Chapter Text
Aubrey Hall, Off-Season
Late November, 1812
As carriages rolled steadily out of town and society turned its attention from ballrooms to hearth fires, the Bridgertons returned to Aubrey Hall for the winter months. Christmas loomed gently on the horizon, and the countryside beckoned with the promise of stillness.
Autumn had not vanished all at once; rather, it had softened and faded, surrendering gradually to winter’s careful hand. The last of the amber leaves clung stubbornly to the trees lining the drive, their color deep and burnished against a paling sky. The mornings were veiled in silver frost, delicate and crystalline upon the lawns. Though snow had not yet graced the grounds, the air carried a sharpened edge, a bite that stung the palms and pinked the tips of one’s ears during even the briefest stroll outdoors.
Inside Aubrey Hall, however, warmth reigned.
Under the attentive direction of the family’s matriarch, Violet Bridgerton, the great house had been transformed into a vision of winter comfort. Garlands of evergreen wound themselves lovingly along the banisters, their deep green needles dotted with ribbons of red and gold. Sprigs of holly, bright with berries, adorned doorways and mantelpieces. Beeswax candles flickered in polished brass holders, casting a soft and golden glow that danced across paneled walls and gleamed faintly in the glass of tall windows.
Every fireplace had been laid and lit, flames crackling contentedly as though pleased with their own usefulness. The scent of pine, smoke, and faintly spiced citrus drifted through the corridors, wrapping the household in a quiet, domestic enchantment.
After breaking their fast, the Bridgerton family drifted toward the drawing room as they so often did during the winter months. It was not a formal summons but a habit born of comfort. Aubrey Hall seemed to draw them inward, toward its warmest chamber, as though the house itself preferred them gathered together.
The eight siblings arranged themselves across the room in an easy constellation, some seated, some sprawled, some hovering restlessly between one place and the next. Their presence filled the space with motion even in stillness: the shift of fabric, the quiet shuffle of cards, the faint rustle of turning pages. They occupied the room fully, unconsciously, as only a family long accustomed to one another can.
Though none spoke of it, this winter held a subtle weight. It would be the last off-season in which everything remained exactly as it had always been. The coming year would usher in change. The Season of 1813 waited just beyond the frost-lined windows. Daphne Bridgerton’s debut would mark the beginning of it.
Near the tall windows, the Viscount sat in a deep, upholstered chair, angled slightly toward the pale light. His expression was composed, thoughtful rather than severe, his gaze resting somewhere beyond. He had not yet moved to join the rest of the family.
On the settee nearby, Daphne and Francesca shared a book between them, their shoulders nearly touching. The pages caught the firelight in a warm glow as they turned them slowly, their heads inclined toward one another in companionable closeness. At their feet, Hyacinth sat upon the rug, her posture bright and restless. She leaned forward, hands clasped around her knees, her attention fixed upon Daphne with open fascination, as though the approaching Season were already a living, breathing thing.
At the center of the room, Colin and Gregory were immersed in a quiet contest of cards. Gregory’s focus was intense, earnest in its concentration, while Colin’s ease suggested effortless confidence. Behind him, Benedict stood with theatrical stillness, his presence a subtle current of mischief. The faintest flickers of movement in his hands betrayed a silent attempt to influence the game’s direction, though whether out of loyalty or pure amusement was anyone’s guess.
A soft tension of suppressed laughter hovered there.
And apart from the cluster of siblings, near the hearth where the fire burned steadily and low, Eloise had constructed a small fortress of books around herself. Volumes lay open across the table and floor, some neatly stacked, others abandoned mid-page. She turned each one with quick, decisive movements, her energy sharp and searching. Yet none seemed to offer what she sought. Each closed book landed with increasing finality, her restless mind pressing against the limits of what was written before her.
At last, Eloise had reached her limit.
The book in her hands shut with a sharp snap, not violent, but firm enough to disturb the gentle rhythm of the room. The sound cut cleanly through the quiet crackle of the fire and the shuffle of cards.
Several heads lifted.
“Mama!” Eloise said, rising from her chair with restless energy, “I truly believe I shall expire of boredom if something does not occur soon.”
Her dark eyes flashed with frustration.
“There is not a single book in this house that offers any proper stimulation. Could we not send word to Lady Featherington? Might Penelope not come to Aubrey Hall at once?”
Her tone carried earnest impatience rather than petulance, though it was dramatic all the same.
As if summoned by the plea, Violet Bridgerton appeared in the doorway, pausing just inside as her daughter’s request reached her. A faint smile touched her lips before she smoothed it away.
Securing Penelope’s visit had not been a simple matter.
Lady Featherington had been reluctant to leave London. While most families had already retreated to their country estates for the winter months, the Featheringtons had lingered. One might suppose Lady Featherington wished to extend the impression of importance, or perhaps simply to be seen a little longer before the Season’s true preparations began.
The effect, however, had felt somewhat strained.
After several polite exchanges and careful assurances, she had at last agreed. Penelope would join the Bridgertons once the Featherington household made their departure from town. She would travel with a single maid, the arrangement presented as practical though quietly convenient.
As the third daughter, Penelope occupied an uncertain space within her own family. With the Season of 1813 approaching, all three Featherington girls were to be presented at once. Lady Featherington’s ambitions rested heavily upon her two elder daughters; their gowns, their introductions, their prospects required attention and careful strategy.
Penelope, by contrast, was granted a kind of freedom born not from preference but from oversight.
And so it was decided she would spend the winter at Aubrey Hall, removed from the restless calculations of London. There, amidst garlands and firelight, she would be welcomed warmly without ceremony.
“You know I would be very glad to have Penelope here sooner, Eloise,” the matriarch replied gently.
Violet Bridgerton advanced further into the drawing room as she spoke, the soft rustle of silk accompanying her like a familiar refrain against the steady murmur of the fire. She crossed the space with unhurried ease, her presence alone seeming to steady the room.
As she passed the small card table, she let her gloved fingers drift fondly through Gregory’s hair in passing, an absent but unmistakably affectionate gesture. He ducked his head with a murmured complaint, attempting dignity, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. By the time she reached the opposite settee, settling herself across from Daphne and Francesca with composed elegance, the warmth she carried with her had already settled over the room once more.
Violet had always held a particular tenderness for Penelope Featherington. It was evident in the way her expression softened whenever the girl’s name was spoken. She remembered Penelope’s small hands practicing the pianoforte in their London home, playing songs beside Eloise at the drawing room. In many respects, Penelope had never felt entirely separate from her own children.
“But we must not press Lady Featherington,” Violet continued, her voice measured and kind. “Penelope will arrive within the next few days, I am quite certain.”
The reassurance, however, did little to ease Eloise’s restless agitation. She folded her arms, clearly unconvinced that “a few days” was a tolerable length of time.
“For my part, I am delighted she shall be coming,” Hyacinth Bridgerton declared brightly from her place upon the rug.
She twisted around so that she faced the room at large, curls bouncing with the movement, her enthusiasm entirely unrestrained.
“We shall braid one another’s hair,” she went on with excitement. “And perhaps we may share the guest chamber, if Mama permits.” Her arms lifted in a gesture of pure anticipation.
Daphne smiled at her youngest sister’s fervor.
“I, too, am very glad she will be here,” Daphne Bridgerton added, her tone gentler, more thoughtful. Francesca nodded beside her in quiet agreement.
“As we are to be presented in the same Season, there is much we ought to discuss,” Daphne continued. “It will be a comfort not to face it entirely alone.”
At that, Gregory straightened in his chair, the cards before him instantly forgotten.
“And I am glad of it as well,” he said eagerly. “We did not finish our game of knights and princesses before we left London. I mean to see it concluded.”
A ripple of fond amusement passed through the room.
“In that case,” came another voice, easy and warm, “I must confess I am also looking forward to her arrival.”
The family’s attention shifted toward Colin, who sat with casual composure, though there was a glint of something playful in his eyes.
Several of his elder siblings regarded him with lifted brows.
“Oh, do not look at me so,” Colin protested lightly. “Of all of you, Penelope alone demonstrates proper appreciation for my aspirations of travel. She listens without interruption.”
A collective groan rose at once, affectionate and well-practiced.
Eloise exhaled sharply, her irritation bubbling anew.
“Must I now compete for the attention of my dearest friend?” she demanded.
It was no secret that Penelope Featherington was regarded within these walls as something very near to one of their own. Even Anthony Bridgerton and Benedict Bridgerton, who stood somewhat apart from the younger chaos, regarded her with the indulgent fondness reserved for a younger sister.
Though she was closest in age to Daphne and Eloise, Penelope possessed a rare gift: she belonged easily to each of them in turn. With Gregory, she was adventurous; with Hyacinth, indulgent; with Francesca, earnest; with Benedict, quietly observant.
She fit into the spaces between them without strain.
And for that reason, her absence was felt more keenly than any of them cared to admit.
“Well, you need not trouble yourself at all, dear sister,” Colin said lightly, a slow, mischievous smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “For I believe Penelope would much prefer my company over yours.”
The claim was delivered with effortless confidence, though there was a brightness in his eyes that betrayed genuine anticipation.
Eloise reacted at once.
With a wholly unladylike stamp of her foot, she reached for the nearest biscuit upon the small side table and launched it in his direction. The throw, though spirited, lacked precision. The biscuit sailed past Colin entirely and landed upon the card table between him and Gregory with a soft, defeated thud.
A gasp of scandalized reproach drifted from somewhere near the hearth, Violet’s voice, firm but restrained, addressing Eloise’s conduct without true severity.
Colin, for his part, merely leaned forward, retrieved the fallen biscuit, and examined it with mild consideration before taking a bite.
He smiled in victory.
For the truth was simple: he could hardly wait for Penelope’s arrival.
Although he adored his siblings in earnest, Penelope was the only one who listened when he spoke of distant shores, crumbling ruins, and cities whose names felt like poetry on the tongue. She did not laugh. She did not dismiss him. She asked thoughtful questions and seemed to believe that such dreams of travel were not foolish indulgences but real possibilities.
During his years at Eton, her letters had been the ones he unfolded with the greatest care. She did not write merely to fill space; she answered him. She responded to his thoughts as though they mattered. When loneliness had crept in during those long terms, when the noise of other boys felt alien and hollow, her ink upon paper had been a quiet sort of comfort.
He was not like the others there. He had never quite fit the mold expected of him. Where they boasted of estates and sport and future titles, Colin found himself drawn toward maps and travel accounts, toward the idea of standing before ancient ruins and tracing history with his own hands.
And he would go. After the Season of 1813, he intended to depart on a Grand Tour, to seek purpose beyond the narrow definitions allotted to a third son, neither heir nor spare, but something else entirely.
He had chosen to remain through the coming Season for several reasons. Daphne, the closest in age to him, deserved a steady presence as she stepped into society. He knew too well how overwhelming that world could be, particularly under Anthony’s vigilant oversight.
But there was another reason, quieter, less easily named.
Penelope would debut as well.
He knew she felt apprehensive. He knew her mother’s ambitions pressed heavily upon her, or rather, lack of ambitions. And though she would never admit it openly, she worried she might not shine in the way others expected.
Colin did not share that concern.
He knew she loved to dance.
He remembered guiding her through steps in the London drawing room, their hands awkward at first, her laughter soft when they miscounted. He had been her dance partner more times than he could recall, the sound of his mother’s soft voice correcting her turns with patient ease.
It felt only natural, inevitable, even, that he should claim her first dance at her first ball.
Colin could already see it.
The ballroom would be vast, ceilings rising high above polished floors that gleamed beneath a hundred candles. Music would swell and dissolve into laughter; fans would flutter; conversation would ripple through the air like a living thing. He could picture himself standing at the edge of it all, scanning the crowd almost without thinking, and then finding her.
She would be wearing yellow. Penelope often complained of it, insisted it did her no favors, but he thought it suited her. The color was bright; it mirrored her warmth. It made her impossible to miss.
Her hair would shine copper and gold, brighter still under candlelight. And though she might begin the evening quietly, reserved at the edge of conversation, he knew what would follow. Give her a topic she loved, books, politics, or some curious observation, and she would bloom. Words would come quickly then, animated, thoughtful, alive.
People would notice.
In his mind, she moved easily across the ballroom, laughter soft, eyes bright. She would draw attention without meaning to. She would be admired.
And Penelope would dance as often as she pleased, for Colin knew well how dearly she loved it. And if Daphne should require his arm, there would surely be no shortage of gentlemen eager to claim the next set, so that she need never sit out a single measure.
The image stalled there without warning.
Something unfamiliar suddenly pressed against his ribs, heavy and unwelcome. He shifted in his chair without understanding why.
Well… of course, Penelope would have other dance partners. And, she would indeed speak with other gentlemen. That was the purpose of a Season. That was how these things worked.
And yet…
He had never before considered that he might have to wait for her attention. That he might have to compete for it.
The notion felt strangely intolerable.
Perhaps he was being foolish. Eloise was possessive in her own way; perhaps he was not so different. He had always disliked sharing what he valued, food, certainly, and occasionally books. It had never occurred to him that Penelope might belong in that same category.
Though a part of himself already thought of it as absurd.
Penelope would always choose to speak with him. She preferred his stories. She listened when others did not. She would not abandon their easy companionship simply because a ballroom was crowded with strangers.
She would rather dance with him than with any other gentleman there.
…Wouldn’t she?
The question lingered longer than it should have.
The weight in his chest remained, stubborn and undefined. He glanced down at the biscuit in his hand with mild suspicion, as though perhaps Eloise had somehow managed to poison it after all.
Before he could untangle the strange knot of feeling, a sharp, delighted shriek split the air.
Every head in the room turned at once.
From the entrance of the drawing room burst a child no older than five, barreling forward with uncontained momentum. Laughter spilled from the child as he raced across the polished floor, copper curls catching the firelight as he ran.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the boy stumbled.
He fell hard, the sound of it echoing louder than it ought.
Violet gasped softly and was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room with surprising speed. She knelt beside the child, gathering him up with instinctive tenderness, her voice already lowered in reassurance as she brushed at his coat and examined him for injury.
The rest of the family had risen as well, confusion plain across their faces. The biscuit in Collin’s hand was long forgotten.
No one recognized him.
A stunned silence hovered, brief, brittle, before questions began to tumble over one another.
“Whose child is that-?”
“What is the meaning of-?”
“Where did he come from-?”
“Do not look at me-”
And still, the boy laughed.
As though he belonged there.
Another voice drifted into the drawing room.
It was gentle, warm, threaded with quiet amusement, and yet there was something within it that did not quite belong to the moment.
“Sweetheart, what did we say about running off without warning your mama?”
The words settled over the room like a ripple upon still water.
Every Bridgerton turned toward the doorway once more.
And there she stood.
She was not tall, no more than two apples high beside the frame of the door, as Violet might have once described her, but she carried herself with a composure that altered the very air around her. Copper hair caught the firelight and held it there, gleaming as though spun from flame itself. Her eyes, blue, achingly blue, were the same as they had always been, soft and observant and impossibly kind.
And yet-
It was Penelope Featherington.
And it was not.
She was familiar in every feature, every expression, but there was a quiet transformation that made the heart falter. The roundness of youth had softened into something graceful. Her gaze held depth now, steadiness. A woman’s confidence rested gently where once there had been girlish hesitation.
Gone were the bright, insistent yellows.
In their place was something altogether different, something softer, serene. A shade not unlike Bridgerton blue, though warmer. The fabric draped elegantly along her form, the cut refined and flattering around her curves, the lowered neckline lending her a presence that felt wholly, undeniably womanly. The color rested beautifully against her pale skin, allowing her copper hair to glow all the brighter.
Her hair, no longer pinned into tight, dutiful arrangements, fell freely in luminous waves. It cascaded down her back and over one shoulder, gathered loosely with a ribbon that mirrored the hue of her gown. A few deliberate tendrils framed her face, brushing the curve of her cheek and softening the line of her jaw.
She looked radiant.
Not the shy girl who hovered, but a woman who had stepped fully into herself.
“Oh-”
The sound left her lips as her eyes widened, taking in the room before her.
The Bridgertons stood frozen, stunned into silence, as though the world had tilted without warning.
She took two small steps backward, startled.
Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, protective, gentle, deeply maternal.
And only then did they see it.
The unmistakable swell beneath the soft blue fabric.
She was with child.
The fire crackled.
No one breathed.
“…Penelope?”
Eloise’s voice trembled around the name, fragile with disbelief.
She stepped forward slowly, as though afraid the slightest sudden movement might cause the vision before her to dissolve. Her fingers hovered uncertainly before finally reaching, tentative and shaking.
“Is it truly you?”
No one else moved.
The room felt suspended, caught between firelight and frost, between what was known and what was impossible.
“Eloise…”
Penelope breathed the name as though it steadied her.
“You look so… you look so young.”
Her voice wavered, not with ridicule, but with something closer to wonder.
Their hands met at last, clasping tightly, trembling in tandem as though the simple act of touch might anchor them both to something real.
“You all look so young,” she said softly, her gaze drifting from face to face.
Her eyes, those same blue eyes, moved across the room slowly, taking in each familiar figure with an expression that held too many emotions to name. When they found Colin, something shifted.
He did not know why, but he stood straighter.
Her gaze lingered.
There was recognition there. And relief. And something deeper, something that made his pulse falter in his throat.
But just as quickly, her attention moved on, returning to the others as though the moment had never quite happened.
A careful clearing of the throat broke the silence.
“I would venture to say, Miss Featherington,” Anthony said at last, his tone composed though edged with uncertainty, “that it is you who appears altered.”
The title seemed to startle her more than anything else.
“Featherington…” she echoed faintly, as though the name itself were unfamiliar upon her tongue.
Her brows drew together in concentration, her thoughts visibly turning. And then, quite suddenly, she faced Eloise again.
“Eloise,” she asked, her voice tight, urgent in a way that made the air thin, “what year is it?”
“1812,” Eloise replied at once, though the certainty in her tone sounded more like a question than an answer.
For a heartbeat, Penelope simply stared.
Then the color drained from her face.
Her knees gave way.
The room erupted into motion.
Colin did not remember crossing the distance between them. One moment, he stood rooted in place; the next, his arms were around her, steadying her weight before she could collapse entirely. Instinct moved him faster than thought ever could.
Daphne reached her other side just as swiftly, hands hovering, ready to support.
The rest of the family stepped forward only to halt again, stunned into stillness by the strangeness of it all.
Colin felt the warmth of her against him, solid, real, trembling.
He looked down.
And she looked up.
Her lashes lowered slightly as she blinked against the shock, and for a fleeting second, the world narrowed to nothing but the space between them. He was aware, acutely, of the closeness, of the scent of her, of the way her fingers instinctively tightened in the fabric of his coat.
His heart lurched painfully in his chest.
Had the circumstances been less bewildering, had she not just appeared from nowhere, had she not nearly fallen, he might have felt the full force of the fluster rising beneath his collar.
But confusion overshadowed it.
Concern steadied him.
Still, even in the midst of it all, he did not loosen his hold.
“…1812,” Penelope repeated, the words barely more than a breath.
She spoke them as though testing their shape, as though saying them aloud might somehow bend them into something sensible.
“But… it is 1820, is it not?”
Her voice trembled, not loudly, not dramatically, but with the fragile disbelief of someone standing on ground that no longer felt solid. Her gaze returned to Eloise, searching, pleading almost. Then it shifted again, inevitably, to Colin.
The look in her eyes struck him like a quiet blow.
Eight years.
The notion was so absurd, so fantastical, that for one wild second Colin half-expected some other marvel to follow, perhaps a dragon descending upon the lawns, for surely that would be no more ridiculous than this.
And yet she stood before him.
Warm. Real.
“Mama?”
The small voice cut cleanly through the tension.
Every head turned toward the boy cradled in Violet’s arms. He wriggled with mild impatience before slipping from her embrace, small boots pattering softly against the floor as he crossed the distance between them.
Penelope released Colin’s coat at once, as though the sound of the child had drawn her wholly back into herself. She sank carefully to her knees to meet him, her movements deliberate now, protective.
Despite the visible effort it required, she lifted the boy to her hip.
Side by side, the resemblance was unmistakable.
Copper curls. The same luminous shade. The same brilliant blue eyes, curious, open, earnest. There could be no question.
He was hers.
“What’s wrong?” the boy whispered, his voice hushed though it carried clearly in the stillness. “Why does everyone look so strange? Have I done something wrong?”
The innocence of the question seemed to settle over the room like falling snow.
Penelope blinked once, twice, and in that moment, it was as though she stepped fully into herself. The shock receded. Something steadier took its place.
She brushed a hand gently through the boy’s curls.
“No, my darling,” she said softly, her voice now calm and certain. “You have done nothing at all. The grown-ups are merely thinking very hard.”
The boy studied her for only a moment before nodding solemnly, utterly satisfied by her explanation. Whatever confusion lingered in the room seemed not to trouble him at all.
Then, without warning, he turned.
His eyes landed on Colin.
And something bright, something like recognition, sparked there.
He reached toward him.
The gesture was simple. Unhesitating.
But it stole the breath from Colin’s lungs.
For one reckless, impossible moment, he nearly stepped forward.
Nearly opened his arms.
The impulse was not logical. It was not measured. It rose from somewhere deep and instinctive, as though some quiet part of him believed he had a claim to the child, an unspoken right to hold him close.
The boy was gazing at him with open affection. With trust. With something that felt terribly like love.
Colin did not understand it.
But he felt it all the same.
“I am sorry, my love,” Penelope murmured gently, stilling the boy’s reaching hand before it could stretch any farther.
There was something guarded in her blue eyes now, something carefully folded away. Not fear exactly, but a knowledge she was not yet prepared to share.
“Let us not trouble him,” she continued softly. “He is thinking very hard at present. May you sit quietly with me while the grown-ups speak?”
The boy’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering briefly across his small features. But at her tone, steady, warm, unquestionable, he nodded and tucked himself closer against her shoulder, resting there with easy trust.
Only then did Penelope lift her gaze to the room.
“Well,” she said, her voice calm though a thread of uncertainty lingered beneath it, “I believe I may have arrived in the wrong place.”
A faint pause.
“Or rather… the wrong time.”
The words were delivered with such mild composure that they might have been a passing remark about the weather. As though time itself were something that might be misread like a calendar.
Silence pressed in.
“Like time travel!”
Gregory’s voice burst into the stillness, bright with sudden revelation.
“Is it not?” he continued eagerly, looking around at his siblings for confirmation. “Like in those adventure stories, when someone steps through a door and arrives years away?”
A low murmur moved through the room. Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet-
She stood there.
Older. Expectant. With a child who clearly belonged to her.
“That is the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard!” Hyacinth exclaimed with unrestrained delight. “Time travel! How very splendid!”
She nearly launched herself forward in her excitement, but Francesca’s hand caught her arm gently, preventing a collision.
Penelope instinctively drew the boy closer, not in alarm but in reflex. Her hand curved protectively at his back.
And without quite thinking, Colin shifted.
He moved half a step forward.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But he stood just slightly before her now, as though prepared to intercept any further chaos that might come barreling toward her.
He did not examine the impulse. He simply obeyed it.
Anthony sank heavily back into his chair, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple.
“My word,” he muttered under his breath. “I shall require something stronger than tea.”
Benedict, however, seemed delighted beyond reason.
He tipped his head back with a soft laugh, the absurdity of it all lighting his expression.
“Of course,” he said, lifting his glass of lemonade in a mock salute. “Of all people, it would be Penelope who discovers how to bend time itself.”
His grin widened.
“She has always been the most brilliant among us.”
Penelope’s lips curved faintly at that, though her eyes betrayed lingering unease.
Colin, meanwhile, had not laughed.
He was watching her.
Watching the way she held herself. The quiet authority in her tone. The way the child settled against her so naturally, as though he had always known the safety of her arms.
And beneath the bewilderment, beneath the impossible strangeness of the moment, one thought echoed quietly in his mind-
Eight years.
Eight years in which she had grown into this woman.
Eight years he had not yet lived.
And somehow, inexplicably-
He felt as though he had already missed her.
“I cannot believe this,” Eloise breathed again, the words softer now but no less astonished. She reached for Penelope at once, her fingers fastening gently around her friend’s elbow as though she were gripping the end of a tether, afraid that if she let go, this older version of Penelope might drift away entirely. “How did you manage it? How can such a thing even be possible?”
Her voice trembled between accusation and awe.
Penelope drew in a careful breath.
“I, I am not entirely certain myself,” she confessed gently. “At one moment I was chasing after… my son down the corridor at Aubrey Hall, and the next-” Her gaze lifted, sweeping slowly across the circle of familiar faces. “The next, I found myself standing before all of you. Looking so… very young.”
The Bridgertons had drawn nearer without quite meaning to. They formed a quiet crescent around her, as though she were something precious that required guarding from the chill. Only Anthony was now absent, having made good on his earlier declaration and retreated in search of something stronger than tea.
“You were at Aubrey Hall?” Eloise pressed, her brows knitting together. “In your future?” She waved one hand in a wide, encompassing gesture, toward the boy, toward the gentle curve of Penelope’s stomach, toward the impossibility of it all. “Does this mean we are still friends? Even after… er… all this?”
Violet made a soft, scandalized sound at her daughter’s phrasing. “Eloise,” she murmured in gentle reproach.
But Eloise’s bluntness did not wound. If anything, it seemed to steady Penelope further. A warm, familiar laugh escaped her, breathless and bright and achingly unchanged. It wrapped around the room like a ribbon.
“Yes, Eloise,” she said, her eyes shining with something luminous and certain. “We remain the fastest of friends.”
She spoke the words not lightly, but with conviction, as though they were anchored somewhere deep within her bones, beyond time, beyond distance, beyond whatever strange current had swept her here. Her hand drifted instinctively into her son’s curls, fingers combing through the copper strands with absent tenderness.
Even after eight years, her laughter was the same. So too the curve of her smile, the delicate crinkling at the corners of her eyes when amusement overtook her. Yet there was something added now, a fullness, a depth, a quiet assurance that had not yet taken root in the girl they knew.
She looked… settled.
She looked loved.
And it somehow unsettled something within Colin.
“If I may say,” Violet began softly, stepping forward at last, her expression alight with unmistakable affection, “your son is absolutely charming.”
His mother reached out with gentle care, brushing her fingertips along the boy’s cheek. The child did not shy away. On the contrary, he leaned into the touch as though he knew who she already was.
And Violet was indeed correct.
For Colin had never in his life seen a child so captivating. There was something so open about the boy’s expression, something eager and affectionate and fearless. It made Collin’s heart tug in his chest.
But perhaps, Colin thought faintly, it was because the boy resembled Penelope so purely.
The curve of his smile. The way his lashes rested against his cheeks. The particular shade of gold threaded through the red of his hair. It was as though Penelope had been gently divided in two and placed before them, past and future existing side by side in firelight.
“And what is your son’s name?” Hyacinth burst out at last, no longer able to endure the suspense. She had been vibrating with curiosity for several minutes, and the question escaped her in a bright rush.
Penelope’s smile deepened, soft and luminous.
“This little one,” she said, adjusting the boy slightly upon her hip, “is named Elliot… named after my dearest friend.”
Her gaze lifted then, slowly, deliberately, until it found Eloise.
The smile she offered her was radiant. Not playful, not teasing, but full. Certain. As though the name had been chosen with reverence.
For a moment, Eloise could only stare.
Her mouth trembled in a most uncharacteristic fashion, and she blinked rapidly, as though attempting to restore order to her own face. Around her, the family released a collective murmur of delight, but Eloise seemed suspended in something quieter.
“Ha!” Eloise declared suddenly, though her voice wavered with emotion she would never openly confess to. “Then that settles it. You are clearly my protégé.”
She pointed at the boy with dramatic solemnity.
“We shall rule the world together.”
At once, Elliot clapped his small hands in unrestrained enthusiasm.
“We do, Aunty Eloise!” he chirped brightly.
The word rang through the drawing room like a bell.
Aunty.
A soft chorus of coos followed. Daphne pressed her hand to her heart. Gregory grinned broadly. Even Benedict’s expression gentled in a way that suggested he found the entire affair unbearably charming.
No one questioned the term, nor the manner in which the boy already knew Eloise’s name.
If Penelope and Eloise remained the fastest of friends eight years hence, then of course such a title would follow naturally. Of course, the Bridgertons would orbit her future as easily as they did her present.
“So… this means you have a husband? That you are married, correct?”
Francesca’s question was gentle, so gentle it might have passed unnoticed in another room. But here, in the fragile warmth that had only just begun to settle again, it fell like a stone into still water.
The air shifted.
Every pair of eyes turned first to Francesca, then, slowly, collectively, to Penelope.
Curiosity gleamed openly now. Wonder. A thousand unspoken questions.
Penelope, who had stood so assured only moments before, seemed to draw inward beneath their attention. Not entirely, but enough. Her shoulders softened. Her fingers tightened faintly at her son’s back.
In Colin’s eyes, she flickered, just for a heartbeat, back into the girl he had always known. The shy, charming one who hovered at the edge of conversation, who blushed when singled out, who tucked her chin when too many gazes lingered upon her at once.
But this was not the same.
Her cheeks bloomed into color, rich and luminous, spreading down the delicate line of her neck. It was not girlish awkwardness; it was something warmer. Something fuller. A blush born not of embarrassment alone, but of memory.
Her eyes lowered. First to the carpet. Then, to the child nestled securely in her arms. And then-
Just for the briefest second-
They lifted to Colin.
It was a fleeting glance. Almost accidental.
But it struck him all the same.
Heat crept up the back of his neck without permission. He felt, absurdly, the tips of his ears burn as though he had been caught in some private trespass. He did not know why his pulse had quickened. He did not know why her gaze had felt like a question he could not answer.
Her eyes dropped again at once.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice soft, breath-warmed and steady despite the flush upon her skin. “I do.”
She lifted her head then.
And smiled.
It was not the playful smile she had given Eloise. Nor the amused one she had offered Benedict. It was something else entirely, open and luminous and fused with a joy so complete it seemed to radiate from within her.
Her eyes shone with it.
Love.
Unmistakable. Deep. Certain.
The sight of it struck Colin squarely in the chest.
His heart seemed to collide with his ribs, hard enough that he wondered if anyone else could hear it. The room dimmed at the edges; the fire’s crackle receded to a distant hum.
She was happy.
Truly happy.
A strange, jagged thought flashed through him, reckless and unformed. A part of him wanted to demand the name of the man who had placed that look upon her face. To challenge him on principle alone. To test whether he was worthy of such devotion.
And yet-
Another part, quieter and far more dangerous, wanted only to thank him.
To shake his hand.
To offer gratitude to this unseen gentleman who had loved Penelope so well that she stood before them now glowing with contentment.
The contradiction split him cleanly in two.
He did not understand why it hurt.
Only that it did.
Benedict let out a low, appreciative whistle at her answer.
“Well,” Benedict began, his tone deceptively mild, a bright smile curving his mouth before it tilted into something altogether more dangerous, “you look wonderfully happy, Penelope.”
His eyes shifted then toward Colin, as though he could not possibly resist observing the effect of what he was about to say.
“Radiant, in fact,” he continued, savoring the word. “One might even venture that you have been treated exceedingly well in your marriage.”
The implication hung there, silken and shameless.
“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet exclaimed at once, scandal threading through her tone.
Gregory blinked. Hyacinth tipped her head curiously, clearly aware that something of interest had been implied, though not entirely certain what it was.
Penelope’s flush deepened spectacularly.
The color that had already warmed her cheeks now spread in earnest, blooming down her throat in a vivid sweep of crimson. Her eyes darted, first to Violet, then to the floor, then to some indeterminate spot near the hearth, anywhere but directly at the source of the teasing.
For one sharp, irrational instant, Colin felt a flare of indignation toward his brother so fierce it nearly startled him.
How dare Benedict speak in such a manner before her, before his dearest friend?
The impulse was immediate, protective, and entirely unexamined.
But the thought faltered almost as soon as it formed.
Penelope held a child in her arms. Another rested beneath her heart.
To arrive at such circumstances… certain steps must have been taken.
The realization struck him with humiliating clarity.
His gaze betrayed him before he could stop it. It followed, helplessly, the path of her blush, down the curve of her cheek, along the elegant line of her neck, to where the delicate blue fabric of her gown rested over her bodice.
Heat rushed to his face as though he had been caught in the act of some unspeakable impropriety.
Colin snapped his eyes upward at once and gave a small, almost violent shake of his head, as if he might physically dislodge the direction of his thoughts.
No.
He was a gentleman.
Penelope was his friend, his dearest friend. To allow his mind to wander into such territory was improper in the extreme. He prided himself on being better than careless insinuation, better than unchecked imagination, better, certainly, than Benedict’s teasing provocations.
And yet the knowledge lingered stubbornly.
Some man, some unseen, unknown gentleman, had stood close enough to her to inspire that blush. Close enough to be entrusted with her laughter. Close enough to place that unmistakable glow upon her face.
Colin swallowed. The room felt warmer than it had moments before.
And Colin felt himself drift perilously closer to that earlier, reckless thought, the one in which he sought out this unnamed gentleman and challenged him at dawn.
₊°｡❆⋆˚࿔
As the astonishment of the morning gradually softened into something gentler, so too did the mischief that had animated the household. The sharp edges of incredulity dulled beneath the steady rhythm of the day. By the time the pale winter light had begun to fade toward late afternoon, perhaps even the earliest stretch of evening, the excitement had settled into a warm, domestic hum.
The Bridgerton women had, quite decisively, claimed the future version of Penelope for themselves.
She now sat upon the drawing room settee, the very picture of serene composure, Francesca flanking one side and Daphne the other. Hyacinth had wedged herself determinedly between Francesca and the arm of the settee, as though proximity alone might ensure she missed nothing. Eloise occupied the carpet at Penelope’s feet, books scattered in unruly abandon around her, her hands flying in every direction as she spoke with breathless intensity. Violet had drawn a chair close so that she might engage fully in the conversation, her posture inclined forward with unmistakable interest.
It made for an image so effortlessly intimate it might have been painted.
Penelope, his dear friend Penelope, though she was no longer quite the same, looked utterly at ease among them. Firelight kissed the copper of her hair; candlelight softened the elegant line of her profile. One hand rested almost unconsciously over the swell of her belly, fingers splayed in quiet protection.
She looked wonderful.
Not merely beautiful, though she was that, but content. Anchored. Entirely certain of her place in the world.
It had come to light, through a flurry of eager questioning, that this child she carried was not her second, but her third. A daughter had followed Elliot a year later, sweetly named Agatha, after Lady Danbury, of all people.
Apparently, in the years yet to come, Penelope and Lady Danbury would become firm allies. The idea seemed both improbable and inevitable at once.
As for Elliot, after playing so many spirited games with Gregory, a glass of warm milk, and an enthusiastic consumption of biscuits, he had thoroughly exhausted himself. At Violet’s gentle insistence, he had been taken to the nursery, curls askew and eyelids drooping in protest, though sleep had claimed him almost instantly.
Colin lingered at the entrance of the drawing room, half-shadowed by the doorway.
His family encircled Penelope as though she had always belonged at the center of them. As though she were not an impossible visitor from eight years hence, but something inevitable, something long ago woven into the fabric of Bridgerton life.
She fit there too easily.
Francesca leaned close to hear her better. Daphne’s hand rested lightly against her arm. Hyacinth watched her with open devotion. Eloise, seated at her feet, looked as though she had been handed the proof of some long-argued theory, that Penelope would remain hers, always.
Penelope laughed.
And the sound struck him like a quiet wound.
He did not step forward.
He could not.
The scene was too whole. Too tender. It felt almost sacred, like a painting glimpsed through glass. To enter it, to shift even a single inch of it, seemed like vandalism.
Anthony and Benedict had taken Gregory out riding, wisely removing themselves so that the women might have their time. Colin had been invited with a careless wave of Benedict’s hand.
He had declined.
He did not wish to exchange firelight and soft voices for the bite of winter wind and the smell of horseflesh. He did not wish to leave the warmth.
And yet-
He did not dare approach it either. For he did not know what he was within that warmth.
Not anymore.
So he turned.
Quietly.
Left the doorway and the sound of her laughter behind, even as something in his chest strained toward it with humiliating desperation.
The walk up the stairs felt longer than it ever had before. Each step echoed faintly beneath his boots, the house strangely hollow.
He was tired.
Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Too many emotions had collided within the span of a single morning, astonishment, confusion, protectiveness, pride, awe. And beneath them all, something sharper, something uncomfortably persistent.
His heart burned with the shameful desire to have been the one at the center of her attention. To have been the one she turned to first. The one she sought instinctively.
He had never before begrudged his siblings her company.
And yet today-
Today, he had wanted her gaze.
Only his.
The thought disgusted him.
Penelope had been granted a future bright and abundant. A husband who loved her well enough to place that unguarded joy in her eyes. A child who clung to her with unshakable trust. A life rooted somehow at Aubrey Hall, of all places.
It was everything she deserved.
Everything.
She deserved a romance worthy of her heart.
And by all appearances, she had received it.
Her happily ever after. He should be elated.
Should be grateful to whatever strange force had allowed him this glimpse of her happiness.
Instead, something smoldered in him, low and ugly and impossible to ignore.
Jealousy.
Jealousy was not an emotion Colin was accustomed to entertaining.
He had been raised in comfort, no, more than comfort, in security. There had never been a true want in his life. If Benedict acquired some fine new quilled pen, Colin would have the same within days. If Gregory devoured the last biscuit, it required only a word to the kitchen for more to appear. If he desired books, horses, travel maps, anything at all, it was granted, eventually, as a matter of course. It was the right given to him by his birth. The unspoken promise that came with the Bridgerton name and the wealth that steadied it.
He had never known the sharp edge of lack.
Even his longing to travel the world was not a deprivation. It was merely postponed gratification. After the coming Season, he would sail. He would stand before ancient ruins and foreign seas. That dream was assured.
But this-
This was different.
This was not wanting an object or an opportunity. This was wanting something that had already been given to another man.
He was jealous of Penelope’s husband.
The thought alone felt grotesque.
Jealous of the unseen gentleman who had earned that unguarded joy in her eyes. Jealous of the way love seemed to pour from her when she spoke of her life. Jealous of the warmth that lived in her smile, of the way her hand rested so naturally against the swell of her belly, as though she had been cherished into that certainty.
He wanted-
The thought rose so suddenly it nearly knocked the breath from him.
He wanted Penelope’s love.
His hand tightened on the banister; for one dizzying instant, he feared his knees might give way entirely. The stair beneath him felt treacherous, as though the house itself had shifted.
He wanted to be that man.
The one she would speak of with quiet devotion. The one who placed that blush upon her skin. The one whose children she carried.
He wanted her children to be his.
The enormity of it left him breathless.
And yet, his desire did not end there.
It was not merely the future Penelope he craved.
He wanted the Penelope of now.
The girl who wrung her hands when anxious about her upcoming debut. The one who flushed pink when teased. The one who could match Eloise’s volume in a spirited debate and then dissolve into quiet laughter moments later. The one who answered every letter he sent from Eton with thoughtful care, as though his words were treasures worth keeping. The one who read romantic stories with a hopeful softness in her gaze, believing, despite everything, that her future would be gentle and kind.
He wanted to be the gentleness in that future.
He wanted the becoming.
He wanted the eight years.
He wanted it all, every version of her, past and present, and yet to unfold.
And the realization settled over him with terrible clarity.
This was not simple jealousy.
It was love.
“Papa?”
The small, wavering voice cleaved cleanly through Colin’s thoughts.
He startled.
Elliot stood near the top of the stairs, framed by the fading afternoon light. Someone had changed him into one of Gregory’s old sets of clothes, slightly too broad at the shoulders, the cuffs turned up twice over. His cheeks were flushed an unmistakable red, lashes still damp, lips pushed forward in a trembling pout.
He had been crying.
“Elliot,” Colin breathed.
The boy lifted his arms without hesitation, silent, instinctive request. And Colin moved at once, the last of his stupor falling away as he closed the remaining distance between them. He gathered the child up with practiced ease, settling him against his hip just as he had seen Penelope do.
The weight felt… natural.
“What is it, Elli?” he murmured softly, already swaying slightly, one hand rubbing slow circles against the boy’s back. Soothing came easily to him. He had grown up in the middle of chaos and tears and scraped knees; comfort was a language he spoke fluently. “Would you like to go to your mama?”
He brushed gentle fingers through the copper curls.
Elliot shook his head at once.
“I just want Papa,” he said simply.
As though that were explanation enough.
As though it were the most obvious truth in the world.
His small, warm arms wrapped around Colin’s neck, clinging with quiet urgency. He burrowed closer, cheek pressing against Colin’s shoulder, seeking comfort with absolute certainty that it would be found there.
Colin’s heart lurched painfully upward into his throat.
“I-” He swallowed. “I am sorry your papa is not here, Elli.”
The words scraped against something raw inside him as he continued to rub the boy’s back, slow and steady.
Elliot pulled back at once.
Confusion knit his brow, that familiar little crease between his eyes, so like Penelope that Colin’s breath caught at the sight of it. The child studied him intently, as though Colin had spoken nonsense.
As though he had failed to understand something very simple.
The boy’s expression shifted, thoughtful now. Deliberate.
Then, with surprising determination, Elliot reached up and grabbed Colin by the ear, tugging him downward.
Colin hissed softly in startled pain, bending instinctively toward him.
“Mama told me not to tell you this,” Elliot whispered fiercely, breath warm against his cheek.
At once, Colin stilled.
The sting in his ear vanished from awareness.
“But I think it’s all right,” the boy continued in a conspiratorial huff, “’cause you’re my papa.”
Colin blinked.
The world seemed to tilt.
He could hear his own pulse, loud, unsteady, thundering in his ears.
“But Mama said I cannot say my full name,” Elliot went on, lowering his voice further. “She said it would be big trouble if I did.”
Colin’s fingers tightened involuntarily at the boy’s waist.
“What…” His voice faltered. He tried again after swallowing, softer this time. “What is your full name, Elliot?”
The child leaned closer, the whispered words brushing his ear, yet they struck him like a bell, loud and impossible to ignore.
“Elliot Bridgerton.”