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Twelve hours ago, Colin had danced with Penelope in her mother's ballroom. He had felt dashing, daring, incredible… useful, like he had a purpose. Penelope had smiled at him, her blue eyes filled with awe, and called him astonishing.
Then he had said that awful, mindbogglingly stupid, utterly hurtful comment in the garden and looked up just in time to see Penelope's face crumple and her heart break before she had run away.
He'd run after her, ignoring the taunts and jeers that had followed him, intent only on finding Penelope, of sinking to his knees and begging her forgiveness, and praying she would bestow it.
(Even now, he cannot find a reason to why he would voice such a mindlessly cruel untruth that he would not dream of courting her, when he has since come to realise he would worship the very ground upon which she stepped.)
So intent he had been to talk to her, he had been in her room before he realised where he had followed her too, and even that thought did not merit much pondering because instead he was confronted with messes of paper and money and upturned chairs and floorboards, and well, then the truth.
That Penelope was Whistledown. That Penelope had always been Whistledown. That Penelope, as Whistledown, had written of him, and Lady Crane, of Eloise, of Daphne and Anthony's mishaps. Of her family's mishaps. Of herself, in such hateful ways.
The argument that had followed had been the worst of Colin's life. Their simultaneous hurts of one another laid bare, the way Penelope seemed to reach inside with her meticulous little hands and rip out the very being of him and place it before him, prepared to show him in ever way he knows he can be found wanting.
The way he saw she is Penelope — sharp, and clever, and witty. Whistledown herself. And he, he was just Colin, third son, aimless wanderer, with nothing to offer but his heart.
Had he realised he loved her then, he wonders now. That the purpose he had been searching for was her. Subconsciously, he must of, but in the moment, the thought had not yet presented itself. Instead, he had let her dismiss him, send him away, and he had trailed from the room and the house to a deserted back corner of the garden, unwilling to leave the property when things were still so uncertain between them.
The other guests had been distracted by the fireworks, and in peace, in the dark, Colin had covered his face with his hands and sobbed as his heart broke.
"Colin," Penelope's voice had whispered, broken and sad, and he felt her hand on his arm, easing him to turn towards her, and when their eyes met, both of them crying, she had taken his hands in hers, the first time he ever recalled her reaching for him. "I am so sorry."
He'd trembled at her touch. "As am I," he'd murmured. "I am terribly sorry, Pen." Their gazes had held for a moment.
Which of them had reached for the other first, he thought. He could not recall. But they had met in the middle, her lips on his and their kiss — her first, his first — had been messy, unpractised, tear stained and perfect. Their second had been more measured, more purposeful. His hand on her cheeks, brushing away the last of her tears, and with a hesitating tremor, she had held his waist with endearing tenaciousness.
It had been magic.
Then, he thinks, is when he realised he loved her. That perhaps he had always loved her, since childhood, and it had not struck him from nowhere, like a thunderbolt, but grown overtime as she teased him, and whispered with him, and sent him every precious letter.
And then Jack had emerged from the dark, wild and frantic, delighted to find them alone as revenge shone in his eyes.
Everything had been a blur then. Penelope had been wrenched from Colin's arms with a startled cry, and the last thing Colin remembered was the villain's hand around her neck, before his memory blackened. When he came to again, Jack was unconscious, bleeding, and Anthony and Benedict were there, panting, Will at their side, all of them standing protectively between him and his enemy.
Penelope had been in his arms again, wrapped securely against him, and her hand had been pressed right over his heart. "Breathe, Colin," she murmured. "All is well, I am safe, come back to me." And then, so softly he almost missed it, "my darling."
That is when he felt that she perhaps loved him too.
There had been no comment on the moment from the others. As Will and Benedict organised for Jack to be hauled away and incarcerated, they'd had to separate. Kate had been the one to coax them apart gently, before more witnesses eventuated, promising them they would see each other the next day. Colin could not even kiss Penelope's hand goodbye before Kate was leading her back into her home, and Anthony was directing him to theirs, and forcing a drink down him before sending him to bed.
Colin had for long moments debated in the dark the merits of sneaking out and over to Penelope's. He could climb the tree outside her window to gain entry. There were so many things unsaid between them — he wanted to discuss Whistledown, wanted assurances of how she saw him. Wanted to tell her he loved her and to ask a singular question that he longed for an answer to more than anything.
But Benedict had come in, dragged a chair to the bed and sat in it, propping him feet on the mattress and commanding him to sleep, appointing himself guard against the very thing Colin was thinking to do. "She is well, she is cared for, and you may see her in the light of day when it is proper," his brother had said, more firm than he had ever seen of Benedict.
He had slept fitfully and at first light, Colin had risen, and shooed Benedict from the room. Washed, and dressed in his finest. He had had time before calling hour, so went to find his mother, and ask her for a ring. She had kissed his forehead in delight and produced a ring his father had once given her after his own birth. Next he had congratulated Anthony on his own engagement and asked for his brother's blessing, received it most willingly.
He'd still had a little time before he would be allowed through the Featherington doors, and had been considering having it out with Eloise, wishing he could mend things between her and Penelope. Even take her blessings across the square with him, God willing. But then the Queen's summons had come, and his plans had been laid to waste.
They are stood before Her Majesty now, an assorted knot of confusion. Brimsley, Danbury and some barrister named Dundas at the Queen's side. Colin stands between his mother and Kate, the determined future Viscountess, Anthony on her other side. And then to his right, Portia with Prudence and Penelope.
He'd tried to go to Penelope when they had all first arrived, until Anthony had grabbed his arm and pushed him forward, muttering "not here, not now." But he had managed to catch her eye in the chaos and she had blushed endearingly, and his heart had soared with hope. Despite the emotional turmoil, despite the danger of a royal summons, Colin had only been able to smile.
He was not smiling now. His face feels slack with the shock he feels as he stares at the Queen following her extraordinary pronouncement. Nearly every other pair of eyes in the room is staring at him. All, except one. He knows without seeing, Penelope is not looking at him either. Where she is looking, he does not know, but he knows it is not at him. He always knows when she is not looking at him.
Until this moment, though, he had not realised how aware of that fact he had been.
"F-Forgive me, your Majesty," he stammers out now, with a little bow, panicked glance at Anthony. "I believe I mishe-"
"You did not," she responds, her tone clipped, amusement playing on her face. "It is the only real solution."
When they had all assembled, the barrister Dundas had been charged to tell them why they were all assembled — Jack was in Newgate, and would not be leaving. He would have a trial, of course, but it was expected he would be found guilty of his crimes. And along with the usual forfeiture of property and goods and money, he and his line would be stripped of his title.
It had been a shocking pronouncement, as such things rarely occurred, but the Queen had been unwilling to risk who the title might go to next — after a gambler, and a charlatan, she had reasoned, who else might inherit a place in her society.
Portia had then, predictable but embarrassingly, started on about some clause in some contract that allowed one of her daughter's first born sons to gain the title, but then Dundas had accused her of fraud, of knowing of Jack's schemes and making her own, and she had quickly fallen silent, Penelope looking mortified at her mother, Prudence mostly looking annoyed.
(Colin had wondered if he should have realised last night, when Portia had rushed them from the room, that it had all been too easy for her to see the truth, that she had been too quick to act. He had been so caught up in his success, in escorting Penelope to the dance floor that he had not paused on it all a second more.)
And then the Queen had spoken the most shocking words yet. "We have decided, of course, that in recognition to his services to the Crown and Country in apprehending the criminal, that Mr Colin Bridgerton will instead become Baron Featherington."
Colin had still been turning over Portia's duplicitousness in his mind and so the words had taken a moment to penetrate. Everyone (barring Penelope, it appeared) had looked at him, a formerly insignificant third son, in shock, and he had looked at the Queen.
"You see, Mr Bridgerton, despite your family's recent social…mishaps," the Queen continues, sparing the briefest of glances at Kate and Anthony. "Your family has served me well, and proven loyal and trustworthy. You have a Duke and a Viscount for brothers, you are of good stock, and you, it appears, are clever and moral." He feels his face heat at her praise, as she affixes him with another look. "You are exactly the sort of man We seek in our Court and Parliament."
He can only bow, more deeply this time, astounded at the proceedings. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he murmurs, and his mother, brother and Kate follow suit.
Colin turns his head now, almost on instinct, towards the one person he always trusts to be able to make sense of things, to find her gaze locked on the floor, a look of devastation on her face. His heart skips then races, as he worries she will be too angry with him, for last night, for now, for him unknowingly usurping her family's title. He thinks how he can find a way to speak to her alone — perhaps, he may be able to orchestrate them into a carriage along on the ride home, so he can reassure her of his intentions, of his feelings. That even if she does not want him, they may mend their friendship at least.
Portia at that moment lets out a wail and throws herself at the Queen's feet, as Violet and Kate grimace and rush forward to attempt to make her stand. Colin takes advantage of the momentary distraction to edge carefully towards Penelope, who is looking at her mother with clear mortification upon her face.
Your Majesty, everything I have done has been for the love and safety of my daughters," Portia sobs, but even without looking at her, Colin can tell it is an act, a plot, just crocodile tears. Anthony is harrumphing in a way that reassures him his brother also does not believe the woman's display. "And poor Prudence, she was all prepared and ready to become the new Lady Featherington, and now that criminal had shamed her and left her dishonoured and destitute! Whatever will poor Prudence do, Your Majesty? She is so prepared to be a wife."
Colin is almost completely at Penelope's side when the words sink in, and he discerns Portia's intent. Penelope turns to him at last, their eyes locking, a look of horror mingled with heartbreak and defeat on her face. He has seen that look on her too many times since their dance last night — his thoughtless words in the garden, his discovery of her Whistledown papers, and now this, a third time, as her mother tries to betroth him to her sister.
He vows he will never see such a look on her face again, will spend his whole life preventing it if he has to.
"Perhaps," Danbury cuts in now, smoothly, as Violet finally forces Portia to her feet. "The new Lord Featherington, though young, may consider taking a bride soon."
Colin glances and sees his mother's look of shock and betrayal, but then catches Danbury's eye, who winks, and in a moment, what he must do becomes clear.
"Yes!" Portia enthuses, remarkably showing no signs of the devestation that plagued her just moments before. "My Prudence, of course, would be the most suitable, most desirable candi-"
"Mother," Prudence cuts in now with a put upon sigh, surprising them all. "I do not wish to marry Colin Bridgerton." She screws her nose up in apparent disgust, either not realising or not caring he can see her.
Her rejection does not harm his ego. Even if he had not loved her sister with every part of his existence, Colin could never marry Prudence Featherington. He would rather die a chaste bachelor than consider such a fate.
Penelope grimaces, but Colin, feeling calmer than he has since they left Bridgerton House, simply smiles at her and holds out his hand. She takes a sharp breath, her eyes locked on his for a moment, and then, trembling as he had when she took his hands the night before, places her hand in his.
"Prudence," Portia hisses now, as Colin encloses his hand around Penelope's, and they turn to face their families and the Queen, who is looking mildly intrigued by the display. "He is to be Lord Featherington now. And you had so wanted to be Lady Featherington, did you not?"
Prudence looks at him, the disgust still clearly evident on her face. "I guess," she agrees sulkily, and he sees the moment she registers that he and Penelope are standing hand in hand. "I would not be opposed," she continues, as a nasty smirk forms instead.
Colin squares his shoulders and looks at the Queen, praying his instinct is correct, praying Penelope understands. She deserves a courtship, flowers and promenades and flavoured ices at Gunter's. She deserves a real proposal, on one knee. He hope she forgives him the hastiness.
"Alas, I am already betrothed, your Majesty, most happily" he announces, and he feels Penelope's hand clutch as his. He wishes he could look at her now. Portia gasps, and the Queen looks at them, almost expressionless. "May I present my intended, Miss Penelope Featherington?"
He bows and she curtsey's, and the Queen… yawns. "I see," she says, and he thinks she sounds disappointed. Perhaps she had wished for more excitement, or to match him as she had tried to match Daphne, and then Anthony. "I can find no reason to deny the match if it is already made and know," she continues, confirming his suspicions.
His mother, Anthony and Kate all rush to assure the betrothal, whilst private, had been undertaken some time ago. Portia simply says, "but my Prudence…", confusion at the past hours events evident in her face. Prudence opens her mouth, presumably to be nasty again, but Colin looks at her sharply over Penelope's head, and he hears Penelope hiss, "don't you dare, Prudence," and remarkable, Prudence withdraws.
The Queen is standing, shaking out her skirts. "Well, Lady Featherington, you need not worry about your daughters, it seems." She looks to Danbury and Brimsley. "Perhaps Whistledown may still write about my magnanimousness in rewarding young Lord Featherington at least."
They are assuring her the columnist is sure to do so, and Colin feels Pen's hand tighten around his again, and he squeezes back. The Queen was still hunting Whistledown, completely unaware she had her right under her nose and had just dismissed her. And, remarkably, she had just given Colin the tools in which he could protect Penelope from her as well.
"You are all dismissed," the Queen announces now, as she steps down from her dais. "I wish our new Lord and Lady Featherington — and our Lord and lady Bridgerton as well, it appears — luck in their endeavours. I will be watching. And expecting invites to the weddings." They all bow as she cuts her path between them, followed by her entourage. She pauses at Colin's side, and mutters none too quietly, "and perhaps you may consider the merits to us all if the Dowager Lady Featherington were to take a more permanent residence in the country, Featherington."
She is gone before Portia can manage a sound of outrage. Colin bares no mind what anyone else does now though, as he grasps Penelope's hand more firmly and leads her from the room in the opposite direction of the Queen, walking until they find a small, empty antechamber.
Colin shuts the door, breathing hard as it all catches up with him. "Colin," Penelope says and he turns to her, their eyes locking, and he feels a wave of calmness wash over him.
Penelope looks anything but, however, wringing her hands. "Oh Colin, I— I mean, Lord Featherington, I suppose, I—"
"Please, Pen," he interrupts, walking towards her, taking her hands and feeling her still at his touch. "I am always Colin to you… I hope."
She manages a small smile. "Always," she whispers, and the smile falls. "Colin, you should know, I will not hold you to it… the betrothal. You do not have to marry me."
He feels the centre of his world drop at her words, but her hands are still in his, and he holds onto that fact. "Penelope," he murmurs. "Perhaps it is you who does not wish to marry me."
Her eyes dart from his, and she flushes. "That is not… Colin, I… you are a Lord. And I, I am just—"
"Penelope Featherington," he says, his voice low, and her eyes meet him again and he is entranced. "You are Penelope Featherington, and you deserve… more than a Baron, in truth, a Duke, a Prince, but alas… So I will understand if you do not wish to accept my suit."
"Oh," she breathes. "Colin, that is ridiculous. I would have accepted your suit before the Queen gave you a title."
He reaches with one hand to cup her cheek, sighing at the soft, warm touch of her skin. Her words are a balm to him. "I was planning to ask you today," he confesses. "At calling hour." He runs his thumb gently over her lips, feeling her shiver beneath him.
"Oh," she repeats, and he feels her draw closer, her eyes wide. "Because of what happened in the garden?"
"Yes," he agrees, remembering the feeling of her hand on his chest, the warmth and softness of her body pressed against him, the taste of her kiss. He sees now the worry dart through her eyes, and rushes to reassure her. "Because it made me realise… I love you."
Penelope gasps, and emotions flood her face so quickly, he cannot read her. "Do not say things you do not mean, Colin." He feels her withdraw a little, and wraps his other arm around her waist to hold her in place. "I… I… I do not require fake platitudes to marry you."
"I do mean it," he says now. "More than I have meant anything else in my life, ever." He runs his thumb over her lips again, and smiles when he feels them curve into a pout, pressing the barest of kisses against his skin. "All evening, since we were parted, all I have thought about is you. The melody of your laugh, and glint in your eyes when you make your clever quips with that sharp wit. The way you see me, look to the very core of me, and somehow still find me worthy of your time."
"Colin," she whispers. "You are worthy. Of everything. I just… are you sure?"
"Yes. Penelope, I am very much in love with you."
Penelope holds his gaze a moment longer. "What about Whistledown?"
Somewhere, deep in him, the anger at Whistledown still boils. But at this moment? "We will figure it out. Together."
"And my mother?"
"A nice cottage in the country."
Penelope giggles, then gives him yet another serious look. "You said you would never court me."
"A fool's words," he mutters, shamefaced, sure now she will slip from his arms and reject him. "I would court you this second, if you wished, Penelope."
And remarkably, she smiles, bright and sunny like her yellow gown, happier than he has ever seen her. "I love you too, Colin." And it his turn to gasp in surprise, as she bravely pushes on. "I love your kindness, and your passion. And how you charm me, and talk to me, and notice me." Her arms are around his waist now, once again tenaciously holding on. "I have loved you since the moment we met. Of course I want to marry you."
When he finally, finally, kisses her once more, they are both crying again, but this time with happiness.
And once again, they are interrupted by a knock to the door, and Kate looking slyly in as she pushes it open, not hiding her smirk as they jump apart. "Shall we return to Bridgerton House? We have quite the news to share with our family, after all."
"Right you are, sister," Colin agrees, unable to hide the bounce in his step as he offers his arm to Penelope. "May I escort you Penelope Bridgerton?"
She blushes, taking his arm. "You may, Lord Featherington."
None of this is what Colin expected even just yesterday, but he does not even think he can regret a moment of it in truth.
Not even when refusing to part of his bride-to-be means he has to share a carriage home with her mother and sister.