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VIOLET
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“She is late.”
Violet could not help but roll her eyes at her eldest son. She had taken it upon herself to accompany him this afternoon, because the lady in particular he was about to interview—she shuddered inwardly at the word—meant far too much to her and the family for her to allow offense.
Gunter’s was mercifully uncrowded today, and Violet was looking forward to enjoying a pineapple ice. She was glad she did not have to make polite conversation with too many acquaintances.
Under the guise of meeting a friend—carefully arranged, of course—she joined him in his carriage as he grumbled, huffed, and checked his pocket watch every few moments.
Until finally, they had arrived here.
She sighed. “My dear, it has only struck four.”
“Precisely like I said, mother. Late. Father had always maintained that if one is merely on time, then one is already tardy. And see here,” he said sardonically, “we are still ticking and ticking past four of the clock as time is wont to do. Late.” The exasperating man actually held up his watch for her to see the second hand move exactly as it was supposed to.
Violet wanted to groan. She wanted to smack her son up the back of the head. She wanted to hiss at him and his impossible way of going about ‘finding a wife’. Instead, she gave a tight smile and said, “Yes, but for business dealings. Not when you are courting a lady.”
He huffed. Or scoffed. Because that was what he always did. He was such a petulant boy at age thirty.
“And what is marriage if not a business arrangement, mother?” he asked haughtily, his jaw tight, his expression arranged into that familiar mask of superiority and control. The sweet boy that had laughed and joked was long gone, and all Violet could do was miss the person he was before her Edmund passed.
Anthony continued his tirade. “After all, all I do require in a wife is—”
She held a hand up to stop his nonsense. Did the man really think his mother was the proper audience for his favorite line, suitable enough hips for childbearing?! “I do not wish to hear your appalling list. I should like to eat.”
“And,” he snapped. His pocket watch was in his hand once more, and he was looking at it intently in the center of his palm, “I am not courting any young lady yet. I am simply—”
“Conducting interviews, I know. Though I do not understand it, and I do not approve of it,” Violet replied in a stern voice.
She was pleased to see she still had an effect on him at times, his eyes widening a fraction—the sharp intake of breath was also noted—before replying, “You do not have to approve, mother. And now,” he glanced again at his watch as though in awe of how the device worked, “she is three minutes late.”
Violet waved a hand airily, as though the matter was inconsequential.
Because it was. How did she come to have such dramatic children?
“Three minutes is nothing, dearest. You best calm down right now,” Violet replied serenely. “And as I have already told you, the lady needed… persuasion.”
Her son shut his mouth tight, and she was sure he was grinding his teeth to dust at the slight.
“I was not aware that the Bridgerton name needed negotiation. And I am the Bridgerton name, is that not sufficient?”
Violet looked into his deep brown eyes, open and welcoming in his boyhood, but walled and shackled today. “It is not. And I am saddened that you do not know that still.”
He very visibly bristled, fidgeting in his seat, his knee bouncing rhythmically under the table. However hotheaded he might be, Violet knew her son did not want her or any of his family sad or disappointed.
He just had a roundabout way of expressing his care and affection. Possibly an entire tour of the Continent and back before anyone even understood the motivation behind why he did the things he did.
Anthony squared his shoulders and looked at Violet straight in the eye. “What are you doing here with me in any case? I do not need coddling.”
Violet saw he meant to check his watch again, but flexed his fingers instead as if he was on the brink of death in trying to restrain himself from doing so. Her heart tore a little bit at the scene before her.
But she must steady on.
“I already told you in the carriage, Anthony. I wish to pass the afternoon with the young lady's chaperone while you two get acquainted.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, his nostrils flaring in his barely controlled annoyance, and it delighted Violet just a little if she was honest, seeing her eldest a tad discomposed.
“I was not aware that you were in friendly terms with Lady Featherington,” he said, his eyes still calculating, as though he expected to be found in the center of a complicated trap.
And he was in it.
But the man did not need to know that.
So Violet just hummed.
It had been an accident, certainly. But not, she had come to believe, an unfortunate one.
She hadn't meant for Miss Penelope Featherington to end up on Anthony's list at all.
At the beginning of every season, Violet always wrote three lists of four or five ladies each. These were ladies she thought would suit her sons who are of marrying age, in the hopes of getting them down the aisle. Finally this season, Anthony had agreed to look at the list she wrote for him, stating his intent to find a wife. He had said that he might find someone who was not already on his own list.
Excited, in a rush, she handed Anthony the list. He looked at it briefly, furrowed his brows, and nodded.
“I shall add Miss Hallewell to my current list…”
Violet nodded.
“... And Miss Featherington. Yes. She is quite sensible, smart, and accustomed to Bridgerton theatrics already. A friend to the family, even to the likes of Benedict.” Anthony nodded once more, decided.
Violet snatched the piece of parchment, confused. She did not recall adding Penelope to Anthony's list at all. Only then did she realize that she had handed him Colin's list instead, where Miss Penelope's name appeared first.
Emphatically underlined.
“But, dearest—”
“I assure you, they will suffice, mother. I thank you for your effort. I shall now see to scheduling their interviews, along with the other young ladies I had already intended to call upon.” Anthony left the room.
“Interviews?” Violet repeated faintly to the empty space that was her son.
The murmur of patrons around her reeled her in back to the present as she watched her eldest act exasperated. The lovely, earthy scent of fresh tea floated to her and calmed her, reminding her of afternoon tea at Bridgerton House, which had always included Penelope.
She could not wait to see how the young Miss Featherington would handle such a man as Anthony.
The bell at the door tinkled and the footman made to assist the new arrivals, making careful progress in guiding them to their neighboring table.
Some bustle along the way to them—ladies greeting ladies and all the expected social niceties—temporarily obstructed them from view. Anthony craned his neck around, but to no avail it seemed, as he groaned in frustration.
It was all Violet could do to smile her secret smile. Anthony whipped around to look at her and she schooled her features instantly.
“That must be them,” he remarked. And it was, Violet could see them now as the young lady muttered something under her breath and her chaperone guffawed.
Anthony started at the sound. “Lady Featherington is quite loud,” he murmured without turning to look.
Violet almost choked on air as the two ladies finally approached.
Anthony pushed back his seat, stood to his full height, and as he slowly turned to face their company for the afternoon said, “Good afternoon, Miss Featherington. You are la—Lady Danbury?!”
Agatha scoffed and Violet grinned.
“Do close your mouth, Lord Bridgerton. It is unbecoming. And I should hate for a stray fly to seize the opportunity of performing the odious task of holding your tongue for you,” Agatha said, smacking her walking stick on the floor as if to sentence Anthony to the gallows.
Anthony calmed himself with one deep breath and smiled politely, ever the charming Bridgerton. “I apologize, I was only… surprised.” Anthony bowed over Agatha's outstretched hand, holding it with sincerity in his own. “Good day. How do you do, Lady Danbury?”
“Well enough,” Agatha said, her eyes glinting with amusement and her mouth in a naughty smirk. “I would not have missed this for the world. May I present Miss Penelope Featherington?”
Penelope stepped out from behind Agatha, a little smirk that was almost imperceptible playing on her mouth as she did. She was in another of Madame Delacroix's creations, a violently yellow dress with pink and blue flowers. It did nothing for her complexion and quarrelled horribly with her bright hair, but at least this particular style accentuated her figure.
Lady Portia must be oblivious. Because Violet could not even bear to imagine the woman willingly putting her daughter in such a dress, knowing how it did not suit the young lady.
Agatha sat in Anthony's vacated seat, winking at Violet as she settled. Penelope curtsied gracefully and Anthony bowed.
She smiled sweetly at the viscount, and Violet could not help but smile herself. “Good afternoon, Lord Bridgerton. Apologies for the delay. There was a complication with… with my… my ribbons,” Penelope greeted, her eyes flickering towards Agatha and she replied with a shake of her head and a raise of one carefully styled brow.
Violet had to stifle a giggle at their antics.
She was so pleased someone outside the family had noticed how wonderful a young woman Penelope was.
Agatha and Penelope made quite the unlikely pair. Surprising, really.
Having seated with Penelope at last month’s Smythe-Smith musicale—seeing no other company present worthy of her attention—Agatha was struck by Penelope's wit and charm… and her kindness. Lady Danbury had come out of the torturous experience of listening to what the Smythe-Smiths deemed music with a new friend, and plenty of stories to tell Violet during tea the next day.
The pair had been almost inseparable since then, if not for their varying roles during the few balls and soirées that had passed. But always, toward the end of a féte, Violet would see the two sneaking off with a bottle of brandy in Agatha's hands and two glasses in Penelope's.
It was always Lady Danbury who brought Penelope home in the small hours, and Lady Featherington did not mind. A member of their family being seen with one of the ton’s pillars was a boon to all.
“I hope your ribbons are settled then. I know Hyacinth cares deeply for hers and arranges them most meticulously, so I am not new to the dilemma,” Anthony commented in all seriousness, and Penelope looked up at him in alarm, her lips parted, her cheeks painted pink in shock and awe.
Even Violet was surprised, for she knew that was an excuse Penelope pulled out of thin air. The delay had not been about ribbons at all—it had been hesitation. Anthony and his unkind interviews were entirely to blame.
It had taken the better part of three days for Agatha to convince the young lady to give the afternoon a chance. She was stubborn, indignant, and completely certain of her position.
And it did not escape Violet's notice that the young lady shared these similarities with someone else she knew… or rather, had birthed.
Still, Violet found herself pleased by how her son handled Penelope's excuse.
Until Anthony cleared his throat, trained his expression swiftly into one of complete nonchalance, and assisted Penelope to her seat.
And the stoic viscount was back in full force.
“Well?” Violet whispered as she watched Anthony gesture for the attendant at the next table. “How does Penelope feel?”
“Vexed, Violet,” Agatha huffed, her hand tightening on her cane. “She did not want to leave, but she did not want to stay at home either. Ultimately, she had come with me because of the opportunity to be away from her mother and her constant lamentations about Penelope's freckles and her figure and—oh, I would dearly enjoy putting that woman in her place, Violet. You know I would. But—”
“But Penelope. Yes, I quite understand.”
Violet inclined her head and an attendant approached at once. The pair ordered biscuits, tea, an apricot ice for Agatha, and pineapple for Violet.
They maintained the appearance of being deep in conversation, but neither heard a word of what the other said—or truly knew if any words were even spoken at all. Perhaps they were only emitting sounds… Violet really should focus.
Alas, their ears were shamelessly inclined toward the neighboring table, sharing only occasional winces, some smirks, a few raised eyebrows… oh, it was a colorful afternoon for all.
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PENELOPE
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The attendant bowed beside their table, his livery immaculate. Penelope tried to focus on the yellow of his waistcoat, but her stomach turned with unease.
Why was she even here? Had Lord Bridgerton exhausted his supply of ladies to interrogate? Was it her turn to answer his disastrous questions, formulated to assess if she had what was required to be Viscountess Bridgerton?
“What ices are offered this afternoon?” Anthony asked the attendant, his eyes focused as if he was making a drastic decision on a tenant dispute.
“Apricot, lemon, pineapple, and raspberry, my lord.”
Anthony nodded curtly. “Miss Featherington, which would you prefer?”
Penelope cleared her throat. “I shall have the raspberry.”
The man across from her raised his eyebrows, his jaw ticking. “A lemon for me.”
The attendant bowed again and left, leaving the two to their own devices.
And, she was certain, to Agatha and Violet’s eavesdropping.
“I admit I assumed you would prefer the lemon,” Anthony said, his eyes dropping to the neckline of her dress, faltering for the briefest moment, before climbing back to meet her eyes.
What an assumption. Penelope wanted to reel back and smack the man, but he seemed genuinely curious.
Penelope cocked her head to the side and hummed, her gloved hands folded daintily on top of each other on her lap as she considered her answer.
She promised herself that she would not fold in half and allow this man to take control of the afternoon.
“That is because you do not know me, my lord,” Penelope said in a flat voice. “You assume because you do not have the necessary information to conclude.”
Anthony stared at her in shock, and rather than be flustered herself, she took his silence as a gesture to continue speaking. And she did.
“I do not care for this color, I do not feel right in it. My mother insists yellow, along with other colors of the sour variety, are happy colors.” Penelope smiled at Anthony and he visibly swallowed. “I have yet to experience that effect.”
Anthony choked on a laugh and quickly morphed it into a cough. She heard a sound much the same from the next table.
“Are you all right there, Agatha?” Penelope asked, her gaze still on a bewildered Anthony.
“Yes, child. The tea—it was too hot. Do not mind me.”
“Hmm.” Penelope nodded at the attendant that had brought their ices and Anthony paid discreetly.
Once the man left, Anthony looked at her. And continued looking, watching her lips as she took her first spoonful of raspberry ice.
His deep brown eyes did not waver from her face, and Penelope had to physically restrain herself from squirming at the attention. No man had ever looked at her that way, as though what she had to say was important or pleasantly surprising or witty.
In fact, no man had ever looked at her, she believed. Which again, begged the question—why was she here?
“Why am I here?” Penelope asked abruptly, her eyes narrowed at the viscount. “And, would you like a lozenge, viscount? You seem to be coughing quite a lot.”
Once he ceased coughing, Anthony stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of lemon ice and sighed—moaned?—in contentment. He loved the flavor, apparently.
“I merely have a few questions to ask you. That is all.”
“Ah, I see. Did you go from one lady to the next, felt unsatisfied every time, until all had been interrogated—and then saw me and thought, ‘Oh, I might as well’?”
Anthony adjusted in his seat, his gaze steady on hers, his palpable confidence like a warmth that seemed to penetrate through layers of bright yellow fabric.
He truly was imposing. Formidable. And it made Penelope feel… something.
“No. You have been on my list since the season's beginning. Before I began calling on the others. I intended to see you from the start, though… circumstances interfered.” Anthony said without fanfare.
“Oh.” Penelope blushed then, realizing now that Anthony knew her ribbons excuse was false.
But she had heard about him and Miss Patridge, Miss Hallewell, Miss Goring, and all the other young ladies. She had heard about him reducing capable young women to checklists.
She found she did not admire it at all.
And so, she had resisted for two reasons.
That she would be treated as a series of qualifications, much like the women before her.
And that she was an afterthought.
“Oh is right, Miss Penelope. You are not a last resort. You are quick to assume no one sees you.” He looked at her unsmiling, but not unkind, and Penelope felt his understanding twist with hers in her chest.
“Because no one does. Not truly," she replied.
Anthony's mouth twitched into something that Penelope thought could have been a smile. She was not sure. She must ask Eloise if her brother smiled at all.
“Well, then,” Anthony said, his hand opening and closing into a tight fist on the table as if by reflex. “I hope that changes today, as we become better acquainted.”
Penelope smiled then, and for a moment something unguarded stirred within her, like the blooming of a rose or the gentle falling of a leaf in autumn. It felt as though she truly did understand the man.
But the man had to open his mouth.
“Now, what are your accomplishments?” Anthony inquired in a business-like tone before tasting another spoonful of lemon ice. “And do you require a lozenge now, Miss Featherington?”
“I am quite all right, my lord,” Penelope said through gritted teeth after her own coughing fit. Why was this so difficult? But she was here, she was ready, and she would answer each and every question appropriately.
“I am excellent in embroidery, in my letters, in maths, watercolors, and in languages.”
Anthony nodded, as if ticking something in his head—which must be, in Penelope's imagination, a crowded study with rows upon rows of books, organized according to subject matter. Where was he categorizing her?
“Do you play any musical instruments?”
Penelope hummed. “I am good at the pianoforte, though not quite as wondrous as our dear Francesca.”
He truly did smile then, she was certain. It was clear, brief though it might have been.
“Yes, I am a proud brother. I worry for her when she is away, I miss her when she is not around… but she is passionate. Our Aunt Winnie in Bath is committed to seeing her excel in her passions. And for that I am grateful.”
Penelope felt a swoop in her belly at how much the viscount adored his sister. At the brightness that lit up his eyes talking about Francesca and her studies.
But she controlled her emotions, for sooner rather than later, the man would blunder.
And blunder he did.
“Do you read?”
She was impatient now. She leaned towards the viscount, her cheeks blazing. She noted that Anthony had taken another glance at the neckline of her dress. Was the yellow truly that horrible?
“You know I read, especially with how often I come to Bridgerton House to read or exchange books with Eloise, Francesca, and even Hyacinth. And did I not just tell you how I excelled in my letters?”
Anthony's eyes widened as they cast around for something in the air, perhaps the proper words to say, or an exit route. “I apologize, Miss Featherington. Yes, you are quite right. I do know you love to read and I am eternally grateful to you for keeping my Hyacinth company when she talks of her dresses, ribbons, and books. I should not have asked.”
Penelope exhaled and nodded. “I accept your apology.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “Are you looking forward to being a mother?”
Penelope groaned. The man had the subtlety of a carriage crash.
But… she smiled despite herself. She truly did want to become a mother, and dreamed of it almost every night. A little girl to dote on, a boy to adore. She dreamed of children filling a drawing room with laughter and stories. Fill hallways with their soft footfalls and shrieks of laughter.
This entire interview was a whirlwind of questions and feelings and emotions, leaving her feeling quite fatigued.
“I am,” she replied. Her eyes on her raspberry ice as she dipped in her spoon. “I do so love children.”
Anthony nodded approvingly, another tick in his mind's list, Penelope knew. “Say,” he began, his lithe fingers drumming on the table. “What if one of your daughters had a penchant for overspending, how would you deal with that?”
Penelope held steady. She knew she had to appear strong, confident, and not shatter in front of this man who must be thinking his mere presence was a boon to all womankind.
Even if the ton forgot the wallflower, she herself knew she had much to offer.
“I would first seek to understand the source of such extravagance,” Penelope said, spooning one of the few remaining spoonfuls of ice into her lips and humming in contentment. She watched Anthony's jaw tick again, for what reason, she did not know.
“Does she find satisfaction in purchases because she lacks it elsewhere? Does she feel unseen? Unheard? Does she regard her home as sanctuary—or as confinement? Is she seeking affection by other means? It must be a symptom, this excess. For children seldom seek from the world what is freely given at home.”
A bark of laughter rang from the next table. “Ah—yes. That story you just told me is rather… amusing, Violet!” Agatha enunciated, even though Lady Bridgerton had said nothing at all.
Anthony paused, gazing at Penelope. He did not answer at once. The ice on his spoon had started dripping in liquid form back into his glass, until he placed it carefully beside the dish. His gaze lowered briefly, as though weighing her words, turning them over one by one in his mind.
For a second that seemed to stretch into minutes, he only looked at her. His eyes clear and open.
And then, almost abruptly, he straightened.
“And what number did you have in mind?”
“Anthony!” Violet exclaimed from the other table. “That is rude! Did you ask all the other young ladies that as well?!”
“Mother, do not listen in on my conversation!” he replied, his nostrils flaring, his head craned to the side to meet his mother's glare.
“It is fine, Lady Bridgerton. I am unperturbed.” She looked at Anthony again, calm and ready to answer. “I shall be grateful for whatever number Providence sees fit to grant me. Though I admit, I would prefer to know each child well, before my husband and I should welcome the next.”
A sound of approval came from the next table where their chaperones—yes, chaperones—sat.
His eyes darted to hers, clearly impressed. A smirk of superiority, approval, and pleasure lifting the corners of his lips.
“You do not seem discomposed by my line of questioning,” Anthony remarked.
Penelope looked at him, mapping her next move, the very thing she had planned to do since she agreed to this tête-à-tête.
Her eyes assessed him, from the perpetual furrow in his brow, to his chest that was rising and falling with every slow breath.
To the jut of his chin, the strength of his jaw…
To his satisfied smirk he now wore, as though he had found someone somewhat suitable at last.
But he had not found a potential viscountess in Penelope.
He had found an adversary.
And Penelope was taking a quiet moment to prepare herself to finally put him in his place.
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ANTHONY
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Why was she silent? Why did she not comment on his remark?
Did he have something on his face? What was that look in her eye—a peculiar gleam he had never seen before during their acquaintance?
It was unnerving.
Almost as unnerving as the fact that the hideous yellow dress did not conceal her lovely figure, nor the twin softness that stirred something inconvenient in him.
Almost as unnerving as the fact that her answers were not always what he wanted to hear, but later realized were the correct ones.
Almost as unnerving as the fact that he enjoyed challenging her, and that she challenged him in return.
The lovely blush that spread on her cheeks when she was vexed with him did not aid in his composure at all. And that was one more thing he found intriguing.
The way she hummed—it sent his mind into a frenzy. Her hums made him think of other, softer sounds he could coax from her—through argument, of course. Or by other… less honorable means.
“Miss Penelope?”
She hummed, her eyes still on him, and he had to painfully restrain himself from touching her lips with his thumb to feel that hum on his skin.
It was maddening.
“I remarked that you do not seem at all discomposed by my line of questioning.”
She looked down then, her gaze dropping to the table, her cheeks rising with the impish smirk that slowly appeared on her face.
“I am not,” she replied. Suddenly, she looked at him through her lashes and Anthony felt a grip on his chest at the sight. “However, I suspect you soon shall be.”
Violet coughed and Agatha gasped, but she paid them no heed. He did not either. For he was at present occupied with forcing his jaw closed and back in place.
“I beg your pardon?” he said through gritted teeth.
He was annoyed at her cheek.
And aroused.
An unfortunate combination.
Penelope laughed quietly and it suddenly felt like a little man had done a somersault inside his stomach at the sound.
“It is your turn to answer my questions, my lord,” she said, steepling her fingers together on the table and pushing her empty ice dish forward, the soft squeak of porcelain on glass sounded loud in his ear.
She lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and raised an eyebrow at him.
And he shivered in his perfectly polished boots.
Damn.
“What are your accomplishments, Lord Bridgerton? Aside from balancing ledgers, managing the estate, and pushing away the people who care about you when they come too close to seeing who you truly are? Even how you truly are?”
“I—” he stammered.
“Do you play any musical instruments? Excel in anything more than being a pompous lord—”
“Penelope!” Agatha exclaimed, eyes glinting mischievously even as they darted around them to make sure no one was close enough to hear.
Their unusual friendship started making sense to Anthony then.
“Miss Featherington—” he tried to interject.
But she did not let him.
“Should you have a child that had a penchant for overspending, I should like to question the motivation as well. Did this child perhaps learn from their father that comfort may be purchased rather than freely offered?”
Anthony stiffened at that. Surely she could not mean…
“I know of the establishments you frequent, my lord.”
She did. She did mean—
“That is enough from you, Miss Featherington,” he whispered, furious at the turn this conversation had taken.
“Anthony,” his mother began, but Penelope spoke once more.
“No, Lord Bridgerton. That is enough from you,” she said, her eyes blazing, her words barely above a whisper now as she tore into him.
“You measure young ladies against a standard very few have ever been permitted to reach. You were raised in a supportive household. You raised your siblings in a home where learning was, and is still, encouraged. Where accomplishments are celebrated!” Penelope looked at him, her eyes bright and almost pleading, and Anthony felt as though he had never been seen until now.
“Your sisters were afforded instruction, were introduced to languages and literature and art, and encouraged to pursue any or all of it. They were given opportunities to grow as people, rather than as wives. That is a privilege, Anthony. Not a universal condition.”
He sat there, listening, yet also silently contemplating his abysmal behavior during the course of his interviews. Bombarding ladies with questions they were not ready for, pushing and pushing until they were up against a metaphorical wall, clinging to answers they thought he would have wanted to hear.
He was ashamed.
His father would have been ashamed.
His hand made to clutch the watch in his pocket, but Penelope spoke once more.
“I had to fight for my turn at the piano bench. My mother had thought it useless, pouring all her attention on her more marriageable daughters.”
“Penelope,” he said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her name, and it landed more like a plea than a mere address.
“No,” she interjected, taking a steady breath and gathering courage. “You will listen to me. I had to fight for pin money to purchase books, and I had to be certain these were titles your sisters did not yet have, so that we may exchange books. I then could read more than I could afford. My mother had always said that books would rot my brain, or that reading was unfashionable, or that books would only confuse my thoughts. Your sisters never experienced such lessons, such words. From you or from Lady Bridgerton. They never had to beg to be allowed to read romance or biology or adventure.”
Penelope muttered under her breath, angry and indignant for all the women Anthony had offended. “To demand from young ladies what they were never permitted to pursue is not merely unfair. It is cruel.”
Penelope stood, and Anthony followed, his palms open, arms at his sides as though he wanted to reach her but did not dare.
“Penelope,” he said again.
But she shook her head and turned to Agatha instead. “I should like to leave, Agatha.”
“Of course, child.” Agatha rose immediately and inclined her head toward Violet. “I shall see you for tea tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Violet replied softly, her eyes on Penelope, a maternal pride shining in her gaze. “Thank you, my dear.”
Penelope dipped into a small curtsy, facing Anthony once more. “I believe this concludes our interview,” she said. “I shall bid you good day, and I shall see you when I come to Bridgerton House for tea.”
Within moments, the entire party was in motion. Lady Danbury was steering Penelope toward the door, Violet following closely behind them, and Anthony right after. The bell above Gunter's chimed cheerfully as they spilled out onto the pavement together.
Lady Danbury walked right beside Penelope, already whispering something in her ear. She smiled sadly then. Perhaps Agatha told her how proud she was of her.
By God, he was, too.
He had not meant to follow so quickly, yet he was only steps behind her. With shame burning hot beneath his collar, he halted.
Violet squeezed his arm briefly.
“Anthony?” she asked quietly at his side.
Something roared inside Anthony's chest, and it burst like a cannon out of his lips.
“No!”
“Pardon?” Penelope asked, turning to face him, her cheeks bright pink again as though she had not just trampled on everything he thought he knew mere moments before.
He still had much to learn, if only she were willing to teach him.
“You shall not see me at tea, Miss Featherington.”
“Why?” she scoffed. “Do you already have a previous engagement?”
“Yes,” Anthony replied. “And so do you.”
“No, I—”
“I shall call upon you tomorrow to begin our formal courtship.”
Penelope staggered backwards adorably, and Lady Danbury just nudged her back closer to him.
“I cannot discern whether you are serious,” she said, her gaze unwavering from his. “Do not be cruel.”
“I am not. At least, I will try my hardest not to be. But I am entirely serious. I wish to court you.”
Penelope lifted her chin again. Ever the proud woman. “On what grounds?”
Anthony was startled into another bark of laughter. “Why, you are capable, intelligent. You are observant in ways I am not. And… you are kind, even though you might conceal it beneath argument at times. Like you did for me today, showing me the error of my ways, whilst burning with fury.”
He stepped close, compelling Penelope to look up at him, her lips parted in the loveliest little ‘o’ shape Anthony had ever seen.
“I require those traits in a viscountess,” he said in a low voice only she could hear.
“Oh, do you now,” she replied, teasing his sharp edges, smoothing his wrinkled little heart.
“Yes,” he said. And then quieter he added, “Most particularly, I require someone unafraid to correct me.” Anthony glanced at his mother, who was now standing beside Agatha, one hand on her chest, the other in her friend's. “Someone capable of scolding me when I am insufferable.”
Penelope stared up into his eyes, searching. And then, she hummed.
Anthony had already begun to adore that hum.
“Very well then,” she sighed in mock surrender and Anthony laughed again. What was it now, three times he laughed in one day? How unusual.
“Call upon me tomorrow and I shall endeavor to enumerate every instance upon which you are insufferable. Perhaps bring one or two siblings with you? So that we may catalogue them together?”
Anthony nodded, willing to say yes to anything Penelope wanted, and Violet and Agatha just chuckled at the pair.
Had Anthony Bridgerton done something right for women this time?
Of course, he believed he had. He was always right—and that was a habit he was most unwilling to break. Especially now as he gazed down at Miss Penelope Featherington, his future viscountess.
Anthony lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her gloved knuckles. He watched as a flush rose to her pretty cheeks, as her lips parted once more—only now in a quiet gasp—and as her eyes darkened with—
… Yes. Anthony was always right.