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Chapter Text

Penelope Featherington was having one of the most wonderful days of her young life.

If anyone had asked her a month ago if she was excited to move to her family’s new home in London for the social season a few months after her ninth birthday, she would have answered with a resounding no. She had loved growing up in the country, even if her adventures through the large wildflower fields surrounding their home resulted in a scolding from her mother for the grass stains on her dresses. Penelope wasn’t sure why her mama was so mad; if she wasn’t supposed to play in the grass, then why didn’t anyone ever stop her from leaving or come find her when she stayed up late enough to watch the sky turn the prettiest shade of dark blue?

It didn’t matter if the countryside was lonely, with her older sisters in their etiquette lessons and the children from town not allowed on the grounds unless invited. Penelope could spend hours and hours reading amongst the flowers, making friends with the butterflies, and imagining that she would one day escape out into the world and have an adventure of her own.

In contrast, London sounded miserable. Her sisters talked of busy streets and boys, her mother spent hours prattling on about social hierarchies and family names, and she often found her father in his study muttering over newspapers and flyers about boxing matches and horse races. As much as Penelope dreamed of adventure and love and beauty, the city sounded more like a dangerous quest—one that she felt far too small and far too lonely to ever conquer.

And it had been. Her mother snapped at the staff as they arranged furniture and planned for social calls, her sisters—though still children themselves—grew meaner, modeling themselves after the women they’d see on the street, and her father all but vanished from their lives, disappearing for days before stumbling back home smelling like whiskey and smoke. Penelope had felt herself shrink, spending even more time absorbed in her books, terrified that if she stepped outside she’d surely be trampled by a carriage or turned to stone by the haughty looks of high society.

The fact that she very nearly was trampled, once, should have only solidified that fear. Perhaps it would have, had the boy who was riding and been hit in the face by her bonnet not had the most remarkable deep blue eyes and the kindest smile she’d ever seen.

Meeting Colin Bridgerton, in that moment, had felt like an adventure. Even though she was still so young, Penelope knew that there would always be a place in her heart for the boy who made London feel like home.

It was because of Colin, who that day had taken her back to his house to meet the rest of his family because she was too scared to go home and be scolded by her own mama for causing trouble, that Penelope currently found herself just three weeks later, having the most fun she’d ever had in her entire life.

In a surprising show of good humor—or simply because Lady Violet Bridgerton had made the request herself—Portia Featherington had allowed Penelope to spend the entire day and night over across the street at Bridgerton House.

Penelope had stood in the drawing room rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming when Lady Bridgerton walked in, flanked by Colin and his sister—Penelope’s newest best friend—Eloise to very formally request Penelope’s attendance at a birthday celebration they were holding across the square. She’d never been to a birthday celebration—in her household, they simply were gifted new clothes and a formal dinner—especially not one that would go so late into the night it made more sense for her to stay than simply walk back across the square. With both Lord and Lady Bridgerton and seven—eight, in a few months—children, Penelope would have imagined that hosting such extravagant birthdays would be a rarity. She was even more startled to learn that they were celebrating Colin’s twelfth birthday and that he had specifically asked if he could invite her, Eloise tagging along to reassure Portia that Penelope would be staying with her for the evening and not getting into any trouble.

By some miracle, Lady Featherington had agreed, and Penelope found herself sitting next to Eloise on the floor of the Bridgerton drawing room, surrounded by laughter, buzzing with sugar-fueled energy, and smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

“Am I not too old for this?” Colin protested from his place of honor—a chair in front of the fireplace stacked with three cushions to make sure he had the tallest seat in the room—as his mother handed him a pale blue crown made of paper.

Penelope thought it was very beautiful, but when Daphne had said as much it had only made Colin scrunch up his nose, so she stayed quiet.

Anthony and Benedict snickered on the far side of the room but their father stood spoke before the older boys could say anything too teasing.

“Now, that would be quite the thing.” Edmund whistled as if witnessing something astonishing. “After all, I am always thrilled when your mama makes my birthday crown and I am a mite older than you.”

“Yes, but you are a papa,” Colin replied as if that explained away any and all unusual behavior Lord Bridgerton might have. Penelope did her best not to giggle along with the older Bridgertons; she certainly knew that being a papa had nothing to do with it, else her own father would be quite failing at his duties.

“And I am still a gentleman.” Edmund stood proudly, holding his hand out for the paper crown Colin had partially crumpled on his lap. “And gentlemen do not deny a lady’s favor, no matter its form.”

Colin frowned at the crown for a long moment before smoothing the crinkled edges against the arm of the chair and handing it to his father. Edmund grinned, ruffling Colin’s hair before dropping the crown, crooked, on top of his head. This time, when the rest of the room laughed, Colin did, too.

“Now that you are in proper birthday attire,” Edmund paused to lean down beside the chair and pick up one of the various decoratively wrapped objects stacked on the floor, “you may open your presents.”

Penelope’s eyes widened at the small pile of presents. Her family had exchanged gifts for holidays but even then, they had been packed directly at the shops and chosen more on trends than for any personal tastes. As Colin tore into his birthday gifts, however, it was clear to her that the Bridgertons did things much differently. Each item seemed to be hand chosen—and wrapped, if the chaos and variety of the wrappings were any indication—by each sibling except for baby Gregory. Colin turned and thanked them each without needing at all to ask who they were from. A pair of cufflinks from Anthony, a spyglass from Benedict, an embroidered pair of riding gloves from Daphne, a fairly haphazard—but surprisingly thoughtful—collection of seashells set in a small display box from Eloise, and a watercolor painting from Francesca that Penelope couldn’t quite tell what it was but it made Colin smile nonetheless.

It was about halfway through Colin opening his gifts, that Penelope began to panic. She was a guest and it was someone’s—Colin’s—birthday, it was terribly rude for her not to have a gift for him, too. She hadn’t known, of course, that it was his birthday or that she would be invited over to celebrate, but she still didn’t want to seem ungrateful. There was nothing worse, in her mother’s eyes, than her daughters acting ungrateful. Portia had often hinted that Bridgertons were merely humoring Penelope’s presence, that her friendship with Colin and Eloise was something fleeting, and Penelope knew that her mother was far more familiar with London society, so she had no reason to doubt her, as much as she wanted to. She’d only known the Bridgertons for a few weeks, but the idea of losing their kindness because she hadn’t brought a gift for the one of the people she thought deserved them most made Penelope want to cry. But she was far too grown up for tears and she refused to make a scene while Colin was opening the last of his gifts—something neatly wrapped from his father—so she quickly tried to think of something that could make up for her obvious misstep.

Her gaze landed on the overladen table of desserts that sat just a few paces off from where Colin sat. They’d all already eaten the actual cake and she’d seen Colin practically inhale one plate of desserts but, of all the things Penelope had learned in her few weeks of knowing him, it was that Colin valued almost nothing more than food. So, quietly excusing herself from Eloise’s side, Penelope slipped over to the side of the room and started piling a plate with all of Colin’s favorites.

Behind her, Penelope could hear Edmund explaining the gift Colin had just opened, “I know you said you were too grown up for me to tell you stories before bed, but even us adults feel nostalgic sometimes.”

“Thank you!”

Penelope turned around in time to see Colin hop down from the cushion throne and give his father a hug, a leather journal in his hands, as the rest of the family started to break out into their own conversations now that the gifts were done. She waited off to the side until Edmund stepped back and started to wrangle the children into some sort of game. It didn’t seem like anyone was about to ask or scold her for not bringing a gift, but Penelope still wanted to give Colin something, even if it was just sweets from his own family’s table.

He was flipping through the pages of the journal, covered in handwritten stories, with an odd expression on his face when Penelope finally gathered the courage to approach. She cleared her throat and he snapped the book closed before she could ask him what about it seemed to bother him.

“Pen!” Colin grinned, dropping the book behind him on the stack of cushions. “I’m so glad you came.”

“You already said that.” Penelope giggled in spite of her own nerves; he’d told her some variation of that sentiment each time they met between celebratory events.

He shrugged, unbothered. “That is because I mean it.”

Her face felt like she’d fallen asleep out in the sun. She would have hidden behind her hands were she not holding the plate she’d brought over for him. Remembering her makeshift gift, she dropped her eyes to the floor. “I, um, I fear I must apologize. I did not bring a gift and—”

“Do not apologize,” Colin interrupted. He leaned down with his hands on his knees so he could look her in the eyes. It was similar to the stance Benedict used to tease each of his shorter siblings, but Penelope found it didn’t bother her like it seemed to bother them. When she finally lifted her chin, Colin smiled. “I asked you to be here, and here you are.”

Another shrug, like that was the best gift she could have given him.

But, she knew no matter how polite he was, he’d be even happier with a real gift, so she shoved the plate she’d made out towards him so abruptly he nearly stumbled back into the chair. “Here, I, um, thought you might be hungry.”

Colin blinked at her and then burst out laughing. Penelope felt mortified, but only for a moment before he took the plate from her hands and popped an entire biscuit into his mouth.

“Of course I am,” Colin replied around his mouthful. “But I think this is quite a lot even for me. Would you like some?”

Penelope hesitated, her eyes wide as she looked down at the laden plate he held her way. Her mother never kept sweets in the house unless they were entertaining and, even then, she was only allowed one biscuit that she might nibble on through tea. She’d already had more than her fill earlier in the day, but Colin was looking at her with that same kind smile and she found herself helpless to say no.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a small petit fore from the plate and popping it into her mouth.

He grinned impossibly wider before pulling her down to sit on the floor by the chair to show her more directly each of the gifts his siblings had given him. Penelope found her earlier fears forgotten, the joy seeping back in as she and Colin shared the plate of desserts, chatting while the rest of the family played games and conversed around them.

—————

It was only hours later when the rest of the house had gone to bed that Penelope found herself regretting all of the sweets and desserts she’d eaten with Colin down in the drawing room. While the rest of the Bridgertons had tired themselves out with the festivities, Penelope was still wide awake, sugar and excitement coursing through her veins. She never wanted the day to end, that was true, but it was still rather lonely lying in the dark with only Eloise’s snoring to keep her company.

Try as she might, no amount of turning over and squeezing her eyes closed seemed to be helping her fall asleep, so, confident in the fact that she frequently moved around her own home invisibly, Penelope slipped out of bed and made her way to the door.

Using the light from the lamps left lit in the hallway—a trail going directly from Lord and Lady Bridgerton’s room to the nursery since Gregory was still not sleeping through the night—Penelope traced the familiar steps down to the kitchens. She, Eloise, and Colin had snuck in rather frequently to sneak biscuits right out of the oven. As bad as she knew it was to sneak around someone else’s home without them leading the way, Penelope thought it would be worse to spend the night daydreaming about having her own birthday celebration like this; it would only make it more disappointing when it couldn’t come to pass.

To her surprise, however, she rounded the corner of the hallway and found light flooding through the kitchen doorway. She froze, terrified that she was going to be caught and thrown out for snooping. Nearly half a minute passed but, when she finally gained the courage to turn around and flee back to her room, the sleeve of her nightgown caught on the door to a small storage cabinet and yanked it open, hitting her hard on the side. It didn’t hurt, but Penelope still couldn’t stop the small squeak of surprise that left her lips at being ensnared.

From somewhere in the kitchen, she heard a chair scrape back against the stone. There was a pause, then the sure sound of footsteps heading her way.

Penelope rushed to untangle her sleeve from the handle and had just managed to close the door once more, when—

“Pen?” Colin stepped out from around the corner of the doorway, still partway dressed from the party before, his shirt untucked, his waistcoat missing. His hair was mussed and the corners of his eyes looked red, but he smiled at her and Penelope felt her heartrate slowly calm. “Trouble sleeping?”

She nodded, taking half a step back. “I thought I might heat some milk, but I do not want to disturb you. I can just—”

“I could not sleep either,” Colin spoke over her, waving her into the kitchen with him.

She followed hesitantly and paused by the side of prep counter as Colin rummaged around an ice chest for milk. He held it up triumphantly, but his smile faltered as he turned to the stove.

“I will…” Colin hesitated, eyeing the passage to the servants’ quarters nervously, clearly considering how much they would be scolded for being up so late, “perhaps Daphne might know—”

“Oh, no, it’s no bother.” Penelope hurried over to the stove before he could do anything so foolish as wake someone else. With a quick glance around for where the Bridgertons’ staff kept their flint striker, Penelope easily got the stove lit and stepped aside so Colin could put a small pot with the milk on top.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Colin asked, his eyes wide as if she’d just performed some sort of miracle.

Penelope giggled at his expression, her cheeks warming as she waited for the milk to heat through. “Mrs. Varley showed me. She likes me to stay by her side when Papa is out and Mama takes my sisters out on social calls.”

“Your mama does not take you, as well?” His tone made her turn and Penelope was surprised to see him frowning rather sternly.

“Oh, I do not much like to go,” Penelope explained quickly, worried she had said something wrong. “They mostly visit with the Cowpers and I do not think Cressida likes me much.”

“Well, I do not like Cressida Cowper much,” Colin leaned down and whispered, his breath tickling her cheek.

Penelope giggled again, reaching out for the pot when she saw the milk had started steaming, but Colin put his arm out in front of her.

“Careful.” He lifted the pot from the stove with two hands and turned away from her towards the staff dining table on the far side of the room; she noticed there was already a plate of biscuits sitting next to the journal from his father. He glanced back at her and nodded towards the side. “There are mugs in the cabinet there.”

Penelope scurried over and grabbed two mugs from the only shelf she could reach. She did her best not to roll her eyes when Colin made her stand back while he poured the milk. His care was still so foreign considering she’d burned her hands plenty of times learning to pour tea and no one seemed particularly worried about that. She didn’t tell him that, though, simply accepting the mug he offered and following behind him as he headed towards the table.

He slid the plate of biscuits towards her, but she shook her head. “I will never get to sleep then.”

Colin bit one in half and spoke around it, “Never a problem for me.”

“Clearly,” Penelope replied flatly, breaking out into laughter when his mouth dropped open in surprise.

He joined in a second later, the kitchen filling warmly with the sound. “Come with me.”

Penelope hesitated only a second before taking the candle sitting on the table and following Colin—his hands full with his mug and plate, the book tucked under his arm—out through the hall and back towards the drawing room. Once there, he set the plate and mug down then tossed the cushions from his earlier chair on the floor.

Penelope felt the smile still tugging at her lips as he gestured with a flair for her to sit. She did, nodding towards the book he set down in front of him before sitting himself. “What were you reading?”

“Oh, I wasn’t.” Colin shook his head, practically knocking over his mug with how quickly he pushed the book to the side. “I was just, uh, looking.”

Penelope glanced between his face and the book, thinking back to the odd expression he’d had back when he first opened the gift. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but birthdays were meant to be happy affairs and she didn’t think he’d want to talk about something that already seemed to make him uncomfortable.

Instead, she simply cradled her mug in her hands and admitted, “I do not remember the last time someone told me a story before bed.”

Colin turned and frowned at her.

“I do love to read before bed,” Penelope added, worried he thought she was being critical of the idea, “but Mama says it is a bad habit, that it will lead to needing glasses and that ladies should not wear glasses.”

“Your parents never read to you?” Colin asked and Penelope felt embarrassed by the question, even though he’d asked it so softly. Maybe because of that.

“The governess used to, but she has been focusing on etiquette lately.”

Colin only looked offended. “Even Daphne has not started etiquette lessons yet and she is a year older than you.”

“It is easier to have my sisters and I learn all at once.” Penelope shrugged. Colin was frowning down at his mug, while Penelope finished hers to avoid the silence. Her eyes kept drifting over to the book of stories Edmund had given him. Before she could think better of it, she asked, “Would you read one to me?”

Colin stiffened, setting down his mug with a thud.

“You do not have to,” Penelope backtracked immediately, starting to stand. “Forgive me, I do not know why I asked, I—”

“Wait, Pen.” He caught her wrist and practically yanked her back down onto the cushions. Still holding onto her wrist with one hand, he reached out and picked up the book with the other. “It is not…I would, only…I…”

He let go of her and glared down at the book, flexing the leather in his hands. Penelope felt her eyes go wide with shock as an idea dawned upon her. “Colin, can you…can you not—”

“I can read, Pen.” He laughed but it was harsh and defensive.

“Of course.” She shook her head. Of course he could, it would be foolish for his own father to give him a book if he could not. “I did not—”

“I can, but it—” Colin exhaled and dropped the book on the floor between them. “It is difficult. I know the words, but sometimes they just don’t make sense on the page or they look wrong. I am not making any sense, am I?”

Penelope wished she could argue his question, but, in truth, she didn’t understand what he meant. She had been reading for as long as she remembered. It was one of her favorite things and one of the very few things she felt she excelled at. By the way he seemed to deflate with her silence, however, she wished she had lied.

“Anthony says I just have to try harder.” Colin let his head fall back against the chair behind them. “Papa likely gave me this to help me practice, only…it is worse, when I’m tired, the candlelight doesn’t help.”

Penelope reached for the book and, when Colin didn’t say anything, picked it up, flipping through the pages, her eyes flitting over each line of neat handwriting. Every page was tightly packed. It must have taken hours of work. She couldn’t imagine Lord Bridgerton putting so much effort just to give his son nostalgic homework.

It explained Colin’s reaction, though. Something sentimental and sweet taken as criticism instead.

“Maybe your papa just wanted you to have them. Not to practice, just to have,” Penelope suggested.

Colin shrugged. “He spends his nights telling stories to Gregory now.”

The loneliness settled between them. Penelope was younger than him, but she knew how easy it was to feel forgotten when one’s parents deemed them old enough to survive without all of the little affections and comforts of childhood.

“I could read it to you,” Penelope offered, her voice so small in the darkness. The half-burned candle in front of them only cast its glow so far. She saw him turn towards her out of the corner of her eye, but she kept her chin down, playing with the edge of one of the pages. “That is, I would like to read one, if…I mean, would that be alright?”

There was a long beat of silence before Colin shifted so he was leaning back more fully on the chair. She almost didn’t hear him when he answered, “Please.”

Penelope bit her lip to keep from smiling. She crossed her legs, keeping her nightgown tucked around her, and began to read aloud. Page after page, Penelope delighted in giving voice to the stories of adventure and exploration Colin’s father had written down for his son. Eventually, the sentences were punctuated with yawns and Colin didn’t comment when she blinked for longer and longer periods before turning the page. Neither of them suggested parting to go back to bed and, when the sun rose the next day, Edmund Bridgerton found them both curled up amidst the cushions, the book of bedtime stories laying open between them.

Chapter Text

The very best year of Penelope’s life was followed by one of the saddest. Halfway through summer, after the high society families returned to their country seats, she received a letter from Eloise—tucked inside a letter addressed to Lord and Lady Featherington from Anthony—telling her that Lord Edmund Bridgerton had passed away suddenly on an otherwise unremarkable day. Eloise’s letter had been scattered and tear-stained, but Penelope knew enough about the love all of the Bridgerton children had for their father to know that she was devastated. They all were.

It was through the letter Anthony sent to her parents, that Penelope learned the Bridgertons would not be returning to London that year. Between Violet’s pregnancy giving way to the complications with baby Hyacinth’s birth, the transfer of the title to Anthony, and their grief, the Bridgertons had hardly been seen in society at all the year of Edmund’s death. Penelope did her best not to be selfish, to feel sad for them rather than feeling sad for herself for missing them, but she was still just a child and it was hard not to miss the warmth the Bridgertons had brought into her life when the absence of it felt so cold.

Her family’s obsession with the hubris and vices of London had only grown that year. Penelope found herself stealing every possible second to escape to her books, reading voraciously and even starting to write her own stories. They were silly little things, but they helped her to imagine a world where good people got to live and be happy no matter what the seasons brought. She also managed to convince her mother to advance her studies, suggesting that if she could study harder materials sooner then she would be able to make an even better impression on society once she made her debut. The additional etiquette lessons and prospect of actually debuting were, unfortunately, a necessary evil if she wanted the chance to read novels in French or learn about the myths and histories of old.

She’d spent so much time studying that, by the time the year passed, cold and lonely, Penelope felt like she’d read every book in the house at least twice—she hadn’t, she was far too short to reach more than the first few shelves in her father’s study, but it felt like she had. It was good preparation, too, for the return to the country. She still enjoyed her days in the fields of wildflowers, but the loneliness was harder to swallow. Her only joy was her correspondence with Eloise. They didn’t talk about much, really—books, how loud baby Hyacinth was crying, their wishes to be reunited again—but it reminded Penelope that she hadn’t dreamt up the joy they’d lost. It was a reminder she needed, desperately, when the Featheringtons returned to London once more only to be met with emptiness across the square.

Another season, more months of reading and studying and smiling through the cold and loneliness, and it was back to the country once more. However, a few weeks after their return, a carriage rolled up the path to the Featherington’s house and, like a ray of sunlight through the darkest clouds, Eloise Bridgerton came bursting out.

“Pen!” Eloise’s shout was audible even from Penelope’s room on the second floor. The pounding on the door, even more so. “Penelope!”

Penelope rushed from her room, already smiling when she saw a rather disgruntled staff member opening the door for Eloise, Benedict trailing in behind her.

“Pen!” Eloise sprinted forward and collided with Penelope before she’d even reached the landing, hugging her so fiercely they both stumbled back, tangled up on the stairs.

Penelope held her friend just as tight, her eyes burning with happiness, relief, and all of the grief she knew Eloise was holding inside. “I missed you, too.”

Eloise squeezed her once then pulled away, swiping furiously at her eyes as she and Penelope untangled themselves. “We have come to rescue you.”

“What?” Penelope gaped at her.

From the landing, Benedict cleared his throat. “What my sister means to say, is that we are here to invite you to Aubrey Hall.”

“You are coming with us to Aubrey Hall,” Eloise repeated enthusiastically, taking Penelope’s hand and dragging her the rest of the way down the stairs.

“We have to ask permission first, El,” Benedict reminded her, adding, “that is, if you would like to come with us, Miss Featherington?”

Penelope gaped at them. She had dreamed—literally dreamed—of one day visiting Aubrey Hall when she first heard their stories. Endless days of joy and freedom, laughter and sweetness. She had never wanted anything more.

But that had been before.

Before Aubrey Hall became synonymous with grief and tragedy and things that took her best friends away. She wasn’t sure what to do with this distant mysterious place that held such magnificent highs and such terrible lows.

She certainly didn’t know what to say when her mother bustled into the foyer, cooing and gushing and offering saccharine sympathies so loudly it made Penelope flinch.

Thankfully, Benedict seemed prepared for the whirlwind that was Portia Featherington. He suggested Penelope show Eloise the gardens—which she didn’t, instead Eloise drug her upstairs to help her pack which Penelope thought was presumptuous, but she didn’t say so—while he spoke with Portia and Archibald about taking Penelope back with them for a visit. Penelope and Eloise had only managed to pack half her trunk by the time Portia found them to deliver the news. Penelope would be staying with the Bridgertons for an entire month. She was absolutely thrilled and, at the same time, terrified. She hadn’t been around grief much, at that point, but what she knew of it from books made it seem heavy and uncomfortable. As much as she wanted to be there for them, with them, she was scared that it would all be harder, that she’d be a burden interrupting their mourning, just someone else to worry about.

However, her concerns melted away with each hour they spent on the road. Eloise was her usual chatty self, Benedict poking and prodding and teasing all the way. There were moments of silence, too. Moments where Eloise would stop mid-story like she remembered too late that her father had played a part in that memory, too. But Penelope was familiar with silence. She knew, almost instinctively, which ones needed to be filled and which were better left undisturbed. It wasn’t always perfect, it was sometimes awkward, but, overall, by the time the carriage arrived at Aubrey Hall, Penelope felt more confident than ever that the trip would be good. For all of them.

——————

The first few days at Aubrey Hall passed similarly. Penelope didn’t see much of Lady Bridgerton, though from what Daphne said she was much better than she had been the year before, or Anthony as he was handling the estate, but she was glad to tour the grounds with Benedict as he sketched landscapes, to host practice tea parties with Daphne, spend time entertaining Gregory and Hyacinth with silly songs with Francesca, and make up grand adventures with Eloise.

Penelope’s biggest disappointment, aside from the pockets of sadness that would burst forth from the family seemingly at random, was the fact that Colin had yet to return from Eton. He was officially in his second year, having gone away to study not long after Edmund passed, and Penelope hadn’t heard much of or from him outside of his siblings talking about how much he complained about school or how many “dimwitted friends” he was making there—according to Eloise, at least. Penelope missed him, terribly, which she was far too embarrassed to admit considering they’d spent very little time in close conversation with each other outside of the group games she’d played with his family. There were a few moments—the day they met, sharing stories on his birthday—that clung to her, still, and, try as she might to stop, Penelope couldn’t help but replay those moments over and over in her head, imagining his voice, his face, on every heroic character she read.

But, Penelope did her best not to spend too much time staring towards the road and not to ask too often if anyone had heard when he was set to arrive back from school.

She must have been fairly successful, too, because the day Colin finally arrived at Aubrey Hall, Penelope was completely unaware until he barged in on her reading quietly in the library.

“Colin!” Penelope let out a squeak, holding her book up partway over her face as he came rushing in through the large oak door.

His hair was longer than she remembered, falling in belligerent curls over his forehead as he threw a leather travel bag onto one of the nearby study tables. He startled when she said his name, spinning around on his heel so fast she caught the moment he schooled his stormy expression into an easy smile. “Pen! I did not know you were here.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replied, then immediately winced. He probably was disappointed, coming back from a year of study only to find an unexpected guest in his home.

But, as he had two years ago, Colin just laughed, his smile warm and playful as he replied, “Never.”

Penelope returned his smile bashfully, lowering her book from in front of her face and trying to sit up more properly in her seat. “How are your studies?”

Colin scoffed, dropping unceremoniously into the chair beside her. “There are more interesting things in the world than mathematics and Latin.”

Penelope chuckled, more nervously than out of humor. In truth, she thought it might be rather intriguing to learn advanced mathematics and Latin, but she would never have the chance. “You are glad to be home, then?”

She wasn’t quite prepared for the length of the pause that followed. Colin reached out and took her book from her lap, keeping one finger between the pages to hold her place. He flipped it over in his hands and shrugged. “It is much more…lively here.”

“And that is a bad thing?” Penelope twisted her hands in her lap. Colin himself had always been rather excitable; this new, almost brooding, version of him had her confused. Though, she supposed, it was understandable. They hadn’t interacted since his father’s funeral. She knew from the others that grief had changed them in unpredictable ways. Perhaps, this was simply Colin’s.

Colin arched an eyebrow at her and offered her the book back. “I do not imagine you find yourself tucked away in the library for the sake of ‘lively’ conversation.”

Penelope pursed her lips, slightly put off by his tone. Aside from the occasional teasing, she had never associated annoyance or frustration with her feelings for Colin Bridgerton. That, it seemed, was quickly changing. “And yet, here you are.”

He laughed, once, and then drug himself back to his feet. “Then I will leave you to your reading.”

With an exaggerated bow, Colin swept from the room before she could protest, leaving his travel bag abandoned on the table.

Penelope stared after him, her mind reeling. He seemed older—which, she recognized, was a silly thing to say since she had not seen him in quite some time—but also smaller, in a way. Like his grief had stolen some of his good humor, some of the wonder that had made every moment with him seem full of possibilities. Though Penelope had never experienced true loss, she knew that grief could be crushing. She’d read about it in tragedies and poems that made her cry, she’d seen it in the faces of every Bridgerton she met, but, for whatever reason, she’d never expected Colin’s grief to make him seem so…bitter.

Frowning, her gaze flitted over to the bag he left on the table. Using a bit of ribbon as a placeholder, Penelope set her book down and crossed over to it. She knew she shouldn’t snoop in Colin’s things—it was terribly rude in all situations, but especially when she was a guest in his family’s home—but she had always been so curious. Too curious, according to her mother. Besides, Penelope rationalized to herself, he had brought the bag to the library; it was likely just packed with textbooks he meant to return. She would be helpful, if she took the time to reshelve them for him.

Resolved, Penelope reached out and undid the clasp on the bag. Inside, she saw the expected books on mathematics, languages, and history, but there were also reams of parchment marked with some unfamiliar handwriting. She reached for them, thinking they were perhaps old assignments he’d brought back, when the sound of footsteps from the hall made her jump back.

“Pen! There you are,” Eloise called out as she swept into the room and grabbed Penelope’s arm. “Come with me! Benedict has finally agreed to show us how to fence.”

Penelope reached over and snapped the bag closed with one hand before Eloise pulled her from the room.

Much to Eloise’s dismay, Benedict did not actually let them fence. He did, however, make quite the entertaining show of lecturing them on different moves and terms while fencing an imaginary foe who somehow seemed to be ten feet tall one moment and three inches tall the next. It was diverting enough that they spent the rest of the afternoon giggling and mimicking him out in the gardens, only coming inside when it was time for the evening meal.

Dinner, as had been usual while Penelope was staying at Aubrey Hall, was a strange mix of laughter and tension. Both Lady Bridgerton and Anthony joined them—the only time each day the whole family was present at once—Violet smiling at the children’s antics while Anthony scolded them for tossing around more food than they ate. There was an empty chair at the head of the table that, formally, should have been Anthony’s but he refused to take it. Every few minutes one of the Bridgertons would pause and their eyes would linger on the chair, the clinking of cutlery quieting, ever so slightly, before the chaos resumed.

Afterwards, they all dispersed to their own devices once more. Eloise went upstairs with Violet, taking it upon herself to read to Hyacinth while Lady Bridgerton prepared her to sleep, while Benedict disappeared up to his studio and Daphne and Francesca took to the sitting room to practice music. Anthony had called Colin over to speak with him and Penelope, left to her own devices once more, wandered back towards the library to retrieve her abandoned book.

Everything in the library was just as she’d left it, her book sitting on the chair, Colin’s bag haphazardly shut on the table. She ignored the urge to investigate the papers she’d seen before and settled back into her spot in the chair, twisting the ribbon she’d used as a placeholder around her fingers as she tried to lose herself in the story on the page. She had just settled in when a loud thud sounded from the other side of the library wall. Penelope jumped, standing up and shuffling anxiously towards the side of the room where the sound originated.

There was a loud scrape, as if someone had shoved themselves out of a chair, and then she heard the voices.

“…not listening to me!” Penelope recognized Anthony’s shout immediately, realizing a beat later that his study shared a wall with the library. “I understand that it is a change, but—”

“No, you do not understand,” Colin’s voice interrupted, just as loud as his brother’s.

“I do. You were granted leniency last term because of father,” Penelope took a step back at the mention of Edmund; she knew she should not be eavesdropping, not on something so personal, “but that courtesy only goes so far. You need to try—”

“I am trying, Anthony.” Colin’s interruption sounded louder, closer to the adjoining wall. “I have told you, it is not…”

Penelope backed away from the wall until she could no longer hear the muffled argument happening on the other side. She glanced warily at Colin’s bag on the table, remembering the gruff responses he’d given her in response to her questions about Eton. Colin had always been so inquisitive, so confident, she could hardly imagine he wouldn’t thrive when given the opportunity to explore and learn outside of the confines of London or Kent. But she hardly knew him anymore, she reminded herself. Not this older, more world-weary version of him, at least.

Clutching her book to her chest, Penelope debated her chances of making it back up to her room without running into Anthony or Colin as she passed the study. She was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth when her opportunity went right out the window—or, came stalking through the door, as it were.

Colin slammed the door behind him as he burst into the library, muttering under his breath. Penelope shrunk in on herself, trapped in the room as he paced back and forth between her and the door.

He didn’t notice her, at first, winding himself up as he ran his hands roughly through his hair, scowling. Penelope cleared her throat to draw his attention, hoping he would simply step aside and let her out rather than turning his anger on her.

Colin froze when he saw her. His hands dropped to his sides and he exhaled heavily. “Pen.”

“Hello,” she replied, her voice more nervous than she wanted it to be.

Colin glanced between her and the shared wall between the library and the study. Realization dawned in his eyes and she could practically see him grind his teeth. “How much did you hear?”

“I was going to leave.” Penelope gestured vaguely towards where he was blocking her path. He turned his head toward the door, scowling. When he remained silent—neither stepping out of her way nor scolding her—she spoke again, tentatively, “Would you…like to talk about it?”

He shook his head but didn’t move.

“Is it alright with you if I stay and read?” Penelope asked, placing her book on the table next to his abandoned bag and sitting in one of the wooden chairs there. In truth, she would have rather fled back to Eloise’s room to read, but she didn’t like this new silent stern version of Colin. Perhaps if she stayed, he would tell her what was bothering him and she might be able to find the cheerful boy she used to know underneath it all.

Besides, she had missed him. Even if this version of him was there to stay.

“Of course,” Colin replied immediately, finally looking away from the door to meet her gaze.

She offered him a smile then opened her book, eyes skimming over the page without reading as she waited to see if he would stay or go. After a moment, Colin crossed the room and dropped into the chair in front of his bag. Penelope didn’t react. She flipped the page quietly while Colin began to yank books and papers out of his bag. She flinched when one of the larger books landed next to her with a loud thump.

“Sorry,” Colin mumbled, emptying the rest of his bag with more care. Penelope hummed in acknowledgement, trailing her finger down the page as if she were actually reading. After another few seconds, Colin spoke, “I failed my courses.”

Penelope put her ribbon back in her book and gave him her attention. Her chest ached at what she saw—papers scattered around him, head in his hands. He looked so much younger, but not in the way she remembered. More like he just looked small.

“Not all of them,” Colin added, lifting his head and nodding towards a stack of books he’d shoved off to the side. He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “I barely passed last year—”

Leniency, Anthony had said. Of course he had struggled, Penelope thought, his father had died.

“They gave me remedial work,” he scoffed, spreading out the pages of paper with, what Penelope realized were, instructions written over them. “If I cannot complete it properly, I will not be allowed back.”

“May I?” Penelope asked, reaching for the page nearest.

Colin nodded. She skimmed the page quietly; it was a prompt for a reflection on the themes of Don Quixote, a book she knew he knew well. He was the one to recommend it and get Eloise fixated on the idea of fencing.

“It is not that I do not understand,” Colin began, likely noticing the confusion on her face. “I sit in class and can answer their questions, only…”

He trailed off, his expression twisting with something like shame. It made Penelope’s chest ache even as she realized what he was trying to say.

They never spoke about their conversation from his birthday two years ago. Not directly, at least. That year, any time Penelope had been allowed to stay with the Bridgertons overnight, she and Colin would invariably end up sitting together while she read aloud from Edmund’s book of bedtime stories. It had been one of the things she missed most while the Bridgertons were away mourning.

She had never thought about how his difficulty with written words might affect Colin’s lessons at school.

“Anthony believes I need better focus,” Colin continued after a moment, glaring at the wall the library shared with his brother’s study, “but I stare at a page for hours, long enough for it to finally make sense, and in that time my classmates have finished an entire chapter. I have never felt so stu—”

“What is the primary cause of Don Quixote’s downfall?” Penelope asked abruptly, unwilling to hear Colin tear himself down so horribly.

He turned to her, brow furrowed. “What?”

“You can answer that, can you not?”

He nodded, opening his mouth to reply, but Penelope set the paper she was holding down in front of him instead.

“I have been told that I have excellent spelling and grammar.” Penelope stood, scouring the room quickly for a discarded pencil, and returned to set it in front of him. “I can read the questions and help edit your responses.”

Colin stared and the paper and pencil in front of him, his brow furrowed, a small frown on his lips. He looked almost offended by the offer, but Penelope suspected he was just embarrassed at needing it. After a moment, he schooled his expression back to something more neutral and teasing. “Are you trying to help me cheat, Pen?”

“It would not be cheating.” Penelope shook her head so fervently her curls bounced like copper springs. “They are your answers, Colin, your ideas. Think of it like this, would it be cheating if you needed glasses to see the paper? If you needed leg braces to walk to class?”

He shook his head but muttered, “But I am not broken.”

“And neither would you be, if you needed those,” Penelope replied immediately. Her fingers itched to reach across the table and take his hand, but she held back. “I understand, you will need to find another solution once you return to school, but surely there can be no harm now?”

“Why bother?” Colin took the pencil and tapped it on the paper, a series of dots speckling the sheet. “As you said, I cannot take you with me.”

Penelope blushed at the idea. She shook her head both to clear it and to brush off his dismissal. “You are one of the smartest people I know. I simply think everyone else should have the chance to see that, too.”

Colin finally met her gaze, his eyes wide and hesitant, uncertain. She returned his look steadily—as steadily as she could while twisting her fingers in her lap and feeling her cheeks turn pink—until she heard him say, “You truly mean that.”

She nodded. “I do.”

Colin studied her expression a moment longer before ducking his head and silently starting to write an answer on the page. Penelope smiled, tugging the other assignment sheets out from the scattered pile of paper as she prepared to read him the questions and proofread his answers. They worked quietly, at first, Colin silently making corrections when she pointed out a few incorrect words and misspellings, but soon enough he relaxed and they began chatting between prompts. He told her stories from school and she recounted all of the mishaps he missed in the few days she’d been at Aubrey Hall before he arrived.

The number of remedial assignments Colin had been sent back with led Penelope to suggest they tackle the pile over a few days. To her surprise, he agreed easily and she soon found her evenings falling into a pattern. After dinner, Eloise would spend the evening with Violet and Penelope and Colin would disappear into the library, working through the assignments while Colin taught her more from his lessons than she’d ever learn from her governess at home. They’d end the day by sneaking through the kitchens for biscuits and warm milk. They didn’t read from Edmund’s book anymore—Penelope wasn’t even sure if Colin had it with him or if it was hidden away back in London—but she would pick whatever book she’d been reading in the library and would read a chapter or two aloud, instead. By the time her stay at Aubrey Hall had passed, she’d even gotten Colin to admit that, if he was willing to ask, he did have friends at Eton who could help him until he figured out how best to manage the coursework on his own.

In all, it wasn’t the fairytale trip she’d dreamed of two years before, but Penelope couldn’t imagine spending the month any other way.

Chapter Text

A few years later, Penelope’s first season officially out in society finally arrived. It was, unsurprisingly, less than spectacular. She hadn’t expected to be swept off her feet, had no illusions that, just because her hems were lowered or she wore a dance card around her wrist, Colin would finally see her in the way she saw him. As more than a friend. As someone worth courting, worth loving. She had hoped, however, that getting to speak with people outside of her mother’s hypercritical circle would help her flourish.

She was wrong.

Her dresses were too bold and vibrant, her curls too tight, her mother too obviously scheming. No one chose to seek out the Featheringtons. Penelope was no different.

She still had friends in the Bridgertons, of course, but Daphne’s status as the diamond kept her elevated and Eloise had been allowed to delay her debut another year. Penelope was used to fading into the background—in her own home, in conversations, even when visiting the Bridgertons now that she had become so ingrained into their family she was no longer given the extra attentions afforded an occasional guest—so she was not particularly surprised to find herself most comfortable along the walls and in the background of ballrooms, as well.

What she was not prepared for, however, was how it felt to stand there in the shadows and watch Colin flourish.

He had been attending society events for a few years now, having successfully worked his way through Eton then a cursory stint at Oxford. While Penelope knew how much he struggled and how hard he worked to make it through his coursework, in society he seemed to tackle every interaction with ease. He laughed with the gentlemen, charmed the matriarchs, and flirted with every young miss who wandered his way.

Penelope had never been more aware of the gaping divide between them. He was handsome—more beautiful than any man had a right to be now that he’d grown into himself—kind, charismatic, and well-loved and she…

Well, she was Penelope Featherington. Somehow too small and too large, too quiet and yet too opinionated, too much and yet never enough.

“Chin up, Penelope,” Portia tapped her fan against Penelope’s shoulder as the two of them, Prudence, and Philippa descended from one of the upper levels to the main floor of that night’s ballroom. “No one will approach if you do not look approachable.”

Penelope was tempted to point out that, in most species, bright colors were actually meant to scare others away, but instead she kept her mouth shut and her head held high.

“Ah, over here girls,” Portia tried to usher them over towards where several other debutantes were already crowding Simon Basset, the newly titled Duke of Hastings.

Penelope followed them a few steps then slowly slipped away; it was clear to anyone with sense that the duke only had eyes for Daphne Bridgerton and Penelope would much rather watch the couples dance than contribute to her family’s embarrassment.

They were beautiful. The married couples dancing with familiarity and ease, the debutantes radiant with attention and determination, and the widows stepping back out onto the floor after so long. She found herself smiling, her heart aching slightly as she wondered what it would be like to fit in amongst them.

“Do you think Daphne is dizzy yet?” Colin’s question was low and teasing, coming seemingly out of nowhere from the air behind her.

Penelope shivered as he took another half step forward, heat radiating off of him and warming the small space between his chest and her back. When she looked over her shoulder, she noticed his smile twist slightly in disappointment; he had likely meant to startle her but Penelope was always more aware of him than she should have been.

“She is far too poised to be something so mundane as dizzy.” Penelope chuckled, looking back out to where Daphne was being spun by her fourth dance partner of the night. It seemed like, ever since the duke showed interest, Daphne had been swarmed with suitors. “You underestimate how long a lady spends practicing her turns.”

“And you forget that I had to suffer as her partner, Pen.” Colin stepped up fully to her side and she couldn’t help but admire the way the light from the candlelit chandelier danced upon his face.

“You suffered,” Penelope paused to emphasize the word, “only the formal lessons. Daphne is the diamond for a reason, I am sure she practiced far more on her own.”

“And did you?” Colin asked.

“I am not the diamond.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

Penelope’s shoulders stiffened, but she found no hint of teasing in his expression. She wasn’t about to admit how much time she spent going over steps just in case someone asked her to the floor. Instead, she hedged, “My mama is very diligent in her lessons.”

“Hm.” Colin tilted his head to look down at her.

Penelope felt her cheeks going red as he continued to stare at her, the string quintet across the room slowly drawing their song to a close. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him nod to himself as the last few notes ended.

“Show me.” Colin moved to stand in front of her, his hand held out between them. When she merely gaped at him, Colin took her hand and pulled her out onto the floor.

“Colin,” Penelope whispered his name harshly, trying to yank her hand free without causing a scene, “what are you doing?”

“Do you not wish to dance with me, Pen?” His cheeky grin was still in place but she noticed his hold on her hand grow slack.

Penelope’s eyes went wide and she bit her tongue to keep from asking if he was sure he wanted to dance with her. She glanced around, trying to gauge how many people were paying enough attention to have seen him drag her onto the floor. The only person who seemed to be watching them, though, was Violet Bridgerton. It was the affectionate smile on Violet’s face that made everything fall into place.

It was so like Lady Bridgerton to insist her sons dance with Penelope considering how close she was to their family. Penelope suspected Colin had been the only one to volunteer—Anthony and Benedict, though both cared for her like family, would be overcome with debutantes if either of them danced while Colin, at least, seemed to enjoy the attention. Penelope felt a pang of disappointment, mixed with both shame and gratitude. Still, it was a sweet gesture and she did so badly want to dance with him.

She squeezed his hand and took up position for the next dance. “If you insist.”

“I do.” Colin grinned, puffing his chest out as if he had just won the favor of the queen herself.

Penelope was grateful that the dance was an upbeat style, the bright red flush of her cheeks easily explained away by the vigor of the steps and not the pressure of his hand on her back. She let Colin twirl her—far more than the dance called for—both of them laughing so loud a few other dancers looked their way. By the time the music came to an end once more, they were both out of breath, Penelope nearly stumbling from the truly excessive amount of spinning he’d made her do.

“I would ask if you would like a turn about the room, but I suspect the room is already turning.” Colin quirked an eyebrow as he bowed formally over her hand.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope was grateful his hold on her was still firm—it helped keep her footing, “do you mean to suggest I cannot handle one dance?”

“I would never.” Colin straightened, putting her hand on his arm and leading her from the floor. “I find myself quite impressed with the results of your practice. Lady Featherington must be proud.”

Penelope snorted in a horribly unladylike manner at that.

Colin’s smile faltered. Once they were securely away from the dancefloor he shifted so his hand brushed the ungloved part of her arm, causing a line of goosebumps to appear under his touch. She peered up from his hand to see him looking at her with a level of care she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen from him.

“I would claim every one of your dances,” Colin murmured. His thumb ran up and down her arm so lightly she wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it. Clearing his throat, Colin straightened, dropped his hand, and turned right back into his usual charming self. “If it would not rob you of your choice of groom.”

Penelope’s laughter was piercingly high and forced, but she tried to take comfort in the compliment for what it was. A man who saw better of his friend than anyone else ever had.

When Colin stayed by her side the rest of the night, slowly decimating the refreshments’ table and constantly trading quips and observations about the other guests, Penelope slowly found her disappointment fading. He may never love her the way she wanted, but he still made every night so much more fun.

————————

To Penelope’s delight, Colin made a habit, after that night, of asking her to dance once at every ball their families both attended. No one in society every really gossiped about what it meant. He was a Bridgerton, she, a Featherington; they had no reason to. However, Penelope and Colin found themselves talking even more. With Eloise yet to debut, the dances became a time and place for them to connect without her pulling Penelope in the opposite direction. They talked about anything and everything, one of their usual topics being that of travel.

Colin dreamed of traveling, of seeing the world, of living out adventures like the ones his father put down in stories when they were young. For her part, Penelope found it incredibly romantic, the idea of seeing all of the places mentioned in her favorite books or in the myths and legends of old. They spoke so much of travel, in fact, that it didn’t take long before Penelope began to join the Bridgertons for tea or in their tent when picnicking simply for the opportunity to help Colin go over his routes and maps as he planned a tour thoroughly enough Anthony would have no reason to deny him funding.

Rather than her offering—which she would have—Colin asked directly for her help with the maps, a fact she was startled by and grateful for. He had gotten better with his reading and writing over the years. It didn’t necessarily get easier for him, but she could tell he was better at taking his time and not letting his frustrations get the better of him.

It was through the hours they spent pouring over maps both simple and ornate that Penelope noticed a pattern in which ones Colin struggled with most. Daphne, who was his most supportive sibling of his plans to travel, had gifted him a gorgeous map textured with terrain markers and flourishing calligraphy. Colin would always pull it out first—he, like the rest of his family, seemed to put quite a bit of weight upon the drama and aesthetics of it all and Penelope suspected he used it in front of Daphne just to make her smile—but would then spend an hour frowning over it before switching out to a more utilitarian piece, instead. Noticing that he always seemed to linger longest and make the least amount for progress on the more illustrative maps, it didn’t take Penelope long to figure out that the swoops, the flourishes, the artistry of the more expensive maps—and, therefore, lettering—made the location names more difficult for him to read.

She didn’t mention her observation to Colin. Aside from a spare few times when they were children, they never spoke so directly about his difficulty with letters and Penelope suspected it was already quite the leap for him to ask for help; most men were far too prideful to do so. Besides, he was the one who had to live with the challenges, he surely did not need her pointing them out to him. The fact that he had the more simplistic utilitarian maps at all was likely a sign he was well aware of the difference.

So, Penelope never brought it up. However, her observation made her pay attention. She paid attention to the different fonts used in news sheets and shop signs, she took note of the flourishes drawn on society event invitations, and she spent perhaps an embarrassing amount of time studying her own handwriting, as well. Penelope had been writing for nearly as long as she could read. Scribbled stories, bad poetry that turned half decent when she got older, notes and observations on all of the gossip and scandals she witnessed once she was out in society. More often than not, Penelope found her fingers itching for a quill to write down some quip or turn of phrase that would spring up in her mind at the most inconvenient times. She constantly felt like her hand could not keep up with her thoughts, ink always sprinting across the page to capture every possible nuance and detail.

And yet, almost all of her writings were private. True, she and Eloise were dedicated correspondents over the years, she would send letters to her distant family in Ireland on the holidays, and she always took the time to send cards of condolences or congratulations for major events like Edmund’s passing or Daphne and Simon’s wedding—once they finally accepted what everyone else already saw.

Because of this, Penelope was surprised to notice she, herself, seemed to have two distinct styles of handwriting. One, she thought of as her true handwriting, the style she used when writing for herself and herself alone. It was small and tightly packed, words frequently bleeding into each other or half-finished because her mind was too busy racing on to the next. However, it was simpler, too. Simpler than what she thought of as her outward-facing writing style. When writing letters or helping her mother with invitations, Penelope found herself falling back on the lessons she was given before her debut: a lady’s hand must always be as elegant as she. In those instances, her letters had flourish—a flick in every dotted i, a swirl under every y or q, a line through every t or H that cut right through the unsuspecting letters that followed. It was elegant, enjoyable to look at and, even, fun to write when she wasn’t worried about her mother scolding the uniformity of script on every page, but it also prioritized style over legibility, a fact she had never truly considered before.

A fact that, rationally, she knew probably didn’t really need considering. After all, it wasn’t like Colin spent much time reading her writing. They saw each other often enough to converse and it was highly inappropriate for them to write to each other while they both were considered eligible in society’s eyes. Besides, Penelope would rather flee to the colonies than let Colin read her personal writings; there were far too many allusions to her feelings for him even though she’d never put his name in ink. Still, in spite of the gesture’s apparent lack of purpose, Penelope found herself staying up at night considering those simpler maps and the style of their letters. She found a pamphlet—some entreaty on canine hygiene—that used lettering similar to the map Colin favored and began to practice. It felt rather like she was back at her governess’s table, mimicking the clean lines and styles of the letters, but Penelope continued, sitting up with a single candle practicing a new style of handwriting, one exclusively for Colin, though she would never admit that to anyone. She knew it was foolish and she was being terribly lovesick. There would likely never be an opportunity for him to read her writing, anyway.

Only, if fate should turn and the moment arise, Penelope hoped her practice would help him enjoy the experience, not feel frustrated for it.

However, fate, it seemed, had a rather cruel sense of humor.

Mere days before Colin was meant to leave for his tour, the Featherington women received news that Lord Archibald Featherington had passed away—murdered, for his gambling debts, they would discover after a brief investigation. Penelope wished she could say she was distraught. She was upset, grief-stricken, even, but she had grown up with a sort of distance between herself and her father—a distance she suspected her sisters shared, as well. Throughout the years, Archibald Featherington had done his duty to them as a father, by society’s standards, at least. He ensured they did not go hungry, that they were housed and clothed and even indulged in their whims when possible. Penelope had vague memories of him holding her hand on a walk through the wildflowers out in the country and somewhere tucked beneath a floorboard in her room she was sure she had a card he signed from her third birthday, but they were fleeting things. Her father had never been on a pedestal in her mind and, from the way Portia fretted about the financial instability he’d left them with, she suspected he never would be.

In short, Penelope was not heartbroken over her father’s death because she did not love her father deeply enough to be so. And that, more than anything, tore her apart.

She had loved her father as much as she could but, when Eloise came over to comfort her, insisting that she would help Penelope find a reason to continue on—like she feared Penelope would disappear or fade like the Bridgerton children themselves so nearly did—Penelope realized her love was insignificant in the wake of what it could have been. What, perhaps, it should have been.

“It will be alright, Pen.” Eloise patted Penelope’s back awkwardly as Penelope cried harder with her reassurances, clearly unsure how to handle her tears. “It will.”

Penelope nodded, another sob wracking through her. It would be alright. That was precisely the issue. Stumbling through her tears, Penelope tried to reply, “It shou…should not be.”

“Of course it’s not,” Eloise murmured, misunderstanding her, as she led Penelope over to sit on the edge of her bed. “But in time, it does not get easier, but—”

“No.” Penelope pulled back from her friend, making no effort to wipe the tear tracks from her face. “Th…that is not what I m…meant.”

Eloise’s brow furrowed as she rubbed Penelope’s arm, waiting for her to calm down enough to speak without crying.

“Yes, I am…I am saddened, of course,” Penelope explained, pausing every few words to take a deep shaking breath, “but I am not…I did not—”

Penelope felt another sob building in her throat, but she held up her hand between them before Eloise could pull her into another hug.

“I do not know what will become of us, El,” Penelope continued after taking a moment to compose herself. “We do not know who is to inherit the estate or how we can afford stability until they do and all I can think of is that I should be mourning my papa, not thinking about everything else, but I cannot…I did not love him as I should and I—”

“Penelope Anne Featherington,” Eloise interrupted. She sounded so much like Violet it brough Penelope up short. Eloise paused, squeezing her shoulders so tight it nearly hurt. After a moment, her expression softened ever so slightly. “There is no such thing as should in this. Do you truly think that my siblings and I…that we all handled…that the same?”

Penelope’s heart swelled, tears in her eyes as she shook her head in response. Even more than the rest of the Bridgertons, Eloise never spoke about Edmund’s passing. She avoided all shows of vulnerability, opting for obstinacy and sarcasm when overcome, instead. The fact that Eloise was trying to connect with Penelope through this meant more than anything else ever could.

“Exactly.” Eloise cleared her throat and gave Penelope a shake before letting her go. “Now. Tell me again what you know about the estate. Perhaps we can find a way through this uncertainty.”

Penelope grabbed Eloise’s hands and squeezed. They were only two girls in a society that refused to see the power of women, but sitting there next to her best friend, Penelope began to think that maybe, just maybe, they would be okay.

—————

And, surprisingly, they were.

In the days after Eloise’s visit, over the last few weeks before the families of the ton returned to their country homes, all of the Bridgertons still in London surreptitiously began to involve themselves in the Featheringtons’ lives. It was small, at first. Violet brought Gregory and Hyacinth over during tea, filling the house with laughter and joy. Francesca visited to play duets with Prudence—somehow managing to keep a straight face while doing so—and Benedict helped Philippa with her watercolors. Eloise spent nearly every waking moment at Penelope’s side talking about books and listening when, seemingly at random, Penelope would share a pleasant story about her father.

Then, when Portia had finally accepted that the Bridgertons were sincere with their friendship, Anthony lent them the family’s solicitor to help go through the ruined books of the estate. Penelope knew as well as her mother that the private investment the solicitor uncovered—somehow the exact amount to replace their missing doweries—was undoubtedly a form of charity from the Bridgerton accounts but their situation was so desperate Portia set aside her pride and thanked them for ‘uncovering it’ with grace. The same grace Anthony had to say nothing when, a week later, Portia found a rather convenient document in the back of the late Lord Featherington’s desk that gave inheritance of the estate over to the first born of the Featherington daughters’ sons, should they have them.

Slowly, quietly, the Bridgertons helped them find their footing once more. They didn’t solve every problem, didn’t give them an easy out, but it was enough help to give them a chance at stability once more.

For her part, Penelope tried to distract herself from the guilt and grief by helping her mother. Grateful for the hours she’d spent learning secondhand from Colin’s coursework throughout the years, Penelope found she excelled at the organization, arithmetic, and agricultural knowledge needed to help rehabilitate the state of their holdings. She thrived with the responsibility and even managed to come to a sort of tenuous balance of mutual respect with her mother that meant more to her than anything. It helped, but it didn’t necessarily bring her comfort.

That comfort came, startlingly enough, in the form of a letter.

Three weeks after her father’s passing, Penelope was sitting in her room slowly packing for her family’s move to the country for the off-season when Mrs. Varley brought her a letter that immediately sent her heart racing.

She would know Colin’s handwriting anywhere.

Penelope blinked down at the letter, her name staring back at her, for a solid minute before she dared open it. Her eyes were already burning by the time she began to read.

Dearest Penelope,

I apologize for the fleeting condolences I gave to you and your family before my departure. I hate that the preparations for my tour kept me from offering my aid to you in earnest. My mother assures me that your family has found some comfort in ours, but I would be neglectful as a friend if I did not ask you directly.

How are you, Pen, truly?

I hope you will not respond in mere platitudes, for my concern is sincere. You have seen far too many of my own vulnerabilities for our friendship to rest on niceties.

I recognize that it is not necessarily proper for us to maintain a correspondence whilst I am away, but I wonder if you will indulge me in this. I have disembarked from the vessel just two days ago and already there are so many things I wish to tell you. Remember how we used to thrive on stories of adventure, Pen? Well, I can assure you that the dangerous thrill of living through a storm at sea cannot compare to the true terror of it. When a bolt of lightning struck the main mast, I very nearly cried out in terror—if you tell any of my siblings I will know of your betrayal, because I dared not mention that in my letters to them. In spite of the fear, however, there was something profound in the way the men on board—sailors, servants, and noblemen alike—banded together to ensure we made it through to safer waters. That night will stay with me forever, I think.

If you should prefer to shelter your reputation from the questions this letter may bring, I would understand. All that I ask is you tell Eloise to convey the status of your wellbeing on your behalf; I could not bear to continue without any news of your smile.

I do hope, however, that you will take the chance and write. Words have always been our way, have they not?

Yours, a world away,

Colin Bridgerton

Penelope read and reread the letter over and over again, careful to hold it up to the light so she did not dampen the paper with her tears. She read it until she very nearly had it memorized. She had never, in her wildest fantasies, truly believed that Colin would write to her. She knew his family expected letters and that she had hoped for the chance to perhaps send along a note with Eloise but she had never thought he would reach out to her first or with such care. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her heart from pounding hopefully in her chest, no matter how many times she reminded herself that he was simply writing as a concerned friend.

Between making sure her writing was as clear as she practiced and measuring her word choice so as to not give away any hint of her romantic feelings for him, Penelope spent hours agonizing over her response. When, the next morning, she set out her reply for the post, Penelope felt as though she were sending her heart away to sea. She told herself that Colin wouldn’t continue a long-term correspondence—between her and his family, the time it would take to do so would undoubtedly be too much of a distraction from his actual travels—but in the week that followed she couldn’t help sending anxious glances towards the door each morning the post came.

And, by some miracle, another letter arrived. Then another. Week after week, Penelope and Colin sent letters back and forth, even continuing when the Featheringtons returned to their country estate. The letters were honest and open and more comforting than Penelope would have ever imagined. She treasured them, especially knowing how hard Colin worked for them, and did her best not to chide Eloise too openly for being dismissive of the ones he sent to her and the rest of their siblings, as well.

It was odd, Penelope thought, that Eloise didn’t seem to know anything about the difficulties Colin had with the written word. She knew he had told Anthony back when he attended Eton, but she had assumed it was something the entire family would know eventually. When it became clear none of them did, however, Penelope stopped commenting on Eloise’s flippant attitude. As much as she wanted to stand up for Colin, there was something thrilling about knowing that she understood him in a way so few people did.

Even if that small secret piece of him was all she’d ever have.

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton had never loved anyone more than he loved Penelope Featherington.

It was something that was simply a part of him. The sky was blue, his mother’s cook made the best butter biscuits, and he had loved Penelope since she read his father’s stories to him nearly ten years ago on the drawing room floor of Bridgerton House. Embarrassingly, though, for as long as Colin had loved her, he could never quite admit that he was in love with her. Not outside of his dreams or late-night bouts of drunkenness. Certainly not to her. Their friendship was far too precious and already far too imbalanced with how much she did for him and how little he had to offer her for him to risk losing her by letting her—anyone, even himself—know how much he needed her.

So, for all that time that he loved her, that he was in love with her, he swore to himself that his feelings would remain a secret. That they must, if he wanted her to remain a part of his life. And that approach worked for years.

Until it didn’t.

It began with a single comment, made a week before he left for his second tour. His brothers had spent the morning teasing him about making Penelope a part of their family officially after Benedict found him packing her letters from his first tour into his travel bag. Colin had been embarrassed—a fact he felt ashamed of, now—at how Benedict cooed over the stack of letters, made all the more noticeable since he had not chosen to carry any of the—admittedly few—letters from his own family. Though he would never admit it, Colin knew that he was acting like a lovesick fool by carrying her words with him wherever he went. He knew it was the one thing that would give away his feelings for her, feelings he had tried desperately to hide for years. But he had never managed to part with them. One day, hopefully far into the future, Penelope would find someone strong and confident and capable enough to catch her eye and she would be swept off into the romance she deserved while Colin would be left with only their memories and her letters. They were precious beyond compare.

Their value, however, made him all the more anxious as Benedict recited terrible poetry in an attempt to guess what Colin had written to Pen in response. Normally, Colin could stomach his brothers’ teasing, even when they were right, but in this?

It felt like they were mocking him for wanting the one thing he could never have. He wanted to lash out and break down all at once, but he knew that would only result in more teasing or pity. So, instead, he did the only thing he could to protect the truth.

He laughed. “Me, send love letters to Penelope Featherington? Are you mad?”

It had been a single comment—defensive, deflective, untrue—and the moment he saw the looks on his brothers’ faces, he knew he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Colin turned slowly towards the open door of Bridgerton House to find Penelope standing there, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging just slightly open. Time felt as though it had stopped, like if Colin didn’t move it wouldn’t be real, but then one of his brothers cleared their throat and the spell was broken.

Penelope’s jaw snapped shut, her eyes shining with a flash of pain, betrayal, then resignation. Her gaze fell from him to turn sternly to his brothers. “Whatever gave you the impression that I would respond to such romantic overtures even if Colin had sent them?”

Colin flinched at the question. Of course she wouldn’t; that was precisely why he had never sent them. Both Anthony and Benedict floundered, neither used to the harsh edge to her tone.

“Mr. Bridgerton and I have corresponded because his family failed to do so.” Penelope arched an eyebrow at the two older men. Her gaze returned to Colin, cold and resigned, like she had already accepted that he could laugh at her. Like she had expected it, even. Like she had such low expectations for him and their friendship and he had met them. “However, if my intentions were misconstrued, then perhaps it is best to put an end to such improper familiarity.”

Colin’s heart dropped and he reached out to her instinctively. She couldn’t actually mean that, could she? He had held himself back at every turn, had bit his tongue until it bled to keep from saying or doing too much, to keep from pushing her away, and now, to lose her anyway, he could not bear it. “Pen, no, that is not—”

She stepped away, moving around him to head back across the square. “After all, we would not want to suffer the consequences of such impropriety.”

“Pen—” Colin tried to follow her, but Anthony put a hand on his shoulder.

“Miss Featherington, I assure you any offense you feel should be put upon myself or Benedict,” Anthony began hesitantly, clearly unsure how to handle either her temper or Colin’s desperation. “We made childish insinuations and my brother was simply assuring us that nothing improper had happened.”

“Of course not,” Penelope muttered, holding her chin up high before she continued, “nor will it, I assure you. Good day.”

With that, she spun on her heel and stalked off across the square before any of them could move to follow. Colin stood there, his heart in his throat, Anthony’s hand on his shoulder, watching as Penelope disappeared behind the door of Featherington House. He could hardly hear the sound of Benedict’s apology or Anthony’s attempt to assure him that she would come around eventually. All Colin could think of was the way she had looked through him, like he wasn’t even worth her anger. All he understood was how much it hurt to realize how easy it was for her to turn away.

And, through that pain, Colin realized the worst part was that it should have been true.

He should have been writing her love letters. If he remembered right, there were a few that practically were love letters, that could have been, if he hadn’t been so scared that he would push her away if he crossed that line. Only, he had pushed her away, regardless. At least if he had written her love letters, if she had left him then, he could have said he had tried. He could have saved her the pain of the lie.

But he hadn’t and now he wasn’t sure he would ever get the chance. If he even deserved one.

It was that thought that held him back from telling her the truth in the days that followed. How could he admit that he would send her love letters every single day when she could hardly bring herself to look at him? While true that, in the days that followed, Penelope gave him a chance to apologize more fully and claimed she was no longer angry with him—actually, she had claimed there wasn’t anything to be angry about but they both knew that wasn’t true else he wouldn’t be so furious with himself—the air between them had remained stiff and cold. Colin had very nearly called off his second tour for the sake of putting things to rights between them, but Anthony lamented the financial waste since it was already funded and his mother suggested that, perhaps, Penelope needed space. From the way she practically fled any room he entered, he suspected his mother was right.

So, Colin did his best to make amends while he was there and prepared himself for the fear of what would come when he left.

Before he left, however, he did his best to be there in case Penelope wanted to talk. He poured her tea just as she liked it when she came to visit Violet; passed along books he thought she would like through Eloise who knew he had done something wrong, but clearly did not know what, else he wouldn’t still be alive; and even sent flowers to the Featheringtons’ house, meant for her only, though they were never addressed to her as he feared she’d turn them away. And with each passing day, Penelope let him in closer. She chuckled at his jokes, asked him where he had settled on for the cities on his tour, and even suggested he ask the sailors at each port to exchange currency at the docks rather than wondering if the inn would take British coin in each city like he had on his last trip.

But she still held herself at a distance.

There were times when Colin couldn’t even pinpoint what exactly was different, but he knew something was. It was there in the way she smiled too briefly, in the way she stood half a step back, in how she never sought him out, not once on her own.

And it hurt. It hurt more than Colin could have ever imagined, to feel her drifting away because of something he had done, knowing that he had no right to reach out and hold on. Part of him—the desperate, terrified part that she had always seen even when he wished she couldn’t—still hoped. As he set off on his trip, he hoped that she would write to him like she had before, that they could reconnect and rebuild their friendship through letters, that even if he couldn’t tell her the truth, space would not have to mean absence.

He sent the first letter the moment his feet landed on the solid ground.

The second from the inn a week later.

The third after five days to tell her he was moving on to the next city, to tell her where she could forward her response.

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, the—

He lost count somewhere after the first dozen.

He stopped expecting a response before that, but he couldn’t stop writing. He couldn’t.

He had stopped hiding the truth of his feelings for her, though he still couldn’t bring himself to say the words directly. He wrote overtures to her voice, lamented over every smile she hadn’t turned his way, praised every inch of her body in ways so scandalous it would surely make the worst rake blush. The first of those letters was sent with the courage of whiskey and desperation, but a sick part of him hoped its contents would shock her into responding. Even her anger would be better than silence. But with each new silence, with each splotch of inch, each page stained with sea water and tears, Colin felt more certain that she wasn’t reading them at all. He hoped she wasn’t, in a way. If she was, if she could see his heart ripped out on the page and still sit there, unmoved, then that would mean she truly felt nothing for him anymore.

If she ever had.

And that, above all else, was more than he could bear.

So, he continued. He sent letter after letter—some mundane observations, others thinly veiled confessions and pleas—praying that the next would be the one to earn a response. To bring with it some sort of change.  

The tipping point came, however, when his ship docked at its scheduled stop in Albania and he found a book-sized parcel waiting for him. Colin accepted the package with the usual spikes of excitement then disappointment when he saw it wasn’t from Penelope. It was from Eloise, which was odd considering she had become an even worse correspondent since his falling out with her friend, but Colin assumed it was simply some book she had become fixated on or perhaps Penelope had told her what happened between them and Eloise was finally disowning him from the family—whether it was within her power to do so or not. Either way, Colin did not have the energy to deal with whatever antics his sister had in mind. Instead, he shoved the parcel into his bag and did his best to distract himself from brooding by losing himself in the culture around him.

In the end, he wasn’t successful. Every single thing he saw or tried or heard reminded him of Penelope. The red and blush sunsets, the clear blue ocean, the pale white beaches. Even when encountering something totally new, Colin wanted nothing more than to share it with her. As always, since she couldn’t be there with him, he took to writing. He carried a small journal and charcoal pencil with him to take notes or draw—admittedly terrible—sketches so that he could remember the precise feeling and sense of the moment so he could convey it perfectly to her on the page.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that writing, which he had always had such a fraught relationship with growing up, was something that came almost naturally where Penelope was concerned. Not easily, no, not without challenge, but it was as though she inspired him to write in spite of it all, like he could seek her out through words alone.

She was language, to him. She was softly whispered stories and childhood dreams, she was adventure and daring and uncharted waters, she was elegance and ink in the most beautiful script. He had always had trouble reading—and, he realized, had even had trouble reading her—but she was always, always worth the work.

Even though the pages he wrote were scattered and, at times, unhinged, Colin still drafted his letters to her, filling journal after journal with pages so that he could send her the best versions with the fewest errors. It seemed only appropriate, since she had spent so much time helping him find a way to manage his way with language, that he send her only the best of himself in turn. Even if she did not want it. Even if she did not want him.

The stop in Albania was only a day and a half, so Colin didn’t have as much time as he would have liked to write to Penelope before they set out again. Determined to use the light from the small window in his quarters below deck while it lasted, Colin immediately settled in at the table and dug around for his journal to transcribe his notes. However, as he reached into his bag, his hand found the yet-unopened package from Eloise, instead.

Now that the initial wave of disappointment had faded, he found his curiosity piqued. It wasn’t solid like a book, though it had the form of one, and it was surprisingly light for any of the usual things his other family members sent to him. Deciding the letter to Penelope could wait—it could not be mailed until they docked again, regardless—Colin set the package on the table, untied the twine, and opened it.

His heart dropped.

Stacked inside the parcel were the letters he’d sent to Penelope. Colin hardly noticed the two open sheets of paper that slipped to the side as he rifled through all of the letters. They were unopened, the stamps tracking each country and port he’d mailed them from, her name in his own handwriting glaring back up at him. His hands were shaking as he spread them out, shocking himself with the sheer volume—and that wasn’t even all of them, he saw at least the three most recent cities still missing.

Colin’s eyes started to burn. He forced himself to take a deep breath and unclench his jaw before the panic set in.

She hadn’t burned them, he told himself. At least she hadn’t burned them.

But, somehow, this seemed worse.

Turning his attention away from the piles of unopened letters before he could truly spiral, Colin grabbed the loose sheets of paper and angled them towards the light. The first was short and brusque.

Brother,

I do not know what has caused this rift between you and my best friend, nor do I wish to. I thought you should know, she has asked me to dispose of these. Perhaps I would, if I knew why, but instead I believed you might like them. Or, at least, to know that she could not bring herself to destroy them on her own.

Whatever you have done, fix it.

EB

Colin crumpled Eloise’s note in his fist then immediately smoothed it out again on the table’s edge. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling as he willed his tears not to fall. There were too many things he wanted to say and take back, to feel and to shove down, but above all else two thoughts kept circling in his head.

Penelope didn’t destroy his letters.

She wanted to.

Once he felt his vision was clear enough to continue, Colin sat forward again and reached for the second open sheet.

My Dearest El,

I am glad to hear Aubrey Hall has afforded you a reprieve before the coming season though I suspect you will come to appreciate the quiet more once we return to town some months hence. Keep this letter so we might revisit it then to see which of us was correct.

Unfortunately, I fear I must ask something rather strange of you. I beg you, my friend, please do not ask me why and please do not do anything beyond what I ask. I will gift you any book in my collection in return.

Along with this letter, you will find a collection of letters from your brother. He and I took up a correspondence during his tour of Greece last year and he has tried to continue it thus.

I cannot. For as dear as he is to me, as your brother and someone who has often shown me kindness, I cannot bear to keep these. I cannot even open them. Please, I beg you, do not do so in my stead. All I ask is that you help rid me of them. Burn them, trample them, send them to the wind, they must go and yet I cannot bring myself to do it. I pray you will not have such qualms.  

Truly, know how dreadful I feel asking this of you. You have already been such a dear friend in the wake of this strangeness. I could not bear to lose you. I have lost one friend already.

Forgive me, El, truly, but know that your aid means the world.

Your dearest friend,

Penelope

Colin read the letter, slowly, painstakingly. Then he sat, stared, and read it again. It wasn’t…

Something about it wasn’t right.

More than the fact that Penelope’s obvious distress—over him, because of him—tore holes through his chest, more than the sickening idea of her packing their entire friendship into a book-sized parcel and his sister mailing it across the world, there was something…different about this letter that kept the anxiety and despair at bay through the sheer force of his confusion. Perhaps it was word choice, perhaps the parchment weight or ink color. Far too stuck on whatever had changed, Colin reached for the trunk of daily travel items stored under his bed on the ship. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was searching for—he reread them constantly, after all—and he unfolded one of the letters Penelope sent him near the end of his last tour.

He stared at them, brow furrowing. Hunched over the table, Colin turned one letter over towards the light then the other. It was only when he set the papers down with Eloise’s nestled between them that Colin realized.

Her handwriting.

He hadn’t recognized Penelope’s handwriting at first and it had taken a few minutes more than he would have expected to read it. Spreading both Penelope’s letter to Eloise and the older one to him side by side, Colin compared the lettering. One was more twirling and ornate, the other straightforward and…

Easier.

Her letters to him were easier to read.

They always had been, he realized. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Colin had assumed that Penelope’s letters had been easier to read simply because her handwriting had become so familiar over time, simply because he loved her words so much, but this—

Somehow she had realized, somehow she had known, and she had, as she’d always done, taken action.

She had changed her handwriting so her letters to him were easier to read.

Colin couldn’t stop the sob that tore through his chest, the letters in his hands shaking as he pressed the backs of his wrists against his eyes as if that could somehow stop the truth from breaking through.

Not only had he loved her.

Not only was he in love with her.

But somehow, for some reason, at some point she had loved him. She had loved him enough to do more than anyone else ever had. In such a small, silent way, she had made him feel seen, feel capable, feel held in a way no one ever had.

And he had thrown it in her face.

He had been too terrified of his own feelings, of his own lack of worth, that he had failed to understand hers, had failed to see her.

Colin dropped the letters, old and new, and shoved back from the table, wood scaping loudly in the small space. He couldn’t look at the letters, couldn’t look at the proof of her feelings, for fear that he would be physically sick with guilt.

How could he make up for how horribly he had wronged her?

How could he offer her even a fraction of the care she had given him?

How could he dare to love her after everything? When all he had ever done was take and take and take and, when the time came, he had laughed—laughed—at the one thing that brought them together. At the very thing that proved her love for him.

Colin had always prided himself on being a gentleman, charming, smart, outgoing, but he felt like the worst sort of cad for how he had treated Penelope. Stumbling away from the chair and collapsing onto the cot along the wall of the room, Colin curled in on himself, praying the Devil himself might sink the ship and put him out of his misery.

Because, as terrible as the guilt and shame and remorse were, the worst part—the thing that made Colin wish the world would turn itself inside out—was that, selfishly, he wanted more.

More time to apologize and plead his case.

More of her laughter singing through the halls.

More dances where he could hold her close and make her smile.

More stories, more nights working side-by-side, more letters, more words, more—

More of her.

All of her.

He had no right to stand in Penelope’s good graces, certainly not after taking advantage of her care for so long, but he wanted to. Colin had been missing Penelope since the moment he left—before, even—but, in the wake of his realization that she had once cared that deeply for him, everything felt sharper and more urgent.

It didn’t matter if she never wanted to speak with him again. It didn’t matter if he was hardly good enough to pour her tea. It didn’t matter if all of the love she’d once had for him—because who would go to such lengths if not for love?—had gone brittle and bitter.

He needed to try.

Was that not what she had taught him during all of those hours working through language with her by his side? The only way through was to try.

So, not an hour after setting foot at the next port, Colin bought passage right back to London. The idea of returning home after Penelope had tried to so blatantly tear him from her life was terrifying, but every second not in her presence felt like another stone piled on top of his chest.

Perhaps she would throw his flaws back in his face, perhaps she would give him the cut directly, but Colin couldn’t bear a lifetime of regrets. He had enough of those already.

The journey back would take weeks, more if he waited until the season began to seek her out, as would be proper. He was determined to use that time to plan, to figure out how he might earn her forgiveness, win her affections, and make himself into a man who could one day dream of being worthy of her love.

Regardless of how much time passed or how quickly she turned him away, the next time Colin Bridgerton saw Penelope Featherington, she would know that he loved her. He would make sure of that.

Chapter Text

Colin arrived in London far later than he had hoped. In his haste to procure passage back home, he had ignored warnings about the threat of storms looming on the horizon. It would have felt fated—if he wasn’t too overwhelmed by the need to see Penelope as soon as possible—the fact that he was returning through a storm when he had experienced the same on his first trip to the continent. Any deeper meaning was lost on him, however, as the waves shoved the ship into treacherous waters, a shallow reef tearing a hole through the hull. They were close enough to land, and sailing with experienced enough men, to make it safely to the nearest shore without casualty or injury, but the village they had been grounded near was too small to have the necessary tools to make the repair. As such, he and the rest of the crew were stranded somewhere off the coast of Corsica, forced to wait for supplies from the next town over—if they had them at all.

The wait was absolutely excruciating. Colin had already squandered so much of his time with Penelope, so much of it spent silenced by fear or feelings of self-doubt, that every second not in her presence felt like another step she could take away from him. Part of him feared he was already too late. That, with her casting his letters from her life, she was moving on, ready to put any feelings she may have had to rest.

But she hadn’t read them.

It was the one thing Colin clung to when the nights grew too dark and too lonely. She hadn’t burned them, she hadn’t read them. Whatever understanding she thought she had of his regard for her was all that she had. It was all that she was turning away from. Not the reality, not the truth of him. As long as he knew she hadn’t read his letters and then turned away, he could hold onto hope that his words would sway her.

If only he could find a way for them to reach her.

Not for the first time since the ship had been grounded, Colin found himself sat at a local tavern, nursing alcohol not nearly strong enough for his liking as he wracked his brain for how, exactly, he could make Penelope hear him out. A letter wouldn’t work, she would not read it; Eloise had already done far more for him than he’d expected, she would never write to Penelope on his behalf; and there were far too few opportunities for him to speak with her in private, especially if she was still determined to avoid him upon his return.

Glaring down at his glass as if it was personally responsible for his current lack of inspiration, Colin finished his drink and was just about to raise his hand for another when an older man came and sat down across from him.

“I am afraid I will not be the best company,” Colin told the man—the ship’s captain, he realized belatedly—even though he accepted the tankard of ale offered to him. “Unless you have news of the repairs?”

“Not enough lumber brought in.” The captain didn’t bother to sound apologetic, simply knocking his glass against Colin’s and pausing for a drink. “Should be back to sea in about a week.”

Colin did his best to muffle his curse with his own ale, but from the captain’s expression he wasn’t very successful.

“Family or wife?” The captain settled back in his chair, his gaze far too keen for Colin’s liking.

“What?” Colin himself was a few drinks in and, thus, at a severe disadvantage in following such an indirect question.

The captain didn’t seem bothered by his lack of wit. “Which has you so impatient to be back?”

Colin scowled into his alcohol, spilling some down his chin when he tried to drink more than he should. He wiped it off with the back of his wrist. “Neither.”

The man let out a gruff laugh, nodding as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “You don’t think she’ll wait for you, then?”

“How—” Colin cut himself off with a shake of his head. It didn’t matter how this man, this veritable stranger, knew that he was lovelorn and desperate. He was sure it was practically oozing from his skin. “I have made her wait too long already.”

“Then a week won’t make much difference, now, will it?”

Colin glared up at the man but was surprised to find a level of sympathy under the mischievous glint in his eye. It reminded Colin of Anthony back before he became the viscount. It reminded him of his father.

“Tell me about her,” the captain prompted, waiving the barkeep over for another round.

Colin shook his head when offered the drink, staring instead down at the empty cup in his hands. It felt strange to talk about Penelope with this man. To talk about her at all, really; Colin had spent so much time speaking with and thinking about his friend, he had never realized that the only time he truly spoke of her was that fated afternoon with his brothers.

How could it be that he had never sung the praises of the woman he loved? How had he never told anyone how wonderful she was? How had he never told her?

“Penelope. My Pen…she is…everything.”

Colin exhaled fully for what felt like the first time in months. As soon as the words left his lips, he couldn’t seem to stop. Every praise he’d written that she’d never read, every moment of wonder he’d ever felt in her presence and never called attention to, everything that made Penelope who she was, everything that he loved, came spilling from his lips straight from his soul. He didn’t stop even when he spoke of how, underneath all of the pain and fear, he was proud of how she’d handled his insult. He was proud that she’d stood up for herself because he knew how hard it was for her to do. And he knew he must look like a fool, crying and smiling and terrified as he told this complete stranger that he wasn’t sure he deserved the chance to win her back even if he could figure out a way to try, but Colin didn’t care. He didn’t care about the strange looks the other patrons were giving him or the way the captain eventually shoved a glass of water into his hands like he was trying to sober him up or keep him hydrated like a child about to cry themselves to sleep.

He didn’t care about any of it because to say her name was like calling on the word of God and Colin wasn’t a religious man but looking back on all of their memories with the knowledge that she had loved him once could never be anything but divine.

And it didn’t feel like enough, not nearly enough, but when he finished all he had breath to say, Colin looked at the man across from him and said, “I love her. I love her with all that I am and all that I hope to be. But I do not know if that is enough.”

The captain stared at him for several seconds, his expression sympathetic, if a bit amused. Eventually, he shrugged. “You won’t know if you don’t ask her.”

“Bit hard to do stranded here.” Colin chuckled, rubbing the lingering moisture from his eyes. When the man frowned, clearly unimpressed with the deflection, he added, “She would hardly look at me, before I left. She will not read my letters, I doubt she would entertain a call. How can I ask if she will not speak to me?”

“Seems to me, you just need to make her to listen.” The captain stood, grumbling under his breath as he stretched out his back.

Colin wasn’t sure why it mattered so much what this man had to say, but he couldn’t help but ask, “And if she doesn’t?”

The captain looked down at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then, at least you’ll know.”

He gave Colin a rough shake before turning and wandering back to the bar where several of the other crew members were drinking and chatting.

Colin downed the rest of the water in his glass then left the tavern for his quarters on the ship once more, hoping the walk would help as he tried to find any inspiration for how to reach Penelope once he returned. Something about talking to the captain—more so, something about talking about Pen—had settled him. Ever since he was a child, Colin knew that Penelope meant more to him than any other friend or woman he had ever met. That hadn’t changed. But he had also always felt that his feelings were too much for their friendship and yet somehow not enough for her. Laying everything out in the open…he still wasn’t sure if he was enough, but he felt lighter, somehow. As if speaking his feelings for her aloud made them as significant, as real, as they had always felt. There was something freeing about being known as the man who loved Penelope Featherington.

And didn’t she deserve to know she was loved, as well?

If only he knew how to get her to listen.

When Colin returned to his quarters, he was greeted with the mess of papers he’d abandoned there. All of the letters Penelope had never opened, all of the ones she’d sent him the year before, and half a dozen crumpled up replies to Eloise’s note all lay scattered about the table and floor. Colin sat down at the table, as usual, and stared at the various piles of paper, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind. He packed away Penelope’s letters from his first tour, brushed the unfinished responses to Eloise from the table, and turned his attention to his own letters, all still sealed and stamped.

He hadn’t been able to look at them since he’d first dumped them out upon boarding. When he first opened Eloise’s parcel, part of him had wanted to destroy them. He’d considered casting them off into the sea or shredding them and using them to fuel the fire when next they made port. Now, however, he was grateful he hadn’t. Instead, he took a deep breath and plucked one from the pile at random. It was an older one, back when he still had hope Penelope would respond.

With shaking fingers, he broke the seal and began to read:

Miss Featherington,

I use your title in hopes that you will understand I mean nothing improper in my letters. It feels unnatural to do so. I will endeavor to maintain this formality, if it will allow you to feel comfortable enough to respond.

Please, Pen.

Forgive me if I am too forward in my hopes for your response, but I do miss you your letters terribly. They are a comfort so far from home, one I am no longer sure I deserve. I understand you said you were no longer upset by what transpired between us, but I cannot help but feel the rift in our friendship as if it is a tear in my own soul.

You have always been special to me. More than would be proper to say.

So, I fear I must say nothing in hopes that this letter will be proper enough for your reply.

I feel as though I should have more to tell you; I know you always claimed to enjoy my stories. You were the only one who ever did.

The sky here is blue, as is the sea. The air is far cooler than it ought to be for the season. I have walked and slept and ate and have thought of nothing else but you.

Perhaps, even that, is too far.

Write to me, Pen, please. Perhaps then I could see the world beyond the absence of you.

Yours,

Colin Bridgerton

Colin let out a despondent laugh even as the paper fell to the table. What madness had possessed him to believe that to be a proper letter? He was all but begging for her attention, declaring himself in every way except the one that mattered. Picking up another page, he continued to read through all of the letters he had sent her. Some were startlingly poet, others desperation incarnate, and a few even verged on anger, raving questions about how she could have tricked him into believing she was his friend when it was so easy for her to cast him away.

He wanted to tear those to shreds, but he refrained. True, he understood—now that he’d seen the love she had for him, unspoken but as clear as the unique handwriting on her page—that her response had been proportionate to how badly he’d hurt her, especially considering she only withheld that which should have never been given in the first place. But he couldn’t destroy those letters because they were a part of him, as true as any other. And if he wanted the privilege to see her entirely, to love her openly, then he would need to be brave enough to allow her the same.

By the time Colin had read through all of the letters he’d sent her, he felt…torn open but also determined. Something about his letters held power over her. She would have destroyed them herself or opened them and read them if they did not. He needed to find a way to get her to read them—or if not those letters, exactly, then his writing, honest and without reservation. The way he’d only ever been with her.

Glancing through the papers, his attention caught on the short missive from Eloise. If anyone would know how to get his words into Penelope’s hands, it would be his sister. If she would help him, which he was fairly certain she wouldn’t. But, then again, Colin would have never expected her to go against Penelope’s wishes, either. Perhaps she would be more amenable to his idea than he originally believed.

Resolved to take the chance, Colin took out his quill and ink and began to write. He didn’t bother drafting, didn’t bother proofreading, he simply sealed the letter and prayed that it would arrive before his own injured ship limped its way home.

———————

“Look. He is neither injured nor dying.”

Colin’s head snapped up as he dropped his bag in the foyer of Bridgerton House. There, at the top of the steps, stood Eloise and Benedict, varying levels of annoyance and concern on their faces.

“Do you have any idea how worried we were for you?” Eloise continued, stomping down the stairs and abruptly pulling him into a hug. “Mama nearly did not let me come back to town alone—”

“What am I?” Benedict interjected from over her shoulder.

“She very nearly packed up the entire family.” Eloise ignored him. “That letter of yours was mad.”

“Was it?” Colin asked sheepishly as he returned her embrace.

“‘I will be returning to London by the end of next week. I beg your presence upon my arrival,’” Eloise quoted. She stepped back and crossed her arms as Benedict took her place.

“You do look rather worse for wear,” Benedict remarked. “You were not ill, were you?”

Colin suspected he looked worse than he felt. Throughout the entire trip, he’d either slept days away dreaming of Penelope or not at all for missing her. His appetite had been reduced significantly—replaced with whatever liquor was on hand—and he’d hardly left his quarters except for wandering aimlessly in cities he hardly knew the name of. He’d done his best to put himself to rights on the voyage home, but the hours spent planning how to reach out to Penelope had undoubtedly taken their toll.

Rather than explain all of that to his siblings, he opted for the simplest most honest answer. “Yes, actually. I found myself quite lovesick.”

Benedict’s eyes went wide and Eloise’s mouth fell open.

It was Benedict who broke the silence first. “So this is about Penelope?”

“Of course it is about Penelope,” Eloise muttered, her expression twisting as if she was unsure if she should feel nauseous or proud.

“It is.” Colin nodded. It was such a relief to let go of the denial and defensiveness. He was sure his family would pity him if he bared himself to the truth and Penelope still rejected him, but the freedom of stating it so simply left him grinning like a fool. “I need to speak with her.”

“She will not receive you.” Eloise shook her head. “Not outside of company, at least.”

“How is she?” Colin asked, his grin fading.

Ever since he had allowed himself to plan and to hope once more, he had found himself wondering over Penelope’s wellbeing even more than his own despondency and frustration. She had said in the past that her family’s country estate offered little respite, that his letters—and his sister’s—had afforded her some modicum of comfort. He was all too aware that he had taken that from her, as well.

“She does not write as much,” Eloise replied still looking as though she was considering hitting him. “She would not visit this year, either.”

“I fear I still owe you both an apology,” Benedict remarked, picking up Colin’s bag and waving for them to move to the study. “Ant and I should not have pushed so far that day.”

“No.” Colin shook his head. “The fault is mine. I should have been honest, years ago, really. But I wish to make it right.”

“Then we will endeavor to help you.” Benedict nodded, glancing over to Eloise then elbowing her when she didn’t immediately agree.

“So long as you do not hurt her again,” Eloise grumbled. “What did you have in mind?”

Colin offered her a grateful smile then, grabbing his bag from Benedict, dumped out all of the letters he’d written on his tour onto the nearby desk. His siblings gaped at them, Benedict rifling through a few while Eloise seemed to roughly count them.

“There are more than before, aren’t there?” She asked, sinking into the chair behind the desk.

Colin nodded. He felt his ears grow red as Benedict read through a particularly long letter. “She enjoys reading scandal sheets, does she not?”

Eloise looked at him as if he’d lost his mind—which was fair, considering the abrupt change in subject—but she answered, regardless, “As far as I know. I have never understood the appeal.”

“Do you know which she favors?” Colin tried not to cringe when Benedict let out a low whistle over one of the letters; he was going to have to grow used to people reading them if he wanted his plan to work. When Eloise nodded her response, he asked, “And do you know where it is printed?”

Eloise began to shake her head then froze, her gaze dropping to the pile of letters. “You do not mean to—”

“Are you sure you are not ill?” Benedict asked, waving one of the letters in Colin’s face. “You wish to…publish these?”

“Anonymously, of course.” Colin crossed his arms and lifted his chin. He had been prepared for this sort of reaction. If anyone other than Penelope recognized who the letters were written by—or meant for—it would be scandalous. Ruinous, even. “If I have them printed by the same press that distributes her favored column, then the errand boys will be sure to go by her house. I do not want to risk all of Mayfair reading them without her.”

Benedict dropped the letter as if it were too salacious to hold—a feat, all things considered. “Colin, some of what is written here—”

“I will remove all recognizable details.” Colin waved away his concern with a smirk. “As for the content, that is why we need a printer willing to print scandals.”

“And if she does not read them?” Eloise asked. He could see her warring between curiosity at the plan and hesitation on behalf of her friend—or, perhaps, she hesitated for him. “Or if they are not well received?”

“I have spent far too long trying to feel less, trying to hold back everything I have wanted to say to her, for years. I do not wish to do that any longer.” Colin took a deep breath, unable to meet his siblings’ eyes. “I nearly lost her. If I try and she turns me away, well…at least then, I’ll know.”

Eloise and Benedict exchanged a pointed glance and, for a moment, Colin thought they write his idea off as too extreme or too scandalous. When they turned back to him, however, both smiled.

“I believe Hyacinth keeps the discarded sheets in her room.” Eloise stood and made her way towards the door. “I will see if she has the right one so we can look for the printer’s mark.”

“And I will help you make these not so…” Benedict waved his hand over the pile of letters as he sat in the chair Eloise had just vacated. “Well, let us at least make it so mother does not faint with shock while reading them.”

Colin chuckled, feeling the heat rise up his neck as he took the chair opposite his brother and thought back to the more…risqué letters he’d written once he’d lost hope of Penelope responding. “Yes, well. Perhaps they could do with some revision.”

Benedict burst out laughing as he dug through the desk for fresh parchment. “It is good we have time, then.”

Colin smiled sheepishly and agreed.

What time they had, however, passed rather quickly. It was easy enough to track down the printer who published Penelope’s favored scandal sheet and, once they had, the man was easily swayed by the truly exorbitant payment Colin offered him for multiple printings and his silence. Once the schedule was set and the letters were edited—some of them required much more editing than Colin remembered, but Benedict was patient in his offer to help, more patient than Colin would have expected—with some additions made, all that was left was to wait.

Colin did his best not to obsess or spiral, not to panic and change course, but the weeks waiting for society to return to London were agony. His own family returned several days before the Featheringtons, Eloise and Benedict doing their best to warn away the rest of their siblings from disturbing his endless pacing.

Wearing away a path in front of the drawing room window, Colin saw the day the Featheringtons returned to London, but he was surprised to see only Penelope and her mother. While he had never given much thought to her sisters, it was disconcerting to think that Prudence had married in the off season and Penelope hadn’t written to him to share some depiction of it. Still, he watched Penelope as she stood aside for the staff to bring in her and her mother’s trunks. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, waiting, praying for her to raise her head and look his way.

She never did.

Colin tried to push his disappointment from his mind as the rest of the family bustled around Francesca in preparation for her debut. It rose again, however, when he did not see the Featheringtons at the queen’s garden party. There were no more Featherington daughters to newly debut and they had no brothers to show interest in the marriage mart, so it was reasonable that they would not attend, but Colin couldn’t shake the feeling that Penelope had contrived their lack of attendance purely for the sake of avoiding him. She would have to participate in society eventually, but Colin slowly started to wonder if perhaps his horribly public declaration would be for nothing.

Still, the printing schedule was set and he refused to back out now. Even if it meant ruining the last chance of earning her favor he would ever have.

Chapter Text

Penelope was beautiful.

It was a thought Colin had had a thousand times before—one he hoped he’d have the opportunity to have a thousand times again—but it struck him no less powerfully.

Penelope, as she descended the stairs of Lady Danbury’s ball draped in emerald and gold, was beautiful.

And everyone else seemed to notice, too.

Try as he might to give Lords Wilding and Stanton his full attention, Colin was continually distracted by the line of men who seemed determined to sweep Penelope off to dance. His preoccupation was so consuming that, after she had been returned to her mother’s side by one of the newer gentlemen to town, Colin turned back to his conversation partners only to notice they had both left for the smoking room on their own.

Left, then, with no one to keep him in check and with no man by Penelope’s side, Colin found himself moving across the floor without a second thought. She saw him, before he meant her to, her bright blue eyes growing wide as he crossed the last stretch of room to her side.

Colin felt like his heart was pounding out of his chest. He had no idea if she would turn and run, if she would stay and speak, or if she would simply ignore his very presence—each sounded equally crushing. Part of him wanted to blurt out the truth, to hang the plan and fall to his knees right there in front of everyone, but there was something in her eyes that kept him still. Something bright and shining and hopeful and hurt.

Something he’d seen a thousand times before, both in her and in himself.

So, rather than break whatever odd truce remained between them, he simply bowed his head and whispered, “Pen.”

When he lifted his eyes to hers, he found a sort of confusion there, guarded and unsure. She seemed to shake herself, offering him a shallow curtsey. “Mr. Bridgerton. I did not expect you to return so soon from your travels.”

“Colin, please,” he replied, hardly sure she could hear her over the general chatter around them. “I returned weeks ago, in fact. Immediately after learning you sent away my letters.”

Penelope stiffened, her eyes darting past him to where Eloise was hiding from some gentleman Violet had waiting in the wings for her. Without turning back, she replied, “You had not stopped writing.”

“I never did.” She looked back to him, then, her brow furrowed in confusion, but Colin simply smiled, offering her his hand. “Dance with me?”

His heart felt like it was in his throat as he waited for her response. She glanced between his face and his outstretched hand, her own half lifted even as she held herself back.

“I have already been asked to dance,” Penelope hedged, pulling her hand back against herself, “by men who might wish to court me.”

Colin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from insisting that he wished to court her, that he had wished it for years, though he’d been too scared to say so. Instead, he nodded, refusing to lower his offered hand.

“I will not insist if you do not wish to,” he replied after a moment. She frowned but nodded, taking half a step back from him. Unable to stand the distance or the glimmer of disappointment in her eyes, he leaned forward and added, “But I would claim every one of your dances, if you would allow it.”

Penelope’s lips parted in surprise, and he prayed she remembered that day—their first formal dance—the way that he did. How it had pained him to step away, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide, how he had reminded himself that she deserved to be courted and wooed by someone who could offer her more than himself. He hoped she understood that he had never wanted to let her go.

Still, she did not respond. Resigned, Colin began to lower his hand—the publications were still scheduled, he could wait for the plan they’d put in place—when she abruptly reached for him.

“You know it is impolite for a lady to refuse a dance.” Penelope lifted her chin, but the small twitch at the corner of her lips gave him hope.

Her hand in his was surprisingly cold, or perhaps that was merely the silk between them. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, not daring to speak until they were in position at the center of the floor. “I was the one who could never refuse you, Pen.”

Her expression crumpled slightly, at that, but she did not try to move away. Instead, she followed his lead as the first strains of music began to flow over them.

It was a single partner dance, though not quite a waltz, that was well suited to conversation in the absence of so many partner switches, but Colin couldn’t bring himself to break the silence that had fallen between them. She refused to meet his eyes as they moved through the steps, pulling close then away, never quite falling into that same lighthearted ease that they’d had before. The longer the dance went on, the more Colin could feel his resolve cracking.

He wanted to sweep her away, to beg her forgiveness, to ask if there was any hope that her feelings for him might still remain, but he didn’t. It wasn’t fear, anymore, that held him back but simple determination. He was determined to show her what she meant to him like she had shown him over the years. He was determined to give her the choice, to put all of the power back in her hands rather than decide her fate by being too loud or too overt or too brash. He was determined not to ruin this moment. If this was the last dance he would ever share with Penelope Featherington, he wanted it to be perfect.

So, as the music reached its last refrain, Colin lifted her hand over her head and twirled her two times more than the dance required, pulling her close while the rest of the gentlemen bowed so he could reach up and hold her cheek in the palm of his hand. In the split second of silence that followed, he heard her breath catch, felt a tear fall against his skin.

And then he stepped back, bent briefly over her hand, and walked away before he lost his nerve completely.

————————

Colin could hardly sleep from anticipation. The first papers were to be delivered alongside the usual gossip column—there were always several delivered early to be read with the first meal of the day right at the start of the season. Following that, Colin had paid handsomely for each subsequent page to be sent out at midday as well as in the morning along the same paper route each day for the rest of the week. It had been costly to monopolize the printer’s business, but the prospect of dragging out the printing over multiple weeks—and risk seeing Penelope’s reaction, or lack thereof, in between—was far more than Colin’s nerves could handle.

Granted, he had more than enough letters—if he included those not sent but drafted in his journal—to see the month through. He just hoped it wouldn’t take that long for her to offer him some sort of response.

Colin had just managed to doze off in the early hours of the morning when a loud knock sounded at the door to his chambers. He jolted out of bed, practically tripping over the blanket as he stumbled to the door.

“What—” He cut himself off when he saw Eloise standing there in the hall, her arms crossed, her expression bemused. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “I swear, Eloise, unless something has happened with Penelope—”

“Penelope would not speak to me at all last night because of you, so I figured this would be a proper punishment.” Eloise turned on her heel then glanced over her shoulder. “Besides, I thought you might want to be up when the first round arrived.”

Colin glared at the back of her head but the gesture held no heat. In truth, he did want to be present when the first pages were sent out. While he was sure it would be rather…uncomfortable, when some of the more salacious ones were posted and made available for the rest of the ton to read, Colin was anxious to know how the gesture would be perceived. His mother, in particular, was a notorious romantic. If she found the letters moving—even though he desperately hoped she wouldn’t know they were his—then he could hold on a little tighter to what tenuous hope remained.

After taking extra care to dress formally—he didn’t expect to run into Penelope until the next society event, but he refused to be caught unprepared—Colin rushed downstairs to find his mother, Eloise, Benedict, and Francesca already seated around the table.

“Is something happening that I am unaware of?” Violet asked as Colin sat and began to fill his plate. She gestured to him, Eloise, and Benedict as she added, “The only time I see the three of you awake this early is when you are sneaking back into the house.”

Eloise frowned. “I have never—”

“Or up from the library,” Violet amended. She had a point; Francesca was the only Bridgerton sibling currently in residence ever up before ten. “If Gregory and Hyacinth come down in the next hour, I may have to call the physician.”

Benedict snorted, unbothered by her prodding. He leaned across the table and arched an eyebrow at Colin. “Yes, it does seem rather early to look so composed, does it not.”

“I fear I have not yet adjusted to being home,” Colin lied, glaring at his brother over his plate, “what with the crew at sea keeping such odd hours.”

“It did not take you a month to adjust before,” Eloise remarked with no attempt to hide her grin.

Colin had just taken a large bite of food and chewed it slowly as he debated whether it would be less suspicious to lie or toss the rest of his food at his siblings. Before he could do either, though, one of the staff members walked in with the morning post on a silver tray.

“And what is this?” Violet asked as she lifted one of the papers from the small pile on the tray.

“The delivery boy insisted,” Mrs. Wilson answered from her post by the doorway, setting the papers Violet hadn’t taken off to the side while the other member of staff disappeared back down the hall. “Said they were to be delivered alongside the column, Ma’am.”

“I do hope it is not another scandal sheet,” Violet murmured as her eyes flitted over the page.

Colin winced as he swallowed his mouthful of food, suddenly far too anxious to keep eating. He felt Eloise and Benedict watching him, but he couldn’t look away from their mother’s face. Her eyes went wide, her head tilted in surprise as she read. Colin set down his fork and clasped his hands in his lap beneath the table, biting his tongue to keep from asking her what she thought.

Benedict, however, had no such compunction. “Something interesting, Mother?”

“It is certainly…unconventional,” Violet replied. She set down the paper and took a drink of her tea.

Colin pursed his lips, trying his best not to grimace at such a vague response.

Ignoring Violet’s protests, Eloise reached across the table, took up the page, and, to Colin’s dismay, began to read it aloud:

“'A letter never read. My dearest friend, it seems we are fated to only ever part under stormy skies. Last year, a loss I could not comfort you through. This, the loss of us.'” Eloise paused and stood, circling around the table so their mother could not reach forward and pull the paper from her hands. It was strange to hear the letter aloud—edited, though it was—but Colin did his best not to react as his sister continued, “'I know you have absolved me of any guilt, but I feel it still. Like the humid air beneath deck, it is difficult to breathe without knowing whether you believe me sincere or not. I care for you. You always have been and always will be special to me. I will find a way to convince you of this, for my sake if not for yours. You were the one to help me find my voice. I only pray you hear me now, for there is so much more to say.'”

“It is unsigned,” Violet mentioned as Eloise made a show of turning over the page and looking for more, though she knew there would be none.

“It is quite moving.” Francesca took the paper from Eloise as she circled back to her seat. “Whoever wrote it seems so…”

“Lonely,” Benedict finished. Colin forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes. Benedict simply tilted his glass a bit towards him then took a drink.

“It is rather melodramatic, in my opinion.” Eloise offered Colin a small smile as she repeated the same complaint she had voiced many times before while they were planning. “But sincere.”

“It does not say much, really.” Francesca skimmed the paper then handed it to Benedict. “Do you think there will be others?”

Benedict snorted. “I am sure.”

Colin glared at him across the table. He cleared his throat before glancing at Violet to ask, “Do you not think it is too…forward?”

“Oh, it is certainly forward,” she chuckled, “and risky, if the author or subject are part of society, but there is nothing particularly inappropriate. I imagine a gesture such as this is either incredibly meaningful or foolhardy, depending on the context.”

“Perhaps both?” Colin suggested with an attempt at a grin.

Whatever expression he managed, however, seemed not to land as he’d meant it to. Violet tilted her head to the side as she studied him a moment before nodding, a small smile on her lips. “Perhaps both.”

Colin felt the tips of his ears grow warm. He ducked his head and pushed his food around on the plate as Francesca and his mother continued to talk about the published letter. It was one of the shortest—the first letter he’d sent to Pen, though he’d removed most of the identifying information, leaving just enough for her to understand—and not particularly vulnerable compared to the others, but Colin still felt about ready to crawl out of his skin knowing that all across London people were reading and judging his writing. Not that they knew it was his.

The thought was somehow both unnerving and thrilling, particularly as something he hadn’t yet considered. He’d been so concerned about what Penelope thought that he hadn’t thought about what it would be like to hear his writing judged by others. No one would compliment the letter to gain favor with a Bridgerton, meaning they would be honest. Brutally honest. And, as much as Colin enjoyed writing—and, when he was writing to Penelope or for himself, he did, he loved it—he was still self-conscious about how much harder it was for him than for everyone else.

Even just with the letters, he made more mistakes when he was particularly emotional or stressed, and had needed his younger sister to play editor. Besides, he had never truly allowed anyone outside of his family or Penelope to read his work. The only thing that helped keep him from walling himself up in his room to avoid the potential criticism was the knowledge that Penelope knew all of that, too.

She, of all people, knew.

——————

The second letter was sent out in the early afternoon of that same day. It was timed to be distributed while most of the ton was out on promenade, which Benedict had suggested in hopes that it would allow Colin to see Penelope’s reaction to it should she be visiting with Eloise. Unfortunately, the weather had remained unfavorable, so rather than seeing Penelope’s reaction, Colin had to sit in the drawing room while Hyacinth skipped between the furniture reading:

“'A letter never read. I find myself asking, how could you forsake me? How easy is it to turn a blind eye to all that was between us? How little did I mean to you? And yet'—this really is a terrible way to start an apology,” Hyacinth interjected her opinion mid-sentence which only caused Benedict to laugh and Colin to sink further into the cushions of his chair. She grumbled some other complaint before continuing, “'And yet, I remind myself, did I not do the same? It was not easy, though it must have seemed to be. It was not easy to betray you, my heart. It is the most shameful moment of my life. I hope you feel no shame for turning away. Though, selfishly, I hope you regret it enough to return. I did.'”

“It did improve at the end,” Francesca mused from her place by the pianoforte.

“Do you think she will forgive him?” Hyacinth asked, pouting as Violet took the paper back.

“How do you know this is a man writing to a woman?” Benedict countered, not at all subtle in how he glanced towards Colin.

Eloise answered before Hyacinth could, “Only a man would be so audacious.”

“Only a man would start an apology with anger,” Francesca added.

“Girls,” Violet chided them both as she folded up the paper and set it aside only for Benedict to grab it from the table and pass it to Colin. “Whoever the author is, at least they are making an effort.”

Colin felt a bit of his nerves ease as he slipped the folded paper into his pocket and returned to his tea.

—————

The third and fourth letters the next day came with more debate. Violet somehow managed to keep the earlier of the two away from any of them, though Colin thought she was rather short with him throughout the day. How she began to suspect he was involved, he wasn’t really sure—though, the travel references and the fact that she was the only member of his family who actually did respond to his letters with some regularity may have played a part of it—but he couldn’t blame her for wanting to mitigate any risk of his younger siblings hearing or reading its contents.

It was, after all, a bit more…brash than the others.

A letter never read.

Years. That is how long I have spent wondering after you. Years wondering how far the heat in your cheeks might spread. Years wondering how soft your lips might feel against mine. Years wondering what sounds you might make should I ever dare to trail my fingers across your skin. Years wondering if you might want me in the way I have always wanted you.

Years of being too terrified to ask.

Now, after years, I wonder after your health, your thoughts, your regard. I wonder if I am too late. Am I?

I will continue to wonder, until I hear from you. Even if that should be years more.

The fourth was waiting for them at the door when they returned from a garden party. Colin had spent the entire soiree feeling as though his face was burning and his heart was underfoot listening to the tittering reactions of the other guests. Worse, Penelope had not attended. Her mother said she had been unwell and Colin was grateful for his mother’s hand on his arm else he may well have rushed back to Grosvenor Square to speak with her.

The letters were all anyone was talking about. By the end of the event, he was eager to join Benedict and Anthony—newly returned from his honeymoon—to drink away the evening. He didn’t particularly want to be home when the others read the fourth letter, anyway. He knew it well enough.

A letter never read.

That book. You know the one. The first one. Did you know, I have never read it? I have held it, have every word memorized, but only because of you. His words, his memory, your voice. I could read it now, of course. I have it still, have the patience to read it now—also because of you—but I do not think I could bring myself to. That book is the start of us as much as it is a memory of him. I will cherish it, always, even if I never hear it read again.

Do you remember the stories, my heart? Would you let me read them to you?

———————

The fifth letter was delayed.

Colin sat with his family as they broke their fast, all of them chatting about what the fourth letter meant and what fifth letter might bring, but his attention was firmly fixed upon the entrance to the main hall. While Colin had scheduled enough letters to last the week, he had interjected several of the more direct ones—those that were hardly a step above begging for Penelope to respond—at various points throughout the schedule in hopes that he would not have to wait until the very last printing to be direct about his intentions. Letter five was one such letter.

It was short, direct, and the one that would undoubtedly give him away to her—though, knowing Penelope, she had figured it out from the start.

And it was late.

Colin tapped his fingers on the table over and over again as the minutes passed and no papers came. Not even the usual post, which was the only thing keeping him from rushing over to the printer and demanding to know what had gone wrong. The rest of the family finished their food—Colin left his plate untouched—and they were making their way down to the drawing room to wait out calling hours when a noise at the front door made them all pause.

“I promise, we just need a moment.”

Colin recognized the voice of Penelope’s maid, Rae, immediately. Unceremoniously nudging his way past Eloise, Colin hurried down the hall and around the stairs to see Rae speaking with Mrs. Wilson—who looked both amused and impatient as she stood there holding the morning post—while Penelope paced in the foyer behind them. She was muttering to herself as she stared down at a piece of paper trembling in her hands. Colin could tell even from a distance that she was crying, her cheeks and the tip of her nose nearly as red as her hair, and it took everything in him not to run to her.

He wanted to, desperately, but he waited to see if she would turn towards the door or come fully inside.

Behind him, the rest of the family made their way towards the commotion and he vaguely registered the sound of Benedict and Eloise trying to keep them back in the hall. At the noise, Penelope froze mid-step.

Then turned inside.

“Pen,” Colin breathed her name, taking two steps towards her as Rae and Mrs. Wilson moved off to the side.

Penelope’s eyes locked with his, bright blue rimmed with red. For a moment, they stood there, frozen, the only sound was Violet joining Benedict and Eloise’s efforts to move everyone out of the hall and into the drawing room.

Penelope spoke first.

“Why?” Penelope asked, her voice was tight and high but Colin couldn’t tell if it was from anger or tears. “Why go to such lengths?”

He met her halfway across the foyer, his hands fidgeting at his sides as he ached to reach out to her. “You would not read my letters.”

Penelope waved around the paper in her hand. “You would not stop writing.”

He grabbed her wrist and tugged her closer. “I could not.”

“Then stop now.”

He nearly shouted to block out the way her voice cracked, “I cannot.”

She moved as though she would have stepped back if he were not holding her arm. “Why?”

“Because I…” Colin shook his head, mouthing the words for sheer disbelief that she did not already know. When she tried to pull away again, he spoke, “Because I love you.”

There was a chorus of gasps and whispered cheers from somewhere behind him, but he hardly registered the sound over the pain in Penelope’s whisper, “Do not say things you do not mean.”

“But I do mean it,” Colin grabbed both of her hands and held her in place. The paper in her hand fell to the floor as she clung to him in turn. He glanced at it, far too familiar with the words on the page—the words that had finally made her cross the street—and moved down to one knee. He didn’t need to look at the paper to repeat it word for word, but he picked it up and handed it back to her anyway. “'I know, now, you would not have read this. I should have sent it anyway. I should have sent it years ago. I should have sent you love letters. You, who showed me you loved me in every word you wrote, you deserve the most beautiful poetry. You are the most beautiful poetry. I could never write something worthy of your beauty, but that is no excuse. I should have sent you love letters. Let me, my heart. Let me and I will strive to find the words every day, for the rest of our lives.'”

Penelope let go of the paper again and moved to join him on the floor, sinking to her knees. “Are you sure?”

Colin nodded, a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob as he reached out and cradled her face in his hands. “I love you, Pen. I have loved you, and I will love you. As long as you let me. Longer. Always.”

He wasn’t sure which of them moved first—if she sat up on her knees or if he bent down to her—but the moment after the words left his lips, she was kissing him. Colin’s breath shuddered as he leaned into the kiss—her lips so soft, her cheeks wet with both of their tears—and felt her hands move to hold onto the lapels of his waistcoat. It was unsteady and messy and they both began grinning halfway through, but it was so perfectly them. Colin felt as if his heart was about to burst through his chest.

It was glorious.

Behind them, the muffled laughter and celebration was interrupted by the sound of Anthony clearing his throat.

Penelope pulled back, covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes shining as she stifled her laughter. Colin didn’t do the same, breathless, grinning as he tilted his head down and let his forehead rest upon hers.

“So, what do you say?” Colin murmured, kissing her forehead, the tip of her nose, then each cheek before Anthony cleared his throat again, louder this time.

Penelope giggled when Colin rolled his eyes and he had missed the sound of her laughter so much he very nearly turned around and thanked Anthony for the interruption. Instead, he simply sat back on his knees and took her hands. Her expression was so open and hopeful, he couldn’t help but kiss her one more time.

Instead of Anthony, it was Violet who interrupted with an exasperated, “Colin Bridgerton, really.”

“For God’s sake,” Colin grumbled, glaring playfully over his shoulder at their audience—his entire family and several members of staff—before turning back to Penelope and holding her hands to his chest. “Penelope Featherington, are you going to marry me or not?”

Chapter Text

If anyone outside of the Bridgerton and Featherington families ever suspected the anonymously printed letters were for Penelope or from Colin, they never made their guesses known. Rumors about the letters circulated wildly across the ton for weeks—particularly since Penelope suggested, after hearing Colin’s full plan, they let the rest of the pages be printed as planned both to satisfy her curiosity and to avoid suspicion surrounding the timing of their engagement—but eventually died down when no one came forward to claim or decry them.

Things moved surprisingly smoothly, after that. For the sake of appearances, Colin and Penelope courted publicly for two months before announcing their engagement. As eager as they both were to start the rest of their lives together, Colin seemed determined to make up for lost time. He sent her countless bouquets, annotated books he thought she might like, and pages upon pages of love letters. Penelope had to fight the urge to pinch herself multiple times a day just to ensure their new dynamic was truly real. Above all else, though, his sincerity and love for her bled through every gift and ever interaction. It was impossible to ignore.

After the first month of their overwhelmingly saccharine courtship, Penelope couldn’t help but feel like he was doing too much to win her over. While Colin vehemently disagreed when she voiced this sentiment, Penelope couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. So, on one of the rare few occasions Colin escorted her on a picnic without some group of siblings following them, Penelope convinced her maid—who knew the pair were already technically engaged—to give them more space than was necessarily proper.

Hence, how they found themselves tucked away under the shade of a massive willow tree, Penelope’s back against the cool bark, her legs stretched out in front of her while Colin rested his head upon her lap. Her initial embarrassment at the intimacy of their position had quickly faded when Colin’s eyes slid closed, a soft hum echoing in his chest as she carded her hands through his hair. It was the pure contentment in his expression that gave Penelope the courage to follow through with her plan.

“Do not stop,” Colin mumbled, his nose scrunched up, his eyes still closed as Penelope moved her hand from his hair to reach over towards the basket that had held their earlier lunch.

“I am simply retrieving something.” Penelope chuckled as she dug out an old diary from where she’d hidden it under the now-empty platters. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she stared down at the book in her hands, flipping through until she found the page she wanted.

Colin shifted in her lap as though he was about to sit up, but Penelope put her hand on his shoulder. Keeping her place in the journal with her other hand, she looked down to see him watching her with a small concerned v between his brows.

“It seems only fair.” She shrugged, smoothing the furrow in his brow with her thumb before returning to run her fingers through his hair—both to ground herself and to coax him to relax. Colin leaned into her touch, his smile a bit perplexed, but rather than explain, Penelope simply turned her attention to the page and began to read, “‘London is not as scary as I thought. I do not much like how Mama and Papa act here, but I think I have made friends. It was a scary way it happened, I nearly killed someone with my bonnet—’”

Colin burst out laughing, his eyes shining affectionately. “I did not realize my life was ever in danger.”

“I was a child,” Penelope smacked his shoulder lightly with the book, “and it was a long fall.”

“The horse was not even full grown,” he countered, reaching up and pulling her hand with the book down to the chest. “I was more concerned about the adorable little girl who looked like she was about to burst into tears.”

“If you will let me continue,” Penelope huffed. Colin let go of her hand, but she didn’t pull away. With the book open on his chest, she could watch his expression as she continued, “‘but instead of being mad, he laughed. Laughed! At first, I thought he was laughing at me, but when he smiled it was so kind. I do not think anyone in the world has ever been so kind before. I hope we might be friends always.’”

Colin sat up and this time she let him. He glanced over his shoulder to where Rae was still standing on the other side of the screen of willow. Apparently satisfied that she wouldn’t call him out for the impropriety, he moved so he was sitting next to Penelope against the tree and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. His lips brushed against her cheek as he murmured, “And here I thought we might be more than friends.”

Penelope blushed, turning her head and placing a quick kiss on his lips. “So much more.”

Colin leaned into the kiss, practically toppling them over into the grass. Penelope laughed, covering her mouth with one hand as Colin did the same, both trying to stay quiet before Rae came and broke them apart.

Once they had both calmed down, Penelope squirmed out of his reach, sitting across from him with her legs crossed under her dress. She opened the book and leveled what she hoped was a stern glare at him. “Would you like me to keep reading, or not?”

Colin settled back, taking her spot against the tree, and reached out to tug on the hem of her dress. “Always.”

————————

10 years later

After three stories and one half-mumbled lullaby, Penelope had finally managed to settle her daughter, Agatha, down to sleep after the sugar high that always resulted from teatime with the cousins at Bridgerton House. She stifled a yawn, pulling her robe tighter around her as she made her way back to her bedchambers.

“Colin?” The room was dark, the only light the pale glow of the moon streaming in through the window. When no reply came, she peered back down the hall to see a warm glow leeching out from under a far door.

She followed the light and nudged the door open, leaning against the frame as she took in the sight of Colin Bridgerton, her best friend, her husband, sitting at one of the twin desks in their library. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his ink-stained hands, a journal open in front of him. She could have stood there for hours simply basking in the sight of him. They were both older—a bit softer, a bit more tired especially now as parents—but he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Even with that rather adorable scowl on his face.

“It is late,” Penelope murmured as she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Colin hummed, leaning back against her chest. “Did she give you trouble?”

“No more than usual.” Penelope kissed his cheek then moved next to his chair to see what he was writing.

“I could have helped,” Colin grumbled with more of a pout than any actual annoyance. He pushed his chair back a few inches then pulled her into his lap.

“You were busy.” Penelope giggled as he nuzzled his face into her neck. She lifted the abandoned journal, her eyes skimming over the familiar lines of his handwriting. “What were you working on?”

“Never too busy for my girls.” He wrapped his arms tighter around her, ignoring the question. “Besides, I feel as though the words are all running together at this point.”

Penelope hummed, flipping through the book as she read what was on the page. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she recognized the words before her.

Normally, she would suggest he continue his work in the morning after sleep and with full light, but she suspected this particular project would keep him up whether he was working on it or not. Instead, she reached over to the desk and pulled the inkwell and quill closer.

“How about you dictate and I will write?” Penelope shifted a bit in his lap so that she could hold the journal in one hand and the quill in the other. She chuckled at the way he held her tighter and grumbled something unintelligible against her neck. “Unless you would rather complete it on your own?”

“Must we move for you to write?” Colin asked, lifting his head so his chin was resting on her shoulder. When she shook her head no, he kissed her cheek then settled back to where he was before. “Then we will write it together.”

“Together,” Penelope repeated, squeezing the arm he had wrapped around her waist.

With a quick glance at the page to see where he’d left off, Colin began to recite one of the many stories they told their daughter to send her to sleep. His voice was soft and slow, keeping time with the gentle scratching of the quill as she began to write.

The End