile that made his mouth twitch up of it’s own accord.  “It has been some time.  My word, I think you must have grown about six inches since we last saw each other.”  Her cheeks were a rather inviting shade of pink, one that reminded Greg of warm summer afternoons spent at Aubrey Hall playing touch and Christmas eves filled with mugs of warm, spiced wine and charades. 

“Indeed,” he replied with a nod.  “There is finally no longer a question as to whether or not I am taller than Hyacinth.”  He looked in the direction of the staircase.  “Am I to understand you have been personally invited back into the belly of the beast?” 

She gave him what was probably meant to be a look of admonishment, but came across as fondness.  “Yes, your mother has asked me to join she and Eloise for tea this afternoon.”  The petite lady glanced nervously up at the stairs in front of her.  “Do you have any last minute advice then?” she asked with a purse of her lips.  

“Eloise has read probably seventy-three books since you last had a long conversation with her,” Gregory answered, pretending to add in his head.  “Let her tell you about at least eleven of them before you so much as try to get a word in edgewise.”  At this, Penelope gave him a giggle which made him feel a bit tingly in his extremities.  

Behind them, near the curtain to the sitting room, a pedestal table tipped over, seemingly of its own accord.  A pair of candlesticks hit the parquet floor and rolled away.  “How strange,” Penelope noted with a frown. 

“Hardly,” Gregory and Humboldt replied in unison.  She looked between them, quirking one eyebrow up questioningly.  Humboldt’s expression remained impassive, but Gregory was less schooled and ended up smirking at the small red head.  “I won’t keep you any longer,” he announced with a sigh.  “Another minute and Eloise will come stomping down the stairs and drag you back up.”  He bowed to her before excusing himself to right the fallen pedestal table as Humboldt accompanied Penelope up the stairs to the drawing room.  Just as he was bending over to retrieve the second of his mother’s good heavy candlesticks, he heard a noise from the curtains.  

“Are they gone?” 

Gregory sighed.  “Yes, drapery.  They are gone.”  Colin poked his head out before fully stepping into the doorway.  “Do you plan on explaining why you just threw yourself at the curtains like a dramatic widow?”  

The older man pondered for a moment.  “No, I don’t think I do.”  

“Of course,” Gregory answered with a nod.  “When I do something that could be considered absolutely barking, I don’t like to explain it either.”

“I still have my wits about me,” Colin argued lightly as he tugged at his waistcoat.  “I just happened to find myself unprepared to…”   He made a gesture with one hand.  

“…speak to Penelope?”  The thought perplexed him.  His brother charmed everyone he met, and the neighbor girl had him tied in knots?  “Whatever for?”  

Colin gave him a quizzical look, as if he didn’t understand the question.  “Well, you see she and I- I mean we, um… we- that is to say there’s been some…interaction that could be viewed by some as…inappropriate?”  

Gregory allowed his mouth to drop open in outrage, and he fisted his hands at his sides to stop himself from hauling off and punching his brother in the jaw.  Of all the people to ruin, he had done something to Penelope?  “Colin, wha-“

His rage must be evident on his face, because in the next moment, his brother is raising his hands in defense and cutting him off in a soothing tone.  “Whoa, whoa.  I just- it wasn’t what it sounds-”  Greg narrowed his eyes.  “I only kissed her.”  

He blinked at Colin, allowed the words to settle in his brain.  “You kissed Penelope.”  His brother nodded, his eyebrows furrowed as if in pain.  Gregory found himself studying Colin, really truly looking at him for the first time in this conversation.  It wasn’t until then that something clicked into place.  “Oh, you like her.”  His older brother’s jaw tensed, but he remained silence.  A delighted smile spread across his face.  Oh this was going to be so good.    Opening his mouth to start in with teasing Colin, something about the other man’s expression made him pause.  There was trepidation, fear, even…pain there.  Greg swallowed over a sudden lump in his throat, his grin dissipating.  “Oh, you…”  

Did he love her?  

If you’d asked him ten months ago, ten days ago, hell even ten minutes ago- is it possible that Colin had fallen for Penelope, the answer would have been fast and sure.  No, of course not.  After all, she had been literally under his nose for the last ten plus years.  What could precipitate such a change?  

The sound of footsteps on the stairs caught his attention, and Gregory glanced up to see Humboldt returning to the hall, already eyeing him with suspicion.  As he passed, the valet offered a small nod and murmured,  “The house was quieter when you were abroad, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Then the butler was gone, silent as ever, leaving Gregory biscuit-less, still searching for a candlestick, and with a brother who was definitely unraveling. 

-REGINALD-

Reginald Fife leaned back in his chair at Whites, swirling a glass of something far too expensive for the amount of satisfaction it currently delivered.

Across the table, his acquaintance Angus Fairchild was rather loudly waxing poetic about some opera singer he was 'absolutely going to marry', which made Fife want to walk into the Thames.

“I just think she has depth,” Fairchild was saying, eyes dreamy.

“She can hit a high F,” Charles Cho remarked idly. “But so can my kettle.”

Fife smirked into his drink.  It wasn’t that he was opposed to love, necessarily. Or women. Or high notes. He was simply allergic to the sudden pressure surrounding matrimony, as if every girl with a pulse had entered a timed competition and the prize was his surname.

When that letter had appeared—the infamous, anonymous, heart-pouring nonsense everyone and their footman had read—Fife had paused for a full minute before reading it twice more and thinking- ‘Please don’t be about me’.

Not because he wasn’t flattered. He was always flattered. He’d been born flattered. But the idea that someone might confess actual feelings—real ones, not poetic drivel about his shoulders—had nearly made him want to lay down in front of Lord Rutledge’s carriage, weighed down by the mob of his unruly offspring.  Thankfully, rumor had pivoted quickly to other suspects. Bridgerton. Wilding, even a fellow named Stirling. That poet from Vauxhall who wore too much lavender scent and wrote too much lavender prose. Fife had kept quiet and thanked every star in the aristocratic heavens.

His parents, of course, were deeply disappointed in him though. 

“A love letter, and you’re not even mentioned?”

“Your sister married off three years ago and now the baby’s crawling. What have you been doing?”

Avoiding commitment. Drinking things with ice. Waking up with beautiful people and no memory of their surnames.

The usual.

He sighed and rubbed at his temple. Somewhere, a Bridgerton was probably falling hopelessly in love and ruining everything. 

Again.

-JOHN-

“And so where is your estate, Lord Kilmartin?”

It had been the small voice of Miss Featherington who had posed the question, to the surprise of nearly everyone in the room.  The entire table turned their attention toward the quiet man at the end of the table.  He seemed to ponder the question for a long beat, soup spoon halfway to his lips.  “Yes, it’s near Turnberry, on the west shore.”  

“I’ve read of how beautiful that area is,” Eloise replied, with a genuine smile on her usually somewhat dour face.  She’d always been so lovely when she smiled.  It seemed that it had become even rarer these last several long months, and so it was even greater to see.  “I have always wanted to see Scotland.”  As if she could sense his gaze, her expressive blue eyes raised and met his in the full dining room.  The moment he realized what was happening, he glanced away, knowing he was incapable of maintaining composure.  

Across the table, Miss Eloise turned slightly toward Miss Featherington.  “I read that book you recommended,” Eloise said, prodding her potatoes. “The one with all the letters and the tragic ending.”

Penelope tilted her head. “Did you?”

“I threw it out the window,” Eloise said. “Twice.”

Miss Penelope giggled. “That’s fair.”

A pause.

“I retrieved it both times,” Eloise added, with a tiny huff before she looked over at him again. 

In the quiet moments they’d shared over the years, John had always felt a kinship with the second Bridgerton daughter.  It had only grown since her debut into society, and he knew he’d become a confidant for the young woman in her quest for the identity of Lady Whistledown.  In retrospect, it was actually quite odd that she seemed to have little to no interest in untangling the newest  mystery instigated by the famous gossip monger.  The love letter that had the rest of the ton by the throat was not being pursued by her.  Perhaps a carefully cultivated accidental run-in with the woman could be arranged, allowing for an opportunity to speak with her on the subject?  

“John, move.”  Mrs. Wilson was at his elbow, trying to get into the room to make way for the next course.  From his post near the sideboard, John refocused on his work, careful not to clatter the soup ladle as the bowls were cleared. The table hummed with conversation—low and civilized for now, though the undercurrents had already begun to shift.  Colin Bridgerton was staring holes into the his wine glass. His spoon scraped idly against the edge of his bowl, untouched.  John couldn’t remember the last time the third-born Bridgerton hadn’t positively inhaled his food at the table.  Across from him, Miss Featherington smiled demurely at something Gregory had said, and Colin’s fingers flexed against the tablecloth.  

Miss Francesca was speaking in that smooth, cool tone of hers—the one she used when she wasn’t sure if someone might actually be interested in listening.  John Stirling, of course, was listening carefully, nodding between sips, responding in full sentences. He was neither boastful nor shy. It was—John thought—a very polite sort of courtship thus far. The kind with eye contact and pauses. The kind likely to bloom in private, under ivy.

“Do you play, Mr. Stirling?” Francesca asked.

“A little, and quite poorly,” he said. “But I appreciate a beautiful piano more than most. Especially when it’s mine being played.”  Francesca’s lips curved just slightly. 

“That’s a promising start,” her mother noted softly.  

Benedict had now engaged Colin in a hushed conversation that seemed to be making the younger brother more agitated.  At one point, he glanced toward Miss Penelope.  She didn’t return his gaze.  John, deftly placing dinner plates in front of each person, caught Eloise’s eye and she quirked her mouth up on one side before looking away quickly.  “Penelope?” Benedict drawled, leaning back in his chair with the self-satisfied air of a man who had just stumbled upon a juicy bit of gossip. “I noticed at the Cowper ball that you danced with James Mattingly. Tell us, what is your opinion of him?”

Penelope’s hand froze on the stem of her glass, her lashes fluttering for a brief, telling moment before she forced a smile. “Oh, he is…” She hesitated, the pink in her cheeks deepening as she looked down at her plate. “He is quite charming, I suppose.”

Colin’s fork stilled mid-cut, the silver tines resting against his roast lamb. He didn’t look at her, but John noted the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed briefly around the handle before releasing, as if willing himself to remain unaffected.

“Oh, charming, is he?” Benedict continued, his grin widening as he shot a quick glance at his brother. “High praise, indeed. You’ll have to introduce him to us properly. We of course would want to…scrutinize his intentions.”  He fully turned now to speak directly to his younger brother.  “Isn’t that right?”  A thump was heard, followed by the artist grimacing in pain.  

Penelope’s gaze darted to Colin, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away, her cheeks flushing a deeper rose. John caught it, the way her fingers twisted the corner of her napkin as if seeking some small comfort, and the way Colin’s posture seemed to draw inward, his shoulders curving just slightly as if against a cold wind.

“Indeed,” Violet added, leaning forward with a keen, matriarchal interest. “It would be a shame to keep such a promising young man hidden away. We should like to meet him, Penelope, if he’s caught your eye.”

John watched the faintest crease form between Colin’s brows, his head tilting ever so slightly, as if straining to catch Penelope’s response without truly wanting to hear it.

Penelope swallowed, her eyes fixed firmly on her untouched potatoes. “Perhaps,” she managed, her voice too bright, too brittle, like glass about to crack.

Colin’s jaw tightened again, his gaze lowering to his plate, and John wondered if anyone else had noticed the way his eyes, usually so lively and bright, had taken on a distant, almost wounded look. 

“We are having lamb," Violet announced brightly, raising her wine glass to her lips.  “It’s a new recipe.  Do at least try it Hyacinth.”

Gregory lifted his fork and whispered, “Tell my mother I love her.”

“No one’s going to die from lamb,” Eloise replied in a withering tone.

"And I'm right here," Violet added. 

“Penelope, I mentioned you at the modiste last week,” Hyacinth piped up as she picked at her dinner. “I think your new dresses this season are absolutely beautiful.”  The petite red head smiled down at her plate, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.    

“Thank you, Hyacinth.”  Miss Penelope’s voice was barely above a whisper.  “It’s very sweet of you to notice.”  

Violet chuckled.  “I think everyone in the ton has noticed, dear.”

“At least the men,” Benedict muttered into his wine glass.  There was another thump.  Benedict groaned and then Colin dropped his fork onto his plate and coughed loudly.  

Every head turned.

“Apologies,” he said, voice tight. “My fork slipped.”

Their younger brother snickered and then choked on a mouthful of meat.  

Violet placidly murmured, “Gregory, chew your food.”

John Stirling, agreeable sort of fellow that he was, attempted a topic shift. “Has anyone read the new Byron? I find his style rather…”

“Pretentious?” Benedict supplied.

“Dull,” said Hyacinth, with a shrug.

Francesca calmly cut into her meat as she leaned closer to the earl of Kilmartin.  “I am quite regretting allowing you to meet my family.”

“Francesca,” Violet chided before turning to Miss Featherington.  Her voice warm with the effects of red wine, “Penelope, have you seen the rose bushes? They’ve started blooming weeks early.”

Penelope’s smile was warm, practiced. “They’re beautiful, Lady Bridgerton. I saw them just this afternoon.”

“We took a turn ‘round the garden earlier,” Eloise stated. 

The red head nodded in agreement.  “There’s a nightingale nesting near the trellis.”  

John noticed Francesca glance across at her mother with the tiniest narrowing of the eyes. Violet smiled sweetly back innocently.  Miss Hyacinth had moved on and was now describing an entirely fictional bird she claimed had nested in the eaves. “It sings in perfect fifths, Mama. I think it’s a reincarnated opera singer.”

“That was a magpie,” said Gregory, now chewing far too loudly. “It was trying to fight its own reflection.”

“Exactly,” Hyacinth declared. “Absolute diva behavior.”

Francesca was saying something about the weather in Yorkshire now, and Mr. Stirling was agreeing in that soft way that men do when they’ve already decided they would listen to a woman talk forever.  John had the odd sense that if he looked away for too long, they might disappear together, into some gentle, far-off future where no one raised their voice and every chair had a matching cushion. 

At the far end of the table, Penelope laughed at something Eloise said. Really laughed, not that polite society thing.  The brunette was pointing a potato-loaded fork at her friend. “Maybe this was not a retreat from our friendship, but a pause. Like intermission. Like Hamlet, but if Ophelia had... better posture.”

Penelope quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that metaphor works.”

“Penelope,” Benedict spoke up from his space next to Colin.  “You are quite clever.  I was wondering what your take on this mystery love letter is.”  

She took a bite of peas and chewed slowly, giving it some thought.  Colin seemed to inhale too quickly and choked on his own wine.  Miss Featherington dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and said, quite carefully, “I have wondered about it. If one were going to write such a letter... how would one even begin? It’s a delicate thing, isn’t it?  To put one’s very heart into words?  To leave oneself open to any outcome?”  She paused and looked over at Benedict.  “To say too much? Or too little.”

Gregory asked, to no one in particular. “The letter said ‘work me into whatever shape you prefer’. What does that mean?”

John nearly dropped the gravy boat.

“Gregory,” said Lady Bridgerton patiently, “we do not say the phrase 'work me’ at the dinner table.”

“But it was in print!”

“So is Napoleon, and we don’t quote him.”

Hyacinth raised her hand. “He is also very short. Do we believe that to be relevant?”

His eyes flickered back over to the diners and locked on hers once more.  Eloise’s mouth quirked up on one side as she raised an eyebrow.  He gave her a small smirk in return before he heard someone clear their throat. John turned his side and made eye contact with Humboldt, who glared at him. He averted his eyes down to the plush carpet in front of him, trying to ignore the snort her heard from the table and the way if filled his chest with warmth.  

“I think it’s very romantic,” Francesca offered at last, her tone unexpectedly soft.

“I think it’s a performance,” Eloise argued primly, and John allowed himself a small smirk before he continued to move about the room. “Desperate people write anonymously because they fear rejection. Or judgment. Or worse—being laughed at.”

“I disagree,” said John Stirling mildly. “Some people write simply to be heard. Not to be chased.”  That silenced the table long enough for John the footman to glance up from the sideboard, surprised.  “Sometimes someone needs to write to be able to get it out of their own mind, their own body, and into the universe.  There might never have been an intention of it being sent.”  

Colin looked like he might be vibrating out of his chair.  “Only a coward would write words that powerful and then not sign their name to it.”  

The words hung in the air like a noose.

Across from him, Penelope’s shoulders squared.  “I think some people write anonymously,” she said evenly, “because they know the person they love could never love them back. And committing to it would break something that cannot be mended.”

It was Gregory’s turn to choke. 

Even Hyacinth looked rattled.

Colin seemed to be whimpering.

John refilled a water glass with great care, willing Miss Eloise to meet his eye.    

“I beg your pardon,” Penelope said after a beat, awkwardly chuckling. “That was rather heavy for pleasant dinner conversation. Please do go on about Byron, Lord Kilmartin.”

Everyone blinked at her.  

Except Violet, who took a dignified bite of roasted potato and said, serenely, “I always preferred Shelley.”

“Or Napolean,” Hyacinth added.  

-VIOLET-

The sun was sharp and bright, the sky an absurd shade of blue that practically demanded optimism. Violet took Colin’s arm as they set out on their usual circuit through Hyde Park, her parasol casting a delicate lace work shadow over them. The birds were singing, children were laughing, and somewhere nearby, a vendor was shouting about fresh strawberries. It should be the perfect day for a mother to enjoy her son’s company, and yet she sensed the storm beneath his carefully maintained calm.

“You’ve been very quiet lately, Colin,” she said, feigning casual interest as they passed a group of ladies fanning themselves on a nearby bench. “You are not ill, I hope?”

He startled, glancing down at her. “Ill? No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because you look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” she replied, tightening her grip on his arm just enough to make her point. “And I know the look of a man distracted by his own thoughts. I’m afraid it is not an uncommon sight in our family.”

Colin was quiet today, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, his brow furrowed in a way that told her his thoughts were far from the winding gravel beneath their feet. She resisted the urge to prod him, to coax him into the easy banter that usually came so naturally to him. She had learned, over the years, that her third son required a different touch than his brothers—a softer hand, a lighter rein. He was a flight risk, her darling boy, prone to bolting at the first hint of pressure, and she would not see him spooked into the horizon again.

Colin laughed, but it was a thin, unconvincing sound. “You sound like Anthony.”

“Yes, but unlike your brother, I am not burdened with the need to maintain order and control. My only interest is in your happiness, my dear boy.” She gave him a meaningful glance. “And I have a suspicion that the source of your unhappiness is rather more specific than you let on.”

Colin tensed beside her, his hand tightening over hers where it rested on his arm. She could almost see the walls going up, the instinctive Bridgerton urge to deflect, to dismiss, to joke away the discomfort.

“Mother, I assure you—”

“No, I don’t need your assurances, Colin,” she interrupted, her tone sharpening, cutting through his attempted misdirection. “I want the truth.”  

For a moment, she let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of his resistance like a stone in her hand.  If his travels truly brought him happiness, she would send him off with a kiss and a smile, her heart swelling with pride at the thought of him standing on the far-flung shores of some distant land. But she had come to see the truth of it—each time he returned, he seemed a little less himself, his boyish lightness dimmed, his once-joyful laughter strained at the edges. He had come back from his last journey thinner, his eyes shadowed with something she could not quite name, and she had felt a flicker of true fear at the thought that one day he might return a stranger, the soft-hearted boy she had raised lost to the years and the miles between them. 

“I am fine,” he finally said, his voice stiff and slightly strained.

Violet let out a breath, a small and knowing smile flickering across her lips. “I am glad to hear it.” She let the topic drop and allowed her a few moments of quiet reprieve. “I am so pleased to see Penelope and Eloise back to their old ways. The house felt strange without their chatter.”

Colin’s head tilted, his expression guarded. “Yes, last night was... nice,” he said, the words coming out stiff and too carefully neutral. “I imagine Eloise missed her more than she realized.”

Violet hummed, a soft, knowing sound. “I imagine they both did. It is a rare thing, true friendship.” She let the words hang for a moment, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes glazed over.  “I was surprised, though,” she continued, taking care to keep her tone light. “To hear that Penelope has taken such an interest in marriage this season.”

She had her suspicions, of course. She had seen the way his eyes lingered on Penelope Featherington, the way his voice took on a different, softer tone when he spoke to her, the way he seemed to lean into her presence without quite realizing it, as if some deep, unspoken part of him felt the pull of her gravity. She had seen it in his father once, that same unguarded, unthinking tenderness, and it made her heart ache with a bittersweet, protective pride.

Colin’s brows drew together, his discomfort plainly visible now. “I... I thought so as well,” he admitted, his voice strained. “She never seemed the sort to seek out that sort of life.”

“Perhaps not,” Violet replied, her tone turning more pointed. “But she is a practical young woman, and she must think of her future. She has been a dutiful daughter for many years, but that cannot be her entire life. She deserves a home of her own, freedom to make her own choices, and the respect that comes with being the mistress of her own household.”

Colin swallowed, his jaw tensing as if she has struck a nerve. “I suppose...”

“Suppose nothing, Colin,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she must consider her own happiness, her own freedom, and what it will take to secure them.”

Violet’s tone softened, her gaze drifting to the golden light filtering through the trees, her thoughts wandering back to a time when she, too, felt trapped by expectation and obligation. 

“I remember being much the same at her age,” she continued, her voice quieter, more reflective. “There was a time when I felt certain I would never escape my mother’s drawing room, that my life would be an endless parade of insipid tea parties and carefully arranged introductions. I loved my mother dearly, of course, but the thought of never knowing true independence, of never choosing my own path...” She trailed off, a small, wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Colin glanced at her, clearly caught off guard by her assertion.

“And then I met your father,” she said, her eyes bright with the memory. “He seemed a miracle to me then, and perhaps he still is. A man who saw me, truly saw me, and loved me for all that I was—not just the polite young lady I had been trained to be.”

Her hand tightened on his arm, her voice gaining a gentle but unmistakable urgency. “Every woman deserves that, Colin. Every woman deserves the chance to be truly known, to be loved for all that she is. But not all of them have the luxury of waiting for such a love to find them. Some must take their fate into their own hands.”  She glanced up at him now, her gaze sharp and searching, and caught the faintest crease of his brow, the slight downward tug of his mouth. She knew that look—had seen it often enough on her own face in the mirror, in the long, quiet hours when her children were scattered to the winds and her home felt too large and too empty by half.

“Perhaps it is something to think on, my boy.”

-OLIVER-

They’d agreed to meet in the park, which Benedict was starting to suspect had been a mistake. Not because he didn’t want to see Oliver—he did, very much—but because his family had an uncanny habit of appearing in public wherever he happened to end up.

Oliver had brought pastries.

Benedict had brought nerves.

They were halfway through a conversation about portrait lighting—Benedict’s hand perhaps lingering a little too close to Oliver’s on the bench—when Oliver tilted his head, his gaze drifting over Benedict’s shoulder.

“Is that your brother?” he asked, his tone caught somewhere between curiosity and mild concern.

Benedict didn’t bother turning around. “Almost certainly.”

Oliver leaned back, shading his eyes against the midday sun. “He appears to be conducting a furious conversation with himself,” he murmured, squinting as he tracked the figure pacing along the far path. “About…peas, I think?”

Benedict sighed, closing his eyes for a brief, pained moment. “Yes. He’s working through his legume phase.”

Oliver’s brows lifted in quiet surprise. “Is that… common?”

“With my family?” Benedict took a deliberate, defiant bite of pastry. “More than you’d think.”

They sat in companionable silence for a beat, the air filled with the rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of children racing along the gravel paths. Colin continued his agitated pacing, his hands cutting sharp, frustrated arcs through the air as if every tree and flower in the vicinity had personally wronged him.

“Do you want to intervene?” Oliver asked gently, his shoulder brushing Benedict’s in a way that felt entirely too distracting.

“No,” Benedict replied, tearing off another piece of pastry with a sense of grim, stubborn satisfaction. “I’d like to stay exactly where I am, thank you.”

Oliver chuckled, a low, warm sound that made Benedict’s pulse stutter. “Good. I find I’m rather content just here.”

They exchanged a quick, shared glance, the kind that felt like a small, secret promise, before turning their attention back to the scenery—one of them to the garden, the other to the man pacing through it as if trying to outrun his own thoughts.

-FRANCESCA-

The drawing room smelled faintly of orange blossom polish and anticipation.

Francesca sat at the pianoforte, her posture immaculate, the morning light casting soft lines across her sheet music. She was playing the new piece Colin had brought back from Italy- a Rossini sonata, something with structure and no surprises. 

Something safe.

Hyacinth was lying upside down across the chaise lounge, head dangling off one end, legs draped over the back like a discarded marionette.  “You’ve played that same bit three times,” she noted.

Francesca didn’t look up. “That’s because you keep talking.”

“I’m helping you practice focus.”

“You’re at least helping me practice restraint.”

Hyacinth sighed dramatically and flopped sideways, upright now but still in a heap of skirts.  “Our brother has taken to wandering the halls at all hours.  I heard the same floorboard creak outside my room every seventeen minutes all night.”   “He walked into the breakfast room, looked around like someone had died, then left without so much as pouring tea.”  She paused for effect.  “Colin.”

Francesca lifted her hands from the keys, letting the last note ring out.

“I imagine he’s feeling… complicated.”

“He’s feeling pudding-headed,” Hyacinth muttered.  There was a pause.  Outside, a bird sang something frantic and territorial.  Inside, Francesca returned to the opening bars, fingers moving gently across the keys.  Hyacinth watched her for a moment, uncharacteristically quiet.  “I didn’t think I’d like him,” she said finally.

Francesca glanced up with a wry grin teasing at her lips. “Colin?”

“John.” Hyacinth stood and moved toward the pianoforte, resting her elbows on the edge of it. “He’s so quiet. It’s unnerving. It is as if he’s thinking all the time and sees everything and all of his thoughts are deeper than most of us are capable of.  Like none of it is mundane, there are no discussions of favorite colors or the best type of biscuit.”  She paused, tilting her head delicately to the side.  “It’s really quite a romantic countenance.” 

“He likes forest green,” Francesca said mildly, her eyes focused on the keys.

Hyacinth blinked. “You’ve spoken of it?”

In truth, she and John Stirling had discussed a great many things.  Francesca knew that her family was finding a good bit of humour in her courtship with the Earl of Kilmartin, or rather the lack of public conversation between them.  It amused her family, the silence she and John fell into at social events. But in private, conversation came easily. He remembered her favorite flower and composer, but also debated her—war, taxes, education. He was stoic, grounded, and surprisingly open-minded. She appreciated that about him. She appreciated many things about him.

Hyacinth circled the pianoforte and slid onto the bench beside her sister, only half on it.  “You like him,” she said.

Francesca continued playing. “I like the music.”

“You like him.”  The musician could feel her younger sister’s eyes on her, but didn’t look up from her own hands yet.  “It… it’s different than Daphne or Anthony or even Colin, quieter, but it seems…really special.”  Francesca paused.  “I pay attention,” Hyacinth said with a half-shrug. “Everyone else is busy pretending they don’t see things, don’t feel things.  I prefer to make my awareness evident.”

She rested her chin in her hand and sighed.

“I think Eloise is considering sneaking out again,” she added. “You know, going back to those rallies.”

That morsel of information finally caused Fran to stop playing, even lifting her hands away from the instrument.  “What makes you say that?” she asked in alarm.    

Hyacinth dropped one finger to the low G in front of her, caressing the key without pressing it down.  “She mentioned something in passing the other day that made me think of that boy- er, man she held a friendship with.  The one from the print shop.”  

Francesca blinked at her younger sister.  “Hyacinth,” she murmured, she wasn’t sure if it was dread or shock she felt nipping at her heels.  This was not something they should be speaking of, not her or anyone.  The very subject had almost caused Eloise’s ruin all those months ago, although Fran could admit the reality of the situation.  It truly wasn’t a mad notion to consider El could be dipping her toes back into the rebellious activity that had so upended the family during the last social season.  “Do you have any reason to truly believe this to be the case?  Or are these merely musings of an overly-bored girl?”  

Hyacinth’s mouth dropped open, feigning shock at the implication before she stilled for a moment and continued in a softer, cautious tone.  “I believe her to be at least considering it,” she noted.  “She’s fidgety and distracted, just as she was last year when she was dedicated to finding Lady Whistledown.”  

“And you don’t think it’s simply that again?” Francesca asked carefully.  

Her younger sister was shaking her head before the question was even fully out of Fran’s mouth.  “No, she has not mentioned Whistledown at all since we returned to London.  That letter being printed seems to have really rattled her.  I thought maybe he…” 

Francesca exhaled.  “…maybe her friend had written it?”  Hyacinth shrugged again.  “I don’t think Eloise would put herself in danger like that again.”  

“What wouldn’t any of us do for love?” was her sister’s response.  

“Heaven help our mother when you enter society,” she chuckled.  

Hyacinth leaned her head against Francesca’s shoulder, briefly before starting in on the lower part of a duet they’d played countless times since they were little.  The older Bridgerton sibling easily picked up the higher section without missing a beat.  “I like when it’s just us,” she said. “In the moments where there are no suitors or brothers or even footmen.  No dramatics.”  

“You are the dramatics,” Francesca said wryly.

“I’m the narrator,” Hyacinth corrected. “There’s a difference.”

-BENEDICT-

He frowned at the canvas propped up in front of him, closing first one eye and then another.  Something was feeling off.  Was it the horizon line?  Maybe it was the tree in the foreground.  Or maybe he was just another dime a dozen painter who had a mediocre amount of talent but was still trying to convince everyone else he was something more. 

The sound of a knock caused Benedict to look up from his work to take in the form of his younger brother awkwardly loitering near the door frame.  “Colin,” he greeted with a surprised grin.  “What brings you to up here?”  

“Oh, it just occurred to me this morning that I hadn’t been ‘round to see any of your new work in some time.”  He watched as Colin clasped his hands behind his back in an outward show of nonchalance that made Ben swallow down a chuckle. 

“How right you are,” he replied brightly.  “How long has it been now?”  

His brother screwed his face up in thought.  “I couldn’t say,” he hedged.  

Ben hummed.  “Counting today, I think you’ve been here…once.”  Colin gave him a rather guilty-looking smile.  “So what actually brings you to my studio, brother?”  

The younger Bridgerton exhaled slowly.  “Let’s say hypothetically I’ve had recent…”  He paused, and Benedict noted the the way his hands were fidgeting at his sides.  “…unexplained feelings of attachment for an acquaintance that I could not have seen coming.”   

The artist exhaled, feeling a smile twitch at the edges of his mouth.  “So we are speaking of Miss Penelope then.”  

“Wha…how?” Colin’s mouth had dropped open in shock, his form frozen in the late morning light that sliced through the room.  

Sensing the unease rolling off his sibling’s shoulders, Benedict turned back to stare at his painting once more.  "Well, it seems quite obvious to anyone who has been paying attention,” he noted in as light a tone as he could manage.   

“It wasn’t obvious to me.”  

He held a brush up to his canvas, hoping he would find sudden inspiration.  “That’s not surprising though,” he replied.  

Colin snorted.  “It’s my life.” 

“Yes,” Benedict responded agreeably.  “For all intents and purposes.”  He glanced back over his shoulder at the other man.    

“You’re saying I haven’t been paying attention to my own life?” Colin scoffed.   

“Correct.” 

It was the horizon line, it wasn’t matching up.  Maybe it had a sort of charm to it though?  “Wait,” his brother mumbled behind him.  “I… haven’t been paying attention to my own life?” There was a dullness to his tone that unnerved Benedict and he finally turned fully back toward Colin with a sigh.  

“It’s more that…” he scratched at the back of his neck.  “It’s felt like you were…running from it?”   

Colin cleared and then crossed his arms defensively over his chest.  “I was running from my life?” he scoffed, but Benedict watched as the small amount of fight he had drained out of him almost immediately.  “I was…running from my life.”  

“Well yes,” Benedict replied.  “But I was speaking specifically about running from the inevitable in this case.”  He cocked his head to the side, regarding Colin with something that felt parallel to sadness.

“Penelope,” the younger man breathed.  

Ben pointed his paintbrush.  “That was your word, brother.”  Colin groaned.  “But yes.”  

“So why are you saying it is inevitable?” he asked, his brow furrowed.  “Why are you acting like the very ground we walk upon hasn’t opened up underneath us?”  

“Perhaps,” the artist answered, his mouth threatening to quirk up on one side.  “Because it is not so surprising to the rest of us.” 

 
Colin’s eyes widened.  “As in…everyone?” 

“I think maybe it hasn’t occurred to Eloise.”  

“Oh,” the younger Bridgerton sibling sighed in relief.  “Wait, has it occurred to Pen?”  

Benedict wrinkled his nose.  “Well, she is quite a bit more intelligent than you, brother.  And perceptive.  Observant almost to a fault.”  

Colin rolled his eyes, making Ben chuckle.  “So that’s a ‘yes’ then?”

“If it eases your mind at all, I don’t think it has crossed her mind at all that her feelings could possibly be reciprocated.”

“I don’t- her…”  Benedict watched as the words fully registered with him.  It was as if he could tell the moment each syllable was absorbed into him.  “…feelings?” 

“Oh come now, Colin,” he said, crossing his arms over his body as he leaned back against the shelf he kept his supplies.  “Surely you can not have been so obtuse as to…”  He watched as Colin sank to squat on the floor.  “…oh, I guess you can.”  He waited a beat.  “Colin…” he whispered worriedly.  

“She has…”  Colin dropped his head into his hands, pulling at his hair in distress.  “She,” he muttered, clearly more to himself than Benedict.  “She…”  Although his volume was barely above a whisper, the agitation that was edging in on him was evident.  Benedict lowered himself to the floor opposite Colin, watching him in silence for several seconds.  While it was true that the Bridgertons happened to feel things very strongly in general, the third-born had always seemed more sensitive than the rest of them.  Watching him struggle right now made Benedict’s stomach turn.  

“I can’t say for sure,” he murmured placatingly.  “I’ve obviously never spoken to her on the subject, this is merely conjecture based on instinct.” 

Colin sniffed, taking his hands away from his suspiciously wet-looking face.  “What sort of instinct?” 

Ben took a deep breath and reached out to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  When their eyes met, he offered a small smile.  “She’s looked at you as if you hung the stars and moon in the sky since she was only this high,” he stated gently, holding his hand up level with his ear.   

“She isn’t much taller than that now,” Colin joked weakly, a watery chuckle emitting from him.  He exhaled.  “She isn’t…”  He frowned.  “That is to say she has been different this season.  She- Penelope is guarded, closed-off.”  Benedict opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.  Instead, he waited for his brother to continue to find his words.  “She has been trying to find a husband, and I’ve just been using it as an excuse to be near her, and…”  He shook his head.         

Benedict considered him for a moment, then clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Well, it seems you’ve managed to further complicate your own life, as is your particular gift. But at least you’ve finally realized it.”

Colin groaned, tipping his head back to rest against the wall. “I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” Benedict replied, standing and brushing off his breeches. “But you’ll find a way to make a glorious, chaotic mess of it. You always do.”

Colin snorted, then accepted Ben’s proffered hand, a hint of a smile creeping back onto his face. “And you’ll be there to paint it, I suppose?”

“I’m already working on the background,” Ben replied with a wink. He glanced back at his canvas, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Though I admit, it’s a bit of a muddle at the moment.”

Colin’s expression still held a mix of determination and lingering anxiety. “You truly believe I’ve been running from this all along?”

Benedict chuckled, clapping him on the back once more. “Well…yes. But the good news is, she’s always been ten steps ahead, waiting for you to catch up.”

Colin’s eyes met his, a flicker of hope cutting through his worry. “You think so?”

Benedict gave him a crooked grin. “I know so. You just need her to turn around and notice.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a painting to ruin.”

-PENELOPE-

It was the wrong street, and she knew it the moment she saw him.  There he stood across the square, sunlit and squinting, speaking with someone near the corner fruit stall. He looked like a painting: sleeves rolled, curls a little too boyish, posture a little too relaxed.  She did not slow. She ducked into the nearest side alley, hoping to vanish before he turned.

“Penelope.”

She closed her eyes. A beat too late, he was already following her. When she turned, he was there—striding toward her with purpose, his eyes sharp, mouth set in a hard line. He had the air of a man who had made up his mind about something dangerous and entirely too personal.

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No,” she said, far too fast. “Of course not. I just—haven’t had the opportunity to speak with you.”

“You were at Bridgerton house for over six hours last Thursday.”

“I…believe I asked you to pass the salt at dinner?”

He stared. “That doesn’t count.”

She shrugged, trying to smile. “All the same, you passed it quite kindly.”

“Penelope, why are we talking about salt?”

“Because you said I was ignoring you,” she replied in a shaky tone, her gloved hand catching along the rough brick of the building she skimmed along.  “And I was not. My food was in want of more seasoning and I greatly appreciate the assistance.”

“I don’t want to talk about salt,” he replied, stepping closer, though he caught himself just before he crowded her. His expression softened, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he took a breath. He looked at her in a way that made the muscles in her belly tighten.  

“And then why were you seeking an audience with me?” 

“I want to talk about us.”

That stopped her heart.

She blinked at him. “I’m... not sure what you mean.”

“I mean,” he said, his voice dropping lower, the roughness of it gliding deliciously along her skin, “that since the Cowper ball—since our kiss—I’ve thought of nothing else. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I forgot the word for ‘harpsichord’ yesterday and called it a horizontal violin.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were trying to summon a hint of his usual humor, but the effort fell flat. “That’s not the point.”

Penelope watched him guardedly. “You’re being ridiculous,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction. It seemed almost cruel, how carelessly he could dangle what she wanted most right in front of her. No, she would not fall for it again. She had learned many things about herself in the last year, but most pertinent was just how incapable and yet intent she was of letting that bubble of hope pop and evaporate.  

“Am I?” His head tilted, his gaze never leaving her face. He took another small step, his fingers flexing at his sides.

Penelope shook her head. “You’ve never given me a second thought.”

Colin stilled. “That’s not true,” he murmured.

“You’ve looked at me for years and never once seen me.”

“I see you.” His voice had gone rough, his jaw clenching. His hand twitched again, this time reaching out to brush the fabric at her waist, his fingers barely grazing her side before he pulled back, his eyes dark and intent. “I am looking at you and I don’t think…” He paused to swallow. “I don’t think I can stop.”

Biting her lip, she frowned. “You don’t mean it.”

“Did you mean it?” he asked softly. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

She scoffed. “I also once kissed a statue of Lord Byron at the British Museum. It doesn’t signify.”

“Pen,” he whispered. His hand was hovering at her waist, as if waiting for permission to close the distance. “I’m trying to say—God, I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me mad. Every time I see you, I feel like I’ve missed something. Like I’ve been missing everything.”

She shook her head, not in anger but in disbelief, her back pressed flat against the rough brick. “Please don’t do this.”

He stilled, his face inches from hers, the tension crackling between them like lightning. His hand finally settled at her waist, his touch firm but hesitant, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She felt the heat of him, the hard line of his body held just inches from hers, the rapid, uneven thrum of his heartbeat matching her own. Something broke loose in her chest, a fierce, reckless spark of defiance. “You don’t get to do this,” she whispered as his other hand came up to settle gently against the apple of her cheek. “Don’t look at me like that after years of treating me like… like I don’t even count.”

His brow furrowed, his head tipping back just slightly as if she had struck him. “What? Pen…”

Despite herself, she leaned in to his touch, her breath coming out in short, trembling bursts. “You once said I didn’t count,” she whispered, the words harsh and raw and torn from a place she had buried too deeply for too long. “That I’m not like other women. That I don’t matter the same way.”

“Penelope, no,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes widening. His grip on her waist tightened, his thumb pressing into the soft curve of her side. “That’s not what I meant. That’s never what I meant.”

She laughed, a sad hollow sound. “Then what did you mean?”

Despite herself, she leaned in to his touch, her breath coming out in short, trembling bursts. Her eyes flicked up to his, catching the raw, desperate edge of his gaze. His thumb stroked the curve of her cheek, a gentle, reverent motion that felt too intimate, too dangerous. She felt herself tilting toward him, her heart a wild, erratic drumbeat in her chest, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe him.

She pressed up onto her toes and kissed him. Softly. Tentatively. Her lips brushed his, light as a whisper, a hesitant offering that could still be taken back. She felt his breath hitch, his body going utterly still against hers, and for a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to hold its breath, too.

And then- a moan, one she hadn’t meant to release, escaped her parted lips—and she could practically hear his control snap. He crushed his mouth to hers, a low, broken noise vibrating in his chest as he pressed her back against the rough brick wall. His hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her gown as if afraid she might slip away. His lips moved over hers with a hunger she had only ever dreamed of, his teeth grazing her lower lip before his mouth slanted desperately against hers again, deeper this time, his breath hot and uneven against her cheek.  

Penelope clutched at his shoulders, her fingers curling into the warm, solid muscle beneath his coat. She felt his thigh press between hers, the hard line of his body fitting against her like a piece she had long since forgotten she was missing.  Something pressed into her stomach and it caused a pulse between her legs that startled her.  She canted back against it, eliciting a frantic-sounding groan from him.  

She gasped against his mouth, her head falling back against the wall, and he followed the movement, his lips trailing down her throat, his breath hot and unsteady as he nipped and kissed the delicate skin across her collarbone.  For a moment, she thought she might truly come undone.  Her extremities were heavy and tingly all at once, a sensation she didn’t think was possible.  She wanted to sink to the ground and let him envelope her completely, let him take whatever he wanted from her.  Even if it meant losing her heart and possibly her mind forever.  Suddenly, the hushed stories she’d heard in corners at balls over the years made more sense.  The way a woman could absolutely lose herself to this want…

“Colin,” she whimpered, pressing her body down against his thigh, gasping at the friction it caused.  

He let out a groan deep in his chest.  “Pen,” he moaned as his lips traced the top of her breasts.  

This was it. This was how she would die—dissolved into nothing but gasps and shaking limbs in a forgotten London alley. She would let him take whatever he wanted, even if it left her empty, even if it shattered her completely.  And then, as suddenly as the wave had overtaken her, it broke—leaving her exposed and shivering in the cold, unforgiving light of reason. He would hate her. He just didn’t know it yet. 

“We have to stop,” she whispered, but he couldn’t hear her, so lost was he in his exploration of her skin.  “Colin,” Penelope murmured, slightly louder.  She could hear the strain in her own voice as she fought against the tidal wave of desire that seemed to be flowing through her, making her feel altogether peculiar and slippery.  “Oh god, Colin.”  

“Pen, fuck…”

Hearing him curse finally snapped her out of it.  She pushed him away from her, heaving breaths as she attempted to right her clothing.  “We cannot.”  

“Pen?” he asked breathlessly.  “What…?”

She looked at him, and taking a deep breath, plunged herself into the waiting abyss.  

“I’m Lady Whistledown.”

He blinked, his breath hitching.  He stumbled back a few paces. “No.”

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling sadness begin to clog her throat.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes wild. “No, you’re not.”

“Let me assure you, Colin,” she said, her voice trembling, “I very much am.”

He staggered back, his still flexing hands falling to his sides. He looked at her as if she had transformed into a stranger before his very eyes. He opened his mouth to argue again, then thought better of it. With a final, sharp inhale and a sort of guttural cry, he turned on his heel and strode away, his steps echoing off the close walls of the alley.  Penelope closed her eyes and let herself sag against the brick, her heart still racing in her chest. She had only just begun to breathe again when she heard the sharp, clipped echo of his boots fade into the distance.

-CONNOR-

Dunwoody folded the navy waistcoat carefully over his arm, pausing just long enough to rescue a stray cufflink from under the edge of the writing desk. The room was, as ever, deceptively chaotic. Books stacked in haphazard towers, the faint scent of ink and shaving soap still lingering in the air. A note sat half-finished on the desk beside the inkwell, the edge of it curling like it had spent the night sweating out secrets.  He cleared his throat quietly and reached for the second cravat when Mrs. Wilson entered without knocking. 

“You are going to have to speak with him,” she announced as she strode into the room.  She crossed the room like a woman who had seen too much. 

Dunwoody raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too.”

Mrs. Wilson squared her shoulders.  “The laundress is in revolt.  She says this is the fourth time this week she’s had to change the bedding in this room.”  Her chin tilted up but she kept her voice low, the way one might deliver news of a distant cousin’s scandalous arrest or a duke marrying below his station.  “The linens, Mr. Dunwoody, the linens.”  
   

Dunwoody blinked. “Is he—ill?”

“She says the problem isn’t illness,” Mrs. Wilson sniffed, “but excess.” A beat. “Of a solitary nature.”  The housekeeper lowered her voice further. “She says the young master is, ah… spoiling the sheets. Nightly.”  Dunwoody coughed.  “She didn’t say it quite like that, of course. It was something about starch and decency and God's watching. But the implication was clear.”  He looked down at the rumpled linens in the basket and tried not to make a face.  “She says she can’t be expected to scrub out longing.”

“Well,” the valet replied weakly, “perhaps not without industrial soap.”  He allowed his lips to twitch.  “I’ll have a word,” he said at last, because there was nothing else to say that wouldn’t get him fired or struck by lightning.  Mrs. Wilson eyed him, then the bed, then the wastepaper basket beside the desk—overflowing with what appeared to be dramatically crumpled drafts of letters.

“Do,” she said flatly. “And encourage a morning walk or two. The man needs air. Fresh air.”  She swept out of the room, leaving behind the faint smell of lavender polish and judgment.  

Dunwoody exhaled slowly, glancing toward the pile of clothes he was now responsible for ferrying downstairs. It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t supposed to be his business.  He had known Colin Bridgerton for years, and he had never once heard him be quiet in his yearning.  Dunwoody exhaled slowly and looked around the room. One boot carelessly castoff to a corner.  Ink stains on the desk. A crushed daffodil in a drinking glass. The bed, halfway made and already fated to be changed again by sundown.

He should have noticed. 

Truly.

But it wasn’t as though he had been entirely attentive recently. His own focus had been...wandering.  There had been the knock on the servant’s entrance the night before.  The whispered hello. The unmistakable thrill of being wanted whenever he was near her.  He hadn’t meant to lose track of time.  But then she’d smiled at him like he was still a man worth sneaking around for. And then he was stealing kisses in a narrow linen closet and helping her button her glove by candlelight. It had been entirely inappropriate.

And entirely excellent.

Still.

 While he’d been busy losing his head in the scullery, Colin had been up here, pacing holes into the rug and—well. The bedding spoke for itself.  He tossed a blanket over the crumpled sheets and added ‘unsupervised emotional spiral’ to the growing list of things he needed to handle today.  Maybe a journal was a good idea. 

Or at least a sturdier blanket.

-KATE-

Kate leaned her shoulder against the rough wooden frame of the stable door, one hand idly smoothing the leather of her gloves as she watched the morning mist rise off the fields. The air was crisp and cool, the faint, earthy scent of damp hay and horse sweat mingling with the sharp bite of early autumn. Her mare huffed impatiently beside her, tossing her head as if to remind Kate that they had places to be, trails to conquer, wild fields to roam.  Kate chuckled softly, reaching up to pat the horse’s neck, her fingers threading through the coarse, warm mane. “Patience, my girl,” she murmured, her breath a faint wisp of steam in the chill morning air. “We’ll be off soon enough.”

She had just finished tightening the girth on her saddle when she heard the slow, uneven crunch of boots on gravel, the faint, distracted scrape of a buckle against wood. She looked up, her brow furrowing as she caught sight of Colin, his head down, his shoulders slumped, his usually bright, teasing eyes shadowed and distant.  He moved towards his horse, Athena, seemingly not noticing her. 
For a moment, she hesitated, her gloved fingers pausing on the edge of her saddle, her eyes narrowing as she took in the pallid color of his skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Ever since she and Anthony had returned from attending her sister’s wedding, Kate had felt something was off with her younger brother.  He looked... haunted, like a man who had seen too much, thought too long, and slept too little.

She felt a pang of concern, a small, tight twist in her chest, and found herself stepping away from her horse, her boots crunching softly against the packed earth of the stable floor as she moved to intercept him.  “Colin,” she said, her voice low but firm, her eyes locked on his face as he looked up, blinking against the sudden intrusion of daylight. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” he muttered listlessly.  He managed a faint, brittle smile, his head tilting to one side as if trying to summon the energy for one of his usual, blithe comebacks, but the effort fell flat, his eyes dull and unfocused, his lips curving without any real conviction.  “I’m fine,” he continued, his voice rough and uneven, his shoulders twitching in a poor imitation of a careless shrug. “Just... tired.”

Kate felt her brow crease, her mouth tightening in a small, worried frown as she stepped closer, her boots scraping against the packed earth. She reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a firm, steadying hand on his forearm, her gloved fingers curling around the worn fabric of his sleeve.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, the kind she reserved for private moments in the shadowed corners of crowded rooms, for the steady, unspoken truths that bound families together. “I know that look. You’re carrying something. Something heavy. You’ve been keeping it to yourself for too long.”

For a moment, he stiffened beneath her touch, his arm rigid and unyielding beneath her fingers, his jaw tightening, his throat working as if swallowing back a tide of unspoken words. She felt the faint, rapid pulse of his heartbeat beneath her hand, the slight tremor in his muscles, the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest as he fought to regain control.  She stepped back, giving him space, her fingers slipping from his sleeve, her eyes never leaving his face as he took a slow, shuddering breath, his head dropping forward, his shoulders sagging like a man bearing a crushing weight.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice rough and ragged, his eyes fixed on the dusty, straw-strewn floor of the stable. “I’m just... I’ve been... thinking.”

Kate felt her lips curve into a small, bittersweet smile, her heart aching with quiet, unspoken sympathy. She knew that tone, that hollow, fractured timbre of a man teetering on the edge of his own undoing. She had heard it in Anthony’s voice, in her own, in the whispered, half-forgotten confessions of a hundred sleepless nights.  

“About…?” she asked, her voice a soft, knowing whisper, her eyes dark and steady as they met his, waiting for him to attempt to slip his charming mask back on at any moment.  For a moment, he said nothing, his throat working, his jaw clenching, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the fear, the doubt, the desperate, clinging hope of a man standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and impossibly beautiful.  

"Am I pretending to be someone I’m not?"

“Well,” Kate started slowly, searching carefully for her words.  “You may have come back with some new fashions,” she parsed.  “Even a new…outlook on some things.  But it does not signify.”

He faltered for a moment.  “What if that’s all I am though?” 

“Pardon?” she asked, her eyebrows raising.

 
He frowned.  “What if under my purposefully charming exterior, there is nothing else?  Nothing that would make me worthy of…”  

She knew this feeling well, the idea that you needed to talk yourself out of what you really wanted.  Kate felt her heart swelling with a quiet and protective love for this man.  “It’s alright to be afraid,” she said, her voice low and rough and tinged with the faintest hint of a smile, her fingers drifting to his shoulder in a small, steadying gesture. “It’s alright to doubt. It’s even alright to question your own worthiness.”  She smiled.  But don’t let that fear keep you from something real. Don’t let it stop you from finding your path to happiness.”  Allowing one hand to drift across her stomach, she gave him a tiny smile.  “I didn’t, and I couldn’t be more delighted.”  

Colin’s look of confusion melted away in seconds, and then his eyes widened and flickered between her face and her belly several times in rapid succession.  Kate chuckled.  “You…you’re…”  His mouth dropped open in shock when she gave an almost imperceptible nod.  “Oh, Kate.”  He gave her a watery grin.  “Congratulations.  Anthony didn’t say anything.” 

“Ah,” she murmured, taking a step closer to him and lowering her voice.  “That is because he does not yet know.”

“Kate!” 

She raised her eyebrows challengingly at her brother.  “I have every intention of riding for at least another couple weeks, and if he knows, he will all but lock the stable entirely.  So do not try to-“  Kate was cut off by his surprising embrace, gentle and sweet.  

“I’m so happy for you,” Colin whispered.  “And I won’t say anything to Anthony.”  He pulled away to look at her again.  “But as soon as you tell him, can I say I knew first?”  His eyes were now twinkling and Kate grinned at him.  

“Why are you all so very vexing?” she asked fondly by way of answer.  He smiled and shrugged in response.  “You should talk to her,” she murmured after a moment.  Colin’s grin wavered with clear uncertainty.  He distractedly went back to checking Athena’s saddle.  Kat watched him for a moment, his fingers tightening the straps with a focus that felt almost desperate. She recognized the set of his jaw, the faint furrow of his brow—a man bracing himself for a battle he hadn’t yet named.  She reached out again, her hand settling on his forearm, this time with the gentle, steady pressure of someone who had learned to tame a skittish horse.  “You’ve always been more than just a charming smile and a quick wit, Colin,” she said, her voice low and firm, her eyes bright with quiet certainty.  “Anyone with eyes can see that. And if she’s the one you’re worried about, well… she’s definitely always seen it.”  Colin stilled, his hands freezing on the leather straps, his head ducking slightly as if her words had struck a chord he hadn’t realized was exposed.  Kate smiled, a little softer this time, her heart swelling with a protective, sisterly pride. “Just make sure you say it in a way that leaves her with no doubts. No questions. Make her believe it.” He let out a slow, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction, the faintest hint of a real, unguarded smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you, Kate,” he whispered, his voice a little rough, a little uneven, but warmer now, the shadows in his eyes retreating just a bit.

She gave his arm a final, affectionate squeeze before stepping back, letting her hand drop to her side as she returned to her own horse.

“You are welcome,” Kate replied, swinging herself into her saddle with practiced ease. She gathered the reins, her pulse already quickening with the promise of the open fields ahead.  “Now go find your courage, little brother,” she called over her shoulder as she urged her mare into a brisk trot. “And not a word to Anthony about this.”  And with that, she was off, the steady beat of hooves echoing through the misty morning air, his laughter kicking up behind her like the faintest whisper of spring on an autumn breeze.  

=COLIN=

Colin’s bare feet made no sound against the cool stone floor as he slipped into the Bridgerton kitchen, the air still and heavy with the lingering scents of butter and sugar. The fire had long since burned down to a soft, golden glow, casting a warm, flickering light against the dark, polished wood of the cupboards and the gleaming copper pots hanging above the stove. He crossed to the long wooden table, letting his fingers trail over the smooth, well-worn edge as he moved, the familiar texture grounding him in the way little else did these days. He hadn’t intended to come down here, hadn’t planned to slip past Anthony’s closed door, past Benedict’s, past the empty nursery that still carried the faint, powdery scent of lavender and beeswax. But he had, and now here he was, his pulse still thrumming in his ears, the house around him too quiet and too loud all at once.

He paused by the bread box, fingers hesitating over the carved wooden handle, when a sudden rustle in the corner made him freeze. His heart gave a painful lurch, his mind already spinning through half a dozen possibilities—Anthony with a lecture, Violet with a midnight scolding, a housemaid startled into scandalized silence—but then a figure emerged from the shadows, tall and willowy and thoroughly unrepentant.

“Should have known,” he muttered, letting his hand drop as his pulse began to slow. “You’re the only person in this house with worse sleeping habits than mine.”

Eloise straightened from where she had been rifling through the biscuit tin, a smug little smile curving her lips as she let the tin lid fall back into place with a small, metallic clang. “You sound disappointed, brother. Were you hoping for a ghost? Or perhaps a thief?”

He huffed, his shoulders relaxing as he moved to the sideboard, lifting the cloche on a dish. His mouth quirked up at the sight of a half-eaten chocolate spice cake. “I was hoping for quiet,” he replied, ignoring her indignant huff as he plucked two forks from the knife box and carried it all to the table, setting it down with a touch of exaggerated flourish. “Though I suppose you’re a close second.”

She flopped onto one of the long benches with a dramatic sigh, scooping up a generous forkful of cake. “You say that as if I don’t provide excellent company.”

“You provide company,” he shot back, settling across from her and watching as she took a large, unladylike bite, her eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction. “Whether it’s excellent is still up for debate.”

Eloise stuck her tongue out at him, her fork already diving back for another bite. “Careful, or I’ll tell mother you’ve been haunting the house like a lovelorn specter. Walking the halls all night, making the floorboards creak outside my room at regular intervals.”

He made a low, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, his jaw tightening as he turned his attention back to the cake, the warm- spiced scent filling his nose as he forced himself to focus on the comforting, familiar ritual of late-night indulgence. But he could feel her eyes on him, sharp and calculating, her fork pausing just before her lips as she watched him with a hunter’s focus, waiting for the slightest twitch of weakness.

“What was it Daphne wrote you about?” she asked.  “I saw you received a letter from her today.”  He watched his sister for a moment, trying to get his brain to jump to attention and give him a response.

 
The correspondence he’d read earlier that day had left him quite unsettled.  He’d all but expected an invitation to join Daphne and her family at Clyvdon, but not only had she not invited him, she’d explicitly stated she was not inviting him.  She’d mentioned Marina and something about Vauxhall, purposely dancing all around what she seemed to want to say.

“If there was something plaguing you…” she started, and Colin felt his shoulders tighten, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth. “You could tell me, I suppose.” She rolled her eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible blush rising to her cheeks as she glanced away, her fringe falling into her eyes in a way that reminded him, for a fleeting, absurd moment, of their shared childhood. “I rather like playing cards with you, you know.”  He snorted, shoving his fork into his mouth to buy himself a moment. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing in that sharp, birdlike way that always made him feel slightly on edge. “Your thoughts are always written on your face.”

Colin felt a sharp, uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck, the slow, creeping awareness that he had been cornered, that he was a hare caught in the snare of his sister’s relentless, unflinching curiosity. He forced himself to swallow, the cake suddenly dry and heavy on his tongue. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice coming out more curtly than he intended. “I’m just… tired.”

Eloise’s sigh was long and drawn out, the kind of world-weary exhale she usually reserved for Anthony’s lectures or their mother’s matchmaking schemes. She set her fork down with a small, deliberate clink, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Well, if you’re so tired,” she said, her tone deceptively light, “why aren’t you sleeping?”

Colin hesitated, his fingers tightening around the handle of his fork, the heavy, spiced scent of the cake suddenly cloying in his throat. He felt her eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, like a hawk tracking a particularly jittery field mouse.

“It’s just… a lot on my mind, I suppose,” he said, aiming for a casual tone but missing the mark by a mile. He glanced away, his gaze settling on the fire, the embers still glowing faintly in the hearth. “You’re not the only one with a tendency to overthink.”

Eloise’s lips twitched, her eyes narrowing as she tilted her head, her curls catching the firelight in a halo of half-tamed shadow. “You do somehow manage to both over and underthink,” she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. “So, you’re not sleeping, you’re haunting the halls like a particularly restless spirit, and you’ve taken to staring into the middle distance as if the answers to all your problems are written on the wallpaper.”

He shot her a sharp look, his jaw tightening. “I’m fine, Eloise.”

“You’re not,” she replied, her tone blunt and unyielding. “And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Penelope said as much the other day.”

The fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the edge of the cake plate, and she arched an eyebrow, her head tilting in that sharp way that always made him feel slightly cornered.

“What?” he managed, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears. “When did you—”

“Our friendship has been fully restored,” she said, her tone almost defensive, as if she were daring him to contradict her. “And unlike you, she actually tells me when something is bothering her.” 

Colin exhaled, his mind spinning through a dozen half-formed questions, each more dangerous than the last. “Has she…that is, has something been bothering her that she’s confided in you?”

Like their kiss? 

Or his hands?

Or their kiss? 

Eloise blinked at him slowly, her fork pausing for the briefest of moments before she speared another generous bite of cake, her eyes glinting with something that might have been amusement. “What?” she said, her tone carefully light, her gaze sharp. “Why do you ask?”

He forced himself to breathe, to keep his voice steady. “I only ask because she and I haven’t really…spoken in some time.”

Not since their kiss.

When he kissed her.

With his mouth. 

“Is that so?” she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a small, knowing smirk. She took a slow, deliberate bite, her eyes never leaving his, and for a single, dizzying moment, he felt like a mouse caught in the unblinking gaze of a particularly canny hawk.  “She didn’t mention anything,” she said at last, her tone deliberately casual as she chewed. “Not about you, at least.”

He exhaled, his pulse still thrumming in his ears, his mind already spinning through a dozen different interpretations of that single, loaded statement.  Not about you.  Not about you.  The words rang in his mind like a challenge, a taunt, a trap he hadn’t even realized he’d walked into.  Colin forced a small, tight smile, his pulse still thrumming painfully in his ears. “Well, that’s a relief, I suppose.”

Eloise rolled her eyes, causing a sting of irritation to lance through Colin.  He knew how to handle his sister, he just needed to wait and she would tell on herself.  She always did.  “You know she doesn’t talk about herself,” she stated with a wave of her fork.  “She has always held her cards close to her chest.”

Colin allowed the words to hang in the air, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second. He felt his heart give a painful, traitorous lurch in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears as he tried to keep his expression carefully blank. His pulse thrummed beneath his skin, each beat a sharp, panicked staccato, his mind racing to find a safe, neutral response.

“You’re right,” he murmured at last, forcing himself to meet her gaze, his jaw tightening as he tried to steady his breathing. “She does.”

For a moment, Eloise simply stared at him, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide and unblinking in the firelight. She looked as though she had just stumbled upon a particularly juicy piece of gossip, the kind she would normally squirrel away for later, but this time, the revelation hit far too close to home.

“You know,” she said slowly, the words muffled by the cake still clinging to her tongue, her voice dropping to a breathless, almost incredulous whisper.

Colin’s heart stuttered, his pulse hammering against his ribs like the frantic flutter of a caged bird. He felt a sharp, bitter pang of something dangerously close to betrayal flare to life in his chest, but he swallowed it down, refusing to let it show. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his voice steady as he echoed her words.  "You know,” he replied, his tone softer now, more a question than an accusation, his fingers curling into the edge of the table as he searched her face for some sign of understanding.

Eloise’s eyes softened, the sharp, calculating edge of her expression giving way to something warmer, almost wistful. She set her fork down with a small, decisive clink.  He felt his breath catch in his throat, his pulse still racing, but the sharp, stinging ache in his chest eased, just a little. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted, needed, this tiny, unspoken acknowledgment until this very moment.

“Is that what you quarreled about?” he asked, his voice rough and unsteady, his mind already leaping ahead to the implications, the tiny, overlooked details that had seemed so insignificant at the time but now stood out with painful, crystalline clarity.

Eloise hesitated, her gaze flicking to the flickering fire before meeting his again, her eyes softer now, her expression less guarded. “Yes,” she admitted, her tone almost worried.

When he had stumbled away from her in that alleyway, unseeing and despondent, all he could think about was Lady Crane.  Colin had felt his pulse thrum painfully in his ears, each beat a sharp, insistent refrain of just how incredibly foolish he had been. Marina’s ghost still lingered in the back of his mind, a bitter, half-forgotten ache that flared to life whenever he let his thoughts drift too close to the past.  In ruining her, he’d ruined himself, built up scar tissue on his heart to make it harder to access. 

And then there was Penelope.

Pen, who had ruined her own family to stop him from making the worst mistake of his life. Pen, who had watched him fall in love with another woman, who had seen him shattered and broken and still chosen to look at him as if he mattered. Pen, who had taken up her quill and laid waste to the fragile peace of her own home, all to keep him from a marriage built on a lie.  What had Marina said to him that night he’d gone to visit her?  He felt a sharp, twisting ache spread through his chest, his mind flashing back to her parting words as she had left him at Romney Hall.

'If you would simply open your eyes to what is in front of you,  then you might see there are those in your life you already make happy. You have your family.  You have Penelope.'

He hadn’t understood the context at the time, not really.  He knew Penelope was a friend, and he had taken Marina’s statement to be one assuring him of a strong friendship.  But  now, sitting here in the dim, flickering half-light of the Bridgerton kitchen, his sister’s curious gaze still fixed on his face, he wondered if he had misunderstood her entirely.

You have Penelope. 

The thought sent a sharp, breathless thrill through him, a flicker of hope so fragile and terrifying he almost didn’t dare to breathe.

“You were right to be angry,” he murmured, his voice so quiet he almost wasn’t sure he had spoken at all. “Whistledown nearly ruined you.”

Eloise made a dismissive noise, waving one hand as if batting the thought away. “I nearly ruined myself,” she corrected, her tone light but her eyes serious. “And that wasn’t really why we quarreled, you know.”

Colin frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to follow the sudden shift in her tone. “No?”

She shook her head, a small, sad smile curving her lips. “No. I thought… I was so angry with her because I thought she should have shared it with me.  Not just told me, although that as well, but I couldn’t fathom how she could have been doing all of this and not let me be a part of it, not given me even a slice. I thought I knew her better than anyone, that we were partners, of a sort. I thought she needed me.” She hesitated, her eyes drifting to the fire, the flickering, uncertain light casting strange, wavering shadows across her face. “I was angry when she wouldn’t play the part I thought she should.”

Colin felt a sharp, uncomfortable twist in his chest, the first, tentative stirrings of a long-buried truth beginning to claw their way to the surface. “What do you mean?”

Eloise let out a long, slow breath, her eyes still fixed on the fire. ““Because of the family I have, it’s always been rather easy for me to forget that living in the Bridgerton house is quite different from living in the Featherington house.”  She paused, letting the words sit there.  It was true that the way Eloise and Penelope were shown affection were like night and day, the petite red head always taking the scraps of what she was given.  “I’ve always thought of myself as the brave one, the clever one, the one who sees the world as it truly is. But Pen… she had the courage to actually say it. To write it down. To change things.” She shook her head, a small, self-deprecating smile ghosting across her lips. “I thought she needed me, but the truth is, I need her.”  She finally met his eye.   “We both did.”
Colin’s chest tightened, his pulse thrumming painfully against his ribs. For a single, breathless moment, he felt as though the ground had just shifted beneath his feet, the world tilting on its axis as the truth crashed over him like a wave. He opened his mouth to speak, but Eloise cut him off, her tone suddenly clearer, more open.

“What did you two quarrel about, then?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.  “If it wasn’t about Whistledown, then what was it?”

Colin hesitated, his pulse still racing, the sharp, stinging ache in his chest flaring to life as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “I… I said something,” he admitted, his voice rough and unsteady. “At the Featherington ball, last season. I ...I spoke ill of her.”

Eloise’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as her hand shot out, delivering a swift, stinging smack to his forearm. “You idiot,” she hissed, her tone sharp but her eyes soft with a familiar, sisterly exasperation. “Why would you do that?”

He flinched, more from the suddenness of the blow than the actual pain, and felt his cheeks flush with something dangerously close to shame. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, his mind already racing back to that night, the heat of the crowded ballroom, the heady rush of too much brandy and too many half-formed thoughts. “I was… in my cups. Finally getting the attention of Anthony’s friends.”

Eloise rolled her eyes, her lips curling in a small, contemptuous sneer. “Anthony’s friends are awful,” she replied, her tone dripping with disdain. “Why would you care what they think?”

Colin let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound more of a reflex than a conscious choice. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice tight and bitter. “It didn’t feel like a slight at the time. I was merely… loudly chastising Fife, and the moment got away from me. I was feeling so good about myself that night, so proud of what I’d… what I’d done for Pen.”  He sighed.  

He was such a fucking idiot. 

Eloise snorted, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “We are a sorry pair,” she muttered, reaching for her fork again and spearing another generous bite of cake. “And we’re both going to have stomach aches in the morning, you know. Not to mention the ire of our cook.”

Colin managed a small, reluctant smile, the tightness in his chest easing just a little at the familiar, comforting rhythm of their bickering. “True enough,” he replied, his voice a bit steadier now, the ache in his chest less a sharp, stabbing pain and more a dull, persistent throb.

Eloise chewed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting back to the fire, her fork still poised halfway to her mouth. “So if it wasn’t you then,” she said slowly, her tone almost absent, as if thinking aloud, “who wrote the letter?”

Colin felt his breath catch in his throat, his pulse spiking as the question hung between them, sharp and unanswerable. He hadn’t let himself think about the letter, not really, since the ball and certainly not since the alleyway. But now, with Eloise’s sharp, unrelenting gaze fixed on his.  “You all truly thought I wrote the letter?” he asked, trying to keep the obvious strain out of his voice.  “Why would I write it?”  He frowned.  “Who would I write it to?” 

You have Penelope. 

Eloise leaned back, her fork still poised halfway to her mouth, her eyes sharp and unblinking as she fixed him with a long, assessing stare. For a single, breathless moment, the only sound in the room was the soft crackle of the fire and the faint, steady rhythm of Colin’s pulse thrumming painfully against his ribs.

“You know,” she said slowly, her tone almost too casual, “I observed something curious at the Cowper ball.”

Colin felt his heart give a painful, traitorous lurch in his chest, his grip tightening on the bench under him. “Oh?” he managed, his voice coming out more strangled and breathless than he intended. “What’s that?”

Eloise tilted her head thoughtfully. “You were watching her,” she said, her tone deliberately light, her eyes never leaving his. “Penelope. You watched her dance.”  Colin felt his breath catch in his throat, his mind already racing ahead to a dozen half-formed excuses, each one more unconvincing than the last. He tried to keep his expression carefully blank, but he could feel his pulse quicken, the tightness in his chest flaring to life as he forced himself to breathe.  “And do you know what that reminded me of?” Eloise continued, almost to herself, licking a crumb from her fork. “Something Pen said to me once. About how you can always tell-“

She cut herself off and blinked at him several times in silence.  Colin’s mind stuttered, his pulse spiking as her words hit him square in the chest.  

“Eloise, I—”

But she was already on her feet, her eyes wide and a bit wild  “Wait here,” she said, breathlessly, as if she had just stumbled upon the answer to a long-forgotten riddle. “Wait here.”  And then she was gone, her slippered feet whispering against the cool stone floor as she darted out of the kitchen, her dark hair bouncing with each hurried step, her dressing gown fluttering behind her like the tail of a startled pheasant.

Colin stared after her, his mind still spinning, his pulse still racing, his heart still hammering painfully against his ribs. He felt a sharp, twisting ache spread through his chest, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he forced himself to sit, to breathe, to think.  He hadn’t written the letter, but God help him, he wished he had. He wished he had found the courage to put his feelings into words, to capture the quiet, desperate longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for years, and sent it to her, unafraid of the consequences.  He thought of the letters he had written her from his travels, the carefully folded pages he had never dared to truly reread for fear of what he’d see, the half-formed confessions he had buried beneath a thousand polite pleasantries and meaningless anecdotes. He had written to her of temples and sunsets and turquoise seas, but what he had wanted to say was that he missed her, that he thought of her every day, that he wished she had been there beside him, laughing at his ridiculous hat choices and teasing his inability to properly conjugate Italian verbs at a moment's notice.

You have Penelope.

He wished he had told her the truth, that the world felt smaller without her in it, that every grand adventure felt hollow and incomplete without her by his side.  The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and breathless and entirely too real, and for a single, dizzying moment, he felt as though the ground had just shifted beneath his feet.  Before he had a chance to thoroughly lose his mind however, his sister was shuffling back to the kitchen, something small clutched in her first.  At first he couldn’t make it out, but a moment later, she was dropping it onto the table in front of him.  

A wrinkly old bit of parchment.  He picked it up with a quizzical look.  “El, what-“ 

One word was written on it.

Colin. 

He was thankful for the solid piece of wood under him, because had he not been sitting, he would have collapsed under the implication., something in his chest lighting up like a match.  The paper immediately brought back several sense memories all at once.  The sound of his quill scratching across parchment as he wrote and re-wrote and re-wrote lists of suitors, crossing one out almost as soon as he’d thought of it.  The smell of the fresh ink and morning glories blooming just outside the open window.  The look of delighted smugness when his older brother had confidently torn off a piece of parchment and written a name on it, an oversight to Colin’s list, he’d said.  

Him.

He was the oversight.

You have Penelope.  

His eyes found his sister’s in the dimming firelight.  She had been irate when Benedict had written this all those weeks ago.  Now, expression was altogether different. “It’s you,” she said hoarsley, shrugging one shoulder up.  “Of course it’s you.  It was always supposed to be you.”  Colin took a shuddering breath.  Eloise, the most stubborn person he knew, was giving her blessing to him.  Now he could…

Oh.  

Except she likely still wanted nothing to do with him.  By confessing her identity, she’d all but pushed him away with both hands.   

“Pen….Pen doesn’t-“ 

“Of course she does,” El answered cutting him off.  Colin stared at her for a beat, thoroughly shaken by the way she said it with such authority, such confidence.  She almost seemed a bit annoyed at him for the suggestion.  

He shook his head, more to himself than her.  “I truly hurt her with what I said, El.”  

“And why do you think that is, brother?”  He clenched his jaw, knowing what he wanted the answer to be, but not trusting himself to say it.  “Why exactly do you think it would have hurt so badly for her to hear that?”  

You have Penelope.  

When she’d said he had Penelope, did she truly mean he had Penelope?  

Was she...his? 

The unasked question must have been written all over his face, because a moment later, Eloise nodded at him decisively before sliding back onto the bench she’d abandoned.  The tension, the pain that had been radiating from his chest for weeks unwound all at once, and Colin exhaled.  He imagined it was what ladies felt like after taking off their stays at the end of the evening.

This whole mess had started because of a letter. 

Maybe it was time to end it with one as well.    

“Eloise,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes not leaving the parchment he held in front of himself.  “Do you…are you still in contact with Mr. Sharpe?”

She froze, her hand halfway to the crumbs she’d been absently toying with on the tabletop. For a long, breathless moment, she said nothing, the air between them tightening like a drawn bowstring. Then, her lips parted in a small, sharp inhale.

“After everything that happened,” she said slowly, her voice low and edged with something like defiance, “you must know that I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t care,” Colin cut in gently, leaning forward, his eyes locked on hers. “I’m not… I have no intention of scolding you, or telling Mother—”

“Or Anthony?” she shot back, her tone sharper now, her chin lifting in a gesture of defiance so familiar it almost made him laugh. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, the faintest tremor betraying her nerves.

He felt his lips quirk up, the tension between them easing by a fraction. “Or Anthony,” he agreed, his voice soft. He held her gaze, his unspoken question hanging in the air between them, and watched as she hesitated, her brow furrowing, before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod.  Colin exhaled, feeling a spark of something unfamiliar flare to life in his chest. A choked, breathless sound—something halfway between a laugh and a sigh—escaped him, and Eloise’s sharp eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion, her head tilting like a bird catching the first flicker of movement in the underbrush.

“I need you to do a favor for me, El.”

“And what is that, dear brother?” she replied, her voice still edged with wary curiosity.

Before he could answer, the soft, shuffling sound of slippered feet on flagstones cut through the quiet, and they both froze, their eyes snapping to the shadowed doorway. A moment later, Kate Bridgerton shuffled into the kitchen, her hair slightly mussed, a well-worn dressing gown wrapped around her form. She gave them both a bleary, unbothered look, then reached into the knife box, retrieved a clean fork, and dropped onto the bench beside Colin with a soft, contented sigh.

Without a word, she leaned forward, speared a generous bite of the cake, and popped it into her mouth, her eyes sliding closed in what could only be described as pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
Colin’s mouth dropped open in delighted disbelief, and he caught Eloise’s wide, astonished eyes across the table. She bit her lip, her shoulders beginning to shake, and then—suddenly, uncontrollably—they both burst into a fit of breathless, half-stifled giggles, the sound muffled by the low, flickering crackle of the dying fire.

-PENELOPE-

The Queen's garden party was a riot of color and sound, a perfectly manicured chaos that stretched across the sun-dappled lawns and wound through the hedgerows like a particularly aggressive waltz.

Penelope moved through it like a ghost, invisible as ever. She had been noticed for a handful of weeks, plucked from the shadows and held to the light, and she had known it could not last.  She was not a diamond, not a shining star. She was a whisper, a flicker, a shadow slipping between conversations that were not meant for her.  She let herself drift toward the edge of the gathering, where the hedges grew thicker and the conversations thinner, the perfect place to slip back into old habits. A patch of violet wisteria shivered in the light breeze, and she caught the unmistakable snap of Lady Danbury’s voice just beyond the tangle of blooms.

“It’s worth celebrating,” Lady Danbury said, her cane tapping an irritated staccato against the stone bench beside Violet Bridgerton. “The end of an empire, the fall of a tyrant, and—most importantly—the long-overdue return of my favorite vintage now that the trade routes have reopened.”

Violet smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “One does wonder what he’ll do with his time now that he’s no longer a threat to Europe.”

“Pout, I expect,” Lady Danbury replied. “Or take up needlepoint, like any sensible retired tyrant.”

"Maybe learn to bake?" Violet suggested with a smirk.  

Penelope’s lips twitched despite herself. She should have been beyond this—above it, even—but the absurdities of the ton were still a comfort, a reminder that even emperors could fall and become nothing more than the subject of idle gossip.

She shifted, turning her attention toward the rose garden, where the Queen had set up her temporary throne beneath a white canopy, Brimsley fluttering about like a particularly nervous swallow.
“I trust the guest list is appropriate this time?” the Queen’s voice rang out, sharp and precise as the cut of a saber.

Brimsley straightened, a bead of sweat threatening to mar his perfectly powdered brow. “Of course, Your Majesty. Only the most loyal, the most devoted, the most—”

“The most British,” she announced haughtily. “I will not have the ghost of that little Frenchman haunting my garden. Let us not forget, we have won, and I should like that victory to be suitably toasted, not just whispered about over lukewarm tea.”

The Queen surveyed her guests from her elevated perch, her eyes sharp and bright beneath the wide brim of her lace-trimmed parasol. The garden stretched out before her like a living diorama, all pastel silks and fluttering fans, the chatter of the ton blending with the distant trill of songbirds and the gentle clink of teacups.

Brimsley leaned in, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression appropriately solemn. “Your Majesty, I believe Lady Fife has just cornered the Viscountess Bridgerton near the sandwiches.”
The Queen’s mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile threatening to disrupt her carefully composed expression. “That woman has the tenacity of a particularly determined hound. I suspect she could corner a ghost if given sufficient motivation.”

Brimsley’s eyes flicked to the side, tracking the slow, inevitable approach of Lady Fife, whose feathered bonnet bobbed above the crowd like the prow of a particularly gaudy ship. “Shall I have her intercepted, ma’am?”

“No, let her come,” the Queen replied, lifting her chin with the imperious air of a general surveying the battlefield. “One must allow the troops to test their mettle from time to time. Besides, I have every confidence in Lady Bridgerton’s ability to deflect unwanted advances. The woman married Anthony, after all.”

Penelope smothered a giggle as Brimsley smirked, but he quickly smoothed his expression back into one of proper, unflinching decorum. “Quite right, ma’am. Perhaps we should place wagers on how long it takes Lady Fife to retreat.”

The Queen’s eyes glittered with something like amusement as she straightened a ruffle on her sleeve. “I should think it would be in poor taste to wager on a skirmish one has already won, Brimsley.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he replied, inclining his head with a small, conspiratorial smile. “I shall simply make a note for future reference.” Penelope paused at the edge of the Queen’s pavilion, her gloved fingers brushing the edge of a linen tablecloth as she took in the scene before her. The sunlit gardens stretched out in every direction, a riot of pastel gowns and dappled shade, the air thick with the mingled scents of roses and lemon cakes. She should have been enjoying herself, she knew. She should have been basking in the warm, congratulatory glow of a successful season and the thrill of her restored friendship with Eloise. But old habits died hard, and she found her eyes drifting from guest to guest, cataloging every flicker of expression, every whispered aside, every stolen glance.
Brimsley, standing a discreet half-step behind the Queen’s left shoulder, leaned in with a practiced, murmured confidence. “Your Majesty, Miss Elizabeth Barrigan is pouting near the marigolds. Her mother appears to be attempting to steer her toward Lord Lumley, who is currently making his third circuit of the tart display. I suspect he means to lay claim to it as his own.”

The Queen’s lips twitched, and Penelope had to suppress a smile of her own as she watched the slender, overdressed figure of Elizabeth dart a frustrated glance at the top-hatted gentleman, her sharp, birdlike movements making her look for all the world like a particularly vexed peacock.

“Ah,” the Queen murmured, tilting her head as if adjusting her parasol for a better view. “A woman on the hunt for a title, no doubt. I shall pray for Lord Lumley’s continued survival.”

Penelope let herself blend back into the hedges, the sting of it sharper than she had expected. She had made a study of these people, dissected their whims and worries, printed their secrets in crisp black ink. She had stood at the center of their world, if only for a moment, and now she was back on the periphery, a curious observer, neither missed nor needed.

And yet… she could not quite convince herself that she belonged there, that this quiet corner of the garden was all she deserved.

She passed a cluster of young ladies in frothy gowns, their parasols catching the light as they whispered behind their fans.

“They say he was only five foot two,” one of them murmured, her voice bright with the thrill of fresh gossip.

“No,” another replied, fanning herself with exaggerated shock. “Surely not! Even the youngest Abbott boy has a more commanding presence.”

Penelope paused near the lemonade table, her gaze catching on a familiar figure lingering at the edge of the garden party, half-concealed by a particularly dense cluster of peonies. Beatrice Ware stood alone, her hands clasped tightly around the handle of her parasol, her eyes flicking nervously between the milling guests. She looked very much like a small animal caught out in a sudden storm—tense, bright-eyed, and desperate to take escape.

But then something curious happened. A young boy approached her, perhaps a cousin or a family friend, and Beatrice’s whole posture shifted. She tilted her head, her expression sharpening, and she responded to his opening remark with a quiet but clearly clever retort that sent the young man into a fit of surprised laughter. Beatrice’s lips curled into a small, secretive smile, and Penelope felt a warm rush of satisfaction.

She just needed a little confidence.

Spying James Mattingly, currently enduring the flirtations of Miss Barrigan with all the enthusiasm of a man watching paint dry, Penelope seized her moment. She slipped through the crowd, catching his eye with a small, conspiratorial smile.

“Mr. Mattingly,” she said, tilting her head toward the far end of the garden. “Might I steal you away for a moment?”

He arched a dark brow, clearly relieved to be rescued from Elizabeth’s clutches. “You may,” he remarked with an apologetic nod toward the débutante he was leaving.  “Though I fear I am already in your debt for this timely intervention.”  Penelope chuckled as he offered his arm to her.  “Are you still in want of a husband, Miss Featherington?” he asked as they strolled along the gravel path, his tone teasing. “Or have you finally decided to accept one of the dozen offers you must surely have received by now?”

Penelope’s laugh was warm, if a bit wry. “I am still very much in want, I’m afraid, and will likely remain so indefinitely.”

“Are you quite sure?” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I hear rumors from time to time.”

She fixed him with a shrewd look. “I have no doubt. And I’m certain you would make a very charming offer, Mr. Mattingly, but I must decline.”

He placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “You wound me, Miss Featherington.”

“I believe you will recover,” she replied lightly. “And, in fact, I believe I am about to change your life, which should more than compensate for the sting of my rather half-hearted rejection.”

“Oh?” His expression turned curious. “And how do you propose to do that?”

She inclined her head toward the far corner of the garden, where Beatrice still hovered near the peonies, her companion having drifted away. “Do you see that young lady over there?”

James followed her gaze, his brows drawing together in faint curiosity. “The one with the parasol clutched like a rapier?”

“The very same. Miss Beatrice Baker.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Quiet, clever, and more talented than most young ladies of her acquaintance, though few would think to notice it. I believe you two might find each other... mutually intriguing.”

James’s eyes narrowed slightly, his interest piqued. “You make her sound like a riddle.”

“Perhaps she is,” Penelope replied with a small, secretive smile. “Are you up to the challenge?”

Intrigued, James allowed himself to be steered toward Beatrice, who had just turned her head, catching sight of them with wide, startled eyes. Penelope watched with a touch of pride as James gave a courteous bow, his expression shifting into the polite, slightly amused mask she had noticed he wore around new acquaintances.

“Miss Ware,” Penelope said, her tone warm and encouraging, “may I introduce you to Mr. James Mattingly? He is a philosopher by nature and a tolerable conversationalist by reputation.”

James gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “I have also been accused of being a bore, but only by those with little patience for truth.”

Beatrice’s eyes sparked with a flash of something like recognition, and for a moment, her nervous hands stilled. “To each their own, I suppose,” she said softly, tilting her head.  “Happiness is not an ideal of reason but of imagination.”

James blinked, clearly caught off guard.  “A particularly fitting choice for a garden party,” he said in an awed tone that made Penelope beam.  

Beatrice’s lips curved into a tiny, delighted smile. “I would only hope you do not consider me a bore.”

James stared at her for a beat, clearly taken aback, before his mouth curved into a slow, intrigued smile. “I would never be so uncouth, Miss Baker. But I am quite certain you are a creature of my own imagination.  How else could one explain a beautiful woman who so thoroughly understands the works of Immanuel Kant.”

Penelope stepped back, letting the moment breathe, a small spark of satisfaction warming her chest. Perhaps she would never be the heroine of her own story, but that did not mean she could not steer others toward their happy endings.  Not a moment later, she collided with something solid behind her.  She turned in alarm to see a familiar face grinning down at her.

“Oliver!” she greeted the tall poet amiably.  

He gave her a slight bow.  “Miss Featherington, you look positively lovely.”

“While I don’t necessarily agree with the assessment,” she announced demurely, glancing down at her icy blue gown, “I appreciate the sentiment.”  He gave her a reproachful look, but then rolled his eyes, eliciting a snicker from her.    

“Penelope, you look beautiful!”  The petite red head gave a little wave to an approaching Hyacinth, skipping over to them with Benedict in tow and grasping her hands.  The two men exchanged smiles that made Penelope’s breath catch before she turned her full attention to the youngest Bridgerton offspring.  

“Hello,” Penelope replied, her face splitting wide into a grin.  “Gracious, you are getting so tall.”  She jerked her chin in Benedict’s direction.  “You will soon surpass him I believe.”  Ben sputtered before propping his elbow up on his sister’s shoulder, although Penelope could tell the angle was a bit uncomfortable for him.  

“She will not,” he stated with practiced nonchalance.  “Maybe Gregory.”  

“I’m already very close,” Hyacinth agreed with a smirk.  “But I would give back four full inches for even a fraction of your bust.”  

“Hyacinth!” Penelope chided, her mouth dropping open in shock as she looked down at her cleavage, flush staining her cheeks.  

“Good lord,” Benedict announced.  “Must you always be such an hellion?  This is why you will not be out until you are thirty.”  

Oliver gave a cough.  “The comment isn’t entirely without merit, though.”  He cocked his head to the side impishly.  “Miss Delacroix has done an excellent job on what I am to understand are new gowns this season.”  

Oh,” the willowy brunette interjected, shaking her brother’s arm from her shoulder.  “Would you bring back some Roman fashions for me?  I’ve read they are lowering necklines even more there.”  

“Yes,” Benedict answered dryly.  “Mother would love that.”

“Rome?” Penelope asked, her eyebrows raising in surprise.  “Will you be traveling?”  

He nodded.  “Indeed I will.  Oliver and I will be taking up residence in Rome for the next several months.  It is the best city for the arts on the continent, Paris notwithstanding, and I feel it is time for me to seek out more than just…British pastorals.”  

She smiled at the man, a sense of understanding settling over her.  “I am envious,” Penelope disclosed, lowering her voice.  “I so wish to travel someday.”  She forced a smile that did not reach her eyes.  Then, a moment later, her brow furrowed in concern.  “But how will your mother be able to bear it?  One son just back and the other two leaving?”  

“Yes, brother,” Hyacinth stated in a faux solemn tone.  “However will she handle all that peace and quiet?”  

Benedict didn’t answer though, he was still looking at Penelope, a quizzical expression on his face.  She raised her eyebrows in question, and then a moment later, his mouth quirked up on one side and his eyes took on a twinkly quality.  “Colin has no plans to travel, actually.”  

Penelope knew she didn’t have the foresight to school her features, felt her jaw drop open of its own accord.  Her mouth suddenly felt dry, her breathing more labored than it had any right to be.  It was as if she had just run the length of Hyde park.  The edges of her vision blurred, a faint buzzing filling her ears. Colin had always been the wandering one, the restless spirit. If he had no plans to leave...

She shook the idea out of her head, silently chiding herself.

“Penelope, have you heard that Francesca is engaged to Lord Kilmartin?” Hyacinth continued on, as if the earth hadn’t possibly just split beneath Penelope’s feet. “She will be moving to Scotland.”

“And Hyacinth will be announcing it to everyone before I get a chance, it seems.”

Penelope glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Francesca gliding toward them, tall and poised, her dark hair gleaming in the dappled sunlight. There was something ethereal about Francesca, a stillness that seemed to command attention without demanding it, as if the world itself paused to take notice when she entered a room.  Penelope felt a brief, sharp pang—an echo of a truth she rarely allowed herself to confront. Francesca was the sort of woman who would slip effortlessly into a life of quiet happiness, whose every move seemed marked by a natural grace that Penelope could only admire from afar.  Francesca reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against Penelope’s sleeve as she smiled down at her. “I am so very happy for you,” Penelope managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “Congratulations. And where is Mr. Stirling?”

Francesca’s blue eyes flicked toward the far side of the garden, where a small commotion had erupted near the Queen’s perch. “I believe he is conversing with Mr. Finch over at the cheese display,” she replied with a hint of playful exasperation.

Penelope’s gaze followed her gesture, landing on her brother with a faint, affectionate sigh. “Oh dear. While some—including myself—find Mr. Finch’s adoration of dairy to be quite charming,” she said, biting her lip, “I do fear he will trap your beloved in a discussion about Red Leicester from which he may never escape.”

Francesca’s laugh was low and musical, a sound that always seemed to echo long after the moment had passed. “I shall keep my eyes on him,” she promised, her lips curving into a smile, “and if it appears he is being force-fed any Stilton, I shall intervene.”

Penelope forced a returning smile, though her chest felt uncomfortably tight. Francesca’s easy confidence, her effortless beauty, her clear, unspoken claim on a future filled with love and stability—it was all a stark reminder of the chasm that still lay between Penelope and the life she had always dreamed of. 

“Miss Penelope.”  Penelope glanced up as Violet insinuated herself between Oliver and Benedict, a warm smile on her face.  She curtsied on instinct, bowing to the woman for whom she had so much love and respect. 

The older woman gave her an admonishing look.  “I have said, you shall call me Violet, as do all my close acquaintances.”  Her eyes were twinkling in the midday sun.  “You look positively radiant today, my dear.”    

“I tried to tell her,” Hyacinth piped up, causing Benedict to wrap his arm around her affectionately.  

Something in Penelope’s chest twinged.   

Francesca reached out a delicate hand and whispered her fingertips along Penelope’s sleeve.  “This color blue really suits you.”  There was the twinge again.  It had been in the back of her head when she’d chosen her gown yesterday, one that was so adjacent to Bridgerton blue was something she shouldn’t have done.  But it was her favorite of her new dresses and it was just so lovely.  Something heavy settled on her chest as she glanced around the circle of people that had surrounded her, welcomed her into their lives.  

A family she would never truly have.  

“No, I think- I think it’s Whistledown!” 

Penelope’s ears perked up, her head whipping around to take in the voice she’d just heard over her shoulder.  Something was indeed being delivered on trays by a swarm of the Queen’s footmen.  

“It is, she’s back!” someone shouted. 

That simply wasn’t possibly.  She hadn’t written anything in weeks, not more than one paper the entire season.  In truth, she’d given too much thought to whether or not she would ever return to it again if not necessary for the money.  But this definitely wasn’t her doing.  Feeling a frantic sort of energy fizzle through her, Penelope tried to quickly think of a way to duck out of this group and get her hands on that paper.  

“Are you all hearing this?” Eloise asked, joining the cluster of her family.  “Everyone is saying it’s Whistledown.”  Pen looked at her, mentally searching for her words.  Surely, El would know how to handle this.  “I can’t wait to see what she’s written.”  Her friend quirked an eyebrow at her, and Penelope sucked in a trembling breath. 

Could Eloise have done this?  

Would she do such a thing?  

Everything felt too hot, too bright.  

‘El,” she whispered harshly, stepping toward her friend.  “What…” 

By way of response, the other women promptly held out a sheet for her to take, a mischievous smile on her face.  

'To The One Who Writes What Others Will Not' 

Wait, what? 

Francesca gave Penelope’s hand a final, gentle squeeze before releasing it, her eyes drifting past Penelope’s shoulder with a sudden, sly glint. “Oh, look,” she murmured, her tone lilting with the sort of playful mischief Penelope had long ago come to associate with the Bridgerton siblings. “I believe the cavalry has arrived.”

Hyacinth gave a snort of barely contained laughter, ducking her head as Benedict’s hand tightened on her shoulder. Violet’s smile softened, her eyes shining with something like maternal pride as she straightened her posture. Even Oliver, usually more reserved in his expressions, quirked an intrigued brow, his gaze following Francesca’s.

She cast a quick glance around the cluster of bright, laughing faces, letting the warm swell of their affection wash over her, if only to quiet the restless, jittery feeling that had been simmering beneath her skin since the moment she arrived. But as her gaze swept the garden, something at the edge of the crowd caught her eye—a figure striding toward them with purpose, his dark coat catching the sunlight in a way that made her pulse stutter.

Colin.

Her heart gave a sudden, disloyal lurch, the kind of sharp, disorienting jolt one feels upon missing a step on a familiar staircase. She hadn’t seen him since their confrontation in the alleyway.  When he'd left her panting against the bricks, feeling the life drain out of her.  

Now, he was cutting a direct line through the throng, his gaze locked on her with a clarity that set her nerves jangling. 

She felt Violet’s gentle, encouraging touch at her elbow, heard the faint rustle of Francesca adjusting her skirts beside her, caught the tiny, knowing smile that passed between Benedict and Hyacinth out of the corner of her eye. It felt, absurd, as though she had wandered into the center of a tableau, every person around her suddenly still, their attention fixed on a moment that had not arrived.  Penelope took a shaky breath, trying to will her racing heart back into some semblance of order.  She was being ridiculous and reading into things again.  

And yet the weight of his gaze, real or imagined, felt like a physical thing, a shimmering, dizzying pressure that made the edges of her vision blur and her chest ache.  She needed air. She needed space. She needed a moment to collect herself before she did something truly foolish, like mistake another passing glance for a private invitation.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, her voice tight and a little breathless, dipping a quick, unsteady curtsy to the assembled Bridgertons before she stepped back, her hand brushing the rough, sun-warmed leaves of the hedge behind her. She turned without another word, slipping into the mouth of the maze, paper still grasped in her small hand.  She heard someone, possibly Hyacinth, call her name, but she was already hidden from sight.  Though she’d only been in this hedge maze a few times, Penelope knew where she was headed.  In only a few minutes time, she found the space she’d been looking for.  Standing in the open space, surrounded by wisteria-laden walls, she finally took several deep, steadying breaths.  Then, with shaking hands, she lifted the letter to read its contents.  

“You got my letter.”

Penelope’s breath caught, her pulse a frantic, flutter. She felt as though the ground had dropped away beneath her, the air around them suddenly too bright, too sharp. She tightened her grip on the letter, the thin paper crumpling slightly in her trembling hands.  Turning slowly, she took in his appearance.  He had an expression on his face that she had seen a hundred times, but had never been able to place. 

“I think everyone in England got your letter,” she managed, her voice a shaky whisper, eyes not able to fully meet his.

Colin took a small, instinctive step closer, his expression shifting from hesitant to determined, the faintest hint of a nervous smile ghosting across his lips. “Well, you didn’t read the last twenty,” he said, a flicker of self-deprecating humor in his tone, “so I wanted to make sure you saw this one.”  Penelope’s heart gave a painful, disbelieving twist. She looked down at the words, her mind scrambling to make sense of the impossible, the utterly absurd notion that he might have written something so... so breathtakingly personal for her.

“Is this a joke?” she whispered, her throat tight, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She hated the brittle, wounded note in her own voice, the way her heart seemed to contract painfully in her chest.

“A... joke?” His brow furrowed, the brief flicker of a smile vanishing as quickly as it had come. “What? No. Pen, I would never—”

“Then I don’t understand,” she cut in, her voice rising, the edges of her vision blurring as the weight of it all pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. “I don’t understand any of this. You’re proving that anyone can do what I did?  That my words, my life’s work, can be copied, replaced—”

“Penelope.” He took a sharp, instinctive step closer, his hands half-raised, as if to reach for her but thinking better of it at the last second. “That’s not—no. That’s not what this is. I would never do that to you. Never.”

She felt the ache rising in her chest, the bitter, desperate surge of a thousand half-formed hopes and whispered dreams, all clawing to the surface at once. “Then what is this, Colin?"

He looked at her, his jaw tightening, his eyes sharp and just a little wild, like a man who had stepped too close to the edge of a cliff and was only just realizing the drop. “Do you truly not see it?”

Penelope let out a shaky laugh, her free hand coming up to press against her throat, her pulse a frantic, stuttering thing beneath her fingers. “I have thought I saw so many things, Colin. I…I have always been wrong. I am tired of being wrong.”

His eyes softened, his shoulders slumping slightly, and for the first time, she saw something like true, unguarded vulnerability in his expression. “You’ve never been wrong, Pen,” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges. “Not about me. Not about this.”

She shook her head, her pulse thrumming in her ears, her heart an unsteady, desperate thing in her chest. “I have.”

“No.” He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers, his voice a low, urgent rumble. “No, I’ve just been particularly... gormless.”

“I watched you,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands shaking where they clutched the letter, her heart a wild, frantic thing beneath her skin. “I heard you that night. And in it, I heard every careless word, every thoughtless remark, every cruel, cutting observation ever made in my presence, as if I were some foolish, silly girl you had to endure out of a sense of duty or misplaced familial obligation.”

“Pen,” he muttered as his face contorted.  “I was an idiot,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse as he took another step toward her, his hands flexing at his sides, his eyes dark and unflinching as they held hers. “When…while I was traveling, I thought... I thought about you every day. I thought about you when I saw something beautiful or strange, when I heard something that made me laugh, when I woke up in the morning and when I fell asleep at night.  If you would like what I was eating or what your opinion would be on the architecture.  I thought about you constantly, and it drove me mad, because I was still too...dim to understand what it meant.”

She felt the raw, unguarded truth of his words hit her like a physical blow, her mind scrambling to process the impossible, miraculous truth of his confession.  

“I heard you, and I still couldn’t stop…” she broke off her whisper, not able to finish her thought.  Instead, she cleared her throat, willing herself not to cry.  “Colin, I lied.”  The words slipped out before she could catch them, her hands trembling where they clutched the crumpled letter.  Her heart felt like it was about to beat to jump out of her chest.  He froze, his breath catching.  “I lied,” she repeated, trying to blink away the tears that she could feel forming in the corners of her eyes.  “I read every one of your letters. Every single one.”  She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, biting it.  “I couldn’t…bear the thought of words you’d meant for me going... unread.”

For a moment, Colin was perfectly still, his eyes wide and suspiciously wet-looking. “I think,” he murmured, his voice sounding thick.  “I think maybe every word I’ve ever written has been for you.”

At that, Penelope finally did break down and let out a sob she’d been holding in since she’d heard his footsteps behind her minutes ago.  “I’m sorry,” she murmured helplessly.  “I never wanted to ruin your engagement,” she whispered miserably. “I never wanted to hurt you, Colin. I was just trying to...protect you.”

He was striding toward her and enveloping her in his arms a moment later.  “I know,” he whispered against her temple.  He pulled away and gave her a look that made her knees weak. “And I…am so grateful for it, Pen.”  She felt the tears spill over, sliding down her cheeks.  She let out a shuddering breathe, even as she felt an almost impossible hope begin to diffuse through her chest.

“But…” 

“Pen,” Colin cut her off gently, his hands cupping her face.  Calloused thumbs brushed tears away from her cheeks.  He watched her in silence for a moment before taking a deep breath.  Penelope steeled herself for whatever he would say to break her next. 

“I think you know I love you.”

She felt the words like a physical shock, a sudden, breathless rush that left her swaying, her pulse a wild, frantic thing beneath her skin. She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing in silent, panicked gasps, her mind struggling to process the impossible, miraculous truth of his words.

“Marry me, Pen?” he whispered, his voice rough, the barest hint of a plea slipping through the cracks in his carefully constructed confidence. “Please?”  Her heart gave a painful, disbelieving lurch, her breath catching in her throat as she felt his fingers tighten around hers, his grip warm and reassuring, his eyes dark and unflinching as they held hers.

“Are you sure?” she whispered fearfully.

He let out a short, unsteady laugh, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce, boyish hope that made her chest ache with a sharp, impossible longing. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse but certain, his jaw tightening as he took a small, instinctive step closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Exceedingly.”  

Penelope nodded, sniffling.  “Yes….yes.”  

The resulting smile which she was on the receiving end of made her practically melt.  "Yes?"  She nodded again, more emphatically this time.  A moment before their lips touched, Colin jerked away from her.  Penelope squeaked in protest.  “Wait, so who wrote the letter?”  

She stilled for a moment before letting out a delighted giggle.  “I have absolutely no idea,” she admitted.  Colin’s mouth dropped open in shock, his eyes twinkling.  

“Truly?” he asked gleefully.  

Penelope nodded.  “I found it in the street.”

Colin sighed contentedly, and Pen pressed her cheek against his firm chest. 

“Can we just stay here for a few more minutes, Pen?” Colin’s voice was low, a warm, comforting rumble that seemed to settle into the very air around them. He tightened his hold on her, his chin brushing the top of her head as he exhaled, long and slow. “Just like this?”

Penelope closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the solid warmth of his embrace, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath her cheek. She felt his arm tighten slightly around her waist, his breath stirring the fine curls at her temple.

“If we are caught…” she whispered, the words trailing off as her mind flitted to the dozens of potential scandals this moment might spark, the whispers and sidelong glances that would follow them for weeks.

“Oh, would we be forced to marry then?” He tipped his head down, his lips brushing the curve of her ear, his voice laced with a wicked, teasing warmth that sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

“Colin.” She tried to muster a note of admonishment, but the sound came out sounding like a soft, breathless plea.

“I admit,” he continued, entirely undeterred, “I would never want to force you into a marriage, especially not earlier than you wish.” He leaned back just enough to catch her eyes, his expression suddenly earnest, the playful tilt of his mouth softened into something achingly sincere. “I just happen to think the sooner we can wed, the better.”

Penelope smiled as she tipped her head up to meet his gaze, the deep blue of his eyes catching the sunlight and making them sparkle. “Do you truly think you could possibly trap me, Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked, her voice trembling just slightly.  She smiled fondly up at him.  “Do you truly still not know that you’re all I’ve ever wanted?  How very desperately I love you?”   For a moment, the world around them seemed to narrow to a single point.  Colin’s eyes widened, his breath hitching, and she felt the faintest tremor in his hands where they rested against her back.

“Pen,” he whispered, his voice low and unsteady, dark eyes imploring. “Why didn’t you ever say something?”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because you weren’t ready to hear it,” she murmured, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, holding him a fraction closer.

Colin made a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening on her waist. “I will spend every day for the rest of my life apologizing for being so short-sighted,” he said, his voice raw, the words just above a whisper.

She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth, the warmth of his absurd, unfiltered honesty washing over her in waves. “I do not require a daily apology, sir,” she whispered, tilting her head to meet his eyes once more.

He blinked, his brow furrowing in a way that made her chest ache with a sudden, fierce wave of affection. “Alright then,” he said slowly, his head tipping to one side, a boyish grin breaking through the earnestness of his expression. “What shall you require?”

She pretended to consider it for a moment, her lips curving into a small, wicked smile as she felt his breath hitch in anticipation. “Kisses,” she said at last, the word slipping out in a low, teasing whisper. “One every morning and one every night.”

Colin let out a short, disbelieving laugh, his hands tightening on her waist. “Why on earth would I ever limit myself in that regard?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she replied, her heart thundering wildly in her chest, her face warm with the sudden, heady rush of happiness that only he had ever been able to inspire.

“And you love it.”

“I do.”

He dipped his head, his nose brushing hers, his breath warm against her lips. “Could I start apologizing right now?”

She felt the faintest brush of his lips, the promise of a kiss lingering just a whisper away, his eyes locked on hers, his expression alight with a tender, unguarded affection that made her chest ache.  Penelope pulled him down to her with a possessive jerk, and he came willingly, laughing against her mouth like he’d just remembered how to breathe.

Above them, nestled in the branches of a nearby tree, a nightingale began to sing.

It was midafternoon.