Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Well, I'm not a poet, I'm just a woman [...] So don't sit there and tell me that marriage isn't an economic proposition, because it is.

- Amy March, Little Women (2019)

Indeed, I thought, slipping the silver into my purse, it is remarkable, remembering the bitterness of those days, what a change of temper a fixed income will bring about.

- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

Every person likes to believe they are the master of their own lives, but too many instances of fortune and calamity had fallen on Penelope Featherington for her to hold such delusions. If she were truly the master of her own fate, her father would not have passed, her mother would be kinder, and, at the very least, she would not have to wear yellow.

Yet, despite her cynical pragmatism, life still had ways of catching her off guard.

The night of her family’s ball, Penelope locked herself in her room. Sitting at her window, watching the fireworks on which her mother had spent god knew how much, she thought she understood her life. Her friend hadn’t understood her, the man she loved had ridiculed her. Her mother had waited for her cousin to save them, but he had merely tried to swindle them.

Her family’s security was gone. Their reputation, already precarious, would not survive the week. And the two people Penelope had hoped to be there for her were now the two people she would rather never see again.

All Penelope had left was herself.

Herself, and Lady Whistledown. 

So she wrote like her life depended on it. 

If Colin, the one man she was comfortable with, wouldn’t even entertain the idea of her, then she would resign herself to spinsterhood. It seemed like a dramatic response to heartbreak but to her, it was the most rational thing in the world. If she was to be a spinster, she had to provide for herself. Hence, the growing pile of money under her floorboards.

In her more honest moments, she might admit that her pride needed the outlet as well. Eloise thought her writings weren’t good enough? At least she was doing something. Every stroke of her quill was a testament to her resolve, her strength.

But Penelope was not her mother, and could not stoke the fires of fury forever. 

As the winter season came to a close, and Lady Whistledown bid her audience bon voyage, Penelope felt her own creation slipping away from her. She was relieved to put her quill down, then panicked that she would feel this way. If she wasn’t a writer, then what did she have left? 

Colin Bridgerton liked to believe that every man was the master of his own fate, and that growing into adulthood was learning how to wrestle with that truism. That is how he spent his time abroad the year prior. If he’d wanted to wander from the trodden footpath, he would tell his group to meet him back at the hotel and venture off with the local guide. On a few occasions he would even go off entirely on his own, despite his travel friend’s warnings, armed with only pencil, paper, and a compass.

Those moments had been extremely instructive. He was forced to take notice of his surroundings, marking the colour and shape of moss on a stone to guide him later, keeping an eye on the sky, regarding the colour of the sea and the clouds in case they foretold storms.  

Sometimes, driven forward by a desire to see how far he could go, he would stumble upon farmers and fishermen. He would greet them warmly, bonding with them using broken Greek and a courageous appetite that always made them laugh. His maps from home were in need of extreme improvement, and the locals were more than happy to provide.

Some men his age would invite him home, to show off this silly Englishman to their mothers. He learned the word “ισχνός” and how it was always followed by lots of food.  He would insist on helping them clear the table, sleep in their barns, and he would feel like a king.  

Colin had never felt more himself, more confident in his ability to charm and connect than he did on his travels. Perhaps that’s why he responded to Penelope’s letters the way he did.

I am forced by the novelty of Greece to pay closer attention, he’d written to her once, for I am afraid that if I do not stop and observe this flower, this sunrise, this break of the waves, that I will never see it again. I must take hold of these things and crush them to my chest, or else they will slip from my grasp.

She had replied, and he could almost see the way her eyes would light up as she wrote: I understand the feeling you describe. I often feel that good things, a new idea shared with Eloise over tea, or observing a happy scene, your mother curled up with Hyacinth on the settee while reading, that these things are so bright they will burn me. But I must let them or else I will have nothing left to remember them by. It is tragic that these moments are fleeting, but I am comforted that I will see them again in their own time.

I take comfort in your idea, Pen , he’d written back. You remind me that these things may be new to me, but they are familiar to someone else. And while the saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt, the antidote to contempt may be gratitude and thoughtfulness? But I must ask: does happiness always feel like a burn to you? I had never considered that something that always elicits pleasure for me could also cause pain.

She had not responded to that question at the time, and now, on his second tour, he wondered if she would respond to any of his questions ever again.

She missed her friends. 

Penelope would write a brilliant column, save some girl from a terrible marriage, and who did she have to share her victories with? Strictly speaking, she’d never shared them with anyone (or everyone, depending on how you looked at it). Before, however, she could always pop across the street, sit amongst the tranquil blues and purples of the Bridgerton household, laugh loudly at Eloise’s quips, smile secretly at her praise. 

Worse still, she missed Colin. She didn’t miss the boy she’d pined for, for he was gone the moment she’d overheard him at her mother’s party. If that had been the only version of Colin she knew, it would be so much easier to heal her heartbreak. Except he was no longer her best friend’s handsome older brother. He was Colin, her friend, her confidant, a relationship built over time through the best way they knew how to express themselves. 

They kept coming too, those damn letters from Cyprus, Greece, Macedonia, each one with her name on them in his cheerful handwriting. She didn’t know what to do with them. She wanted to cast them into the fire, as though she could burn her shame for ever hoping, but her hand stopped itself at the critical juncture. 

Instead she saved them, unopened, hidden under the floorboards with her money. They were a reminder of what her weakness could cost.

After a month of purposeful neglect, Penelope attempted to return to the writing desk. Yet nothing Whistle-downy appeared, and her fingers itched to expel the storm raging in her heart. She would keep a diary, but the beauty of a Whistledown paper was that it was an outlet that left her hands as soon as she finished, meaning her family had no opportunity to read it behind her back. She would read, but every book and treatise reminded her of all the things she wanted to tell her friends, but couldn’t.

So, in a desperate effort to do anything besides agonise in her room alone, Penelope did something she never thought she would do: she asked her sister to recommend a book.

“A what?” Prudence said, as though she’d never thought of reading. 

“A book,” Penelope repeated. Her sister stared at her, prompting her to continue. “I saw you reading one just yesterday.” 

“That wasn’t a book,” Prudence said derisively. “That was a novel.”

Penelope resisted the urge to scream. “Well. Then. Can you recommend a novel?”

“You won’t like them,” Prudence said.

"I've read a few already." 

“You’re too serious. They’d probably put you to sleep.”

“How can I know if I don’t read them?”

Her sister kept looking at her as though she was the stupid one, so Penelope sighed and grabbed the nearest book. “You’ve finished this one, correct? Then I would like to borrow it.”

Prudence looked like she was going to put up an argument, so Penelope turned around and left the room before she could. It was only when she got to her room that she looked at the cover: The Love That Changed Him .

If there was one thing that Penelope could say about the book, it was that it was, in fact, a book. It had words on paper, chapters, and even characters. She finished it in five hours, put it on her bedside table, and had the first dreamless sleep she’d had in months.

The next day she borrowed another one.

Colin loved the beach. He would sit in the sand for hours, the sound of the waves luring him into a state of meditation. If he sat there long enough, he could almost imagine he was alone in the universe. There was no hotel, no group of young Englishmen who still used calling cards and complained in parlour rooms, as though they were still in England, or at least thought Greece should be England.

It pricked at Colin, the way these well bred families would go on their tours during the day, then spend the entire evening complaining about them. His favourite thing about travelling was that he wasn’t in England, bound by social rules and neck ties that were too tight.

He was hiding from one such family that night, an old war general and his peevish wife, who had decided that when he returned home he should look up their daughter immediately. He’d escaped to the beach as soon as dinner was over, carrying a bottle of wine, a hunk of bread, and flung his frustrations with English society out to sea. 

English society was he hadn’t had the chance to speak to Penelope before he’d left. In fact, he had not spoken to Penelope at length since the Featherington Ball, the night he’d saved their family from the scoundrel, Cousin Jack.

This was for a few reasons.

The first was his own sense of propriety. He knew Lady Featherington was a prideful woman, and that while she’d expressed gratitude for his service, she’d seemed rather embarrassed to see him. When the scandal broke, the older woman impressed him with her uncanny ability to carry on as though nothing had happened. This meant, however, that his presence was a sore reminder of their situation, and so he graciously kept to himself when he’d much rather be sitting with Penelope.

But this did not happen for the second reason: Eloise and Penelope were quarrelling. Colin knew they’d fought before, but as the weeks dragged on and there was no sign of Penelope in the family drawing room, he wondered if he shouldn’t intervene. Certainly it would restore peace to the household, but selfishly he wished the two ladies would bury the hatchet so he could spend time with his friend again.

One conversation with Eloise disabused him of this notion of peacemaking. He’d barely made it out without a scratch, literally, for she’d chucked a book as hard as she could in the direction of his head. As for Penelope, she was also polite, but cold when he saw her out and about.

But there was no real time to suss that out either, for the third and biggest reason he hadn’t had a chance to speak to her: his eldest brother’s wedding. It was a happy occasion, and the atmosphere was markedly different from the previous wedding, but that didn’t mean Colin had any more time to himself. While he liked the idea of being his own master, it was clear that while he was home, his mother was master of all.

Without the time or space to reflect on anything other than the daily wedding crisis’ and preparing for another trip through the continent, Colin had effectively relegated the issue with Penelope to the back of his mind.

But now that he was abroad, back in charge of his own time and free to follow his desires, he was still not the master of his mind. His thoughts frequently returned to Pen, and what she would think or say. But when he wrote to share his thoughts, to ask her of her own, she did not write back. 

Surely it wasn’t that serious. Surely she’d reply to his letters, as she had before. 

Surely she’d reply to this letter.

And this one.

And the one after that.

By the fourth unanswered letter, Colin was beginning to worry.

I cannot fathom what on earth has occurred that you and Eloise are not speaking to each other, he wrote. Neither of you have chosen to confide in me, although I wish you would. But please, do not believe for a moment that any quarrel you have with my sister has poisoned my feelings towards you. You are a rare friend, and I do not wish to lose you. 

If it is something I have done, something I have said, you must tell me. You have shared so much with me, and I have treasured every word of it, so please, share with me now. Even if it is painful, I will bear it. 

There was no reply.

By Christmastide, she’d finished all the novels in her sister’s collection, and was even able to borrow a few from the new maid Abigail, who kept her own modest collection of novels.

In fact, Penelope found she had a strong ally in the gentle lady’s maid. Abigail was the kind of strange creature who was perfectly content with her lot, and rarely had an ill thought towards anyone. As long as Penelope spoke to her kindly, and gave her any new novels she ordered of course, Abigail would do anything she asked of her.

This included reading Penelope’s new story.

This was, of course, the most surprising thing to come out of that dreary off-season. By the time the first buds of spring appeared on the trees, Penelope had in her possession a completed novel manuscript.

It had been born of frustration. After reading at least four of her sister’s books, Penelope could lay out the story for every single one of them. A powerless girl, born into a cruel world, would spread goodness like a disease. Then a man would appear, often dark, handsome, and wicked. He would be attracted to this pale column of bath bubbles, and try to take her by force. Little did he know that by the end of the story, her saccharine sainthood would not only make him fall in love with her, it would redeem him entirely. No priest or confession necessary (unless she was the daughter of a penniless clergyman), just lots and lots of “delicious silence.”

She could see the appeal. It was the same sales pitch as the church. Behave well and you not only had eternal reward in heaven, you could also have eternal pleasure on earth. But while she was no theologian, she knew at least one of these to be false promises.

She knew immediately she could do better. It wouldn’t be long until she proved that she would do better. 

Again, Abigail was an invaluable audience member. She’d never read Whistledown, as she had yet to spend a season in London, so there was no danger of being discovered. And while she wasn’t the kind of educated reader who could pinpoint exactly why she liked a story, her emotional responses were useful guideposts. 

“Are you alright, Abigail? You look like you didn’t get any sleep last night.”

The lady’s maid smiled shyly at Penelope in the mirror while she brushed her hair. “I apologise ma’am, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I wanted to finish the chapter you gave me.” 

Penelope tried to hide her own smile. “You don’t have to do that. I only gave it to you yesterday.”

“I know, but it was so good! I couldn’t help myself,” Abigail replied. Her brush strokes were less gentle as she kept talking. “I must have woken up half the staff with my sobbing. The way Estella breaks down when her father dies! Is that the way you felt when your father died, miss?”

Penelope opened her mouth to reply, no, she and her father had never been close, but Abigail gasped.

“I’m so sorry miss, that was terribly impertinent! I only mean that you write with such feeling that I wondered… but the way she resolves to go on, and continue fighting for those factory workers, I could only hope to be half as brave as she!”

“You certainly have the strength in you,” Penelope winced as Abigail tugged on one stubborn knot.

“Oh! I’m so sorry miss!” 

“It’s alright,” the young woman said with a laugh. “And I told you to stop apologising so often. You’re the one doing me a favour.” 

“Oh no, miss, I love reading your stories. Why, they’re better than most of the books on my shelf, I won’t mind saying.”

That’s what I’m counting on, Penelope thought, but instead said, “I’d like to wear it up today, please.” 

“Would you like me to curl it for you, miss?”

“No thank you,” she replied. “I don’t need to appear any more childish than I already do.”

“I think you look beautiful, regardless,” Abigail muttered. “Your hair is the prettiest colour I’ve ever seen. Much better than my colour, I have no trouble saying.”

Penelope had no response to that, if only because she knew better. Abigail’s hair was indeed a shade of red, and they had bonded over this fact when her mother first hired her. Penelope saw no real difference between their colouring, but Abigail insisted her own was the dingier of two, and that her lady’s hair was the very standard of beauty.

“I know you’re almost done with the last chapter,” Abigail said, pinning Penelope’s hair into a graceful chignon. “May I read it when you’ve finished?” 

“Only if you promise not to stay up all night to do so,” Penelope replied. “I know you have other chores than just looking after me. Prudence will be getting up soon, I believe.” 

The maid laughed. “I’ll do my best, miss. But can I ask, will it have a happy ending?” 

“Of course,” Penelope said. “I’ve had my fill of tragedy.”

Colin had never considered himself much of a writer. He kept a small travel journal with him at all times, something to keep notes and dash down facts and observations. Yes, he wrote letters, but that was not writing ; it was corresponding.

But with few of his own family members responding to his letters, he found himself journaling far more frequently. He would write down his observations as always, but instead of sticking to the scientific facts, he would allow his mind to wander.

The cats, for example. At first Colin had been surprised to see the sheer number of lazy felines. There were hundreds of them, living in the crowded cities and sleepy villages alike. They slept, ate from bowls of scraps on the roads, played, and more than once approached their fellow citizens looking for affection.

Some people treated them as pests, even though Colin realised that the streets of Greece were largely devoid of the rodents that made parts of London unbearable. Yet more people treated them as a special kind of neighbour.

One tabby-cat on the front stairs claimed his hotel, a tom he called George whose ears were too large for its head. Every day Colin would observe the animal, but it did not take notice of him at all. Then one day, he stopped and petted the animal behind the ears, and the change was immediate. George knew him now, and would approach him, seemingly just to celebrate his arrival. It may have helped that Colin would often bring food to the cat, but regardless, it felt like they’d established a relationship.

He was reminded of stories from Egypt, and how he thought it was so odd that a population of learned humans would worship these animals. Now that he was here, he wondered if there had been a misunderstanding. Maybe the ancients did not worship these creatures, but instead treated them with the same respect and kindness afforded to all neighbours.

These were the things Colin would put in his journal, little things he didn’t think his family would particularly care for. Journaling was a useful outlet to process his thoughts, one that he’d come to realise he’d previously found with Penelope. 

Maybe this was why she’d stopped responding? Was she tired of being a living diary, a receptacle for his thoughts and nothing more? Had his romantic ideals of exciting travel and lively conversation with a dear friend been nothing more than a dream? Lady Crane had warned him of this tendency last spring.

No, he was not sure that was the whole truth. He reviewed Pen’s old letters, the ones he kept with him anyway, and did not see any reticence on her part. Yes, she was private, and sometimes she did not answer his direct questions about her family, her daily life. But she’d been just as forthright with her thoughts and feelings as he’d been with his.

I do not understand her silence , he wrote in his journal. And I will confess, it is driving me a little bit mad. Only today as we crossed the hills of Delphi, I saw a flash of red on the horizon, and it reminded me so much of Pen and some of the absurd ways her maid would curl her hair that I had to stop. It was a smattering of wild peonies, blooming out of season according to my guide. I picked one, and have pressed it in my journal. Perhaps I will give it to Penelope as a peace offering, and we can return to the friendship we previously enjoyed.

She is never far from my thoughts. How strange that I think of her almost daily now. What would she think of this flower? What would she say about Delphi, and the legend of the oracle who lived there?

If the oracle still lived, perhaps I could bypass this letter writing business entirely. I would ask about my dear friend, and if I were lucky she would visit me in my dreams, explain to me all the things she obviously feels she cannot say now. I would listen and reassure her that all will be well, and when I woke, all would be well.

But oracles no longer exist, and no god, Greek or otherwise, has revealed an answer to me.

But that, he knew, was not entirely true.

She’d been so careful, too.

She never looked at her money, her Whistledown papers, anything while there was even the remotest chance her family would see. She saw how her mother spent, how her sisters demanded anything that roused their envy. She even saw how her father, rest in peace, was furtive with his own money, so she assumed she should be too.

Besides, it made her feel good to know that she had something that was just hers. That something happened to be a large enough sum to buy her a boat ticket and at least two months in a fine establishment of her choosing, but it was more that it was hers. Hers to dream about, hers to hoard, and hers to spend on what she wished.

Like novels.

That was the beginning of all the trouble. She’d decided to go to the market the following day and indulge herself, because she was feeling very poorly the closer the season came, and books made her feel better.

Her weekly allowance, which had grown smaller as the months went on, would only be enough for a few new quills, which she needed as well. So carefully, she pushed the carpet back, lifted up one of the floorboards, and removed a few small bills. She counted them and, satisfied, replaced the floorboard, the carpet, and went back to her desk.

Only there she realised that a rather large bill had stuck itself to the back of a smaller one. She knew she could not be seen with this amount of money, so she stood up, moved to the carpet, and happened to look up.

Prudence was standing in her doorway, mouth agape.

“What are you doing with that much money?”

Penelope, despite being frozen in fear moments earlier, acted quickly. She rushed to her sister, pulled her inside, shut the door and locked it (hadn’t she locked it before!).

“Did you take that from Moth—“ Prudence began, but Penelope pushed her hand over her mouth.

“Be quiet!” she hissed, and tried to think but her heartbeat was ringing in her ears. 

Her sister wasn’t going down quietly. “You,” she said, moving her face, “ stole that, didn’t you?” 

“I did not!”

“Oh yes you did, and I’m going to tell Mother—“ 

“I didn’t steal it, it was paid to me!” 

“By whom? For what?”

“My writing—“

“Writing?” Prudence was incredulous. “Now I know you’re lying—“

“I write novels!” Penelope spat out, her mouth and her mind racing each other for control. “Short stories. I write short stories, and they publish them in magazines.”

The lie must have been a good one, because Prudence had stopped squirming, but she was still suspicious. “What magazine?” 

“L-Ladies Home and Garden.”

“What story?”

“The Trials of Anna Markley,” Penelope said, remembering the title from a few weeks prior.

“But that wasn’t you, that was—“

“I had to use a fake name,” she said. “Mama would have my head if she knew what I was doing.”

Prudence was silent, the wheels turning slowly. “Is there good money in this writing?” She was looking pointedly down at the crushed note in Penelope’s hand.

“… Enough,” Penelope conceded. “They pay me for three stories at a time, so the bill was big.”

Her sister had stopped struggling entirely, so Penelope stepped away. Her mind, satisfied that she was out of danger, stepped back to allow fear it’s rightful place. “You won’t tell, will you?” 

Prudence looked like she was sucking on a large lemon, which is to say, she was thinking. “If I don’t tell,” she said slowly, “then I want something in return.”

Penelope knew this was coming. “What do you want?”

Her sister was silent again, then smiled. There was no warmth in her tone. “You’re going to the market tomorrow, yes? I’ll give you a list.”

The next day, as Penelope ran around the market buying absolutely absurd things for her sister, she formed a plan. The Whistledown secret was never going to last, now that Eloise knew her identity and her sister (her sister!) knew about the money. She had to find a way to make money that was above reproach, at least more than Lady Whistledown. That way, when people started asking questions, she had a reasonable answer.

The beauty of it was that Prudence had helped her come up with the whole plan.

The moon seemed supernaturally large here, an all encompassing reminder of how close he was to nature even in a bustling port city. Colin would sleep with the windows open on good nights, the breeze coming off the sea driving him further into his bed sheets, deeper into his dreams. 

But the closer he came to his departure date, the more the bright moon intruded on his sleep. It did not matter if he closed his windows, hiding from its light by pulling the covers over his head. He could not sleep. 

Two thoughts plagued Colin at night, two constant companions that grew more insistent the closer he came to his return date.

The first was the meeting with Marina, and her stern admonishment against any romantic fantasies he’d had about his past. 

He’d grown up with only a few beloved years with his father, seen his strong character and gentle sense of justice. He’d seen how his father and mother loved each other, and Colin had no reason to think he would experience anything less. If he were a kind and just man, like his father had been, then the entire world would reward him. Up until the incident with Miss Thompson—Lady Crane—there had been nothing to challenge this worldview.

But what kind of man would he be if he let one heartbreak change his character? He’d seen a worse heartbreak nearly kill his mother, but it hadn’t made her any less. If anything, she’d only gotten through it because of her magnanimous character.

So Colin endeavoured to be as he’d always seen himself: good humoured, just, and dependable. He could always be counted on to do the right thing.

Which is why his other companion kept him awake on the night before his homecoming. It’d kept him awake most nights for the past month.

He had known the very moment the words left his mouth (“Are you mad?”) that he’d done the wrong thing. Just that night, he’d vowed to be there for Penelope, and yet he was also the very reason these men were laughing at her.

Oh, he’d tried to go through all the excuses he could. He’d been tipsy, he’d wanted to protect her honour, he was worried some prospect might be scared off by his attention.

All of these fell flat to the facts: his friends were being cruel, and he’d encouraged them. He’d even felt the thrill of it, the satisfaction of getting a laugh, putting distance between himself and someone less popular, making Colin a lesser human in the act.

He could not even write down his confession, he was so ashamed. His feelings for Penelope, true and steady and loyal as he’d thought, had not even withstood outside scrutiny for an entire evening.

He was a bad friend. He loved her, as a dear friend, but the strength of those feelings, and his desire to conceal them, was the very thing that brought out the worst in him.

It might have been easier to bear if Penelope had just written him back . If his packed bags were full of her replies, he could assure himself that all was well, that his moment of cruelty had not touched her, then he could forgive himself. If, when he returned, she was able to smile at him as she’d always done, then his actions were a lapse in judgement, not a serious defect of character.

Had she heard him? Or had his words come to her through different avenues? Was this why she’d been silent?

He tossed in his bed, his excitement about going home now felt like needles in his skin.

Even if she had heard, surely it had not been a surprise? Yes, they were friends, and friends often made excellent partners according to his mother. But Penelope had to know how he felt, why he could not consider her as a match.

But even this thought felt feeble and tired, for it was the first defence he’d created.

She was his sister’s friend? All the better for his future wife if she were! Her family was attached to scandal? His own family name was not so clean, not anymore. She was funny, clever, and in her own way quite talented. Others would say she was not pretty, but even in those awful dresses, he knew that wasn’t true. His first glimpse of her on his return home, standing in his family’s drawing room, beaming with happiness, had nearly taken his breath away.

In hindsight, he would even call her beautiful.

But this was a dangerous road to go down. Penelope had no male presence in her life to protect her, only her overzealous mother. She needed a friend, one who treated her with respect due to a lady of her standing. 

They were friends, and that was the end of it. 

The moon was high in the sky by the time exhaustion caught up with him. He finally drifted off, comforted that in a week’s time he would be home. He could see Penelope and ask her himself why she hadn’t written. And whatever the problem was, he would find a solution.  

She knew the Bridgertons had returned to their London home before anyone in her own home, but there was only one Bridgerton she cared to see this season. As soon as she saw his familiar figure leave the carriage and enter No. 5, she rushed to her room, patted down her hair, and threw on her least garish cloak. She’d tied her story up in a plain butcher’s twine so it wouldn’t fall apart, but her hands still shook.

She called for Abigail to escort her across the street (the absurdity!), and together they left the house.

Her heart was in her throat, and her stomach was threatening to catch up. Every rumble of a carriage spooked her, and she was only outside for a mere moment. Once they’d entered No. 5, she politely inquired about the whereabouts of the family. She requested to see Mr. Bridgerton in the library, as she knew the drawing room would be in chaos, and she had no desire to see Lady Bridgerton today.

Her fingers were white as she clutched her manuscript to her chest. She was very familiar with this library, as she and Eloise had spent many hours here in amiable silence. Today, however, the entire house felt anything but amiable. Even with Abigail standing quietly nearby, Penelope felt very alone.

“Miss Featherington?” 

Penelope whirled around to see Benedict Bridgerton, looking perplexed. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, curtsying slightly.

“I’m surprised to see you here. Eloise won’t be here until the beginning of the season,” he said. His tone was polite, but warm. Apparently he didn’t know about the fight between the two girls.

Good , Penelope thought. “I’m surprised you could get her back for the season at all,” she said, hoping she sounded jovial instead of bitter.

Benedict laughed. “The staff is buffing out the claw marks on the floor as we speak, no doubt.”

“Actually, Mr. Bridgerton, I wanted to speak with you today.”

“Me?” He looked almost alarmed. “Whatever for?” 

“I understand you’re quite an accomplished artist,” she said with a smile, hoping to flatter. 

It didn’t work, for some reason. “Not quite,” he said.

“But you’re attending the Royal Art Academy, are you not?”

“Not anymore,” he replied. “I’ve decided to pursue more realistic goals.”

“I see.” This news threw her, but she recovered quickly. “Regardless, I hope you can still help me.” 

He bowed slightly, bemused. 

“Over the past few months, I’ve written… created… well, I have a story.”

The older man’s shock could not be more evident. “You’ve written a story?”

“Yes.” How she could face danger and discovery on a weekly basis, Penelope would never guess, because facing Benedict made her want to crawl under her covers and hide for the rest of her life. “Writing has always been a… a hobby of mine. I’ve decided to finally put it to good use, and try to create something worthwhile.”

Benedict’s expression softened as he listened. “Creating something worthwhile is a noble pursuit, for any artist,” he said. He sank onto one of the desks near the doorway. “So would you like me to read it? Your story.”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice a little too eager in her own ears. “I’ve already had one person read it…”

“Eloise?

Her friend’s name nearly knocked the wind out of her. Oh, how she would have loved Eloise to read her story! But that wasn’t going to happen, as far as she could see.

“No, actually. My maid, Abigail,” she explained. She heard Abigail stumble behind her, hopefully curtsying. “She’s an avid reader of the genre, so I asked for her assistance.”

“It’s very good!” the maid interjected, then mumbled an apology.

Benedict looked like he was about to burst out laughing. “So the maid likes it? Well, why ask me, when you have such a glowing recommendation?”

Penelope frowned. “Because you’re the only one I know who could help me get it published.”

The humour disappeared instantly. “Me?”

“You have connections to the art world.”

“Miss Featherington, there is a vast difference between what I did and writing novels —“

“I appreciate that,” Penelope said quickly. “Which is why I’d ask you to approach this with an open mind. If you read my story, and find it no better than anything else you’ve encountered, we will call this a wash. I’m sure, at least, a few ladies would get some amusement from my scribbling.” 

 Benedict raised an eyebrow. “But…”

“But if you find it worthwhile, then I would appreciate it if you put me into contact with the correct people who can move my project along.”

“You have a lot of faith in this story, don’t you?”

She nearly laughed. “I do.”

She held her breath while he considered it, her mind screaming that this was a mistake. Finally, however, he shrugged.

“I have some free time before the family arrives. I’ll let you know by then.”

Gratefully, she handed him the parcel.

“Why hasn’t Eloise read this, by the way?” he asked, flipping through the top pages. “I would have thought she’d be your first audience.”

Some of the pain she’d been able to repress for the last months leaked through, and for one horrifying moment she felt her eyes start to sting. “It’s a secret. For now,” she added quickly. “To be honest, some of it is inspired by her.”

Which was a boldfaced lie, among the many she’d told. The entire story was inspired by Eloise. She hadn’t meant to write about her friend, but somewhere along the way, Penelope had created a heroine that was every good thing Eloise ever was. Passionate, just, clever, stubborn, and deserving of every wonderful thing the world could not give her.

Penelope gave it all to her, and her friend would likely never know.

Benedict, for his part, looked intrigued. “Well I can’t say I’ll relish picturing my sister as the heroine of a novel ,” he said, as though the word implied lewdness on its own. “But I won’t tell her. I imagine you’ll want to give it to her for her birthday, or something.”

Penelope smiled, despite the ache in her chest. “Or something.”

Chapter Text

Oh, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know

I know there may be others

And so, and so, and so, and so, and so, and so, and so

You'll just have to pray

 

If you think you’re getting away, I will prove you wrong.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Murder on the Dancefloor

Colin had but left the carriage and entered his family home when Benedict came bounding down the stairs with his usual puppy dog excitement. “Excellent, you’re here. Do you have any plans for the afternoon?”

“Other than relaxing in the drawing room with my beloved family?” Colin said. “No, not really.”

“Lucky for you, the family will be here later. Miss Featherington needs our help now.”

“Penelope needs our help?” Colin asked, his heart hammering in his chest. “Why, what kind of trouble—“

“Oh relax, she’s not in trouble,” Benedict said, steering his brother back out the front door. “Quite the opposite, actually. What I need you to do is distract the mother and sister while I speak with Penelope.”

“Why would you need to speak with her? You barely know her,” Colin replied.

Benedict didn’t listen. “Good god, what are you wearing?” He stopped at the edge of the street, giving him a proper once over. “Button up your collar at least, there will be ladies present.”

Colin flushed, grumbling that his brother could have waited , but he fumbled with the buttons anyway. He’d wanted to be more presentable when he saw Penelope for the first time after returning home, not tired and hot and entirely off his footing. He did prefer how he looked without the buttoned-up shirt and stuffy necktie, but it was a bold choice to make in front of the Featherington household. 

“You have not answered my question,” he grumbled, his good humour and patience dashed in a way only his brother could manage.

“Did you know she was a writer? An excellent one, even.” His older brother was looking up and down the road for passing carriages.

“Pen? A writer?” Colin was no longer panicked, just perplexed. “Of course I know she’s an excellent writer. How do you know that?” A thought passed his mind. “Has she been writing to you?”

His brother grinned in a devilish way. Colin resisted the urge to step on his foot. “Guess you don’t know her that well either. Here we are!” 

Colin had no time to gather his thoughts, for in a few moments he was sitting across Lady Featherington while his brother sat with Penelope.

Despite the circumstances, it was a pleasure to finally see her, instead of clinging onto whatever his imagination could conjure. Her bright red hair fell in waves over her shoulders, but it seemed fuller now, softer looking than from his memories. Her skin was still pale, but he could have sworn she had a smattering of freckles across her chest that were not there. Was it because he’d imagined them? No, it was more likely she had not spent enough time in the sun during the winter. 

He wondered, not for the first time, how a month in the Mediterranean would suit her. In her mother’s sitting room, surrounded by green walls and cloying floral perfumes, he tried to picture her by the sea, her eyes as bright as the sunset, hair tousled by the wind. Perhaps she would wear a cooler continent style dress, they seemed better for the weather. Nothing French of course, the fabric was far too thin-

What was he doing? This was his friend, she was in the room with him, along with their families. This was not the time to let his mind wander.

Luckily, Porta Featherington was no fan of silence. 

“Mr. Bridgerton, I must thank you again for the great service you’ve done for our family,” she gushed in a low tone, shooting looks at Benedict.

It took him a moment to remember what they were talking about. “I assure you,” he said quickly, “It was no more than any gentleman would have done.”

“Not at all!” Lady Featherington said. “If it weren’t for your intelligence and bravery, we might still be in the clutches of that terrible man.” She was leaning in, as she always did, whether to create confidences or show off her figure, Colin was never quite sure. He didn’t like to think ill of his friend’s mother, however…

“Cousin Jack was my fiancé,” the sister (Phillipa? Prudence? he could never remember) said. Was she boasting? Pouting? God, these women gave him a headache.

“I trust your family has been well this winter?” he asked, trying to direct the question to Penelope, but she had barely spared him a glance before returning to her hushed conversation with Benedict. He couldn’t help but notice the pretty colour of her cheeks as she spoke, or the way her eyes lit up when his brother spoke back.

What the hell is going on? Colin thought. Had Pen been writing to Benedict instead of him this past year? Had they struck up a friendship in his absence?

A small, mean voice wondered if she’d simply decided to replace one Bridgerton with another. It wouldn’t be the first time people had treated the brothers as interchangeable pieces in society games.

No, that is not like her, he told himself firmly. He would have to get to the bottom of this.

But in the meantime, Lady Featherington was speaking, answering the question he’d meant for her daughter, describing her eldest daughter’s wedding in detail, and lord, now she was asking about his travels this winter. It was the first time in his life that he didn’t want to speak about his trips, but there was no polite way to get out of it. So he started telling her about his small adventures, all the while trying very hard to figure out what his brother and his friend were so excited about.

“Honestly, I’ve never read anything like it,” Benedict told Penelope in a hushed voice. “You managed to take serious matters of the mind and make them readable. Interesting, even!”

Penelope knew she was probably as red as her hair. “You’re too generous, Mr. Bridgerton. It’s the same kind of story we’ve always told, where characters start off one way, and through trial and error, end up another.”

“You’re being redundant, and entirely too modest,” Benedict replied. “You knew what you had, otherwise you would have never brought it to my attention.” It sounded like an admonition, but the grin on his face said otherwise.

Penelope shook her head. “I suspected, but I wanted to know for sure. My maid, as well read in the genre as she is, tends to flattery, even before we were her employers.”

 “Well your maid has good instincts,” he said. “I know I am not the primary audience for a book such as this, but even I was moved by your heroine’s story.”

This was better than Penelope could have imagined. When Colin Bridgerton had entered the drawing room with his brother, she felt cold all over, like she was going to be sick. She’d spent the past months hardening her heart to the mere idea of the young man, but now that he was here in the flesh, tanned skin and hesitant smile, she couldn’t breathe. And the man wasn’t even fully buttoned up! How on earth was she supposed to concentrate when there was a threat of dark chest hair peeking out from his shirt? 

It was such a shock to see him that she almost didn’t register his older brother, which sent her into another inner frenzy.

Then Benedict had plopped down next to her, and by the look on his face she knew at least one part would turn out all right.

“I can see why you didn’t want to show it to Eloise though,” Benedict said. “If she knew the story ended in a happy marriage…”

“Yes, I’m afraid she would have me change the whole thing entire,” Penelope said, the name bringing her back to reality. “I’m not sure she’ll even be happy I wrote it at all.”

“Nonsense,” Benedict said, sitting back in his chair. “It’s a testament to her character. More importantly, it’s a testament to your skill.”

“So you’ll help me then?”

“Of course. I know just the man for the job.“

“Wonderful!” she said, feeling like dancing. “Although I would ask you for one more favour.”

“Which is?”

“I know you liked the story, but even I’m not proud enough to think it faultless. Would you mind sending me some notes? I hope to improve it before I show it to anyone else.”

“I will do my best,” he replied. “But I will admit I’m not a great reader. Perhaps Colin—“

“No,” she said, too forcefully she felt, so she covered it with a smile. “He will say kind things, but I’m afraid he will not take it seriously.”

Even that felt too close to the truth of her heart, but Benedict was nodding as though he understood.

“It can be hard to reveal our true selves, even to those close to us,” he said. “Although I’m sure—“

She cut him off, leaning close to get his attention on something that wasn’t his brother. “Could you also, perhaps, keep this matter quiet? Other than your colleague, of course. I do not want anyone,” she said with a brief pointed look in her mother’s direction, “to be involved in any of this until the last possible moment.”

Benedict looked pleased. “That’s very wise of you, Miss Featherington.”

She shrugged. “Someone in my family must have good sense.”

They laughed together and carried on speaking until Lady Featherington butted in.

“Penelope!” Her mother was looking at her expectantly. “Mr. Bridgerton asked you a question.”

Penelope looked at Colin, even though looking into his eyes felt like a physical blow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridgerton.” She made herself sound apologetic, as though she were the one who interrupted their conversation.

“N-not at all,” Colin stammered. “It wasn’t even a question really. I just- I had just mentioned that I’d already told you all about my travels. In my letters.”

He sounded awkward, but why shouldn’t he? She hadn’t even read any of his letters. “I apologise, Mama,” Penelope said, keeping her eyes averted. “I thought you were not interested in travelling abroad, or else I might have told you about them.”

“Not interested? Well I wouldn’t go—“

“I never received any of your letters,” Colin cut in.

The audacity of this statement struck her as absurd. “That’s because I didn’t write any.”

“None?” 

“I was very busy.”

Prudence snorted. “Busy? After the wedding, it was the most dull winter season we’ve had in years—“

“Very! Busy!” Lady Featherington exclaimed. “You know how young ladies are, Mr. Bridgerton. Always finding some productive way to fill their time.”

“Speaking of,” Penelope said. “Are we not due at the modiste?”

“Darling, we can go anytime—“

“It’s just that I need new dance shoes,” she said.

“You don’t dance,” Prudence said. “The only man you’ve ever danced with is—“

“Well perhaps I will find better ones,” Penelope cut in. “Shoes, that is.”

She hoped that hadn’t sounded as bitter as she felt, but one glance at Colin told her the blow had landed.

Benedict cleared his throat. “We should go as well,” he said, rising to his feet. “Thank you for the tea. We will see you again soon.” He nodded at Penelope, who smiled and nodded back.

“Will you be at Lady Danbury’s ball at the end of the week?” Lady Featherington asked, rising as the two men headed towards the door.

“I don’t think our mother would allow us to do otherwise,” Benedict said politely.

“What about your sister?” the older woman said. “She will be making her debut, yes? Will she also be attending this year?”

“I imagine the whole family will be there,” Benedict explained.

“That includes Eloise,” Colin added, shooting a questioning glance at Penelope.

She could merely nod her head. Facing one Bridgerton today was hard enough, the mere mention of the other made her sick all over again.

“Hmm,” Lady Featherington mused. “How brave of her.”

Penelope could have kicked her mother for that comment, but neither Bridgerton was stupid enough to take the bait. They smiled politely and made their goodbyes.

And if Penelope noticed the hurt in Colin’s expression, well, that was no longer a problem for her. She had more important things to worry about.

“Care to explain what happened in there?” his older brother asked as soon as they’d left the house. He wasn’t accusing Colin of anything. If anything he was laughing at him. But the question still pricked at him.

“I have no idea,” Colin answered. “Last we saw each other, we were the best of friends.”

“Well you must have done something,” his brother replied as they crossed the street. “She normally thinks so highly of you.”

There it was, that tone again! The way people talked to Colin like they knew something about Penelope that he didn’t. The last time someone had spoken to him that way—

He shoved the thought aside. “Maybe you can tell me. You two were thick as thieves in there.”

“Maybe we were laughing at you,” Benedict said with a chuckle. It died when he saw the look on Colin’s face. “Miss Featherington has asked for my help with a personal project.”

“A personal project?” The phrase confounded him. “But why would she go to you instead of me?”

“Why indeed,” Benedict muttered, but once they crossed the street he stopped and faced him. “I know you will not let this matter go, even if you only stew on it for days, so let me tell you what I can.”

His brother paused, as if selecting his words. “Miss Featherington has a… project…”

“Yes, you said,” Colin snapped. The comment about stewing on matters had felt patronising, and he was already tired and confused.

“Let me finish,” Benedict continued. “Unfortunately she has asked me not to divulge any of the details. But believe me, I do not think she approached me out of any feeling of affection or friendship. I think she made a practical choice, and I happened to be it.”

None of this clarified anything for Colin, nor did it make him feel any better. “What does this have to do with her being a good writer?”

Benedict sighed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do no worry brother. Despite present circumstances, you and Eloise are still the favoured Bridgertons in the Featherington household.”

They started walking towards the house, entering the foyer. The change was immediate; the noises of the street died down, and the familiar smell of his mother’s favourite flowers had a calming effect on his nerves. He was home, thank god.

“I will admit,” Benedict continued speaking in a slightly more hushed tone. “Miss Featherington took me by surprise. I always assumed she spent her time as a wallflower wishing for a man to ask her to dance, or that she could return home as soon as possible. Now I realise that she might have been watching us all along.”

The spell of home was broken. “Penelope has always been very clever,” Colin said darkly. He did not want to admit that he’d assumed the very same things.

“Yes, but clever enough to hide her true self from all the rest of us?”

“Penelope? Hiding something?” The whole idea of Miss Featherington was beginning to nettle him. “I doubt it. She is too sweet and agreeable to be duplicitous.”

Benedict shrugged. “You’re probably right. It would not take a great genius to hide behind her overbearing mother and sisters, just a strong sense of self-preservation.”

“Are those my boys I hear?” their mother called from the drawing room, and within a moment the whole family had surrounded them with affection and insistent demands for stories and attention. Colin did not have a single moment to himself until he went to bed, and he welcomed the distraction with open arms.

The Featheringtons were not the first family to arrive at the Danbury Ball. Her mother would die before ever appearing too eager, especially in front of the shrewd Lady Danbury. 

But her mother was, in fact, eager. With one Phillipa’s wedding come and gone, Lady Featherington was determined to push her good luck until it screamed. “Good things come in threes, girls,” she told them in the carriage. Her tone teetered on the line between encouragement and threat. 

Prudence didn’t seem to care, as long as she got to show off her new hairpiece, (purchased with Penelope’s money of course).

As for herself, standing off to the side in her usual way as families started to trickle in, Penelope was torn. Coming to a ball a little early was usually the best time for gossip. The servants were bored, so they would entertain themselves by swapping stories with each new announcement. 

“Mr. Fillmore, and Mrs. Fillmore!” 

“Now there’s a lady who never looked so happy.” 

“One would think, considering her dalliance with that theatre gentleman last year nearly ruined her chances.” 

“No, you’re thinking of the wrong Fillmore. She did run away to Monaco last summer, don't you remember it from Whistledown?” 

Penelope sighed. It was encouraging to know she still had an active readership, but this talk was not distracting enough to calm her nerves. Every time a new group was announced, Penelope’s eyes would fly to the entrance, only to chastise herself when it was a false alarm. Yet the anxiety would return no matter how stern she was with herself, because tonight was the night Francesca Bridgerton would officially enter society, and that meant the whole brood would be in attendance. 

Her mind played this dreadful game called “What Could Be Worse?” That Benedict would have no news of a publisher, or that he had changed his mind? That Eloise would give her the cold shoulder, or that she would announce Lady Whistledown’s identity from the band stand? That Colin would pester her to find out why she had ignored him, or that somehow he discovered how she felt about him and decided to avoid her and laugh about it with his friends.

Used to feel about him , she reminded herself. Yes, his confused look and exposed neckline had haunted her thoughts, leading her down old paths if she let them, but she considered the afternoon in her family’s drawing room as a full success. She had met with him again, face to face, and she did not stumble over herself as she would have done. 

She was, it could be said, on the road to a full recovery from Colin Bridgerton Lovesickness. 

“Did you hear Lord Franklin’s son is returning this season?” 

“I suppose enough time has passed since…”

Penelope perked up at the tell-tale pause of a meaningful glance. This might be just what I need . 

“I’m surprised his father didn’t force him to marry that girl!” 

“You mean the Ritter girl? Please, she is new money, nothing that couldn’t be handled with some discreet donations.” 

“Well, I did hear that she–”

“Penelope! I’m glad I found you!” 

Penelope jumped, turning to see that one of her possible “What Could be Worse?” scenarios had come true. Colin had somehow materialised next to her. He was at least wearing a cravat this time, but it was a shade of blue that both complemented his new colour and his eager blue eyes. He stood next to her as he always did at balls, with his hands behind his back and leaning into her space with a conspiratorial air. 

“Here I am,” she said, barely concealing her sour mood. 

His expression lost some of its familiarity. “I did not have a chance to speak with you the other day.”

“I disagree,” she said curtly. “We discussed your trip.”

“Your mother and I discussed it. You and Benedict were involved in a different conversation, concerning…” He trailed off, perhaps hoping she would fill in the blank for him. 

“A trivial matter,” she said. “Nothing to concern yourself with.” 

“You seemed very excited for it to be something so trivial.”

“Yes, well, you know how young ladies are. We get excited about the silliest things.” She was trying very hard not to look directly at him without seeming outright rude. 

“Ah yes, those new shoes you were so excited about,” he replied. “Tell me, did you find any to your liking? Shoes, that is.” 

He was smiling down at her, teasing her like this was a game they played for years. He galled her, and she could not help bite back. “I did, thank you.” 

“Are they comfortable?”

“Not quite, but it was more than time. My other pair have worn out their welcome.” 

“Excellent! Maybe you can let me help you break them in with a dance tonight.” Colin was refusing to take the hint, that cheeky grin making her heart race. He knew Penelope couldn’t outright refuse him, it was extremely impolite, but there were other ways to get around that. 

“I did not see the rest of your family come in,” she said. 

“No, we arrived separately,” he answered, looking back over his shoulder towards the crowd. “Mother wanted everyone to come together, but I decided to come a little early.”

“Will your whole family be in attendance?”

She could feel him watching her from the corner of her eye before he answered. “Yes, although Benedict decided he had more important plans.”

Penelope didn’t know how to respond to that, for the “What Could Be Worse?” game did not account for the older brother’s absence. 

“I’m sure you’ll be happy when Eloise arrives,” Colin continued, observing her very carefully. “She’s been a brute these past few months, I hear. Do you have any idea why?”

Penelope did not answer, did not dare even look at him. It took every bit of her experience to keep a neutral expression on her face, even though the question pierced her heart. 

“I thought you might, for she tells you everything,” Colin continued. “She dearly loves you, you know.”  His voice was low and tender, and when she looked up, she found she could not look away. His eyes were a safe haven, a calm port that beckoned to the rage inside her. He wanted answers, she could tell, but he was not going to demand them. He was more gentle than that. He only seemed concerned, and that combined with his statements made her feel weak. 

She looked away, hoping he didn’t see how her eyes had started to sting. “I-I will have to confess my ignorance of Eloise’s well-being. We have not spoken since my mama’s ball last season.”

Colin’s posture next to her seemed to change, his hand clenched to his side. “Penelope,” he said, and the way he said it commanded her heart’s attention. She looked back to him, seeing the same anguish on his face as she felt in her chest.

He cleared his throat. “There is something I have to tell you–”

Before he could say anything else, the man at the entrance announced in a loud voice the arrival of the rest of the Bridgerton family. Colin looked away from her for the briefest second, and she knew it was her chance. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, then darted away, using every power she had to fade into the shadows. 

The best thing about Francesa’s debut was that no one cared about Eloise anymore, and therefore no one at the ball noticed her deep scowl upon entering. Not that she minded if others saw her poor mood, for it was useful against small talk and chatter.

But her mother had a point of watching her lately, especially at social gatherings. She’d noticed Eloise’s strange behaviour over the winter; her sudden swings from sullen to restless had alerted her family that something was wrong. It had alarmed her mother so much that she actually suggested that Eloise sit out this season.

But Eloise had refused. She let them do her hair and makeup. She put on the dress and the gloves without complaint. She was ready for battle, but not in the way her mother supposed.

She was not going to let Penelope, Lady Whistledown, win this time.

The ball was just starting when they arrived, everyone in their fanciest dress, overly large feathers and flowers stuck just-so into their hairlines. The band was playing something pleasant, non-offensive, so the dancing had clearly not started yet.

Good. This made it easier for Eloise to enact her plan.

“Are you looking for someone?” Kate, the new Viscountess, had appeared at her elbow, giving her a wry smile.

She was stunning, but wasn’t she always? Her dark blue dress matched Anthony’s suit, and Eloise supposed it complimented her in some way, but to be honest it wasn’t a silly dress that raised Kate above the others.

“I’ll have you know,” Eloise answered in a low tone, “I’m looking for the darkest corners of the room one can hide themselves.”

Most of her family would have been horrified and exasperated by that statement. Kate just looked amused.  “To what end, might I ask?”

“If I tell you, will you tell on me to my brother?”

Kate laughed. “I highly doubt it, unless you are planning something extremely dire.”

Eloise snorted at that, loud enough that her mother heard her from ahead of them. She shot her daughter with a look of reproach, but it was mixed with the helpless pity that she often looked at her with.

Eloise scowled, and looked away. “I wish she wouldn’t look at me like that,” she muttered.

Kate gently put her hand on Eloise’s arm. “She’s just concerned.”

“Concerned I’ll make a scene.”

Her new sister looked around the room once, looking for the same person Eloise was probably looking for. “Balls are a good opportunity to reconnect,” she said gently. “Perhaps—“

“I do not wish to discuss this again,” Eloise snapped. But immediately she regretted it; Kate had been the one Bridgerton to still see her in a sympathetic light after she’d spent the entire winter biting everyone else’s hands. Perhaps it was because she was not used to Eloise, and had not enough time to become tired of her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s my first time out in several months. It was already a nerve-wracking experience before, and now… I just need to warm up to society again.”

Kate nodded, accepting her apology. “I understand. If you need me…”

By now her brother was making his way over to them, most likely to reclaim his wife’s attention, and Eloise had no intention of diverting any of his attention to herself. “No, no,” she said, in a more cheerful tone than she felt. “You go be a Viscountess. Sweep everyone off their feet, and I will regulate myself to the dark corners I mentioned earlier.”

Kate gave her arm one last squeeze. “In that case, might I suggest that particular dark corner near the orchestra? It is closest to an exit.”

Eloise couldn’t help but grin at that. “You are truly a remarkable addition to this family. Now go, before my brother decides to undo all your good work and pass my dance card around to the nearest bachelor.” Not that he would, of course. That seemed more her mother’s ploy.

But thankfully her mother decided not to worry about her state of matrimony on this particular evening, allowing Eloise to move her way to the edge of the room, where she planned to stay the rest of the evening, as long as—

Yes. There she was. 

Eloise’s blood rushed past her ears as she zeroed in on Penelope in a dark corner, wearing another stupid yellow dress.

It was astounding how one evening changed everything she saw about her old friend. Penelope was looking around the room in what appeared to be… trepidation? The same nerves Eloise had always assigned to her dear friend, the ones that made her pity her? Or was that just another ploy to cover up her true motives tonight?

Eloise clung to the wall, out of any potential line of sight from her mother. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait here long, and then she could enact her plan.

It was, admittedly, not a very good plan. But it was the best one she had, without knowing more about Penelope’s operation methods. With any luck, this plan would help her get more information, and then she could really—

Her breath caught in her throat. There, close to the punch table, the short redheaded girl had quietly taken her post. Her hair was less eccentric than it used to be, instead opting for graceful brushed out curls. The dress was still yellow, but lacked the childish ornamentation of buds and butterflies. Instead, and she wasn’t sure how it was done because Eloise had never cared a whit for fashion, the effect was more subtle and mature. It was as though Penelope had grown up in her absence, and the thought incensed her.

Despite these drastic changes, no one besides Eloise gave Penelope a second glance. In fact, she was pouring herself a glass and settling in for a night of eavesdropping.

Well, not if Eloise had anything to say about it.

She marched right up to the punch table, poured herself her own glass, and stood as close to Penelope Featherington as she could stand.

She cleared her throat. “Miss Featherington.”

A pause. “Miss Bridgerton.”

“Did you have a good winter?”

“I did.”

“Me too.”

“Lovely.”

“Excellent.”

She had not even turned to look at her yet, instead keeping her eyes resolutely on the comings and goings in front of her. Most of the members of the ton were absorbed in their own dramas, girls simpering and men preening and all that. Some saw her in the corner and smiled in greeting, and she smiled back, the movement tight and painful.

“Is there anything else?” Penelope asked in a calm voice. “Or are you just here for refreshment?”

“You know, I’ve come up with a new game,” Eloise said, turning to face her old friend. Penelope’s face was the picture of impassivity, but colour was rising on her neck that practically matched her hair. Good , Eloise thought before continuing with her thoughts. “It’s one I’m sure you’re already familiar with. You see, the rules are that you stand in the corner, like we are doing just now, and you try to put yourself in the mind of someone else.”

Penelope’s mouth tightened. “Such as?”

“Well it has to be someone you have nothing in common with,” Eloise continued. “For me, it is Lady Whistledown. What would she have to say about, oh, Lord Fife and his lady friend on the dance floor?”

Penelope sipped her punch. “Indeed, what a fun game. Although I might have the advantage on you in this.”

“You missed my rule then, for it must be someone you have nothing in common with,” Eloise said in a low voice. “For you, it might be a saint, or a mother, or perhaps someone popular.”

There was a flash in Penelope’s eyes, and Eloise knew the barb had landed. “You’re right,” she said. “I will have a difficult time with this game. But unlike me, you will know exactly what Lady Whistledown thinks tomorrow morning.” She put her glass down on the table with some force. “Have a good evening, Miss Bridgerton.”

No sooner than she’d taken a few steps away, Eloise followed her close behind. 

She paused, and then kept going. Eloise did the same. 

Penelope stopped abruptly and rounded on her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, keeping her eye ever on the ton.

Eloise smirked. “Getting into the mind of Lady Whistledown, I told you.”

Penelope looked almost at a loss for words. “So you intend to shadow me all evening?”

“And every night at every ball from here until eternity,” Eloise snapped back, keeping her voice low. “I will not stop until you and your rag are ruined.”

Eloise had been in enough serious sibling spats to recognize violence in someone’s eyes, and there was no doubt in her mind that Penelope was considering it, even if they were in a crowded ballroom. She almost wished she would, just so Eloise would have an excuse to get her own licks in.

But that would go against Penelope’s public image as the wallflower, and she needed that to continue her scheme. Instead they just stood there, glaring malevolently at each other until Penelope broke their eye contact. “We’ll see about this,” she muttered.

She left the edges of the room and plunged directly into the crowd. Eloise scoffed, as though that would help her get away, and followed closely behind.

She thought that Penelope was just trying to lose her in the crowd, but to her surprise, the smaller woman stopped right in front of Lord Cho and his mother, Lady Cho. 

“Good evening, Lady Cho,” she said brightly and loudly. The two looked around, surprised, before they registered who was speaking to them.

“Miss Featherington,” Lady Cho said politely. “I didn’t see you there.”

Penelope barreled on. “Isn’t tonight lovely? Lady Danbury outdoes herself every year.”

From Eloise’s perspective, the young man and his mother seemed to not even register that this was probably the most Penelope had ever spoken to anyone at a ball. “Indeed, Lady Danbury always sets the right tone for the season,” Lady Cho replied.

“Speaking of setting the right tone,” Penelope kept going. “Miss Bridgerton here was just telling me she intended to dance more this season. What do you say, Lord Cho?”

God in heaven! Eloise froze for a moment, her expression probably mirroring the one of terror on Lord Cho. “I—well—“

“He would be delighted,” Lady Cho said quickly.. “Wouldn’t you, son?”

Lord Cho bowed. “Would you have room on your dance card for me tonight, Miss Bridgerton?”

Blast, damn, and blast again! Eloise looked down at her dance card, which she had neglected to fill with her usual fake names. “Uh…”

“One of the waltzes, perhaps?” Lady Cho said. “My son is excellent at waltzing.”

“Let me… yes…” But now she realised that Penelope had given her the slip! ““I forgot my pencil!” Eloise finally burst out. “Pardon me!” She curtseyed quickly and pushed past the Cho’s, knowing full well she was going to get an earful about it from her mother later.

Penelope had some distance on her, but she’d paused to look back, her eyes locking with Eloise.

Your mistake, Eloise thought, and made her way through the crowd. 

But by the time she reached the other girl she’d stopped again . This time it was Lord Ambrose and that tittering Miss Goring, both of whom again seemed surprised to be interrupted.

“Miss Goring,” Eloise heard Penelope say. “How is your harp playing?”

Miss Goring blinked stupidly. “I’m sorry Miss Featherington, I didn’t see you there. Can you repeat the question?”

Penelope didn’t even blink. “I asked about your harp playing. I hear you have quite the ear.”

The girl lit up, and with a furtive glance at her male companion, answered, “I’m flattered to hear that my reputation precedes me.”

“Yes well, Miss Bridgerton and I,” Penelope said before Eloise could try to get away, “We often discuss women’s education, don’t we Eloise?”

Eloise glared at the red-headed girl.

Penelope ignored her. “We were comparing a woman’s education to men’s. Say, for example, do you think mathematics for the gentlemen and music for the ladies is on the same footing, Lord Ambrose?”

The young man scoffed. “I should hardly think so.”

“Oh?” Penelope asked in a simpering tone. “And why is that?”

The man had a face that seemed made for smuggery, as he smiled without showing his teeth. “I know that music is a fine endeavour, and it makes an evening such as this far more enjoyable,” he said, looking around the room for effect, “but surely it is not on the same level as mathematics.”

Don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for— “And why not?” Eloise asked. Dammit.

“Obviously because mathematics is integral to keeping the empire alive. We need it for banking, transport—“

“When was the last time you played an instrument, Lord Ambrose?”

His expression was dumbfounded.

“Do you understand the mathematics involved in playing music? In composing a piece such as the one you’re hearing tonight? Isn’t that right, Miss Goring?” 

But now Eloise had looked down only to realise Penelope was gone again. “Blast!”

The two bystanders gasped. “I beg your pardon?”

She did not bother to curtsy. Where had she gone—!

There! Making a bee-line straight to one of the James twins. Surely she would not? The James twins were Cressida’s most loyal lackeys, and where they were, the Cowpers would not be far. Would she really be so desperate?

She would.

Eloise caught up to Penelope just as she’d started the conversation. “—your sister is doing well?”

Though Eloise was by no means Penelope’s defender, the look the James twin gave her made her blood boil. Everyone else had treated Penelope with indifference, but this girl looked at her like she’d smelt curdled milk. She did not know Penelope, not like Eloise did. What right did she have to look at anyone like that?

“She is, thank you,” the James girl said. She was looking curiously between Penelope and Eloise, whose face felt hot and her hair was coming out of its pins. “She is on her honeymoon in the Orkney Isles.”

“Marvellous!” Penelope said, too brightly. “Eloise and I have often spoken about wishing to travel to Scotland. In fact, I always joke with her that Scotland might be the only place with men wild enough to be her match.”

This was too far, and Penelope knew it by the way she was looking at Eloise. 

“I have no intention of marrying any man,” Eloise spat out. “I simply admire the Scot’s desire for independence which is rightfully theirs.”

The James girl laughed, sounding surprised. “Is that how you feel about the Irish as well, then?”

Eloise would not take her eyes off of Penelope this time. “I do,” she stated. “Although I’d be more inclined to support them if they did not resort to such underhanded tactics . Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Featherington?”

Penelope’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Be careful, Eloise. We are all in the Queen’s presence. We wouldn’t want to hear more about your political leanings in Whistledown, would we?”

Oh if they were men, she would have hit her square in the jaw right then and there, consequences be damned!

But something worse interrupted their fight.

“My, my, Eloise Bridgerton. So good to see you out in public again.”

Cressida Cowper had appeared, her blonde hair in an elaborate braid contraption that resembled some kind of rat’s nest. In fact, she had never seemed so rat-like in her life, a true accomplishment if there was any.

The James twin, who’d been watching Eloise and Penelope with great interest, immediately stepped behind her master without a word. As for Penelope, who had surely destroyed her shy wallflower act in the last five minutes, the girl looked like a trapped animal.

Cressida paid them no mind. “I thought you might be out on the picket lines, assisting those short, fat gorilla women in their quest for equality,” she said to Eloise with a smirk. “After all, you’ve always had an affinity for those kinds of companions.”

Eloise went cold all over. “What did you say—“

But Cressida had turned her evil gaze to Penelope. “Oh, I’m so sorry Miss Featherington. I didn’t see you there.”

The phrase broke the last of Eloise’s self-control. “Does nobody see her?” she all but yelled. “Does nobody notice Penelope Featherington?!”

“Eloise!”

Her mother emerged from the shocked and silent crowd, and grabbed her daughter by the arm. Eloise had never seen her so angry. “You are finished tonight,” her mother hissed in her ear.

Eloise felt numb, too numb to protest. The last thing she saw before her mother pulled her away was the fury in Penelope’s eyes.

She could not get away fast enough.

It did not matter that everyone was looking at her, that she was openly crying in public, again , for god’s sake! All that mattered was leaving that ballroom as fast as humanly possible.

For once she did not have to push her way through the crowd; they parted for her without a word. It was a luxury rarely afforded to her, but Penelope could not enjoy it. It was never enjoyable to be the subject of such careless pity.

The chilly spring night greeted her with open arms, and she plummeted into it with fervour. Oh god, she was out! But she could still hear the music, the laughter, her name on the wind—

“Penelope!”

Her heart recognized the voice before her mind. It lurched towards him, like a wounded child, but oh no, her mind said when it caught up, we will not let him see us like this.

Penelope gathered herself again and ran straight into the garden. It was beautifully lit, a romantic fairy tale place with only servants posted nearby, watching her barrel past with piqued interest.

“Penelope, please stop!”

He was getting closer, damn her short legs, these insufferable stays, her mother had tightened them too much again!  But she had to make it, she had to leave—!

She felt a warm hand grab her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “For the love of god, Pen!” She turned to face her captor: Colin Bridgerton, looking extremely winded as though he’d chased her for hours. “When did you get so fast—“

“Let go of me!” she cried, yanking her arm from his grasp. “You have no right to touch me in that way!”

Colin’s face was etched with concern, his hands moving in the air as though he meant to grab her again. She had never seen him like this, nearly frantic. “Penelope, please, tell me what’s wrong,” he begged. “What is happening? How can I help?”

“Help?” The very word struck her like a blow. “You want to help?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, clearly pained. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do! Please, just tell me what is happening with you and Eloise, and I will—“

Now she recognized his look. He wanted to help, just like he’d helped her family with Cousin Jack. And for what purpose? To save her? No, no it was coming clearer with every second what he was.

“You will do nothing ,” she hissed. “I do not need your help, Mr. Bridgerton, not anymore.”

“Mis—Mister Bridgerton?” The young man, always so charming and amiable, always ready with the right words, was speechless. She was astounded that anything she said could reduce this man to stuttering, when it had always been the other way round.

He stepped forward, but he was not pleading. “Penelope, what did I do? You refused to answer my letters, you avoided me the other morning and tonight, and now you treat me with outright contempt?” With every declaration, he invaded her space. She could smell his aftershave, a warm spiced scent that warmed her own blood. “I thought we were friends, Pen.”

His last statement was quiet, almost a whisper, but it sounded as loud as a church bell in her head.

“Friends?”

She laughed. Friends! She had no friends! No companions, no connections beyond the professional. Years of sitting with the Bridgertons during teatime taught her she barely even had a family, and after tonight—!

“You did my family a great service last season,” she ground out, fighting the tears gathering in her eyes. “But friends, Mister Bridgerton, do not disparage each other in public, loudly laughing with their male acquaintances after doing such great services.”

Colin crumbled beneath her gaze. She did not have to explain further; she could tell he knew exactly what she was talking about.

He was, what? Hurt? Angry? Ashamed? These were expressions she’d never seen on him before, not this way.

“Pen, please let me explain.“

“I do not need explanations,” she said, her voice steady. “You see me as someone on whom you can take pity, someone you can save when your confidence needs a bolster.”

He recoiled as though he had been struck, but only for a moment. “That is not true!”

“You are embarrassed to be associated with me!” she shot back. “Why else would you say such cruel things? Not in your wildest dreams , you said! I was there, I heard everything!”

“Penelope, stop!” he thundered, grabbing her by the shoulders as though she would bolt again.

They were so close to each other, so tantalisingly close. Colin’s eyes were dark, frantically scouring her face for a glimpse of the old Penelope, that one who would simper and sigh. She was still there, she knew, for every movement of his hands on her shoulders, slipping down to her arms, his thumbs moving in half-circles on her bare skin, set her blood ablaze. She could easily kiss him at this distance, or slap him, and for one crazed moment she considered both.

“Very well, Mister Bridgerton. Explain.”

She watched him war with himself, his gaze travelling up and down her face, her hair, her body.

He gulped.

He said nothing.

The fight left her body in one rush. “I see,” she whispered.

She stepped back and away from him, his arms dropping helplessly to his sides. “It seems I am the reason the Bridgerton family is in distress tonight,” she said. She’d meant it to be sarcastic, but to her own ears it sounded painful. “I will remove myself, and let your family return to their peaceful lives. Good night, Mister Bridgerton.”

Penelope left Colin in the garden, and she did not look back.

Chapter Text

“A person can see where they’ve messed up in their life, and they can change the way they do things, and they can even change their luck. So maybe my nature does draw me to you, that don’t mean I have to go with it. I can take hold of myself, and I can say ‘yes’ to some things and ‘no’ to other things that are gonna ruin everything, I can do that.”

-Cher as Loretta Casterini, Moonstruck (1987)

When Penelope sat down that evening to write her newsletter, she couldn’t stop the tears. That ball had been the worst experience of her life, which was truly saying something.

First Eloise and her pig-headed plan, then the excruciating ordeal of approaching all those people! It was the most speaking she’d ever had to do at a ball, and not a single person acknowledged her presence once Eloise arrived. Yes, that had been her entire plan, and by god it worked! But the victory was a weak balm for her wounds.

And then…

She did not think she would ever be able to forget Colin’s expressions that night. He’d seemed like a stranger at times, a stranger whose face she knew as intimately as her own. She’d almost reached out to him, he’d been so close, his blue eyes dark and full of pain.

But she’d stayed strong, and in the end he’d proven her right.

She was right .

Perhaps this was why she’d been so unmotivated to write Whistledown this winter? Her experiences had caused her to question her own judgement, the very thing that had made her writing so successful. It was her soft spot for the Bridgertons that had made her blind, but the scales had fallen now.  

She had realised in that moment what her path was going to be, and because of Whistledown, she had the power to grasp it with both hands.   

Whistledown came easily to her pen after that, and by the time she finished it was early morning. She donned her most inconspicuous cloak, ordered a cab, and made her way to church well before Abigail would wake and assist her with her morning toilet.

If anyone asked, she would simply say she was going to church.

There were plenty of moments in that carriage when Penelope questioned herself. She tried to puzzle out every single outcome to calm her nerves, going over every line from her writing again and again.  

When she’d knelt in the pew, picking out the particular book of prayer she and her new publisher had agreed upon so she could smuggle her words into print, she nearly ripped them up entirely. Was this truly the only course of action?

She’d felt someone’s gaze on her. Seized by panic, she looked up only to realise it was the shabby Christ on the cross, positioned at the front of the altar.

She was not a particularly religious person. Her mother had always taken them to church on the normal holidays and feasts, but the only bit of religious teaching she’d passed down to her daughters was “God helps those who help themselves.”  

Well, here she was; may God bless her efforts.

Colin was pretty sure he’d interrupted the florist’s breakfast, based on the crumbs in his beard and the scowl on his face. It’d taken all of his charm to convince the man to open early, and when that didn’t work, the promise of a large, expensive order.   

“We always get one of your type,” he said, unlocking the door to the dark shop. The smell was fresh, slightly sweet, and the blooms seemed to glow. “Just not normally this early in the season. So, the usual? Roses, violets, peonies?”

“What?” Colin had been lost in thought, and had been all night. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, his mind replaying all the worst and most baffling moments of the night before. “Um, no. No, these are for a friend.”

“Ah. Well we have a beautiful selection of yellow roses—“

“Nothing yellow,” Colin cut in, his voice sounding abrupt. “Sorry. I just need something that tells her-“

Tell her what? That he missed her more now than when he’s been aboard? That he never meant to take her for granted? That it was not embarrassment that froze his tongue last night, but the sight of her standing in the moonlight, chest heaving with fury, her soft lips barely parted? How when her pink tongue darted across her lips, he had imagined how it would feel on his own? How his hands had itched to touch more than just the bare strip of skin above her gloves, to roam down her back, to find out how soft the tops of her breasts truly were? How all these thoughts, so foreign to him, had set his body ablaze but froze his mind, his very reason?

“I need to apologise,” he said. 

The florist looked at him askance, but didn’t pry. He gathered several bouquets of various blooms, without a hint of yellow, and Colin paid for all of them to be delivered to the Featheringtons that morning. He threw in two bouquets for his mother and Francesca (her first night out had been a disaster, no thanks to her own siblings).

With that taken care of, and the other shops opening their doors, Colin decided to see what else would make a nice gift for his friend. However it did not take long for him to realise that other than books and hating the colour yellow, he did not know his friend all that well. He knew his favourite things that he wanted to share with her, but that would not carry the same effect. He was ashamed by this realisation, because it seemed to confirm what Penelope had accused him of: using her for his own vain-glorious purposes.  

Several times, he wished Eloise was with him. She might hate Penelope right now, but at least she knew her. She’d spent time with her, and they must have discussed things like her favourite foods, or which cut of ribbons she preferred, or (most especially) what sort of books she was looking forward to reading. These were the kinds of things friends knew about each other, but they were the kinds of things you could only find out by spending time with each other, unhurried by families or societal obligations.  

He knew as children Penelope liked powdered lemon tarts, and that she was actually very good at gin rummy. As to her favourite books, that was a question he might have been able to answer last spring, but this morning he doubted any answer his mind could conjure. All of these answers seemed insufficient.

He ended up in the stationary shop, resigned to at least buy a new notebook for himself, as he’d finished the last one on the boat home.  

The real issue, he thought as he flipped through various styles of journal, was that men and women had no way of being together as friends. The two groups were kept apart in every aspect of society except when it came to families and marriage. Even if Penelope had been a frequent guest in their home, he’d never been allowed to sit in a room alone with her, asking her whatever question popped into his mind. He’d thought their letters were a good substitute, but he realised now they could not hold a candle to actually being in her presence. 

His mind was so fixed on her that he thought he saw her out of the corner of his eye, walking through the streets he could see through the shop window. But as soon as he thought he’d seen her, she was gone, and he knew his vision had only been the result of a sleepless night. Besides, now that he thought about it, the woman had been wearing a servant’s cloak. There was no way it was Penelope. 

He turned his attention back to reality, when a small display in the window caught his eye. It was a writing instrument, an elongated writing nib made of decorated brass with a green coloured cap on the other end. When he picked it up, it felt heavy, but balanced, and to his great surprise when he ran the tip across his finger, it was marked with green ink.

“That’s my new invention,” the man who owned the shop said. He was older than Colin, a little grey appearing in his overgrown sideburns, but his eyes were sharp.  “It’s a pen with the ink already inside.” 

“Marvellous,” Colin said in wonder. “This would be useful for travelling.”

“Extremely, sir,” the shop owner said. “Would you like to try it?” 

After a brief demonstration, Colin tried it for himself. It was remarkable; a pen that you did not have to dip constantly, for the ink flowed steadily and freely. 

Yes, it would be a great tool on his travels. But the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it might not be a better gift for someone else. Someone who, according to his sister, was always spending her pocket money on quills and ink.  

He asked about the price, and had the store owner wrap it up for him. “I’ll bring it home myself,” he said. “And could you wrap it nicely, please? For a young lady.” 

The storeowner looked a little annoyed. “I intended this to be a serious instrument, sir, one for a gentleman such as yourself to conduct his business. Surely your young lady does not write so much?”

The statement pricked at Colin, but he kept his smile. “You do not know my young lady.”

The carriage ride home was short, for Colin’s mind was busy. What if , he wondered, men and women could be friends, without the threat of marriage mamas and societal ruin hovering over their heads?

In other words, what if what he had with Penelope was normal? 

If it were permitted, would Colin have many women friends? He imagined he would. He was friends with almost everyone now, and his sisters liked him well enough. Being friends with women would have its challenges, for they were still different from men, but would it be so bad? 

If he did have women friends, though, would he still consider Pen his best friend? He had to imagine he would, even though he knew there were probably ladies who were smarter and cleverer than her. He did not think there were many , and they probably didn’t live in London, but everyone had their betters, in the same way there were men who were far stronger and more capable than himself. 

But yes, he knew he would choose Penelope as his friend over anyone else. Even if all men and women were considered equally, and each had their own merits and values, Penelope rose above the rest based solely on her kindness. 

She was not above an occasional pointed barb, but for the most part she treated everyone she met with kindness and fairness. That was a rare trait in a human, man or woman, one he was taught to prize above all else. 

The question that nagged at him was this: if she had a choice, all men and women being equal, would Pen still be friends with him ? 

He had no doubt that even if she had every choice, she would choose Eloise. She would still come to their house, he would still have grown up seeing her at tea time during the spring and summer months. With this in mind, he supposed they would still be at least friendly .  

But if Penelope had every man in the world to choose as a friend, if there was nothing stopping her from walking on the street and speaking to whomever she pleased, why would she choose him?   

He didn’t even know what kind of food she liked, what sort of music she preferred. He was the third son of a large family, with no passions outside of travel, and those kinds of men were a dime a dozen. Vagrant wanderers with nothing better to do than pass the time, and no real purpose beyond watching the world turn. Yes, he’d loved writing to her, writing for her in a way. And he had helped her in times of need, but would that be enough to mark him apart from every other young man in London? Is that not just what a gentleman did? 

Suppose she found a male friend who did all the same things he did, wrote to her as often. She would still be right to abandon him for another after what he’d said at her family’s ball. She would choose the friendship of a man who would not be so distracted by sudden thoughts of her soft lips that he failed to apologise when it was needed most.

He flushed, and gripped the parcel in his lap. Now that he was nearing his home, he was second-guessing this gift. Writing had brought them together, but would she view this gift as a backhanded slight? “Here, I’ve bought you a pen. You did not write, so I thought you had none.” 

He used to comfort himself over the winter in Greece that there was no possibility that she would read that kind of ill intent into any of his words. Now he knew better, and she had told him as much that night. 

No, he realised sadly. He would have to wait until things were better to give this particular gift. He handed it to the footman, giving him instructions to put it in his room, and when to expect flowers for his mother and sister. He heard movement in the breakfast room, and his stomach gurgled at the thought. 

He’d done all he could do for the time being. Penelope may see people’s flaws quicker than Colin, but she was also quicker to forgive. He hoped this was still the case for him. 

 I t amazed Benedict how much energy it took to go to a ball.

It used to be fine! He was a young man with boundless energy, and he would jump from one group to the next. He would dance with as many ladies who amused him, then reconvene at Whites later for cards and drinking until the sun came up.

These evenings were always more fun with his brothers. Anthony, often viewed as taking things too seriously, wasn’t always that way. He enjoyed showing his little brother around, having a partner in crime. But when he grew older and more tired, Benedict had the express pleasure of being the older brother to Colin.

Colin could outpace his brother any night of the week. It was marvellous, watching him joke his way into any crowd, charm his way out of any situation (except maybe with Anthony). Benedict never laughed so hard as when Colin joined the Bridgerton party, and the three of them enjoyed many nights out on the town.

Now, of course, things have changed. Anthony had his beautiful bride waiting for him at home, so he no longer spent as many nights out. Colin travelled much of the year, and as for Benedict? His painting had taught him the value of quiet, focused reflection. Even when he decided to give up and pursue more important things, he found he didn’t have nearly as much energy as he once did.  

Maybe he was getting older, hopefully he was getting wiser, but regardless, he just didn’t want to go to the Danbury Ball that night.

“Anthony and Colin will be there to support Francesa,” he’d told his mother. “And besides, I have work to do.  

“Work?” His mother was not the only one giving him a sceptical look. Colin and Hyacinth, easily the shrewdest members of the family after his mother, were exchanging glances from their corners of the drawing room.

He nodded. “It is a personal project, but one that I hope will have happy results.”

His mother’s lips tightened. “Can it not wait?”

“Can I help?” Hyacinth piped up.

“It cannot, and you cannot,” he said with a smile. “But trust me, the sooner I finish it, the sooner I can reveal all.” He said this with an aim to comfort his brother, whose usual easy continence had turned sour.  

His youngest sister was far from mollified. “This is so mysterious,” she said, leaning forward on the back of the settee. “Are you sure I cannot help? I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Colin snorted.

“I am!”

“A certain kitten in the wardrobe would probably disagree,” Colin muttered, but he was smiling again, back to his usual self.

Their mother rolled her eyes, but anyone who looked at her could tell she was thrilled to have her whole family back under one roof. “Very well,” she told Benedict. “But don’t make a habit of this. I prefer us to present as a unit during the season.”

“I know, Mother,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Have a good time tonight! I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning.”

When he returned to his modest flat that evening, Benedict was able to sit down with a glass of brandy and get to work.

He wrote one letter first, to Mr. Christopher Franklin III, son of Lord Christopher Franklin II. He knew from his various contacts in the Art Academy that not only was Christopher a patron of the visual arts (and he had met the man at a few of the late night gatherings), his family owned one of the top publishing houses in the country.

According to gossip, Lord Franklin I had a soft spot for grand historic tomes. He’d bought a few dozen printing presses, and soon a respectable publishing business was born. 

Since the first Lord Franklins’ death, however, the house had gone into somewhat of a decline, and Benedict had often heard Lord Franklin III complaining about inheriting a bloated corpse of a business.

Well, Benedict had just the thing to bring it back to life.

With his first letter out of the way, he was able to spend the rest of the evening enjoying Penelope’s book for the second time.

She’d asked him to make suggestions, so he dutifully jotted down notes, but to be honest, he was a bit in awe. This young woman, who’d spent so many years in his family’s home that he regarded her as another sibling, used words the way great painters used brush strokes.

Benedict had been telling the truth when he said he was not a great reader, and had not thought he would be able to get past the first five pages. But this felt like Art, and that feeling, that longing to plunge one’s hands deep into the work and grasp the genius inside with both hands…!

He had wanted to create great works like this, and a part of him still did. He thought, he’d hoped, that he was a natural talent, and with a little guidance, his works could be marked among the Masters.

Yet here, in his hands, was a true natural talent. It made him ache for a paintbrush and canvas in a way he thought was long dead, but he pushed the feeling aside. Miss Featherington had given him a job, and he would do everything in his power to see this project through.  

He finished up his notes, followed by a brief description of what his next steps would be to get her closer to publishing. He folded the papers, tied it with string, and allowed himself the smug pleasure of being the first person to encounter genius.  

Well, he was probably not the first, of course. Eloise often remarked how clever her quiet friend was when the doors were closed. Colin had mentioned last year how wonderful Penelope’s writing was, and how encouraged he felt by her words. But if they’d seen it, why did they not encourage her? Why did she feel safer coming to him? Did they truly not see what she’d been this whole time?  

Probably not, Benedict thought as he fell asleep. He never would have either, had she not handed the proof to him directly.

When he woke the next morning, he was refreshed and downright spry. He decided to walk to his mother’s home, handing his two letters to the footman before he left. The early morning sky had all the charm of a gentle spring day, it was pleasantly warm, and everyone seemed to greet him with a smile.

That was the case, at least, until he entered his family’s breakfast room.

He’d often seen the after-effects of attending a ball in his home, but nothing like he was seeing now. His mother, who might keep the windows drawn if she’d had too much to drink, looked haggard, but not sick. Francesca, who should have been glowing, instead had a pinched look of worry on her face, and kept her eyes resolutely on the plate in front of her. Neither Colin nor Eloise were present, and Gregory and Hyacinth caught Benedicts’ eye when he entered to give him a look of warning.

Of all the balls to skip, it had to be this one.

He repressed a sigh, instead murmuring his good mornings and kissing his mother on her forehead. Then he gathered some food, and sat next to Francesca.  

“So,” he said in as low a tone as possible. “How was your first ball?”

His sister, who had grown up so much in her year abroad, gave him the same side-eyed look of exasperation she’d given him for years. “Well enough,” she replied. “Anthony and Kate presented me to the Queen, and I had a few dances.”

Benedict frowned. “Anthony and Kate? Where was Mother?”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” his mother cut in.

Benedict looked from his mother, who was holding her fork rather tightly, to his sister, who shook her head.

Suddenly the door opened, and in walked Colin. He was fully dressed, even taking his gloves off as he made a beeline for the food. “My apologies for being late, Mother,” he said, a piece of toast already halfway to his mouth.

“And where were you this morning?” she asked, tired and annoyed.

Her tone must have alerted Colin, for he put his plate down and took a second to kiss his mother the same way Benedict had. “At the florist,” he said cheerfully. “In fact I brought home a bundle for you and Francesca. Lilies, which should be waiting in your room when you return.”

Their mother’s expression softened, and she squeezed his hand. “That is very kind, thank you.”

Colin nodded, then sat down across from Francesca. Benedict shot him an amused look. Show-off.

His brother smiled and shrugged, but it did not take long for his good humour to leave as well. What on earth happened last night.  

He did not have to wait long to find out. The maid entered quietly, carrying two familiar looking newsletters on a small tray. She offered them to her Lady, feebly announcing “The new Whistledown, ma’am.”

It was like a shot had gone off. Everyone was tense, sending furtive looks at each other and their mother as she took a newsletter from the tray, and instructed the maid to put the other on the serving table. Lady Bridgerton closed her eyes for a moment, shoring up what little energy she seemed to have this morning, and then opened the paper.

Benedict watched as her sharp eyes scanned the lines, exercising the kind of scrutiny he’d spent his whole life avoiding. For a single moment, she seemed to relax. All was not well, he surmised, but it could be worse.

But just as quickly as she’d relaxed, a fire reignited in her eyes. There were no obvious signs of fury, no crumpling of the paper, no pounding the table or shouting. But the Bridgerton children knew exactly what it meant when she got that look about her.

His mother folded the paper neatly, held it in her lap, and cleared her throat. “Colin. Would you join me in the office upstairs, please?”

Shocked looks all around the table. Colin? The golden child? Whistledown had never said a bad word about him, not even in that debacle with Miss Thompson. What had happened?

Colin, for his part, looked sick. He followed his mother wordlessly from the table and out of the door.

The remaining Bridgertons sat still for about ten seconds.

Then it was a race.

Hyacinth threw at least one elbow in the chaos. Francesca physically barred Gregory with her whole body. Benedict tried to reach over and snatch it from Hyacinth’s hands, but she was too quick. She retreated to a corner of the room like a rabbit, her eyes scanning the paper in the chaos.  

“Let me see!”

“Hyacinth, it was my debut—“

“I need to know—“

A gasp silenced them all. “ Eloise! ” Hyacinth cried, her mouth open in shock.

Benedict’s stomach dropped. Not again! “What happened?” he asked sharply, still trying to edge in front of Gregory who was aiming for a sneak attack on his left. “Is she alright?"  

Hyacinth’s eyes darted back and forth. “It says she was unbelievably rude, and snubbed at least three distinguished parties…”

Francesca rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, what else?”

“Wait, what does that mean?” Benedict asked.

“Who did she snub?” chimed in Gregory.

But their little sister read on. “It seems Mother brought her home early after an outburst involving Penelope Featherington.”

“We know that,” Francesca said.

“We do?"  

“Pipe down, Benedict, it’s your fault for not being there.”

“But why is Colin in trouble?” Gregory asked, genuinely worried. He looked up to Colin a lot, and the idea of his beloved older brother in trouble with their mother must have shook him.  

Another gasp from Hyacinth. “Oh no… Colin, how could you?”

Benedict had had enough. He reached forward, snatched the paper deftly, and read for himself.

It was not hard to find the spot where Hyacinth had left off. The phrase “charming third son,” was one that often preceded Colin’s name in the paper, but the rest…

“He loudly proclaimed in front of several esteemed and available gentlemen that Miss Featherington lacked any appeal for him, going so far as to say he would not even court her ‘in his wildest dreams’,” Benedict read out loud.

Francesca gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s awful!”

“This author wonders,” Benedict kept reading, “if this might be a wake-up call for the youngest Featherington girl. With one Bridgerton feuding with her in public, the other denouncing any affection towards her, romantic or otherwise, readers would be forgiven for concluding that this is one insipid wallflower who will never be plucked.”

An uncharacteristic silence befell the family, as they all processed these last words.

“That is an unbelievably cruel thing for her to say about Penelope,” Hyacinth said in a low tone. “I cannot believe it.”

“Her prospects are ruined,” Francesca murmured, a haunted look in her eyes. “There is no coming back from that.”

Benedict couldn’t help but agree. He couldn’t fault his brother for expressing disinterest; Penelope was like a sister to all of them. Besides, he would not be the only young man who talked unkindly about a lady behind their back.  

But in public? And a lady who was, in fact, a dear family friend?

And Colin, of all people! Benedict could never recall an instance where his brother had said anything so blatantly rude. Even if the person deserved it, he was always one to see the best in others.  

Yet as unkind as his brother had been, and no matter how irrational Eloise could be in her anger, none of it could measure up to the terrible words of Lady Whistledown.

A few thoughts became clear in his mind. The first was that it was more important than ever that Benedict help Penelope with her writings. She would need social support, yes, but if Lady Whistledown had sentenced her to spinsterhood, she would also need income. Benedict could, and would, help with both.  

The second thought was that he might be the only Bridgerton on good terms with her now, which meant he could act as a bridge. He was confident that whatever was going on between her and Eloise was out of his depth. He had no idea what women fought about, or why it inspired such venomous fury, but he knew he didn’t want to be in the middle of it.

Colin, however, was a different story.

Judging from his moods and expressions the past week, Colin had not meant to hurt Penelope, let alone contribute to her social demise. Benedict even had new suspicions about his brother’s trip to the florist that morning.  

Colin was an idiot, but he wanted to apologise, and Benedict knew an awful lot about that sort of situation.

It would be rough-going, but he believed he could help his brother, and help their friend in turn. He just needed a plan.

As she and her family promenaded around the park, Penelope congratulated herself on her amazing power of foresight.

She’d received some pitied glances from some young ladies as they passed by her in the park. Perhaps, she thought as she smiled gently back at them, they were inspired to feel this way by their own precarious position. Better her than them, but oh, wouldn’t that be awful.   

But other that these examples, men and women alike gave the family their usual polite smiles as they passed each other, eyes glazing over Penelope in a way that was extremely familiar.

She’d known that her words in Whistledown would create a small scandal. Lady Whistledown had declared a young lady unfit for marriage? In public? It had never happened before.

But, as she’d predicted, because the target had been Penelope Featherington, the scandal was not so great.

Her mother seemed to disagree.

“These people,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Life would be so much easier if one did not have to deal with such people. ”

“But it was your idea to go out,” Prudence said with her usual lack of tact. “You said—“

“Hush!” her mother snapped. She looped her arm through Prudence’s, a familial looking gesture that was meant to control. “Penelope, get up here! And stop slumping, it gives them too much satisfaction.”  

“I am not slumping, Mother,” Penelope said. “I am just short.”  

“Well find a way to be taller,” her mother whisper-yelled. “We will not let that witch have the last word.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. She’d known this was going to happen as well. “Mama, no one cares what she has to say about me.

In fact, this whole scheme reinforced the realisation she’d had last night: Penelope Featherington was a damn good judge of people. Her judgments were correct on all accounts, not a single player acted out of character.

“Don’t be a fool,” her mother muttered. “When I find that woman, I will…”

But Penelope never got to hear that empty threat, because they were interrupted.  

“Lady Featherington! How are you this morning?”

Penelope almost ran into her mother, for she had stopped abruptly in front of Lady Danbury.

The older woman was dressed in her usual purple finery; a matching top hat normally worn by men perched above her narrow face. Her long fingers tapped on the top of her cane absentmindedly, like a cat adjusting itself before it pounced.

“We are well, thank you for asking,” her mother replied. Her grip tightened on Prudence’s arm, making her sister yelp. Their mother did not pay her any mind. “Are you not exhausted after hosting last night?”

“Ah, old hat,” Lady Danbury said nonchalantly. This was merely a polite front to her true purpose, but what was her game?"

Penelope’s question was immediately answered when the older woman turned to her. “Miss Featherington, would you mind taking a turn about the park with me? I’m afraid even with my cane this old lady needs assistance.”

Penelope had not foreseen this.

Panic lit up her body. Her mind froze. Her eyes darted to her mother’s, searching for a lifeline.

But Lady Danbury was one of the few people who could cow Lady Featherington, and this morning was no exception. “Go on, girl,” she ordered. “We will see you at home.”

The older woman held out her arm triumphantly, and Penelope had no choice but to accept.

“I hear you have been declared a spinster,” the older woman stated, once they were far enough away from her mother. 

It was the first time anyone had uttered the word. Even her own mother had been afraid to say it, as though it were a curse. 

Maybe Penelope had as well, for the statement sent a jolt through her body. But now that it was out in the open… “It’s not quite as bad as everyone says it is,” she said aloud. 

“Indeed.” She was frowning, as though she was working out a puzzle. 

So that is her motive, Penelope thought. I am a novelty. Well, let us satisfy her curiosity. “I confess I am unused to so much direct attention,” she said. “It is not the first time Lady Whistledown has written about me, but normally I am worth no more than a line. I think that she has spooked the others, though, by speaking about me as she has.”

“Are you not spooked ?” Lady Danbury asked, putting an amused emphasis on the last word. “You are a third daughter of a titled but penniless family. I am aware your eldest sister married last autumn, but unless that other sister of yours is hiding a love affair with a more reputable mine owner, you are not looking forward to a future of wealth and prosperity. Most girls in your position would be terrified, but you are out here promenading with the rest of society.”

“That was my mother’s idea.”

“Yes, but I am so used to seeing you hug the walls of every social event, that when I saw you walking with pride, I nearly did not recognize you. My point is, Miss Featherington,” the older woman said, pausing their walk to look her directly in the eyes. “You are not behaving as a publicly humiliated woman should behave.” 

On any other day, Lady Danbury’s arresting gaze would have her shrinking into the floor. She would be lying if she said the woman’s scrutiny still did not make her squirm. But Penelope had just about had her fill of people telling her how she should behave, especially when it was her own words that brought her here. 

“I suppose I’d already come to peace with the idea,” she said. “As you have already said, I am a young lady with no value.” 

“You say that with too much confidence, Miss Featherington.” 

Penelope wanted to scream. “Why shouldn’t I? If you were watching me, you must have noticed how everyone else is behaving as well. No one is surprised Lady Whistledown has labelled me a spinster, merely that she has done it at all.” 

Lady Danbury’s pencil thin eyebrows raised, and something shifted in her gaze. It was not pity or amusement that she wore; Penelope could not make out what it was. That mystery turned her blood into ice. 

“Let us find a more private place to sit,” Lady Danbury said, pulling at Penelope’s arm with more strength than any older lady should have. 

“I think I’d better be going home.”

“I disagree.” 

They found a quiet bench beneath a chestnut tree, far enough from the path that no one would hear them. “Sit,” she instructed, and Penelope had no choice but to do so.  

She tried to squeeze herself in, afraid that Lady Danbury would be uncomfortable sitting with her in such a small space. The older lady didn’t seem to mind; she would hold court regardless.

“I think you will find that Lady Whisteldown’s words will have unexpected consequences on your life,” she stated.

“I-I do not know what you mean,” Penelope stuttered. 

“Then let me explain.” The older woman’s fingers drummed on her cane, studying Penelope with that new inscrutable expression. “You are aware there is a whole world of society that exists beyond the typical marriage mart. Normally young girls, such as yourself, are barred from it. They will only ever hear about it in whispers until they are wed. Even then, they may not fully enter this world, for they are blessed with great fortune, and loving fathers and husbands.

“The Bridgertons are such a family, as I’m sure you’re already well aware.”

Penelope flushed at the mention of her neighbours. “Lady Danbury, if this is about last night—”

The older woman held up her hand to silence her companion. “It is not. I merely bring them up as an example. They are a good family, but that goodness can be their one fatal flaw. It can make them blind and, I say this with all the affection in my heart, quite stupid. You, however,” she said, looking Penelope up and down. “I would not accuse you of either blindness or stupidity.”

Penelope knew what that look was now, and it was far worse than pity or amusement. Lady Danbury looked at her with clear eyed recognition. 

Only one other person had looked at her with such clarity, and that person was now actively trying to ruin everything she’d worked for.

It shook her to her core. 

“You do not accuse me of being good, either?” 

She didn’t know why she said it. Maybe she wanted to know if Lady Danbury suspected her of being Whistledown. Maybe she wanted someone other than her to confirm all her worst fears, her deepest suspicions about herself. That, no matter how Penelope looked at it, she was not good, not worthy of love. 

Lady Danbury did not give her that. 

Instead her sharp gaze softened, and she reached out to pat Penelope’s hand. “Child, I do not accuse you of anything,” she said gently. “You have been dealt a bad hand, and I believe you have done everything you can with it. I only wonder what more you have planned.”

“My plans?” Penelope did not know what to say. This interview was one of the most bewildering in her life. “Why do you want to know my plans?”

Lady Danbury must have read the suspicion in her expression, for she sighed, withdrawing her hand. “You speak of Lady Whistledown’s words, and their effect. You are correct in most of your assumptions; most of the ton are more interested in her words than who she is speaking of. I am sure that by the next issue, their attention will wander. 

“However, what you fail to understand is that to a select few, the way Whisteldown wrote about you has drawn a new kind of attention. She is sharp, but she holds a distance between herself and those she writes about. Her words for you were rather pointed, and I am not the only one who is wondering what you did to make it so.” 

Penelope’s mind was racing. It was clear that Lady Danbury suspected something , and if she was reading it correctly, the Queen might as well.

But perhaps she did not. After all, it was Lady Danbury here in the park with her. Penelope was not being hauled off into a nondescript carriage the way Eloise had been. 

That must be why Lady Danbury was here. She was scouting out leads for the Queen, looking for any reason to pry further. 

If that was the case, and Penelope seemed more sure of it with every passing second, then she must act fast. 

She lowered her eyes, attempting to look contrite. “I have been thinking of a few plans, actually.” She took a deep breath, deciding just how much of the truth she could reveal to throw her off the trail. “I’ve been thinking of going into business.”

“Business!” She sounded like she was going to laugh, but when Penelope looked up, she found the older woman’s kind, clear expression had not changed to one of scorn. “What kind of business?” 

“I haven’t quite thought that through,” she half-lied. “But, as you have said, I cannot depend on my family for money, so I will have to make my own way.”

“Why not become a governess then?” Lady Danbury asked. “You are smart enough.” 

Penelope blanched. The idea was the obvious one for a woman in her position, and so she probably should have said that. But the thought of being at the whims of another family, who might be even more unkind than her own? She shuddered. 

Even though she had not said this aloud, Lady Danbury made a noise of agreement. “You’re right. The country is crawling with governesses. It would be far more interesting for us to put your talents elsewhere.” 

The word snagged her mind. “Us?” 

“Yes, us. Oh, don’t look so surprised! Did I not already explain that Lady Whistledown brought you to my attention? I am sorry she did not do it sooner, for you are proving to be an extremely interesting young lady.” 

Again, this was not at all what Penelope had planned. “I appreciate your offer, Lady Danbury, but I–”

“You will not turn me down, Miss Featherington,” she stated in a way that brokered no argument. “Business is treacherous as it is, but it is perilous for a young girl such as yourself.”

She was torn between screaming and laughing. She already knew the perils of business, and had known them intimately for the last three years! She was the one who had made the discreet inquiries about printers under a man’s name, and donned her servant’s cloak with shaking hands! She was the one who haggled, breaking out every negotiating tactic she’d seen from her mother in the market square. She wanted to stand up and shout at Lady Danbury, that she was not a young girl unused to the world! She was a woman, and a clever capable one at that! 

But this would get her nowhere. 

Besides, she had made those arrangements under a false name and identity. Now she would be venturing out into the world as Penelope Featherington, and she had nothing going in her favour. 

Lady Danbury still scared her witless, and she did not trust her motives. But she was smart, well-connected, and most importantly, rich. If this venture with Benedict did not work out (especially now that he knew about her and his siblings), then Lady Danbury would be a useful ally. 

“I suppose…” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “That you are correct.” 

“Of course I am.” The older woman punctuated her statement with a rap of her cane. “Now before I send you home to hide from your mother’s machinations, let me give you my first piece of advice, from one business woman to another.”

“Is it to follow my passions?”

Lady Danbury gave her a sly grin. “You are impertinent.  And incorrect. No, my advice is to conduct yourself as you would on the marriage mart.” 

Penelope smiled in return. “You just told me there is a world beyond the marriage mart.” 

“Yes, but even if you create a business for women, you will still be working with men, but unlike the marriage mart, they will not be happy to see you.” 

“They already do not see me.”

“They will have to, if you want to succeed. But they will dismiss and underestimate you at every turn.”

Penelope nodded, thinking of her late night excursions to the printers. “I suppose you will say I can use that to my advantage.”

“No, I will not.” Another rap of the cane, but this time Penelope jumped. “I have been both underestimated and feared at different points of my life. Having seen the results of both treatments, I can assure you that being feared is much more effective.”

This did not seem right, or if it was it did not apply to Penelope. Being underestimated had been her chief weapon and shield thus far. 

“Fear is the second resource, however,” Lady Danbury continued. “First you will need to charm them.” 

Suddenly Penelope felt nervous all over again. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at that.”

“You’re better than you know,” Lady Danbury said. “That stupid Bridgerton boy is proof of that.”

This time she really did look away in embarrassment. “You, and everyone else, know exactly how Mister Bridgerton feels about me."  

“Mmmhmm. And how many bouquets did he send you today? Two? Three?”

“Seven,” Penelope said in a low tone, thinking of the blooms overflowing in her room. They had arrived that morning during breakfast, each containing the most expensive flowers on the market, accompanied by a single card, addressed to her in his familiar handwriting. 

She did not bother opening it, and she was not pressured to do so by her mother, for the new Lady Whistledown had arrived at the same time. 

Lady Danbury watched her with a measure of appreciation. “I believe there is more to you than you know, Miss Featherington. But that knowledge will come with time.”

It was the strangest feeling in the world, to know this powerful woman looked at her with something akin to pride. Penelope had done nothing to deserve it, and yet the mere idea of it awakened something deep and needy inside her. She was seen, and she was admired, and it gave her hope for the future. 

It also scared her more than even being arrested as Lady Whistledown. 

It was too late to back down though. Lady Danbury was standing up and moving back to the path, motioning Penelope to accompany her. They walked amicably back to the entrance of the park. “Would you like a ride home, Miss Featherington?” her companion asked.

She shook her head. “No, I would rather walk. You have given me much to think about.”

The other woman nodded, satisfied. “Very well. By the way, I will likely need a companion for an afternoon or two, now that the two Sharma sisters are gone.”

Penelope smiled, realising it was the first genuine smile that she’d shared in months. “I would love to spend more time with you, Lady Danbury."

“Good. I will send for you on Monday. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be.” She was suddenly possessed by a spirit of mischief, and grinned. “Perhaps if I take tea with you, some of your terrifying nature will rub off on me.”

“Watch your tongue,” Lady Danbury replied, but her eyes sparkled. “Or you will see a new side of my terrifying nature.”

Penelope curtsied. “I have no doubt.”

Chapter Text

“You see? This is just like you, Harry. You say things like that and make it impossible for me to hate you! And I hate you, Harry. I really hate you.”

-Meg Ryan as Sally Albright, When Harry Met Sally (1989)

When Anthony’s carriage drove up to the entrance, Eloise had no reason to believe that her day was going to get any better . Her mother had already laid into her the previous evening, and she had no doubt that she’d receive the same treatment if she left her room, something she was determined never to do again.

“Go away, Anthony!” she yelled, equal parts irritated at and afraid of her brother’s wrath.  

“It’s me,” a familiar voice responded. “May I come in?” 

Only Kate would be polite enough to ask, instead of barging in like the rest of her family. 

She entered calmly, and Eloise immediately noted that she wore the royal blue dress reserved for sport. “Did you ride here?” Eloise asked, before remembering she’d seen Anthony’s carriage out front. “Or are you here to hunt me down like an animal?” 

Kate rolled her eyes, but her expression was conspiratorial. “If that were the plan, it would be my husband here instead of me. Come, get dressed. We're going to have a talk.” 

Eloise didn’t move, instead opting to study her new sister from her unmade bed. “We can talk here.” 

“Yes, but it will not be as enjoyable.” 

It seemed like a trick, but Eloise called for her maid anyway. Kate picked out one of Eloise’s sturdier frocks and matching coat, choosing not to comment on the stains along the hem. In only a few short minutes, the two women were sitting comfortably in the carriage as it whisked them off to an unknown part of London.

“Where are we going?” 

“To the shooting range.” 

“So you are going to kill me.”

Kate cocked her head and gave her a bemused smile. “I know Anthony’s reputation amongst his siblings can be fierce…” 

Eloise snorted. 

“... But you know best that his bark is worse than his bite. It did not take long to convince him that what you needed was not a scolding, but a proper channel for your energy.”  

Eloise did not reply at first, for she had not decided if she should feel patronised or grateful. “We won’t be able to get in without a man.” She knew this because she’d already tried once with Penelope. They had been poking around in her father’s office for something, hidden sweets or special paper, and instead had found a small silver pistol. 

It was not Eloise’s first time handling a gun, she had three older brothers after all. But Penelope had been equal parts terrified and fascinated, and Eloise had wanted to show off to her friend. They’d tried to take it to a nearby gun range she’d heard her brother’s talk about, but they’d been kicked out almost immediately. By this time, Penelope had been so scared her father would discover the gun missing that they’d spirited it back to the Featherington household, and the adventure was never touched again. 

“Normally that is true,” Kate replied. “I was worried I would have to give up my hobby once we came to London. But I have found one club where the owner cares more for the art of marksmanship than society’s rules for the sexes.” 

The idea sent a thrill down Eloise’s spine, and suddenly she was looking forward to the outing. 

The facility was an older one, judging by the gothic archways and mounted animal heads that looked like they needed a good touch-up. One deer's head seemed to be greying around the neck, but it was actually spots where the fur had worn away. What little of the walls that weren’t covered by trophies featured faded oriental wallpaper that featured, on closer inspection, various English game birds. 

“Marvellous.” Eloise meant it.

The groundskeeper warmly and politely helped them select their firearms, chatting with them about the make and models available. He was pleased to find what Eloise lacked in knowledge, she made up for in enthusiasm. They selected rifles, since Kate was extremely proficient with them, and Eloise had no experience at all with pistols. 

They were not the only party visiting the range that day. A small group of gentlemen had set up on the far end of the field, sporting all the loud bluster Eloise expected from parties like theirs. But they all smiled and nodded politely at the two Bridgerton women. 

She noticed they also had a woman in their party, the James twin from last night. She sat behind the men, neither praising them or flirting, and when Eloise caught her eye, she too nodded politely. Was she not here to shoot as well?

“I think the groundskeeper likes you,” Kate said, once they were on the green, waiting for the servants to set up the targets. 

“He’s probably just grateful I didn’t try to look down the barrel,” Eloise said, trying to ignore the other party and the loud cracks of their pistols.

Kate chuckled, readying her weapon with a practised ease. “You might be right. But still, you will have to come back with me sometime.” 

“That depends,” Eloise replied. “Are you going to have to scold me every time?”

“I haven’t said a word yet.”

“But you will.” She had loaded her rifle, and the moment the servants gave the all clear, she aimed and fired. “Blast! Missed!”

“I do not wish to lecture you, Eloise,” Kate said, finding her stance. “You may be younger than me, but you are not a child.” 

“Have you told my brother that?” 

“A few times, actually.” Her sister-in-law paused the conversation to take aim and fire. She hit the target in one. 

Eloise let out an appreciative whistle. “You know, it is extremely easy to see why he fell in love with you. You’re a better shot than him.” 

“And I never let him forget it,” Kate replied with a wicked smile. Normally they would have handed the rifles to the servants to ready the next round, but Kate wanted to show Eloise how to do it herself. 

“I know how to load the powder,” Eloise said proudly, tucking the rifle under her arm to balance the powder in one hand while she put the patch in her mouth. She knew the other party was busy with their own sport, but the idea of being watched, especially by the James girl, made her eager to prove herself. 

Kate gently but firmly grabbed the rifle by the barrel. “You must always treat it as though it is loaded,” she explained as she helped Eloise steady the weapon while she loaded it. “Imagine a long red string that stretches from the end of the barrel out towards your target.”

Eloise took the patch out of her mouth. “Will that help me aim better?”

“It might,” she answered, grabbing the loading rod from the servant. “But it’s more to help you remember how easy it is to hit something by accident. Anyone that crosses the path of that string could get hit by a bullet meant for something else.”

Eloise grunted, pretending her annoyance was with the tightness of the barrel and not the feeling that Kate was not talking about guns. “The trouble is I always know what I’m aiming for,” she said, handing the rod back to the servant and finding her stance. “I’m just not particularly good at hitting it.” 

“I think,” Kate said, stepping forward to make small adjustments, where the rifle was on Eloise’s shoulder, how high up her elbow was. “You’re so worried about your weapon that you forget how it has a wide margin for error.”

Kate stepped back, giving her the space to try again. It was another miss, however, and when she turned around she caught the James girl smiling slyly to herself, as though she was laughing at her. 

Irritated, Eloise turned back to face her newest sister. “Could you speak plainly?” Eloise stated. “I’m losing the metaphor and it’s making it hard to concentrate.” 

“I think–”

“Because you say you do not think of me as a child, and yet you sound like my mother.”

“Eloise–”

“This is the problem, why can’t we just face each other, woman to woman, and say exactly what we mean.”

“Eloise, enough.” Kate was still smiling, but it was not a soft one, and it certainly did not reach her eyes. “You are right. Let us speak plainly. I will not ask that you tell me what troubles you, and how it concerns Miss Featherington. I do not think you will tell a single person anything until you are ready. But from the outside looking in, I’m not sure you know what you’re doing.”

She bristled. “What does that mean?” 

The answer would have to wait, however. An elderly man appeared from inside the lodge, calling out to Kate with a hearty greeting. He appeared to Eloise as the kind of older man who stuck to the old fashions out of comfort, but was not above laughing at himself because of it. In fact, as he shook her hand and introduced himself as the range owner, he was exactly the kind of old man Eloise would normally enjoy, if he had not interrupted their conversation. 

As it was, when he asked Kate to come in and inspect the newest firearms, Eloise did not join them, preferring to take out her bad mood on the targets as planned. 

How sick she was of being misunderstood! It was not her fault that no one listened to her, for she never stopped trying to make them hear. Despite her family’s teasing and the way they rolled their eyes, she felt compelled to share with them. She was not trying to start fights when she explained what she was reading in her pamphlets, the conversation just ended up evolving that way. 

It was why Penelope had been so important to her. She never rolled her eyes, never talked over Eloise. She read with her, shared with her…

Or had. 

Eloise had thought that being out in society was the reason her friend had changed. Now she knew better. 

She held the gun up against her shoulder, aimed carefully. For a brief moment she closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath. When she opened her eyes, she pictured the red string from the end of her barrel to the centre of the target, pushing aside thoughts of Penelope, her family, Lady Whistledown…

The sound of the gun, the way it dug into her shoulder was thrilling. When she lowered the weapon, she smiled. At least this time she hit close to the centre of the target.

“You should keep your eyes open the whole time.” 

She frowned at the unfamiliar voice, turning to face the intruder. The James twin stood apart from her, hands clasped behind her back. She had the kind of pleasantly shaped face that was popular in ballrooms, with high round cheekbones and a pointed chin that men found attractive when paired with batting eyelashes and fluttering fans. Eloise had never given her a second glance, for she was one girlish face amongst many, but here on the green, her thick eyebrows and thin lips made her think of a disapproving brother. 

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t surprise people when they have weapons in their hands?” Eloise said. “You’re likely to get shot.” 

“Somehow I doubt you could hit me,” the girl replied in a dry voice. 

“Big talk for a girl who doesn’t even know how to handle a weapon.” 

“Oh, I know how to shoot,” she said in that same dry tone. “My Uncle Jeremy owns this facility, so I am here as often as possible. Those,” she indicated the men in her party, “are my brother and his friends.” 

“I see.” Yes, now that she got a better look, there was a family resemblance between this James girl and the tallest boy, mainly in the hair and eyes. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” 

She handed the unloaded gun to a servant, ready to shoot the next, but the girl behind her hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry, but why are you here?” Eloise did not bother to hide her temper. 

The girl looked at her with surprise that was followed quickly by amusement. “I need a respite,” she answered truthfully. “My brother is peacocking in front of his companions, while Lord Whimbley seems to think I need a slow and detailed explanation about the inner workings of a pistol.”

Eloise paused, looking more closely at the group of young men. Sure enough, one of them kept throwing furtive glances in their direction. She turned her back to them. “Is he the one with the…?” She gestured discreetly at her teeth.

“The overbite? Yes, that is him.” 

Sympathy for her fellow woman trumped her sour mood, but only barely. “Then you should stay here,” she stated. “Perhaps you can show me how much better you are at shooting than I am.” 

The James girl smirked, reminding Eloise of the previous night. Grudgingly she handed the rifle to her, and stepped back to give her a wide berth. 

In an infuriating turn of events, the James girl was good at shooting, for while she didn’t hit the center, she got much closer than Eloise had. “Lucky shot,” she muttered. 

“Luckier than you,” the girl replied. “Although that doesn’t take much, given today’s Lady Whistledown is the second time you’ve been linked to scandal.” 

The reminder brought her back to her room that morning, when she’d read the newest paper, alone in her room. She’d known Penelope would mention their fight (she would have to), but for it to be so brief! A mere line of text! Infuriating! Did Eloise truly mean so little to her now? 

She’d kept reading, spotting the Bridgerton name again, only this time…

Her hands shook as she read the account of Colin’s words. That brute! The audacity of him! Penelope was practically family, and he dared speak of her in this way! In public! Eloise had half a mind to charge into his room and beat him blue, she knew she could–

Wait. Did he truly say these things? Or was this another lie from Penelope? 

She’d read on. 

And by the time she’d read the last line, “Insipid wallflower who will never be plucked,” she’d known the whole of it.

Penelope had known last night that no one would give her any attention when she was standing next to a Bridgerton, even one as odd as Eloise. In fact, this column suggested that the only thing society should find interesting about Penelope was the company she kept. Now that she had publicly severed her ties with them through Whistledown, why should anyone look at her? 

And the way she did it! She made it appear that Eloise’s family had cast her aside, further proving to the ton that they were right about her all along! She was nothing more than a wallflower, worthy of no one’s attention. 

Eloise knew better. It was right there, in black and white: “insipid wallflower.” It was the same phrase Eloise had thrown in her face during their last real night together. 

Penelope knew Eloise would read those words, and her message was clear: “I am done with you.” 

No, it was more than that. She was done with everyone. Penelope Featherington had taken herself off the market, so Lady Whistledown could flourish in her place.

It was genius! It was infuriating! In one line, Penelope had managed what Eloise had been trying for years: remove herself from society’s narrow view of women, and force them to see her for what she was. 

And what she was, was terrifying. 

Eloise had crumpled the paper and cast it into the fire, quickly diving in to retrieve it, reading it again and again. By the time Kate had knocked on her door, she’d memorised every line.

“One evening of rude behaviour is hardly a scandal, no matter what Lady Whistledown–” Eloise cut herself off, suddenly regretting this whole encounter. “What is your name again?” She’d said with the intent to dismiss, but the girl didn’t mind at all.

“Rebecca James,” she answered, handing the gun back to the servant. “My sister Margaret is now Lady Hornbury, and my brother over there is the future Baron Bartholemew James.” 

“Lovely. Have a pleasant day, Miss Rebecca James.”

“I didn’t mean to make fun,” the girl said quickly before Eloise could leave. “Well, that isn’t entirely true. I just find you interesting.” 

“Why is that? You wish me to regale you with false stories about political intrigue and gunpowder plots so you can take them back to the Cowper drawing room, and laugh at my many follies?” 

“So you are not political then?” 

“I–!” The retort died on her lips, but Eloise had always been good at recovery. “I am interested in the rights of women, as anyone with half a brain should be!”

“I think the men of the ton would have something to say about that.” 

“Most men of society could not scrounge up a quarter of a brain put together.” 

“Is that true of your brothers as well?” 

Eloise frowned. “Well. Perhaps they create half a brain together. On a good day.” 

Miss James snorted, a most unlady-like sound. She didn’t look embarrassed for it, which made Eloise like her just the tiniest bit. “Fair point. But do you not think women can be just as stupid?”

“I prefer not to disparage my sex, for I cannot say anything that the men have not already said.” 

“Hmm.” Miss James looked as though she was thinking of something, for her gaze had wandered to the horizon. “I don’t know. I can think of at least five novel criticisms myself.”

“Perhaps then you should meet better women,” Eloise retorted. 

The girl gave her a wry look. “Like your Miss Featherington?” 

Eloise flushed angrily. “Better than your Miss Cowper.”

Miss James laughed, but the sound was hollow. “My Miss Cowper, indeed,” she muttered, more to herself than to Eloise. “I’m sorry, Miss Bridgerton. I approached you this afternoon out of an aimless desire for trivial entertainment, but we seem to have wandered into deep waters.” 

This retreat threw Eloise off her proverbial balance. She realised that she was enjoying the verbal match, despite how utterly annoyed she was. It was the kind of release she’d been looking for, and now that Miss James was leaving…

“I don’t mind deep waters,” she said. “It's a shallow topic I cannot abide.”

Miss James looked at her for a long time, trying to find something in Eloise that… what? She did not know, but the way Miss James was looking at her made her skin tingle in an unfamiliar way. 

Finally Miss James seemed to come to a decision. “Very well. If you teach me how you plan on securing rights for women, I will teach you how to hit a target.” 

The tingling had disappeared, replaced by tentative excitement. “Very well,” she said, echoing Miss James. “Have you heard of Mary Wollstonecraft?” 

Colin was never the kind of person to wait once he’d decided on a course of action. This is why travel suited him so well. He would decide on a destination, make the appropriate plans, and leave as soon as possible. If something happened once he’d arrived, he would simply adjust. This process, decide, act, adjust, had given himself and others the illusion that he was easy-going, not easily ruffled.   

These last twenty-four hours had disabused him of this idea. 

He wasn’t easy-going at all, he’d just been incredibly lucky.

He would not chalk up his poor behaviour last summer to bad luck, nor the fact that he was caught. That would be childish. 

But the fact that Eloise and Pen were in a public row, right when he could have used his sister’s support? Bad luck. That the morning he’d started his apology campaign was also the day Whistledown published her damning opinion of Penelope? Worse luck.   

Now, the fact that the Featheringtons had been gone all morning, that when their carriage did return, it did not contain his friend? Worst luck of all! Now if she returned, he would be forced to deal with her mother and sister, who would insist on following the rules of polite society. 

So he set up camp in the library, choosing his favourite window bench, hiding behind the large velvet curtains with a book in his hands. Not that anyone would suppose he was reading, for every time someone passed on the street he looked to see if it was her.

If it were up to him, he’d be out looking for her, but his mother had sternly instructed him to wait.

He’d come home for a brief moment, after visiting the empty Featherington household, fully planning on calling a carriage so he could go on his quest, but his mother had stopped him in the entrance hall.

“Apologies of this nature,” she had said quietly and gravely, “should be private first.”  

He’d disagreed. “Nothing about this is private anymore,” he’d retorted, thinking of that damn paper which had disturbed his morning. “Whistledown has blown this whole thing out of proportion!”   

“I can assure you, Penelope will not think so,” his mother had snapped. “It is her third season, Colin, and if she is not already afraid of her lack of prospects, her mother certainly is. This will feel like a confirmation of all their worst fears.”   

“All the more reasons for me to go and find her!” he protested. The words written on that paper, insipid wallflower , had set his blood ablaze. He had to do something , right now , or he would implode. “Surely if other people see me apologise, it will assuage any doubts–”  

“But it will mean nothing to her ,” his mother had said. 

It was the cold water he needed to calm himself.  He knew she was right. If he went out now, finding her in the park or in town, it might appear to Penelope that he was trying to do damage control for his own reputation, as well as hers. Her words from last night, pity, confidence bolster , still rung in his ears. 

So he’d agreed to wait.

Patiently.

With his nose pressed against the window glass. 

Each tick of the clock was agony. His mind was whirling with speeches and apologies, each worse than the last. He needed to make up for last night, and somehow explain to her that his response to Fife had been born from a mix of deep affection and deep fear. She was his best friend, but who among the ton would understand? Who among his fellow gentlemen would believe him? Would not laugh at him and her collectively? 

But these reasons seemed weak, and as true as they were, they were not enough. 

He was not enough. 

The footman entered with afternoon tea, along with a tray of the lemon tarts he’d considered buying for her this morning. Colin thanked him, ate a few bits of food, and set back to his task.  

But just as he was beginning to despair that Penelope had probably slipped by him, entered her home through the back or something, he saw a familiar figure coming down the block from the direction of the park. 

His heart leapt. It was her! And she was alone! Finally, luck was on his side!

She had not turned the corner and down their street, so if he was very quick he might be able to catch her before she even got within viewing distance of her mother’s window. Jumping into action, he threw on his coat, and then at the last second took two lemon tarts and wrapped them in a cloth napkin. He would need every weapon in his arsenal to help him this morning, and nothing smoothed things over better than food.

He flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time, then burst out of the house, his eyes alert. The street was busier than normal, with people returning home in their loud clattering carriages for tea or orders arriving for the new season. This meant that few people wanted to brave the dusty air, especially on this unseasonably warm day. Better for him then, it would give him some amount of privacy—

Penelope had just turned down the road, seeming lost in her own thoughts. The abnormal pink shade of her dress made her easy to spot, but it was the way that she was smiling to herself, a small upturn of those pink lips, that arrested him in the street.

He’d seen her this way before, hiding in corners of the ballroom, eyes alight with hidden amusement. In years past, he would find her then, asking in low tones what it was she found so funny, and she would sometimes let him in on the joke. It made the time go by so much faster, but now that smile seemed to stop time.

Perhaps he’d just been gone for too long, perhaps he’d gotten used to her scowls, but today, that smile made him feel buoyant. He had a sudden vision of meeting with her now, the noise and dust falling away, and all that would be left was the blue sky, the green grass, and that radiance of her smile. He wanted to reach to her, to touch her, run his thumb gently over the upturned corner of her mouth.  

No, he could not become distracted again.  

He pushed aside these annoying thoughts and dashed his way across the street, nearly getting hit by a carriage in the process. When he finally did reach her, her smile was gone.

“Colin, what are you doing?” She was not as cold to him as she had been, but she was clearly exasperated.

Well, he thought, dusting off his coat, this at least was something. “Sorry,” he panted. “Give me a moment.” He was only now realising how hard he’d been breathing, the damn cravat he was wearing pressing against his neck tightly.

Exasperation and concern waged war on Penelope’s face, and Colin thought bitterly how stupid he must appear in this moment. “Are you alright?” she asked, as though he was a child.  

He nodded. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I just- I was watching for you up there, in the library- And I had to hurry-“  

“Please, take a moment,” she said patiently. She took his elbow and led him to the side of the street with more shade, and although her touch was light he felt its strength like a magnet.  

Get it together, Bridgerton, he scolded himself, but it really did feel better here on this side of the walkway. “Sorry,” he said a third time. “I was worried I would miss you. Actually…” he dug around in his pocket, finding the wrapped tarts. “I grabbed these for you.”

She looked at his outstretched hand with curiosity. “What is it?”

“Lemon tarts,” he explained dumbly. “I remembered you used to like them when we were children.”

Her arms moved to cross over her stomach, and he noticed her fingers clenched her skin tightly. Whatever concern or warmth she’d felt was gone. It was as though she’d turned to marble, a statue of a goddess, removed and untouchable. “I cannot accept these.”

Colin blinked. “Why not?”

“Because Mama has put me on a strict diet,” she answered in a pinched tone.

“But you don’t need…” He looked her up and down, scrutinising for any sign that her body had changed significantly since he last saw her. She’d always been short and plump, but since when did that signify? If anything, he’d grown to appreciate her curves, how she felt in his arms when they danced.  It did not take away from her charm, her wit. It only made her different from the others, like adding a new spice to a dish. Society was richer because it had her, in all of her facets.

But he couldn’t say that .  

Instead he cleared his throat. “You look just as you always do.”

“I see.”

He had the distinct feeling of wandering into a trap, as he watched her draw further into herself. How had he wandered into this warped mirror of the Medusa myth? It did not matter what he said, it only turned her further into stone.

“Did you get my flowers?”

“I did,” she answered. “They arrived around the same time as Lady Whistledown’s newest sheet."  

Maybe it was the running or the heat of the day, but Colin cursed, loud enough that Penelope’s eyes widened in shock. “My apologies,” he said quickly. “That was not meant for your ears.”

“This is becoming a habit of yours,” she answered coolly. “Apparently you say a lot of things that are not meant for my ears.”

His stomach clenched; he was regretting eating those tarts so quickly. “Pen, I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.”

“So I’ve gathered,” she muttered. “Seven bouquets seemed excessive.”

He did not know how she was so in control of herself. Only last night, she’d stood before him in the garden, her entire body trembling with rage, a fire of passion that ignited his own feelings. Except now he could not see even an ember of those feelings in her, while he felt like he was burning alive in the middle of London.

“I would have sent ten if it meant you would look at me again.”

Penelope’s eyes flashed, a sign that she was not all statue. “I have always looked at you, Colin Bridgerton. It is you who was not looking at me.”   

“What is that supposed to mean?” He had not meant to sound so hurt, so angry, but that light in her eyes had spurred him on. “I have been doing everything in my power to see you! I wrote to you every week, almost every day, for two months, begging you to let me into your counsel!”

“Colin, enough!” she hissed, looking around wildly.

He could not stop. “I want to see you, Penelope, but it is you who has put up this barrier. Have I not proved myself worthy of your trust? Of a second chance?”

“It is not enough!”

“Then what is—!"  

“Nothing!”

Time stopped again for Colin that afternoon. His vision from earlier was coming true, for there was nothing in his world except the blue sky, the green leaves, and Penelope.

Only she wasn’t smiling; she was crying.

These were not the hot tears of the night before, but silent and steady as a spring stream breaking through the winter ice. Her eyes, once bright with anger, now seemed to glow an unearthly blue. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing will ever be enough.”

Something had changed. This was no longer about him, about their friendship. It was as though he could see the world on her shoulders, but unlike Atlas, she was breaking.

She was grieving, and he had no idea how to help her.

“Pen…”

“I need to remember who I am, Colin,” she said. “I need to remember my place in the world.”

He realised in that moment what she was saying. Somehow in her life, she had come to the conclusion that all the good things in the world, friends, family, lovers, were not things she would have. That she could not have them, could not depend on them.

“That’s not true,” he said out loud, forgetting for a moment that she could not see into his thoughts. “Pen, I—“  

“I need you to stop,” she said firmly. “You… Eloise… I just need…”

She could not finish the thought, the dam breaking even further. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, fully intending to take her into his arms, to hold her close so she would have somewhere safe to fall apart, somewhere she could pick herself back up again—

A horse whinnied, two carriage drivers shouted angrily at each other. The world rushed back in, loud, dirty, too bright.

Penelope wiped the tears from her face, sniffled once, and stood up straight.

Spring was over; winter had returned.

“If it makes you feel better,” she said, calmly. “I have forgiven you for your behaviour last year. We all have our thoughtless moments. I was wrong not to allow you yours, let alone hold them against you.”

These were the words he’d been waiting for, dreaming of for months. But now that he had them, they fell apart like ash in his hands.

He didn’t know what to say; the world was too loud, the sun was too bright, there were so many people who could see everything from their partially covered carriages, and he’d just watched his friend’s heart break in front of his eyes.

“I hope we can part in peace, and think fondly of our past acquaintance. But it must remain in the past.” Penelope finished. She gave a short curtsey. “Good day, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His hand shot out to grab her arm before he could think about what he was doing. “Penelope, please…”  

Please what? Again, his words, which were never far, had gotten him out of so many situations… they failed him.

And from the look in her eyes, the way she gently removed herself from his grasp, they’d failed her too.

He watched her turn into her family’s gate and enter her home. He did not know how long he stood out there, but eventually he crossed the street and returned to his own quarters. He took the wrapped tarts out of his pocket, let them fall in the bin, then fell back on the bed, not even bothering to take off his coat or cravat. At least the heavy curtains kept the room cool. At least it was quiet here.

A knock rapped on the door, the visitor already opening it. “Bad luck, then, brother?”

“Get out, Benedict.”

He heard his brother put something heavy on the table near the door, and then move over to him. Colin felt his bed shift, ruffling of papers that drew his attention. He looked over and saw his brother thumbing quickly through one of his journals.  

“My goodness you write a lot don’t you—Hey! You gave me a paper cut!”

Colin had snatched the journal from Benedict’s hands angrily. “These are my private things,” he snarled. “And you are intruding.”

Benedict’s normally amused expression was tinged with alarm. “My goodness. I thought you were Anthony for a moment there, ready to take my arm off.”

I might still , Colin thought, but instead he stood up to put his journal in his bedside drawer. “What do you want?”  

“I saw some of your conversation out there,” Benedict explained. “It didn’t look like it went well.”  

Colin looked over at the table near the door, and saw two glasses and a whiskey decanter. He glanced over to Benedict, who shrugged. “I brought them for you. I’m getting too old to drink during the day.”

Colin rolled his eyes, but poured himself and his brother a glass. He handed one to Benedict, and clinked it with his. “Cheers.” He gulped his down, feeling very heavy. The cold wooden floor suddenly looked extremely inviting, so he sat down, shoulders hunched over his drink.  

“So she’s still not forgiven you?” Benedict asked.

He exhaled a sort of hollow laugh. “She has. It was the last thing she said to me.”

Benedict slipped down off the bed onto the ground to be with his brother, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “That’s good then, right?”

“I’m pretty certain it’s the last thing she’ll ever say to me.”  

“She asked you to never speak to her again?”  

“Not in so many words, but yes.”  

Benedict hissed, acknowledging the damage in the way only a brother could do. “I’m sorry, Colin. That is hard to hear.”  

Tears suddenly pricked at the corner of Colin’s eyes. He thought he’d felt pain when he learned the truth about Marina, but this was so much worse. He’d done everything he could think of to stave off a future without Penelope, but now that she’d removed herself?  

He still couldn’t picture it.

“She won’t even come over to see us anymore,” he said in a low tone. “Not while she and Eloise are fighting.”

Benedict nodded. “That’s true. I have no idea what to do about that. I’m rather afraid to approach her, actually. Did you know Kate came by to pick her up earlier? Perhaps Anthony wants to murder her where there are no witnesses.”

He wanted to laugh, but he had no energy.  

He heard his brother take another sip. “Well, brother. I came in here to tell you I have a plan. Do you want to hear it?"  

Colin raised his head to look at his brother. He looked as he always did, his effortless exterior barely hiding his impish mirth. “What plan?”

“Well, unlike what I told you the other day, it seems I am now the favourite Bridgerton with Miss Featherington,” he said, grinning slightly.

He thought he was numb to the world, but anger rushed in like a flood. “Are you gloating ?” he snapped. “You didn’t even pay her attention last year, you always called her Eloise’s little shadow—“

“Yes, yes, calm down,” Benedict said with a wave of his hand. “I mean that because she still trusts me, so that when I send her a letter of business this afternoon, there is no chance that she will throw it into the fire, or whatever it is young girls do.”

“So?"  

“ So ,” he said, “maybe I can be convinced to enclose a separate, more private note.” He finished his drink, looking at Colin curiously over the rim of his glass. “You’re a decent writer, correct?”

Colin resisted shoving him. Did no one read his letters? “I’m passable.”

“Well then, let’s hope you can find it in you to be more than passable.” His older brother stood up, groaning a little as he did. “God, I am not as young as I was.”

“Shut up, you’re only twenty-nine."  

“That’s ancient, trust me,” Benedict answered. “I’m sending my letter in an hour, so it will arrive well before we all have to get ready for tonight. Let me know if you want me to add anything.”

He left Colin with the half-full whiskey decanter and closed the door behind him. Colin sat on the floor for a moment longer, whirling the whiskey in his glass.

This was absurd. She had told him what she wanted; to leave their friendship, and him, in her past.

But dammit, why? Why did she have to let him go so completely?

He stood up from the ground and put his half-finished drink on the table. He would need his full faculties for this. This was likely his last chance to say his peace, to explain his actions over the last year.

If this was the last thing he was ever going to write to her, it had better be the best thing he’d ever written.

The letter from Benedict Bridgerton arrived an hour and a half after tea-time. Her mother had, unsurprisingly, swooped in on her, asking all sorts of questions about Lady Danbury, what had taken her so long to get home, what Penelope was going to wear that night, how she was going to do her hair, how no one was going to look down on the Featheringtons again, not after tonight—

“Enough, Mother!” Penelope cried out, unable to keep the sob from her chest from bubbling out. “Please, just let me be.”

Her mother’s face was pinched, her eyes calculating. “You’re right. You’d best get some rest before this evening. And don't cry for a moment longer, your face is already puffy enough as it is.”

This statement was so usual it barely even registered for Penelope. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to have to fight to go to her room. “Thank you, Mother,” she said, all traces of anguish gone from her voice. She’d had years of practice.

She’d sat at her desk in her room, the surface clear except for a quill and her ink. Just that morning, she’d organised it, her hands trembling from excitement and fear of her plan.

She’d taken herself off the market, and she’d thought it would set her free.

In many ways, it had. She could still feel the lightness in her step as she’d paraded past the ton. You cannot hurt me , she’d thought. For I no longer play by your rules .

But then Lady Danbury had held her hand and told her she was strong and clever, had not laughed or pitied her but cheered for her. It was not a conversation that she would have dreamed of in a million years!

Then Colin had come skidding across the road, out of breath, his brown hair wild and his hands full of apologies and lemon tarts. His blue eyes had been so bright with hope and joy that he’d found her, and for a moment he was her old Colin, and she was his Pen.

She’d wanted to brush back his hair and kiss his temple, right there on the street, but when he offered her those tarts, and her mother’s voice rung loudly in her mind, she’d remembered herself. She was strong enough to resist a Bridgerton, especially this one.

But then suddenly, he wasn’t Colin Bridgerton, not the one she’d known. He was wild, like a desperate animal, fighting to get out, only he wanted to get in. He spoke of her building a barricade, and she knew that if she didn’t stop him, he would not only climb that barricade, he would destroy it.  

But she couldn’t let him, for then he would know everything! He would see how ardently she had loved him, loved him still! He would see her anger for what it was; not righteous fury at public humiliation, but smallness, pettiness, that he would never love her as she loved him. If he knew that, he would pity her or he would hate her, and she did not know which was worse.  

She could see in his eyes that afternoon that his love was true, but it was not enough.  

Nothing in this world was enough for her.

Her writing as Whistledown had given her immense power and more money than she’d ever had, but it wasn’t enough. Eloise’s friendship had been a lifeboat in her miserable childhood, but it hadn’t been enough.

All this want, want, want! It ate at her, made her sick with hope, and all she had to show for it was the knowledge, that want, made her weak. It made her small and jealous, and she was so tired of it.

It was not Colin’s fault that she was greedy for his love. It was not Eloise’s fault that she was hungry for power and influence.  

She would forgive them, and she would let them go, so they would be protected from her sins.

That had been her aim earlier that afternoon. She was doing possibly the most righteous thing she could ever do by telling Colin good-bye. She felt wrung out, like gossamer fighting the wind, but god help her, she’d put the world right.

But then the idiot had written her one last letter.

It was tucked between two pages from Benedict, telling her that he’d made contact with one Lord Franklin III, a owner of a publishing house, and that he would make the introductions tonight at the ball. She’d been equally thrilled and terrified, but then she’d seen the familiar writing at the top of the second page.

This is the last letter I will ever write, so please do not throw this in the fire.

She’d almost done it to spite him. What was he doing? She’d told him plainly, practically begged him to stop, to leave her alone.

I know you told me to stop, and after this I promise I shall.

She huffed angrily; he did not know her thoughts . Had he put his brother up to this? She was going to have to have stern words with the older Bridgerton after tonight.

Penelope’s grip tightened on the paper, a whirl of emotions stirring inside her. Would she have to do the right thing again and throw out his letter? Spare him from her a second time?

She didn’t have the strength to do it again.

First, he began, I still owe you an explanation for my words last summer. I have not been able to tell you them out loud, because I am fully aware of how silly my feelings are compared to yours. I do not think even if I sat with you for hours I would be able to express my thoughts clearly, so I will take the coward's way out and write them to you. I warn you, it will not be flattering, but you have already guessed most of it, so there is no use hiding now.  

That night, as I’m sure you remember, I’d just completed a quest boys only dream of, by rescuing a young lady from the wicked schemes of the world. This young lady being my dearest friend, who had only expressed her unwavering faith in my goodness, made the experience that much sweeter. I was feeling rather high on my own importance, a feeling that was bolstered by the crowd of my peers around me, laughing at my jokes and flattering my ego.

When Fife raised you as the subject of discussion, I was immediately on my guard. You will not know this, because I have not told you, but he was a bit of a terror in my school days. He was, in many ways, my first introduction to the casual cruelty of English schoolboys. I will not belabour the point, for I do not want you to feel sorry for me. I emerged from the experience mostly unscathed, and did not interact with the man enough for him to be a continual thorn in my side.

I have seen how Miss Cowper treats you, so I know you will understand how small an old bully can make you feel. But I have also seen how you do not rise to her bait, so perhaps you cannot understand how my instincts for preservation drove me to his level. I escaped ridicule that night, but I left you trampled underfoot to do so.

That is the truth of it. I was not the man you thought I was, a fact you now know, and I will never stop being sorry for it.

You said you have forgiven me, but now you know what you are forgiving. I hope you will forgive me again.  

This afternoon you said that nothing is enough. I know that feeling well, and I’ve partially described it to you in my past letters.

My short, blessed life on this Earth has taught me many things, but chief among them is that I will never be enough. My memory will fade, my body is not strong, and my words will always fail to capture the full measure of the wonders and horrors of the world.

The horrible moments are the strongest teachers. Watching my mother’s anguish, knowing there was a black absence where her spirit used to be, I will never forget that helplessness. But even the moments I hold dear, how my father’s laughter reverberated through my whole body while he hugged me, my first time sharing salty oysters and bitter alcohol with the Black Sea fishermen, and yes, losing against you at cards with my family during those rainy London days… I will never be enough to do them justice.

I think you’ve put yourself on a shelf, Pen, for safety. Perhaps you feel you are not enough, as I do. Whether it was because of Lady Whistledown’s words today, or it started earlier, I do not know.

But I know your friendship has made my life richer and more vibrant. You are correct, that I did not see you. That is what I am apologising for now.

I am sorry. Whether or not you ever speak to me again, your friendship is something I will never take for granted again.

If you decide to come down off your shelf, there will be one person waiting for you with open arms. I have been, and will always be,

Your Friend,

Colin

Well, she thought, wiping away the kind of frustrated tears that are only born of great love and affection, he always was a good letter writer.

Chapter Text

“If [men] are told that the struggle for the good is an illusion, that no one need be ashamed to drop his shield and run, that the coward is the natural man, the hero is fable, many will be grateful. But will the city, or mankind, be better?” 

-The Mask of Apollo by Mary Reneault

"There comes a time in every woman's life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne." 

-Bette Davis

The plan was thus: Benedict and Colin would escort their mother and Francesca to the Smythe-Smith ball in separate carriages. Eloise would not attend tonight, instead staying in with Anthony and Kate, so there was no danger there. Mother and Colin would reach out specifically to Lady Featherington to try and mend the rift–

“Why Colin, you’re turning a rather peculiar shade of green!”

“Please be quiet, Hyacinth.”

–meanwhile, Benedict would find Penelope, put in a few good words–

“I can help with that.”

“Francesca, you will be busy dancing.”

"I might not. And besides, I am just as fond of Penelope as the rest of you.” 

–right, Benedict or Francesca would find Penelope and gauge the situation. Colin should probably make himself scarce while they do this, they don’t want Miss Feathertington to feel ganged up on. Regardless, at some point he would introduce her to Lord Franklin, and by then everything will have gone so well that she’ll be in a brilliant mood. Then, Bob’s your uncle, he’ll find Colin, send him on his way,  and they’ll all be friends as usual by dinnertime!

“And if we’re especially lucky,” Benedict reiterated in the carriage on the way there. “You and I, Col, will be gone before the Symthe-Smith matriarch can even think about bringing out the piano-forte for one of her girls.”

Colin did not look so confident. “You’re assuming too much, first of which being that she read my letter at all. In fact, the Featheringtons might not even come tonight.”

“Oh, they’ll be there,” Benedict assured him. “Have you ever known Portia Feathertington to back down from a fight?” 

Colin rolled his eyes in assent. “Fair point. But why does this plan include the introduction of a strange man? I have never heard of Lord Franklin the third.” 

Benedict shrugged. “I have already told you, that is not my secret to tell.”

His brother remained quiet for a moment, looking out the carriage window as it rolled merrily down dimly lit streets. It was just the two of them on the ride there, for Mother had wanted to speak more to Francesca after the disaster last night. 

Benedict watched his brother in the quiet. It was amazing how grown-up he looked, his sharper features and deep frown removing the last of his boyish charm. When did he become so? He had to wonder.

The old thought popped up before he could redirect it: how would Benedict capture this moment in paint? He would compose his brother in a leaning position, encouraging the gaze to drift off the canvas and let the viewer wonder what was on Colin’s mind. Keep his eyes bright with shades of dark cyan, his face youthful, but the hand that clutched at his knee would be the heart of the piece. He could see it now, the way it would almost glow in the darkness of the rest of the canvas. Benedict would find a way to convey how tight the grip was, the new white scars that dusted his brother’s knuckles from unknown adventures. 

That was the crux of this scene. Colin left London last year, full of good cheer and wide-eyed curiosity, and had returned… well, something close to a man. 

He did not like it. It made him feel out of step, as though Colin was ahead of him in some way. 

But that was a problem to consider later. Tonight, they had a plan. 

The Smythe-Smith party was always the night after the Danbury ball, which meant that fewer people attended, and when they did they were more tired. This seemed to suit Lady Smythe just fine, for as she always said, she came from the kind of old family that did not need to “show off.” 

This humble instinct did not apply to her daughters, however, and every year after dinner she would trot the girls out one-by-one to show off their musical talents, such as they were. Benedict had made the mistake once of staying after dinner his first year in society, and he never made the mistake again. 

Which was why, he thought as they left their carriage and waited patiently for the second Bridgerton party to arrive, he was surprised that Lord Franklin had agreed to meet him tonight. The dreaded Smythe-Smith exhibitions were notorious amongst London’s artistically inclined, and were always the first example of hobbyist versus Real Artist to be brought up in conversation. 

With their mother and sister in tow, Benedict led their party up the stairs into the home, where the party was already well underway. Inoffensive music and lowlights encouraged conversation before the dancing began, but if any of them thought they would be able to slip in without notice, they were swiftly proven wrong. A hush seemed to settle over the crowd as Colin led their mother in first, and all eyes seemed to dart between them and Lady Feathertington on the edge of the dance floor. 

Ironically, no one seemed to know or care where Penelope was, even though she was the persona non-grata. It took Benedict a minute to spot her in the crowd, tucked away in a corner. He turned to his brother to warn him, but Colin had found her and was staring intently. 

“Remember the plan, brother,” he whispered, then louder to their mother, “I think I’ll make the rounds with Francesca, eh, mother?” 

She smiled at him graciously, although the lines around her mouth were still very tight. “Good idea, darling. Colin, are you ready?” 

His brother shook himself from his reverie. “Uh, yes, I am ready.”

Benedict caught Francesca rolling her eyes. “Shall we?” 

They parted at the entrance, each party making their way to their respective Featherington ladies. He was extremely grateful they were dealing with the daughter instead of the mother, and said so to his sister under his breath.

“Indeed,” Francesca murmured, although her mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Tell me, brother, did Colin always look at Miss Feathertington in that way?” 

Benedict considered it. “I’m… I’m not sure. To be honest, I don’t think I ever paid attention.” 

“Neither did I, but I have been gone for a while.” 

They paused a few times to exchange pleasantries with fellow guests. One lady in a blue dress with a dangerously low neckline caught his attention, and he was tempted… But no, that would have to wait. 

“I always just treated her as an extra sibling, lumped in with Eloise,” Benedict continued. 

His sister nodded, never losing that polite smile like a true Bridgerton. “As did I. Did Colin ever say anything in his letters to you?”

Benedict thought carefully. “To be honest, sister, I did not always read his letters very carefully.”

His sister patted him on the arm and gave him an affectionate grin. “Sadly I can say the same. Ah look, there she is!”

They had come upon Penelope, looking ill at ease and tugging at her dress, one of her more restrained frocks. 

“Miss Featherington,” Francesca hummed as they approached her. “I am so thrilled to see you tonight, it has been too long.” 

“It has,” Penelope answered, giving them both a quick curtsy. “I’m afraid I have not had a chance to come over and visit since you’ve returned.” 

“The important thing is that we’re all here now,” Benedict said.  

Penelope gave him a quick smile, but if it was meant to be confident it fell flat on its face. With her eyes darting between them and the rest of the room, she was starting to resemble a skittish deer. 

Fran, god bless her, approached her gently. “I love your new dress,” she said.

“Ah, well,” Penelope stammered. “One of my quieter ones. I wanted to make a good impression.” 

Benedict frowned. The poor girl was clearly a nervous wreck. It struck him that maybe he had underestimated how shy Penelope actually was. Or perhaps it was the timing of it all? Had it really been a good idea to agree to introduce her to someone new and important on the same day she’d been so publicly humiliated?

Benedict looked around the room. Maybe Franklin wouldn’t actually come and they could postpone to a better time. Blast! No, there he was, chatting amiably with another young man. He had not spotted Benedict yet, but it would only be a matter of time. 

The plan would have to change a bit. “You’re doing splendidly,” he said to Penelope, “Although I imagine the day has been taxing for you. Perhaps a little liquid courage?”

His sister shot him a look of disapproval, but Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Probably a good idea.”

“Excellent! Francesca, why don’t you take Miss Feathertington to find refreshment? I need to find my friend, I promised I’d meet him here tonight.”

Francesca, who did not know the whole of his plan as Colin did, gave him a searching look. He shrugged, and she turned her face to Miss Featherington, taking her arm in a show of comradery. “He’s right. Would you join me, Penelope?” 

The younger woman nodded, taking Francesa’s arm like it was a life-line.

“I’ll be right back,” he told them, then went off to find his man.

Colin had, unhappily, become recently acquainted with Penelope’s pointed glares. He had thought they were bad, but nothing, nothing, could compare to the one Portia Featherington fixed him with now. He’d often considered her to be a bit silly, the way she threw her daughters into the waters of society then complained if they did not swim. Tonight, however, with her head held high and her hand clutched against her stomach, she looked like a gorgon ready to strike. 

My god, I think she wishes me dead.

“Lady Feathertington,” his mother said, curtsying in front of the other woman. “I am glad to see you this evening.” 

The other woman did not bother to hide her fury. “Are you?” 

To his mother’s credit, she did not stumble. “Of course. Our children may have the occasional squabble, but that is the prerogative of youth, wouldn’t you say?” She smiled at Lady Featherington in her most charming fashion, and as always Colin was a little in awe of her. “It does not change the many years of amicable companionship between our two families. I hope we can put this behind us, and return to being good neighbours.” 

Lady Featherington sniffed. “Is it also the prerogative of youth to insult the daughter of your host?” 

Colin realised then that he’d made an incorrect assumption about Portia Featherington. When he thought of what he would say, he imagined apologising to an angry mother, incensed by deep (very deep) affection for her youngest daughter. 

But no. Her pride had been wounded, so it was her pride that he would have to assuage. 

The idea enraged him, but that would not help him. So he pushed down the errant feeling and covered it with charm, the way he’d always done. 

Colin stepped forward, bowing slightly. “It is not anyone’s prerogative to behave as rudely as I have,” he said with as much regret as he could muster. “I should have never said anything like that about any member of your family, especially when our family holds her in such high regards.” 

The old woman raised a single penciled in brow. “Do you, now? And what about your sister?”

He grimaced internally. She would not make this easy. “I do not speak on Eloise’s behalf, although I hope she and Miss Featherington can mend their bond quickly.”

“It would give us all peace if they did,” his mother interjected. “But I’m sure it will happen soon, seeing as you raised such a noble girl as Penelope.” 

“Hmm. Let us pray it does.” 

Penelope did not make a habit of complaining too much about her mother to Colin. Beyond the normal Marriage-Minded-Mama casualties, she was fairly tight lipped about her home life, at least with him. As such, he never thought too deeply about the woman who raised Penelope.

But the way Portia appraised him, eyes sweeping from the top of his head to the scuffs on his shoes, he felt like he was a child at school again. 

Penelope grew up with this, he thought. The rage returned, more insistent, but he would not budge. He deserved this, even though he felt like his chest was on fire. 

Lady Featherington had made her decision. In a sweet voice, entirely different from before, she said “Did you know some of those seven bouquets you sent this morning contained lavender?”

“I did.”

“I am allergic to lavender.”

They were not meant for you. “I apologise. I did not know.” 

She gave him a smile without warmth. “No matter. They were a fine start. Besides,” she said, turning to his mother, “I believe we must put aside these petty differences so that we might join forces. Focus on the real villain of this story.” 

His mother was perplexed. “I’m sorry?”

“I speak of Lady Whistledown. She has been a thorn in our family’s side for years, but this morning I feel she has gone too far.”

The writer’s name sparked his sense of injustice. “Surely you don’t think Lady Whistledown’s opinion should have any impact on Penelope’s–”

His mother cleared her throat loudly. “I agree. Penelope is a dear girl, and did nothing to deserve such words.”

“She is my pride and joy,” Lady Featherington said with feeling. “I do not know how I will be able to rest, knowing that she has been humiliated in this way.” 

Colin did not buy that for a second. “I do not know what—”

“I am suggesting we find Lady Whistledown, and silence her once and for all.”

Colin had no affection for Lady Whistledown. In fact, he had come to loathe the woman, first because of how she treated Marina, then his sister, and now Penelope. It was as though the woman targeted the important people in his life, even though he knew that was absurd. She was an equal opportunity assassin. 

But even he shuddered when he heard the venom in Portia’s words. 

“How…?”

“Both our families have been damaged by this woman, and I know we are not alone,” Lady Featherington explained. “Perhaps it is time we stopped listening to her, and made her listen to us.”

“I agree that she should be brought to justice,” he said in measured tones. “But if the Queen herself has been looking for her these past two years, I do not know how you will manage to discover her.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He did not know how, but he had the distinct impression Portia had shut a door to him, and his mother. “Indeed. It was just a thought. Have a pleasant evening, Mister Bridgerton. Lady Bridgerton.” 

He had never been so thankful to be dismissed, but he had rarely felt so disconcerted. 

He wanted to talk to someone about what just happened, especially Penelope. He wanted to ask her if this was normal behaviour for her mother, and what it meant. He wondered if Eloise could put aside her queer mood long enough to tell him her experiences. Maybe the conversation could go from cathartic to constructive, and he could find out once and for all what happened between his sister and their friend. 

Right now, however, Penelope was cozied up to a small group that included his siblings and a dashing young man with wavy blonde hair and a confident posture. The mysterious Lord Franklin, he thought. 

Benedict had told him to keep his distance, chat with other party goers and wait for his signal. Suddenly that didn’t seem like enough for Colin. He grabbed two drinks from a nearby waiter and handed one to his mother. “Excuse me. I think I need some air.”

“Quite,” his mother replied, looking a little shaken herself. “Don’t take too long.”

He nodded, took a long drink, and tried to ignore the way Lord Franklin was smiling at his friend. 

No matter. There were always people outside, and surely he could find a way to distract himself out there.

"Ah, there you are, Bridgerton!” Franklin said, lightly clapping Benedict on the shoulder. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me to an evening of musical comedy.”

Lord Christopher Franklin was the sort of man who was blessed with easy manners and a handsome face. He kept his blonde hair longer than what was considered stylish, and his collar was never done correctly, but everything else about him was impeccably groomed. 

Almost too perfect, Benedict had often thought to himself when he saw him at parties. In fact, Franklin’s features gave one the distinct impression that he ought to be looking down at you, but when he spoke he made the listener feel as though he was their oldest comrade.

As such, he was widely liked amongst the ton, even if all his activities were not wholly approved of. But what did a little dallying mean to anyone when he was such fun at parties?

“I appreciate you coming, especially on a night like tonight,” Benedict said, sneaking a glance at the refreshment table.

“It was no trouble,” Franklin said. “I needed to escape from my father’s watchful eye. He is determined to whip me into shape this year.”

“Ah yes, the pressures of being a first born. I am thankful my stars were thus misaligned.”

Franklin chuckled. “Lucky bastard. So tell me, where is your scribbler savant?” 

"Right this way,” Benedict said, gesturing in the girls’ direction.  Good, he thought, Francesca seems to have put Miss Feathertington at ease… or not, as Penelope downed a glass in two seconds. “I will warn you, she can be quite… peculiar.”

Franklin chuckled. “She does bathe, yes? She does not count imaginary birds or practise her letters on graves?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Benedict laughed, leading them through the crowd. 

“Mmm, too bad, it would make her easier to sell.”

Benedict rolled his eyes, stopping in front of the two ladies at the refreshment table. 

“Lord Franklin, this is my sister Francesca, and Miss Penelope Featherington.” 

“Pleasure.” The other man bowed to each in turn, the very picture of easy gallantry.

The two women didn’t appear as charmed. Not that Franklin would be able to tell just by looking at Francesca, for she was always good at keeping up pleasant appearances, but Benedict noticed the way her eyes dimmed. He would have to apologise later for launching her into such an awkward situation.

Penelope looked white as a sheet. She looked at Lord Franklin once, murmured a greeting, and looked away immediately, her mouth as tight as though she was sucking a lemon. 

Franklin seemed disappointed.

This is going to be a disaster. 

Luckily, Benedict had his own ways of charming a crowd. “I was just telling Lord Franklin how lucky I was to be surrounded by such accomplished ladies,” Benedict barreled onward. “Francesca, for example, is an excellent pianist.” 

“Are you?” Franklin said, turning his charm towards the other Bridgerton. “Will you be demonstrating your talents tonight, along with the Smythe-Smith girls?”

“No, I would not want to,” Francesca replied. “I am not one who seeks the spotlight.” 

“I believe the spotlight finds those who are worthy,” Franklin said. “Even if it has to be wrested away from the grasp of an eager mother.” 

Benedict snorted and then quickly coughed to cover the noise. He hoped Penelope would find this jest amusing, and it would loosen her up. Unfortunately, she looked more sour than before.

Francesa did not laugh either, but smiled in return. “I’m sure the girls are thankful to have a mother who believes in them so much. My own mother thought I had enough talent to send me to Bath where I could grow my skills.” 

Franklin and Francesa chatted for a moment about Bath, and all it had to offer, while Benedict grew increasingly worried. This had been a bad idea after all. Penelope was not in a state to meet new people tonight, especially after the day she’d had. In fact she looked as though she would like nothing more than to slink into the floor while she drank her champagne. 

Unfortunately Benedict wasn’t sure he could get Franklin to agree to this again. The man kept a very busy social schedule. He had to do something, and fast.

“Have you read anything interesting lately?” he asked, as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. 

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader,” Francesca said. “How about you, Miss Feathertington?” 

The question seemed to call Penelope back to the group, although she still did not say anything, just nodded. 

A pause, which seemed to go on forever, but was eventually broken by Lord Franklin. “I love reading, although I never read as much as I probably should. My father taught me from an early age to make time for the habit, but it is unfortunately one of the lessons that has not fully stuck.” 

“W-what kind of books do you read?” 

Finally! A word from the star herself. Benedict could have cheered. 

Lord Franklin bobbed his head a bit, as though considering his answer. “Oh, a bit of everything. Histories, scientific journals, books of business.”

“No novels?” Penelope asked, rather pointedly Benedict thought.

“A few,” Franklin replied with a soft smile, as though he was speaking to a child. “I prefer the works of H.L. Kelley lately.”

Benedict had never heard of the author, but Penelope seemed to recognise the name immediately, for she blurted out “Why?” in the most incredulous way that made everyone laughed from shock. 

“I take it you do not care for Mr. Kelley?” Franklin asked. 

Penelope’s face was pink, and Benedict was not sure if it was from embarrassment or alcohol. “Pardon me, I did not mean to be so abrupt.” 

“No, no,” the other man said, again speaking very gently. “I love it when I can encounter such a strong opinion.”

Penelope still seemed on the fence, so Benedict decided to push her a little. “I’ve never heard of this author. Miss Featherington, you can give your side, and then Lord Franklin shall give his, and at the end I will decide if I want to give them any of my precious time.” 

Francesca rolled her eyes at the mention of his “precious time.” Benedict shrugged. 

“Very well,” Penelope said, still gripping onto her champagne glass. “I will confess I have only read two of Mr. Kelley’s novels. The first, I will admit, I read out of morbid curiosity. He writes about such terrible things…”

“Oh dear,” Benedict said, winking at Lord Franklin. “Are there terrible villains and murderers in this story?” 

Now it was Penelope’s turn to roll her eyes. “There are terrible villains in every story, Mr. Bridgerton, although how terrible is up to interpretation. Murders, of course, are slightly more rare, depending on the genre. The things I am referring to go beyond terrible events, but how Mr. Kelley writes about them. He seems to revel in the darkness of the human spirit.”

“Yet good still wins in the end,” Franklin said, his hands behind his back. 

“It must, or no good Christian would read it,” Penelope replied, finally getting some strength in her voice. “But when truly loveable characters go insane and die, and heroes who are more like villains are the only ones who survive, does it really matter how a story ends?”

“So you are someone who prefers less complexity in their stories?” Franklin asked with a sardonic grin.

Penelope’s eyes flashed. “Not at all. I want honesty in my stories, and with honesty naturally comes complexity.” 

“Is Mr. Kelley’s view of the world not honest enough? We do not all live in a land of fairness and justice, after all. People can be unkind and cruel, and I believe Mr. Kelley does a good job at showing that.” 

“Too good a job, I believe. Pessimism is not a substitute for a mature worldview,” Penelope replied. “For where would we be if we all just accepted things as they are, instead of hoping for something more?” 

“Not every story should be a sacarrine morality play for children.” 

Francesca was starting to shift, looking as uncomfortable with this conversation as Benedict was starting to feel. He took a glass from a nearby servant, anything to give him something to do. This was the most excited he’d ever seen Penelope, and it was reminding him a little too closely of Eloise’s rants. 

Which makes sense, I suppose, he thought, taking a sip.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you will know something about this.” Penelope had rounded on him, clearly excited. “When you are painting, you know how important it is to use both shadows and light. ”

“Y-yes,” he said, struggling to see where this was going and how it could help her. “Good art uses both, as well as understanding the importance of positive and negative space.” 

She nodded. “But what happens if you add too much black to your paint mixtures?” 

“I suppose it can muddy the colours.”

“And too much of this would ruin the painting, I presume?” 

“Of course. I’ve had to spend a pretty penny replacing paint which I ruined with bad mixing.” 

She nodded again, her cheeks flushed from the drink, and turned back to Franklin. She looked him up and down briefly, as though assessing him. “It is the same in writing, I believe. To create a good story, you need all shades of light and dark. Too much light, and it becomes, as you say, a saccharine morality play. However, if there is too much darkness it becomes a different kind of morality play that does as much to distort one’s view of the world as the other.”

Satisfied, she took another drink. 

The Bridgertons looked at the short red-head with awe. Benedict had known, based on her writing, that Miss Feathertington could be… like this. But reading it and seeing it were two entirely different things. 

Lord Franklin had changed his tune from infantilizing to amusement, which could only mean good things for Penelope, if she stopped drinking away her nerves long enough to see her victory. 

“Spoken like someone who has strong opinions on writing,” Franklin said, leaning forward. “You know, I myself have tried my hand at writing a novel. I do not know if you would like it very much, but I would still love to have your opinion on it.” 

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Benedict nearly spit out his drink. 

Franklin burst out laughing, while Penelope’s face went as red as her hair. 

“I think I’ll finish that glass for you,” Francesca murmured, taking the last of the champagne from the other woman. 

“Yes, please do,” Franklin announced. “Now that your hands are free, Miss Featherington, would you like to dance?” 

Penelope seemed completely lost. She nodded, took Franklin’s outstretched hand, and joined him on the dance floor. 

“What on earth was that?” Francesca hissed once they were safely out of earshot. 

“I have no idea,” Benedict replied, eyes following the odd couple. “Do you… do you think she was flirting with him?”

His sister did not bother to hide her annoyance. “Come brother. I do not know what your goals were tonight, but it’s time to leave well enough alone.” 

For the second night in a row, Penelope fled from a ballroom. 

At least this time she wasn’t crying. 

That had been a disaster. Benedict had done his best to cover for her at first, an act that she was eternally grateful for, but she recognized that look on Lord Franklin’s face the moment he laid eyes on her.

It was the look she’d been getting from men her entire life, since before she knew what was wrong with her. She would try to impress her parents' friends, to be clever and witty. She would listen intently to the rhythms of conversation, and find a place she could join in. She’d been a child, but she still had hope she could win her father’s approval, for her mother’s was already far from reach. But these great men in her father’s office who smelled like stale cigars would reach out and pinch her stomach and tell her father to mind her mouth. 

“Children should be seen, not heard,” one man said, sniffing loudly in his handkerchief. “And a fat little girl like this shouldn’t be seen at all.”

It was still the vilest thing anyone had ever said to her, and her father had not made a single remark back. He merely instructed the nanny to take her back to her room, where she scolded Penelope for bothering the men at their card games. 

So when she’d seen that look in Lord Franklin’s eyes, she couldn’t help it. Not a single cohesive thought made it from her mind to her mouth. But then the drink had taken over, and he’d said such stupid things, she couldn’t help herself, she had to say something! However, what she said… 

Oh, she would die of embarrassment!

And yet, somehow it turned out alright! She’d apologised to Lord Franklin, and he’d only shaken his head. “It is alright. I told you I liked strong opinions, especially from someone as charming as you.”

She’d been sure she heard wrong, but was spared from saying anything back by the dance steps. When they did return to each other, he appeared intrigued. 

“I should like to know more of your view of the world, as you say. Please, send me your novel, so I can learn better.” 

His smile had gone from annoying to charming in the span of a few minutes. Had she been wrong earlier? Maybe her nerves and the drink had distorted her first impression of him.

So she agreed, and when they broke apart at the end of the dance she’d practically bolted outside. 

The fresh air outside was chilly, the spring weather playing its usual tricks on the atmosphere. For the moment, it was refreshing to feel the cool air on her warm skin, but it wouldn’t be long until she’d have to return to the party, for warmth and work.

For now, though, she needed to catch her breath. She moved further into the garden, past a gaggle of gossiping young men. The noise inside dimmed, and she could hear the song of crickets in the tall hedges. She looked up to the stars, a feeling of calm washing over her frayed nerves. 

It was over. She had done it. It had been a disaster, but it was done all the same. She would try to take comfort in that, even though she knew it was only the beginning. She would need to go home, start making some of the changes Benedict had suggested, but only if there was nothing she needed to write for Whistledown first.

She sighed heavily, the thought of the work ahead of her sobering her up quite a bit. In the meantime, she was able to find a secluded area of the garden, a cluster of high rose bushes, complete with its own stone bench…

“Oh!” 

Colin Bridgerton was already sitting there, his blue eyes wide in the moonlight. 

“Sorry!” 

“No, don’t apologise–”

“I can go–”

“No, I’ll go–”

“Please, I insist…" 

“Colin, stop,” she said with a sigh. “It is fine, you were here already.”

“But you seem…” he trailed off, unsure of himself. “You need the respite more than I.” 

She rolled her eyes. “It does not matter.”

“It does,” he insisted. His voice was warm and inviting, and he gave her that shy grin that changed the very air around her. 

It was unfair, she thought, that he remained so kind to her when she’d done everything she could to be cold to him. She could try being cruel. After his letter, it could be the final nail in the coffin, and she could be rid of him forever. 

His hand outstretched towards the bench, his heart in his eyes. “I insist,” he said, more gently than anyone had spoken to her in her whole life. Her own parched heart stumbled towards him, exhausted and thirsty after the longest day of her life. 

She could never be cruel to him. She could not even find it in herself to hate him. 

And he made her so very, very weak. 

“You could sit with me,” she heard herself say, her own mouth betraying her, like it had all evening. 

He looked at her cautiously. “You do not mind?" 

His shy politeness was replaced with hope that thrummed under his skin. She saw it in the way his posture stiffened, his outstretched hand now pulled tight against his middle, as though he had to control every part of himself. 

I have this power over him, she marvelled. When did that happen? How could I have been so careless with it? 

 She did not trust herself to answer him. Instead she sat on the bench, arranged herself. “Sit,” she instructed. 

 He wasted no time. He cleared his throat, and sat on the opposite end of the bench. They both faced the roses, for they both seemed unable to look at each other.

"I thought you'd be inside," she started lamely. "There is some dancing, although not as much as usual."

"I know," he answered. "I was outside with some of the men, but when they returned inside I decided not to follow."

"Oh."

He stayed on the edge of his spot, too far for them to accidentally touch, so close she could smell that aftershave.

It put her in mind of the previous night, of how close he’d been then. If she reached out now, she could still find him. Her fingers itched for it, but when she stole a sideways glance at him…

He looked so tired. Despite the tight way he held himself, she could see the bags under his eyes. 

This had been a long day for him as well.

She cleared her throat. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

He practically jumped. “What?”

 “This is the second night I’ve run into you in a garden,” she explained lamely. 

“Oh!” He laughed, a short nervous sound. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

She stole a glance at him, only to meet his eyes. They both looked away, quickly. 

The silence grew; thick and loud like a buzzing in her ears. She could hear the party inside, music and laughter fading in the background. 

She needed to be brave. She’d been trying all day, bravely facing the ton, facing Lady Danbury, facing Lord Franklin. But her bravery was running its limits, and she was not sure she could manage much more. 

But this is Colin, she thought. He will never love you, but you are still friends. And friends are the easiest people to speak to in the world. 

“I–”

“Are you–” 

She stopped, realising he’d been speaking at the same time. 

“Sorry,” he said, his face red. “I was going to ask if you are alright. You seemed… troubled when you turned the corner.”

Penelope sighed. “It was nothing.”

“If it upsets you, then it isn’t nothing.” He was so handsome when he said this, and a small part of her still thrilled at the idea that he cared for her. “Does it have to do with what Whistledown wrote?”

Panic choked her; she couldn’t burden him with this assumption he caused her more pain, especially when she’d been the author of her own circumstances…

Wait. This was familiar. 

She took a moment to get a good look at him, and ah. Now she saw. 

There was that look. 

She thought it’d been an expression only Eloise could make. It was the look she gave her when Penelope wrote her first scathing review of the Featheringtons in Whistledown. “How can you be so glib after what she wrote about you?” 

It touched her at first how passionate her friend was on her behalf, but it soon devolved into annoyance. It’d taken her ages to talk Eloise off that precipice, assure her that she was quite all right, that Whistledown could never truly hurt her… 

Apparently that look was a Bridgerton trait. Even though Colin wore it much more handsomely, it still annoyed her. 

“I read your letter this evening.” 

He was suddenly shy. “I thought you might have burned it.”

“You asked me not to.” 

He chuckled, his gloved hands wringing in his lap.  “You haven’t listened to me in a long time.” 

“I’m afraid you will have to get used to that,” she said. “If we are to be friends again.”

He whirled to face her, beaming like the sun on a new day. It startled her, and she couldn’t help but laugh, his energy was infectious.

“Do you mean that?”

“That I won’t always listen to you? I’m afraid so!”

The teasing laugh died in her throat when he grabbed one of her hands, holding it close to his chest. “You truly want to be friends again?” 

 She was keenly aware of how close they were to each other, alone in this half grown maze of hedges and roses. His hand was broad and warm, holding her so close she could feel the beat of his heart. 

She felt tipsy all over again, slow to respond. Her gaze lingered on their hands, slowly tracing its path to his jawline, sharper now than in his youth. Her own heartbeat raced, heat travelling to every part of her as she pictured what it would be like to kiss that part of him. What noises he would make, what he would taste like… 

And for one brief moment of insanity, her eyes met his, and she thought he was wondering the same thing.

She withdrew her hand. “I have some stipulations. If we are to resume our friendship.”

He cleared his throat. “What sort of stipulations?”

“If we resume our friendship, you cannot go around trying to solve any problems for me. I will have troubles and worries, but I am more than capable of taking care of them myself. If-” she hurried, for she could see he was already forming an objection, “-I need your assistance, I will ask for it. If you see a problem arise of which I am ignorant, I would rather you come to me first, and we can solve it together. As friends and equals.”

She kept her expression neutral during this speech. She wanted him to believe this was a matter of pride, which was not too far from the truth. But the less he felt inclined to meddle, the smaller the chances he would find out her secrets, and she could avoid another incident like with Eloise. Her poor heart was already wary of letting Colin back in, even in this new way. She could not take another loss. 

Colin nodded slowly, considering her words carefully. “I can agree to these terms. But I have a stipulation of my own.”

She sucked in a breath, bracing herself for whatever he might throw at her, readying excuses, gentle rebuffs. 

“I will agree not to pry into your affairs uninvited, only if you promise me that if I am ever the source of your problems, you will tell me immediately.” His voice caught on the last word. “I cannot stand any more months of silence, while I torture myself with the worst possible scenarios.” 

Gone was the boyish jubilation of the moment prior. Here was the same man who’d stood his ground outside her home, demanding a straight answer from her. 

It was the first time she felt he was asking something of her, something she had not already given to him. She did not know what it was he was asking for, and the uncertainty terrified her.

“Very well,” she said. “We have a deal.” 

She extended her gloved hand to him, intending to shake on it, but his devilish grin returned. “Deal,” he laughed, taking her hand and firmly kissing the top of her knuckles. 

She yelped, yanking back her hand. “Colin!”

He was laughing, all of his light and life returned. “What?”

 “You can’t do that!” 

“Why not?" 

“Because-!” She scolded, although it held no bite. “You are only allowed to do that with family!" 

It wasn’t even true; men and women typically only behave in that way if they were courting. But that wound was still too fresh between them.

Colin seemed too happy to care. “So?”

“I am not family.”

“Oh, I am aware,” he chuckled. “If you were, it would not have taken so long for us to resolve our quarrel, for you could not have escaped me.” 

She rolled her eyes, but was unable to keep the smile off her face. “I barely did as it was.”

“I have been accused of dogged persistence,” he replied. “May I ask you something?”

He looked at her as though he was the happiest man in the world, and again, Penelope wondered if this were her influence. It emboldened her. “You may.” 

“What made you change your mind?"

Penelope’s heart skipped a beat. She could not tell him the truth: that he drew her in, like the moon affected the tides, calm one moment, strong the next, constant and eternal. This was an inevitable outcome, no matter what her wounded pride had told her. 

 “It was your letter,” she finally said. “You’ve always been a good writer.” 

 “Ah,” was all he said, although she could tell he was pleased with the compliment. “I did not have much time to compose it, so I’m glad it had its intended effect.” 

 Even though she had just scolded him for touching her too familiarly, Penelope reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. The blue fabric felt warm in the cool night, and she rubbed a thumb over it in a small circle. “It was beautiful, Colin. Thank you for writing it.” 

“You’re very welcome,” he answered in a low tone. 

Again, she was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to touch him further, to run her hand over his chest— this was playing with fire. Better to return to solid ground.

She leaned back slightly on her hands, looking up to the stars, anywhere but Colin. “You were wrong about one thing, though.”

“Was I?” He leaned back with her, playing the game, as she knew he would. “Do tell.”

“You supposed I feel as though I am not enough. The truth is I often feel that I am too much.”

He gave her a queer look. “Too much?” 

“Yes. Penelope Featherington is too much." 

“Where did you get this idea?”

She laughed, trying to remain nonchalant. It would be easier to list the places she did not get this idea. She was too fat, too smart, too inclined to read, too sneaky, even her hair was too red! “My mother,” she settled on. “She often reminds me of the many ways I am ill suited for society.”

“You mother?” He was incredulous. “Portia Featherington?”

“The very one.”

“And you believe her?” 

She shrugged. “Sometimes.” 

“That is the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“Colin!”

“I’m sorry, but Penelope, have you seen your mother?” He was laughing, but it wasn’t at her. “I do not know if she knows the meaning of the phrase, ‘too much’!”

He was right. Now that she said it out loud, it did seem silly to use her mother as an example of what was suited for society. Penelope had written about her mother’s ostentatious style more than once in Whistledown! 

She found herself giggling with him, feeling light as air. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Does not every member of the ton look to colours beyond nature when choosing dress fabrics?”

This made him laugh harder, an accomplishment so heady that Penelope joined him without any thought for propriety. A lady would not lose control of herself in this way, but their good moods fed each other, each glance sending the other into another peel of snickers. 

That was the draw of him; she should be so nervous, so scared to even speak around him, but he always made her feel that she was safe to be herself. And to think, she almost gave this up! 

“I know she’s your mother,” he said, wiping his eyes. “And I’m sorry for saying this, but if she thinks you are too much she must be either blind or mad!” 

Penelope bit her lip, a mischievous thought crossing her mind. “I’ll pay you a crown to say that to her face." 

Colin’s eyes flicked down to his knees. “A crown might not be enough.” He sounded apprehensive; perhaps worried that he’d crossed a line. 

She was too jovial to let him go. “I’ll throw in an entire box of bonbons.” 

She expected him to admit defeat, maybe change the subject, but instead he jumped to his feet.  “Right. Easiest money I’ve ever made.” 

“You tricked me!”

He smirked, hands tucked behind his back. “I actually spoke to her this evening, if I go now I might—“

“Stop! Please!” Penelope reached out to stop him, but her laughter weakened her grip. “I give up!” 

“But I am already composing my speech,” he teased. “I am going to ask her how a mother could misunderstand her daughter so completely that she confuses her with a decorative fruit tree!” 

He meant it as a jest, looking to her to continue the play, but the sentiment had hit too close to the truth. He must have seen it in her expression, for he sat next to her again, his shoulder brushing against hers.

“She means well,” she said, unsure if she was speaking to Colin or herself. 

“That does not mean she is right.” 

His expression was open, earnest, two of the things that kept her in love with him all these years. Colin had an uncanny bravery, intentional or not, that showed him as he was. What he was, was the best man she’d ever known. 

She cleared her throat. “It is infuriating sometimes how you always know exactly the right thing to say.”

He snorted. 

“Truly!” she insisted, back to the safe ground of teasing. “If only I’d been born a Bridgerton, I would be handsome and charming…”

“Mm hmm.”

“I would be able to make everyone smile with a well timed joke…”

“You must be referring to Gregory. He is the only one of us with any natural humour.”

“You mean you were not born this way?”

His good mood dimmed, replaced by an air of embarrassment. “You would not say these things if you knew me at school. Any charm I have was acquired through trial and error. Plus,” he added, leaning in conspiratorially, “Farmer John’s Book of Amusing Tales.”

She laughed at his admission, but an earlier conversation had resurfaced in her mind. Lady Danbury had spoken to her about the importance of charm, and at the time she’d brushed it off. But she could not plunge into every business conversation tipsy on champagne and nerves. Lord Franklin had called her charming, but there was no possible way she could or would do a repeat of her performance tonight. 

She thought of every man she’d tried to speak to as Penelope Featherington, strangers or acquaintances, and how inevitably she either said the wrong thing or nothing at all. 

But with Colin? The man she’d been in love with for years? The man who should, by all rights, make her the most tongue-tied?

Being with him was easy. 

“Colin?”

“Yes?” He was relaxed, looking like he belonged here, like he grew from a rose bush in this garden. She’d seen him move about the world with grace and elegance, looking on everyone with kindness and an open heart. She yearned to feel that herself.

“I think I know how you can help me.”