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Chapter Text

The key was to never stop smiling.

This is what Lady Featherington counseled her daughters as soon as their courses started. Once they were elevated from girls to young women, their mother’s training for the marriage mart began in earnest.

According to Lady Featherington—a self-proclaimed steward of taste and decorum in the ton—there were levels of expectations for a young women entering society. Dancing was paramount, in that it was the vehicle for crucial conversations with a gentleman—and no man wanted his toes stepped on. She must be well-spoken and poised so she did not reflect poorly on her husband. She would seldom be asked to recite French poetry at dinner parties, but it was still required that she could do so at a moments notice. Playing the pianoforte was of value, but even more so if she could sing prettily at the same time—though it was preferred she not try at all if her voice was weak. It went without saying that she must be beautiful as well, her comportment pleasing, her face always letting a man know that he was the most interesting person she had ever met.

But then there were other young women who had been raised with the same exacting guidelines and wore dresses from the same modiste. Young women who could recite poetry in French and Italian, who crooned like songbirds, who did not even have to try to be beautiful. Those women, a lady could only do so much about.

Penelope knew of such things, but only overheard from her seat by the drawing room window. Because unfortunately, Lady Featherington forgot somewhere along the way that she had a third daughter who had very real prospects of her own.

Prudence, the oldest, was Lady Featherington’s pride and joy. In her mother’s eyes, Prudence was tall with beautifully curled hair. She was articulate and had just enough cheek to keep her mother amused. To Penelope, she was loud, biting, and insufferable.

Philippa, next in line, was Lady Featherington’s sweet girl. Her doe eyes made it hard to stay angry with her and her sweet voice was lilting. But Penelope had nothing in common with her, nor was she inclined to have intellectual conversations.

Penelope did not know exactly when it happened, but her mother awoke one day and soundly decided that Penelope only had one redeeming quality: she was so undesirable that she would be relegated to caring for her mother until they both died. So Penelope knew the rules, the roles, the myriad expectations—and had little use for them. Her mother was thoroughly convinced she would never marry, she had no allies in her sister, her best friend now shunned her, and Colin—

The theme of her last season was betrayal and she was weary. She had betrayed Eloise, both by hiding her identity as Whistledown as well as imparting just enough ruin to protect her from the Queen. This, Penelope could readily admit, was poorly done. 

But Penelope felt violated when Eloise ransacked her room for evidence. And Colin loudly declaring she would never be worth courting lodged something painful in her throat. When her mama finally announced they were to leave for their country seat, Penelope was relieved. There was nothing for her in London now.  

So Penelope readied herself for their first country soirée at Lady Trowbridge’s. Normally she would look forward to any opportunity to leave her home, but dread laced along her fingers. Would Eloise be present? Other than profusely apologizing, Penelope was unsure what more she could say. She knew from their long tenure as friends that Eloise could be sharp when hurt and Penelope felt too delicate to test it now.

Penelope trundled away with her mother and Prudence, all in their citrus shades; Philippa would meet them there with her husband. Penelope did not know if her mother went out of her way to discuss this with Madame Delacroix, but Penelope was almost always found in shades of shocking yellow. She knew how unflattering it was to her complexion, but she felt she had no agency to say otherwise. They were the family colors, after all. When they piled out of the carriage, Penelope held back while her family waltzed in, Philippa unerringly finding them, Mr. Finch dragged by the arm. She sought Eloise, found her—and simply did nothing. If anything, this would be reminiscent of her first season out, when she had no friends and her mother solely focused on her sisters.

She made her way to the lemonade table to give the appearance she had a purpose. But when people neared, she shied away to avoid any awkwardness. Without realizing it, she ended up by a statue in the corner. She sighed; at least this was familiar. She cast her gaze about but with no real intent. Without Whistledown in the off-season, any news she gleaned was purely for her own knowledge, not that she had anyone to share with anyway.

“It is, well, embarrassing, is it not?” A woman said from the other side of the statue.

Penelope’s ears perked on reflex.

“To think this will be her third season and she has no prospects to speak of. Her mother must be ashamed,” another woman replied.

It stabbed, even though it was not new to her. She supposed she should not be surprised people were whispering about her already. It was true, this would be her third season and certainly no men were vying for her attention.

“And to think, she could not even hold the attention of a mere baron.”

Penelope tilted her head to hear them better. They were not speaking of her. But how many debutantes were left this season to receive this disparagement?

“Lady Cowper would not even meet my eye when it came up in conversation. And with that girl’s dowry? Why, only Miss Cowper can be blamed for her miserable prospects.”

Penelope gasped, then froze, waiting to see if she had revealed herself. But the women kept talking, uncaring, as they moved on to other debutantes. Penelope honestly forgot about Cressida. They were far from friends and Cressida had been unkind to her, but Penelope only had the wherewithal to worry about so many things—and Cressida simply was not one of them.

But Penelope was not unfeeling. She did not want to hear such things, not when it sat too closely to home. She was a third year debutante with miserable prospects. Penelope was a little dismayed to realize she almost empathized with Cressida, someone who had a similarly disappointed mother. And if anyone understood her current situation, oddly enough, it would be Cressida.

Penelope forced herself to move, if only to find another perch. She decided a topiary would do quite nicely, resuming her observations, when Cressida appeared as if summoned by her thoughts. She was elegant in rose pink, willowy and looking a little bored.

“Well if it isn’t Penelope Featherington,” Cressida said, who was bold enough to stand next to her as if they were acquaintances. It felt less like standing in the corner if two people were there.

“Alas, it’s Cressida Cowper,” she replied, refusing to look at her.

Then they simply stood there in silence. Penelope itched to glance at her, to see what game she was playing, but she refused to yield. Penelope was here first, Cressida was free to leave at her earliest convenience. But Cressida would not leave and Penelope’s patience eventually waned.

“Why are you here, Cressida? Surely you have somewhere else to be,” Penelope asked, already tired. She just wanted space to herself.

“I know you are inclined to tuck yourself away like a mouse, but you do not actually own this corner. I have just as much right to be here as you,” Cressida snipped.

“Have you considered, perhaps, that you are unwanted?” Penelope bit out.

Cressida did not respond, which irked her. She opened her mouth to send her off—

“I do not know where else to stand,” Cressida said quietly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Penelope said. “There is surely a bevy of gentlemen waiting to make your acquaintance.”

Cressida laughed, but it was without humor. “What gentleman? This is our third year out, Penelope, we already know who is out there—and they know of us. There are no first impressions left to make.”

Penelope thought it dreary to have it so baldly stated. She took a moment to truly look around her, to see which gentlemen were present—and Cressida was right, she did recognize most of these men. She was forced to admit, “You are not wrong.”

The silence between them was heavier. Penelope did not enjoy Cressida’s company, but she lost a piece of herself every time she was unkind to someone else.

“Why me?” Penelope sought to clarify. “Other than being a third year, that is.”

“Our mamas are friends,” Cressida explained. “I know in some ways we were not raised the same, but in important ways, we were. I do not know of anyone else who grasps what it is like to be raised by my mama—except you. I know how I feel about this upcoming season and I think you are the only one who would understand it, too.”

Penelope sat with that knowledge. Cressida was not wrong, in that their mothers were close friends. Lady Cowper often visited her mother at the Featherington home because her mother once said the Cowper drawing room looked like a dungeon. If that was the case, part of her wondered how it would have felt for Cressida to grow up there.

“But you are an only child,” Penelope countered, “Surely you were raised with different attention than me, a third daughter.”

“Perhaps,” Cressida conceded, “But I think the expectations were similar.”

Penelope imagined the expectations would have been similar if she was raised as her older sisters—but Penelope knew the sentiment.

“By that logic you could be spending time with Prudence,” Penelope said. They both looked at Prudence, who was laughing loudly next to Philippa and her mother in the distance. “Or perhaps not.”

“Penelope,” Cressida started, then faltered. Penelope waited impatiently. “I am not asking you to like me, but I do not want to do this alone, either. Is some sort of…détente possible? Or do I truly need to find another corner, because I would prefer that to ingratiating myself with your sister.”

Penelope laughed despite herself. “I suppose this corner is big enough for two people. Though fair warning, this corner does not suffer unkindness.” She looked up at Cressida pointedly.

Cressida’s mouth twisted, but she nodded.

Silence resumed, but it was calmer than Penelope wanted to admit.

The Featherington country seat was not dissimilar to their London home, in that bright shades of green and yellow dominated. Their residences, in the country and London, never spoke to Penelope. They were houses to live in, one larger than the other, both horribly decorated. But Penelope never felt she was truly a part of it all, that she was not quite welcome. Her relationship with her father was nonexistent, but that was true for her sisters as well. Her mother was so single-mindedly focused on her older sisters that Penelope was forced to fend for herself, to entertain herself until she established a relationship with Eloise. For a brief period of time, Penelope thought if she simply acted the same way as Prudence, her mother would finally find her of worth—it was a wretched experiment. Needless to say, Penelope knew she was better off being herself, even if it meant being alone. Even if it meant being without a mother at all.  

“Ladies, ready yourselves, the Cowpers should be arriving any moment,” Lady Featherington instructed her daughters. Prudence audibly sighed, putting a biscuit down. Her oldest sister had a harder time these days without Philippa around, which Penelope could admittedly sympathize with as the two of them had been especially close. Penelope placed a strip of ribbon in her book to hold the page. She was less enthused by the window in this room, in that it did not overlook the Bridgerton’s, but she supposed that was for the best now. Any connection she had with the Bridgertons had been thoroughly severed.

“Lady Cowper and Miss Cowper, ma’am,” the footman introduced their guests. Lady Cowper strode in, her dark dress fitted with an elaborate feather hairpiece. Cressida came in behind her; when she made eye contact with Penelope, she was impassive.

Lady Cowper went straight to Lady Featherington, sitting on the settee near her. The three daughters hesitated, then Penelope nodded at Cressida to follow her to the other side of the drawing room. Prudence looked undecided, not wanting to be alone, but most likely wary of being around Cressida. Penelope did not much care whether her sister joined; she gestured for Cressida to sit, which she tentatively did. Prudence huffed but joined.

They sat in silence.

Cressida looked oddly uncertain now that Prudence was there. Prudence eyed Cressida suspiciously.

Penelope sighed. “One thing we all have in common is that this will be our third year out.” She left it there.

Prudence scoffed indignantly. “There is no need to remind me. I would rather die than be caught still be looking for a husband at the start of the season.”

“And do you have someone in mind?” Cressida asked. It was difficult to tell from her tone if she was being sincere.

“Mama already told me she would help me find a husband during our country visit,” Prudence said primly. “I am to be a married woman sooner than later.”

Penelope ached to hear that. Their mother certainly did not approach her to assure her all would be well, that she would help her find her match. She must have made a face because Prudence narrowed in on her, her smile sharpening.

“It is no wonder she did not speak to you, being the little spinster in the making that you are,” Prudence sneered.

“I would consider acting less superior until you are actually wed, Prudence,” Cressida said dryly. “As of right now, you are no better than either of us.”

Prudence laughed. “And who are you to speak to me of such things? Everyone knows of your reputation, Cressida. If it was not for your dowry, you would be even less likely than Penelope to find someone who would put up with you.”

Cressida visibly bristled.

Penelope sighed, her patience wearing thin. “Prudence, there are no enemies here. We are all in the same position. Would it not be better to help each other out?” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She was not sure why she would make such an offer to either of them.

“You? Help me.” Prudence said incredulously. “What talents do you possibly have to your name—gazing pitifully from corners? You are not as subtle as you think.”

“And you wonder why you are still unwed,” Cressida muttered.  

Penelope had not thought, when she woke up this morning, that she would feel more inclined toward Cressida Cowper than her own sister.

“Prudence, do you not have somewhere better to be? Perhaps your room? Surely you are too good to be consorting with either of us right now,” Penelope said.

Prudence seemed to consider that seriously. “On occasion, you are right, sister. I do not need to put up with the likes of either of you.” And with that, she flounced off the settee and left the drawing room.

“How do you stand that?” Cressida asked quietly.

Penelope shrugged. “It has worsened since Philippa left the house. Our mama has her work cut out for her, to find a man who would marry her. Though, I suppose I should not speak, considering where I am, too.”

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Penelope turned her to; she had said a number of things. “You will have to be more specific.”

“About helping each other out?” Cressida clarified. She did not sound particularly confident.

“I suppose,” Penelope tentatively said. “Though I do not know what that would look like.”

They sat in silence again.

“I cannot forget all that you have said and done to me these last couple of years,” Penelope eventually said. “That hurt still lingers.”

Cressida nodded slowly. “That is fair. I have—I can acknowledge my own unkindness. It has been what my mama taught me, about humiliating my rivals, though it hardly lends itself to making friends.”

“Rivals?” Penelope asked. “You consider me a rival?” That, she had a hard time believing, being the insipid wallflower that she was.

“Every woman is a rival,” Cressida said flatly. “Just because you do not readily put yourself out there does not make you less of one—you are just easier to work around.”

“You consider me your competition?” Penelope clarified.

Cressida huffed. “Must you make me repeat myself?”   

“I do not know how I could help you,” Penelope said.

Cressida tensed. “Why, because I am such a lost cause already?”

“Do not be so defensive,” Penelope replied. “I simply mean I have never done this before. I do not approach men, I do not dance with them. I do not know how useful my advice would be to you. If anything, you are far more skilled at it than I.”

“Clearly not that skilled if I am sitting here with you. My mama’s lessons have been…specific. I cannot see her precepts serving you well,” she admitted. Then more quietly, she added, “I do not know if they are serving me well, either.”

“I do not think being cruel works in your favor,” Penelope noted, then winced at Cressida’s hurt look. “Apologies, I am not trying to be hurtful.” She did not know what world she had stepped into where she was apologizing to Cressida Cowper.

“You are not wrong,” Cressida sighed. “My lessons have in part been how to seduce a man and partly how to subvert other women. Neither have clearly been successful for me.”

“You were courting a prince for a while,” Penelope offered, but Cressida’s face shuttered.

“And you can see how well that worked for me,” Cressida said softly.

“What advice have your friends given you?” Penelope asked.

Cressida stared at her strangely. “What friends?”

“The—the other debutantes you spend time with, are they not your friends?” Penelope asked uncertainly.

Cressida seemed to shrink in on herself. “They are not my friends.” Penelope realized she was embarrassed. “Why, is Eloise some fount of knowledge for you?”

Penelope laughed. “Eloise Bridgerton, the woman who actively and vocally decries the marriage mart? I love her, but she is of no help to me here.”  

“At least you have someone you can speak to of such things, if you wish,” Cressida murmured.

“I actually do not,” Penelope admitted. “Eloise has made it clear she has neither the interest nor the inclination to hear of such things from me.”

Cressida looked to weigh her thoughts. “The last two years have been difficult, have they not?”

Something in Penelope stung to hear it so explicitly, that she was not the only one who felt as such. “They have.”

“How long will your mama let you stay out?” Cressida asked.

“Unfortunately, I think my fate is tied to Prudence’s. If she truly is to wed before London, then my third season will be my last. My mama is looking forward to it, in that she wants the security of a daughter to take care of her as she ages.” It felt like ashes in her mouth to say it. “And of you?”

Cressida hesitated. “I do not know for sure, but my papa has been…unsubtle that his aged friends want a young bride. If I cannot marry by the end of this upcoming season, I will be wed to an old man.”

Penelope winced. “It sounds as if we both have incentive to find our matches—and find them quickly.”

“Do you have any prospects whatsoever? Or any gentlemen of interest you can direct your attention toward?”

Colin Bridgerton quickly sliced through her, but she shook her head. He had never been a prospect in the first place and certainly was not one now. “And you?”

“I truly know of no one,” Cressida shrugged helplessly. “Honestly, your cousin was my closest opportunity.”

Penelope was glad that did not come to fruition, if only because it would have been unbearable to live under Cressida as the Lady of the house.

“I’m afraid I am out of cousins for you,” Penelope said wryly.

Cressida laughed, then looked as if she had not intended to do so. Lady Cowper came over.

“Cressida, it is time we leave, say your goodbyes,” Lady Cowper said, eyeing Penelope as if she was unsure why they were even speaking.

Cressida stood, then turned to Penelope. “I suppose I will see you at our next engagement?”

Penelope nodded, then the Cowpers left.

“Have you seen your sister?” Her mother came by to ask her. “I have something I need to share from Lady Cowper that may help her prospects.”

Why would you not tell me, too? Penelope wondered, but it was an old, tired thought. “I do not know, Mama, she left a while ago.”

Her mother huffed, then left Penelope alone in the drawing room.

Penelope realized that was the most she had ever spoken to Cressida—and it was not terrible.

It was not quite a country ball.

Lady Featherington liked to believe she was above such events, but there were only so many social opportunities during the off-season. Moreover, now that her mother was dedicating herself to finding a husband for Prudence, every event was one more opportunity to find some unfortunate soul to try to take home.

Soon after walking in, Penelope caught Eloise looking at her. Penelope tentatively, hopefully raised her hand in greeting. Eloise narrowed her eyes and turned away. Penelope supposed she should not be surprised.

She did not bother with appearances tonight; the corner she found was quite comfortable, as far as corners went. The nearby window helped cool the stuffy room and a carefully situated plant meant she could clearly see the dance floor but was relatively hidden from others.

Except for people who knew her.

“It is nigh impossible for a gentleman to find you behind this ficus,” Cressida informed her, coming to her side. “If it weren’t for the color of your dress, you would truly be hidden.” Today’s dress was a bejeweled canary yellow.

“I am biding my time,” Penelope lied. “Surveying the scene.”

“This is hiding,” Cressida said bluntly. “You are actively going out of your way to avoid a gentleman soliciting your attention. At this rate, you truly will be your mother’s keeper.”

“You are in the corner with me, what does that say about you?” Penelope hissed. “Are you telling me it is easy for you to simply approach a man?”

Cressida paused, then nodded. “I have much practice in doing so. That is not to say I have no nerves about it, but each gentleman is more or less the same.”

“If it is so simple, how are you still unwed? Is it possible you do not actually know what you’re doing?” she said waspishly, then flinched. She was a better person than this.

Cressida stared at the dance floor, her body stiff. “I am acutely aware of my failings; I do not need you to remind me of such.”  

Penelope sighed. “I am—I’m sorry. I find myself tense around you.”

“I suppose that is understandable,” Cressida allowed, her voice tight. “I have not done myself any favors.”

They idly watched as a change in music signaled a new dance, young hopefuls taking to the floor.

“Does it feel good, the way you approach men? Or, as you said, subvert women? I am not asking that maliciously,” Penelope added. “I mean genuinely, are you comfortable with the way you interact with others?”

“I am not sure I understand,” Cressida said. “What do you mean by comfortable?”

“Do you like the person you are around others? Or are you only following your mama’s guidance?” Penelope asked carefully. Something about the way Cressida spoke made it sound as if she was not entirely convinced how she acted was in her best favor.

“It—it is all I have ever known,” Cressida said quietly. Penelope leaned in to hear her better. “I am my mama’s daughter. I do not know who I am without the way I have been raised.”

“But you have spoken with another woman about helping each other,” Penelope said, “That is not something your mama would necessarily approve of.”

“No, it is not,” Cressida acknowledged, shaking her head.

Penelope gathered she should not push this.

Another music change.

“Why are you avoiding Eloise?” Cressida asked.

Penelope whipped her head over to her. “What do you mean?”

“She’s your best friend, is she not? Even if she does not participate in the mart, I would imagine she would still be at your side, as she often is. I am not unaware that you and she are clearly at odds, for the way she glares at you.”

Penelope looked about until she found Eloise and confirmed that her friend, indeed, was sending her a cutting look.

“You know not of what you speak,” Penelope said more quietly than she intended. She did not know how she was to begin reconciling with Eloise, not when there was such anger and hurt simmering.

“Perhaps,” Cressida allowed, not sounding particularly invested. “She seems to be making an effort to speak with other debs.”

Penelope looked more closely; she despaired. It felt too much as if Eloise was replacing her, that Penelope could be easily replaced. Since when did Eloise care about other women in their social circle?

“Ah,” Cressida murmured, reading her. “I did not bring this to light to hurt you.”

“It is all well,” Penelope lied faintly. “She is allowed to have other friends.”

“I would not go so far as to call them friends,” Cressida said, perhaps comforting her in her own way. “At least in my experience, most debs are not friends with one another—we are all rivals, after all.”

“Then what does that make you?” Penelope asked her.

Cressida shrugged. “Desperate.” She sighed. “Hopeful.”

“That feels rather apt for me as well,” Penelope admitted.

“Wonderful, we can be desperate together,” Cressida muttered.

“Or,” Penelope offered, “We could be hopeful together.”

That quieted Cressida. “I suppose that is possible.”

Penelope hesitated, then lightly touched Cressida’s elbow. “The real question is: where do we go from here?”

Chapter Text

Penelope, ubiquitous book in hand, lounged on the settee in the drawing room.

Prudence sat opposite her halfheartedly attempting some needlework. As far as debutante talents went, Penelope did not have the patience for it, not when she could be reading instead. Penelope could discuss stitches as much as the next deb—books were useful for many reasons—but it did not inspire her the way it did for others. It was not as if she could ever make a pillow that her mother would proudly display—she already had enough pillows from Prudence and Philippa both.

It was a slow morning and would most likely be a slow week until their next social engagement. She wondered if Eloise would be there. She wondered if Cressida would be there.

“Alright, ladies, I am heading to Lady Cowper’s. Try to be productive while I am gone,” Lady Featherington instructed. It was more usual that Lady Cowper visited the Featheringtons to avoid a dreary home. Penelope did not know what dreary meant in this context, if it was simply darker colors or something more disconcerting.

But Penelope was restless and saw a rare opportunity. The thought of keeping Prudence company for hours at a time did not hold much appeal. “Can I come, Mama?” she asked before she thought it through too closely.

Her mother paused, confused. “You wish to visit the Cowpers with me?” she clarified. “You know I will be gone a while.”

Penelope hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Mama. I can visit with Cressida.”

“You wish to—very well,” her mother said. “Come along, then.”

Penelope questioned herself the longer their carriage rattled away, sitting in silence with her mother. She and her mother were not ones for idle conversation, not when they had nothing in common, not when Penelope was a disappointment to her. A part of her whispered this would be the perfect time to ask her mother for help finding a match, if she could work for Penelope as she did for Prudence. The thought just as quickly wisped away like smoke. She suspected her mother would sweep a perfunctory search before declaring there was no one good enough for Penelope, so surely it was best she just never marry at all and stay with her forever. If Penelope was to somehow change her fate, she knew deep in her bones she would have to do it herself. There was no one else in her corner.

She and her mother arrived at the Cowper residence and the drawing room was—stark. Walls dripping in black wallpaper, the furniture made of dark wood with minimal upholstery, clearly more for appearance than any comfort. It spoke of incredible wealth and dismal taste. Lady Cowper stood as the footman announced their presence. Cressida rose belatedly, eyes wide as she saw Penelope accompanying her mother.

“Lady Featherington…Miss Featherington,” Lady Cowper greeted, just as flummoxed by Penelope’s presence as anyone else. “Please, come in. Tea,” she directed to a nearby maid, just shy of snapping her fingers.

Penelope stood there, unsure where to sit, until Cressida beckoned her over to the side of the drawing room furthest from where their mothers were settling. They waited until tea was served, giving Penelope something to do with her hands.

“Why are you here?” Cressida asked, but it was more inquiring than accusatory.

“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I suppose I have been curious about your drawing room, based on what my mama has said.”

Cressida nearly rolled her eyes. “You mean you wanted to see the mausoleum?”

Penelope tried to hide her smile. “That was not the word I would have chosen, but it certainly is…severe.”

“Please envision,” Cressida said, “In both here and London, this is what my callers walk into, what few I have had.”

Penelope winced. “I imagine that could be intimidating, particularly with your mama sitting closely.”

“That your cousin continued to express interest after he called on me that first time still amazes me,” Cressida admitted.

“I didn’t know that,” Penelope said. She was not aware of Cousin Jack making that concerted an effort to court Cressida, but she supposed that was standard practice—or at least that was what she gleaned from her time with Marina.

“Well, he must have thought you worth it,” Penelope said.

“Not that much, clearly,” Cressida replied, shaking her head.

“Were there—” Penelope started to say, then thought better of it.

“Were there?” Cressida prompted.

“Were there similarities between the Prince and Cousin Jack when you were courting? They were your most successful attempts, that is.”

Cressida narrowed her eyes, possibly to ascertain if Penelope had ulterior motives in asking—Penelope truly did not. She sat quietly long enough Penelope assumed she was simply ignoring her.

“I was…softer,” Cressida eventually said. “Neither would have responded to aggressive flirtation so I took a different approach, which happened to be the same for both. Men seem to like that sort of demeanor.” She sounded doubtful as she said it.

“Does that perhaps inform how you approach this coming season?” Penelope asked. “It sounds like something different than what your—” she paused, looked over at their mothers, then said lowly, “Different than what your mama trained you for.”

But Cressida was already shaking her head. “It is true I was softer, but it was still not quite authentic. I was not lying, per se, but I perhaps emphasized traits I knew they wanted, not what was necessarily true for me.”

“Would you give an example?” Penelope asked.

Cressida sighed, taking a moment to think. “You were present when I told your cousin that I have been told I am the maternal sort,” Cressida said dryly. “It is not that I do not want to be a mother, but it paints me as sweet and caring, which I am…decidedly not.”

“It does not necessarily mean that you are uncaring, though,” Penelope said. “I do not consider myself maternal, but I do not think less of myself for it, nor do I think it speaks poorly of me.”

“That is easy for you to say,” Cressida scoffed.

“What does that mean?”

“You are already a kind person, you can say such things with honesty. I am not a kind person, so when I say as such, I am being disingenuous.”

“But I think there is a middle ground,” Penelope argued. “The way we are, who we are, is a spectrum, not an absolute. Perhaps you are not the sweet, caring sort, but that does not mean by default you are unkind and terrible—"

“I never said I was terrible,” Cressida grumbled.

“—You are something in between. Perhaps once you understand that about yourself, the more authentic you can be when approaching gentlemen.”

Penelope sipped her tea while Cressida stared sightlessly over her shoulder.

“I don’t know who I am,” Cressida said softly.

That hurt, for how familiar it sounded to Penelope. “That might be your first step.”

Cressida laughed derisively. “And how am I supposed to divine that answer?”

“Are you acting differently with me right now?” Penelope asked, genuinely curious. “Or are you pretending to be nicer than you are inclined to be?”

Cressida paused. “This is who I am. I am not trying to impress you, so I have no incentive to be anyone different around you."

“Perhaps that is your answer?” Penelope posed. “People can generally sense inauthenticity, from my limited experience, that is. Men may see that in you, too. And other debs, when you are interacting with them.”

“But—what if no one likes me for who I am?” Cressida said slowly.

Penelope shrugged helplessly. “I suppose that is the risk for everyone.”

“If what you say is true, why are you always hiding in corners?”

Penelope wanted to snap at her, but she bit her tongue. She knew she was being defensive. “Just because I understand something does not mean I am good at acting on it.”

“I think we just gathered what we need to work on,” Cressida said.

Penelope was not sure she was ready for that answer.

It had been several weeks since Penelope last spoke with Cressida at the Cowper home. They certainly did not write to one another—that was something friends did—but Penelope was reluctantly interested in speaking with her again, if for no other reason than soliciting her help. That was her true purpose in seeking out Cressida, Penelope would tell herself.

But first, Penelope would like to seek a corner that best suited her. She chanced upon one with a pillar, which would do rather nicely.

“Penelope,” Cressida chided, sidling up to Penelope’s side soon after she was settled. “Inconspicuousness does not lend itself to authenticity.”

“I don’t need to hear that from you,” Penelope groused, shifting uncomfortably in yet another yellow dress. “There are truly so many other corners you could be standing in.”

“The point is that I need your corner specifically, Penelope, you know this,” Cressida said, starting to sound annoyed. “Are we helping each other or not?”

Reluctantly, Penelope nodded. “We are,” she confirmed.

“If I remember correctly, you said something about men making you nervous.”

“I do not recall putting it as such.” Penelope winced to hear it spoken aloud. “How can one possibly just—approach them?”

“You know that men are not horses, where you have to hold your hand out flat when feeding them lest they bite your fingers,” Cressida said dryly.

That startled a laugh from her. 

Cressida drummed her fingers on her thigh. “Do you want me to teach you?”

Penelope looked at her oddly. “Teach me to speak with men? I thought we established that that is not exactly your forte, either.”

Cressida tsked, shoulders tensing. “Ignore me, then.”

“Apologies,” Penelope said. “That was unfair of me. Truly, any advice you have, I am receptive to.”

“Men want to feel like they have your undivided attention, that everything they are saying is of the utmost importance. No man is more interesting than him, no man is more humorous—even if it is untrue. Men have fragile egos—” Cressida stopped herself, frowning. “That is what my mama taught me.” She started picking at her nails. “I suppose what truly helps me approach people is understanding that they may be as nervous as I am. That there are just as many men as women, so they have as many men to compete against as we do women. When you realize that, you will feel more confident.”

Penelope had not considered that. “I have a hard time imagining that a man would be as nervous as I am about me approaching him.”

“It might not be true,” Cressida allowed, “But it will help if you tell yourself as such.”

Penelope mulled that over. She was not exactly known for her confidence.

“Look at Lord Sauber,” Cressida murmured, leaning down to speak in her ear. “He is young, too young, but he would be an excellent choice to practice your skills. I do not need to have met him to know he will be uncertain about you asking for his attention.”

“Right now?” Penelope asked, nerves immediately tightening her chest.

Cressida sighed. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“To approach him together?” Penelope asked, disbelieving.

“Whether it is by yourself or with me, I insist you speak to him. What is truly the worst that could happen?”

He could loudly tell all his friends that he would never court Penelope Featherington.

“He could laugh,” Penelope said weakly.

Cressida rolled her eyes. “He is basically a child, it would just make him look juvenile and thus reflect more poorly on himself than anything else.”

Penelope eyed Lord Sauber more closely—he really was quite young, very fresh in society. She supposed if anything, they simply would have nothing to speak of.

“Very well,” Penelope said, squaring her shoulders. “I can do this.”

“Hold your hand flat,” Cressida said as she pushed her none too gently on the back, forcing her away from the cover of her corner.

Penelope slowly but steadily made her way to Lord Sauber, who stared at her wide eyed when he realized she was approaching him.

“Lord Sauber,” Penelope greeted, curtseying.

“Uh, good evening, Miss—Featherington, is it?” he said. The poor boy truly did sound nervous.

“It is,” she affirmed. “How fares your evening?”

He stared at her, then said, “It is well, I suppose. It’s rather boring here. I was expecting something a little more…exciting.”

“I think excitement is relative, my lord,” she said, wondering what expectations he had going into this. “Is this—is this your first social event?” She tried to breathe, she had no need to be nervous.

He shrugged sullenly. “No, but I keep waiting for something more interesting to happen.”  

“You could—one could—you could invite a young lady to dance. Do you like dancing? Plenty of people are dancing here,” she said, part of her horrified that she could not stop talking. He was just one man, why was she so nervous?

“I do not dance,” he said slowly. He paused, then looked her over. “I thought you ladies were better equipped to offer stimulating conversations.”

Bothered by his clear disdain, she forgot her nerves. “Perhaps it is not the woman who is lacking in social graces.”

He opened his mouth to respond but she was decidedly finished. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, my lord.” She turned to leave, a little surprised to find Cressida had not left their corner. That conversation had been terrible for multiple reasons, which Cressida would hopefully shed some light on. Moving her way back through the crowd, she instead bumped into Eloise going the other direction.

They paused, refusing to breathe. Then Eloise scowled, to which Penelope stiffened.

“I would say I’m surprised to see you at so many social engagements,” Eloise said, “But I suppose you need to support your livelihood.”

Her breath caught in her chest; Eloise was being too obvious. Penelope took Eloise by the arm and dragged her away, ignoring Eloise’s complaints.

“I thought you were going to keep it a secret,” Penelope hissed. This was not how she wanted to approach Eloise again.

“That is your primary concern, is it?” Eloise sneered. “Not am I well or I cannot apologize enough, but whether I can keep my mouth shut.”

“I am sorry, more than you know,” Penelope said quietly. “I would do anything for your forgiveness. If you would let me explain—”

“Ha,” Eloise barked a laugh. “What possible explanation could justify everything you have done?”

Penelope struggled to breathe. “We cannot speak of it here, not so publicly. But please, I want to explain myself, I—”

“Explain what, how you’ve been such an awful person this whole time?” Eloise said.

She flinched. “That is too far,” she argued quietly, but it also rang of truth, what Penelope thought of herself.

“You think it too harsh? After what you said about me? What you said about your own cousin? I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Eloise said, shaking her head. “To think that your character has been so utterly deficient—”

“Oh, are we speaking about me?” Cressida said lightly, inserting herself.

“Leave, Cressida,” Eloise snarled, “I know you think yourself privy to everyone’s business, but this does not concern you.”

“Your derision is painfully apparent,” Cressida hissed. “If you cannot comport yourself better, you will draw greater attention than you already have.” Penelope looked over her shoulder to see several heads turn away once they saw her. She felt sick under such scrutiny.

Eloise looked between Penelope and Cressida, then frowned. “Is this why you two have been spending time together as of late?” She laughed without humor. “You two deserve each other.” Eloise shouldered past Cressida to dive back into the crowd. Lingering onlookers eventually dispersed themselves.

Penelope pressed her shaking hands to her stomach to quell her nerves. That was far from what she hoped upon speaking with Eloise again.

“She’s charming,” Cressida muttered.

“She is not wrong,” Penelope replied, her eyes burning.

“I find that hard to believe,” Cressida said, but Penelope did not want to hear it.

“You know nothing,” Penelope snapped. “You have already proven you’ve never had friends before, do not start acting like that is what we are now.”

Cressida took a step back. Penelope thought over what she just said, then pressed her hands to her stomach harder. That was truly unnecessary.

“No wonder you always end up alone here,” Cressida said, then turned and left.

Penelope had to leave. As calmly as she could so as to not draw further attention, she went to the garden, close enough she was within easy sight, but far enough she could scrub at the tears gathering in her eyes.

Perhaps she did not understand friendship, either.

“Lady Cowper and Miss Cowper,” the footman announced.

Penelope tensed, surprised and dismayed. She knew Lady Cowper was to visit her mother that day, but she assumed Cressida would stay at home. By the blank look on Cressida’s face, it did not look like she was given a choice. As their mothers settled, Cressida made her way over to Penelope and Prudence. Before Cressida even sat down, Prudence sighed and levered herself off the settee.

Cressida paused, then took Prudence’s place. She said nothing, staring at a piece of art nearby.

Penelope did not know how to speak, what she was to say. It was true that she and Cressida were not friends, but she was ashamed by how she had spoken to her. She liked to tell herself she was a better person than that, but she had been proving otherwise as of late.

“I’m sorry,” Penelope eventually said. Cressida’s face did not change.

“Very well,” Cressida replied, avoiding looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” Penelope repeated, embarrassed by how tremulous she sounded. She refused to cry in front of everyone. “I regret how I spoke to you.”

“But you do not regret what you said,” Cressida noted.

Penelope shook her head. “I regret that I hurt you—you did not deserve that. I was upset by what Eloise said, but that is no excuse.” Her mouth twisted. “Please do not take what I said to heart.”

Cressida mulled it over. “You must be desperate for company if you’re adamant about apologizing to me,” she murmured.

“Truly desperate,” Penelope teased with a smile. Cressida was not her friend, but as of late, she was no enemy, either.  

“Will you speak of what transpired with Eloise? That seemed more than a mere disagreement,” Cressida asked.

“I cannot,” Penelope said uneasily. “It is—I just cannot. Please do not ask again.”

Cressida held her hands up, placating, but said nothing.

Penelope was unsure how to continue any discussion. She felt flatfooted in light of her earlier behavior. That, and it was true she and Cressida were not friends, she could not say that enough. Penelope was unpracticed in holding polite conversation with others for its own sake. That was what corners were for.

“Lord Sauber,” Cressida said. “Is that something you wish to speak of, or is that also not allowed?”

Penelope had completely forgotten. “Write this down for posterity if you must, but you were right.”

Cressida looked surprised. “And what exactly was I right about?”

“It was a terrible conversation,” Penelope admitted. “He was…unpleasant. But for a moment I remembered that we were on equal footing, that he had to impress me as much as I had to impress him. And I was unimpressed.”

“Well done,” Cressida said sincerely. “It is better that your first gentleman was difficult, because that is less likely to be the case for the next one.”

“The next one,” Penelope said flatly.

“Did you think your work was done? That you would speak to exactly one man and you would be wed thereafter?” Cressida’s look was near pitying. “If you want to play the game, you must know this is a game of numbers, Penelope. The more men you speak with, the more likely it is that you will find your match.”

“That does not seem to have worked for you,” Penelope said, then added, “I mean no offense by that.”

“It is all well,” Cressida shrugged. “At least you have the benefit that most men are a first impression for you. I have been playing long enough that my prospects have severely dwindled. So take comfort that your situation, in some ways, is superior to mine.”

Penelope found it hard to believe that Cressida Cowper, with her cheekbones and presumably egregious dowry, was incapable of finding a man of interest. She looked over her shoulder to see their mothers still engaged, then turned back to Cressida.

“You started to teach me about how to approach men, which was mildly successful. What if I helped…soften you? So you were more approachable to men.”

“I do not want to be someone I’m not,” Cressida said tersely, which Penelope could respect.

“I do not mean to change you, but as of late, your personality has been reasonably tolerable.” She smiled again to take the sting out of it. “Surely there is a way to carry that over to the mart. What makes me different than any gentleman you have your eye on?”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Cressida reiterated. “You already think me a terrible person, so I am not going to go out of my way to prove you otherwise.”

“I do not think you’re terrible,” Penelope disagreed. “You have just—you have certainly been unkind, but I do not think you are, in essence, a terrible person. I am in no place to judge.”

“As if you have done anything terrible in your life,” Cressida muttered.

“If you do not want my assistance, then we can forget this.”

Cressida was considering. “What would you have me do? If I were so inclined to seek your help, that is.”

Penelope thought for a moment. “Stop sabotaging women.”

“I do not know what you mean by that,” Cressida said, sounding genuinely offended.

“To name one example, you spilled your drink on me in front of Colin Bridgerton in our first year. Which, I will remind you, led to him asking me to dance instead of you.” That was a shining memory for Penelope, who danced a country reel with Colin for the first time under the moonlight.

“That was one instance, and who is to say that did not occur by accident,” Cressida said.

“You called me an insipid wallflower to gain Eloise’s favor.”

Cressida was quiet. “I am not sure I recall that.”

Vexed, Penelope continued, “Then there was that time you—”

“Very well,” Cressida whispered with frustration. “You have made your point.”

“All I mean to say is, if you did not rely on tricks and deceit, people would see you for who you are, which is a good thing,” Penelope stressed.

“Doubtful,” Cressida mumbled, but she did not disagree with her.

“Tell me of your talents,” Penelope instructed. “If you are to enchant a gentleman as a debutante, then surely you have many a talent with which to enthrall him.”

“I am skilled at the pianoforte and singing,” Cressida said slowly.

“At the same time?” Penelope asked, thinking of her sisters as a painful duo.

“Of course,” Cressida said, like there was no other way.

“What else? Is your needlework noteworthy?”

“It is well enough.”

“What about modern languages?”

“I am fluent in French and German and am working on Italian.”

Penelope paused. “That is truly impressive.”

Cressida shrugged. “My mama said it will only be impressive once I am fluent.”  

Penelope was careful not to touch that. “Anything else? Those sound like fine traits with which to beguile a lord.”

Cressida hesitated, then said, “I am good with math. I already help my mama with our ledgers.”

“Oh.” That took Penelope by surprise. “That is surprisingly practical.”

“Trust me, men do not wish to hear of it, I have tried,” Cressida said.

“Perhaps the right man will,” Penelope offered. “Cressida, I do not see why this has to be difficult for you. You ostensibly have everything a man would want. If you simply stop standing in your own way, then surely this third season will be successful.”

“To be approachable,” Cressida sounded out, not quite a question.

“Surely you lie somewhere between soft and aggressive. You do not have to be the former because some prince wants you to and you do not have to be the latter simply to please your mama.”

Cressida frowned but did not argue.

“How are you to impress men, then? What are your skills to showcase?” Cressida asked, settling back against the settee.

Penelope hesitated. “I am particularly well-read.”

Cressida stared, waiting.

“I’m rather good at writing,” Penelope offered. “And my needlework is passable.”

“That is…well,” Cressida said, rankling Penelope.

“You do not understand my situation,” she hissed, not wanting their mothers to overhear. “My mama never trained me in earnest because she decided early on I was not marriageable. I was always supposed to grow old and take care of her, so why bother teaching me something new? Freedom to read has been the only opportunity I was afforded to learn.”

Cressida sighed but said, “To be fair, cross stitching is not worth the trouble.”

“One can only make so many handkerchiefs,” Penelope agreed.

“You do have talents, Penelope, but you need to be more confident in them. If you are unwilling to speak of them with me, then men will notice your discomfort and read it as the lack of confidence it is.”

Penelope was unsure how to respond to that. She had not been under the impression that men would be impressed by the litany of books she had read. She was also excellent at math, but she could not share with Cressida that it was her Whistledown funds that honed her skills.

“Why are you being this kind to me?” Penelope asked. “It is one thing to have the shared experiences of our mamas, but that does not oblige any niceties. If a friend is what you seek, you just as easily could have gone to Eloise.”

“But I did not,” Cressida said.

“But you—you do not even like me. You have gone out of your way to torment me, in front of men, in front of Eloise. What possibly made you walk up to me instead of anyone else?”

Cressida stared at her blankly. “Because you understand what it means to be lonely.”

Penelope was unsure if she should feel slighted. “But we are not friends,” Penelope said, more to herself.

“So you see fit to remind me,” Cressida snapped, her shoulders tensing.

“I am just stating a fact.” Penelope did not think that an offensive statement. She and Cressida, simply put, were not friends.

Cressida tapped her fingers on her knee, then shifted her body away from Penelope. “It was foolish of me to think this could work. Keep to your business, Penelope, and I will keep to mine.”

Penelope was unsure why this was unraveling, but in that moment, it was important to her that she stop it. “Are you—do you want to be my friend?” This, Penelope had a hard time believing.

Cressida slanted her a look but said nothing.

“I could—” Penelope faltered. Eloise was the only friend she had, though she supposed Colin was as well, to a lesser extent. Both Bridgertons, forward as they were, simply decided one day that Penelope was to be their friend. She did not know what to do with someone who was asking for friendship instead, who seemed to even worry about her rejection. “I could be open to it.”

Cressida watched her, then slowly shifted back, smoothing her hands over invisible wrinkles in her dress. “I will not ask for more than that.”

Penelope nodded, oddly pleased. Perhaps they could be hopeful together after all.

“Cressida, it is time,” Lady Cowper called out, standing with her own mama.

Cressida stood stiffly; Penelope felt the same. She was unsure how to make a new friend.

As Cressida walked away, in a fit of panic she said, “Write to me!”

All four women paused. Cressida looked at her strangely, then nodded. Their mothers shared a look but said nothing.

Once the Cowpers left, her mother draped herself over the settee like it was a chaise lounge. The footman coughed politely as he entered.

“Letters, ma’am.”

Lady Featherington waved for Penelope to manage it. Sighing, Penelope took the stack of letters, idly sifting them in priority for her mother until—

FRANCE

Penelope stared at the blocky red lettering, then down to a painfully familiar loopy scrawl. She went to her mother first, handing off the letters, before hurrying to her room. Locking the door, she laid in bed, staring at the letter.

Despite all that had been said, part of her was still excited to receive a letter from Colin. But then she kept staring at it. It felt that if she read it, she was implicitly accepting what Colin said and deciding to move on. His words, however, were fresh and fierce and she could not pretend she was unaffected as he presumably waxed poetic about architectural streetlamps or some such thing. Colin had an incredible eye for detail and seemed to find beauty in the smallest things. It was one of many things she loved about him.

But love was hurting her. With a sigh, she placed the unopened letter in one of the drawers of her writing desk. Perhaps she would read it soon.

Just not today.

Chapter Text

His name was Mr. Harry Dankworth.

Penelope was fascinated because she had never seen someone become so quickly besotted, and with Prudence no less. He was congenial, wide eyed, and entirely too nice to be joining the Featherington family. Prudence, truly her mother’s daughter, took charge of this newfound relationship just as she had been taught. Mr. Dankworth, to his credit, was willing and happy to let her make decisions for them both. He and Prudence were still early in their courtship, but even casual observers could see their trajectory. Prudence truly would be wed before the London season started.

Prudence had never been more insufferable.

Her older sister worked under the assumption that Penelope suffered from memory loss for as often she was reminded of her pending nuptials—even though they were not yet engaged. To Prudence, it was a foregone conclusion because if their mother said she was to wed, then she was to wed. Part of her wondered how her mother even found him in the first place—though she did respect her mother for knowing how to make a lot with little means. Unerringly, Prudence knew all the most cutting ways to throw this in Penelope’s face; she was cruel, not stupid.

“It must be such a relief to you, that I shall soon be wed,” Prudence would say.

Penelope ignored her, holding her book up to hide her face.

“Now you will no longer be forced to attend society events as if you were to ever have any prospects. You might as well stay home where you belong.”

Penelope’s grip on her book tightened, but she stayed silent. Engaging was always a mistake, she had learned the hard way.

“Mama will be so pleased to have you as her keeper,” Prudence continued casually as if they were conversing. “You are already such a bore, you will get along well with her when you’re both aged. If you are lucky, she will live for a very long time.”

Penelope thought it was not worth it. She snapped her book shut, standing up to go read in her bedroom.

“I wonder what Colin Bridgerton would say.”

She whipped around, startled. Prudence’s smile grew teeth.

“Your dear Mr. Bridgerton, surely he would have no further need of you and what pathetic excuse for a friendship you think you have. He is desirable and of means, he will marry soon and you will be left to watch him from the window like you have always done: hopeless and desperate.”

With a quick inhale, Penelope left the room without a word.  

Penelope did not know who to turn to. When her sister normally upset her, she would turn to Eloise, who did not understand what it was like to have a cruel sibling, but cared enough about her to lend a sympathetic ear. Colin, for all that he could be a wonderful listener, was not someone she could trust with this side of her. He, too, did not understand a sibling such as Prudence. Even Cressida, for whatever the state of their newfound relationship, was an only child and thus the least likely perhaps to be of help.

She missed Eloise so much it hurt. Penelope knew she was the cause of their rift, the guilt eating away at her every time she thought of it—and she thought of it often. She just wished she could explain, that she never meant any lasting harm. But then she thought of Marina, how that was difficult to justify. She knew in retrospect slandering Marina to protect Colin was born partly out of jealousy.

Penelope had made mistakes; this, she could acknowledge. All she wanted was a chance to apologize and try to move forward, repentant as she was. She did not even seek absolution, just the prospect of being better than she had been. This, in its twisted way, was perhaps why she was begrudgingly open to befriending Cressida. Penelope wanted a chance at forgiveness for terrible things she had done. How could she ask this of herself but deny Cressida that same opportunity?

It had been some time since she had seen Cressida, in that off-season events only occurred every so often. Penelope had a great deal of time to read. She was sprawled on her bed, book laid in front of her, when someone knocked on the door. Curious, she got up to answer; neither her mother nor sister were polite enough to wait for a response. One of the maids greeted her, holding out a letter. For a brief trill of excitement, she wondered if Colin had written to her again, but it was neat, flowing script that faced her—and no international stamp. She thanked the maid, then resumed her position on her bed.

After staring at it, she realized she had received a letter from Cressida. Penelope had not believed in earnest that she would write to her for how haphazard she had thrown the thought out before Cressida left. She thumbed open the wax seal and unfolded the parchment.

Penelope,

You asked me to write, so I have. This is admittedly new to me; I have not received such a request before. I suppose one details to another what has occurred since last they met?

Mama has been increasingly blatant that if I do not find a match of my own soon, I will be wed to one of my father’s business associates. They are not the kind of men who would allow me to stay in society for all the strict expectations they have of a wife. However, my mama also considers a country gentleman beneath us, so even spending time here will not yield anything. I must wait until London and I must be successful. This, perhaps, is nothing new to you.

I have heard of Prudence’s suitor, in that both she and your mama have spoken of it loudly. Repeatedly. I imagine you have mixed feelings on the matter because her moving out eventually means your mama will cast greater scrutiny on you. Finally, you will understand what it is to be an only child who is the one your mama will look at. I do hope for your sake events unfold slowly to try and circumvent this eventuality.

I suppose you can write to me if you are so inclined, though I have no expectations. I will search the corners first thing at our next social engagement.

Cressida

It was a little stilted, but Penelope found it more thoughtful than she anticipated. A small part of her was hopeful, in that she truly loved to write letters. The prospect of another person who would be receptive to her correspondence was pleasing.

She wondered if Eloise would bother reading a letter from her. She was too afraid to try.

“Mama, what will my wedding be like?” Prudence asked over dinner.

Penelope paused, cutlery hovering. This was a new question from her.

“It will be wonderful, my dear,” her mother replied, all smiles.

“But will it be better than Philippa’s?”

Her mother hesitated but her smile was firmly in place. “I will ensure it is as lovely as it can be. Don’t you worry.”

“How excited for me are you?” Prudence continued, giving Penelope a quick smirk. She knew what she was doing.

“I have never been more excited!” Her mother was most likely truthful seeing as Prudence was her favorite daughter. “To think, my beautiful daughter will soon be a wife and mother, to lead her own house. Mrs. Dankworth has a nice ring to it. It will be a perfectly acceptable match,” she added.

“It will be nice to be out in society properly as a married woman,” Prudence said, genuinely happy. “To think of all the new opportunities I will be afforded.” Her smile was insincere when she looked at Penelope and said, “You will understand the same someday. Though with your lack of prospects perhaps that is asking too much.”

Penelope sighed; that was unnecessary.

“We should speak of your dress!” her mother said as if uninterrupted. “I am thinking lace, or perhaps satin. What are your thoughts, dear?”

So Penelope listened with half an ear as Prudence and her mother exchanged ideas, each more fanciful than the last. She told herself she did not care, that it was all noise to her. Let Prudence be excited. It truly was a momentous occasion for her. And though it was double-edged, Prudence marrying meant Penelope would finally know peace in this household. No longer would she have to tiptoe around Prudence, wary of sparking confrontation. She would not have Prudence pestering her, seeking attention because she was bored and Philippa was unavailable to entertain her. Perhaps—perhaps in Prudence’s absence, her mother would have no choice but to focus on her. She could see that her studies made her a more well-rounded woman. She might consider dressing in her other colors, now that she did not have to compete with her sisters. Perhaps she would realize that Penelope was also her daughter, perhaps—

But she watched her mother and felt the ache in her bones. She would never know this, her mother’s attention and excitement shone on her. When exactly did her mother become so convinced that Penelope would never marry? Had she said or done something as a young woman to make her mother doubt her? Or worse, did it occur when she was little, somehow acting in such a way that made her mother question her prospects already. When she was younger, she would have done anything to win her mother’s favor, no matter the cost. But nearly at nineteen, Penelope was weary. The thought of reconciling with her mother was as distant as it had ever been. By not even giving her a chance, her mother was yet one more obstacle for her to overcome if she was to find a husband.   

Her third season was her last season; this, she knew.

She ate distractedly, stuck at the table until the others were finished, but her appetite had left her. She briefly wondered at her own fictional wedding, but it was hard to imagine without knowing of her husband. Who exactly would her ideal husband be? Her thoughts idly roamed. No one had to know her thoughts on the matter. If she were being lofty, she imagined he would be tall—though with her height that would not be difficult to achieve. She wanted to reach up for him, to feel him envelop her in his arms. He would laugh easily and loudly, embracing joy as it came to him. Life would excite him, every opportunity a chance for a new adventure. He would like that she was well-read, not just tolerate it. But above all, he would be thoughtful and kind, a true gentleman. He would look at Penelope and find her beautiful, find her to be of worth. He would be her best friend, and she his. He would be—

Colin Bridgerton.

She set her cutlery down loudly, but the others did not notice her—they never did. How could she love this man so much when he had never given any indication of reciprocation? He did not even think of her as a woman, that she was simply Pen. Even Marina had disparaged, saying he did not view her any differently than his little sister, Hyacinth. His kindness, his openness, was not the same as him wanting her. And especially now, his words from her mother’s ball ringing deathly loud, reminded her quite explicitly that there was never a chance of hope. Worse, he was convincing other men that she was not a marriageable woman.

How could she ache for a man who had hurt her this way?

To no one’s surprise, her dress was yellow.

But she had to make do with what she was gifted, so she asked Rae to use one of her nicer bejeweled combs. Perhaps a little shine could help her feel more attractive.

As a more intimate affair, there would be no dancing at this soirée. This did not necessarily work in Penelope’s favor, in that there would be no central distraction for others to focus on. Her standing in a corner would be more eye catching than it normally was. Her dress was like a beacon, beckoning attention for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps this event better lent itself to conversation, that she could have more meaningful conversations with a gentleman.

She just had to approach one first.

This evening’s corner was by a bookshelf, not as discrete as she wished but she had fewer options for this venue. She was admittedly relieved when she saw Cressida weave her way through the crowd to meet her; she at least was not alone.

“Should I take it as a good sign that you chose such an obvious spot to loiter?” Cressida asked, subtle as ever.

“Where else would I have gone?” Penelope asked. “This is as good a place as any.”

Prudence’s laughter carried across the room, Mr. Dankworth on her arm. She would think him a captive audience, but he stared at her with such awe, she gathered he was genuinely happy to be there.

“She seems happy,” Cressida observed, homing in on Prudence as well.

“She is going to eat him alive,” Penelope murmured, watching Mr. Dankworth nod to whatever Prudence was saying. “That man has no concept of what Featherington women are like.”

“And will you do the same to your husband, being the Featherington woman that you are?” Cressida asked, almost sounding amused.

“I might, if I can actually wed.”

“What have you done about it?” 

“About—about what, marriage?” Penelope questioned.

Cressida nodded. “We cannot stay here forever, you know this. Now, are there any particular men who have caught your attention, or should we start with whoever is closest?”

She thought unbidden of Colin, what a lovely suitor he would make, and she panicked. How could she court another man when she was already in love with another? “I cannot do this.”

“You must,” Cressida said, unsympathetic. “You know what fate awaits you if you do not. Desperation can be a strong motivator.”

But Penelope was shaking her head, her thoughts awhirl. “I cannot do this.”

Cressida frowned. “What exactly has changed since our last outing? You were surprisingly confident after the last man you spoke with.”

Penelope wrung her hands together. She could not fathom sharing with Cressida, sharing with anyone, her true thoughts.

“Do you know what your ideal husband is?” Penelope asked instead.

Cressida blinked at her. “What do you mean, ideal?”

“Ideal as in—who do you envision for yourself? The man you will marry someday.”

“I want a man who is not my father,” Cressida said quietly. “I do not have high expectations for myself. If he is good and kind, then that can be enough for me.”

“But what about love?” Penelope said. “Do you not seek that in a marriage as well?”

“That is a fantasy,” Cressida dismissed. “Love matches are such a rarity I would dare not hope for such a thing. And frankly, you should not either, it will just make this process more difficult than it already is.”

“I should give up on love?” Penelope thought that to be rather bleak.

Cressida shrugged. “I should not tell you what to do; I would just caution against such a thing.”

“Have you—have you ever been in love?” Penelope asked, then winced. She was stalling, but she also genuinely wanted to know.

Cressida gave her a look she could not read. “I’m not sure love is a real thing, at least not for me.”

“Oh,” Penelope said quietly. She did not know what to say to that.

“Don’t think I do not know what you are doing,” Cressida said tersely, clearly done with this conversation. “Now can you manage this on your own do you want my help?”

Penelope’s heart was not in it, Colin still lingering at the edge of her thoughts. But still she could not speak of it, so she reluctantly said, “Could you help me?”

Cressida looked surprised. “I—alright. Again, do you have someone in mind or should we just pick a man and hope for the best?”

“Pick someone for me. I’m overthinking this,” Penelope admitted.

“Very well.” Cressida cast about. “There, two men together, twice the odds. Are you ready?”

Penelope smiled weakly.

“Close enough.” Cressida took her by the arm, two debutantes braving the mart, when Cressida slowed down.

“Why are we—?”

“You have to make yourself known before you approach them,” Cressida said quietly. “If we are to continue our metaphor of horses, if you come across them too quickly, you’ll spook them. Make them think it was their idea to approach you first.”

And sure enough, one of the gentlemen eyed them, then gently steered his companion toward them.

“Good evening, ladies,” Lord Horn greeted them. Lord Kingsley nodded. Penelope was a little surprised he even knew her name.

“My lord,” Cressida said with a curtsey; Penelope belatedly followed. “How has your stay in the country been thus far?”

“Passable,” Lord Horn admitted. “Though it lacks the excitement of London.”

Cressida nudged Penelope’s ankle with her foot. She knew she was being prompted.

“London is indeed exciting, so many things to see. Or, well, rather do. So many things to do. What do you do exactly?” Penelope asked, unable to stop herself.

Lord Horn’s brow furrowed, bemused. “I suppose what anyone else does in London during the season.”

Penelope laughed too loudly. Cressida turned her head to watch her. Lord Kingsley looked concerned.

“What she means is, what do you favor most? Are you more inclined to balls, perhaps? Or are you the type to go hunting with the other men?” Cressida said.

“Hunting, certainly,” Lord Horn said, redirecting his attention to Cressida. “Though that would be too much for your delicate sensibilities to discuss.”

Penelope tried not to frown, but Cressida’s laugh was tinkling. “You would be correct, my lord, but I would love to hear more about your interests, if you are so inclined.”

Lord Horn tilted his head at that. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”  

Cressida froze. “I do not believe we have been acquainted.”

“You’re Lord Cowper’s daughter, are you not?”

“I am,” Cressida said slowly. “Though I assure you—”

“Ah, I remember, he has spoken of you at our club,” Lord Kingsley spoke up.

“All good things, I imagine,” Cressida demurred.

Lord Horn hesitated. “Ladies, it is perhaps best if we move on. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He and Lord Kingsley shared a look before leaving them. Cressida deflated as soon as they were gone.

“Cressida, that was terrible,” Penelope lamented.

“Which part, my reputation being thrown in my face or your apparent inability to hold a conversation with a man?” Cressida snipped.

Penelope tried to stifle the hurt. “I am not unable, it is just more difficult for me. I have not had the extensive practice that you have.”

Cressida sighed, then to her surprise pulled her into a different corner to reconvene. “Penelope, I do not mean this unkindly, but is that how you talk to every man? Because that was embarrassing.”

Penelope bristled, then slowly exhaled. “I lose the thread a little,” she admitted. “I am already nervous and I feel the pressure to perform and my mind goes blank. Is it really that bad?”

“Well, it’s not good,” Cressida said bluntly. “But at least I know what we are working with now.”

“Cressida, I can’t do this,” Penelope murmured and to her horror, her eyes welled with tears.

Cressida looked taken aback. “It is not so dire, Penelope.”

But Penelope shook her head. “I am just a lost cause. How can I possibly talk to another man when I can only think of—” she froze. She was too close to saying more than she intended.

“Can only think of what?” Cressida paused, “Or who? Penelope, is there already someone you are interested in? Because if there is, we should direct our focus there.”

“We cannot,” she whispered. “He—we—it does not matter.”

“If it is holding you back, then it does matter. There are only so many men in the ton, I assume I know of him?”

“Please do not do this,” Penelope pleaded.

“Do not make this difficult, Penelope. If you are embarrassed by whoever he is, I promise I will say nothing,” Cressida said, trying to gauge the source of Penelope’s distress.

“I cannot tell you this, please stop,” Penelope said more urgently. Colin’s name sat on her tongue, he was but one whisper away from making himself known.

Cressida stared at her, tilting her head. Her expression cleared. “He’s not here, is he?”

“What?”

“The man you are interested in, he is traveling overseas right now.”

Dread filled the pit of her stomach. “Cressida,” she said, voice tremulous.

Cressida watched her, then nodded slowly. “I will not make you say his name, but I better understand why these other men hold no appeal for you. Not compared to him.”

Penelope’s breath shuddered. “Have I been so obvious?”

Cressida shrugged delicately; she did not deny it. “At least I better understand our plan moving forward.”

“Our plan?” Penelope asked, unsure what she meant.

“To match with him, is that not what you want? If he is to return at the beginning of the season, then you need to be prepared. The more men we practice with, the more likely your ideal outcome will occur.”

Penelope was disbelieving. “You would help me match with—with him? You think I could do this?”

Cressida rolled her eyes. “He is just another man. A charming one, admittedly, but just a man. There is no reason why he is less available to you than anyone else.”

I would never court Penelope Featherington.

“I do not think it so simple,” Penelope sighed. Sharing what he said about her was too much to bear.

“You must change your perspective if this is to work,” Cressida disagreed. “You have already given up, in which case you most certainly will never match with him. What is the worst case?”

“I lose him as a friend,” she hissed.

“Would you rather see him marry someone else? To grow old with your mama and watch him from a distance with another woman?”

The thought physically hurt her. “I—I cannot—”

“Then you must try. It is either that or you forget him entirely and focus on the men in front of you. Those are your only options now.”

“Why would you help me with this?” Penelope asked.

Cressida was quiet. “No one will ever love me, but if you have the chance for such a thing, I can try to help you. I truly am not as terrible a person as I seem.”

“And you will not share this with anyone? Share who he is?” Penelope needed to know, was afraid to trust.

“Who would I share this with?” Cressida said incredulously. “Believe it or not, I know how to keep a secret.”

Penelope felt the faintest hope, wanting to hold it in her hands. “You think you can do this, truly? To help me match?”

“I don’t know,” Cressida admitted. “But is it not worth the risk?”

Her feelings were conflicted—about the situation, about Colin—but deep in her heart she knew she needed to try.

Penelope wanted Colin Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

Penelope needed to approach Eloise again.

Although her situation felt awful, she was not ready to give up on reconciling with her best friend. She and Eloise had disagreements before, some of them big, most of them small. This, comparatively, was catastrophic. How was she to explain to her friend that she had to publish a wisp of ruination to prevent the greater tragedy that would be facing the Queen alone, threatening her family in the process? Penelope did not think there was anyone in the ton who loved the Bridgertons more than she did. She would do anything to see them well, even if it meant dragging herself through the mud to do it.

Penelope desperately wished Eloise would be inclined to read a letter from her; she felt much more confident about her written word than spoken. Their last argument, the two of them in the tatters of her bedroom, was full of regret and anger. She had tearfully accused Eloise of jealousy, but she was lashing out from hurt. It was the worst possible way to reveal herself—or rather, to be exposed. Eloise exposed her and she had to live with the consequences.

Perhaps she could request an audience of sorts? They did not live quite close enough to visit and she knew that would be a step too far for Eloise regardless. She did not know if they were capable of having a quiet conversation at a soirée. Eloise tended to raise her voice when upset and Penelope cried easily. She supposed all she could do was try until Eloise was willing to listen. She thought it would be asking too much for forgiveness now.

For a brief moment, Penelope wondered what advice Cressida would give as an uninterested, neutral party. She and Cressida may be working toward the most tentative of friendships, but she did not think there was necessarily much sentiment yet. Cressida would most likely be impassive, if unimpressed. She would take the emotion out of the situation and pick it apart more cleanly than either she or Eloise would be able to. Could she share this?

No.

Just as quickly as the thought came, it left. Penelope did not trust Cressida enough to divulge such a secret of this magnitude. It already gave her palpitations that Cressida knew she was interested in Colin. Admittedly, she did not know who Cressida would speak to, isolated as she self-proclaimed to be. But she also did not laugh at her either, telling her she was foolish and wishful and incapable of securing such a match. Penelope wondered if Cressida was truly as unbothered as she seemed sometimes. She was not sure she was ready to test it yet.

It would be a while still until she saw Eloise and Cressida again. Her mother and Prudence both were increasingly distracted as her mother facilitated outings with Mr. Dankworth as much as possible. Penelope did not know what they were waiting for, but she supposed it was ultimately up to Mr. Dankworth to approach her mother—and her mother was formidable. She would credit where it was due; Mr. Dankworth had chosen quite the family to marry into. At least he would have a kindred spirit in Mr. Finch.

She missed writing her summer letters, to discuss situations such as Prudence and Mr. Dankworth. Her first thought was of Colin, how there were now three unopened letters collecting dust in her desk. She yearned to read them, to share his journey, to offer her insight. But when she looked at them, she heard his laughter at her expense. She could scarcely look at them, unceremoniously shoving them into the depths of the drawer. Her second thought was of Eloise, that perhaps if she was lucky, Eloise would read her letter, would gain the context that Penelope was trying to impart. She wanted a foothold, a common understanding so they could work toward reconciliation. She just wanted a chance.

You could write to Cressida, came a whispered thought. Penelope was the one to request Cressida write to her in the first place, so she supposed it was incumbent upon her to reciprocate. She sat at her desk, fresh parchment in place, an inked quill poised in her hand—and she stared. Shaking her head at herself—she was making this more complicated than it needed to be—she wrote her thoughts.

Dear Cressida,

I hope all is well with you, it will be some time until we next meet. I am admittedly curious as to how you spend your time when outside of a social engagement. Are you often playing the pianoforte? Or do you perhaps prefer reading French literature? As you can imagine, I am most often found with a book in hand. Would you be inclined to share your thoughts on whatever you are currently reading? I do enjoy a good literary discussion.

I know you have already said as such, but I do hope you can be discreet about what you discovered. You are the only person who knows of it—

She sat back, staring at what she had written. She was a little dismayed to realize that Cressida was the only person she could speak of this, too.

—I am afraid to hope. We have been friendly for so long, I do not know what I would do if I ruined that. He is also a man of many prospects, as popular as he is. He has admitted before that he does not see me as a woman, just who I am as a person. I cannot decide if I should be flattered or not by such an admission. Does that mean he is more or less comfortable around me? I also overheard—

Frustrated tears pricked her eyes. She was so tired of hiding what caused her such grief.

—Him telling the other men that he would never consider courting me. I did not stay long enough to hear his justification. It was sufficiently mortifying on its own. Now you may better understand my reticence to pursue him. I want him to want me, but only if he sees me.

Are you still interested in helping me? We only have so much time left before the season begins.

Penelope

She exhaled heavily. It was oddly cathartic writing this. Other than her identity as Whistledown, this was the biggest secret she held to herself. She reasoned that as long as they never said his name, she could deny the truth. It scared her a little, to give this kind of power to Cressida.

Cressida had said she could keep a secret; she hoped that was true.

It was nearly a month until Lady Bottas’ ball, one of the larger country events to mark the closing of the off-season. Penelope knew this would be a significant opportunity to practice, in that dancing was involved. She wondered if she could be charming enough to prompt a man to invite her to dance. In her locked bedroom, Penelope practiced her steps, a reminder on the chance she took to the floor. Tonight’s gown was grass green, which she supposed she should appreciate in that it was not yellow. It was more flattering against her red curls, at the least.

She, her mother, and Prudence sat in their carriage together. Prudence these days was in a constant state of smugness, knowing a proposal was imminent. Penelope was admittedly envious of the sheer confidence Prudence displayed, to in no way question that the man who was courting her would ask for her hand. Unfortunately, it made her especially unbearable to be around, her mother only fanning the flames of her self-conceit.

“Mama, will we have a special license to wed? I do not think I want to wait so long for banns to be read,” Prudence said.

“We can certainly ask,” her mother tempered.

“I think I would like a rather large wedding,” Prudence said thoughtfully. Penelope saw the strain in her mother’s smile, wondering why. “I want everyone to be looking at me. Oh, do you think Lady Whistledown would write of it as the season begins? Surely it will be of note as people are apprised of what occurred in the off-season.”

Doubtful, Penelope thought, staring out the carriage window.

“I will do everything I can make it special for you, Prudence,” her mother assured.

It was a spasm, the sudden painful want in Penelope’s chest. Would her mother do the same for her, to do everything for her own wedding?

“What about me?” Penelope asked without thinking.

Her mother and Prudence stared at her.

“What about you?” her mother asked.

But Prudence cackled, catching on quicker. “Mama, she is under the impression she will marry someday. Oh, Penelope,” she murmured, “I thought you knew better by now.”

“Penelope,” her mother said with enough pity in her voice to hurt, “You earnestly think you are to wed? You have hidden yourself away for years now, I think the time for your prospects have come and gone.”

She wanted to cry. Prudence’s behavior, she expected. But to have her mother confirm her fate, that she was not going to even try to help her—

“Give me one more season,” she pleaded. Prudence stopped laughing. “If I cannot secure a husband by the end of this third season, I will not bring it up again. But please, please let me try.”

Prudence smirked, turning to their mother. “Mama, can you believe—”

“Very well,” Lady Featherington said indifferently. “I just hope you are realistic about your expectations. You are nearly on the shelf, dear.”

Penelope’s breath was shaky. “Thank you, Mama.” She might not have any help from her mother, but it sounded as if she would not get in her way either. That was more than she could have asked for.

Prudence glared at her, though she did not know how she could have possibly offended her. It was not as if their mother was effusive about her support—Prudence would still be the center of attention. Penelope was relieved when they finally arrived, the air in the carriage too stifling. Prudence left first, straightening her dress and standing tall. Her mother followed, giving her sister a sweet smile. Penelope left last, as she usually did.

The ball was surprisingly involved, glass sculptures and abundant sprays of flowers. Musicians claimed a corner as couples already took to the floor. Penelope stepped out of the way as Philippa and Mr. Finch joined her family, Prudence lighting up. She knew she had no place here.

In moments like this, Penelope benefited from Cressida’s height in that she would be easier to find. She spotted her, she was ready—and then Eloise stood in front of her. She took a step back, surprised that Eloise had approached her.

“Eloise,” she greeted tentatively.

“We need to talk,” Eloise said, taking her arm and pulling her toward a corner. At the same time, Penelope watched Cressida head over, pause, then stop when she saw Eloise. Penelope hoped she could catch her later.

Penelope’s hands were shaking, uncertain what awaited her.

“You said you wanted to explain. So, explain,” Eloise demanded, arms crossed.

Penelope did not belabor; she lowered her voice. “You said the Queen suspected you of being Lady Whistledown, which could have been terrible for you and your family. I knew that the real Whistledown would not write ill of herself, so I figured if I said something scandalous, then the Queen would know it could not possibly be you, that you would not ruin yourself. I tried to be careful, I promise you, that it was something from which you could recover,” she said in a rush.

Eloise slowly shook her head. “I do not even know you anymore.”

“Eloise, I did it to protect you,” she said. “It might not seem like it, but I wanted to keep you safe the only way I knew how.”

“If what you say is true, it was not your place to intervene, especially not the way you did,” Eloise argued. “And let us not forget what you did to Marina. You ruined her.”

“I was protecting Colin,” she said faintly.

“Which means you knew she was with child and said nothing,” Eloise scowled.

“I tried to convince her to look elsewhere. I tried to tell him not to marry her. I tried, Eloise. Using Whistledown was a last resort.”

“You must think yourself so clever, to scribble a couple words and hold someone’s fate in your hands. Did it feel good? To have so much power?”

Her eyes burned. “I cannot apologize enough for the mistakes I have made. I swear to you I had good intentions, but I see what damage I have caused. I will do anything to make amends, Eloise, please.”

Eloise watched her, then shook her head again. “I cannot forgive you.”

Penelope’s heart broke. “Please, at least consider it.”

But Eloise scoffed and left her standing there alone. Penelope knew she needed to comport herself better, to not look as wrecked as she felt. She did not know if she was relieved or frustrated by Cressida’s presence.

Cressida stood next to her quietly. Penelope waited for her questions, her prying, but she simply stayed. She took the opportunity to settle her nerves, her lingering hurt.

“I received your letter,” Cressida acknowledged. “After what he said, are you sure you still want to pursue him?” Penelope could not detect judgement in her voice, but she did not know Cressida well enough to tell.

Penelope admitted, “I need to talk to him more to see if it is reconcilable. If it is, then yes.”  

“Very well,” Cressida said, unperturbed. “Do you speak to him the way you do other men?”

“Fortunately, no,” Penelope said. “I have known him long enough that we are friends. I am at ease with him.”

“I do not mean to discourage you,” Cressida said, which was already discouraging, “But I would strongly suggest you still make a concerted effort to cultivate prospects. Trust me, I know what it is like to pin all your hopes on one man and find them dashed.”

“What would you have me do?” Penelope asked, feeling helpless.

Cressida sighed. “What we have already been doing. Find a man, entice him, and encourage him to call on you.”

“But, how do I—” She swallowed her embarrassment, “How do I talk to them?”

To her credit, Cressida did not laugh at her, though she looked unimpressed. “Remember, they need to excite you as well, it is not one-sided. Now come,” she said, turning Penelope around to face the dance floor. “Three men alone by the lemonade table, your odds are improving each time.”

“I cannot talk to three at once,” Penelope hissed, “That is markedly worse.”

“Enough with your complaints,” Cressida sounded frustrated. “If you do not go right now, I will drag you over there myself and neither of us want that. Can you manage this? Because if so, I need to make my own rounds.”

Penelope forgot that Cressida needed her own prospects, as focused as she had been on her own anxieties.

“Very well,” she conceded. “Perhaps we can find each other later, if for no other reason than to commiserate how terrible this process is.”

“I better not see you in this corner first,” Cressida said, but this time with a smile.

Penelope took a fortifying breath, relaxed her shoulders, and dove into the crowd to throw herself at three strangers. She knew them by name—she knew most everyone by name—but she had never spoken to any of them. Remembering Cressida’s advice, she eased her way over, not quite inserting herself. To her surprise, Lord Reed coughed, drawing her attention.

“Evening, Miss Featherington,” Lord Reed said. The other two men shuffled over but did not directly engage.

“E-Evening, Lord Reed.” She remembered this time to curtsey. “How is your evening?” She winced to herself.

“It is well,” he replied congenially. “There are quite a number of people in attendance tonight, I was not expecting this to be such an event.”

“I like big events,” she said, “There is so much more to do at them, such as dancing. Dancing is popular at balls. Do you dance much, my lord?”

He looked at her more cautiously. “On occasion.” He did not invite her; she realized she was being too assertive.

“Balls can be overwhelming, do you not think? Sometimes I wish I could just find a corner and read.” What was she saying?

She could see the exact moment she lost him.

“You wish to attend balls…so you can read,” he clarified. “Why would you attend them at all?”

“For the people,” she said weakly, knowing it was lost. She turned to the other lords, who avoided eye contact. “If you will excuse me,” she said, curtseying. She would rather be the one to leave first.

She found Cressida but saw she was engaged, laughing lightly at whatever her gentleman just said. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw her corner was still unoccupied. She hesitated. What was waiting for her back there? It was certainly not a husband, nor was it even a friend. She slowly turned, found a single gentleman who looked to be exiting the dance floor. With a sudden, desperate urge, she went after him. She waited until he stopped, then eased her way over again.

“Miss Featherington?” Mr. Silverstone said. “Do you need something?”

Penelope had to give Cressida credit, her sidle was effective. “I suppose I was wondering how your evening fares, Mr. Silverstone.”

He eyed her, then smiled. “Quite well, thank you. I just came from the dance floor.”

“I know,” she said, her mouth twisting. That was too forward. “What I mean is, I happen to just be walking by as you left. I wasn’t watching you, I mean I saw you, but I did not mean anything by it.”

But Mr. Silverstone just laughed. “That is fair, the floor is only so big, it is easy enough to see who comes and goes. Have you been dancing much this evening, Miss Featherington?”

“No,” she admitted. She did not know how to follow up from that.

They stood there quietly. “Would you care to dance, Miss Featherington?” he offered.

She stared at him in surprise, then nodded. “I—yes, that would—yes.”

His smile was kind when he offered his arm. She felt flatfooted, to have a man simply be pleasant around her. They took their place on the floor, he bowed, she curtseyed. She was grateful it was a simpler dance, one that did not require as much concentration.

“What are your favorite pursuits?” he asked her, spinning her under his arm.

“I quite enjoy reading,” she said.

He took a moment to respond. “I suppose I meant proper pursuits for a woman. Do you play the pianoforte?”

Ah. “I do not, Mr. Silverstone,” she replied. He was perfectly pleasant—and clearly not for her. “Reading takes a fair deal of my time.”

“That is…interesting,” he allowed. They finished the dance in silence.

They stared at each other, then he bowed. “Miss Featherington.” He left.

She sighed, walking away, but oddly she felt light. She had spoken with two men already and danced with one of them. She had made more progress in one night than she had in about two years. Not wanting to test her luck, she made her way to her corner to consider her next approach. Shortly after, Cressida joined her.

“Did I see Penelope Featherington on the dance floor?” Cressida asked.

“You did,” she said, grinning. “I was sufficiently enticing, Cressida,” she added with a whisper.

“So you have secured yourself a caller,” Cressida said, though something was off with her tone.  

“I did not,” Penelope said. “We quickly discovered we were not a match. But I tried! I danced! Does it always feel as such, to engage with a man?”

“Not always,” Cressida said quietly.

“I am almost inclined to go out again,” Penelope said. “Cressida, am I able to make this work?”

“It certainly looks like it,” she replied. She was almost subdued.

“Cressida? Did something happen?”

“I am not able to share your sense of accomplishment tonight,” Cressida murmured. “Even here, I am well known.”

Penelope frowned. “I am sorry for that.”

Cressida sighed. “Do not feel that you cannot share your joy. You are progressing well. You do not even need my guidance anymore.”

Penelope wondered if that was true. Was she able to make this work on her own? Perhaps she could—but would she want to do it alone? To be free to move as she pleased but with no one to share with, to commiserate.

“Please believe me when I say I very much need you still,” Penelope admitted truthfully. “One decent conversation is far from a man asking for my hand. The conversation prior was embarrassing, so I have much to learn.”

Cressida watched her, then allowed a small smile. “Very well, because I still need your assistance. This is not one-sided.”

Penelope was unsure how helpful she could be—she could not do anything about whatever rumors her father had been spreading, nor anyone else. But she had felt completely hopeless not long ago and now for the first time a man—other than Colin—asked her to dance.

“New seasons bring new gentlemen,” Penelope stated. “We just need to find someone who is not yet familiar with your history and can judge you as you are now.”

“Find me a stranger,” Cressida said flatly.

“A good and kind stranger,” Penelope replied. “One who is not like your father.”

“But who am I now?” she questioned.

“Well, I daresay you are someone who is helping a friend in need,” Penelope tentatively offered.

Cressida froze, then smiled widely. “I suppose that is a promising start.”

“Good, because we are to return to London soon. Then, the real work begins.”

Soon she was to reenter society for one last bid for freedom, if not happiness. She would continue to seek Eloise for reconciliation. London was just around the corner.

And she would see if she and Colin could be a lasting match.

Chapter Text

Today was Prudence’s wedding day.

For all that their courtship felt prolonged, the turnaround from his proposal to the day of was swift indeed. Penelope knew it was not salacious, but simply more that both her mother and Prudence wanted this finalized before they set foot in London. And to her mother’s credit, she told Prudence she would be wed by end of the off-season, and she would be.

Penelope could be grateful for the little things, such as both of her sisters had and would have kind, gentle husbands. Mr. Finch was a delight, always with a wide smile. Mr. Dankworth, though they were yet to be much acquainted, was a sweet man. She had not anticipated that she may very well spend time with the two of them at social events as shared family. Or, if things went according to plan, she would be too busy to socialize with them.

Prudence was to have the church wedding she always wanted, to have an audience watch her walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown. It would be moderately sized—if they were in London, it would have been larger, to be sure. A tasteful array of flowers were strewn along the pews. Unexpectedly, she saw Cressida in attendance with Lady Cowper, though she gathered it was because Lady Cowper was a guest of her mother’s. She gave a small wave to Cressida from the front pew; Cressida nodded in return.

Mr. Dankworth looked truly nervous, veritably sweating as he awaited his bride. It made something ache in her, to wonder what it must feel like to have a man eagerly anticipate her arrival, wanting nothing more than to see her come his way. Her mother was quite satisfied herself, surely pleased to see her favorite—and in her mind, final—daughter wed.

It was strangely bittersweet, to have her second sister leave the home. On the one hand, her relationship with Prudence was fraught on the best of days. She knew Penelope’s weaknesses and exploited them with a grin. If there were ever an easy opportunity to make her feel small, she would. Perhaps taking cues from their mother, Prudence never gave her a chance. However, she was still her sister and relationships are complicated. They comforted each other when their father died. They found each other after Philippa’s departure, as short lived as it was. There would be small, hopeful moments that made Penelope believe there could be something between them—and then it was always dashed. Penelope knew better now. She did not have ill will for Prudence, but she also did not trust her.

The doors in the back opened and there stood Prudence, their mother on her arm. Both of them were positively beaming. A distant part of Penelope wondered at it, this feeling she could clearly see on their faces but would never be the recipient of. She hoped someday she would wake up and find she no longer cared what her mother thought of her. She was still waiting on that.

Prudence nearly floated down the aisle; Mr. Dankworth looked amazingly to be in love. Penelope gathered Prudence did not love Mr. Dankworth, but surely she loved the idea of what he could now offer her: a handsome husband, status, security, a home of her own she could run. She would be a Mrs., a married woman who had access to new social circles. She could host luncheons, she could host balls—though Penelope could not possibly imagine what that would look like. She could have children, an even more bizarre scenario to consider. It made Penelope uncomfortable to realize it was quite likely she would be the spinster aunt to her sister’s children, that they would come to know her like she knew their Aunt Petunia, that they would ridicule her as they learned from their mothers.

But she could revisit those thoughts later as she watched Prudence carefully press a quick kiss to Mr. Dankworth. Penelope absently clapped when everyone else did, the newlywedded couple coming back down the aisle. Admittedly, Prudence was a glowing bride; she must be immeasurably pleased. They were to host a respectable wedding breakfast next, a quiet but hopefully tasteful affair where Prudence could preen under everyone’s praise. She kept reminding herself this meant she would go home blessedly alone with her mother.

Penelope did not even hesitate this time to find Cressida; this was not an event that lent itself to matchmaking. Cressida was standing by her mother, but when she saw Penelope, she said something to her mother and she was released. They quietly sought an adequate corner, one close enough to food it would look as if they were about to eat and not hiding from the rest of the world.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Cressida said. “And by that, I mean you have your home to yourself now.”

Penelope laughed in relief. “Small blessings, indeed.” She paused, gathered her thoughts. “London is upon us.” It would be a matter of weeks now. Penelope did not know how she had made it all these past months. Or, perhaps she did, but she was unwilling to admit.

“That it is,” Cressida agreed.

“How do you—how do you envision us continuing to help each other?” Penelope asked, unsure.

Cressida blinked. “I suppose the way we have already done, except there will be far more events for us to see each other at.”

“Would you be amenable to visiting me at my home?” Penelope asked, holding her breath. “You know my matters are sensitive and I would prefer to speak more openly of it, if I could.”

Cressida tilted her head but said nothing. Penelope felt a stirring of annoyance, she did not think she was asking for much—

“I’ve never had a friend invite me over before,” Cressida said quietly.

“Oh. We will have more privacy, if nothing else. I would suggest an invitation for myself, but your drawing room scares me.”

Cressida grinned. “Just wait until my papa visits, then you will have regrets.”

“Was it any one reason why you decided that your parents’ tenets were not for you?”

Cressida leaned back, surprised. “I told you already, I’m desperate.”

“That is all well,” Penelope said, “But what made you desperate? Was it your parents telling you they would marry you off to an old man?”

“It certainly solidified matters,” Cressida agreed, “But I suppose—” she looked over Penelope’s head, perhaps to see if her mother was close. “Life at home was difficult for me after your cousin was found in the orangery with Prudence. My mama blamed me, telling me if I had been more serious about marriage, I would have entrapped him first. My papa blamed me for being so undesirable that your cousin would rather marry his own cousin than me. I will never unhear how significant my dowry is because people use it against me all the time. I—do not know what to do anymore, but I know I cannot keep living this way.” Penelope saw her hands were balled into fists but she otherwise looked unaffected.

“Then it is a good thing we are helping each other,” Penelope said softly. “You will help me with—with my person, and I will help you with those kind strangers.”

“I still do not know how to be soft,” Cressida muttered.

“You were vulnerable with me just now, that is a kind of softness,” Penelope said.

Cressida scoffed.

“I think, perhaps, it is not about being soft so much as it is being yourself. It was only so many months ago that I very strongly disliked you.” She held up her hand when Cressida flinched. “But since then, I have called you a friend. I would not lie about such a thing. The more I have gotten to know you, the more interesting I find you. You have also been a surprising support that I didn’t know I needed. If you can be with others the way you are with me, then you truly will not struggle this season.”

“That sounds difficult,” Cressida murmured. “I do not know if I can do it.”

“You must,” Penelope said, mimicking Cressida. “You have no other option. You have spent two years acting on your mama’s orders and you have only been met with disappointment and heartache. What is the worst that can happen giving one year a chance of your own?”

Cressida stared at her. “Will you be there with me?”

Penelope took a deep breath, then nodded. “We’re in this together now.”

Penelope felt strangely excited to see the city skyline come into view. She did not have strong feelings about London, per se, but the seasons were a whirlwind of excitement and intrigue. And, just as importantly, London was the source of her livelihood. It was time for Lady Whistledown’s annual revival and she was more ready than ever to play. She cautiously hoped that if Eloise had kept her secret this long, she would be inclined to continue. Penelope wanted to thank her for that at least, but she knew that was self-serving.

Patchwork soirées blended together to fuel her introductory publication, focusing primarily on debutantes and the marriage mart. She was more thoughtful this time, however. Scandal sold the best, but it made her ill to think of ripping apart other young women for a pound. Penelope’s damage had been severe; she truly wanted something different for herself. So instead, she spoke of their talents and poise, their confidence and candor, what made each of them unique and special for anyone who was paying attention. It was the sort of piece she wished she had for herself when she debuted, but that was not where her intentions were two years ago. She gathered there would be yet another diamond, but Penelope wanted to ensure every debutante felt like they were one as well.

It was like slipping on an old skin, her cloak and curls, her Irish accent, and a sheaf of parchment. She had never left the house more easily now that nosey sisters were not underfoot. For better and worse, her mother did not care where she went or how long she was gone. Sometimes, she wished for otherwise. Tonight, it was a relief. She made her way to her favorite printer with ease. After some bargaining, her issue was delivered and she was free to wake up the next morning in astonishment with everyone else at Whistledown’s return. It was intoxicating.

She just learned Aunt Petunia died, which was disappointing. They were not particularly close, but her aunt was always kind to her, saw her for who she was. To her surprise, her aunt left a sizeable inheritance for her mother to manage. She supposed it was timely, in that Cousin Jack took the rest of what money they had had. She had difficulty understanding her mother most days, but she could admit Lady Featherington knew how to run a household.

The following day, she was to run errands with her mother in town, to visit the appropriate vendors and start collecting clothes and goods they would need to start the season. She trailed behind in green, avidly watching everyone’s reactions to her issue. Her favorites were the wide eyed first year debutantes, excited to see themselves mentioned, and flatteringly as well. When she and her mother dipped into the modiste, she edged her way over to the counter. Genevieve casually walked past, then stopped to grab some ribbon next to her.

“Looks like your business is thriving,” Penelope observed, and it was true. New seasons were bursting with activity, every mother across town looking to secure the best and brightest dresses for their daughters.

“As is yours,” Genevieve winked, then moved on. This, too, was true.

Feeling heady, she happily endured her mother’s company on the carriage ride home. She was already outlining her next issue in her head, how she wanted to approach the first ball of the season. Her mother left first, going straight inside. Penelope took longer, feeling the warmth of a spring sun on her face. As the carriage pulled away, she had an uninhibited view of Bridgerton House across the square. And there was Eloise, among the other Bridgertons.

Her stomach spasmed, it hurt so much. That should have been her over there, skipping across the street to hold onto Eloise’s arm, to receive a warm welcome from Lady Bridgerton. She could pretend that she was a Bridgerton, that Lady Bridgerton was a mother who actually loved and wanted her, that Eloise was a sister who liked her for who she was. And Colin—

There was some commotion that drew the Bridgerton’s attention. Sliding up against a topiary, Penelope followed their direction. It was a crowd of young women, debutantes of all ages, vying for some man’s attention. Penelope scoffed. Who could possibly be so beguiling as to have women flock to him thus? But then the crowd parted and she forgot how to breathe.

Colin Bridgerton was back, but he was no longer the Colin Bridgerton she knew.

Even his own family was taken aback by his transformation before they rushed in to hug him, to wish him well. For but a moment, it looked as if he found her across the square, but she hunched in on herself, reverting back to her old ways.

Colin was so handsome it ached. He looked, in essence, the same man she had always been attracted to: long legs, beautiful blue eyes, his smooth voice as it rang out across the square. But something was a little different about his hair and the leather coat he wore accentuated shoulders that surely were not always so broad. She despaired when she realized that he no longer looked like the boy from across the street, he looked like a man.

And every other woman in Mayfair was going to realize it, too.

She groaned, realizing Whistledown would have to speak of it, the ton’s potentially most eligible bachelor of the season. Her greater concern, however, was how she would have a chance to speak to him. Part of her wanted to avoid him forever, to let the hurt sluice off her until she could forget it was even there. But a greater part of her, the part where her heart lived, wanted an explanation, wanted an apology.

With a huff, she turned around and went inside—she did not have time to waste on him. She went up to her room to read—sitting in silence with her mother was unpleasant—when she walked past her wardrobe and stopped. Rae had already set away some of her new dresses, the beautiful yellow monstrosities that they were. She carefully took one out and went to her standing mirror, holding it up against her body. She looked exactly the same as she did every year. But Penelope did not feel like that same woman of two years past. She had been working hard to better understand herself this off-season with the help of an ally she did not know she needed. Before she bemoaned that she had no agency to change her dresses, that she simply must wear whatever was her mother’s druthers. But now that she had made her intentions known to her mother…would she be allowed to change? If she took the initiative and went to Genevieve without her mother knowing, would her mother throw away her new gowns when they arrived? Or as usual, would her mother simply not care enough about her to notice? Nodding to herself, she tucked the dress back and closed the door.

She needed to speak to Genevieve tomorrow.

Penelope had no reason to attend the debutante’s reveal to the Queen, but she certainly was able to attend the luncheon thereafter. The Queen had an odd relationship with her debutantes. She had a sense of ownership over them not just as her subjects, but also as a reflection of how hard they worked to impress her; it was self-serving. So a luncheon was to be had to showcase these ladies, to let everyone else present know who would newly be on display. If intrigue or, dare one say scandal, were afoot, then all the better.

So Penelope paid attention because it was her job to do so, to mill about, to listen to whispers, to glean who performed well and those who wished they had a second chance. She supposed Francesca Bridgerton was of most note to her, seeing as she had watched her grow up. She was beyond lovely, but Penelope suspected with her reserved nature, entering the mart may pose some challenges. She could certainly empathize.

Her current plant was a nice blockade at the moment, as there were no true corners in an outdoor setting. She could not help but look between her favorite Bridgertons, both of whom were difficult to contemplate. Eloise was in a clique of debutantes, though Penelope could tell even from this distance she did not look particularly engaged. They were most likely speaking of their ideal husbands, all of whom believed they would find promptly and lovingly. She wished them the best.

It annoyed her how striking Colin looked in his dark coat and floral waistcoat. He was not difficult to find, not just for his height, but for the entourage of young ladies who trailed after him like moths to a flame. He smiled easily, he laughed easily, he would lean in to whisper something that set them all aflutter. The Colin she knew had always been popular with a quick smile and a readiness to dance with every woman no matter who she was. This Colin, however, was captivating. She daresay saw him wink at least once, which seemed a little beyond what was necessary. But in her heart where no one could see, she, too, was affected.

Damn him.

“If you glare any harder, he is likely to burst into flame,” Cressida murmured, coming up from behind her.

“Hush,” she grumbled, not looking at her. “How can I not watch him?”

“You are just as bad as any of those other young ladies seeking his attention,” Cressida said, but it was not scathing.

“We have not spoken since my mama’s ball,” Penelope said quietly. “I have questions for him, but I feel angry so quickly I do not know how I am to share them all.”

“You will have to speak with him eventually because he will seek you out as a friend,” Cressida reasoned. “Tell me what you wish to say to him.”

Penelope turned to her. “Excuse me?”

“I find when I am upset, my thoughts leave me and I just respond on emotion. I think that is true for many people. If you want to feel prepared, then perhaps it would help if you voiced your concerns in advance. If you want, that is,” Cressida offered.

Penelope just stared at her. That was not the kind of offer of friendship she was used to receiving. Eloise had always been remarkably confident and had no qualms about saying exactly what she thought. It meant, however, that Eloise did not always understand her reticence to speak her mind—if it was easy for Eloise, then surely it was easy for everyone else. But sometimes Penelope was scared and words left her mouth hot as embers. She also could admit to herself she cried easily when she was upset, either sad or angry. She would prefer not to cry in front of Colin for any reason.

“They were teasing him,” Penelope said slowly, “The other men, when they saw us together. Someone asked if he was courting me and he just—the way he said he wasn’t, it—” She shook her head, it hurt her stomach to say it.

“It was unkind of him,” Cressida affirmed quietly.

“It is one thing if he has no interest in me—that would hurt, but I could not blame him—but that he said as such in front of other men made it sound like no one should want to court me. That I am—” Undesirable.

Cressida huffed in frustration. “Is this worth it? Is he worth it?”

Was it?

“Cressida, have you ever said something that you immediately regretted as soon as you said it?” Penelope asked. “Because I have. More than once.”

“You know I have,” Cressida murmured.

“I wholeheartedly believe he is a good man; I have known him most of my life. What he said was unkind, but I need to know if he regrets it, if he is sorry for it. Because if I cannot be open to forgiving him, then I do not know if people should be open to forgiving me for my transgressions.”

Cressida looked at her strangely. “What have you possibly done to warrant these thoughts?”

Penelope hesitated. She could not truly be honest, but she could admit being vague was not necessarily helping her either. “Do you remember my cousin, Marina, in my first year? I cannot say why, but I said things to her that—I did not think myself capable of being that cruel, but I was. Can I ever atone for that?”

“I suppose that depends on if you are truly repentant or if it is performative,” Cressida said. “Do you feel entitled to forgiveness?”

Her eyes burned. “I feel no entitlement. All I can do is apologize sincerely and promise that I will be better.” It felt too poignant, knowing Eloise was nearby.

“Then perhaps keep that in mind when you speak with him—for yourself and for him.”

She refused to cry next to this topiary. “I will do my best.”

Cressida sighed. “Not to make your life more difficult, but Eloise is headed this way. Let me make myself scarce.”

“No,” Penelope said, taking Cressida’s hand for a moment before dropping it. “You were here first.”

They watched silently as Eloise made her way. Eloise faltered when she saw Cressida staying, but she straightened her shoulders and came in front of them.

“Penelope,” she greeted, then eyed Cressida. “Do you need to be here?”

“Do I need to be? No,” Cressida said, unmoving.

Eloise stared at her, then looked at Penelope. “I thought I was mistaken during the off-season, but you two really have been spending time together. Is this about vexing me, because I thought you were seeking my forgiveness.”

“My being friends with Cressida has nothing to do with wanting your forgiveness,” Penelope said, but Eloise frowned.

“Friends? You’re friends? With her,” Eloise said, as if Cressida were not there.

“I have a name,” Cressida said, but Eloise ignored her.

“You must truly be desperate for a friend if you looked around and Cressida was the only person who would pay attention to you,” Eloise said acerbically.

Penelope bristled. “I do not need your derision, Eloise, either toward myself or Cressida. Was that your only purpose in seeking me out? If you wish to speak of other matters, however, then I will listen.”

“You know I cannot,” Eloise replied, darting a glance at Cressida. “Unless—did you?”

“I did not,” Penelope said quickly. “Have you changed your mind? About forgiving me?”

Eloise laughed. “You think it is that simple, that we avoid each other for months and suddenly all is well again?”

“Then why are you here?” Penelope whispered, weary. “What more can I possibly say to you to change your mind?”

“Because we are not done discussing this,” Eloise said, but Cressida scoffed.

“I do not need to know what argument you’re having to know that you’re just punishing her at this point,” Cressida said.

They stood quietly.

“You have no idea—” Eloise snarled.

“Are you?” Penelope asked quietly. “Punishing me?”

Eloise stared at her. “No,” she said, uncertainly. “I don’t want to do this if she is here,” she continued, nodding at Cressida.

Cressida sighed but said, “Believe me, I know when I’m not wanted.” She reached out, touched Penelope’s elbow, then drifted away.

“What do you want to discuss?” Penelope asked as soon as Cressida had moved far enough away.

But Eloise hesitated. “I’m not trying to punish you. I do not know why you kept it from me this whole time. Did you not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you, you’re my best friend. It is just—this is—this is something I do by myself, for myself.”

“Do you know how foolish I feel, in retrospect?” Eloise said. “All that time I ran my theories by you, how excited I got, and you just smiled and nodded and thought, what, that you pitied me? How foolish your friend was to talk about—about you, to you?”

“There was never pity,” Penelope said fiercely. “This has just been something that was mine and mine alone. Whether it succeeded or failed, it was solely on me.”

“But you could have trusted me,” Eloise was anguished.

“It truly was nothing personal,” Penelope whispered. “I just wanted something of my own, some way to talk about a society I felt I had no place in.”

Eloise shook her head. “That’s not good enough.”

Penelope felt the first spark of anger. “I’m feeling helpless here. I am being honest with you, but you clearly have answers in mind that I am not giving you. I do not know what you’re looking for anymore. Truly, what can I do for your forgiveness?”

“Stop writing.”

Her chest tightened. “Please, do not set such ultimatums.”

But Eloise shrugged. “You have said atrocious things with your writing; therefore, you should stop writing altogether. Then there is no risk of you ruining anyone else again. This would be for your good as much as anyone else’s.”

“You cannot ask this of me,” Penelope said, but Eloise’s mouth tightened.

“You asked what I needed, now I’ve told you. Think about what you value more: our friendship or your gossip.” Eloise turned and left.

Penelope choked on a sob but she couldn’t, she couldn’t, she was in public, anyone could see her—

“Come with me,” Cressida said, suddenly at her side, taking her elbow. Penelope was sightless, trying desperately to comport herself, when she was pulled behind a hedge. Very distantly, she thought this would have made a nice corner.

“Breathe,” Cressida instructed. “You’re being too obvious.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Penelope gasped on an exhale. Cressida was kind enough not to watch her as she gathered herself.

“I know you told me to stop sabotaging women,” Cressida said idly, “But I can be subtle.”

It Penelope a moment to understand. “Cressida,” she sent her a flat look, “Leave Eloise alone.”

Cressida shrugged. “Would it help you to speak of it? What has been troubling you two?”

“I cannot,” Penelope said, though in that moment she wanted nothing more. “It has to stay between me and Eloise.”

“If you insist,” Cressida said. Penelope would think her uninterested, but it was Cressida who hid her and provided comfort in the way she knew how.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Cressida hesitated. “I hear that is what friends are for.”

“They are,” Penelope agreed, smiling.

“Penelope, there you are,” Lady Featherington said, rounding the corner. She narrowed her eyes at them. “It is unladylike to be secretive, ladies.”

“Yes, Mama,” Penelope sighed. She turned to Cressida. “We will meet again soon?”

Cressida nodded.

Penelope’s sisters joined them as they made their way to the carriages.

“When I am Lady Featherington, I will change Mama’s ghastly curtains,” Philippa said to Prudence, who nodded.

“Except, when I am Lady Featherington—”

“Excuse me?” Penelope interjected. “In what situation would either of you ever take over the house?”

“Oh, you must have missed this, but Mama has informed us it has been written that whichever of us has a son first, that son will be the new Baron Featherington.”

Penelope was shocked that such a stipulation would be written, though she supposed there were only so many Featherington men left. “You understand that would not make you Lady Featherington, that would just make you the mama of the lord. You would still be a Mrs.”

“And why would you have thoughts on this, you with your nonexistent husband?” Prudence said. “When I am the Lady of the house, rest assured, I will send you to the smallest room. As a lonely spinster, you will hardly need the space. I do wonder where your books will go?” she continued as if in deep thought. She started laughing when Philippa did.

Penelope slowed behind them, a new fear settling in. If she could not marry, not only would she be her mother’s keeper, but she would be under the thumb of one of her sisters. She would never escape, forever at the whims of her family.

It was paramount she wed.

Chapter Text

It was the day before the first ball that the footman announced a visitor at the Featherington residence in London. Her mother looked up, confused—no one had sent any calling cards. Penelope did not pay it much mind, for surely it was her mother’s responsibility to entertain this wayward guest. But it was Cressida—and only Cressida, her mother not in sight—who arrived at the doorway. Her mother leaned over to see if Lady Cowper was somehow behind her.

“Miss Cowper, how…unexpected. Is your mama joining us shortly?” Lady Featherington inquired.

“I am alone,” Cressida said, then hesitated before she said, “I’m here to visit Penelope.”

Her mother looked between the two of them, then shrugged before standing up. “You can have the room, I doubt I will be interested in this.”

Penelope waited until her mother’s footsteps receded before she breathed again. “I am a little surprised to see you here.”

Cressida frowned. “Are you? You are the one who invited me.”

“True,” Penelope acknowledged. “I suppose I was not sure if you would take me up on it.”

“The first ball is tomorrow, I think there is plenty for us to discuss,” Cressida said.

Penelope checked one more time to see they were alone before she said, “I have a surprise.”

“Oh?” Cressida asked, intrigued.

In a whisper, Penelope said, “I bought some new dresses. Ones that I picked out for myself.”

“Oh! That is exciting,” Cressida said, “I am surprised your mama paid for that.”

“I…have savings,” Penelope muttered, not thinking through how she would explain it.

But Cressida simply shrugged, not pressing. “Are you feeling like tomorrow is the first night for a new Penelope?”

“It is not so much about simply wanting to make myself pretty as it is—I do not want to be my mama, nor do I want to look like her or act like her. Picking my own clothes is a way for me to express myself and my own interests. If I am to have one last year, then I will make it count.”

“I am afraid I will have the opposite problem with my mama, based on what she bought for me, but I am happy for you, truly. Yellow is not your color,” Cressida said.

They sat in a quiet, comfortable silence, until—

“Have you heard about Co—about him?” Cressida asked tentatively. “It is difficult not to hear of his reentry with the way the ton gossips.”

“You can say his name,” she said tiredly. “There is no point tiptoeing around it, not when he is who I want to pursue the most.”

“Colin Bridgerton,” Cressida murmured. His name rang between them. “Unfortunately, you are going to have even more competition than you anticipated.”

“First, I need to speak with him, I need to know,” Penelope sighed. “He may not give me an answer I can accept.”

“Then remember that, the answer you need. Do not let him get away with anything just because he’s pretty.”

Delighted, Penelope asked, “You think Colin is pretty?”

Cressida narrowed her eyes. “I still fog up a mirror, Penelope, of course he’s pretty.”

Penelope laughed. “If my plan is to hunt Colin down at the ball, what is yours? Look for men you do not recognize?”

Cressida quieted. “I do not know what other option I have. I figure if we near the end of the season and I still have no prospects, I will just yell out my dowry for all to hear and pick the kindest man who follows up.”

“What is your dowry?” Penelope asked. “I will not share it with Eloise or anyone else. It is just well known that you have a sizeable one.”

Looking over her shoulder—indeed, still no one was there—she said lowly, “£30,000.”

“What?” Penelope squeaked, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Thirty? That is more than me and my sisters combined, assuming I even have a dowry.” 

“My papa says it is a show of wealth,” Cressida muttered, embarrassed, “But I suspect it is because he is that desperate for me to leave his household. He is not shy about telling me as such, loudly and often.”

“He tells you to leave?” Penelope asked.

“Oh, he has always wanted me gone,” Cressida said matter-of-factly, but Penelope suspected it was not so simple. “My only value is if he marries me to a wealthy lord that will bring business his way. I’m a bartering chip with big sleeves.”

“Cressida, you are far more than that,” Penelope said firmly. “Remember, we are not our parents. I am not my mama, nor do I want to be. You are not your mama, nor do you want to be. And we have already established that we will find you a husband who does not remind you of your father. We have a plan, Cressida, we must simply stick to it.”

Cressida put a hand over her eyes and sighed. It took Penelope a moment to realize she was trying not to cry.

“All will be well,” Penelope said softly. “We can do this.”

Cressida did not remove her hand, but she nodded in return.

Penelope stared at the pamphlet in her hand, then into the mirror again.

She had not tried on her new gown for tonight, not yet. Part of her wanted a bit of a grand reveal, even if only for herself. But her hair—it was not her favorite style. It was easy, certainly, to pile a bunch of curls up top and secure them with a mass of pins. But when Penelope hesitantly asked Genevieve for her advice, for ways she could style herself to go along with her new dresses, Genevieve lit up, scurrying into another room before coming back with several pamphlets, style guides for her hair and face. Genevieve assured her she need not make any changes, that she was already beautiful, but there was also no harm in trying something new for fun.

This was supposed to be fun, she reminded herself. Yes, the consequences of this season were serious, but balls themselves were supposed to be exciting. Everyone dressed in their finest, wine flowing, bodies heating up as they danced. Even as the watchful eye in the corner, Penelope could get caught up in the atmosphere. The prospect of actively participating was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Rae poked her head in. Penelope shared her pamphlet—and then it began.

Instead of tightly pinned curls, her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder. The bust of her dress was a little lower in cut and position, emphasizing her lovely body. Her eyes were brighter, her lips somehow fuller. There was no one detail that spoke the most, but they coalesced into something beautiful. She was still the same Penelope Featherington, she just felt more.

She wore a cloak in the carriage. Her mother made no comment on how she styled herself, though perhaps her mother tended to focus so little on her she simply did not notice. Bundled with nerves, she accidentally bypassed the footman who was to take her cloak upon arrival. She surveyed the ball from the top of the landing, looking down. It was stunning, as were all of Lady Danbury’s affairs. Everything was in full motion, the dance floor packed, bodies moving past one another, the susurration of many people talking at once. She was about to step in when a footman coughed politely behind her.

“Miss, my apologies, we forget to collect your cloak.”

Oh. She supposed she did have to take it off. One more deep breath and she let it slip from her shoulders to showcase the teal Parisian masterpiece Genevieve had made just for her. She startled when eyes turned to her as one like magpies, drawn to something new and shiny.

Keep breathing, keep breathing, was her mantra as she tried desperately not to trip down the steps in these new shoes. Faces were blurred around her, for how many there were, for all she could focus just enough to keep moving. It was too much, what was she doing—

Her eyes caught Colin Bridgerton’s. She could breathe again. He was painfully handsome in his dark coat, his wavy hair swept away. But his eyes, kind and surprised and so very blue, were locked with hers. She opened her mouth to say his name—

She was descended upon by a pack of first year debutantes. Noise resumed, faces were sharper in image. She blinked, then looked back to Colin but he was busy conversing with some other men. Had she imagined it? Had she imagined him?

“Penelope,” one of them gasped, “Where did you find this gown?”

“Oh, this is from Ge—Madame Delacroix,” she said, shy under the attention. They continued to ask her questions, how she did her hair, had she planned that grand entrance this whole time, but all Penelope wanted was a friend. Eloise continued to live at the periphery of her thoughts, she always would, but right now she needed Cressida. Excusing herself, she carefully wended through everyone until she bumped directly into someone.

With a gasp she stepped back, embarrassed. She turned to him, looking up—she had to keep looking up, he was tall—at a handsome man she truly could not recall seeing before, even though he looked on the older side for someone who would be fresh to society.

“Apologies,” he said, mouth twisting, “I was not watching where I was going. Are you well?”

“I—am I? Yes, I am well, thank you…Lord…?” She wished she had a chance to talk to Cressida before she was thrown into it.

“Debling,” he said, his tone amiable. “And you are Miss Featherington, I believe?”

She was surprised a stranger knew of her, but she supposed her miniature was somewhere out in society, too. She wished she had remembered his, assuming he was eligible. He had a gentle way about him.

Nodding, she knew she needed to say something, but her thoughts were scattershot. “Have we met?”

He tilted his head. “I do not believe we have been previously acquainted.”  

“I do not recall having seen you at events lately, are you—new to London?” She could tell she was being too forward but her mouth kept moving.

If he was put off by her line of questioning, he did not show it. “Yes and no. I have been traveling for some years, so it has been a while. I only returned to London not long ago.”

He’s a stranger.

“Did—did you—are you accompanying someone tonight?” She was positively impertinent now, wanting to crawl in on herself.

He was bemused, but his smile was kind when he said, “No, I am here alone.”

He was undoubtedly handsome and she already felt at ease with him. A little part of her wondered if she should stay, if she should pursue, if she could salvage a disastrous introduction. But she caught movement at the corner of her eye and it was Colin, naturally it was Colin, who was watching her as if he had never seen her before. He had never looked at her this way before. Her breath hitched—

“Am I keeping you?” Lord Debling asked politely, looking between her and Colin.

“Oh,” she winced, humiliation flaring. “My apologies, my lord, I am—it was—it has been an evening.” She could feel Colin’s eyes burning into her, but she refused to turn. Not now.

“I understand, it is quite overwhelming being here tonight,” he admitted, looking about the room. “I feel clumsy navigating large events such as this. I never know where to start.”

“Me, too,” she said. “I often find myself stumbling and hoping for the best.”

His laugh was easy; it made her blush. She was unused to having such focus on her, especially from a man like Lord Debling.

“If I may ask, what has brought you here then? To London. Or, rather, this ball. If you are uncomfortable here, that is.”

He hesitated. She was finally too familiar.

“You need not answer—”

“I am looking for a wife,” he said bluntly, then winced. “I should perhaps find another way to introduce that, but you are the first person to ask, so you get the honest answer.”

Ah, so they were both too forward. “I would consider softening that, perhaps,” she suggested. “Either that or proclaim it loudly for every debutante to hear.”

“Unfortunately, I am not the type to loudly proclaim anything.”

“You may have to get over that if you are to find a wife in earnest,” Penelope said.

“And what would you suggest I do?” he asked, but it was a little distracted as his eyes tracked someone moving behind her. It was times like this she was annoyed by her height, that nearly everyone was visible around her.

“I would—” she caught movement from behind, quickly glancing to see who captured his attention—

Cressida moved around her, not looking at her, but Penelope felt the faint brush of a hand on her back, a touchpoint of solidarity. When she turned back to Lord Debling, she saw he was still watching Cressida before darting back to her.

He’s a kind stranger.

They both hesitated, watching each other. It was a silent acknowledgement that he had been looking elsewhere, even if just briefly. But she had, too, so perhaps they were not dissimilar.

Something slotted within her and she knew that as long as Colin Bridgerton existed, there would be no other man for her. She also knew that this handsome man in front of her would not be her husband.

But he might be someone’s husband.

“Her name is Cressida,” she blurted out, then put a hand to her face in abject embarrassment. “Apologies, I should not have called attention to it—” To the fact that you were distracted by another woman.

“Oh,” was all he said.

She needed to extricate herself from this. “Apologies, Lord Debling, I have taken too much of your time—”

“It is alright, Miss Featherington—”

But she was already curtseying, then vanishing into the ton—now, she was less annoyed by her height, for all that she was hidden.

Cressida stood by herself, not quite in a corner, but somewhat removed from main traffic. She wore creamy pink satin, her hair intricately styled as usual. Penelope could understand someone being starstruck seeing her for the first time.

“Well, how did it go?” Cressida asked as soon as she came up to her. “I did not want to interrupt, but it seemed it was going well.”

“He was very kind,” Penelope said truthfully. “Cressida, he’s a stranger.”

Cressida stared at her blankly. “All men are strangers until you go up and talk to them.”

“No, I mean, he seems like a good and kind stranger.”

“Oh,” Cressida mumbled. “Truly?”

“I cannot say why, but I am confident he would be amenable to making your acquaintance. Which I would encourage you to do.”

Something shuttered across her face. “But you are interested in him.”

“I—he is interesting, yes,” Penelope admitted. “But—”

“You told me to stop sabotaging women,” Cressida said.

“I did,” Penelope said more slowly, not following her.

“I am not going to pursue a man you are genuinely interested in—one who was clearly interested in you as well. I do not want to compete with you.”

“Cressida, it is only a conversation,” Penelope reasoned. “You are allowed to speak with him as well, he can find more than one woman interesting.”

That seemed to be the wrong answer. “I am allowed to speak with him? Thank you, for your permission, but I am not doing this with you.” She shouldered past her, leaving her alone in the corner.

Penelope’s breath was shaky, unsure what just happened. Was she wrong? She thought she was being comforting, encouraging her to speak with him.

A hand on her shoulder. Sighing with relief, she turned and said, “Cressida, please—”

It was Colin Bridgerton.

“Hi, Pen,” he breathed.

She hated how handsome he was.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all night,” said Colin.

He sounded excited, like he was genuinely pleased to see her. And perhaps he was. He never said he did not want her as a friend, he just did not want to be with her. His words from that ball roiled through her, reminding her why she never wrote him back.

“Hello, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said stiffly.

He paused. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

“That is how one addresses an acquaintance, is it not?” she said.

“But we are not acquaintances, Pen,” he said, confused. “We’re friends. Is everything well?”

“We’re friends, but never anything more, is that right?” she sought to clarify, feeling heat in her fingertips. She wanted to slide into this more subtly, but anger quickly zipped through her.

He frowned. “Pen, what—”

“I heard you at my mama’s ball at the end of the season, telling everyone how you would never court Penelope Featherington. Do you even remotely understand the consequences of that? What that—what that did to me?”

“Pen—”

“It is Penelope,” she hissed.

His face was pained but he nodded slowly. “Penelope, if I am honest, I do not entirely recall saying such a thing—which is not to say you are wrong! But if I did, I am—I am ashamed that I ever would speak as such to others. Truly.” He frowned. “I would never intentionally hurt you, Pen—Penelope. You are one of my dearest friends.”

Dearest friends. It still stung to hear. “Why would you say it at all?” she whispered. “Is the thought of courting me truly that laughable to you? When you say such things, you are signaling to other men that they should avoid me, too.”

“Courting you is not laughable,” he said quietly and she hated how the tiniest spark of hope flared in her chest. “We have been family friends for so long, it is just—it is not something I have actively thought about. It pains me to know what repercussions there have been, that I might be affecting your own efforts to find a husband.”

She thought it generous of him to assume she was still actively in the mart, unlike nearly every other person who knew her. “You laughed about me,” she murmured. “That is not something friends do.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I am so sorry, Penelope, truly. These are not the actions of a friend and you deserve better.” He hesitated, then said, “Is this why you did not write to me while I was gone?”

She winced, having forgotten about that, but she nodded. He sighed but said nothing to it.

Colin took a deep breath, then straightened. “I will continue to ask for your forgiveness, but I want to prove to you I can be a good friend. You are too important to me, Penelope. Will you give me a chance? Please?”

Part of her wanted to decline, to shut him down, to make him grovel—but that would bring nothing but further pain. In light of her last conversation with Eloise, she did not actually want to punish him, to hurt him in return, to drag him down to her. The hurt still simmered, but it no longer boiled.

“Very well,” she eventually said.

He beamed. “Is there anything you have in mind? I will think of ideas of course, I do not mean to put it on you. But if there is any way I can help you now, I should wish to know.”

Penelope knew she should have demurred, to tell him she would think on it, that she would follow up later. They would continue with lighthearted chatter—perhaps he would even ask her to dance to make up for it—and then their relationship could resume as it was before he left.

But that was not what Penelope wanted in truth.

“I’m looking for a husband,” she said honestly, watching his eyes widen. “But men make me nervous. Is that something you can help me with?”

He stared at her, then nodded slowly. She was unsure how to read his expression. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Yes.

“I might,” she said softly. His brow furrowed for a moment before his face cleared.

“If that is what you want, then it shall be on me to help see it happen,” he declared, though it was quieter than she expected.

She nodded, not quite relieved, but more settled than she had been in a long time. That feeling carried her for the rest of the evening, even though did was unable to find Cressida again. As she finally made her way home, she was already writing her next Whistledown in her head. She was embarrassed that she had to write about herself, even if it was a brief mention, about her reveal.

She sat at her writing desk and just—stared.

Stop writing. Think about what you value more: our friendship or your gossip.

How was she to possibly reconcile this? Yes, Whistledown was pejoratively a gossip rag, but it was hers. She took great pains to ensure she spoke truthfully and eloquently. Yes, undoubtedly, she had done some damage, but she hoped she had done better. She genuinely enjoyed writing Whisteldowns.

It was a sudden flare that faded as fast, but she resented Eloise. Ending Whistledown would not fix what had already been hurt. She felt Eloise did not fully appreciate how much Whistledown meant to her, that it was far beyond reporting gossip. She felt she was chronicling stories, she was providing information to those who otherwise had access to none. And yes, it gave her agency. Whistledown was more than a publication, it was a means through which she could express herself. Ostensibly, yes, it would be easy for her to stop writing.

But Eloise should not have asked this of her in the first place.

Dipping her quill a little vigorously, Penelope began.

Dearest Gentle Reader…

“Lady Cowper and Miss Cowper, ma’am,” the footman declared from the Featherington drawing room.

Penelope felt a frisson of nerves; she had not spoken to Cressida since their last ball. She had so much she wanted to share but she worried Cressida would no longer be amenable to it.

Cressida stared at her blankly when she and her mother came in. Refusing to let anything stagnate, as Lady Cowper settled with her mother, Penelope took Cressida’s hand and led her to her bedroom for privacy. Cressida looked around curiously. Penelope wondered if Cressida’s own room was as sober as her drawing room. Cressida stood awkwardly until Penelope offered her the chair from her writing desk. When she sat down, Penelope settled on the chest at the foot of her bed.

“Did you speak to him? Colin?” Cressida eventually asked.

With a blustery sigh, Penelope nodded. “We spoke at length. There is still some hurt, but his apologies were sincere. I believe that he is truly sorry for what he said.”

Cressida nodded, giving her a small smile. “Then it sounds like it went as well as it could have, considering.”

“Yes, he even offered to help me—” Penelope was embarrassed to say it, “He even offered to help me find a husband.”

Cressida blinked at her. “That is too perfect.”

“Is it?”

“He is going to teach you how to entice men the way he would be enticed. He is essentially writing a book on how to court him, and we both know how much you love to read.”

A blush flared on Penelope’s cheeks. “Surely that is not the case.”

“Penelope,” Cressida said flatly. “You are not only going to learn from him what is enticing to men—to himself—but you will also have time alone with him. These are the opportunities you need to convince him that you are the one who is enticing. No other woman in the ton will have this.”

“But what if—”

“He already finds you beautiful,” Cressida said.

That stopped her. “What?”

“It is the way he looks at you, and I do not mean just last night in your new dress, though that certainly helped. When you said you were interested in someone, it was not hard for me to deduce it was Colin because I’m observant. Which also means that I have observed him with you and Penelope, even before you changed your hair and clothes, he’s been watching you.”

“You do not mean that,” Penelope whispered. “Why would you say this?” Why would you give me hope?

“Because you must know you are not starting from nothing. You already have his attention, you just need to let him know he has yours, too.”

Penelope shook her head, disbelieving.

Cressida shrugged, not pushing the point.

“What about you?” Penelope asked tentatively. “Did you ever speak with Lord Debling?”

“Who?”

“The—the gentleman I tried to tell you about, the stranger,” she winced. She did not know if Cressida was still upset with her.

“I did not,” Cressida said slowly.

“I’m sorry for that,” Penelope murmured, “I don’t quite know what I said was wrong, but I did not mean to discourage you.”

“I do not want to compete with you,” Cressida reiterated. “So if he is an earnest prospect for you—”

“The only earnest prospect for me is Colin.”

“You should not pin all your hopes on one man—”

“I love him.”

Cressida sighed. “Truly?”

“There is no one else for me,” Penelope said helplessly. “He is the only one I can think about.”

“I still think you should entertain other men, but—” She tilted her head, “I have never been in love, so I cannot advise on that.”

“And I think you should entertain Lord Debling. Would you please let me tell you of him?” Penelope asked.

“What makes him so special that you insist on this?”

“Our conversation was not long, but he seemed kind and thoughtful and perhaps not comfortable in large social settings—which is great for you, you could help him navigate that. And then there’s—” She debated finishing, but Cressida had just been honest with her. “He was watching you when you walked past me.”

Cressida’s face was blank. “That is just because I was nearby, Penelope. You’re short, it is easy to look over you.”

Penelope huffed. “You are not wrong, but I think he would be receptive to you speaking to him. Please believe me, this is not about competition. We’re helping each other.”

“It sounds like I need to trust you,” Cressida said, not entirely confident.

“Then it is a good thing you can.”

Chapter Text

Penelope had never promenaded before.

She supposed this did not quite count, this walk with Colin, but she knew what it would look like to others. Carefully she picked a blue dress the shade of her eyes, her hair carefully coiled in a chignon. Pleased, she grabbed her gloves and set off with Rae to Rotten Row. Anticipation still ran through her. Even though he was not courting her, he would speak of courting and in that smooth voice of his tell her how to make herself more desirable. She wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to her. He was easy to find, if for no other reason than the many onlookers who skirted around him, intrigued but unwilling to intrude. When he saw her, he smiled widely.

“Penelope!” He said loudly, easily, uncaring he was drawing further attention to them. “You look lovely today,” he continued.

She tried to calm her breathing when she said, “Thank you, Colin, it is good to see you.”

“Ah, so we’re back to Colin,” he teased, then offered her his arm.

She was not strong enough for this. Taking his arm, she tried to quell the shaking in her hand. “I suppose you may call me Pen after all.”

“Thank you,” he said, surprisingly serious. “Do you have thoughts about where you would like to begin?” he asked, gently steering them down the path, Rae dutifully behind a ways.

“I have been working with Cressida—”

“Cressida Cowper?” he said incredulously. “Voluntarily?”

“We have found a sort of kinship in the country,” she explained softly. “She has been a friend to me when I have had none.”

“But what about—” he shook his head. “I did not anticipate hearing you say Miss Cowper was your friend, but I have been gone so who am I to say. She has been of assistance finding a husband then?” He still sounded doubtful.

“She has. I have—it is—Talking to men is difficult for me. I find myself locking up and making a fool of myself,” she shared.

“But you converse easily with me as well as Benedict and Gregory,” he said, “I have a hard time picturing you struggling with others.”

“That is because you’re my friend,” she said, not understanding why his face fell a little at that.

“Right. Your friend. I do suppose that makes some things easier,” he agreed. “So when you are actually interested in a man, you freeze?”

His tone was odd but she did not understand why. “It seems to be just about any man. I have not exactly been practicing the last couple of years.”

“May I ask why now, then? That you are seeking a husband?”

She sighed. “Because it has been made apparent this is my last season. If I do not marry, then I am to take care of my mother and one of my sisters will take on the mantle of the house.”

He cringed. “That is quite a lot of pressure. I cannot imagine you living under one of your sisters.”

She rolled her eyes. “You see why I need help.”

“Very well,” he said, their pace sedate. “You said you freeze. What does that mean exactly? That you stop thinking altogether? Or that you panic?”

“Yes. Both,” she said.

“And what has Miss Cowper recommended?”

“That I am not the only one who is nervous and that they need to impress me as much as I impress them.”

He stared at her, then nodded. “Sound advice. But has that helped you?”

She shrugged. “Some? But not entirely.”

“I learned a lot traveling through Europe,” he said. “But something I observed early on was that when no one knows who you are, you are free to be more than you feel. So when I acted more confidently than I felt, others would take it seriously because they did not know me otherwise. It is the same with charm.”

“Charm,” she said flatly.

“Well, one thing at a time,” he said lightly. “What I mean to say is, if you are already going in nervous and insecure, they will read that right away. But if you go in confidently—even if you do not quite feel as such—then they will read that confidence first and respond in kind. Then, that will help you feel confident in truth.”

“But I do not know how to feign confidence,” Penelope said, but Colin was already shaking his head.

“That is not true. I find you remarkably confident! You always speak your mind with me and have insightful observations to share. I always feel at ease when speaking with you,” he said quietly.

“That is kind of you to say,” she murmured.

“Is there any particular time you do feel confident? Or some place that you are comfortable enough to be yourself?”

“Ah,” she started, unsure if she should be honest. “Your home. I miss having Sunday tea with your family, I have always felt welcome there. It was easy to be myself.”

His smile was sad. “I can tell that all is not well between you and Eloise. I am sorry for it, though she has not said why—would you share with me?”

She shook her head.  

They walked quietly. She closed her eyes, just for a moment pretending she was walking with him as a suitor.

“I know what might help,” he said, “We can practice with some other men. We will start with a situation that makes you, well, uncomfortable so I can better understand where you are.”

She looked about; there were certainly several men who could potentially work. But Colin was already leading them toward a trio of men by a tree.

“Colin, wait, what are you doing?”

“We’re going to meet some gentlemen!” he said cheerily.

“Together?” she hissed. She could not fathom trying to be enticing with Colin over her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said firmly and then they were upon the others.

“Gentlemen,” Colin greeted congenially. They nodded, smiling, one of them replying with a quiet Bridgerton. “May I introduce you to Miss Penelope Featherington?”

“Miss Featherington,” they said, bowing. She curtseyed, her breath already tight. “Have you had a pleasant walk?” one of them asked.

“Walking! Yes, it has been pleasant. I do love to walk. It is certainly better than running, is it not?” She bit her tongue. She caught Colin in her periphery looking at her but did not dare look back.

“Walking is better than running,” one of the men said, which was nice of him. “Do you enjoy being outside when the weather is as nice as this?”

“I prefer the indoors,” she said. “It is awfully bright outside, which means you end up squinting, and then you are just walking about squinting. Do you have that problem, my lord?”

Two of them looked at each other warily. “I do not.”

“Gentlemen, it was good to meet with you,” Colin suddenly said. “Please enjoy the rest of your day.” He steered her away, walking—not running—until they came to a bench by the river.

“Pen,” he sighed, “What was that?”

“I don’t even remember what I said, was it terrible?” she asked.

“It was—not your finest moment,” he admitted. “I’m rather perplexed, is that how you are with everyone?”

“I told you I am terrible at this,” she said defensively, trying not to hunch.

“I do not mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, “Though you have provided some context for what we need to work on.”

She put her face in her hands, groaning.

He ever so lightly touched her knee, then took his hand back. “All will be well, Penelope. The two of us—or, well, three if we include Miss Cowper—can figure this out. I promise you, we will find a husband for you.”

She sighed, keeping her face in her hands.

“My mama has become more insistent,” Cressida murmured in Penelope’s bedroom, having taken the chair again from the writing desk.

“Insistent on you finding a husband?” Penelope gathered.

“To an extent, yes. But she also—she does not consider me a proper young woman, not proper enough, at least. I have worked so hard to be exactly who she wants me to be and yet after all this time it seems for naught. Do you ever feel that?” Cressida asked.

Penelope laughed. “Only ever hour of every day. Unless I marry the Prince himself, I do not think there is anything I can do to gain her approval in any fashion. She found me wanting a long time ago.”

“Why do I care so much?” Cressida whispered. “I’m twenty years old, I should not be so consumed with thoughts of whether my mama even loves me.”

That quieted her. “You do not think your mama loves you?”

Cressida tensed. “She might have when I was little,” she supposed. “But once my courses came it was if everything changed overnight. She stopped seeing me as a daughter and more of a—a bride in training. She stopped hugging me. She stopped comforting me. She stopped praising me. I was either always doing something wrong or I was not good enough.” She laughed a little wildly around the edges. “I cannot say for certain I have ever been loved. What a bleak thought.”

Penelope sighed, reaching out to put a hand on Cressida’s knee. “I think my mama tolerates me, in that she will most likely rely on me to care for her. I cannot ever recall a time in my life when I felt like she saw me for who I am. I do not know if it is because of my body or because I am shy, but she simply—never looked at me. She sees through me. Even now, as a woman grown, I am of no substance to her. Is that love? I honestly do not know.”

“Are we the problem, or is it our mamas?” Cressida asked.

“Our mamas,” Penelope said firmly. “Not being loved—not feeling loved—that isn’t your fault. It says more about your mama than it does you.”

Cressida put a hand to her face. “I’m afraid, Penelope. I am starting to hear names at home, names of lords my father associates with who want someone…pure. Now I can see them, my nightmares have faces, I cannot marry someone like my father, I just—cannot.”

Penelope took her other hand. “That will not happen, I will do what I can to make sure that it doesn’t. I am not being flippant when I say the season has just begun. We can make this work, yes?”

Cressida squeezed her hand.

It was to be a more intimate evening that, for better or worse, leant itself to conversation.

She left her mother’s side almost as soon as they entered, having little interest in entertaining her sisters. There was no sign of Cressida yet so she found a cozy corner for herself to assess. Not long after, the Bridgertons entered, beautiful and regal as they ever were. Her heart panged when she saw Eloise, but her heart was a little hardened to it. She had not seen Eloise since she wrote her last piece. She felt guilty, that if she was truly a better friend, she would simply stop writing. But a part of her felt anger as well, that her hand was being forced as such. She also genuinely believed that ending Whistledown would not suddenly resolve their troubles. This hurt was beyond a mere publication.

Colin stood at Eloise’s side amiably chatting; she knew she would have to wait to speak to him. She caught sight of Cressida being led through by her mother, Cressida leaning down a little to hear her. They stopped, then her mother directed her at—

—There was Lord Debling, staring up at a mounted stag. Penelope could see the flash of panic on her face as she stumbled forward, then before she fell into his periphery, Cressida pivoted and headed straight for her. She tried not to laugh, but Lady Cowper’s ire was palpable.

“Penelope,” Cressida said, sounding as harried as ever. “This is too much.”

Penelope frowned, surprised. “Normally you are the confident one about approaching men.”

“You put too much pressure on me,” Cressida hissed. “Now I am worrying if I know how to be approachable enough. There are only so many strangers.”  

It brought Penelope a small amount of comfort to see that Cressida did, indeed, get nervous around men—she was not the only one.

“Just—whenever you wonder if it is something your mama would say, say the opposite, or at the very least do not say it at all. If she taught you the way my mama taught Prudence, she expects you to be a little—aggressive in your flirtation, yes?”

Cressida nodded.

“Is that the most comfortable approach for you?”

Cressida paused, then shook her head.

“I do not mean to make light of your worries, but you should have none, not in his case. I was fumbling and he was very kind about it. So even if you feel you made a misstep, I do not believe he will hold it against you. Just—try? Please.” She hesitated, then added, “Do you want me to go with you? I could introduce you.”

Cressida’s eyes widened. Penelope opened her mouth to take it back when Cressida quietly said, “Alright.”

What a role reversal, Penelope thought to herself, but secretly she was pleased. She felt Cressida had been doing so much to help her, she wanted to repay that kindness however she could. Now she needed to take Colin’s words to heart and approach Lord Debling with more confidence than she felt. She could do this.

She had to.

As Penelope and Cressida walked toward Lord Debling, who was blessedly still alone, Penelope leaned up to hiss, “Your face is giving you away.”

“I did not ask for your opinion, Penelope,” she snipped, but she also seemed to settle.

Penelope, the proud student she was, gentle drifted them into his periphery, having them turn to face the crowd as if they were casual observers.

Cressida started to say—

“Ah, Miss Featherington, good evening,” Lord Debling greeted them, then paused before adding, “And you, Miss Cowper is it?”

Both Penelope and Cressida curtseyed. “It is, my lord,” Cressida said quietly.

Be confident, be confident—

“Lord Debling is looking for a wife,” Penelope declared, then quickly inhaled. Lord Debling flinched while Cressida looked close to snapping at her. With a weak laugh, Penelope turned to Lord Debling and said, “See? Proclaim it loudly.”

There was a collective pause until Lord Debling huffed a laugh. “I would have perhaps approached it differently, but you are not wrong.”

“What has made this season different for you, my lord, that you now seek marriage?” Cressida asked. Penelope stepped just slightly away from them.

“I have been traveling for quite a while, which is a passion of mine. While I am able to manage my affairs on my own, I feel the burdens of the day could be eased if a partner and I could support each other.”

“That sounds practical,” Cressida said, to which he nodded. “But why travel for so long? Is there something in particular that draws you?”

He hesitated. “I travel for work. Or, well, I am a naturalist; I study a bird called the great auk. They are endangered now, so accounts of them are increasingly scarce.”

Cressida smiled. “I cannot say I know anything about them. I missed that history lesson."

He smiled in return. Penelope was aware he looked at both of them while he spoke, that he was attentive to them both, but he seemed time and again drawn back to Cressida. She shouldn’t be here, but there was no polite way to excuse herself without drawing attention to Cressida as well.

“And how do you enjoy your time, Miss Cowper? Are you much one for spending time outdoors?”

Penelope watched as Cressida hesitated. Penelope knew the answer to this, but she did not know how honest—

“Not especially,” Cressida admitted uncertainly. “I consider the outdoors drafty.”

But his smile just widened. “That is true, it can be. What are your indoor pursuits then?”

“I play the pianoforte. I suppose I also spend a great deal of time studying modern languages,” Cressida tentatively offered.

“That is a talent, indeed. I studied French when I was younger, but it never stuck. Should I assume that is what you study as well?” he asked.

“I do, my lord, and German,” Cressida said.

Penelope waited, then added, “And Italian. She is being modest.”

Cressida glared at her, then smoothed her expression. “The Italian is unnoteworthy at this time.”

But he shook his head. “That is more than impressive to me. And of you, Miss Featherington?”

She startled, forgetting she was a part of the conversation. “I am thoroughly devoted to English at this point, my lord.”

He laughed; it was deep and pleasing. Cressida darted her eyes between them.

“And how do you spend your time when you are not with your great auks?” Cressida asked.

He tilted his head. “That is a good question. If I am not studying them, I am writing about them. That, and managing my estate, which by itself takes a great deal of time.”

“Are you a published author then?” Cressida continued. Penelope looked up at that.

“I am,” he said, almost shyly. “Academic texts, of course. You could say I specialize in birds, generally speaking.”

“Have you written any books?” Penelope asked, unable to stop herself.

“I have,” he said, “Though, again, on birds, nothing particularly exciting.”

“I think someone’s passions are always a little exciting,” Penelope argued.

His smile softened. “I would agree. And what are you most passionate about?”

Penelope looked at Cressida, whose face was carefully blank. Internally she winced, but said, “Reading. I spend a great deal of my time reading by the window.” Before he could speak, she said, “Cressida, what are you most passionate about?”

But Cressida froze, being put on the spot. “I—My passions? I do not know,” she said slowly, flagging under their scrutiny.

“That is all well,” Lord Debling said, unperturbed. “It can take time to figure those out.”

“Perhaps we should not take any more of your time, Lord Debling,” Penelope declared, looking at Cressida. “Please enjoy the rest of your evening.” She took Cressida’s hand and pulled her along before he could speak. It was rude, but she worried Cressida was a thread being pulled loose.

Sufficiently ensconced in a corner, Penelope looked at Cressida and said, “Is all well?” She tensed when she saw Cressida looked close to crying.

“Why did you do that?” Cressida hissed, sounding angry. “Is that your idea of helping me?”

Penelope reared back, surprised. “What are you talking about? I was facilitating conversation, you seemed uncertain.”

“So putting me on the spot was your idea of helpful,” Cressida said. “You know nothing, Penelope, if you think that man is uninterested in you. All you ended up doing was dragging me in front of him so I could watch you both flirt with each other. That was not helpful.”

“We were not flirting—”

“Don’t be so naïve,” Cressida snapped.

“You were the one who asked me to join you!” Penelope said, trying to keep her voice low. “If you cannot speak to him on your own, then perhaps your problems are greater than you think.”

At Cressida’s wounded look, Penelope felt like crying herself.

“You are correct,” Cressida said, but her voice was small rather than angry.

“I don’t know why I said that,” Penelope whispered. When Cressida looked close to bolting, she quickly took her hand. “Please, don’t go.”

“You cannot do that to me again,” Cressida said quietly, but she relaxed enough to show she wasn’t leaving. “If you are interested in someone, do not accompany me under the pretense it is for my benefit.”

“But I am not interested in him, truly. Yes, he is interesting, but did you not see the way he was looking at you?”

“He was looking at me because I was talking,” Cressida said muttered.

Penelope wondered if it was possible that Cressida was so used to feeling rejected, she could no longer recognize when a man was interested in her.  

“I won’t accompany you again,” Penelope promised. “All I ask is that you be open to talking to him if the occasion should arise. I will stop pushing, I promise.”

Cressida took a deep breath, then nodded. “Very well.” She looked around them. “Are you going to approach Colin at some point? You are already friends, it would not look strange if you did.”

Colin stood with Benedict but they were otherwise alone. She gathered Benedict was a bit of a deterrent, in that it was much harder for a young debutante two handsome men than one.

“I will go,” she agreed. “Will you be alright here?”

“Just go already, I need time to sulk,” Cressida said, but she gave a tired smile.

Penelope gave her a soft smile in return, then mixed with the crowd until she came out the other side, heading for the Bridgerton men.

“Hello, Penelope,” Benedict greeted warmly before Colin could speak. “We were just discussing the newest crop of debutantes, would you like to weigh in?”

“Oh, do you have your eye on someone?” Penelope asked him.

Benedict barked a laugh. “Here? Goodness, no.”

“I saw you speaking with Lord Debling again,” Colin inserted. She just caught Benedict rolling his eyes.

“Cressida and I were both speaking with him, yes,” she acknowledged.

“I hear he is one of the season’s most eligible bachelors,” Benedict noted, sending a look to Colin she could not read; Colin was unimpressed.

“Is he?” she asked, genuinely curious, though she could not say she was surprised.

“You do not know this?” Colin said.

“I literally ran into him the first time. He is very polite, is all.”

“You were there an awfully long time,” Benedict said, almost sounding as if he was needling Colin, though she did not understand why.

“I was there with Cressida,” she reiterated. “That is twice the conversation.”

“Do you have plans to see him at the next ball?” Colin asked.

She was unsure why Colin was focusing so much on this. “I do not.”

Benedict laughed when Colin seemed to relax—she did not understand brothers.

This was a mistake.

Penelope paced a small circle in Bridgerton House’s main landing, awkwardly keeping company with a footman. She tapped her fingers together, feeling tense, wondering if—

“There you are,” Colin called, tapping down the stairs to meet her. “Just in time.”

“That is all well and good, but we should be going now before anyone sees us,” she said, urging him forward, but he stopped short of her. “Colin,” she hissed.

“Actually, we are staying in today,” he said sunnily, already walking away from her back toward the stairs.

Frustrated, she hurried after him, looking over her shoulder to assure herself no one was there.

“Colin, we should go—”

“I’ve been thinking about our last walk—in retrospect, I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable, though it was helpful for me. We are going to try something different—working in a place where you are already comfortable—our drawing room.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary, Colin, I am fine finding random gentlemen instead.” The prospect of any Bridgerton finding her here for this purpose, but especially Eloise, was too much to bear.

“Be at ease,” he said gently. “Eloise is at the modiste with Francesca and our mother. The rest are playing cards out back and certainly will not be in anytime soon. If, however, at any point you feel too uncomfortable, let me know and we will stop, no questions.”

That soothed something in her. “No, we can work here,” she said reluctantly. “Tell me of this grand plan you have.”

As he led her into the drawing room, he swept a long arm out. “Imagine, a soirée; the dance floor in a constant state of movement, the thick throng of people milling about, musicians taking up a corner. You are surrounded, but you are also alone, free to speak to whomever you please. Such as—” He made a grand gesture “The gentleman you meet at the lemonade table. How do you charm him?”

Penelope just stared at him, processing. His eyes were bright, his smile kind, and his energy infectious. Perhaps this could be fun, in a way. Nodding to him, she said, “Very well, who is this gentleman I am to entice?”

He tilted his head, then made a gesture again. “Me. Charm me.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Colin, you cannot be serious.”

“But I am. You said you are comfortable with me, so you can be comfortable speaking to me. I promise I will not laugh at you, just walk me through what you would say to me—to him, your suitor, rather—if you were interested.”

This was a trap.

But Cressida’s words whispered over her, that she was truly alone with him. She could brush him off, laugh at him, laugh at the situation, and he would be kind enough to move on.

Or.

“Your eyes are the most remarkable shade of blue,” she murmured, staring up at him. “Yet, somehow, they shine even brighter when you are kind.”

He gasped, eyes wide. “Well.”

Her thoughts caught up with her, blushing anew. “Something to that effect.”

“If I didn’t see you with those men earlier, I would have thought you were lying to me,” he murmured, gaze intent. She lost her breath, unsure what she was feeling.

“What?” she breathed.

“You are more charming than you realize, Penelope Featherington.”

She laughed breathlessly. “I will have to get that in writing.”

“Pen—” A door and shuffling were heard outside. With a jolt, they both realized his family was back early from the modiste.

“Quick, in here,” he took her hand, pulling her to his study and gently closing the door behind her. She went over to his desk and braced herself on both hands, breathing deeply. Her body was singing.

As she struggled to calm down, she saw his journal upside down. Looking back over her shoulder, she came around and skimmed it first, then more slowly again.

He was a lovely writer. He had a way of making her feel as if she were standing beside them, that it was a shared journey.

But then the writing became personal, about time he spent with a woman, what his hands were doing, what his mouth was—

“What are you doing? Are you reading my journal?” Colin asked, frowning. He could not hide the flush along his cheeks.

“It was just here,” she said lamely. “That is to say, you are a wonderful writer, Colin.”

“You should not have read that,” he muttered and she realized he was embarrassed. “That was not meant for anyone’s eyes.” He swept a hand out to snap it shut and in the process dropped a votive, breaking on the floor.

Sighing in annoyance, Colin knelt down to pick up the glass and promptly cut himself. She quickly got on her knees, hurriedly taking her gloves off to grab a handkerchief.

“Colin, here, let me,” she said, already reaching for his bloodied hand.

He pulled away but she was firm, carefully taking his hand between hers, wrapping the cut gently. She cradled his hand, his fingers long and calloused. Without her gloves, she could feel him against her skin, roughened as it was. She recalled his writing, the way he described his hands on that woman’s body, how she—

No, his hands were certainly not like a gentleman’s.

She stopped breathing. At some point, he had, too.

“I think I should go,” she whispered. He nodded, standing with her. He did not say goodbye, just simply watched her leave.

She almost made it to freedom where she could fully breathe but at the last moment came across Eloise who paused, then looked absolutely livid. Not wanting to ruin what she just shared with Colin, she hurriedly left until she was squinting into the sunlight.

She knew she had to be wrong, surely she was wrong. But for just a moment, she truly wondered—

Did he want her, too?

Chapter Text

Penelope was perched by the window, gazing as always at Bridgerton House.

Her thoughts were disordered, a mess of memories that she tried to piece together over and over until they made sense. She knew how she felt in the drawing room when she stared into his eyes. She knew how her chest felt tight when his voice deepened, how her hands trembled holding his. She was increasingly aware that he was watching her in a way she did not understand, but something in her told her she should be excited.

She wanted this man.

She opened her book and used it to lightly fan herself. Thinking such things around her mother and sisters would do her no favors. She was pale enough as is, it did not take much of a blush to tell.

“A caller for Miss Featherington, ma’am.”

The room froze.

“Miss Featherington?” her mother asked. “Are you sure?”

“Penelope gets callers?” Philippa asked, bemused.

“Some poor man must be very lost if he ended up here,” Prudence said.

Penelope was also quite confused until Lord Debling came into the doorway, holding a plant. A dropped pin could be heard.

“Good afternoon, Lady Featherington, Miss Featherington.” He paused, unsure who her sisters were. “Ladies.”

“You are calling on my daughter, Penelope?” her mother clarified, disbelieving.

He was polite when he said, “I believe that is her name, yes.”

“Ladies,” her mother said, making a large shooing motion. “Give his lordship some room.” Blessedly, her mother led her sisters out of the room before coming back in, kindly sitting far enough away to give some guise of privacy.

“Good day, Lord Debling,” Penelope said, sitting back down. “What do you have with you today?”

“A fern,” he said pleasantly. “I find reading more enjoyable when I have greenery around me, so I wondered if you would find the same.”

“That was thoughtful, thank you,” she said, taking the plant and setting it gently on the table. “If I am being honest, I am somewhat surprised you are calling on me. I feel like I consistently have not made a good impression with you.”

He shook his head. “I actually find our conversations quite enjoyable. You have a direct way about you that is refreshing. Though, perhaps in the future, you could be a little less direct about my personal business,” he said with a smile.

“That is fair,” she mumbled. “I was only—” She eyed her mother behind him. More quietly, she said, “I was only trying to be helpful, though I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

She wondered what she was doing. Here she was in her drawing room with a gentleman caller for the first time in her life. He was handsome and thoughtful and expressed interest in her. But—

She did not feel butterflies. She did not burn. She did not spend her spare time yearning for him. It was not his eyes she wanted on her, but Colin’s.

“Trying to be helpful…for me or for Miss Cowper?” he asked uncertainly.

Penelope deflated. Cressida would be so vexed with her right now, to know that she was ruining a chance with him, that she should be feigning more excitement.

“Yes,” she said.

His blue eyes were considering. He said quietly, “Your affections are already engaged, are they not?”

She leaned back, embarrassed by her own blatancy. She might as well be honest at this point. “You saw me staring at him.”

He waited a beat before nodding. “It was rather conspicuous.”

She groaned lightly, but oddly she was also relieved. “Then why did you call on me, if I may ask?”

“Because I enjoy your company,” he said, shrugging. “It is not more complicated than that.”

That was pleasing to hear. “I enjoy your company as well. How has your search fared thus far, for your wife that is?”

His shoulders dropped. “Overwhelming would be an understatement. I did not anticipate such…vehemence once I declared I would find a wife. I am not unaware that I have a vast estate and means to my name, but the mothers in the ton are—voracious.”

“Indeed they are,” Penelope agreed. “That is a good problem, is it not? Now you have a wide selection of young ladies from which you can choose. To find your practical match.”

“It is not as simple as I thought it would be,” he said quietly. “In my naïveté, I assumed I would waltz into society, simply find a woman of interest, we would complement each other well, and then business would conclude.”

“How romantic,” she muttered.

He winced, “I do not consider myself particularly sentimental. I am true to my word and I’m an honest man, but I am not readily inclined toward grand displays of passion.”

“That is all well,” Penelope said, though Cressida was in her thoughts. “Are there certain ladies you have in mind?”

He looked at her strangely and she realized she was too familiar. “Ignore me.”

“Are you offering me insight?” he asked tentatively.

“It depends on what insight you are looking for.”

He sat back, as did she. He tapped a long finger on his knee, then leaned back in again. She checked that her mother was still distracted before she leant in as well.

“You are friends with Miss Cowper.” It was not a question.

Penelope bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I am.”

“My plan was to call on her later this morning—do you think she would be amenable to that?”

“I believe she would,” or at least Penelope hoped so. She was still unsure if Cressida was open to his interests.

He nodded and said nothing more.

“Very well,” Penelope said, feeling warm. “What other ladies are of interest?”

He waited long enough she knew not to ask again.

“So, my lord, how have you been spending your time in the city?” she tried again.

“We should walk together more often,” Penelope said, walking arm in arm with Cressida. “Both of our drawing rooms are terrible to look at.”

“This is pleasant,” Cressida murmured, and Penelope could tell she was pleased. “I haven’t done this before, with a friend, that is.”

“We have some more room to breathe and I have much to share,” she admitted.

“Do tell,” Cressida prompted.

She thought to start with Colin, but she worried about lingering uneasiness if they did not address Lord Debling first.

“I had a caller the other day,” Penelope said.

She felt Cressida tense on her arm. “Is that so?”

Penelope sighed. “You already know who I’m referring to.”

“So Lord Debling called on you first,” Cressida said, sounding painfully unaffected.

“It is not what you think—”

“Penelope, I am happy for you, but please I cannot hear of this—”

“He knows about Colin.”

Cressida stopped them, then pulled them down by the riverbank where fewer people traveled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“When we first met, he caught me staring at Colin while we were talking,” she admitted, a little humiliated that she did it at all. “He has always known my interests laid elsewhere. That is why I encouraged you—I was just too embarrassed to tell you why.”

“But—he called on you,” Cressida said. “He would not have done so if he were uninterested.”

“He said he enjoyed the company,” Penelope said, shrugging. “I am not sure he knows many people in the city since he left.”

“Then why would he call on me?” she said slowly.

“May I ask how it went?” Penelope asked, concerned about what an oppressive air the Cowper drawing room had.

“You were right, he is quite thoughtful,” Cressida eventually said. “I am honestly surprised he was interested enough to even come. My mama was beastly about it, sitting too closely, basically breathing down my neck. I would think it a lost cause but he—”

Penelope waited. “He?”

“He asked me on a promenade,” Cressida whispered and Penelope could see the faintest hope on her face; it was a new look. “He would not have done that out of obligation, would he?”

“Would he have gone across town to suffer your mausoleum because he felt obligated to endure your mama? Cressida, do you hear yourself?”

“He didn’t know it is a mausoleum,” Cressida said, shaking her head.

“Cressida.”

“I cannot hope. It is too early for me—to think much of it. He is polite and kind and that is all I can ask for right now.”

Penelope wanted to press but she was just pleased to see Cressida show even any excitement about it.

“You said you have much to share,” Cressida continued, sidestepping herself. “Was there something else?”

“I—he—I had a lesson with Colin. In his drawing room. Alone,” Penelope admitted.

“Intriguing,” Cressida said, grinning. “How did it feel?”

Penelope bit her lip. “Let us say, I, too, cannot hope.”

“Oh, it went that well,” Cressida wondered. “You do not seem terribly pleased by this. Am I misreading?”

“No! No you are astute as usual. It is just—perhaps I am misreading things. Sometimes he looks at me in a way that makes me think that he, well, is perhaps not unaffected.”

Cressida was quiet. “I cannot say I understand the feeling, but you must trust yourself and, to an extent, him. Do not make the decision for him if he cares for you on his behalf. I told you, you are not working from nothing—and I would not say that to placate or give you false hope.”

“But what do I do?” Penelope murmured.

“I gather you are already acting in a way that serves you, if what you say is correct. You are more observant than you give yourself credit for, do not doubt it now.”

“I wish you would take your own advice,” Penelope said, but hope gently glowed within her as well.

Cressida gave her a flat look and said nothing.

Another ball, another opportunity to—well, she was not sure.

Penelope knew two things at this time: she had an unexpected acquaintance in Lord Debling, and she desperately wished Colin would dance with her.

As she readied herself for the ball, she wondered at what Cressida said, if Colin could possibly harbor feelings for her already. How was she to know? She had never once had a gentlemen express interest in her. She did not quite include Lord Debling, in that she made her own feelings about Colin apparent early on. Did Colin look at all women the way he looked at her in his drawing room? Did his voice always deepen as such? Did his hands burn when she touched his as well?

She needed more evidence. She needed to know.

It was almost impressive, the way her sisters flocked to her mother so quickly, as if they were waiting in the wings for her arrival. She immediately cast her gaze for either Cressida or Colin, whoever she came upon first. After a first circuit of the ballroom, she found Colin in a side room with a few gentlemen. She made to leave—she could always find him later—but he lit up when he saw her, excusing himself from the group. She wished she did not feel butterflies when he did so.

“Pen,” he greeted warmly, “I am happy to see you.”

“I am as well,” she said, pleased. “I did not mean to interrupt your discussion.”

He just flapped a hand. “You are doing me a favor, in truth. Sometimes one can only listen to the same conversations so many times. Do you ever feel as such?”

Although she had not directly participated in them, she knew it was the same handful of conversations that floated amongst debutantes. She nodded.

“I am grateful for your company,” he said as easy as breathing.

“And I—yes, me too,” she stuttered.

He leaned down to speak to her more directly; she stopped breathing. “I do not mean to be presumptuous, but would this be a good opportunity to practice?”

“Practice what?” she breathed, mind blanking.

“With gentlemen,” he said.

She blinked, having forgotten herself. “If you insist.”

He frowned. “If I—I thought we were doing this for your benefit. Do you no longer wish to?” She could not read his face again, wondering why he almost sounded relieved.

“No, I do,” she said. “What would you suggest?”

He was quiet for a moment before he nodded to himself. “Lord Basilio is by himself.”

She turned over her shoulder. “Colin, he is a viscount.”

“And you are Penelope Featherington, do not forget,” he said firmly.

Blushing, she nodded in return before easing her way toward Lord Basilio.

Lord Basilio seemed subdued but still greeted her as she neared. “Good evening, Miss Featherington.”

“Oh, Lord Basilio, I did not see you there,” she lied, hoping to come across nonchalantly. Did that work for men?

“No matter,” he sighed, “I cultivate reserve these days anyway.”

“Life is too short for that, is it not?” she asked, then winced. It felt odd leaving her mouth.

His breath shuddered. She took a step back, concerned.

“Lord Basilio?”

“Apologies, Miss Featherington, it is only just—my horse, my beloved horse, she, well, she has died recently.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I am sorry for that, my lord.”

“You must excuse me,” he said, bowing and leaving her at the table.

Colin shortly thereafter came to her side, frowning. “What was that about?”

It was not humorous, but in a strange way it was comforting that men, too, could be affected by such things, that men could show displays of emotion as well.

“His horse died,” she whispered.

Colin’s face was blank. “Ah. Surely someone is not in mourning here.” He smiled broadly. “We shall gallop along.”

“Colin,” she hissed, trying to keep a straight face.

It struck her then, this odd sense that someone was watching her. She looked around, but saw no one looking in her direction. Perhaps she did not have the situational awareness that she thought.

“Are you looking for someone?” Colin asked.

“No, not quite.” She did not know how to explain it. “I do want to see Cressida at some point.”

He tilted his head. “I am still not sure I understand this relationship, not when you have—well, Eloise,” he said carefully.

Selfishly, she appreciated that Eloise still kept her secret—perhaps all was not lost. “I cannot explain my situation with Eloise, it is something we must resolve on our end. As for Cressida, she understands me in a way I did not expect. We have more similar upbringings than you may realize.”

“But she has been unkind to you,” he said.

So have you. “I think there is value in forgiveness where it is due, is there not?” she said pointedly.

He understood her meaning, nodding. “You are correct,” he said quietly.

This time, she did find Cressida, standing in her own corner. It ached a little; she wondered if she had always looked that way herself.

“I hope you will pardon me, but I just found Cressida. Can we meet again?”

“Of course,” he said. She smiled, turning, when he said in a rush, “Dance with me?”

She startled, sure she misheard him. “What?” she asked inelegantly.

“Not right now, not if you are—if you are seeing a friend. But rather, that is, would you care to dance with me tonight?” he asked.

Heat roared within her. “I should like that,” she admitted.

He looked down at her wrist and back and she realized he was thinking about her dance card. Sighing, she held the blank card up to him. She was grateful that he said nothing about it, simply scribbling his name down for a dance several places in advance of the queue.

She nodded blushing; his answering smile was sweet.

Flustered, she curtseyed, then wandered toward Cressida, who looked to be keeping a straight face herself.

“Well if it isn’t Penelope Featherington,” Cressida murmured, “Did my eyes deceive me, or did Colin Bridgerton just write his name on your dance card?”

“Hush,” Penelope said, terribly pleased.

“This is good progress,” Cressida said quietly. “I am happy for you.”

“Have you seen Lord Debling yet?” Penelope asked.

Cressida shook her head. “I am not entirely sure he is even here tonight.”

Penelope wondered at that. “And how was your promenade, truly?” She paused. “If it is not progressing well, I will stop asking.” She had difficulty reading the situation, if Cressida was neutral about Lord Debling or if he possibly was not as interested as he initially seemed. She supposed either was possible.

“You may ask,” Cressida said softly and Penelope saw a faint pink bloom on her cheeks. “He is quite the gentleman. He seems—”

Penelope waited. “He seems?”

“Like he is genuinely interested in what I have to say,” Cressida admitted. “I am trying to be myself, to not fall into old habits, and he—he listens. He smiles. He—” She faltered again.

He likes her.

But she did not want to pressure Cressida, not if she was coming to the realization herself. “That sounds quite lovely, Cressida. Do you—are you receptive?”

Cressida nodded, saying nothing.

“Then all is well,” Penelope said. “Remember, we are in this together. I still need your support more than ever.”

Cressida’s answering smile was bright. “I do as well.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope saw a tall blonde man and turned to Cressida with a sly look.

“Lord Debling is near behind me, if you are so inclined.”

“He is coming this way,” Cressida said, wide eyes.

Penelope needed to escape, she did not want a repeat of the last time the three of them were together.

“Miss Cowper, Miss Featherington, good evening,” Lord Debling greeted. They curtseyed in return.

He opened his mouth to speak but she could not help it—“Apologies, I see my mama calling me, please do excuse me.” She left without looking back. It was awkwardly done, but she thought more of Cressida’s comfort than she did her own politesse.

She did not want to lie, exactly, so she did make a halfhearted effort to find her mother, but she was genuinely out of sight. It was not a hardship for her. She made a circuit of the floor, not wanting to crowd Cressida, when to her good luck she found Colin nearby again. As before, he excused himself from the other men when he saw her.

“You need to leave your friends each time you see me,” she offered, but he shook his head.

“I would not exactly call them friends,” he admitted. “Trust me, I would much rather speak with you.”

How are you saying such things? “Then that is to my good fortune.”

Her heart was full—she had never spent such a night as she did with Colin and she hoped all was well with Cressida. And they had not yet danced! She wondered what the music would be, if he would need to hold her closely, to spin her and pull her into him—

“It is rather unseemly that Miss Featherington took his help.”

She and Colin froze, having heard Miss Livingston. He gave her a confused look.

“Pitiable, I think.”

“It is kind of him, but perhaps overly so.”

Cold washed over her. Was she hearing what she thought? Did they—did someone—

Colin’s face hardened. He went to the two closest mamas. “Pardon me, what are you whispering about?”

“Mr. Bridgerton, we were wondering why an eligible gentleman such as yourself would help a spinster find a husband. Especially someone who is so beyond hope of success,” one of them said with a smirk.

Penelope was going to be sick. This was—this was a nightmare. She whirled around, could see the crowd pointing at her, laughing at her.

She was a fool.

Colin turned to her with wide eyes but she could not bear to look at him, to look at anyone. Picking up her dress, she ran. There was nothing for her here. Faintly she heard Eloise calling her name—why was she there—but it mattered not. She got to her carriage as swiftly as she could. It was only once she was safely inside that she allowed herself to cry.

She cried harder when she realized she never got to dance with Colin.

Writing a Whistledown was unbearable, but write one she did.

With the way the rumors of Colin helping her rushed through the ton, there was no excuse for not mentioning her plight. She choked when she wrote of her situation, her abject humiliation. How utterly foolish she had been, the risks she had taken, spending time alone with an eligible gentleman for the purpose of seduction. For one wild moment, she blamed Cressida for encouraging her, but the thought left her hollow. None of this was Cressida’s fault, she had only supported her as a friend.

If writing a Whistledown was terrible, the thought of leaving her room was even more so. Where would she have gone? She dared not go near Colin, not when his name was attached to her scandal. She was never more grateful that her sisters did not reside with her anymore. When her mother read her Whistledown, her pitying look left her nauseated. No, she was convinced that she must simply hide in her room for the rest of her days, never leaving the house until she died an old maid.

A knock on the door. She sighed, not having the wherewithal to deal with her mother right now. But when the door creaked open, a solemn Cressida poked her head in. She quietly slipped in, then came to her side where she sat by the window. Hesitating, she went to her knees to better look at her.

“Penelope,” Cressida murmured, but her voice was soft, no judgment to be detected.

Penelope started crying.

Cressida sighed, then stood, moving Penelope’s legs off the window seat so she could sit next to her. She put a hand on her knee and said nothing.  

“Why is this happening,” Penelope hiccupped, scrubbing at her face. “How did people learn of it?”

Cressida tensed. “Please know I did not share your secret. Please.”

Penelope looked at her, really looked at her, and could see Cressida’s pained expression. She nodded to herself.

“I know it wasn’t you,” Penelope said, watching Cressida deflate in front of her. “I have not been subtle with Colin, anyone could have overheard us.”

“I am so sorry,” Cressida murmured. “How have you been?”

“Mortified,” Penelope moaned, voice muffled as she put her face in her hands. “Truly the worst case. I do not know how I am ever supposed to reenter society.”

“Whistledown was quite unkind about it,” Cressida observed; Penelope flinched. “Apologies, I should not bring it up.”

“It would have been strange if she said nothing of it,” Penelope mumbled. She laughed without humor. “Should you even be seen with me now? With what rumors and scandal I have brought to myself and family?”

“Where else would I be?” she said simply. Penelope wanted to cry again. “Did you at least get to dance with Colin?”

Penelope shook her head.

“Truly a terrible evening then,” Cressida sighed.

“Except it was not, it was actually quite lovely until—until it happened. But enough about—I can only speak so much of it. How did your evening fare? I apologize for leaving in such a hurry with Lord Debling, but I did not want to be in the way.”

“We can speak of it another time—”

“No, please, I want to know.”

Cressida watched her, then hunched in a little on herself. “He will not ask me to dance.”

Oh. “Have you—asked him directly? Or hinted enough?”

“I have made my interest clear without sounding desperate, I hope. Perhaps I should not take it so personally?”

I am not readily inclined toward grand displays of passion.

Penelope picked at one of her nails. “It sounds like he perhaps is more reserved. Is that a problem?”

Cressida bit her lip, then slowly shook her head. “What is important is that he seems to be a kind and thoughtful man. It matters not, not when he will leave soon enough.”

Penelope frowned. “What does that mean?”

“He did not tell you?” Cressida said. “He plans to travel again shortly after the season ends, and for quite some time. His ideal wife is a practical woman who will manage his affairs while he is gone.”

She did not want to project her thoughts onto Cressida, but it sounded…businesslike. “And what are your thoughts on this?”

“I should be so grateful he is even paying attention to me,” she said.

“Cressida, that’s not an answer. How do you feel about this?”

“It matters not.” Cressida repeated, voice tight. “He has made it clear there is no sentiment, no—no romance in his plans. Just about any woman would do for him, I think. I will not get in my own way hoping for anything different for myself.”

“Apologies, it is not for me to push. All I want is your happiness.”

Cressida breathed slowly, nodding to herself. “Thank you. I will manage, it is not as if any man would offer me something more.”

Penelope nodded, but her heart hurt.

The view from her bedroom window was growing old quickly.

Penelope did not actually want to live her days out in her bedroom, but she was still afraid to leave. She knew she must eventually and that inevitably, people would point and laugh again. The longer she stayed hidden, the longer the ton would go without a Whistledown—which meant her latest issue about herself was the freshest piece of news. Publishing a Whistledown was her best form of self-preservation now. She placed a hand on the cool window glass. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day she left. Perhaps she could call on Cressida, even if it meant sitting in that drawing room.

A knock on the door; Rae came in. “Miss, you have a visitor.”

Penelope frowned. “Rae I am almost ready for bed, what do you mean?”

Rae hesitated, then repeated, “You have a visitor, Miss.”

Would—would Cressida have come over? Would Eloise? Penelope padded down the stairs following Rae, then continued to follow her out back to the garden. Surely it was Eloise, then, who else would—

Colin Bridgerton stood there, wringing his hands. “I bribed her to give us a moment.”

She would have to think on that later, her maid taking bribes, but she nodded. “You could not have waited until the morning?”

“I had to see how you were, I read what Whistledown wrote of you—she was beastly to do so,” he muttered, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“It is all well,” she said faintly, “It would have been suspicious if she had not. In truth, I brought this on myself.” She laughed at herself derisively, feeling her eyes burn. “A sad, stupid girl who believed she might possibly have a chance of love.”

“You must not say such things,” he said quietly, coming a step closer to her.

He was bathed in moonlight and fire’s glow, long and lean in the shadows. She knew deep within her that whatever fleeting moments she had with him had vanished as she ran from the ball. There would be no more lessons, no private time spent alone. He came to her at night because he would incriminate himself visiting her during the day. They might not even be able to nod politely to each other in passing. Now, more than ever, she had cut herself off from being with the Bridgertons ever again.

Desperation and hope certainly warred within her now.

“Colin, could I ask you something?” she said, coming closer to him. This was her final night with him, right?

“Of course,” he said quickly, coming to her as well.

Framed in the garden arch, she leaned back against the stonework, looking up at him. It was easy to forget where she was in this dark pocket by the garden. It felt like a dream. And she knew what she dreamed of with Colin.

“Would you kiss me?”

He stared at her.

Panic laced her veins, shot through her, what was she thinking, you stupid girl—

“Penelope,” he said, clearly uncertain.

“It would not have to mean anything,” she said in a rush, her hands trembling. “And I would never expect anything from you because of it, but I'm nearly on the shelf and never been kissed, and I am not certain I ever will be. I could die tomorrow—”

“You are not going to die tomorrow—"

“But I could, and it would kill me—"

“But you'd already be dead—”

“I do not wish to die without ever having been kissed.” Her breath was shuddering. “Colin, please.”

He took a quick breath; surely he was to turn and leave. But then, slowly, he took a step forward, then another, his eyes looking over her face for some answer she was afraid to give. When he stood in front of her, she had to crane her head back to meet him, they had never been this close, what was she doing.

But then he reached up, gently cradling her face in one hand. She stopped breathing. His hand was large and warm against her skin, a calloused thumb brushing her cheek. He leaned down slowly, perhaps waiting for her to say no, but she closed her eyes, waiting—she did not think she could bear to watch, not like this. She felt his warm breath against her mouth first before his lips met hers, warm and soft, barely there. Her body thrummed at this new sensation; she stood on her toes to press into him, this first and last chance to be kissed by the man she loved.

He pulled back just far enough to watch her, his eyes darting between her eyes and her mouth and suddenly his mouth slid against her as he crowded her against the arch. She was helpless in a burning way, the line of heat from his body, a hand now on her waist. It was almost too much and she gasped for air, she needed to breath, but then his tongue touched her lip, just briefly. Another new sensation, but an undercurrent burned in her, she did not know how to ask but she knew she wanted more so when he touched his tongue to her again, she met him in kind. She must have been terribly clumsy, but he groaned in the back of his throat, pressing against her more fully.

She had to stop. This hurt too perfectly and too much and she had to stop.

Gently, she pressed against his chest; he easily moved back. His eyes were dark, his mouth red, and she wondered how she must look in return.

“Thank you,” she said with a final, sweet smile before she dashed back inside alone.

It was a nice dream while it lasted.