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Chapter Text

— Italy —

Pen,

Colin Bridgerton paused in his writing, the quill nib hovering just above the parchment as he considered his next words. 

It was strange; Colin usually had so little to worry about when writing to Penelope Featherington. The last time he'd been away, he had filled pages and pages with inky letters, pouring his thoughts out as easily as one would pour water from a jug. Usually, he would have avoided writing so much, but Penelope made it simple, her own words so gentle, encouraging each stroke of his pen. 

But it was not just her reassurance he liked — Penelope was witty . He knew this already, having enjoyed a quip or two at the edge of the ballroom, and yet it seemed so much clearer in her writing. Charming sentences flourished across the page, making him smile, chuckle, and (when she was being particularly kind) blush.

And so writing to Penelope should have been no mean feat at all.

And yet.

And yet he had sat, unmoving, in front of his writing desk for the past few hours, no further in his writing endeavours, watching the sun dip below the horizon as it basked his bed chamber in orange light.

Three times, Colin had pressed nib to parchment, and three times he found himself crunching the paper in his fist, aiming it halfway across the room in frustration.

It must have been the heat that addled his mind. He had done away with his waistcoat and cravat hours ago, the clothing a crumpled heap at the foot of his bed, but it was little help. Despite the open balcony doors, the only thing they provided was a spectacular view of the ocean — and absolutely no breeze. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his shirt stuck to his skin. 

Yes, it was the heat that made thoughts impossible. It was not the little niggle in the pit of his stomach that told him something was wrong. 

After all, what could possibly be wrong? Colin may not have seen Penelope before he left for his travels, but he was sure someone would have informed him if something had gone awry.

But… would they? a tentative voice in the back of his mind asked. Colin was not her brother, and he was certainly not her husband. Their relationship may have been… unconventional, but most knew that he and Penelope Featherington were friends —  did they not? Yes, he decided. Of course they did.

Colin leaned back in his chair, casting his mind back to the few days before he was due to leave. He had stood in the middle of the Featherington lobby, pleading with the Lady of the house that he might see his friend just once before he left.

***

'But I have not seen her for weeks,' Colin said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. She had not visited the house at all due to a spat with Eloise — something his sister vehemently assured him he did not need to know about. 

'She has been rather sick, Mr Bridgerton.' Lady Featherington sighed. 'And has still not recovered.' Then, seeing the alarm on his face, she added: 'Oh, do not grieve yourself over silly Penelope. It is certainly nothing life-threatening.'

'Then perhaps I might pop upstairs and see her?'

'Mr. Bridgerton!' Lady Featherington placed a hand over her bosom. 'Now that is certainly inappropriate.'

Colin blinked; for a moment, he did not catch her meaning. And when he did, he suddenly felt very warm. 'I assure you, I mean nothing untoward. In fact—'

'And I would certainly never allow such a thing!' She began to fan her bosom rather rapidly as her gaze slinked away from him. 'My Penelope and Mr Colin Bridgerton. Imagine the scandal, especially after all the to-do with Lady Crane…' 

'Please feel free to chaperone. I would only like a few minutes of her time.'

'Yes, a few minutes is all you gentlemen need.'

Colin could feel himself losing his temper, but he managed to leash it before a scowl darkened his features. He would hold his tongue and wait for an answer. 

When Lady Featherington could no longer bear the silence, she sighed and said, 'Penelope is refusing to see anyone — no matter who they are. The Queen of England herself could visit, and I am sure she would remain wallowing in her bed chamber.'

'Then, perhaps a friendly face might—'

'She has explicitly expressed her desire to be left alone. She really is… not herself. I am sure she will be much improved upon your return.'

That certainly wouldn't do.

'I do not return for months.'

'Then she will be much improved, indeed.'

Colin was at a loss over what to say. That was it? It was not simply the lack of a goodbye that irked him; he missed her company, and the thought of being starved of it for the next six months was something he wasn't sure he could tolerate.

But he was a gentleman, and it certainly wouldn't do to make a scene, regardless of how hollow his chest suddenly felt. 

'I see,' he said once he'd finally found his words. 'In that case, I shall bid you farewell. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Please do let Miss Featherington know that I came by, and I will see her upon my return.' 

'Of course, Mr Bridgerton.'

And, with a swift bow, he left the house.

***

The sun had dipped below the horizon completely now, and the moon had taken its place. Colin's gaze shifted to where it sat, round and glowing in the sky. He wondered where Penelope was now. Was she still feeling under the weather? Was she in her bed chamber, glancing up at the sky as well?

Oh, blast it, Colin thought. This was Pen . His friend. She had never once judged him for the words he put on paper — why would she start now? Without giving himself the chance to reconsider, Colin dipped the nib in his ink pot.

Dear Pen,

It has been a long while since I've picked up a quill to write to you — we have not written to each other since my last travels, in fact. It is strange; although I was very glad to see you when I returned last year, I almost missed our correspondence. There are many charming anecdotes and stories to be found within those pages. If I am ever feeling uninspired, I simply have to pick up one of your letters and revisit a particularly funny quip you made or a piece of advice I had taken to heart.

I wish we'd had a chance to say goodbye properly. We have not really had a moment together since the night of the ball, have we? It was always you going one way, and I the other — we have barely locked eyes. I had hoped to see you at Anthony's wedding, and I was most disappointed that you did not attend. I must confess, for a moment, I thought you might have been avoiding me ( for what I could not begin to fathom ), but I believe I know the truth of the matter now.

Eloise. A week before I was due to depart, she confessed to me that the two of you are not on speaking terms. I suppose that explains why your absence at the house has been so sorely felt. Rest assured that I am not privy to the reasons why, and it is not my place to know. But I do hope you understand that as much as I love my sister dearly, whatever grievances you may have with each other should not change our relationship in any way. I am still very much your friend.

I called upon you the day before I left. Did you know? Lady Featherington kindly agreed to pass on a message, although I cannot be sure she did. I am very sorry to hear you have been so unwell, and I do hope you are much improved now. Try to soak up some sun if you can find the strength ( and if it is not raining, of course ). I do not like to think of you sad and resigned to your bed chamber!

When I return, we shall have a proper meeting. But until then, do let me know how you are? 

Your friend,

Colin

— Italy —

Weeks passed. 

Time moved differently in this thick, Italian heat. The last time Colin had travelled, he had willed the days to move quickly, as each passing hour took him further away from scandal and thoughts of Miss Thompson. He had never been so desperate to lose himself before —  in the culture, the beauty, and the adventure of being somewhere new. 

But this time, Colin was determined to savour every new experience like he would a good meal. He spent hours wandering the cobbled streets of this beautiful country, soaking up the culture and the sun, speaking to the locals, and listening to their stories. He gorged on olive salads and pasta. Truly, no one did food quite like the Italians. 

In the evenings, he sat with the gentleman and together, they all proceeded to become very merry, swapping stories and clever anecdotes. Colin told them of his triumph over Lord Featherington, which earned hoots and applause from his newfound friends. "How astonishing, Bridgerton!" one had even said, and he had glowed , remembering a similar comment from his friend back home.

You are astonishing, Colin.  

Every night when he returned to his residence, he checked for correspondence. There was always something —  letters from Benedict and Daphne, long, rambling rants from Eloise, and short notes from Anthony with various warnings about things he ought to keep in mind. And although Colin loved hearing from his siblings, each opened letter left him with a sinking heart.

Why hadn't Penelope written to him yet?

What was stopping her?

Despite his best efforts, he could not seem to stop thinking of her, his mind, once again, wandering back to her wellbeing. Was she still sick? Was that why she hadn't gotten in touch? Or had she found his last letter to be lacking and did not believe it worthy of a response? He supposed there wasn't much substance to it. He ought to send a better one that detailed his trip so far.

Dear Pen,

I hope you do not mind me writing again so soon, but I did promise that I would update you on my travels, and that is what I intend to do, especially considering how much last time seemed to interest you. 

Italy is stunning. I wake up every day to this glorious heat — it is like being enveloped in a warm blanket or sinking into a hot bath. My view is of the sea, and I sit on the balcony every morning to take my tea as the sparkling water blinks back at me. It is most beautiful. I wish that you could see it.

And oh — the food, Pen! The food. I could write pages on this alone.

Here is something that may amuse you, my friend. A few of the locals have been criticising my style. They've been calling it stuffy, if you would believe it. Stuffy! According to them, I wear my cravat far too tight, and it is their opinion that I ought to do away with it entirely. Given the heat, I am inclined to agree.

But enough of my ramblings. I am longin interested to hear about you. Unless my last letter has gone missing, which very well may be the case, you have not responded. Do let me know how you are. 

Your friend, 

Colin

— Albania —

Dear Pen,

I am on the move again! I am terribly sorry if you have already replied to my last letter — if you have, I doubt it will reach me for another few weeks. I must implore you to send all future correspondence to Albania. ( I shall include a card detailing my place of residence. ) 

Italy was beautiful, but Albania is truly stunning. The waters are so deep, blue and unyielding, and I wonder what treasures can be found beneath their depths.

I plan to hike up into the alps tomorrow. It is going to be a long trek, but I am looking forward to having the time to reflect. I am leaving my waistcoat, cravat and jacket behind, lest I pass out from the heat. Stuffy, indeed. As it turns out, the Italians were onto something!

How is the weather in England? Not too drizzly, I hope?

Your friend,

Colin

— North Macedonia —

Pen,

A short one to let you know that I have moved on from Albania, and I am now in North Macedonia, so do send any correspondence to the address provided. I fear that I am moving around too much, and so I am not receiving your letters!

The next place is Greece, where I shall spend the remainder of my time before making the journey home — I have included that place of residence too.

You'll also find that I have pressed some flowers to send to you. They reminded me of you — a startling colour, are they not?

I hope you are keeping well. 

Your friend,

Colin

— Greece —

Dear Pen,

Greetings from Greece!

As mentioned in my last letter, I am staying put for the time being. Athens holds true magic, and I do not intend to miss a moment of it. The house I am staying in is rather quiet, perfect for self-reflection. The only other living souls are the cook and Ms Green, the housekeeper — a kindly, older woman who lost her husband a few years ago. We do not cross paths often, as I spend the majority of my days exploring this beautiful city or seeing where I can lend a helping hand to the locals.

It's strange, Pen. I feel so… light. I cannot think of any other way to describe it. It is such a contrast to the time I'd spent in London during the last season. Watching Benedict find his purpose in art and Anthony find his in his new Viscountess had left me feeling quite sullen, indeed. Not because I am unhappy for them — quite the contrary. (And you cannot imagine how nice it is to finally see Anthony with a smile on his face!) But I had felt so… lost before, with nothing to show for my twenty years on this Earth. 

I hope you do not think me too ridiculous, especially as I write that the only redeeming thing about the last social season was… well, you, Pen. Conversing with you, dancing with you, protecting you from the abhorrent antics of Lord Featherington — these are all memories I keep with me when home feels so very far away.

I only wonder what memories I have left behind.

Affectionately,

Colin

Something strange occurred. 

Colin had been standing on a small beach in Athens, the sea breeze stirring the waves in his hair and billowing his loose-fitting shirt around his stomach as he gazed out into the sea. The waves were the most astonishing shade of blue, full of depth, light and all-too-familiar… (Most likely due to the last time he travelled.) 

He thought Penelope ought to know — about the sea, about how it felt to stand with his toes in the sand, about the silkiness of the water as he shrugged off his clothes for a dip, about the calmness and stillness of the place, despite the breeze.

And for one startling moment, he wished that she were here. On this beach. With him. Beside him.

He imagined how good it would feel to talk to her in person, face to face. Oh, how he missed the sound of her voice — it seemed an age since he had heard it. He wondered what nugget wisdom she would impart on him. 

He closed his eyes, and he could almost feel her, the gentle touch of her fingers brushing against the back of his hand, her hair fluttering against his shoulder, sending the scent of her soap up in the air toward him. 

Penelope.

His chest ached with the longing to have his friend here with him. 

Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.

Colin Bridgerton took to the drawing room that evening for his supper, untangling his thoughts upon the parchment. He wrote pages and pages of things he wished for his friend to know —  things he thought she ought to enjoy, in as exact detail as he could muster. Two pages, three, four… over and over he wrote, the sound of his nib rocking against the paper as he found a rhythm at last, completely and utterly lost in his words until a voice startled him from his trance.

'My husband used to write me long love letters as well.'

Colin flinched, the pen slipping from his hand at the sound of her voice. Ms Green, the housekeeper, stood over him, holding onto a silver tray that carried the evening's meal. She was a small woman, slightly hunched, with bright eyes that seemed to spark with mischief even when she wasn't smiling. He had been so focused on writing that he hadn't heard the sound of her footsteps. His heart beat a frantic rhythm in his chest, and he had the nonsensical urge to hide the letters from view, as if he were engaging in something scandalous.

Colin's mouth felt dry. 'I beg your pardon?'

Ms Green began to unload the tray, setting sandwiches and tea in front of him. 'Forgive me. I did not mean to pry on such an intimate moment, but it reminded me — my husband was just the same.'

'I have no wife,' he said abruptly. 

'Oh, of course not. Not yet —'

'Nor anywhere in the near future.'

'A long engagement, then?'

'No, you— I—' He swallowed, aware of the thrum of his heartbeat against his throat. He glanced down at the endless pile of pages before him. 'You are quite mistaken. These are not love letters.'

'Oh,' she said, taken aback. 'I am sorry. You have been asking me to deliver to a Miss Featherington, and I assumed—'

'Miss Featherington is a friend, nothing more.'

'O-oh, I see.'

And the mere suggestion of anything more was so disarming, it sent his heart thrumming again, even more painfully now against his rib cage. 

'She is my friend,' he repeated firmly.

'As you said, Mr Bridgerton.'

Dear Penelope,

It has been so long now, and I have still yet to hear from you. I do hope the ramblings in my last letter did not alarm you.

It is so unlike you to have nothing to say. Even now, I think back to the letters you sent me last time, how lively and inviting they were, and how the words seemed to jump right off the page.

I think I would not be so worried if I hadn't known that you were too ill to answer when I called. Please tell me that your health has improved. Or— if it has not, I would very much like to know. 

Your friend,

Colin

The next morning, Colin was taking breakfast in the dining room, a platter of meats, cheeses and breads spread out in front of him, when Ms Green approached, a sheepish expression on her lined face.

'Mr Bridgerton,' she greeted. 'Might I have a word?'

Colin placed his butter knife down, giving her a gracious nod. 'Of course, Ms Green. What can I do for you?'

'I just wanted to say that I did not mean to pry. You have been a more than welcome house guest, and it was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. Please forgive this meddlesome old woman — goodness knows my children do!'

Colin offered her a smile. He had not been angry with her words from the night before. At first, he had concluded that they were rather funny. After all, he and Pen had exchanged these types of letters before, and she had not once insinuated that she thought them to be love letters. But then he remembered that this time around, there had been no exchange of letters at all, romantic or otherwise. It had just been Colin, pouring his thoughts onto the page, receiving nothing back in return.

'Not at all,' he said. 'I was not uncomfortable. Merely surprised. Is it really so uncommon for a man and woman to write to each other if the two are dear friends?'

'It is certainly unusual.'

Colin frowned at her answer. 'But why should it be?'

She hesitated, clasping her hands neatly in front of her dress.

'Please, speak your mind.'

'Because there are few acts as intimate as writing a letter.' 

Colin busied himself with picking up his butter knife once again, swiping it over a piece of warm bread fresh from the oven. 'I'm afraid I disagree. I penned one to my brother only this morning — that was certainly far from intimate.'

'That is different, Sir. That is family. When one writes long letters to a friend — or, indeed, a lover — it is far easier to let go and write how one really feels. You are not burdened by the constraints of small talk. You can exist between the lines, where the rules don't quite apply. Besides…' she added. 'You mentioned that the two of you are dear friends?'

'We are.' 

'Friendship is a solid foundation for any marriage. And if there is respect, comfort and understanding, love may grow.'

Colin placed the knife down once again, dumbfounded.

'Surely love is more remarkable than that?' he said. 'It is like a thunderbolt from the sky — a sudden, overwhelming rush that consumes one's very being.'

That is what it had been when he first saw Miss Thompson, at least. He vaguely remembered that first glance across the ballroom and how he had thought her the most beautiful creature in existence. 

To his surprise, Ms Green laughed. 'That is infatuation, Mr Bridgerton. Mere attraction. Take it from a woman who has lived a full life and fallen victim to both. True love is so much more. It is when you see each other for what you are but choose to love each other regardless. It is sitting comfortably in silence and not feeling pressured to say a word. It is the encouragement of dreams, no matter how grand they may be. It is when you think of a witty remark, and they are the first person you wish to tell.'

Colin glanced down at his ink-stained fingers.

'A true partner should respect you,' she continued. 'They should help you see yourself as you are through their eyes, not as you perceive yourself to be.'

Colin was not sure he wanted to be part of this conversation anymore. Words escaped him, but Ms Green didn't seem too bothered by the silence. She watched him keenly, and Colin had the strange sense that she could see right into the heart of him.

'I don't— I just think—' He stammered, tearing his eyes from the old woman's. Good God. What was wrong with him? 'That is a big ask,' he finally said.

'Is it?' Then, as if realising she had put him on edge, she said, 'Oh! Look at me again! I am so sorry — I do not usually go on so. I shall let you enjoy your breakfast. Good day, Mr Bridgerton.' She turned to leave. 

The next words came tumbling from Colin's mouth before he could stop them. 'She has not replied.'

Ms Green turned, raising an eyebrow. 

'My friend, Pe— Miss Featherington. She has not returned a single one of my letters, and I do not understand why.'

He might have blushed to admit such a thing, had it not been a relief to say the words out loud.

'Are you certain she is receiving them?'

'She must be.' He could not bring himself to say, I have sent so many. 'I fear I may have done something wrong. Although what, I cannot begin to fathom.'

'Perhaps something else is preventing her from writing?'

'I know she has been ill.'

Then a truly awful, horrible, sinking feeling caught him off guard. What if she was still sick? What if his confidence that someone would inform him of such a thing was entirely misplaced? What if no one thought to contact him at all, and Penelope was too frail to hold a quill, much less pen a letter?

He imagined a world without Penelope Featherington, and that world seemed very bleak indeed. The thought was too much to bear; if he weren't sitting, he would have reached out for something to steady himself. If Penelope was ill, he should not be oceans away. 

A gentle hand touched his arm, concerned eyes seeking out his. Colin had not realised that Ms Green had crossed the room.

'Write to someone you trust, who can inform you about the health of your friend,' she said. 'Try not to worry too much, Mr Bridgerton; there are a million reasons why she might not be able to write.'

Colin nodded, choosing to believe that was the case. Anything else was unthinkable.

My Dearest Sister,

Thank you very much for your last letter. I am glad to hear that all is well with you and the Duke. I am more convinced than ever that the two of you are a match made in heaven. And I am enthralled by the updates you provide of Augie. You cannot imagine my smile when I heard how much he has grown already! Although, if he is anything like his mother, he will be berating us with sarcastic remarks in no time. Is he missing his favourite uncle? ( You can admit that I am the favourite, sister; rest assured that I will not confess this secret to our brothers. )

I have much to share with you, Daph. I have seen wonders in abundance. Time is flying at a rapid pace, and I fear I will not fit everything I would like to do in the time that's left.

One more thing — I would like to inquire as to the health of Miss Penelope Featherington. I heard she was quite ill before I left and only wish to know if that is still the case. 

Your favourite brother,

Colin

My Dearest Brother,

He lives! I was beginning to think that perhaps you had fallen off the edge of the world after the time you have taken to reply to my last letter. Oh, do not fret; I am not too mad, really. I am sure you are far too busy to pen regular letters to any of us back home.

Augie is missing you, indeed. I merely have to mention Uncle Colin, and he lights up. I believe a meeting is long overdue; you can see his progress for yourself.

As to the health of Miss Featherington, she is quite well. She is much recovered from what mysterious illness ailed her within a week or so after you left. Although I must be honest, I hardly recognised her at first — she has been through quite the transformation. You will see what I mean when you return.

Stay safe!

Your loving sister

Quite the transformation.

The words settled and became all that Colin could think about.

Quite the transformation. 

What did that mean?

He should have felt much relieved at hearing she was not ill anymore. He should have been able to get on with other things, but instead, Colin's head was full of her once again. His dear friend. His not-so-constant companion. Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.

Penelope,

I have been informed that your health is much improved. I was very glad to hear it — it was unsettling to think of you, locked in your room with nothing to do. I hope you are enjoying my correspondence— but do tell me if my letters are too long or if I am repeating myself; after all, my family does all the time, and you are as familiar to me as one of them. Perhaps even more so. 

I am sure you are very busy reintroducing yourself to society after your illness. Or perhaps your mother and sisters are taking up so much of your time? Do feel free to speak about it if you wish, Pen. You know I would certainly never judge you; any words you put on the page will stay between us.

I will be most happy to listen to any worries or woes you have. Oceans may separate us, but I am always here to lend a friendly ear.

Your concerned friend,

Colin

'Tell me about her.'

Colin was sat in the drawing room and had asked Ms Green to sit with him, growing bored of the quiet evenings now. He supposed he ought to wander the streets of Athens, but wandering always provided plenty of time to think, and his thoughts would always trail back to her. 

'Pardon me?'

'Your friend,' Ms Green said. 'What is she like?'

Colin sat back in his armchair, running his fingertip over his lips in thought. 'She… is shy. She can be very quiet. Many of the Ton perceive her to be a mere wallflower; someone you can easily overlook.'

'Is that how you perceive her?'

'Not at all. She is much more than that. She is far wittier than anyone would give her credit for — she has a sharp eye. And she is… kind. Always with an encouraging word and a smile.'

'Is she beautiful?'

He blinked. 'Beautiful?' His mind cast to Fife and his gentleman friends back in London, and how they had laughed at the idea of anyone — much less Colin — courting her. 'I don't believe the Ton see her as such.'

'But do you? '

Colin had never thought about it before. 'I… suppose she is, yes.'

Dear Eloise,

Have you and Penelope buried the hatchet yet? She has not replied to a single one of my letters, and I fear it may be because she feels awkward. If not, do you think it is perhaps time to put this feud behind you?

Your charming brother,

Colin

My Aggravating, Nosy Brother,

Not even a hello? I am fine, by the way, since you did not ask.

I am not sure it is any of your business, but to answer your rather abrupt question: no. We have not "buried the hatchet", as you so put it, and it is unlikely we ever shall. We have not even had one conversation. I see her often enough, out and about with her mother and sisters. 

I doubt her lack of response to you has anything to do with me . Penelope does exactly what pleases her, regardless of the consequences. Do not take it personally, as she seems rather busy at the moment, throwing out every single yellow dress she owns, showing off her new, lavish hairstyles that make her look like a complete and utter product of the Ton.

I am sure she is merely readying for the marriage mart, considering this will be her third season unwed — or so mother keeps telling me, as she insists on a new hairstyle for me too. It is a ridiculous notion; Penelope looked fine before, did she not?

I hope that answers your question.

Your favourite sister,

Eloise

Colin lay on his bed after reading Eloise's response, watching the sun slink behind the clouds. How many evenings had he done this now, watching the light bathe his room in yellow as he thought of his friend?

Marriage. Is that really what she was preparing for? It was strange to think of Penelope marrying, and not something that had once crossed his mind. It wasn't because he didn't think she would make a good wife, but because he could not imagine a world where she was not beside him.

Penelope looked fine before, did she not?

Yes, Colin was inclined to agree with that sentiment. Although she had complained about her yellow dresses a few times, they were so inherently Penelope— so bright and colourful. It made it so easy to spot her from across a crowded ballroom when he was in need of a good conversation or a spin around the dance floor.

Yes, Eloise was right. She was lovely exactly as she was.

For the first time, Colin imagined Penelope through the eyes of a potential suitor. What would he see? Of course, there was the hair — flaming red and pinned atop her head in a multitude of curls, waterfalling down the back of her neck.

Yes, she really was lovely. All pink cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. Her smile was lovely, too, especially the overly bright ones that seemed reserved for him. Only for him. And her eyes — they were the most exquisite shade of blue he had ever seen, often alight with wonder and mirth, and —

Colin sat up in his bed, a strange feeling fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

He had just realised what he'd found so familiar about the ocean. 

My Dear Penelope,

Forgive my abruptness, but I am beginning to grow concerned over your silence. Are you, perhaps, not getting my letters at all? I do not see how that would be possible when my family respond like clockwork. But it's not them I'm interes

I understand that before I left, Lord Featherington's actions had delivered quite the blow. Allow me to help as I did all those months ago. 

I meant what I said, Pen. You are special to me. And as I write those words, I find them to be even more true. You are special. The thought of any grievances you may be going through has left me feeling angui is not pleasant to think about. I must remind you again that you can turn to me. Please, 

Do let me know if anything is troubling you. 

Your very concerned friend,

Colin

Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.

She was starting to vex him. 

Was she so distracted by the potential of a suitor that she had forgotten about their friendship entirely? Was that how it would be when she was married? Would she turn her charming smiles and her witty barbs on the unnamed, faceless suitor in Colin's head? Would the two of them gossip in the corner of a crowded ballroom? Or, worse — would he spin her around in his arms to the whines of the violin while Colin looked on?

You are being ridiculous, he told himself. There was no reason why their friendship had to change while she was looking for a husband. And if this was the reason for her dismissal, he would surely tell her how ridiculous she was being when he returned.

Good God. 

When would he return?

Penelope,

Is it me? Have I done something? Was it something I said? Was it my letters? Have I talked too much; have I come across as far too self centered

Penelope,

Have you found a suitor? Am I to be replaced 

My gentle friend,

My constant companion,

Pen,

I miss you, damn it. My God, I miss you. I miss your witty words, I miss reading them in your voice. I miss the pages and pages I would pour over. I miss you, I miss you, Your absence has left

You absence

God

My dearest Penelope,

I should be basking in the sun, I should be learning the language with the locals, I ought to be trying every dish on the face of the earth but I cannot do any of that, all I can think about is you. You are tangling my thoughts; you are sending my stomach into knots, you are all I can think about. Please. Please. Please. Just a word.

Penelope,

I cannot thi

I

I fear am going out of my mind

My Foolish Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry to write so out of the blue when you are quite near to returning. However, I do believe this cannot wait. A few months ago, you had written to inquire about Penelope Featherington, and you expressed that she had not returned your letters. I am unsure if that is still the case, although I think it might be — and I believe I might know why.

I have enclosed a copy of Lady Whistledown's latest issue. I must admit, when I first read it, I wanted to come to Greece and shake you into sense. If you are unsure as to what I am referring, cast your eyes to the last paragraph of the page. I have highlighted the dreadful thing myself. Remember, men follow the flock. Where one makes his opinion known, the rest are likely to take on that opinion themselves.

Your exasperated sister,

Daphne

Colin had just placed his trunk at the foot of the stairs when Daphne's letter arrived. He would have shoved it into his pocket to read properly on his travels home had she not written the word "URGENT" next to his name. Heart hammering, Colin imagined all sorts of dreadful things that might require such correspondence but had been relieved to find that no one was dead, dying, or on fire. Instead, the contents seem to refer to Lady Whistledown.

Lady Whistledown? Why should he care a whit what that dreadful woman had to say? He shook the pamphlet from the envelope, greeted with the usual format those in the Ton seemed to lose their minds over.

Lady Whistledown's 

SOCIETY PAPERS

Casting his eyes to the bottom of the page, he saw that Daphne had indeed circled the part she wanted him to take note of. So, ignoring the rest of it, he skimmed the last few paragraphs.

And, oh — it seems that Penelope Featherington has switched up her look just in time for the new season. Gone are the yellow dresses that make one think of a rather overripe citrus fruit, replaced by gowns that are much more pleasing to the eye. 

But can this ugly duckling truly turn into a swan? Mr Colin Bridgerton does not seem to think so — he was heard rather loudly remarking that even his wildest fantasies could not see him courting Penelope Featherington. (To the delighted laughter of those around). Does the third Bridgerton son purely lack imagination, or is Miss Featherington truly a wilting wallflower?

We shall see what the new season has in store for them both.

All colour drained from Colin's face as he read the words. Oh, God. Shame was already turning his stomach into knots. Had Penelope known all this time? She must have done if she were ignoring his letters. He glanced up to see Ms Green watching him, with a question in her eyes. She had come to bid him goodbye.

'I have been a fool,' he said. 'I have made a dreadful mistake.'

And although Ms Green had not read the pamphlet in Colin's red-gloved hands or had the least bit of context as to what he was referring to, she seemed to understand.

'You know what you must do, then? Put it right.'

My Dearest, Penelope,

This is my final letter to you, for today, I am to board a ship that will bring me straight home. And upon my arrival, I intend to call on you. 

I am painfully aware that you most likely do not wish to see me, and I do not blame you. But your friendship has brought such light and colour into my life, and I would not be able to handle the end of it due to a few choice words on my part.

I intend to wait outside your door, and I shall not leave until you bid me a few moments of your time. I shall wait in all weathers — the sun, the rain, the sleet. Shout at me if you must. Be vindictive, be cruel, be cold, but I beg of you do not, do not torture me with your silence. I cannot bear it. It has very nearly driven me mad. I made it my duty to protect you, but now it seems that all I have done is hurt you. I will not make such a mistake again.

You are very special to me. You know that, don't you?

You soon will.

Always yours,

Colin

Chapter Text

The journey back to England was long and arduous, but it left Colin Bridgerton plenty of time to think. He was not sure whether that was a good or bad thing, for his thoughts would always return to Penelope Featherington. He had sent his final letter mere hours before he was due to depart, but he was unsure whether she would even receive it before he returned.

He supposed it did not matter too much. Whether Penelope had received what he had last written or not, Colin Bridgerton was a man of his word and would still task himself with showing her exactly how special she was to him.

A thought, soft and unbidden, crept into his mind. 

In what way? 

As his dear friend, of course, he managed to answer back — and it was a miracle he did, for the thought had shaken him. He had spent far too much time with Ms Green, listening to her twitter on about friendships and marriage and love letters . Away from the romance of Greece, where he could not mull over all those beautiful colours of the ocean, he could think a little more clearly.

He was no fool; he knew their relationship ran far deeper than he could have begun to imagine — at least on his part. And perhaps, it was a deeper friendship than most others of the Ton, but did that mean — 

Did it really mean — 

He could not allow himself to even think it. Penelope had always been a dear friend to him. If Colin allowed his thoughts to run unchecked simply because she had not returned his letters, who knew what damage that could do to their friendship? No — it was best he left those thoughts be.

He spent his time coming up with a small speech for once he arrived. And had Colin’s family not accosted him the moment his feet touched London soil, he might have taken leave of all good sense and crossed the street to the Featherington residence. They'd provided a good distraction from his whirl of thoughts, Hyacinth demanding presents, Anthony criticising his open shirt, Kate greeting him warmly as if she had been his sister all along. But Colin’s heart was not completely in it, and he found his eyes straying over to the house when his family weren’t looking. 

Was she in there now? Did she know he had returned?

She would. 

She would soon.

Colin was not able to slip away from his family until the late afternoon. He approached the house dry in the mouth, his heart beating hard. Any moment now, he would finally lay eyes on her. 

His friend. 

His Pen. 

Lady Featherington seemed quite surprised when he was announced, coming into the hall to greet him. She hadn’t changed a bit in his absence.

‘Mr. Bridgerton!’ she said. ‘How kind of you to call on us, and so soon after your return. You cannot have been back more than…’

‘A few hours or so, Lady Featherington,’ he’d answered with a nod.

Lady Featherington laughed. ‘Oh, yes — it must feel that way. I do hope you had a safe journey?’

‘Quite.’

For once, Colin Bridgerton had no time to stand in the middle of the Featherington’s fine hall, engaging in polite small talk. His eyes were already wandering to the open doors and up along the top of the stairs, seeking a glimpse of her.

‘Please let Miss Penelope Featherington know I have returned, for I very much would like to speak with her.’

Lady Featherington blinked. 'Penelope?'

Colin raised his eyebrows. 'Indeed. Did I not say I would call on her when I returned?'

'She is upstairs at the moment, and I am not sure if she will come down.'

'I insist. '

Colin soon found that it did not matter how much he insisted , for Penelope could not be coaxed out of her room for anything. When the servants could not convince her, Lady Featherington took it upon herself to go up to Penelope’s chamber while Colin waited restlessly in the drawing room, fingers dancing along the hems of his fine leather gloves. The servants had brought out a selection of delicious-looking sandwiches and biscuits, but Colin found that he could not touch a crumb, his stomach churning.

Good God. How long would she take ?

But when Lady Featherington returned without Penelope, it became apparent that Colin need not have written a speech so hastily, for he would not see her that day.

Or the next day, it would seem.

Or the day after that.

Day after day, Colin called at the Featherington house. He made sure to turn up at all different hours — sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the crisp, early morning, hoping to catch Penelope off guard. After all, she couldn’t be in her room every single time he called — could she? He was bound to catch her reading in the drawing room or breaking her fast in the dining hall.

But the days flew by, and he did not.

— Three Weeks After Colin's Return —

Miss Penelope Featherington,

I have your mother to thank for her most gracious invite to the Featherington ball tonight. I trust you shall be in attendance, and perhaps you will grace me with a few moments of your time. There is much I would like to say to you.

Mr Colin Bridgerton

By the time the ball came around, Colin was so nervous that standing still was an impossibility. He stood with Benedict, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he surveyed the ballroom. Benedict swiped two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, pressing the glass into Colin’s hand. He held onto it with a white-knuckled grip.

It was strange — a part of him did not want to be faced with Penelope at all. The other part searched for her like a parched man seeking out a glass of water. He had not had a glimpse of her in months  — not through sight or her words —   and it had been too long.

It was not difficult to spot the other Featheringtons amongst the crowd, preening and delighting in the attention of the Ton. He caught sight of Prudence, Philipa, and Lady Featherington, but Pen, Pen—

Where was she?

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

‘Colin. Relax, please,’ Benedict said. ‘Or at least drink. It’s like being with Anthony.’

‘I am relaxed, brother.’ Colin brought his flute up to his lips, swallowing the entire glass in one.

‘You best be,’ Benedict said, lowering his voice. ‘Because here comes your Miss Featherington, and she looks…’

Colin’s heart stuttered, eyes frantically following Benedict’s gaze, finally, finally landing. His breath caught. His water analogy had been quite accurate; one look was like taking a sip of water after months of thirst.

And oh — she was a vision.  

Gone were the flamboyant yellow dresses. Tonight, she wore a dazzling gown of dark green, the sequins and stitches shimmering under the candlelight. He had been right before; Penelope was indeed lovely as she was, but this colour brought out the pinks in her skin and highlighted the red hues in her hair — hair, which was not piled atop her head in the usual Featherington style but was softer, delicate curls framing her face. 

It was not as if she had changed . On the contrary, it was as if her new look had taken all those things that had made her so lovely in the first place — her pink cheeks, her beautiful ringlets, her gentle curves — and enhanced them. He did not know quite where to look, and yet he could not look away.

Quite the transformation, indeed.

‘Miss Featherington,’ Benedict said, giving her a respectful nod as she approached. ‘You are lovely tonight.’

‘Mr Bridgerton,’ Penelope said, a smile curling her lips. ‘How kind you are. I hope you enjoy tonight’s festivities. Mama is quite put out that the Queen has not attended, but we shall all do our best to enjoy ourselves, shall we not?’

‘Indeed, we shall.’

Penelope moved past Benedict, and Colin drew in a steadying breath. She was so close now that he could smell her perfume, and it made his head spin. He wished he had not drunk his champagne so quickly — he was terrified that he would speak and no sound would come out. 

‘Pen,’ he greeted, relieved to find his voice sounded normal to his ears.

She finally turned those ocean eyes on him, the same polite smile she had used for Benedict painted on her lips. ‘Mr Bridgerton,’ she said.

His mind faltered—

Mr Bridgerton?

Mr Bridgerton?

Colin fought for some semblance of his senses. What had he intended to say to her? How was his speech supposed to start? Penelope moved to walk past him, but in his panic, Colin stepped directly in front of her, blocking her. No, no, no, no — he could not let her go.

‘I was hoping that we could talk, Pen?’ he asked, voice soft. 

Up close, his eyes were studying every inch of her face, trying to find the Pen he knew. His Pen. But as it stood, Penelope Featherington’s face was quite the mask, the warmth he had longed for on his travels lacking entirely.

‘I'm afraid I will be quite busy this evening.’

‘Busy,’ he echoed. Penelope was never busy at balls — he would always find her in the corner, alone. ‘Pen, did you read any of my letters? Did you read my last one? I have spent almost every day—’ 

‘I do not see how I will have time to talk,’ she interrupted. 

He brought his hands together as if in prayer. ‘Penelope…’

‘Enjoy your evening, Mr Bridgerton.’

She stepped around him, and before Colin could work out what to do or say next, she disappeared into the crowd. He watched her go, his heart sinking, sinking, sinking and wondered, with Penelope right in front of him, why did he feel they had less distance when he was halfway across Europe?

This was the lowest thing Colin Bridgerton had ever done. 

As a respectful gentleman of the Ton, he had never once crept through a house, uninvited, like a criminal, searching for a young lady's rooms. It was pure, unadulterated madness, and had Anthony known the liberties he was taking, there was every chance he would have thrown Colin in the river.

But what else was he to do? 

He had tried unsuccessfully to attract Penelope's attention on three separate occasions: one, for a dance, two to ask her if she might need some cool air, and three to question whether he might bring her a refreshment.

'I am rather tired, Mr Bridgerton, ' she had said. ' I do believe I shall retire for the night.'

And that was how he had found himself here, not even an hour after her remark, searching for her room as the music played on below.

The hallways were well-lit, making it very difficult for Colin to hide in the shadows. He was not sure exactly where Penelope's room was, but he was not searching blindly. He remembered Eloise speaking briefly about it when the two of them were friends, and Violet had berated her for visiting Penelope so late in the evening.

‘Penelope’s room is quite easy to find, and I have yet to run into a servent,’ she’d commented in a bid to show off, languidly turning the pages of her book. ‘All you have to do is follow the hall round…’

Follow the hall round.

He followed this direction exactly until he came to the first room, and it must have been hers, because he did not know what he would do if it wasn't. The door had been left ajar, a slip of yellow light spilling out into the hallway. Colin pushed it open before he could back out.

He stepped into a warm, empty room. It can't have been empty for too long as a fire crackled away in the fireplace. The curtains were open, revealing the inky night and the party down below. 

'Pen?' Colin called softly, to no answer.

Well — what on Earth was he supposed to do now? Was this even her room? The writing desk had been in use, and the chair pushed out. The desk was littered with all things — paperweights, spare parchment, broken quills. Whosever room it was, they had been writing, but they must have knocked over the ink pot. The ink had spilt all over the desk, coating the parchment in a pool of wet, shining blackness, and the only words untarnished were: Dearest R— .

Colin reached over and righted the inkpot.

He ought to have left. He didn’t even know whether this was Penelope’s room, and he was unsure how to tell. He considered seeking out her clothes if only to find some of those familiar yellow dresses, but that would have been madness, indeed.  

Then, something caught his eye.

There was a pile of towering letters on the corner of the desk, a name written neatly in ink.

Mr Colin Bridgerton 

Oh.

He knew he should have walked away. He should have turned and strode straight out of the room, never to look back, but—

It was addressed to him. And the writing was as familiar to him as his own.

Hands trembling, Colin thumbed through the collection of envelopes on the desk. They were all addressed to him, every single one penned in Penelope's beautiful handwriting.

He needed to leave.

He needed to turn around.

But had he not been aching for a word from her since he had set off on his travels? And here sat a multitude of letters, all addressed to him .

He did not have the strength to leave.

Colin plucked a letter at random. His fingertips traced the familiar, swirling letters of his name, and his heart gave a painful squeeze. It was unsealed — that made it better, did it not? He hardly knew what he was doing as he pulled the letter out, hungry eyes seeking her words.

Colin, he read, and a thrill hummed through him.

I have received a few letters from your travels, and I pray they will be the only ones you send, for you are already questioning my lack of a response, and I do not know how long it will take before I break.

I know you will not understand. I know you must think me wicked for my silence, and perhaps I am. But you must know that I do not ignore you out of cruelty, and it has never been my intention to hurt your feelings, despite how freely you play with mine.

It is all for self-preservation, you see. For if I choose to reply to you, it all begins anew. I cannot allow myself to be sucked into such fantasies once again. I must be strong.

No, I know you will not understand. But I hope you do. 

Yours, 

Penelope 

Penelope was right about one thing — he did not understand. Self-preservation? Fantasies? Colin stared down at the letter as if staring hard enough would provide some clarity.

He returned the puzzling parchment back to its envelope, placing it on top of the pile. 

Perhaps he might find clarity in another…

One more surely couldn't hurt.

Before Colin could talk himself out of it, he plucked another letter from the pile. 

Colin, this one read.

'Colin!' came a familiar gasp from behind him, and Colin's stomach flipped so violently that he almost dropped the parchment.

He whirled around, his heart pounding in his ears. One look at her, and he’d forgotten his senses. Penelope stood in the doorway, holding a rag in her hands. She still adorned that exquisite dress, although she had taken the pins from her hair, and it waterfalled over her shoulders, golden in the lamplight like an evening sunset. He had never seen her with her hair down before. Colin swallowed — hard.

'Pen—' he began. Good God. What was he going to say? 'I have come to—'

'Colin, what’s that?' She pointed to the letter in his hand, taking a step further into the room.

'It's— mine.’

Penelope's gaze moved from his hand clasping the parchment to the disturbed pile of letters on her desk, and her mouth fell open, the rag slipping from her hands. 'Colin Bridgerton— are you— are you reading my letters?'

There was a horrible, tension-wrought silence.

'It has my name on,' he finally said, raising his chin a little. ‘It is addressed to me.’

Penelope’s breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick, fluttery breaths. ‘That does not make it yours. Which one is it?

'Pardon?'

'What does it say?’ He had never heard her speak to him like this before, as though she was fighting to control every word that left her mouth.

Colin's eyes flickered down to the letter.

' Colin,' he began. 'Was everything I perceived to be a lie? Is what I see in your eyes mere—'

Penelope gave a strangled cry, tearing across the room in a panic to desperately swipe the letter from him. Colin was quicker, ripping it just shy of her fingers and holding it high above his head, where she could not reach. She was so close to him now, her perfume dizzying his mind.

'Give me the letter,' she demanded, reaching desperately for his arm.

'Did you write this while I was travelling?'

'Colin—'

'Why did you write and not send it? Why not send any of them? Why? Why ?' He felt half-mad, his heart beating so loud in his ears that he could hardly hear the sound of his own voice. But to think that he had longed for just a word, and here she had what must have been hundreds of them, all written for him. What he had read so far was not enough.

'How much did you read?'

He hesitated.

‘ Colin.’

'I confess I did not get past my own name. With this one.’

‘This one?’

‘The other, I did not quite understand.’

Penelope slumped, bringing a shaking hand to rest against her chest. Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed out a soft sigh. Her frenzy seemed over, and it was enough to calm him too, as he slowly brought down the hand that clutched the letter.

Then, rather calmly, Penelope straightened, opening her eyes and holding out her palm. 'The letter, Colin.'

His hand tightened on the parchment. 'Penelope…' 

‘Have you never written a letter to someone with no intention of sending it?’

Colin thought of the half-written letters he had penned to her in Greece. They were embarrassing, unfinished sentences that he had crossed out in his madness. He had written them when trying to make sense of the hurricane of feelings her silence had stirred up, and he knew he would not share them with a soul.

‘I will give it back to you,’ he said, slowly handing it over, hovering just above her fingers. ‘But all I ask is you grant me a moment of your time.’

Her expression flared. ‘And now you wish to blackmail me?’

‘No!’ Colin’s eyes widened. ‘No — never. Of course not. I am a gentleman.’

‘A gentleman, you are not.’ And as Penelope glared at him, there was a storm of emotions inside them, and he would not know how to begin to pick them out. ‘But fine. I will grant you a moment.’

‘Thank you.’ 

She snatched the letter from his grasp, bringing it up to her chest. The relief on her face was enough to make him feel truly wicked, his stomach twisting with shame. What on Earth was he playing at? He had come to her room with the intention of apologising — of showing her how much she meant to him — and yet he had behaved appallingly. He watched as she turned from him and crossed the room to hide the letter amongst the others. He could not begin to guess how many there were. 

‘Why didn't you send them?’ he asked.

Penelope gathered the letters up, making her way over to the fire, where she placed them in a neat pile upon the mantelpiece. ‘You are not making good use of your moment.’

Very well.

Where was he to start?

'I know you heard what I said at the last ball of the season,' he began, his eyes on her. She was not looking at him, her cheek turned away, the glow of the fire casting yellow shadows across it. 'And I suspect that is why I have received such silence from you.’

'I have been very busy,' she said, addressing the window.

'So I've heard. With shopping.'

The comment was thoughtless, and Penelope threw a scathing glare his way. 'We are not all so lucky to have grand adventures.'

No, no, no . 

This was all going so wrong. He had been determined to make it right. He thought words would come as easy as they ever had with Penelope. He was a fool— and it soon became clear that his little speech would not be enough.

'Penelope.' He took slow steps across the room until the fire bathed both of them in its golden light, relieved that she did not immediately move away. ' Pen. I am so sorry. What I said was unforgivable.’

‘It was not what you said,' she admitted. 'It was how you said it.'

'I know. I was very drunk.’

‘You were laughing with them.’

Colin closed his eyes against the next unwelcome roll of shame. ‘I know.’ He thought about making excuses: he needed the gentleman’s good humour so he could execute the next part of his plan, he had felt invincible after the confrontation with Lord Featherington, he had been — just a little — embarrassed at the talk of courtship when it came to such a good friend. But excuses wouldn’t stop her from hurting, and it certainly was not the way to show her that he did care for her and that he would not forsake her. 

He needed to speak from his heart.

'But—’ he continued, allowing himself to gently brush her arm as he might have done before. ‘Being apart from you for so long and enduring your silence… it has made me see with such clarity.'

Penelope shifted her head towards him, capturing his gaze beneath her lashes.

'Clarity?' she whispered.

'I have been a fool. I have been such a fool, Pen. I really do see that now.'

Her eyes danced in the firelight. 'A… a fool?'

‘You are, and always have been, so special to me.’

'Are you saying that perhaps you were… too hasty with your words?'

'That is exactly what I'm saying.'

'Oh, Colin—' Penelope reached out suddenly, taking his hands tightly in her own, and his heart skipped. 'You have no idea how long I have waited to hear you say that. I had given up all hope.'

‘It has been an excruciating six months for me as well. I have spent so much of my time abroad thinking of you, worrying about you—'

'Of me? ' Her eyes were shining with tears. 'I have tried so very hard to put you out of my mind. I thought that perhaps I could —  could move on. Reading your letters has been near torture.' 

Then, surprising him entirely, Penelope wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest. Colin's breath caught in his throat, and at first he did not know what to do. The only women Colin ever hugged were his sisters. 

This certainly felt different as he tentatively brought his arms around Penelope, enveloping her in his embrace. 

Oh , he thought. 

She was the perfect height for him to press his cheek against her hair, and, as he did so, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. The scent of her soap was overwhelming, and he could not help pressing his nose into the softness and simply inhaling. He wished to remain in this moment forever, holding her where she was meant to be. In his arms, at last. Penelope, Penelope, Penelope—

'Colin,' she breathed. 'Your heart is beating as hard as mine. Can this truly be real?'

Was anything more so? They were reunited, and he was never letting her go again.

‘Pen, my Pen—’ He tightened his arms around her. 'You truly are my dearest friend.'

Colin felt Penelope go still in his arms.

'Pen?'

She did not say anything, and he was even more aware of his heart pounding uncomfortably against his chest. 

'Penelope? ' He tried again. 

She began to pull away from him, and Colin fought the urge to pull her right back into his arms. He did not let go of her completely, just enough so he could see her face, her cheeks shining with tears.

'I do not believe—' she began, and her voice shook. 'I do not believe we are on the same page, Colin.'

'Penelope?'

'I thought—' She untangled herself from his arms, looking quite pale. 'I thought—  but no. I was caught again. I was wrapped up in my childish fantasies. I—' She seemed to be talking more to herself than him, stumbling away. Colin stood there, dumbfounded. 

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I am the one who does not understand.’ She struck him a look. 'You claim to have missed me?'

'You know I have.'

‘And you worried over me?'

'I thought something terrible might have happened.'

'You have been thinking of me? Often?'

Far too much , he almost said.

'Yes.'

She collapsed onto the end of her bed, and her expression was so pained that it made his chest ache. Did she truly not realise how special she was to him? He had intended to make her understand, but he had made a mess of things. Once again.

Before he knew what he was doing, Colin had crossed the room, kneeling at the foot of her bed where she sat, taking her hands in his. 

‘Penelope. What have I done? I have upset you.’

She stared down at their hands. ‘I am not upset with you. Only myself.’

‘For what? Help me understand.’

‘I cannot—’

‘Please. Please, Pen.’ 

‘I cannot tell you.’ She looked at him. ‘I could not speak it out loud. It is far too humiliating.’

‘Then write it down.’

‘Oh, Colin,’ she sighed. ‘I already have.’ 

Colin stared at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then, he caught sight of the pile of letters just out the corner of his eye, and understanding dawned. 

‘Let me read them. Please let me read them.’ She was already shaking her head, but he continued on, squeezing her hands. ‘There is nothing you could say that would ever make me forsake our friendship. You know that, don’t you?’

Penelope did not speak, her eyes fixed on their hands, her breathing shallow. It seemed as if a million thoughts were running through her mind. 

'I would like you to leave,’ she finally said.

Colin blinked. 'What?'

‘Please, Colin.’ She slipped her hands from his grasp. ‘I have grown quite tired now. I just want to be left alone.’

‘Pen…’

‘Please.’ 

She looked at him, her eyes round and sad, and in that moment Colin knew that he would not deny her anything. He got to his feet.

‘I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon.’

Penelope did not confirm or deny whether she would be there. She did not say a thing as Colin slipped from her room, leaving one last longing, lingering look behind him.

The next day, Colin was sitting in the drawing room, taking a cup of morning tea with Anthony, Kate and his mother, when something rather strange occurred. For the first time in months, Penelope Featherington called at the Bridgerton house.

'Penelope Featherington?' Anthony asked when the butler announced her presence, quite perplexed. 'Send her in.'

Colin hardly heard him. He was quickly polishing off a biscuit and gulping down the rest of his tea as if he would never drink again. There were crumbs over his shirt, which he hastily brushed away in his panic.

And then she was there in the doorway, as vibrant and lovely as ever in a gown of periwinkle blue, holding a small hat box in her gloved hands. Colin jumped up, hitting his knee on the table in the process, the tea things clattering. All eyes in the room snapped to him, but the rest of his family soon followed suit, getting to their feet to greet the unexpected guest. 

'Good morning, Bridgertons,’ Penelope said, and the greeting was so familiar that he could not help but feel sad by it.

'Penelope, dear. How good it is to see you,' Violet said, and Colin knew what she must have been thinking, for the Bridgertons had spoken about the rift between Eloise and her friend at great length. 'I am afraid Eloise is not in at the moment, although she is expected to return around teatime, if—'

'That is quite alright, Mrs Bridgerton. It is actually Mr Bridgerton I would like to speak to.' And she turned those startling eyes on Colin — they all did.

'Oh— oh. Of course,' Violet said, then glanced over at the butler beside the door. 'Perhaps another pot of tea?'

'There is no need. I shall not be staying long.' Colin's heart sank. 'I only need a few moments of Mr Bridgerton's time. Alone, if that is okay. The matter is… a delicate one.'

Alone never really meant alone , and so although Anthony and Kate stood quickly, muttering something about seeing to the flower arrangements for the next ball, Colin’s mother remained behind to chaperone. Colin did not miss the sharp look Anthony gave him from across the room, but he did not quite understand the meaning.

His mother picked up her embroidery, doing her very best to make it look as if she were not listening.

Colin crossed the room to Penelope in a few strides. 'Miss Featherington—'

'Colin,' she said breathlessly. And then, she thrust the hat box towards his chest so forcefully, he almost dropped it. 'Take them. Quickly, before I change my mind.'

'I don’t understand.'

'They are my letters.'

His eyes widened. 'Your replies?’

'I have been thinking—’ 

'A dangerous thing to do,' he said, relieved that the comment seemed to warrant a small smile. 

'—And I came to the conclusion that you are right. These letters— they belong to you. They are every thought and desire I have had while you were gone.' She frowned, looking down at her box, and shook her head a little. 'Had you returned and decided to release me from the bounds of our friendship, you would never have laid eyes on them. But since you are far more stubborn than I could have ever given you credit for…' She trailed off, drawing in a steadying sigh and looking up at him, her eyes searching his. 

‘I told you, Pen,’ he said, gently touching her arm, lowering his voice so his mother couldn’t hear. ‘You are very special to me. Do you think I would let you go so easily?’

‘I have ensured they are all in order from when I wrote them. I think if you read them this way, it will make more sense to you. I hope you can… forgive some of the things I may have written in anger. It is not my intention to make you feel bad, Colin. Only for you to… understand as you wish to.’ 

'I would never judge you.'

'There is one more thing I must ask of you,' she said. 

'Anything.'

'That you refrain from speaking to me about them until you have read them all. There is a lot, and I could not bear to look at you if I knew which ones you had read. I would be humiliated.'

Colin frowned. It was just him. What could have been so humiliating?

‘Of course.’

'There are—' She swallowed, her throat bobbing delicately. 'There are things in here I was determined to keep in my heart until I went to the grave. I thought— I thought perhaps you knew, but now I don’t think you do. Once you have read them, you will understand. And I only hope that once you know the truth, we will be able to put all of this behind us and return to our friendship. It was so easy, was it not?’

‘Like breathing,’ he said.

‘I only hope it will be that way again.’

Colin hoped that was true.

Colin could not resist disappearing up to his room after Penelope had left to read the first few letters. He had hardly bothered with apologies, ignoring the perplexed look from his mother as he climbed the stairs two at a time. He kicked the door closed behind him and slumped down at his desk chair, laying the hat box down as if it was the most precious thing in the entire world. 

Perhaps it was. 

In this small cardboard box were the correspondences he had longed for. He had to make himself remove the lid with care rather than ripping it off to get to them. Penelope had stacked the letters neatly, tying them together with a ribbon. Colin pulled at it, his hand trembling, and swiped the top one from the pile.

Mr Colin Bridgerton

There was no address. She truly had not intended to send them.

Colin opened the letter and slipped the parchment out. The first letter was a little worse for wear. The writing was rushed and dishevelled, a far cry from the elegant, swirling lettering he was used to. Ink had splotched where she had pressed the pen far too hard to the parchment, and the paper was discoloured in places as if she had sprinkled droplets of water onto the page.

With his heart in his throat, he read.

Colin, 

I am so angry with you that I can hardly form logical thoughts. Instead, I write rashly, straight from my heart, my pen moving rapidly across the parchment. I can hardly see from the tears in my eyes, and my hand shakes so much that I am sure my writing will be most unreadable. It is funny, for I have never left a ballroom in tears before, although there have been plenty of times when such a thing could have been possible. I have been subjected to Cressida's cruel remarks, and I have endured my mother’s scathing commentary on my lack of suitors. Perhaps if I lost a few pounds, then the gentlemen of the Ton may pay me a word at least — as she enjoys reminding me from time to time. But as it stands, I have watched the men of the Ton stride past me without so much as a glance, let alone a word, as they choose another, more worthy lady to dance with, as if I were invisible. The Ton think I do not hear what they call me. They believe if they say it quietly enough, then the words will not reach me. Plump, they say. Ugly, drab, boring. But they do not realise that this wallflower is quite adept at deciphering whispers. The years of biting comments and belittling looks have cloaked me with a rather thick skin, something I am forced to adorn on a nearly daily basis. I do not weep anymore. I have not run from the ball. That is — until tonight. Would you have said the same thing if you knew I was there, listening? For I was there, Colin, and I heard every facetious word. How entertained your gentleman friends how much have been at such a hilarious quip! How clever you are. How delighted you must have felt as you laughed at my expense, my friend. I wish I had never laid eyes on you. 

Penelope

Colin,

I thought I had finished; I thought I had said everything I needed to say in my first letter, but my mind will not still. It must be the early hours of the morning now. The Ton had left hours ago, but still, I have not slept. I play that moment over and over and over in my mind as if reliving the chapter of a book. I told you once that I dislike mystery, did I not? That I am always turning to the last few pages of a book so I might know the end. I wish I did not know this ending. What I wouldn’t give to be captured in the middle of our story, moments before the climax, where I danced in your arms.

How dare you. How dare you dance with me. How dare you let me believe that I matter to you. How dare you tell me how special I am or how you will always look out for me. How dare you beguile me with your pretty lies. They were laughing at me, and you were too. You were laughing. I can still hear it now; how it rings. Poor, pathetic Penelope Featherington —  the ugly duckling in her grotesque yellow dresses, hovering around the edges of the ballroom. Ignore her; she will not mind. Laugh at her; she cannot hear you. Feed her with pretty promises the way you might feed an ugly duckling a piece of bread, and watch her sink, sink, sink down into the ocean where she belongs.

Penelope

It did not take Colin long to understand what the droplets on the page were.

He did not realise how it would make him feel to read Penelope's angry letters, but it was almost unbearable. He thought he would tear through the letters, but he only managed two before he was overcome with sadness. He lay on his bed afterwards, staring at the ceiling, a hand pressed to his churning stomach as if that might ease the shame.

He had been careless; he did not realise how one thoughtless, drunken comment could do so much damage. But words had power, and it was something he ought to have known. After all, were they not all at the mercy of Lady Whistledown, a woman whose words ensured she had the Ton captured in the palm of her hand?

He understood now. It was not what he had said. It was the way he had said it, his words punctuated with laughter and mirth at her expense. 

He wanted to cross the street. He wanted to demand she see him. He wanted to tell her again how sorry he was, how her yellow dresses were far from grotesque, how she was not plump, ugly, drab, boring . She was funny. She was witty and sharp, and she was lovely.

She was lovely.

Colin, 

The sun is creeping through my window, signifying a brand new day. I write this at my desk, but I am not sure whether I will remain here or return to my bed. I am thinking the latter, for I am not sure I am up to facing another soul today. My eyes are red and swollen, and I feel as bruised as a peach, as if one wrong word or look shall cause another overflow of tears. So much has changed in one night. I have lost not one but two dear friends.

I am quite alarmed by the letters I penned the night before. Looking back, the language is quite stark and not something I would usually write in my right mind, but I am glad to have written them, regardless. It is cathartic to write down one's feelings in a letter, especially in one you know you will never send. It allows for complete honesty, something I will endeavour to keep in mind as I continue writing. 

I am unsure where to go from here. I know Mama will most likely want to promenade after the triumph of last night's ball, but I cannot stomach facing you, even for a moment. Every time I think of what you said, I recoil as if I have been hit. I am waiting for the pain of it to pass. It will pass soon, I hope. 

Penelope 

Colin, 

You are leaving for your latest tour in less than a week. You came to the house today. I stood and listened at the top of the stairs as Mama maintained the insistence that I am quite ill. She was not lying; I suppose to an onlooker, I am exhibiting behaviours of sickness. You were very insistent, however, and for one thrilling moment, I thought you might come up regardless.

I wish we had said goodbye before you departed on your travels. But you should know that every time I think of you, I think of what you said. To be faced with your delightful smile, kind eyes, and charming words would be intolerable, for I know the truth of the matter. Your charming words are just that — empty charm.

My mother once implied that it was a ridiculous notion to assume you would ever write to me. Prudence had similar sentiments, claiming that someone like you would never waste your ink on someone like me . Perhaps, you should have done us both a favour and not bothered.

Penelope 

Colin,

It is strange to write to you, knowing I will not send my letters. It is almost as if writing to a friend, but without anticipating the consequences of my words. I can write freely here and let my thoughts pour into the page without anticipating your response. 

That, of course, does not stop me from imagining what you might say. Sometimes I think I am quite accurate. When we wrote to each other before, I would send off the letter, lay on my bed, and close my eyes, thinking over what you may write in response. Sometimes, I was close. Other times, not so much.

I do that now. Only this time, I let my mind run riot with fantasies. After all, is that not what I have always done? I have built you up in my head as the pinnacle of perfection; a man who can truly do no wrong. Kind, remarkable, handsome. But this is not you —  not entirely. Yes, handsome, and yes — remarkable. But perhaps not as kind as I thought? 

You see, the Colin in my head would not have made such a remark as you did; he would not even have thought it. Say the other men laughed, my Colin would have defended me, even if the other men teased him for it. But the Colin in my head is perfection, and this is why he does not exist, I suppose. It is for the better. It may be easier to let you go this way.

It is not your fault, Colin. You are only human, and it was, perhaps, unfair of me to hold you to the standards I have invented in my head. We all make mistakes, and I know that better than anyone.

Penelope 

The next time Colin saw Penelope Featherington, it was quite unexpected. He was walking in the park with his mother, Benedict, Francesca, Eloise, and Hyacinth. He had not intended to join them on their walk, but Penelope’s last letter had shaken him. The letters were cruel, but not because she had written them with the intention of causing harm. They were cruel because she was being truthful. Was this what she genuinely thought of him? Did she truly think he spoke for the sake of speaking, that he lavished young ladies with charming words he did not quite mean?

Well… he supposed it was true for others. (He was a flirt, was he not?) But it was not true for her . He had always felt as if he could be his authentic self with Penelope in ways he had not been with anyone else.

So lost in his thoughts was he, that he hardly heard when Hyacinth proclaimed, ‘Is that not the Featheringtons?’

‘The Featheringtons?’ Violet remarked. ‘I believe it is.’

Colin’s gaze snapped to the other end of the path, and his eyes found Penelope. She was wearing green again, and oh — he was starting to love her in that colour.

‘I would like to leave,’ Eloise said.

Violet turned to her. ‘Eloise, must you? You could simply try—’

She turned to Benedict as if her mother hadn’t spoken. ‘Take me home. Now.’

‘Eloise—’ Violet tried again.

‘No, Mama. I cannot. And I will not.’ She grasped Benedict’s arm to drag him along with her, and he went willingly, turning to offer his mother a last, apologetic look. 

By the time she had gone, the Featheringtons were right in front of them. 

‘Lady Featherington,’ his mother greeted, plastering on a smile.

Colin did not care to hear them engage in strained small talk, and so he took it upon himself to walk around them, where Penelope trailed behind. She looked quite alarmed as he made his way toward her, but not, he was relieved to see, angry or hurt. After reading her letters, he quite anticipated it.

‘Pen,’ he greeted.

‘Colin,’ she said. ‘Have you finished them?’

He quirked an eyebrow. ‘I thought we were not to talk about it?’

‘We can if you’ve finished.’

‘I’m afraid I have not.’

‘Oh.’ She let out a little sigh, her eyes wandering to the duck pond. ‘I thought that is why you might have come over. To end our friendship immediately.’

He couldn’t tell whether she was speaking in jest or not, but her cheeks were quite pink. 

‘Actually, I came over because I missed your company.’

She turned back to him. ‘You did?’

Was it really so surprising? After reading her letters and seeing a peek into Penelope’s tangled thoughts — yes, he supposed it was. He reminded himself of the things she had overheard the Ton call her. What was it again? Ugly? Drab? His heart gave a painful squeeze; it was more obvious than ever that she was none of those things.

‘I did,’ he said softly.

He thought of what Ms Green had asked him all those weeks ago. 

Is she beautiful?

I suppose she is,’ he had replied, but he had not really looked .

‘Penelope?’ called Lady Featherington. Colin startled at the voice, only to find that their respective parties had started to move away. He was so focussed on Penelope that he hardly noticed. ‘Come now; let’s not waste Mr Bridgerton’s time. I am sure he has much more important things to do than discuss trivial matters with you.’

Colin stared at her, and as he stared, he recalled another part of Penelope’s letter.

‘You are quite mistaken, Lady Featherington. There is no one else I would rather converse with. I would be most grateful if Miss Penelope could grant me one more moment of her time.’ When he turned back to her, he could tell she was pleased. ‘Pen,’ he said, lowering his voice just for her. ‘One more thing.’

‘Yes?’

Colin’s heart was beating right out of his chest, the next words dancing on the tip of his tongue.

‘You look beautiful this morning.’

He watched as she blinked rapidly. He watched the blush colour her neck, and her pink lips parted slightly in surprise. She seemed at a loss of words as he passed her to join his family up ahead, and Colin found himself pressing his lips together to stop a smile.

Making Penelope blush was certainly something he could get used to.

Colin,

I have received a few letters from your travels, and I pray they will be the only ones you send, for you are already questioning my lack of a response, and I do not know how long it will take before I break.

I know you will not understand. I know you must think me wicked for my silence, and perhaps I am. But you must know that I do not ignore you out of cruelty, and it has never been my intention to hurt your feelings, despite how freely you play with mine.

It is all for self-preservation, you see. For if I choose to reply to you, it all begins anew. I cannot allow myself to be sucked into such fantasies once again. I must be strong.

No, I know you will not understand. But I hope you do. 

Penelope  

Colin,

More letters! What is the meaning of this? Why do you not simply give up? I am supposed to be looking toward the future, and you are dragging me right back into the past.

I cannot do it.

Penelope 

'I met someone on my travels,' Colin said lightly before popping a biscuit in his mouth. Daphne sat on the sofa opposite him, bringing her teacup to her mouth. It was the first time they had managed to see each other since he had returned, and she had invited him to stay for a few days. 

She raised her eyebrows over her tea cup. 'You met someone?'

'Don't look at me like that. She was older than our mother, even. The housekeeper when I stayed in Greece.'

'Oh, I see.' Daphne sipped her tea.

'She said something rather interesting.'

'Which was?'

'That a heated glance across the ballroom is not enough for marriage. That it is mere passion.'

Daphne let out a small laugh. 'Well, of course , it is not. You cannot build a relationship on… marital relations alone.'

'Marital relations?'

'Is that not to which you are referring?'

He supposed it was. After all, that was what passion led to, was it not? Colin looked down at his tea. 'Do you believe I was in love with Miss Thompson?'

There was a small clink as Daphne placed her tea cup down. He could feel her eyes on him, studying him. 

'I rather think you are the only one who can answer that, Colin.'

He glanced up at her. 'You and Simon could not stay away from each other. I rode with you to the duel. Do you remember? You were quite willing to lay your life down for him, yet you barely knew each other.'

And Colin himself was quite willing to enter into a marriage at the drop of a hat, despite being told that he should not. He was glad he’d not married Miss Thompson, he supposed. What life might they have had together? She’d had so little warmth for him on his last visit.

'I could not stand the thought of anything bad happening to him,’ Daphne said. ‘It is — maddening when one loves another and thinks they may be in harm. It is too much to bear.'

'You loved him then? So soon?'

'I knew him better than you assume. As we were courting, we became rather good friends.'

Colin's heart jumped. There was that word again. 

Friends.

'Simon said that to meet your best friend in the woman you intend to marry is rather the accomplishment. And he was right. We hold conversations for hours without growing bored. We argue one moment, and in the next, we have made up. We share meal times together, which is a rare thing, I am told. We laugh all the time. His laughter brings me such— such joy .'

Colin thought of Penelope and how even a smile would encourage one of this own, even if he did not feel like smiling.

'Ought there not be that passion straight away?’ he asked. ‘The— burning, the—'

'Every person is different, Colin. Do you remember Anthony? He believed he detested Miss Sharma, and now she is his wife, and they are very happy, indeed. Love simply does not play by the rules. But you…'

Colin looked at her sharply. 'What about me?'

'You are the only one who can answer your question.'

Colin,

Was everything I perceived to be a lie? Is what I see in your eyes mere friendship when I feel like I could drown in the depths of them?

You write to me long, lavish letters of your tales from abroad and share funny stories and anecdotes that I adore. We grow far closer than I would have ever dreamed of hoping through the medium of writing.

You finally return from your travels, and the look you give me sets my very skin ablaze. Your family are there, and they are demanding attention, but all I want you to do is cross the room and wrap me up in your arms. 

We talk and laugh —  you tell me that I could not be any more different from Eloise; you say that my letters are encouraging and that I inspire you. 

You take me to a room unchaperoned as if you are about to kiss me. You go to great lengths to foil a plot that has absolutely nothing to do with you. You take my hand, you ask —  no, demand —  that we dance, and the way you look at me…

It is as if thousands of butterflies have exploded in my stomach, fluttering all the way through me, floating out, and I am floating too, on cloud nine in your arms, as you tell me that I am special.

Do you see it now? Do you understand my confusion?

Penelope

Colin understood. 

Penelope Featherington was in love with him. 

And as he stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched as she conversed with Prudence, who looked rather fed up with the lack of attention she was receiving, Colin could hardly dare to believe it.

But it was there, in black and white, in her own hand. He had read the letter mere moments before in the carriage, on the way to Lady Danbury’s party, and he was starting to think that was a mistake, for he had been able to think of nothing else since his arrival. She loved him.

He stared shamelessly across at her as she rolled her eyes at something Prudence said, turning away from her sister to seek out something more interesting.

Their eyes met across the ballroom. Her expression lightened, a smile curling her lips, and he wondered if those butterflies she’d so described were present now. He wanted to cross the floor to her and sweep her up in the next dance. He wanted to gather her in his arms and dance his fingers along the back of her dress, listening for the hitch of her breath. He wanted to press her so close to him that he would be able to feel the pounding of her heart against his. He wanted the proof for himself.

He wanted—

Oh, he wanted —

Penelope’s attention was tugged back to Prudence, and released from her gaze, Colin felt as if he could breathe again. He sipped the drink in his hand, hoping it would calm at least some of the nerves in his stomach.

But then Penelope Featherington captured him with her gaze again, and the look set his very skin ablaze.

Colin,

And now you are sending me flowers! It is maddening. Let me be. Let me forget you, as surely as you could forget me if given the chance. I want nothing more to do with you. 

No, that is a lie. I want everything to do with you. I want things back to the way they were. I want our easy conversion and the looks we share across a crowded ballroom. I want to experience the pure euphoria of dancing with you once again, even if it is just as your friend.

I want to

I want

But wanting things is a child's game. And I am a woman now. 

Penelope

Colin,

It is the middle of the night, and I am thinking of you again, but I cannot help it.

Mama has introduced me to two new young men of the Ton. It is their first season, so they do not have the image of me in those ridiculous yellow dresses to taint their view. They are nice enough. But it is not them I want.

I want to catch your eye across the ballroom, Colin. This is truly wicked of me, but I want you to be aflame with jealousy as I dance with another. I want you to feel half-mad with it until you are compelled to cut in. I want to feel your ungloved fingertips graze my hand as you pull it up for a kiss. I want you to hold me in your arms, close enough for me to count each individual eyelash. I want to rest my head against your chest and listen to the rapid beating of your heart. I want small things to remind you of me; I want you to not be able to look at the water without thinking of my eyes. I want you to be so overcome that you can think of nothing else. I want you to take me into a dark room unchaperoned and press frantic kisses to my lips. 

Then perhaps, you will understand my own agony.

Penelope

'Mama will surely bury me six feet under when she sees the mess I have made,' Penelope said as she examined her white glove, the back of her hand stained with a dark red. 'It is my own fault; I should have looked where I was going.'

Colin followed her into one of the many rooms in the Bridgerton house, closing the door behind them. 

'I think the fault is Cressida’s. She has a habit of spilling her drink over you.’ He remembered the first time she had done so when she had tried to secure a dance with him. ‘Are you sure the stain will not come out?'

'Of course, it won't. That would be just my luck.'

'Perhaps I could ask our laundry maids to give it a try? You’d be surprised by how many paint stains they've removed from Benedict's white shirts. They look as good as new in the end.'

'They do?'

Colin nodded. 'Your mother would be none the wiser.'

Penelope looked down at the stain again, and Colin had to admit that it was not a pretty sight. She sighed. 'I hope you are right.'

'Give me your hand, Penelope,' he said softly.

Penelope hesitated, and for one excruciating moment, Colin thought she wasn't going to. She ought not to —  what had possessed him? Surely, 'give me your glove' would have been much better. That must have been what he meant; it had just come out all wrong. 

Penelope held her hand out for him, and Colin took it in both of his own. He could feel her eyes on him as he plucked at the fingers of the glove, loosening the material, until he was able to slide it entirely off her arm and hand, tucking the ruined garment into his pocket. And although his eyes were on his task, he could feel her eyes on him the whole time.

He moved his gaze back to her, surprised to find that her mouth had parted, as if in a small, ' oh .' But it was her eyes that thrilled him — the pupils were wide enough that there was only a thin rim of blue around them. 

They stood there looking at each other, Colin's heart pounding in his chest. 

Then, he very slowly, deliberately, moved her hand up to his lips. But rather than kiss the back of it like a gentleman might, he turned her hand until her fingers rested gently against his cheek. Without taking his eyes off hers, Colin pressed a leisurely kiss to her palm, delighting in the way Penelope's breath caught. 

He moved her hand up further, so he could press a kiss to her wrist just above where her pulse fluttered wildly against his lips. She let out a small sigh, and the sound stirred something in him, deep, deep down. And, for the first time, he thought about where else he might kiss Penelope Featherington.

Oh, Colin thought. So this was passion?

It was not the lightning bolt he had expected. It was not sudden and overwhelming, and it was not a blistering, white-hot burning. 

It was so much worse than that. 

It was simmering. Slow and gradual and agonising. It was like dying of thirst and looking directly at a cold glass of water. It was being faced with the best meal in the entire world and wanting to savour every single bite.

I want you to take me into a dark room unchaperoned and press frantic kisses to my lips, she had written.

What would she do if he were to kiss her now? Would she let him? He pressed another slow kiss to her wrist and wondered if she was thinking the same. It would be so easy to close the distance between them.

Colin released her, and Penelope snatched her hand back, her chest heaving.

'I'll return your glove next time we see each other,' he said, and his voice sounded strange to his ears —  soft and at least an octave lower.

Penelope nodded, her eyelashes fluttering.

'Until then, Pen.'

Colin,

Another confessional piece, I am afraid. Once it all begins to come out, it is hard to stop. It feels good to write it down and get such a pressing weight all off my chest. It is freeing. When I am done, I will be able to let you go, I think. I will be able to move on, at last.

But, oh, I will miss it.

That is strange, is it not? That I somehow enjoy the constant pain I am in whenever you are near. You need only be in the same room as me to set my heart aflutter. Not even that — someone only has to utter the words Colin Bridgerton , and I am lost utterly and completely. It is a wonder I can hold a conversation with you at times. Conversing was so much easier when I was restricted to the page. I often wonder if I am blushing too much when you turn those keen eyes on me. Sometimes my pulse is so loud in my ears that I cannot make out a word you are saying.

It is so very thrilling. It makes me feel alive. The sweetest kind of torture.

But it must end.

Penelope  

Another evening, another ball of the Ton and Colin stood, watching once again as Penelope took a turn around the dance floor. He had not intended to watch; it was maddening to see a potential suitor taking her hand in his, attempting conversation as they spun. But he found he could not help himself. His eyes would find her no matter where she was. It had always been this way with them. Colin would often be having a truly terrible time, or he would be in need of good conversation, and then he would find her. 

He’d never appreciated just how easy it was to walk up to her, how effortless it was to sweep her up into a dance. But now she had others to dance with, and all Colin could do was watch. 

Most of the time, Penelope would offer her dance partner a polite, strained smile. But then, occasionally, a suitor would make a funny remark, and her face would light up, and she would bless the man with one of those enchanting smiles Colin adored so much. And it would make him sick with jealousy.

'You do not seem to be enjoying yourself, brother,' came a familiar voice from beside him, and he didn’t need to turn to know it was Daphne.

'It is not the most thrilling of events, I must admit.'

'Colin.' Daphne placed her glass down on a nearby tray. 'Can I ask you to do something for me?'

'Of course.' Better he make himself useful than suffer through this.

'Could you, perhaps, consider the idea that you may… well, be in love with her?'

Colin's heart gave a painful lurch, and he turned to his sister, alarmed.

'You do not have to say anything! Whatever your findings, you do not even have to act on them. But — please. Just consider it.'

There was a small silence, and Colin brought his glass up to his lips to wet his dry mouth. His next words were itching to get out, but he was not sure he wanted to say them — he was not sure he could . But then he thought of Penelope's letters; she had remarked how good it felt to get the words out.

So Colin looked down at his glass, heaved a sigh, and said, without looking at his sister, 'I am already considering it.'

There was another silence, and Colin knew Daphne was choosing her next words carefully. Although, she needn't bother, for he already knew what she was going to say.

'Then—'

He shook his head. ‘I have no idea what to do.'

'Isn't it obvious?'

Colin gave her a scathing look, and Daphne rolled her eyes.

'Colin, it is quite simple—'

'It ought to be.'

'Is is.’ She gripped his arm, imploring him to look at her. ‘You must tell her. You must tell her how you feel.'

'I cannot. And especially not yet.'

'Then when? When she is being courted by another? When she is walking down the aisle to meet her future husband?'

He closed his eyes against the image, swallowing hard. 'Don’t—'

'Wake up, Colin.' She snapped her fingers in front of him, and he batted her hand away. ‘What’s stopping you?’

‘I fear I am too late. Does that answer your question? She has expressed that she would like our friendship to return to normal, and I do not blame her.’ His throat felt like it was closing up. ‘I have been a fool.’

Daphne squeezed his arm. ‘Then that is all the more reason to tell her. You must be honest, Colin. It is worth the risk. Love is always worth the risk.’

Colin,

Your letters are so concerned, and I fear they may be softening my resolve. But even if I were to answer, I would not know what to say or where to start. You keep asking me if I am well, gently encouraging me to lean on you, to use your ear, but you do not understand that the one thing I would like us to speak of, you must never know. Not now I know what is in your heart.

I cannot even write it.

Penelope 

Colin,

I toy with the idea of telling you how I feel on a nearly daily basis now. I think that perhaps you do not know, and that was why it was so easy to say what you said. 

But then I wonder if perhaps you do know, and the thought of us courting is so repulsive to you that laughing about it —  about the idea of us —  came naturally.

I do not have to say it, do I? You must know, for I have pined like a little girl for far too long now. I have stolen far too many glances and looked far too long. I have filled pages and pages with my thoughts, for you are the only one I want to share them with. You must know. You must know the extent of my feelings. You must . 

But I am still not brave enough to say the words aloud.

Penelope 

When Colin returned the last letter to the hat box, he hadn’t expected to feel so… empty. He would have happily read through a hundred more letters, or a thousand, even. Anything that would prolong this moment where he would have to think. 

Or — feel.

Good God, he had not expected to feel so much. During his last travels, he had been forced to consider things about his friend that he had never considered at all — her charm, her beauty. It was as if there had been a dam blocking him. Water trickled through —  small realisations that he had tried to ignore so that things may turn back to the way they were, but now—

Now, the dam had burst.

 Now, he was flooded with feeling and all he could feel was Penelope . 

But now —  what was he to do? 

Penelope had written her letters with the intention of banishing all romantic feelings, so they might return to their friendship, but such a thing seemed impossible now.

How could he return to conversing naturally with her, as if his heart would not beat right out of his chest? How could he capture her eyes across a ballroom when one look from her would surely set him aflame? How could he watch her turn in another's arms when she was surely made for his own?

How had she managed to maintain their friendship so easily when tormented by such feelings? She was much better than he was.

I am not brave enough to say the words aloud , she had written . 

But one of them had to be.

Colin called on Penelope Featherington the next morning, with a bouquet of yellow daffodils. His mother had been unbearable when he’d asked her for help with the flowers. He had chosen daffodils simply because, well, they were yellow.

'A perfect choice,' Violet had said, her smile ever-so-smug as she looked over at him. 'They symbolise rebirth and new beginnings.'

That seemed rather apt, Colin thought. He only hoped Penelope liked them.

She was sitting by the window when he entered the Featherington drawing room. She looked as lovely as ever sitting by the window, light pouring over her as she read a book. Colin's heart jumped at the sight.

'You have not turned to the end, have you?'

Penelope looked up in surprise. 'Colin,' she said, indulging him in a smile. 'I have not this time. Perhaps I ought to try enjoying the moment for once. Mama and Prudence have gone for a walk, and it’s rather nice to have some peace.’ She snapped the book shut. ‘Anyway, what brings you here?' Her eyes flew to the flowers in his hand, surprise flitting across her face. 

'These are for you.'

'Me?' She frowned as she rose from the sofa, cradling the book to her chest. 'What warrants such a gift?'

'I finished your letters, Pen.' 

The smile fell from her face. 'What?'

'I believe I understand now. I did not realise the extent to which a comment can cut when one feels so… deeply for another.'

Penelope turned away from him to place her book down, blushing. 'Well, now you know. But it is all in the past now. I am glad you finally understand. I only hope our friendship can return to how it was.'

'I am afraid that's not possible.'

Penelope looked up at him, hurt in her eyes. 'I have ruined it?' she whispered. 'You said nothing could make you forsake me.'

 'I am not forsaking you.'

'Then, what is this?'

Colin laid the flowers down on a nearby table and drew in a steadying breath. 'There is something I would like to show you.'

'Show me?'

He reached inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a handful of half-written letters. To anyone else, they might have looked like incoherent scribbles, but Colin could remember exactly where he was when he wrote each one.

He held them out to her. 

'I would like you to have them.'

Penelope gingerly took the pile in her hands. 'What are they?'

'Something I promised myself I would never share with another soul. Go on— read them. You can read them aloud if you like. Start with the first one.'

Penelope frowned down at the paper, and Colin could see her straining, trying to make out the words that were crossed out. 'Penelope ,' she began, then glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows. 'They are for me?'

'Read them, Pen.'

'Penelope ,' she started again and began to read, voice soft. ' Is it me? Have I done something? Was it something I… said? Was it my letters? Have I talked too much; have I come across as far too self centered —' She gasped in realisation and glanced up. 'Colin, are these from when you were travelling?'

'I wrote them in Greece when I feared I was losing you forever. Keep going.'

She turned to the next one. 'Penelope . Have you found a suitor? Am I to be… replaced ? Oh, Colin…'

'I wrote that one when I could not bear to see you in another's arms. That ought to have been the biggest clue.'

'Clue?'

'Keep reading.'

She moved into the next one. 'Pen . I miss you. My God, I miss you. I — I miss your witty words, I miss reading them in your voice. I miss the pages and pages I would pour over. I miss you, I miss you—' Her breath caught in her throat, and Colin could see her eyes shining with tears.

'You see? I really did miss you.' He had intended the words to come out as a light quip, but his voice was thick with emotion.

She swallowed and turned to the next page. ' My dearest Penelope. I should be basking in the sun, I should be learning the language with the locals, I ought to be trying every dish on the face of the earth, but I cannot do any of that.' She frowned at the lettering before glancing up, eyes wide. 'I cannot make out the next bit.'

'All I can think about is you,' he said, closing what little distance remained between them until he came to a stop in front of her. 'You are tangling my thoughts. You are sending my stomach into knots. You are all I can think about.'

Her eyes were wide as if he could not dare to believe what she was reading. 'Colin…' she whispered.

'There’s one more,' he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out an envelope addressed to Miss Penelope Featherington. 'I wrote this one last night.' 

'Last night?'

'You have been so kind to share your innermost thoughts with me. It is only fair that I do the same.’

He passed it over to her.

Her hands trembled as she tore it open and unfolded the parchment. 

' My Dearest Penelope,' she began, her voice breathless. ' The importance of a good friendship should not be understated. We all need those to encourage our dreams, help us grow, and share our company. Our friendship is a special one — a once in a lifetime thing — and I have held it closer to my heart than I believe you realise. Closer than even I realise myself. Perhaps that is why it has taken me so long to see our friendship for what it is.' She glanced up at him, and Colin nodded, willing her to continue. ' You have brought such light into my life; you have filled my days with colour. When I was lost and looking for a purpose, I clung to you. You were there all along: my constant companion; my darling friend; and I — I love— I love—' But she could not finish. 

Colin clasped the cold, trembling hands that held the letter in his own, cradling them tenderly to his chest as he tipped his forehead against hers. 'I love you.' 

Her breath hitched. 'Colin—'

'You must forgive this thoughtless fool, Penelope, if you can find it in your heart. I know I have kept you waiting, but believe me, it was not out of any lack of affection.'

'I — Colin, are you sure?'

He saw the apprehension in her eyes, and his heart softened. He gently cradled her face in his hands, looking longer than he had ever dared himself to look — the gentle blush underneath his thumbs, the pink tip of her nose, those blue eyes that were so wide and soft now as she looked up him. He could feel her nervous, fluttering breaths.

'Don't be afraid. I've loved you longer than I've known.'

'How long?' she whispered. 

'Since before travelling, I suspect. I just did not recognise it for what it was.'

' Oh ,' she breathed out, resting her hands gingerly against his chest, where his heart pounded beneath his clothes.

'Although, apparently, I have been writing love letters to you for well over a year now.'

She let out a breathless laugh. 'Love letters?'

'Indeed. Remind me to tell you all about it later.'

They would have time. They could promenade and converse as naturally as they used to before. They could laugh, and Colin would make sure to fill every spot on her dance card.

'Colin?' she murmured. 'Say it again.'

He didn’t have to ask to know what she meant, and he would say it. He would say it as many times as she needed to hear it. He would say it because he could and because he meant every word.

'I love you, Pen.'

Penelope's smile was radiant. 'I love you, too.'

His thumb stroked her cheekbone, his gaze falling down to her lips. Colin moved slowly towards her, so Penelope could pull away if she decided. But she did not, her fingers tightening on his shirt as she let him capture her lips in a kiss. And — oh , it was everything. The slight hitch of her breath before he touched his mouth to hers, the feel of her body against him, the softness of her lips as she returned the kiss. 

And it was glorious .

Dear Ms Green,

I do hope this letter finds you well. 

I believe I mentioned briefly in my last correspondence that I am to travel again this year. I will be adding more places to my itinerary, although I shall be visiting a few familiar places, such as Athens. You were so warm and welcoming to me the last time I visited that I cannot think of anywhere else I would rather stay. However, I will perhaps need one of the bigger rooms this time around, as I will not be travelling alone. 

I am bringing my wife. 

I had intended to write sooner and tell you that I was to wed — after all, my marriage prospects were quite a concern for you the last time we saw each other! But since neither of us could wait, we made it our mission to ensure the wedding happened as soon as possible. The last few weeks have been quite the whirlwind, but I could not be happier. Neither could my wife, as she reminds me. ( She is reading over my shoulder. )

I hope you do not mind the extra company, but I am sure you will find her most agreeable. She is intelligent, beautiful, and kind. She is my dearest friend in the entire world.

And after everything I have told her, Mrs Penelope Bridgerton is looking forward to meeting you.

Warmest regards,

Mr Colin Bridgerton