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It was an unusually warm and sunny spring day, two days before her sixteenth birthday, when Penelope Featherington fell in love.
A gust of wind tore her bonnet from her head, and it smacked into the face of a young gentleman, who promptly fell from his horse. He laughed, quickly rising and handing her the bonnet, mirth in his ocean-blue eyes as he looked at her with kindness, though it was her hat that had caused his fall.
But as soon as she had finished apologizing and curtsying, and lifted her eyes to look at the second rider — who until then had not said a word — she felt her cheeks burn, set alight by the intense gaze in his dark eyes. A look that felt as if it pierced her very soul.
He was so stunningly beautiful that it nearly hurt. Wavy, dark brown hair fell over an impossibly handsome face: a sharply defined jaw, deep-set, expressive eyes of the warmest brown, thick, slightly arched brows, a classically straight nose, high, well-defined cheekbones, and full, sensual lips. The only thing distracting from the man’s handsomeness were rather bushy and long sideburns, which gave him a stern and serious appearance.
Sitting atop his black horse, his silhouette outlined by the sun’s rays, he looked like a character that just stepped out of a paperback romance novel, like one of many stacked on her nightstand. Penelope stood frozen for a few seconds, unable to even blink until his lips curled upward in a smirk — as if he knew perfectly well the effect he had caused. Or perhaps he simply found the still figure of the girl standing before his horse amusing.
The kind-eyed younger man said something, and Penelope realized with a start that she had heard nothing.
“My apologies, sir—”
“I am Colin Bridgerton, my lady.” the younger man said with an undisturbed smile, not noticing her rudeness. “And this is my brother Anthony, Viscount Bridgerton.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Penelope…” she heard herself mumble.
Before she turned on her heel and ran.
***
The best thing to come of the whole encounter was friendship with the gentlemen’s younger sister, Eloise. Accustomed to living in a family who rarely indulged her in conversation — or shared her interests — Penelope found that being around Eloise felt like a breath of fresh air. Her sharp, inquisitive mind, love of knowledge and boundless energy were a delight and a challenge every time they managed to spend time together.
And so Penelope began visiting Bridgerton house several times a week, and — miraculously — her Mama didn’t mind. Deep down, Penelope knew that this was simply because Lady Bridgerton had four sons, three of whom were unmarried and of eligible age. And she knew, too, that the notion that any Bridgerton son would ever be interested in the quiet, wallflower daughter of a minor baron, hidden in plain sight despite her bright yellow dresses, was ludicrous.
However, whatever secret hopes her mother harbored, they allowed Penelope to visit her closest friend as often as she liked; and Penelope was no longer lonely, and she felt grateful.
She rarely saw Viscount Bridgerton, sometimes only in passing, when he stopped by the drawing room during tea to greet his mother and sisters — acknowledging Penelope’s presence with a curt nod and a “Miss Featherington.”
Penelope’s heart did a small somersault every time that happened, and she practiced hard to school her face into a polite, soft smile so as to not give away how her hands trembled and her insides shook. So she just smiled, nodded back, and said “my lord,” clutching her teacup.
On a few occasions he actually joined them for tea, settling upon the settee directly opposite her; and Penelope’s hands shook so violently she had to set her teacup down, afraid of spilling it. She ignored the urge to stare at his handsome face like a complete ninny and turned her head towards Eloise, who was in the midst of a rant about the need for women to sit in Parliament.
“And, surely, you think we should be allowed to vote as well?” she added quietly. “You’re a dreamer, Eloise.”
But it was Anthony’s warm voice that answered instead: “I, too, believe they should. And I know that one day they shall, Miss Featherington. The Parliament would be better served were someone like Eloise — or yourself — permitted to take the floor.”
Penelope gaped, shocked by the unexpected comment, and for a few long moments simply stared at him, her cheeks aflame. “That is… surprising to hear from you, my lord.” She finally said.
Lady Violet Bridgerton’s sharp gaze flicked between her son and the flushed young woman, neither of them aware that they had been staring at each other.
Eloise broke them all out of their stupor with a loud huff, launching into another argument. Anthony excused himself soon after, citing the need to attend to his correspondence, and left. Penelope fixed her gaze upon her friend’s flushed face, forcing herself not to look after Anthony’s retreating form.
***
Ever since Penelope was compelled to make her debut prematurely, she had been pouring all her frustrations and grievances into the Lady Whistledown pamphlets, her clandestine creative outlet. Some days, as she sat at her desk late at night, chewing the tip of one finger, she could not help but wonder what he would think if he knew.
If he knew she wasn’t merely the girl in yellow dresses, sparring over women’s rights with his sister.
She shook her head, chasing the thought away. It didn’t change a thing. She was still Penelope Featherington, a shadow at the edge of the ballroom — not the type of woman a dashing viscount would ever notice, much less consider.
She had seen the proof of that just the other night.
As she turned the corner toward her waiting hack, Penelope drew up short. There, beneath the weak glow of a street lamp, the familiar silhouette of Anthony Bridgerton stood at the doorstep of a quaint two storey house with white doors, a bouquet of red flowers in his outstretched arm. When he shifted and the light caught the face of the woman before him, Penelope smothered a gasp in her gloved hand.
Whatever tenderness had once bound them was gone. The woman snatched the flowers, her dark eyes flashing, and hurled them into the gutter. Scarlet petals exploded across the cobblestones like spilled wine. Anthony reached for her, but she lifted her hands away from his, fury and heartbreak warring on her face.
“No more,” Penelope heard her say — her voice sharp, tinged with heartbreak.
The door slammed shut with a crack that echoed down the quiet street. Anthony stood motionless, the rejected bouquet strewn at his polished boots, bright crimson against the grey stones. Finally he grimaced, stomped on the blooms angrily, and turned away, shoulders rigid beneath his dark coat.
So this was who Viscount Bridgerton had frequented as his mistress. She had heard the rumor, but not a name. Siena Rosso, the celebrated soprano she had admired just recently in Zauberflöte. A woman of immense vocal talent and equal amount of beauty. She was who Anthony chose to spend late nights with.
Sympathy, not jealousy, prickled Penelope’s heart.
Penelope clutched her fingers tighter around her reticule, as she waited for the viscount to depart so she could continue down the street. While she thought Siena to be immensely talented and beautiful, she also pitied the woman in a way, knowing theirs was not a relationship that had a future. The London ton was not a world in which a Viscount could marry an opera singer, and she had evidently refused to be kept in the wings. Their love — if it was love — was doomed from the start. So even though Siena had shared his nights, she could never actually have him.
And there was a twisted sense of camaraderie in this knowledge.
Penelope drew her hood lower and slipped into the shadows, moving faster than any gently bred lady ought. In another world, maybe she could find a way to strike a friendship with Siena - she thought there could be a strange sort of harmony in a friendship like theirs.*
Both of them women pressing against the cages society built. Neither of them able to claim the man who now walked alone away from them into the night.
***
Colin really was an idiot. Penelope plopped face-down into her bed in exasperation after yet another unsuccessful attempt to talk sense into her friend. For the past month, Colin had been showing up at the Featherington house to shower her “cousin” Marina with flowers and gifts, joining the long line of suitors attempting to woo the pretty girl.
But what Colin didn’t know was that Marina was pregnant - and she saw in him only a dashing rescuer cloaked in youthful naïveté and the Bridgerton wealth.
She would be a good wife to Colin, she had claimed.
No, you would not, Penelope wanted to scream.
Colin might have accepted a child that wasn’t his, but not if he were trapped in a marriage founded on deception.
Penelope knew Colin — knew the immeasurable kindness in his heart, the charm and ease he offered to anyone he met. She could not bear the thought of that kindness being exploited on the altar of Marina’s past mistakes, orchestrated by the desperate girl and Penelope’s equally desperate, scheming mother.
And Anthony - Viscount Anthony Bridgerton - would never forgive the Featherington family when he realized his brother had been cuckolded into marriage, placing a bastard child in the line of succession to the family fortunes.
He would never forgive Penelope.
“Your love is an unrequited fantasy,” Marina had screeched, believing Penelope opposed the match because she desired the third Bridgerton brother for herself.
Of course, Marina was right — though not in the way she intended — Penelope knew her feelings were an unrequited fantasy; yet she also knew she could not allow every bridge between herself and the Bridgertons to burn, extinguishing with them the sliver of hope that Anthony might one day notice her.
So she rose, smoothed her hair, and donned her cloak, intent on making her way to Bridgerton House. She must speak with Anthony before it was too late — before the carriage bearing the young couple had departed for Gretna Green.
***
“My lord, I apologize for intruding—”
Penelope saw Anthony’s head lift from the book open on his desk, astonishment plain in his eyes. It was not every day that a gentleman discovered his sister’s unmarried friend alone in his study at such an hour, the household quiet and all others abed.
She had been brimming with determination — eager to see Anthony and beg him to stop Colin from ruining his life — but now, under the full force of his startled gaze, her courage seemed to seep away like sand through fingers.
Penelope stood in the doorway, wringing her hands, her breath rapid and shallow. At home she had rehearsed her speech and felt prepared, but now, under Anthony’s burning gaze, with the shadows from the fireplace dancing across his beautiful face, she felt once more like that fifteen-year-old girl of nearly three years ago - stunned and unable to utter a single word.
And, just like that day, Penelope turned on her heel and ran.
This time, however, Anthony’s long stride caught up to her before she reached the staircase, his hand gently closing around her elbow and drawing her back inside the study, with a soft but commanding: “Miss Featherington.”
“Penelope, I know you have not come here without a good reason; what is it?”
Penelope took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
“Colinisgoingtogretnagreen.”
Anthony frowned. “Colin is — what?
“Colin is going to Gretna Green at dawn.”
Anthony simply stared at her.
“Marina is pregnant.”
He opened his mouth to speak—
“And it’s not Colin’s.”
Anthony’s mouth snapped shut.
“What? How do you—”
“Mama and her have been hunting for a husband for her — some older gentleman in need of an heir who would not be suspicious — but then Colin appeared, and she decided he would be gullible enough to marry her quickly. And now they’ve decided to escape to Gretna Green at first light.” The words tumbled from Penelope in a rush, as relief started to set into her bones, knowing she’d finally set the truth free.
She leaned back against the closed door, palms flat to the wood, her body feeling the exhaustion of the stressful day.
Anthony stood before her, studying her face, his expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry, Anthony… “ she said in a small voice.
“Did you wish to stop Colin’s elopement because you wanted him to marry you instead?”
Penelope blinked. “What? No, why does everyone keep thinking that? Colin is my friend, and I do not want him trapped by a lie.”
“Penelope, you are risking the ruin of your family by telling me this. Why?
“I didn’t want you to hate me when you learned the truth.”
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”
“If you… If you thought I had known of their scheme. When it came out.”
“You risked incurring your mother’s wrath so I would not hate you?”
Penelope’s teeth slammed down on her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood, the copper taste seeping into her mouth, and her answer, when it finally came, was a barely audible “Yes.”
Anthony leaned into the door, placing his palm on the wood, right next to her head, leaning in closer.
“Why, Penelope?”
His gaze burned and she turned her head sideways, unable to look him into the eyes.
His long, lean fingers tipped her chin, compelling her to meet his dark eyes.
“Why, Penelope?” He asked again, his breath warm against her cheek.
His thumb brushed the bruise on her lip and a tiny whimper escaped — she could not tell whether from pain or the thrill of his touch.
“I…” she swallowed nervously, staring in his eyes, starting to feel dizzy from the intensity of his gaze. “Your opinion is… important to me.”
“Why does it matter?” he whispered.
“Because… Because I’m in love with you.” She shivered, eyes closing as tears rolled over her cheeks. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She kept her eyes shut as she tried to take slow breaths to calm down her racing heart.
“My brave, beautiful Penelope.” Cool fingers softly traced the line of her cheekbone.
Penelope’s eyes flew open. “I did not come for— for this.”
“You came to save my brother,” he said quietly. “And you may have saved us all.” His gaze dropped, briefly, to her bitten lip. “I am indebted.”
She shook her head. “I only— I could not bear for you to think—”
“That you were an accomplice in Marina’s deception? I could never think that, Penelope.”
Penelope’s voice was shaky. “We must stop Colin.”
“We must,” he said, but did not move, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. The air between them grew thin — but then he stepped back, and straightened.
“I shall wake Benedict and deal with Colin. You will remain here until morning, I’ll ask my mother to see you home.”
“I can—” she started protesting, and then realized that she had entered the Bridgerton home long after nightfall, alone.
“I never doubted your courage,” he said softly. “But I will not risk your reputation further than you have already risked it tonight. Not even for this.”
Penelope sank into the sofa in the corner of his study, her limbs suddenly heavy. In a daze, she watched Anthony issue orders with brisk efficiency. A sleepy looking footman, wig askew, showed up, dropping a packed suitcase in the corner. Benedict stumbled in, half-dressed, shrugging his arms into a coat. Lady Bridgerton entered a moment later, her steps soft. They conferred quietly and turned to exit, and soon she heard Colin’s voice in the hallway — panicked, questioning, shrill.
She curled into the corner of the couch, the weariness of the day mingling with the profound relief of having set things right. Warm hands tucked a blanket over her, and a quiet voice murmured at her ear.
“Penelope, all will be well, sleep now. In the morning, we will talk. Properly, with chaperones. You deserve nothing less.”
She nodded without opening her eyes, a small smile forming when she felt his lips brush her cheek.
A quiet warmth unfurled inside her, melting every last shred of worry. For the first time in the eighteen years of her life, she simply allowed herself to sink into the soft pillows and surrender the burden of care, knowing that someone else — someone she trusted — kept watch over all that mattered while she slept.