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Benedict Bridgerton had only wanted one thing this evening: to get absolutely, spectacularly distracted.
A party, yes. A debauched one, preferably. Alcohol to drown inconvenient thoughts. A questionable powder to blur the edges of his conscience. And—if he were being particularly honest with himself (which he usually tried not to be)—maybe a fleeting, nameless encounter in the garden with someone who wasn't Penelope Featherington.
But alas. The universe, in all its twisted humour, had other plans.
Because the evening did not end in blissful numbness, nor in morally questionable pleasure. No—
It ended in a duel.
An actual, bloody duel.
Granted, he wasn't the one staring down the barrel of a pistol, but judging by the way Anthony’s right eye twitched whenever Benedict so much as existed , that technicality could change at any moment.
And truly, how had it come to this?
Ah, yes. The chaos of unsupervised upper-class social events pervaded the atmosphere. Where forbidden kisses happened behind curtains—and were promptly witnessed by exactly the wrong people. This night, our dear Viscount Anthony Bridgerton had to stumble into two stolen first kisses that never should have been like this. Such events would not be relevant at all if his family were not involved.
All in all, it was shaping up to be a very complicated night.
So all that Benedict knew was that he found himself early that evening at Henry Granville’s door again. And all he was thinking about was Nel.
Inside, Henry welcomed him warmly before disappearing into the crowd of eccentrics and half-naked muses. Benedict was quickly reminded: even married , bringing Penelope here would’ve been social suicide.
“Bridgerton, is it?” said a sharp-eyed woman with a pipe. “Shouldn’t you be with your brother?”
He smirked. “Why would I, when the company here is so tempting?”
One thing led to another—clothes loosened, lips found skin—and Benedict found himself against a wall, halfway to forgetting Nel. But even as he was led into a room full of hedonism, thoughts of her clung to him.
Then he saw her.
At the end of the hallway. Fiery curls tumbled over bare shoulders, wrapped in sheer green silk that looked ready to slip away with a single tug. She looked like temptation personified—and utterly heartbroken.
Her eyes locked with his. Then a tear. Then she turned and fled.
He didn’t think—he just ran. Moments later, she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest while he whispered her name like a prayer.
“I’m so sorry, Nel. Please, let me explain.”
She nodded. It was enough.
After an awfully quiet carriage ride. They ended up at his bachelor lodgings—foolish, dangerous, inevitable.
“Why were you there?” he asked, fingers brushing her cheek.
“The same reason you were,” she murmured. “To feel free.”
“Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“For the party? Or being here with you?” she teased, a soft smile playing on her lips.
“Both,” he admitted.
“I know.”
When she looked at him like that—biting her lip, full of fire and tenderness—he knew he was lost.
“Nel,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “please. Don’t look at me like that.”
God, he wanted to kiss her.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek.
She leaned into the touch.
She nodded.
He could kiss her now.
She wanted him to.
He wanted to.
They both did.
Their lips were only heartbeats apart—
Bang, bang, bang.
The sharp knock on his door was followed by Anthony’s unmistakable roar:
“Benedict, open the goddamn door!”
Fuck. Of course.
He ushered Nel quickly into the adjoining room.
“Hide here. I’ll handle this.”
She nodded, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.
This was going to go terribly. And it did.
“Bloody hell, Benedict, what took you so long?” Anthony barged in without waiting. “I need you to stand as my second.”
What? No. Hell no.
Benedict froze. “Anthony, what happened?”
“In the time you were enjoying your little evening”—he spat the word like poison—“and didn’t come to the ball to help me with our dear mother and sister, Hastings dishonoured Daphne.”
Benedict’s heart sank. Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
If Anthony found out that Penelope Featherington—stunning, barely dressed, and completely alone—was in his bedroom right now, there wouldn’t be a duel because Anthony would already be dead from the aneurysm.
“Kissed her,” Anthony snapped Benedict out of his spiralling. “In the garden.”
“That’s… not ideal, but—do you have to duel him?”
“Are you kidding me?” Anthony’s voice was a whip crack. “You know what’s at stake. Our sister’s honour, the entire Bridgerton name.”
“Right. Right.” Benedict tried to stay calm. “But couldn’t they just… marry?”
“He refused.” Anthony’s finger jabbed his chest like a blade. “That’s why I will be marrying his blood with my pistol. Now suit up. I need a second.”
There was no talking him down.
This was happening.
“What if you get killed?”
Stupid question. He already knew the answer.
“Then the title and estates pass to you.”
“And if you kill him ?”
“I flee the country. You become head of the family.”
“Great.” Just fantastic.
“How’s Daphne?”
“Shaken. Colin’s with her.”
Okay, that’s fine. Colin was always better at emotional comfort – especially better than Anthony.
“Mother must not know,” Anthony added quickly.
“No,” Benedict agreed. “She mustn’t.”
It would be unbearable for her if she lost her son tonight.
Anthony turned to leave, but Benedict hesitated. His eyes flicked to the bedroom door.
“I can’t leave,” he said softly.
Anthony paused. “What?”
“I’m not alone.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Aha. That explains a lot.”
But then, colder: “Well, you’ll have to finish with your companion later. Right now we’re on our way to a fucking duel.”
And before Benedict could stop him, Anthony was halfway to the door.
Shit. Shit.
“What is it? Come on!”
Anthony was already half-way out the door, ready to defend his sister’s honour in the most dramatic, deadly way possible.
Benedict was seconds away from being dragged into it.
“Anthony, I’m not alone.” Benedict repeated it again and hesitated.
For what felt like an eternity, Anthony stared at Benedict, confused. What the hell was his brother thinking?
“Benedict, come now.” Anthony remained in a state of intense anger. “You can fuck your whore another time. Right now, we need to arrange a bloody duel.”
“Anthony. I can’t.”
Benedict stood resolutely in front of the door. He knew Nel was behind it, hearing every word. And there was no way in hell he’d leave her now—not after everything.
“Benedict, don’t fuck with me. You can have your common whore later.”
And that was it. The final thread snapped.
“She’s not a whore. I can’t leave her.”
“What?”
And now Anthony saw it .
It was written all over Benedict’s face.
Behind that door wasn’t some courtesan.
Not a casual affair.
It was a debutante .
Before Benedict could even react, Anthony had already shoved him aside and thrown the door open.
And then—
That red hair.
There was no mistaking it.
Penelope Featherington.
Anthony froze, as though struck. He blinked once, then again, as if trying to will her out of existence.
“Dear God,” he said flatly. “Please—tell me she was attacked and you just happened to heroically intervene.”
Benedict paled. “What? What is not exact what happened—”
“Jesus Christ!” Anthony spun on his brother, eyes wild. “Have you all formed a bloody conspiracy to send me to an early grave?!”
“I—Anthony, listen. It’s not what it looks like—”
“What it looks like,” Anthony growled, advancing like a lion who’d just discovered treason in the herd, “is that you’ve brought a young woman—unmarried, respected, well-known in society—into your bachelor lodgings after midnight, and she is currently dressed like she’s escaped from the back room of a gentlemen’s club.”
Benedict stepped back. “Nothing happened!” That is, in fact, true. They did not even kiss.
Anthony barked a short, disbelieving laugh. “Nothing happened? Nothing happened? Is that truly the story you’re choosing to lead with? Because I walked in to find you half-dressed, and her in a gown that could single-handedly let collapse all the mamas of the ton!”
He pointed accusingly at Penelope, who had the gall to look both mortified and slightly amused.
“I just caught Simon and Daphnel. And now you—you—decide to pull this reckless, idiotic stunt with Penelope bloody Featherington in the same fucking night?!”
He turned away for a moment, rubbing his temples as though trying to physically contain the aneurysm.
Then, slowly, deliberately: “I hope—for the sake of my sanity and what’s left of this family’s name—that you intend to marry her.”
Benedict opened his mouth.
Anthony held up a hand. “No. Don’t speak. I don’t trust you not to propose or say something even stupider. I need… I need a minute.”
Anthony Bridgerton was the human embodiment of a teakettle seconds before the whistle—steam visibly threatening to escape from his ears. His jaw twitched like it was trying to detach itself and flee the situation entirely. Every vein in his neck stood at attention, pulsing to the rhythm of repressed aristocratic fury. He was blinking far too much, as though sheer eyelid activity might suppress the volcanic rage bubbling beneath his well-tailored waistcoat. And though he tried —dear God, he tried —to say something reasonable, all that came out was a strangled, dignified sort of choking noise, like a gentleman being murdered by decorum.
Anthony’s fist was already swinging before Benedict could say a word.
And then— crack .
Benedict felt the punch slam into his nose.
“Bloody fucking hell, Benedict!”
Anthony was shaking with rage.
“How could you?!”
“Bloody hell, does everyone in this family want to kill me?” Anthony spun around, rubbing his temples, as if trying to will the madness away. He is tempted to strangle Benedict.
When he turned back, there was Penelope—kneeling beside his brother, who was bleeding all over the damn place.
And then—of course—it happened. The idiot Benedict actually pulled Penelope into his arms and kissed her. Passionately. She hesitated, probably just long enough to process that her world was spiralling into chaos. But then she was all in, kissing him back like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Anthony froze. His mind struggled to catch up. Was he having a stroke? Was this real? Did someone spike his drink? No. It was real. Bloody fucking hell.
“Get your filthy hands off her, you disgusting idiot!” Anthony roared, his fists clenched. “Have you completely lost your mind?!”
Benedict, looking like he might actually enjoy the chaos, smirked. "Well, if I'm going to die today, I might as well make it memorable."
Somehow they managed to get in the carriage on the way to Brighton House. Anthony still hoped that this night was a fever dream or some bad joke.
Benedict sat slumped in the carriage, still reeling from both the punch and the kiss that had followed—two events he hadn’t thought would occur in the same five-minute span. His face was a picture of baffled frustration, as though trying to calculate the square root of scandal.
Penelope, sitting next to Benedict again while Anthony was watching her in disbelief, was unsure how she’d ended up in this infernal carriage. Her heart pounded like a war drum, though whether it was from panic or sheer disbelief at the evening’s unfolding melodrama, she couldn't say. She lifted trembling fingers to her face, only to see them come away smudged with blood.
She stared at her hand. Then at Benedict.
It was his blood.
“You're bleeding,” she whispered. Well, she knew that.
Benedict offered her a lopsided smile—more grimace than charm—and took his handkerchief. With absurd gentleness, he dabbed at her cheek.
Anthony sighed. Loudly. The sort of sigh that could shatter windows.
“You’re getting married,” he announced, his tone slicing through the tension like a duellist’s blade. “Immediately. It’s the only way to salvage what little honour this family still possesses.”
Benedict’s lips parted, but no words came out. He glanced at Penelope, his mind swirling with a hundred thoughts. He hadn’t even told her how he felt—not properly, anyway. Sure, they’d shared an undeniable attraction, a passion that had been simmering under the surface, but love ? He loved her! But he wasn’t sure if she even loved him. Merely a second ago, he thought that she loved his brother. But she was here. And the look in her eyes calmed him. He knew that he could not live without her. He blossomed at the thought of marrying her quickly. But could he trap her like that?
Penelope, still stunned from the scene, looked at Benedict. Her throat felt tight, her hands shaking. She wanted to say something—tell him that she wanted him, but that this wasn’t how she imagined her life turning out. But she couldn’t find her voice. Instead, she looked into his eyes and saw that he was just as lost as she was. Was this the right choice? Would it even mean anything in the end? Would he hate her someday for trapping him like that?
For a moment, the carriage fell into a pregnant silence, thick with tension. Anthony paced in circles, gritting his teeth as if he were about to explode.
Benedict finally spoke, his voice strained. “You can’t just command us to marry, Anthony. This isn’t… it isn’t like that. Nobody knows what happened tonight.”
“I know! I know that my foolish brother has ruined the reputation of a young lady who is a dear family friend.” Anthony snapped, eyes narrowing. “I’m the head of the family, and I order you to marry her.” Anthony can't handle his shit.
Benedict's hand clenched into a fist, and before he could stop himself, he was instinctively drawing Penelope closer by her wrist. “Then what do you want from me, Anthony?” His voice was cold now, something hard settling behind his words. “What, exactly, is supposed to happen next? You think forcing me to marry her will solve everything?”
“Get a hold of yourself, Benedict.” Anthony’s voice grew quieter, but the venom in it didn’t fade. “If you loved her, you would do whatever it takes to protect her.”
Penelope, who had been quiet up to this point, took a step forward, her voice soft but firm. “I don’t think that’s what he needs to do, Anthony. We’re not here to save face, or to pretend.” Her eyes met Benedict’s, and for the first time that evening, she spoke the words neither of them had said out loud. “I need to know that this is real, Benedict. I need to know if you… if we … can even do this. If it’s something worth doing.”
Benedict’s breath caught in his chest. That was it, wasn’t it? That was the one thing they had both been dancing around. And in that moment, with Anthony seething in the background, Benedict realised that everything had been leading to this. To her. To them. This… this was something real. They hadn’t said it before, but they didn’t need to. The intensity of the moment, of what they’d just shared, said it all.
His voice was barely a whisper as he reached for her, cupping her face gently in his hands. “I don’t know what comes next, Penelope, but I know one thing—I can’t let you go. Not like this.”
Without another word, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was raw and desperate, the kind of kiss that needed no explanation, no reason. It was just them . In that kiss, everything they hadn’t said to each other was suddenly clear. Love. Fear. Hope. They had it all, wrapped up in that single, powerful moment.
Anthony, watching the scene unfold before him, let out a frustrated growl, pacing again. “For the love of God, stop acting like this is some romantic tragedy!”
But nothing—not Anthony’s rage, not the blood, not even the scandalous ruin of the entire social order—could stop the magnetic pull between them.
Penelope’s hands fisted in Benedict’s shirt, yanking him toward her like some scandalous Greek goddess of recklessness. The man was half-unconscious, half-undressed, and wholly besotted. For one breathless moment, the world fell away. There was no carriage. No blood. No Anthony.
Unfortunately, Anthony very much still existed.
And he had to physically pry them apart.
He wedged himself between their entwined bodies with all the delicacy of a military battering ram. “Absolutely not!” he bellowed, scandalized in every bone of his very proper body.
Penelope, now seated firmly at one end of the bench like an exiled duchess, blinked. Benedict, grinning like a drunk cherub, leaned back into the opposite corner, his shirt clinging to him like it, too, had given up.
Anthony stared.
Benedict’s shirt was open. Open. His chest—his idiot brother’s chest—was on display, slicked in blood and whatever emotion had just poured out of that ridiculous kiss. His breeches were unfastened at the top, like even his trousers had lost the will to maintain decorum.
And Penelope—Penelope Featherington—had her head resting on his shoulder. Sweetly. Softly. Like she hadn’t just made herself the lead in an amateur performance of How to Ruin a Reputation in One Evening.
Anthony blinked. Twice. His jaw clenched so tightly it could have cracked diamonds.
And then he saw it.
The dress.
Emerald green. Sheer and delicate fabric. Cut low. So low. Far too low for polite society and certainly too low for Anthony Bridgerton’s sanity. Had she always looked like that? Surely not. He would have remembered. And he certainly should not be noticing it now.
He slapped a hand over his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer and a curse in the same breath.
“Lord save me from scandalous siblings.”
His mind began racing. How was he supposed to sneak her into the Bridgerton house like this? Hair a tangle, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dreamy with post-chaos affection—and that dress! It screamed, I have been thoroughly compromised, and I liked it.
He stared at the problem. Then at his coat.
With a long-suffering groan, Anthony shrugged off his waistcoat, the threads practically weeping from the indignity, and shoved it unceremoniously into Penelope’s lap.
She looked down at it. Then up at him. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” he snapped. “Cover yourself before someone sees you and dies from shock.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. She slipped the coat on, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, though Benedict immediately leaned over to murmur something that made her smile in a way that sent Anthony’s blood pressure into the stratosphere.
Anthony glared. “If either of you so much as breathe romantically before we cross the threshold of that house, I swear someone will die tonight.”
Benedict smiled wider.
Penelope reached for Benedict’s hand.
Anthony screamed—internally.
The carriage rattled on.
It was going to be a very long night.
By the time they reached Bridgerton House, Anthony was a man on the very edge of combustion.
He stormed through the doors, bellowing for a maid with all the subtlety of a battlefield general. “ Clothes. For Miss Featherington. Now. The good ones. The ones our mother insists we keep here, God help us all. ”
He was, for once, deeply grateful that his mother had deemed it socially strategic to install a small wardrobe for Penelope within the Bridgerton home.
No one must see Penelope in that dress. That green, damning dress. The gown that said I’ve just kissed a Bridgerton and would do it again.
“Study,” Anthony barked, motioning sharply. “Now.”
Inside, he didn’t even pretend civility. He marched to the decanter and poured himself a glass so full it defied physics, took a bracing sip, and then spun on Benedict like a man who’d just discovered betrayal was hereditary.
From the hallway, Colin—having pacified a very emotional Daphne upstairs—heard the raised voices. Curiosity overrode caution, and he crept to the slightly ajar study door.
He peeked in just as Anthony slammed his glass on the table.
“I should have taken you aside. Laid out the responsibilities. The conduct. The bloody rules of being the heir if something happens to me,” Anthony said, his voice tight with fury. “But how can I possibly trust you now? You’ve turned my hair grey before my time. ”
“Anthony, please—” Benedict began.
“ How could you? ” Anthony snapped, as though Benedict had personally set fire to the family name and danced in the ashes.
“Nothing happened,” Benedict insisted. “And no one knows. You're being theatrical. Don't act like you've never had an affair. Even if this was one—which it wasn’t.”
Anthony stepped back like he’d been slapped. “ Get off me. Don’t throw my past in my face to excuse your mess.”
Penelope, standing stiffly in the corner like a very polite ghost, said nothing—until she did.
Her voice was soft. Deadly soft.
“What about Siena?”
It was like someone had thrown a full wine bottle at Anthony's temple.
He froze. His jaw dropped. The room went unnaturally still.
Benedict blinked. Oh, he definitely loved this woman.
Colin, still hiding in the corridor, nearly fell through the door.
Anthony turned toward her slowly, as though her words might vanish if he moved gently enough.
“How do you know about Siena?” he asked, voice hollow.
Penelope didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The air was thick. The hypocrisy was louder than the shouting had been.
And for the first time that evening, Anthony had absolutely nothing to say.
There was a silence, thick and suffocating, in the wake of Penelope’s question.
Anthony stood frozen, lips parted in disbelief, as if she had stabbed him through the cravat with nothing but soft-spoken truth.
And then—
Crash.
The study door flew open.
Colin stumbled in, face white, eyes wide, mouth moving but producing no words for a full three seconds.
He had to see her. To see if his ears betrayed him. Then he saw her.
Penelope.
Penelope in that green dress.
And Benedict—half-undressed, rumpled, blood on his collar, looking entirely too satisfied for a man who wasn’t supposed to be in trouble.
Colin’s heart dropped like a stone into the icy depths of his stomach.
He looked from Penelope to Benedict and back again. His jaw clenched.
“No,” he said.
Penelope stepped back, confused. “Colin—”
“No!” he snapped. “No. Absolutely not. ”
Benedict straightened, confused and exasperated all at once. “Colin—”
“You compromised her,” Colin said, every syllable laced with horror. “You— you absolute idiot! ”
Penelope flinched.
“I will not allow this,” Colin declared, turning with dramatic flair. “I demand satisfaction.”
Anthony, who had just managed to partially recover from emotional implosion, dropped his glass.
“You what?”
“A duel,” Colin said, eyes blazing. “This morning. Pistols. Or sabres. Or—God, I don’t care, something sharp! He must answer for this. He touched her.”
Benedict stared at him. Then he burst out laughing.
“Good Lord,” he said, wiping his eyes.
Colin’s nostrils flared. “You defiled her—”
“I kissed her”, Benedict snapped, “and then got punched. Hard. Well, not exactly in this order. There's been enough blood already.”
He stepped forward. “And what then, Colin? You shoot me, I shoot you, Anthony is getting shot by or is shooting Simon— Mama loses three sons in one morning? Gregory left to carry the entire burden of Bridgerton masculinity alone? Do you want that for him? The boy cries when a butterfly lands on him.”
Colin faltered.
Benedict dropped his voice, half-mocking, half-exhausted. “Be rational. ”
Colin’s fists clenched. “You’re laughing about this?”
Benedict looked over at Penelope, who stood frozen by the fireplace, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, Anthony’s coat still drowning her frame.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.” Benedict found Penelope's gaze and looked her deep in the eyes. “I’m deadly serious.”
Colin followed his gaze, and for a moment, none of them spoke.
Unexpectedly, the night ended in a double wedding three days later, zero deaths, and no fleeing the county.
[the end…]