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Chapter Text

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

– E. E. Cummings

Of all the society balls Colin has attended, few have been laid out with quite so much splendour. Despite the dark sky, the towering violet grey clouds, he is surrounded by light. Pillars of fire line the open field. The raised dance floor is bracketed by lanterns, shining over the couples that spin across the stage.

It is elaborate, and it is effective. Still, when Colin catches a glimpse of fiery red hair in one corner of the party, he notices that Penelope Featherington provides the brightest of all sparkles across the Vauxhall grounds.

How appropriate, for a friend he equates to sunshine. Colin moves towards her at once, prepared to have his spirits lifted by whatever insight she has to offer. Of course, she may also be able to point him in Miss Thompson’s direction, given her relation to the charming debutante.

“Pen!” Colin calls.

“Oh, Colin!” Penelope says, hastily bowing, her gloved hand rushing to gather the hair that frames her face. Colin dips his head, remembers as he does so that there is a sense of novelty about this formality, for her. He cannot recall interacting with her at another society event.

“I did not know you would be here,” she stutters.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Colin quips.

He is grateful for the appearance of her sincere smile, gratified by her chuckle.

“Have you seen Miss Thompson?”

“She is ill,” Penelope says. “My mama had to stay home with her. Papa had to chaperone.”

Colin follows the line of her pointing hand to where Lord Featherington sips from his glass, looking utterly disengaged from the festivities.

“I am quite enjoying the fact that he is here. Mama would never allow me to wear a dress like this,” Penelope adds, gesturing to her gentle pink gown. It is a more refined ensemble than her usual garish looks, Colin realises. Though he rarely pays attention to what she wears, he can recognise that she looks particularly pretty tonight.

“Not yellow enough, I think,” she says, grinning, and Colin’s heart swells fondly. She is a very sweet girl, and he knows he is fortunate to call her his friend.

Before Colin can respond, a group of young ladies floats over, herded by Miss Cressida Cowper. The ease of her smile surprises him, considering the severity he can sense in her countenance.

“Mr Bridgerton,” Cressida greets. “I believe you owe me a dance this evening, and I have only one more space remaining on my card at present.”

Her hand flutters in the presentation of her dance card.

“How convenient,” Penelope says, quietly.

Colin watches, aghast, helpless, as Cressida’s poised hands contort to tip the contents of her lemonade glass over Penelope and the lovely dress she has just proclaimed to prefer over all her others. She gasps and twists away, her shoulders shuddering in her frantic efforts to collect herself. She appears to be frozen; unable to react, unable to escape. Colin’s heart lurches.

“Penelope, I did not see you there!” Cressida exclaims. It seems an insult to the intelligence of everybody present that she feigns politeness. Colin observes her sly satisfaction and feels a sense of deep dislike unfurling in his gut. He is not used to harbouring dark sentiments for acquaintances, particularly not ladies, but he knows that he will relish denying Cressida her wish.

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you that dance, Miss Cowper. I am to escort Miss Featherington to the floor.”

The surprise with which Penelope turns to him is devastating. Colin can see in her expression that she is flabbergasted by his response, and he tries not to agonise over why that might be.

Colin steps towards Penelope and takes her hand. Her fingers are impossibly small and dainty, even through the silk of her gloves. He is surprised to realise that he likes the way they feel, clasped between his gangling digits.

She gazes at him, disbelieving, as he leads her onto the dance floor. Colin handles her with care, holding both her hands and finding a place for them among the other dancers. Once settled in the fray, he twirls her to stand by his side and offers her a broad smile. She cannot quite muster one of her own, not until the orchestra starts and he begins the steps in time with the music, and pulls her along with him.

Soon, Penelope is beaming at him. She dances with flushed rosy joy, her hair flowing around her. He takes her in his arms, bringing her closer than she has been since they were children. They spin together, and Colin is stolen by a giddy, starry feeling. Her form is soft and lovely when she brushes against him. 

Curious.

This is his dear friend, a person he has known forever, and she holds more radiant beauty in her smile than he has seen in the sum of any other girl.

The dance concludes, but Colin does not release Penelope’s hand. He lingers with her on the floor, his thumb running over her knuckles. He returns her bashful smile when she peeks at him through her eyelashes.

“Here,” Colin says, taking her to a corner of the dancefloor, away from the bustle.

“Thank you for the dance,” Penelope says, rather demurely. Colin hopes it is not embarrassment he perceives in her; surely, there could be no need for that between old friends.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he assures her. “You are a lovely dancer.”

Penelope laughs. “As are you. As fine a dancer as I remember.”

Memory rushes back to him – Penelope as a little girl, even littler than she is now, rehearsing the waltz with him to prepare him for his debut. Colin recalls spinning her through sunbeams in the Bridgerton drawing room and smiles.

“Ah, that is right. You helped me to practise before I entered society. I suppose I have you to thank for any success I have found on the dance floor.”

“I doubt that,” Penelope says. “You never so much as grazed my foot.”

Colin beholds her earnest affection and twists his hands, not sure what to do with them.

“Might I have your dance card, Pen?” Colin asks. “I would like to share another dance with you, later in the evening, if that would please you.”

There is tension in the silence that follows. Colin is disappointed to realise that she understands the implications of sharing a second dance. He hopes it will not deter her. An implication is not the same thing as a commitment, after all, and he does not believe that the stiff rules of society have served either of them well.

He wants to dance with his friend again. So he will.

Forgoing her doubt, Penelope fumbles for the card that hangs off her wrist and holds it out to him. Colin smiles his thanks, tries not to consider the disparity between the two dance cards that have been presented to him tonight. Signatures had filled all but one of the rows on Cressida’s card. Penelope’s is entirely blank.

He signs for the jig they have just danced, and hesitates less than a moment before putting his name down for a waltz. As an homage to their childhood lessons, he tells himself. If Penelope is surprised, she does not say. She stares at the card, not at him, her face pinched with an emotion he cannot name.

Excitement in the crowd draws Colin’s attention to a man standing by the stage, toting a large torch. He vaguely recalls promises of a grandiose display at tonight’s ball, and wonders if the time has arrived. The announcer speaks with indicative fanfare.

“It is with great privilege that I present Vauxhall’s newest spectacle of illumination,” the booming voice calls. The man with the torch transfers the blaze he carries to a wire, which erupts in sparkles. The bulbs that dangle over the heads of the partygoers begin to glow with golden light.

“Feast your eyes above and allow all that is radiant to overwhelm you!”

Penelope tips her face skyward. The warm colours from the lights sway over her clear, smooth cheeks. Her eyes are wide and filled with wonder. Her smile is radiant.

“Wonderful light!” their host shouts.

There is a pressure in his chest that feels as vibrant and as rare as the yellow that shrouds the ball. Colin feels shaky and nervous, warm and heavy. He reaches for Penelope’s hand again, wanting some support. She meets his gaze and her happiness somehow grows.

“Isn’t it so beautiful?” she exclaims.

“Very,” Colin agrees, softly.

“It is as though the stars have been dragged down to the earth.”

He squeezes her fingers. A quiet creature within him, something long-slumbering, slow-rising, demands that he never lets her go.

His mother is disappointed to learn that he has been calling upon Miss Thompson at Featherington House with only one bouquet of flowers at a time.

“It is more polite to offer flowers to every woman present in the house,” Violet chides, fingering the assortment of pansies he has chosen for Marina. “Particularly when a girl as dear as Penelope is among them.”

A great surge of regret fills Colin. He hangs his head. “I am ashamed I have neglected her until now. Do you think I should buy her more flowers?”

Violet smiles at him, a glimmer in her eyes. “No, dear. I believe this shall suffice.”

The bouquet he has picked for Penelope is enormous, overflowing with lilies, lilacs and violets. The stems are bound by a ribbon as purple as the heavens under which he danced with his dear friend, the previous evening.

“However, I must insist that you return to the florist and choose bouquets for Penelope’s mother and sisters, as well.”

“He will be dismayed to see me returned,” Colin says, laughing. “I wasted a good twenty minutes of his morning, considering the flowers he had on offer.”

Funny, when he never concerned himself with the concept of perfection for flowers he brought to Marina. He accepted the florist’s recommendation without comment. But picking flowers for Penelope, with the memory of the shape of her hand indented into his skin, proved to be a far more thought-provoking task.

“You need not linger for your second visit, as you only need simple selections for the rest of the family. I must say, you have chosen exceptionally well for the bouquet that counts.”

He wonders if she is referring to the pansies or the lilies and thinks he knows.

“Perhaps I should get more pansies for Penelope’s family,” he says, quietly.

“What a splendid idea.”

Colin stands on the front step of Featherington House with his arms full of flowers. He feels foolish, attempting to balance five bouquets and maintain his composure.

Lady Featherington receives him in the drawing room with displeasure.

“Mr Bridgerton,” she greets, her smile tight. “I am afraid Miss Thompson is still ill. But I am sure your flowers will brighten her bedside.”

He is hardly listening, waving at Penelope where she sits on the settee by the window. She is back in yellow and sad for it, judging by her wistful smile. 

“I am sorry to hear that Miss Thompson remains unwell, and I hope these flowers shall provide her with some comfort during her recovery,” Colin says, placing the red pansies on the nearest table. “However, I hoped to call upon Miss Penelope this morning.”

Lady Featherington fixes him with a dubious look. Colin forces himself to look her in the eye and appear undaunted.

“Very well,” Lady Featherington says, after a long pause. “You may like to greet Prudence and Phillippa, while you are here.”

“Certainly,” Colin says. “But first, these are for you, Lady Featherington.”

He hands her the orange pansies, and does not wait for her response before he approaches Penelope’s sisters, giving them each a set of yellow pansies. He registers but does not react to their broad smiles.

It is a relief to be free of the extraneous flowers. Colin holds the purple blossoms he chose with such care and beams at the girl whose beauty they could never match. He has been waiting for this moment since he woke at dawn from vague, stirring dreams.

“For you, Pen,” Colin murmurs, offering her the large bundle.

Penelope stares at him, astounded. She accepts the flowers with tentative hands, holds them with enough care to suggest they are made of water, liable to collapse at the slightest touch. When they remain intact, she strokes the petals gently. She lifts the violets to her face, inhaling their fragrance. Colin watches her eyelashes downturn and fan over her cheeks with fascination.

“Thank you, Colin,” she says, softly. “They are beautiful.”

“I am glad you think so. I was inspired by last night’s sky.”

“That is very thoughtful,” Penelope says. There is a sense of understanding in her gaze, now. Something has occurred to her and steadied her. “You have been very thoughtful.”

Beckoned by her smile, Colin joins her on the settee.

“Thank you for taking care of me last night,” she whispers, as though she is telling him a grave secret. “If I am being honest, I have been terrified to make my debut. I dearly wish my mother had allowed me to delay for a year, as your mother allowed Eloise. But I had a truly wonderful time with you.”

Colin smiles tenderly. Her bravery seems pronounced in her frank discussion of her fear. He is grateful to have helped her.

“I had a wonderful time with you, as well. In fact, I have never enjoyed a social event so thoroughly. It may be selfish to admit it, but I am rather pleased that you have debuted early.”

The smile that Penelope gives him is so beautiful that his heart begins to race.

“I suppose it is worth it, then,” she says.

“And you call me a good friend,” Colin chuckles.

Penelope shakes her head, looks shyly down at her flowers. 

“I hope Marina will recover soon. She is not much improved, Mama says, so I am uncertain how long you will have to wait to see her again. Would you like me to pass along a message?”

Colin cannot suppress a wry chuckle. It would be inconsiderate indeed to send the message he has for Marina through another person – let alone Penelope. 

“I must apologise to her,” Colin says. “It would only be right to address her myself.”

Resigned as he is to this impending conversation, he can acknowledge his dread for it. He enjoyed calling upon Marina and presenting her with flowers and engaging her in cheerful conversation. It followed his ideological understanding of attraction and courtship well. Now, it seems very shallow. 

He knows that his change in regard will seem abrupt, and he hates to know that he may cause her pain.

“That is honourable of you.”

“I try to be, where I can,” he says, tracing a speckled lily petal.

Perhaps Penelope senses his worry, because she says, “I have often thought that earnest effort counts for most of what it means to be an honourable person. Would you not agree?”

Her eyes are very blue in the sunlight, similar in hue to the flowers between them, and brimming with admiration. Colin wonders if her high opinion of him would diminish, if she knew what he was starting to think about her.

He is playing with fire, and he has more at stake than burnt fingers.

“That is very wise, Penelope,” Colin says. “But then again, you always have been.” 

“Do not tell my mama, but I believe it is because I enjoy reading so much,” Penelope replies, her smile full of mischief.

Colin’s certainty grows more every moment.

He laughs with her. “I am sure it has greatly benefited your natural insight. Tell me, what have you been reading lately?”

When Colin leaves Featherington House, he has a borrowed book under his arm and a smile on his face. For once, he feels as perfectly happy as he looks; it is not for show, not for another’s benefit. It is entirely his own. It is a precarious, secretive happiness, but it is happiness nonetheless, the sincerest form of it that he has ever felt.

He has had his thousandth splendid conversation with Penelope, and he has acquired her favourite book. It was his idea to borrow it; he had asked for it, rather impertinently, desperate as he is to know more about her. She was self-conscious about giving him a romance novel, but he assured her that he had faith in her taste.

In fact, he is thrilled to know she enjoys romance, that she is familiar with it, despite her youth and innocence. Perhaps the romantic lead of her favourite book can guide him in the deepening of their friendship.

If that is what is meant to be. 

Upon his return home, Colin struggles to focus on the book. He finds himself lost in the thought that her hand has touched every page he turns, that her mind has absorbed every word he reads. The story crafted by these sentences matters to her.

This is something that matters to her, and she has given it to him freely. 

He puts down the book and leans back in his chair, overwhelmed.

The tension that has recently permeated his household seems to have reached a breaking point. Colin approaches the drawing room in hopes of a cup of tea and finds the door closed. He raises his eyebrows when he hears angry voices.

“Daphne has charmed a duke, Anthony!” his mother exclaims, as sternly as he has ever heard her speaking. “You must know that changes everything.”

“Oh, please do not tell me this rebellion is to do with Hastings!”

“They are courting.”

“They’ve danced a couple of times at a ball!” Anthony shouts. “Colin has done the same with Penelope Featherington. It does not signify – ”

The door swings open under Colin’s palm. He does not plan before he pushes it, does not think before he opens his mouth and begins reprimanding his brother – a person he prefers not to bother, even in amiable moods. 

“Excuse me,” Colin says, glaring at Anthony. “But what exactly is your meaning?”

Anthony makes a loud noise of exasperation and pinches his nose. Daphne looks at Colin with hopeful eyes, wordlessly begging for an ally. His mother seems to forget about her frustration with Anthony, as intrigue unfolds over her face.

“Please, leave us, Colin,” Anthony says. “This conversation does not concern you.”

“It would seem it does, given you have raised my name during it, as well as the name of my dear friend. I hope that you are not disrespecting Penelope.”

Another impatient sound escapes Anthony. “What would give you such an impression? I merely stated that you are not courting her.”

“You inferred that my courtship of her was impossible!” Colin snaps. “As though she is not a perfectly eligible young lady. I would be very fortunate indeed to court Penelope.”

A hefty silence follows. Anthony gapes at him, clearly unsure how to reply. His mother and sister exchange furtive, conspiratorial looks, the beginnings of identical smiles stirring on their faces.

It could not be more obvious that they are in support of Colin’s budding feelings. Still, Colin cannot appreciate their knowing looks, nor the likelihood that they understand what is happening to him better than he does himself.

He clears his throat. “In future, I insist that you speak of Penelope with the care and respect that she is owed.”

With that, he turns on his heel and leaves them to their argument. He does not make it all the way through the door before Anthony is calling his name.

He turns back reluctantly. He is not very appeased by the sheepish look Anthony wears, though any sign of regret from him is a miracle. “I apologise, brother. I did not realise you were considering courting Miss Featherington.”

It is a simple assessment of Colin’s recent confusion. One he cannot deny.

“Thank you for apologising,” Colin manages, before disappearing down the hallway.

Later that evening, his mother knocks on his bedroom door with a plate of shortbread biscuits in her hands. She has not done anything of the sort since Colin was a boy. Given his return to foolish, emotional behaviour, he understands her motivation.

Colin thanks her and accepts the plate with a self-deprecating smile. 

“I apologise for interrupting your conversation with Anthony and Daphne.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Violet assures him. “It was not a conversation worth continuing. Certainly not after your brother spoke so brazenly about Penelope. You were right to defend her.”

He nods, swallows. “Mother… I confess I feel very wretched.”

“Would you like to tell me why?”

Perhaps he should not. He knows his older brothers have limited patience for their coddling mother and prefer to be stoic with their worries. But Colin is precarious and uncertain and eager for advice.

“Penelope has been my friend for years,” he says, quietly. “I have only ever seen her as my friend. But now… after dancing with her, holding her, seeing her shine beneath those lights… I cannot look at her the same way.”

It is not the dazzling thunderbolt he expected and sought out. It is more like a sunbeam, casting nourishment and warmth over his soul.

“She is only seventeen,” Colin continues. “She told me herself that she wished she could have delayed her debut. I do not believe she is interested in courtship, which I do not begrudge. Certainly, I had no interest in courtship at her age.”

Unmistakable surprise rises in Violet’s gaze. It strikes him as a strange reaction – he hopes it does not indicate that she was not expecting him to consider Penelope’s perspective – but it disappears in a fleeting moment.

“I can assure you that she is very much interested in courtship.”

There is a solemn confidence in her tone that Colin cannot question.

“Right. Well,” he says, slowly. “Be that as it may, she is likely not interested in a courtship with me. She sees me as her friend.”

Violet smiles as though he has told a joke that is not particularly funny. Again, Colin does not know how to interpret her.

“There is one way you can be certain. You need only gather the courage to ask,” his mother says. “I trust that Penelope will handle your confession with grace. She would never forsake you. Whatever outcome awaits you, your friendship is strong enough to survive this development.”

“How can you be sure?” Colin asks, desperate for it to be true.

“Because my friendship with your father lasted for as long as we were married.”

His breathing falters. This is as sure a sign as any that he must take a chance on the change in his heart – his mother, comparing her relationship with the love of her life, to his relationship with his best friend.

“Oh, Mother,” Colin says, groaning, laughing at himself. “What am I to do? I have made such a mess of things, misleading a girl to believe I had a true interest in her – Penelope’s cousin, no less. I feel very foolish, very young. I realise now that I do not know the first thing about romance. How am I to make myself worthy of Penelope?”

A reminiscing fondness shines in Violet’s smile. She shakes her head at him and grasps both his hands.

“It is alright, dearest,” she says, her smile warm. “These things take time. There is no need to wake up as the perfect suitor, no need to declare yourself in love tomorrow. The best course of action is to distance yourself from Miss Thompson – respectfully, of course, as I am sure you can manage – and to spend as much time as you possibly can with Penelope. You will gather more insight into both of your feelings by doing so.”

There is such soundness in these solutions, such relief in her enduring faith in him. Colin nods as she talks, soaking in her sensibility, willing it to resonate.

“You are right,” Colin says. “Thank you. I – I will call on her again, tomorrow morning.”

The promise thrills and scares him in equal measure. His intentions will be more obvious, after he calls on Featherington House without having received news of Marina’s recovery and requests, for the second time, to speak to Penelope. By that point, there will be nothing else for it. He will have to confess his affection to Penelope, and, should she accept him, ask her father for permission to court her.

Colin takes a deep breath. He can be brave, he tells himself.

For Penelope, he will gather the courage.

Chapter Text

If Penelope has learned anything in her young years, it is that happiness ought to be seized and held with both hands, however fragmented or fleeting it may be. A sparkling night with Colin presents a precarious joy, indeed, one that a sensible girl would see with clarity and regard with measured appreciation. 

But Penelope rests her cheek most nights on a tear-stained pillow. When joy knocks on her door, she lets it in.

Upon her return from the Vauxhall Gardens Ball, Penelope is a rosy, giggly mess. She sits in the carriage with her father and her sisters and does not quite hear the jibes about how Mr Bridgerton has taken pity on her, about how foolish she is to smile over him. There is something so insipid about the sound of Prudence’s voice, about the gleam in Phillippa’s gaze. Their cruelty seems weightless, compared to the firm memory of Colin’s hand cupping her waist, the gentle certainty of his smile as he guided her through their waltz.

It was a funny dance to be shared by friends. The other couples on the floor spun in tension, sharing coy looks. But Penelope only felt comfort in the haven of Colin’s arms, despite or perhaps because of how close they were. They exchanged warm looks and soft laughter and he did not comment when she blushed.

Penelope leans against her bedroom door and holds her dance card to her chest. An irrational thought enters her head, that if she holds it tightly enough, it will remain in one piece, as starkly real as the heartbeat that pulses in her throat.

Of course, there is no threat to the flimsy card. Nobody will take it from her, nothing will happen to it. The same can be said of the memories ushering warmth into her heart.

Perhaps this happiness is sad in nature, in the fact that it is sustained by so little. Penelope traces the lines of Colin’s two signatures, notes the letters where his cursive differentiates. His second L is taller; his first G is wider.

Her smile becomes wistful in the recognition of how very silly she is being. She knows the other debutantes, the sophisticated ones that men choose to be their wives, do not study the handwriting on their cards so closely. They do not have to, when they are not living off scraps.

Penelope tucks the card carefully away in the loose floorboard beneath her rug. She finishes a half-written article she worries lacks in detail, distracted as she had been all night. She is a good enough writer to weave deceptive substance into what intrigue she did stumble upon; she lingers in describing the development between Daphne Bridgerton and the Duke with whom she shared a very charged dance.

She makes no mention of Colin, nor herself.

This night, in all its wonder, is better left safe and unknown.

Colin is haloed by sunshine and weighed down by flowers. He stands among the green walls of the Featherington drawing room, his beauty out of place in a house that holds such ugly spirits.

Penelope watches him from the wall, her smile soft. He keeps fidgeting and adjusting his arms, trying to contain the vibrant pansies that threaten to escape his hold. It is very sweet of him to have brought enough for everybody – Penelope assumes that his mother is to thank for the idea, but she still appreciates the gesture. She wonders if he means to give her the red or the orange bouquet. She is reasonably confident that he would not give her yellow flowers; Colin is far too considerate for that.

But the red pansies are set aside for Marina, the orange pansies are given to her mother, and the yellow pansies are handed off to her sisters. Then Colin stands before her, grinning, holding the most beautiful and elaborate bouquet of flowers that Penelope has ever beheld.

“For you, Pen.”

There is no hesitation in him. He gives her the flowers eagerly, as though she is suited to such intricate, delicate beauty, as though there could be no doubt that the bulbous purple blossoms are meant for her.

Penelope skirts her finger around the tiny petals of a strand of lilac and ponders how vivid and realistic her dreams have become.

Then Colin explains, “I was inspired by last night’s sky.”

The world rights itself. Penelope is comfortable to meet his eyes and return his sweet smile. Of course Colin is the sort of friend, the sort of gentleman, who would commemorate such a special night with a gift.

The flowers will die, but Penelope can hold onto the ribbon forever.

If there are clues that suggest something has changed – such as a mention of needing to apologise to Marina, or a request to borrow a book she holds dear, or a certain glow in his eyes – she does not notice them.

Calling hour has been quiet since Marina fell ill. Penelope feels guilty for harbouring a sense of relief about this, for deriving any gladness out of her poor cousin’s suffering. But she detested sitting in that drawing room and being overlooked by Colin and watching her mother try to redirect the attention of Marina’s suitors to her undesirable daughters. She cannot help but feel grateful that she can now slip away to the garden with her book and soak in the daylight.

Hours pass before she is interrupted. Absorbed as she is in the book, cocooned as she feels by the sun, Penelope is taken off guard by the intrusive voice.

“You have a caller, Miss Penelope.”

Penelope fumbles her book, she is so startled. That is before she realises that Colin stands before her, looking gorgeous as ever, with a bouquet of pink roses dangling over his elbow. The vision of him sends her book falling to the ground, and he dashes forth to collect it from her feet, presses it back into her hands with an easy smile.

“Good morning, Pen,” Colin greets her, his voice softer than she expects. He sounds tentative, somehow. Perhaps even nervous.

Penelope blinks. She glances at the house, at Marina’s window, wondering if her cousin has made a rapid recovery over the course of the morning and Colin was summoned to greet her. In this scenario, he apparently stopped for flowers, and requested to deliver roses to another girl on his way out the door.

It seems no less unlikely than any other explanation available to Penelope. He was announced as a caller. Her caller.

“Good morning,” Penelope says. “I am surprised to see you returned.”

“I hope you are not displeased,” Colin says. He flashes her one of those jovial grins of his, but she notices it does not stretch all the way across his face.

Curious.

“I could never be displeased to see you,” she says, before she can stop herself. 

Her words seem to bolster him. He takes a deep breath and thrusts the roses towards her. The bouquet is exquisite; each pink bud unfurls with gentle perfection, twines at the stems with flossy baby’s breath.

“These are for you. I suppose that is obvious.”

“It is not,” Penelope murmurs. 

“They reminded me of that splendid pink gown of yours,” Colin says, either not hearing or not heeding her response. “I hope you like roses. I realised this morning that I do not know what your favourite flowers are.”

Penelope cannot seem to find her words. She clutches the flowers to her chest like a lifeline. Their lovely fragrance does little to ground her.

“I adore roses,” she stutters.

“Good!” Colin says.

A strange silence shrouds them. It is most peculiar between friends that have only known flowing conversations when sharing one another’s company.

“Colin – ”

“Penelope – ”

They both speak and both stop, meaning to defer to the other. Colin chuckles at the renewed silence, shakes his head as though this is amusing and not mortifying, as though Penelope is not blushing as brightly as her roses.

“What were you going to say?” Colin asks, gently.

“Please, you first.”

“Well…” he sighs, glances down at the bench in consideration.

“Would you like to sit down?” Penelope offers.

“I am not sure if one ought to stand while – ” Colin cuts himself off with a sigh, then nods. “Yes, thank you.”

He joins her on the stone bench and seems uncertain how to position his frame and his hands. For a moment, watching his fingers shuffle along the bench, she thinks he means to reach for her. In the end, he only lifts the yellow chiffon of her dress and arranges it closer to her thigh, his touch lingering on the fabric.

Penelope sees him turning his thumb between his fingers and frowns with concern. She places her hand over his, steadying his nervous stirring.

“Is anything amiss?” she asks him. “You seem nervous.”

A wonky laugh escapes him. “As a matter of fact, I am nervous.”

“That is alright,” Penelope assures him. “You can tell me anything. I will attempt to assist you however I can!”

His answering look is one of reverence. His hand moves beneath hers, turning so their fingers can intertwine.

“You are very good, you know that?” Colin whispers. “But I do not require your assistance. In all likelihood, I am in need of your grace.”

Penelope feels she could burst from suspense. “Colin, what is it?”

“I… I had a very enjoyable time with you, the night of the Vauxhall Ball,” he says. “I know we discussed this already, when I last called on you, but I do not believe I conveyed the significance of my feelings about that night. The time we spent together was very enlightening for me.”

“I do not understand,” she says. She can already feel the threat of tears. He is coming close to something that she knows cannot be true.

“I confess, I am still learning to understand it myself,” Colin says, his smile vulnerable. “I have spent the last several days consumed by confounding feelings. I cannot stop thinking about you, about your beautiful smile, about the fact that you are present in so many of my dearest memories. I have realised that there is nobody in the world whose company I enjoy so much as yours. I believe I know why that is.”

Penelope disentangles their hands to wipe her flushed cheeks.

“I know we are friends,” he continues hastily. “I know this is not the nature of our relationship, and I apologise if I have offended you. I hope we can continue our friendship if you do not wish to accept my suit. But I could not simply leave these feelings unspoken – ”

He cuts himself off when he hears the first sniffle she cannot repress.

“Pen?” Colin asks, his voice aching.

“You must not say things you do not mean,” Penelope mumbles.

“But I do mean it,” he insists. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

Penelope lifts her face from where she has been staring resolutely at her shaking knees, showing him her blotchy face, the tears in her eyes.

“You wish to court me?” Penelope asks, her scepticism obvious.

“Yes,” Colin says, emphatically. He is fiddling his fingers again.

Everything inside Penelope is stiff with fear. She cannot trust this moment, she knows, the fruition of her dearest dream. But nor can she doubt Colin. She knows he is both a good man and a terrible liar – utterly incapable of such a cruel prank. She pinches her wrist again, but the dream does not end.

“What of Marina?” Penelope asks.

“I plan to apologise to her for wasting her time the moment that she is capable of accepting visitors,” Colin says. “Regardless of your answer.”

She releases a shuddering breath. “You were very taken with her.”

“As I have told you, our night together was enlightening. My original regard for Miss Thompson seems frivolous in hindsight.”

Such a comment would seem harsh coming from another man, but Penelope can see in Colin’s face that he feels sorry.

“I realise I have made quite a mess,” Colin adds, laughing sheepishly. “But I assure you I will make every effort to set things right with your cousin.”

Her heart sinks to know he feels guilty. “I know you will.”

“I will do the same with you,” he adds, tentatively. “I will do what I can to ensure that our friendship is not tarnished by what I have realised.”

“No,” Penelope blurts. “No, I – ”

Her words stumble and Colin watches her with kind, anxious eyes. She clears her throat, manages to say, “There is no need for that.”

The hope in his gaze is heartbreaking. It should embolden Penelope to share her feelings, or at the very least, to accept his offer. Her tongue is heavy with the truth she strived to conceal for years, but Penelope is nothing if not brave.

“I would very much like to be courted by you,” she says, quietly.

Colin does not seem bothered by her hesitation. In fact, Penelope does not believe she has ever seen him looking so happy, smiling so widely. A joyous peal of laughter expels from him, and he rushes to collect her hands. He cradles her fingers with such care to suggest that her skin is made of the finest silk.

“Oh, Pen,” Colin says, beaming. “I am so thrilled. I want to assure you that I have no expectations of you, I merely wish to spend as much time with you as I can. Whatever comes of our courtship is entirely up to you.”

“Well, it is up to you, as well,” Penelope says.

His smile softens. “Yes, we will decide what we want together.”

No prospect has ever held such appeal. A less disbelieving Penelope would surely share Colin’s joy. But she feels as though her heart has swollen to thrice its size, that it may combust within the sudden tightness of her ribs. 

“I must speak with your father at once,” Colin is saying. “Perhaps you could show me to his study?”

Penelope manages to lead him inside the house, despite how hazy she feels. The world blurs around her, lush greenery transforming into lurid wallpaper. Colin takes a deep breath when he is faced with her father’s door, apparently trepidatious.

“Wish me luck,” he says, shooting her a smile.

“I doubt you need it,” Penelope says. “He will not refuse you.”

“Still, I hope to make a good impression. He is your favourite parent.”

“That does not indicate anything very wonderful about him,” she mutters.

Colin laughs, delighted by her barb. “Will you wait for me?”

She nods. “I will be right outside.”

Less than five minutes pass before Colin emerges from the study, Lord Featherington by his side. Penelope’s father offers her a wan smile before closing the door. It is her father’s way, she knows, but she still feels sad.

That is, until Colin reaches for her hands again. He hesitates for a moment, then pulls her bunched fingers to his lips. He kisses her knuckles and every atom in her body rearranges. The breath leaves her lungs; the weight in her shoulders slips out of existence. Penelope stares at him with slack amazement.

“It was a successful meeting, then?” she asks, desperate to disperse her ardour.

“Yes, very,” Colin murmurs. “I would like to invite you to promenade with me and my family in the park tomorrow morning.”

Penelope hears herself giggle. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

He grins, sways her hands. “Can I count on seeing you there, then?”

Penelope does not breathe clean air until the next time she sees Colin. Her mother is predictably insufferable about the world-altering confession that has been made; she spends most of dinner lamenting the likelihood that her youngest daughter’s suitor will never render a marriage proposal.

In a depraved way, it is grounding. All that seems impossible about the visit Colin has paid her seems truer when it is being discussed at length, with a harsh version of the scepticism that Penelope has not entirely yielded.

Stepping into the park the following morning, the charmed world that Colin intends to give her slides back into view. Everything is beautiful in this world; there is a sapphire sky, emerald grass, a sparkling lake full of gliding elegant swans.

Amidst her quiet appreciation of the scenery, Eloise appears. As usual, she forgoes traditional greetings and begins to talk a mile a minute. Unusually, she is trailed by her brother, huffing in annoyance, sending Penelope a conspiratorial look.

Here she goes, Colin’s eyes seem to say, and Penelope smiles fiercely for the strange impression she has that he is on her side.

“Tell me it is not true,” Eloise demands. “Tell me my brother did not ask to court you. Tell me you did not accept him!”

Penelope opens her mouth, but Eloise does not wait for her answer.

“I do not know which betrayal is worse,” she declares, looking between Penelope and Colin. “You, for being so lazy in your search for a wife that you sought a candidate among my friends. Or you, who lied to me about your intention to forsake all men and join me in spinsterhood!”

“Eloise, leave us,” Colin says. “Penelope is here to see me.”

His tone is stern and commands respect, but his underlying petulance shows him for exactly what he is: a boy embarrassed by his little sister in front of the girl he likes.

“Oh, I suppose you now expect to steal her from me during every social outing!”

“Given she has accepted my offer to court her, I do not think it is very unreasonable to hold such an expectation!”

“Eloise!” comes the voice of Violet Bridgerton. Penelope feels her heart settle with relief even before she turns to look at Colin’s mother. She has held Lady Bridgerton dear for as long as she can remember.

“I hope you are not interrupting Colin and Penelope’s promenade,” she says, her eyebrows raised.

“This is madness,” Eloise proclaims.

“Good morning, Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope says, waving.

“Hello, dear,” Violet answers her, beaming. “It is wonderful to see you.”

Penelope realises that she is not surprised that Violet approves. Of everything that has startled her since yesterday morning, this happy reaction does not join the list. There is more comfort in that than she can express.

“It is wonderful to see you, too.”

“Come, Eloise,” Violet says, twisting her elbow through Eloise’s. “I believe Benedict wished to show you something, back at the tent.”

Eloise relents with grumbling reluctance. Penelope notices the distance of the Bridgerton tent and is rather amused to realise that Violet walked such a long way in her accurate prediction that Colin and Eloise would start bickering.

“Shall we?” Colin asks, extending his arm. Penelope loops her hand in the crook with hesitant excitement. 

“I apologise for Eloise,” he says, as they begin to stroll at a slow pace behind his mother and sister. “I hope you know what she said about me is untrue.”

“Of course,” Penelope replies. “You are hardly twenty. I know you were not seeking a match, let alone among your younger sister’s acquaintances.”

“Precisely,” Colin says, stolen by another easy smile. “I should not be so impressed by your ability to understand me so well. It is a longstanding fact of our relationship.” 

“I am glad you think so,” Penelope says, softly. “I hope you know she was wrong in what she said about me, as well. I believed it was my fate to be a spinster, but it was never what I wanted.”

Colin’s eyes gleam with mischief. “I generally assume Eloise is wrong. I find it makes life easier.”

Penelope laughs. “I hope she is not too upset with me.”

“You are dear to her. I am sure she will reconcile any ill feelings quickly,” he says, squeezing his arm around hers. “Really, she ought to be thanking me. I am to provide her with many more opportunities to see the beautiful Penelope Featherington!”

“You must stop,” Penelope squeaks. She gazes around at the other occupants of the park fearfully, terrified they might overhear Colin speaking nonsense and try to ridicule him, or her. She knows they must make a strange couple to look at.

“I must refrain from speaking the truth?” Colin teases her.

“You must refrain from speaking so loudly,” Penelope insists. “I am still trying to accept the way the world has changed since yesterday morning. It is a tremendous adjustment.”

“And, perhaps, a happy one?”

For all his ease, all his charm, Penelope can see that Colin shares some of her worry. It is difficult to believe that someone like him could experience insecurity. It is unpleasant to consider, when she loves him so much.

She wishes that she had the strength to tell him that the joy of his confession has changed the way she perceives colour. She decides she can build up to that, as she grows more settled in her new reality.

“It is a happy adjustment indeed,” she murmurs, resting her cheek on his arm.

Chapter Text

“I would very much like to be courted by you,” Penelope says. She gives the impression of holding her breath, even as her mouth moves, as her voice flutters. Colin can see the tension in her throat. If not for the sincerity in her eyes, he thinks he would be rather sceptical of her answer.

In her twin blue pools, he can see that she means what she says. Happiness sweeps over Colin with such strength it demands release, demands movement. Laughter pours from him and he scrambles to hold her hands. Perched in his fingers, they are small, dainty and feminine. These are Penelope’s hands, a pair he has reached for a thousand times before, to guide her through games and dances, to offer and receive affection and solace.

Of course these are the hands he craves. He encircles them with reverence.

Penelope gives him a hesitant smile. Colin is not quite sure what to make of her reaction, muted as it is, but he does not begrudge her for feeling tentative. She has every reason to feel shocked by this confession, every reason to feel overwhelmed by the weight in the offer he has made. She is still so young, so new to the grown-up affair of eligibility and its consequences.

She has accepted him, and that is all that matters to Colin. The speed with which she gave him her answer brings him more pleasure than he knows is reasonable.

Colin has an explanation in mind, but it is tangled in a thought he does not wish to examine. He is trying not to think about the word ‘love’, because of course he loves Penelope. He has loved her for years. But the nature of that love has changed, and surely he cannot call this fresh romantic affection love.

He is grateful that there are steps he can take before he must concern himself with that.

“I must speak with your father at once.”

The prospect of speaking with Lord Featherington fills Colin with strange disquiet. Penelope’s father is an elusive character. Quiet. On the periphery. Like his daughter, really, but not nearly as sturdy, not nearly as brave. Colin has the impression that a strong breeze could reduce Lord Featherington to an empty space. 

He is not intimidating, not abrasive, not rich. He is not in a position to deny any prospective suitors for his daughters. Nonetheless, Colin wrangles with worry. This is Penelope’s father and he wants the lord to think well of him – to look at him and see more than a third-born son, a man barely past adolescence, a child who knows nothing of the world.

By the door, he asks Penelope for luck and she insists he does not need it. So he pockets her confidence and sets his fist against the wood.

Lord Featherington surveys Colin from behind his desk. He does not make a spectacle of his surprise, which Colin appreciates. He tucks his reaction carefully behind his eyes.

“Mr Bridgerton,” the lord greets him. 

“Lord Featherington,” Colin replies, bowing. “I apologise for disrupting your morning, but there is a greatly important matter I wish to discuss with you.” 

“A greatly important matter.”

“Yes,” Colin says. “I am here to ask for permission to court your daughter, Miss Penelope.”

A flicker of energy reaches the lord’s face. “You wish to court Miss Penelope?”

“It would be my honour. I am sure you are aware that she has been a dear friend to me for many years. Now that she has debuted, I wish to spend as much time as I can with her.”

Lord Featherington stares at Colin, unblinking, for lingering moments. Then, quietly, he says, “Lady Featherington must have misread your intentions with Miss Thompson.”

Colin decides that he can agree with this statement. Even when he was calling upon Miss Thompson, he had no thoughts of matrimony. Still, it does not seem right to sidestep the truth.

“I hope to speak with Miss Thompson soon,” Colin says. “I am concerned that I have misled her to believe my interest in her was serious.”

“I see,” Lord Featherington says. His expression is inscrutable. 

Though withering with remorse, Colin remains outwardly steady. He knows that this situation looks terrible. If one of his sisters entertained a caller who had been chasing another girl’s skirts the week before, he would be furious. He would push the foolish cad out the door without giving him an opportunity to explain himself.

Is it enough for Colin to know the distinction between his feelings for Penelope and for Marina in his own mind? He desperately wants Lord Featherington to understand him.

He is not following a whim. His heart was split open by accident – ahead of its time, a cosmic corner of his soul whispers – and he is trying to do right by the girl who spilled out of it. 

“Might I inquire about your intentions with Penelope?”

“Certainly. With your blessing, I will court Miss Penelope for the remainder of the season. I believe a long courtship is appropriate, given her young age. We will become thoroughly acquainted over the coming months so as to best inform any decision she may someday make.”

“Then there is a possibility of marriage.”

The previous evening, his mother promised him that there was no rush for him to understand the extent of his feelings. Everything that has occurred today suggests otherwise.

Colin swallows his nerves. “Yes.”

Lord Featherington looks exhausted. “I regret to inform you that our family lacks the time and funds to indulge a capricious suitor. As the third born daughter, Miss Penelope has a limited dowry. If there is no possibility of marriage, you must say.”

“I am not capricious,” Colin says, before he can restrain himself. His eyes widen with horror and he scrambles to rectify his mistake. “Forgive me, Lord Featherington. I only meant to say that I appeal to you out of sincere care and affection for your daughter. It is my hope that our courtship will end in marriage – depending upon what Miss Penelope wants. Her dowry makes no difference to me, nor my family.”

“Ah.”

For the first time since Colin stepped inside the study, Lord Featherington seems to be present in his body. His eyes narrow on Colin and a strange smile overcomes him.

“Mr Bridgerton,” he sighs. “Of course it does not.”

Colin decides that he prefers Lord Featherington’s empty gaze.

“Tell me, are you the second or third son?”

His question could be conversational, his interest polite, if not for its fiscal allusion. Colin knows that many men would be deterred by such veiled inquiries from the father of a lady they wished to court. But this is for Penelope. Colin realises he could endure any insult for her sake – including her father’s ignorance about who he is.

Colin was wrong to assume that Lord Featherington knew about his friendship with Penelope. How strange, that he is her dearest friend, and her father does not know his name.

“I am the third,” Colin says, holding his head high.

Lord Featherington chuckles. “You have my permission to court my daughter, Mr Bridgerton. I shall inform Lady Featherington that Penelope has a suitor and arrange for you to speak with Miss Thompson at the earliest opportunity. For now, I believe you have a question for Miss Penelope.”

Colin hears himself pay Lord Featherington the thanks he is owed. In the detachment he feels from his own words, he wonders if the man before him became so hollow as a result of surviving similar conversations, with his role reversed. The cycle tends to repeat itself, Colin knows. He represses thoughts about how bone-tired Anthony becomes every night.

He takes some satisfaction in the decision he made to ask Penelope before he asked her father.

A fuss is made about Marina’s lingering ailment. As Lady Featherington ushers Colin into the drawing room, she tells him that she is making an exception by allowing him an audience with her unwell ward, when Marina is not yet ready to leave her sickbed. 

Thinking of the young lady who has only ever shown him kindness, Colin swells with concern. If he did not feel so guilty about misleading Marina, if he did not feel so anxious about amending his mistakes with her, he might consider delaying their meeting. He doubts Lady Featherington would be receptive to such a suggestion. She is a matchmaking mama if he ever encountered one. It is clear that she is taking these measures to secure him as her daughter’s suitor, clear that she doubts his fidelity.

“I trust that you can understand why I have made this exception. It is necessary that we hold this conversation sooner rather than later,” Lady Featherington says, smiling wryly.

Colin does not understand. Postponing this discussion by a week would make no difference in his courtship with Penelope – except in the fact that his shame would fester more.

It is difficult to imagine disappointment more severe than what stirs inside him now. Colin feels wretched about the poor impression he has made on Penelope’s family. They have been courting for less than a week and he has already failed her.

What’s done is done, he tells himself. He cannot engineer either Lord or Lady Featherington’s opinion of him with any immediacy; he can only keep demonstrating his good character before them until they see him for who he is.

Still, he cannot suppress the entirety of his resentment. He knows he sounds defensive, perhaps even sarcastic, when he agrees with Lady Featherington.

“Certainly,” Colin says, curtly. “How accommodating of you.”

She beams as if he has made her day and he tries not to wince at the falsity. He realises that he is not the only person who is trying to sway opinions.

Marina enters the room and Colin is surprised to see her looking so well. There is a glow of health in her cheeks, in her eyes, in contrast to everything he has heard about her of late – from Lady Featherington, but also from Penelope.

Colin frowns.

“Good day, Mr Bridgerton,” Marina greets him, polite as ever.

“Miss Thompson,” he says, bowing.

“You have brought more flowers for me,” she says, as she accepts the bouquet of tulips from him. “I suppose as a parting gesture.”

She is impassive. He detects none of the emotions he feared from her; no despair, no anger. There is, perhaps, mild curiosity in her gaze. But nothing stronger than that. It reminds Colin of how little he knows about her. They are not even friends.

“I intended for the flowers to be a gesture of regret and friendship,” Colin says, softly. “I apologise that I was not the one to inform you of my courtship with Penelope.”

“I have been ill,” Marina says. “You had no opportunity to speak with me until now.”

“Indeed, I did not.”

A silence stretches between them, broken quickly by a quiet huff from Lady Featherington’s corner. She is staring intently at the embroidery hoop in her hands, but she does not hold a needle.

This is a strange house, Colin thinks. Abrasive even in moments of quiet. Deceptive in its depictions of reality. Colin decides to counter the unease with sincerity.

“My timing is regrettable. You are the victim of my foolish conduct and I am deeply sorry for any distress I may have caused you.”

A faint smile crosses Marina’s face. It is unlike other smiles she has given him – it is not coy, not sweet. It carries insight and a hint of contempt. Colin knows it is what he deserves from her, but he does not want to look at it.

“You are severe upon yourself, Mr Bridgerton,” Marina says. “You were among several gentlemen to call upon me, none of whom are beholden to me. You made no promises.”

Colin is certain that no woman in the household – perhaps no woman in the entire ton – views this situation with such simplicity. He surges on.

“You are gracious, Miss Thompson, but I must apologise for demonstrating an interest in you before I examined my feelings for Penelope. You should know — for so long, I have considered her to be my dear friend and nothing more. I was oblivious to any deeper feelings until we shared a dance at a ball for the first time. Life as I know it has changed since then.”

“I am not distressed by your decision to court Penelope,” Marina says, shortly. “On the contrary, I am happy for my cousin. She has shown me great kindness since my arrival in Mayfair. It pleases me to see her in high spirits since your confession.”

Gentle, joyous delirium thrums in Colin’s heart. He recognises it as that same starstruck feeling from Vauxhall. Penelope has been subdued in her affection for him – less stable with it than she was during their friendship. He is relieved to know that she is happy and that her happiness is indulged. He thinks of the way that his sisters sometimes giggle together and wonders if Penelope and Marina have shared anything similar.

“I am so happy to hear that,” he admits, smiling irrepressibly.

At the midway point between their two houses, Colin turns and glances at the assembly of walls that contain Penelope. He seeks out the window of her bedroom and feels his heart lurch when he sees the red shine of her brilliant hair. Penelope sits on a settee in her bedroom, staring outside wistfully. But she brightens when she notices him; he tips his hat at her and her face lights up with a sprawling smile.

How remarkable that she has managed to bloom without sunlight. She isn’t missing a single petal, despite the neglect of the garden where she was grown. 

Colin recalls what he confessed to her father – a truth so intense he remains bashful about examining it, even in his own mind – and realises that he feels some impatience about reaching the end of their courtship.

He is desperate to remove her from that joyless house. 

The yellow of her dress is pale today. Watching the fabric flow from her waist, Colin is reminded of sugar biscuits and the dawn. He is struck by the urge to place his hand on the small of her back. 

He is so distracted in his quiet examination of her waist, her bust, her cascading curls, that he almost lets Penelope pay for a new quill.

“Allow me,” Colin says, cupping her hands, stopping her from rummaging through her purse.

She is far too pleased by the simple gesture. As they leave the stall of study supplies, their elbows loosely wound, she looks at him with glowing surprise.

“Thank you. This is a generous gift.”

It is a goose feather quill, inexpensive and small. Colin observes how gingerly she tucks it away into her bag and curses himself. He realises that he should have offered for her to choose from the larger, prettier feathers in the store. Though he has never been the materialistic type, he has a sudden vision of lacing diamonds around her throat.

“A quill is a tool, a simple necessity,” Colin says. “We have yet to find you a gift. Perhaps we should peruse the Kingston stall – I believe Daphne has a fondness for their gloves.”

Penelope looks dazed, but she follows without question as he leads her to the stall he has noticed. There are jewels in every colour on display, glimmering on thin chains and along hair clasps, making sparkles whirl through space.

She is bashful and quiet, resistant to his urges that she choose a gift, but she cannot hide her love for a pair of gleaming satin gloves. Colin has seen that same look on Daphne’s face often enough to recognise that Penelope wants them. They are such a soft blue they look white; Colin thinks of shells and opals in illustrations of the beach.

He plucks the gloves from the shelf with only a cursory glance at their price tag.

“What an excellent choice,” he says cheerily. “Now, which piece of jewellery is most pleasing to your eye?”

“No,” Penelope says, blushing. “Absolutely not.”

“Perhaps some pearls to match your gloves – ”

“There is no need to be so generous, Colin. Regardless, I – I worry that I will not be allowed to wear them. My mama does not approve of my simple tastes.”

Colin takes a breath, reminds himself that when she lives in his house, she will be able to choose her own clothes. He knows she will be beautiful in blue.

“I assure you, your mother will not deny your wish to wear gifts from your suitor,” Colin says. “In her desire to earn my favour, she is more likely to insist upon you wearing them, herself.”

Penelope looks at a loss. She glances at his hands, at his slack grip on her precious gloves. He adjusts his hold, worried that he seems careless. He believes he understands why this is significant to her – he should be more patient with her, as she learns to accept his affection. It is not her fault that she does not know how to be loved. 

The damage he strives to undo is certain to linger with her. He thinks about that as she shyly chooses a hairclip lined in little pearls, as he pays the vendor, as he leads her away from the booth. She clutches the sheer shopping bag against her sternum as they walk, stares down at it as though dubious it exists.

“Do you mind if we speak frankly, as we have always done?” Colin murmurs.

She seems heartened by his reference to their past. She shakes her head.

“I understand your hesitance in our courtship. You have faced a great deal of change in the weeks since your debut, and now you must manage a suitor. I hope you know that I did not intend to overwhelm you, nor reduce your options, and I apologise if I have. Perhaps I should have pursued you at a more gradual pace.”

It would have been torture, but Colin would have borne it with grim glee, if it ensured Penelope’s comfort. He is so worried about looking after her.

“Colin,” Penelope says, her eyes full of sadness. “I apologise for giving you the impression that I am hesitant in our courtship. I am not. I am merely… incredulous.”

“Incredulous?” he echoes.

“I struggle to believe that you wish to court me.”

In his efforts not to crumble with despair, Colin turns these words over in his head, considers them with care. He hums. “We were friends for such a long time. I suppose it is difficult to adjust to the differences in how I treat you now.”

“The differences are not extreme,” Penelope says, smiling at him. “You have always been so kind to me.”

“But it is different now,” Colin says, anxious again. “You understand that, do you not?”

“I do. Hence my incredulity.”

The sun fans her, paints a pale glow over one blue eye. Her insight seems starker in this light. Not for the first time, Colin wonders how somebody so young can be so wise, how somebody so perceptive about the world can know so little about herself.

“Colin, you are…” Penelope bites her lip as she seeks the words. “You are the person in my life that I hold in the highest esteem. There are no words to describe my joy that you have chosen me. But I must admit that I struggle to trust my joy. I feel precarious, as though I have stepped inside a dream.”

She clenches her shopping bag even tighter. Colin is struck by inspiration. He reaches down and pulls apart her fingers, delving into the lavender pouch without taking it from her. He finds the pearl hairclip and slides it carefully into her hair.

“There,” Colin says, arranging her ruby curls over her shoulder. “The next time you feel precarious in your happiness, trace your pearls, and remind yourself that it is my happiness, as well. It is ours.”

Penelope stares at him and exhales a soft laugh. “You are not making this seem less dreamlike.”

“No?” Colin asks, smiling in his fierce endearment. “What can I do to reassure you?”

“I do not know,” she admits.

He has some guesses for what she needs. Time. Patience. Love.

“Not to worry,” he soothes her. “I shall keep at my endeavour until I find a way.”

It is said that the heart is forever making the head its fool. And when one chooses the heart over the head, often, all reason goes out of the window. In This Author’s estimation, there is no alternate explanation for the recent conduct of Mr Colin Bridgerton – except, perhaps, the possibility of a head injury. What else could compel such a dashing gentleman to turn his attention from Miss Marina Thompson to Miss Penelope Featherington? It could not have been Lady Featherington’s ineffective attempts to redirect Miss Thompson’s callers to her undesirable daughters. Of that, at least, we can be certain. 

The pamphlet creases from the force of his grip. Today’s edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers contains one paragraph that alludes to Colin and Penelope, lost among ample descriptions of far more salacious gossip. 

It could be worse, his mother is telling him. He is not the sort of person to become enraged by a handful of sentences, she says.

But Colin is so angry it has rendered him silent. It is making his hands shake.

“Dearest,” Violet says, hands hovering around his shoulders.

“I must pay Penelope a visit,” Colin grinds out. He stands abruptly, makes his chair scrape against the floor. He has not finished breaking his fast, but he feels none of the hunger that led him downstairs. He forgets to collect Penelope’s flowers before he bursts from the front door and marches across the street.

Varley’s pleas that calling hours have not started fall on deaf ears. She does not repeat herself when she observes the sternness in Colin’s eyes. For the way she sighs, he understands that she does not relent out of respect for him, but for her awareness that he is too stubborn to leave. At present, in his concern for Penelope, Colin cannot bring himself to care about what she thinks of him.

When Penelope appears at the top of the staircase, Colin is relieved that she does not appear to be upset; she is confused by his presence, but her pleasure to see him shines in her smile. She wears a raspberry day dress, but she has not had her hair arranged yet. It falls loosely around her soft pink cheeks. Colin watches her descend the stairs with his heart thumping in his throat. She is unbelievably pretty and Lady Whistledown is blind and cruel.

“Tell me – ” Colin yelps, then stops himself, mortified by how similar he sounds to Anthony. He composes himself, begins again. “Good morning, Pen. Please tell me that you have not read today’s Whistledown.”

Penelope blinks at him, bewildered. Beyond her surprise, he can see a shadow of remorse in her eyes.

“You have,” he groans. He strides forth and gathers her hands into his, his thumbs brushing skittishly over her knuckles in his rush.

“My dear Penelope,” Colin says, bending at the knee to look her in the eye. “Please disregard those preposterous writings. Please. My heart is not yours in spite of my head. You are beautiful, clever and warm. You are my darling friend. My pursuit of you is very reasonable indeed – any person with an ounce of sense could recognise as much.”

Her breathing is heavy and tremulous, causing her chest to rise and fall, to swell distractingly, enticingly, despite the awkward cut of her dress. “Your – your heart – ”

“My heart is yours,” Colin says, firmly.

They are quiet for a moment, seeing each other eye to eye. He cannot recognise the emotion in her face, but she reminds him of an empty inkwell, of the final black droplet absorbed by the quill.

“Colin,” Penelope whispers. “There is something I must tell you.”

“What is it?”

“You will be angry with me,” she says, so softly, so sadly. “I will not blame you for it. I only hope that you will try to – to listen to me. To understand.”

Tears glisten on her cheeks. Colin has not seen Penelope cry since they were children.

“Of course I will listen, Pen,” Colin says, devastated that he must reassure her about something so meagre. “You can tell me anything.”

She sniffles, nods. She looks down at their tangled hands, says, “I.” 

Nothing else comes out, until she meets his eyes. “I am Lady Whistledown.”

Chapter Text

There are days where Penelope can recognise the bravery it takes to rise from bed. Days where unpeeling the linens from her weary frame and facing the sun that returns without relent to her window seems impossible. Days through which she bravely perseveres.

So much of Penelope becomes obscured by her diffidence, but her bravery scarcely leaves her. It cannot, when she is so often afraid, when she is always enduring.

She feels it and does not deny it. There is bravery in almost everything she does.

There is bravery in loving Colin, despite the reasons she should not. There was bravery in wanting him in silence, and there was bravery in telling him yes when he began to behave unbelievably, performing an excellent imitation of her wildest dreams. 

There is bravery in bearing the brittle care of her family. There is bravery in reading, in holding her tongue when her mother accuses her of confusing her thoughts. 

There is bravery in writing. There is bravery in Whistledown. 

Above all, there is bravery in freeing Colin. 

He has stormed into her house to denounce her writing. Without realising it, he is calling her out. Penelope is thrilled. She wants to be countered, she realises. She has felt clever in her secrecy, superior in her detachment from society and depressed by the possibility that she might be right in her cynicism. She recalls her harsh words and wants to be punished for her ugly streak. She wants to be loved in spite of it.

Colin is doing her a great kindness by calling her writing preposterous. Now she must do him a kindness.

“I – I am Lady Whistledown.”

Penelope seals her fate. She gives up everything she has ever wanted.

She has no other choice, not when he has told her that she holds his heart. If she is not honest with him now, then she will let him tuck her into his chest, curl herself among his ribs and his valves, and surely die when he evicts her from her haven.

Colin is too clever to be deceived for long. Penelope is too soft to lie to him.

He stares at her, wide-eyed.

“You?” Colin whispers. “You are Lady Whistledown?”

She nods. He drops her hands and they hang limply by her sides.

“This cannot be true,” he mutters.

Colin takes three steps away from her. He folds his arms over his chest, covers his mouth with his fingers. There is an odd hardness to his eyes. Penelope is reminded of the way he peered down at his school books when he was a boy, when he was concentrating on a riddle, working hard to unravel it.

“I know you, Penelope. Don’t I know you?” Colin sounds so desperate. “You would never write unkind things about my family. Your opinion of us could not be so low.”

Penelope shudders. This is difficult and painful in such a specific, squeamish way. She needs him to understand every nuance of the truth and she knows, from a lifetime of experience, that there is nothing she can do to change how she is perceived.

Still, she tries.

“Yes, you know me. You know that I adore your family,” she says, wishing for stronger words. “My personal beliefs are not always reflected in what I write. I provide neutral reports of significant gossip.”

“No, you do not,” Colin says. “Whistledown is not neutral. She is scathing – and theatrical. You depict people in the ton as tragic characters, as villains and victims.”

“But not heroes,” Penelope says. “My readers do not pay for glowing remarks about good people. They are discontent. They relish Whistledown’s jaded tone.”

He tilts his head. Penelope detects curiosity in his face, alongside his confusion and his dull sense of betrayal. She wonders, as she often has before, what he sees when he looks at her.

Colin sighs.

“You have brought Daphne immense turmoil these past weeks,” he says, softly.

A fresh onslaught of tears brims in her eyes. 

“I am so sorry for that,” Penelope whispers. “Daphne made a conspicuous impression during her presentation. The gossip she incited was too prevalent for me to ignore, particularly when she began to lose suitors. You may not understand this, coming from your family, but people find excitement in watching somebody beautiful and prosperous fall from grace.”

“Perhaps I do not. That is horrible,” Colin snaps. 

“I know,” Penelope assures him. “I felt wretched, writing those articles. Daphne does not deserve to be the subject of any cruelty.”

“How can you have recognised that and still made her the subject of yours?”

There is a blaze in his dark eyes that she has never seen in him before, but his anger is not what she expected. It does not split her open, it does not make her shake. Perhaps because he is not shouting. Perhaps because he remains before her, listening, as she asked.

In the silence that shrouds them, she struggles to find her words.

How can she explain this to him? She is not the person she wishes she could be. She has no reason to cling to her integrity or to put rouge on her cheeks. She will never shed her bitter spirit and she will never be pretty. It is not worth the heartbreak to pretend otherwise.

“I do not understand,” Colin says. “I do not understand what would motivate you to write with such resolution, such severity, about people you know so little about.”

He looks raw, uncertain. He is pleading with her.

“Help me to understand,” he says. 

Even in anger, he wants to understand.

Penelope has only fallen in love once, and it was instantaneous. Decided, set in stone, before she could catch her breath. The feeling that now swirls within her reminds her of the day she met Colin, but it is less helpless, more conscious. Full of similar wonder, but that wonder has altered, because she knows him now. She loves the parts of Colin that their society allows her to see, all of that palatable, polite cheer, but he is so much more than his charming smile. He has untold depths, emotions and thoughts she is desperate to discover – more of him to know, more of him to love. She wants to stand with him in hardship and admire his patience. As she does now.

For the first time in her life, Penelope is rising in her love for Colin, not falling with it. Funny, that she should feel that way when he is slipping from her hands.

She takes a deep breath and lets herself think about her response. She will not rush through this. He deserves her composure, deserves her coherence.

“As you know, I love to read,” Penelope says. It seems as good a start to make as any.

“I found the company that my family denied me in my books. I raised myself on romances,” she tells him. “I was therefore disturbed to discover that love plays an insignificant role in the marriage mart. My mother only speaks of advantageous matches. She does not value a potential husband’s character, but the contents of his pockets and the title attached to his name. It is embittering to hear. I am embittered.”

There is more relief in speaking about this than Penelope expected. She has only expressed her resentment through veiled quips in her column. She has never openly told anybody that she is unhappy and she finds catharsis in it.

“I cannot hope for romance, but I must pursue marriage,” Penelope continues. “My freedom depends upon my ability to persuade a man to marry me. I have been taught that I may do so by making coy suggestions about my motherly nature and inviting him to look at my water-colours. It is humiliating.”

Colin exhales, looks away from her. Penelope can see in his face that he feels for her, perhaps feels for every eligible young woman in Mayfair. That is the audience that she holds closest to her heart when she sets her pen to paper.

“Do you see, Colin?” Penelope asks, twisting her hands. “I am sure you do. You are too insightful not to see.”

He clears his throat. “I am well aware of the flaws of the marriage mart.”

“Then you might understand my frustration. I sought to alleviate my ire with the first article that I wrote. I did not intend to publish it.”

“But you did,” Colin says.

“I did,” Penelope agrees. “I wanted to scorn society. I wanted to humble people and I wanted to entertain them. I wanted to draw attention to that which the ton scrambles to avoid every day.”

“And what would that be?”

“The truth.”

Colin’s face is full of conflict and full of resonance. He sees the truth in her assessments. Whether it justifies her scandalous endeavour remains dubious. Penelope needs to tell him what feels shameful to admit. She reaches into her neckline and pulls out her handwritten copy of the issue that has offended him so greatly.

“Colin, you must understand,” she murmurs, gesturing with the parchment. “This is the only voice I have that is heard by anybody. This is the only context in which I am taken seriously. I have no agency and no power except as Whistledown.”

“I hear you,” Colin protests. “I take you seriously.”

“I know,” she says, aching. She has so much to say, so much to explain. 

The opportunity is lost to the sound of footsteps, to terror. Varley left them unchaperoned, and Penelope would sooner die than entrap Colin. Her relief is heavy when the intruder is revealed to be the housekeeper.

“Lady Featherington has risen,” Varley says, pointedly.

Colin has to leave. Penelope feels her stomach drop with despair. She needs more time.

“I was just leaving,” Colin is saying, dropping coins into Varley’s hand.

“I shall see you soon,” he tells Penelope. She tries not to feel too precarious in the reception of his unsteady smile. She watches the door close behind him and trembles. 

Penelope is not surprised when Colin does not return during calling hours. She tries not to be disappointed, when she knows the likely outcome of her confession. The absence of his scorn is more than she hoped for.

The ungrateful girl that she is, she finds little solace in the promise of his eventual forgiveness. It was all she prayed for when she decided to tell him the truth and now it feels lacking. He will never kiss her fingers again. Their entire courtship, she held her breath in anticipation of its ending, and she is nonetheless dismayed.

She is a sad, stupid girl. Too stiff to cry, she spends her day perched by her window, staring at nothing. Her heart keeps her company, its presence loud and animated. It roars and stretches. If only she were different, it laments. She might have had him.

She stays in that space until the sun is swallowed by the sky.

The following day, Penelope sits on a settee in the drawing room with her head bowed and her hands folded. Marina is receiving suitors again; they have flocked to the doorstep of this young lady they do not know with eager eyes and bright smiles. Their conversation and laughter consumes the room and Penelope is grateful to be lost in the bustle, if exasperated by their shallow choices of poetry. She tunes out the noise, stares at her dress.

She does not hear Varley announce Colin’s presence. She does not hear him greet her. She does not realise he is there until he is crouching before her, his face inches from hers.

“Penelope?” Colin asks. “Are you well?”

Penelope blinks at what must be a mirage. Colin is here, in her drawing room, on his knees. His face is so, so gentle. A bouquet is tucked under his arm, the elaborate blossoms gathering under his chin. Purple hyacinths, Penelope notices – sorrow, regret. The sister he adores. Ivory gladioli – strength of character, moral integrity. She wonders if he knows. She thinks of his mother and realises he must.

She is weeping before she knows it.

“Oh, Pen,” Colin says, his smile pained. He sets down the flowers and opens his arms for her. Penelope is not quite hysterical enough to fall into them, though she appreciates that he is willing to eschew propriety, despite their audience – she knows why he might give those rules less credence, in the wake of her ranting yesterday.

The drawing room is silent, surprised to witness a young lady crying in the open. Portia strides towards Penelope and Colin, thunderous in her mortification.

“Penelope Featherington!” Portia hisses. “Compose yourself, this instant. I apologise, Mr Bridgerton, her temperament is typically mild.”

“I am familiar with Penelope’s temperament,” Colin says, coolly. “There is no need for you to apologise on her behalf, nor for you to address her in such an unkind manner.”

A startled laugh escapes one of Marina’s callers. Once he collects himself, the room returns to a state of deadly quiet. Penelope should be horrified, but she is fascinated.

Portia’s eyes are very wide. Her mouth has dropped open, but she does not speak.

“I believe Penelope would benefit from a stroll in the garden, out in the fresh air,” Colin says. “I shall escort her now.”

He is announcing a plan, not asking a question. The distinction is clear to Penelope and clear to her mother. Colin stoops to retrieve his gift, offers Penelope his hand, and guides her down the hallway, through the back door and out into the sunshine.

A maid emerges moments later, a hastily-appointed chaperone. Colin nods in acknowledgment of her, then leads Penelope towards the stone bench where they sat when he first asked to court her.

He discards the flowers in the grass and retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket. The tender way that he smooths the cloth over her damp cheeks renews the fervour of her tears. Penelope places her hand over his, holding his palm against her cheek. 

“That was quite a display,” she sniffles, overwhelmed.

Colin’s smile is sheepish. “I apologise if I embarrassed you. I forgot any notion of propriety when I saw your tears. I hope Whistledown will understate my impertinence.”

She is so astounded she must laugh. She never imagined speaking about this part of her life in such a casual manner. His eyes are crinkled with mirth; he is jesting.

“Whistledown does not report falsehoods,” she reminds him.

“Then perhaps she will write about my deep devotion to my sweetheart.”

Somehow, the world remains intact. Penelope tries to wrangle her hope into something less oppressive. She is familiar enough with the futility to wonder why she bothers.

“You do not intend to end our courtship?” Penelope whispers.

The look Colin gives her is deeply surprised, deeply sad. She has the impression that he means to say a great deal to her, but he restrains himself.

“No,” he says. “I do not.”

“I would not blame you if you wished to withdraw your suit.”

“That is the last thing I wish to do,” Colin tells her, his voice growing firm. “The confession you made yesterday morning has not changed my feelings for you, Pen.”

It seems significant that he is still calling her Pen, she thinks. She is still Pen to him.

“I thought you might have reformed your opinion of me,” Penelope mutters. “I thought you might have come to view me as wicked. Sometimes I think that I am wicked.”

He shakes his head, his eyes impossibly soft. “You are not wicked, Penelope. You are hurt and angry.”

With that, an ancient terror begins to unwind in her soul. It only took a simple observation, some merciful sense.

“You are also the bravest, cleverest woman I have ever known. The more I consider what you have told me, the more sense I find in it. Which is not to say that I approve of everything you have written,” Colin adds. “But that is unimportant. You do not write for my approval.”

“It is important,” Penelope blurts. “I do not want to act outside of your moral alignment. I want you to enjoy my writing.”

“I do,” Colin assures her. “I have spent the last day pouring over every article of Whistledown I could acquire. I am fortunate that Eloise is such an avid fan of yours.”

A grin crosses his face, at that. “I am flattered to know the truth, when she does not.”

“I worry she would view the paper differently if she knew,” Penelope explains, quietly.

“I am certain that she will be thrilled, if you decide to tell her,” Colin says. “What else could she be? Whistledown is a revelation. I have neglected to appreciate your craft in my preoccupation with the contents of your reports. Your writing is brilliant. Full of wit, informed by compassion. Like the scribe herself, I suppose.”

Penelope blushes. She can think of nothing to say, except a shy, “Thank you, Colin.”

He grins at her, but quickly sobers. “There are only two components of your column that truly concern me.”

“What are they?”

Colin reaches into his coat and whips out yesterday’s pamphlet. It is folded into squares, covered in creases. Penelope can only imagine how many times he has read it.

“Tell me, Penelope,” he says. “Is this how you see yourself?”

His thumb brushes over the paragraph that describes their surprise courtship. Penelope feels vulnerable, reviewing her writing in the presence of another person. Anonymity provides safety in more ways than one, she is finding.

“It was a difficult article to write,” she admits. “I attempted to make my report mild. You notice that I did not cast aspersions on you, nor Marina, nor myself.”

“You suggested that my interest in you was the consequence of a head injury,” Colin says bluntly. “You called yourself undesirable. Is that not an aspersion?”

“It is a simple reality. It was convenient to linger in it, so that I could avoid divulging details about our relationship.”

His frown is heavy on his face. “Penelope, that is absurd. Your beauty has haunted me for weeks. Of course you are desirable.”

Penelope shakes her head before he can finish, resistant to lies and mockery.

“I do not need your pity.”

“You do not have my pity,” Colin says. “You have my concern. I must insist that you make an effort to be kinder to yourself, both within your column and within the privacy of your mind. For my sake, if not your own.”

“For your sake?” Penelope asks.

“It breaks my heart to read such things about you.”

Penelope takes a deep breath. Whatever his words may imply, she knows that the way he feels for her is not the same as what she feels for him. She knows that he cares about her, that he is protective over her, that he takes a sincere interest in her wellbeing. She can recognise that he has burgeoning romantic affection for her. But it is not love. It could not be love.

“I am sorry to have hurt your heart,” she says.

“I forgive you,” Colin says, reaching for her hand, clenching it. “But please take care with it, in future. You may not realise the power you hold over it.”

He sounds very much like thousands of journal entries Penelope has written over a lifetime spent loving him. She sighs wistfully. She has found a limitation in her bravery. She cannot tell him about her love.

“I shall keep that in mind,” Penelope says. “What is the second component of my column that concerns you?”

“Ah.” 

The shift in his expression would be comedic, if his severity had not grown, darkened.

“I am rather afraid of the answer you may have for me,” Colin says. “It is becoming clear to me that you have little regard for your personal welfare. You obviously have a reckless streak. I hope that you are sensible enough to take measures to ensure your safety, but I worry that you are not.”

Penelope thinks she knows what he is going to ask her about. She winces.

“Every London publisher I have researched is located in areas of the city entirely unsuited to gently bred ladies,” Colin says. “How does your column reach your publisher?”

She has decided not to lie to him, and she will not start here.

“The way that you dread,” she murmurs.

“Never again,” Colin says. He sounds stern, unlike himself, and it excites her. There is a swooping sensation low in her belly, high in her chest.

Penelope realises that she is not alone in the pursuit of Whistledown anymore. 

Perhaps she is not alone in anything.

On his way out the door, Colin slips a note into her palm. Penelope suffers through tea with her family, the paper sparkling on her skin. Despite her distraction, her impatience for a private moment to read his secret message, she manages to defend Colin when Portia mentions the consequences of indulging children.

After she unfurls his letter, she realises her mother may have a point. If Colin feels any trepidation about breaking rules, it is not strong enough to impede him.

Penelope can only assume that he has gone mad, but she is too charmed by him to deny him anything he wants. Per his request, she sneaks out of her bedroom that night. She waits for him at the edge of her garden, her hair loose, her heart aglow. She has not changed into a nightgown, still wears her favourite pink day dress.

Colin seems to emerge from nowhere. She spends a long time squinting at the abyss that stretches before her, straining for his silhouette. She is unable to trace him until he is standing before her, so close she can see the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Colin says, reaching for her hands.

Penelope smiles, clings to his fingers. “Is there more for us to discuss?”

“Not about Whistledown.”

She realises that there is uncertainty in his face. The dim moonlight cannot reduce his insecurity to the shadows. Penelope sees more of him all of the time.

He looks down at the ground, takes a deep breath. “Penelope, could I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” she says. 

He hesitates, perseveres. He has bravery of his own.

“Can I kiss you?”

The breath escapes her lungs. Penelope should be shouting her acceptance and pleading with him to make haste. She can only gape at him, starry-eyed.

How is this moment real? The violet-blue tinge to the night sky, to the air around them, does not remove the strange sense she has that they are encased by a soap bubble. Floating, iridescent, vulnerable to being pierced. Surely, this dream cannot last. But it has been weeks, and Colin has not moved. Whistledown could not make him move.

Penelope knows she is overdue to relinquish her surprise. She hopes that an act as raw as a kiss might help her to accept that this is real.

She musters a nod. 

The kiss he brushes against her lips is very careful. His fingers are gentle on her jaw, guiding her chin upwards. Colin pulls away after that first lingering touch to examine her face, and Penelope gazes up at him, shining with happiness.

She has always known that kissing him would be like this. She giggles, nuzzles his nose with hers. She is so joyous to be right. She is so joyous to have waited for him.

“Colin,” she whispers, wonderstruck.

“I know,” he says. He leans in again.

Chapter Text

The purpose of courtship, ostensibly, is to improve one’s acquaintance with a prospective match. Colin finds the logic in this premise to be somewhat warped, when he considers what little couples are allowed to know of one another before marriage. His circumstances with Penelope are exceptional. Wonderful. Before he even requests to court her, he knows her. He trusts that he knows her.

This faith now wavers. He walks away from Lady Whistledown, a changed man. He crosses the street on numb feet. His thoughts swirl with confusion and despair.

Lady Whistledown is not what he imagined her to be, he realises. He has envisioned a cunning widow, gracefully ageing, watching the Ton from a high window with a teacup in her hand and a smile on her face. This unfounded image is replaced by the memory of a tearful, wide-eyed girl. His girl. 

Penelope is not much changed in his perception of her, he realises. She sounded so much like herself during her confession. Everything she said made sense.

It picked him apart, unravelled even his most certain parts. But it made sense.

Colin needs to be alone. He needs time to sit in Penelope’s misery, to find a way out of the maze it has created, so that he might guide her through it. But his mother is waiting for him in the hallway, blocking the path to his bedroom. She appears to be torn between the urge to chastise him and embrace him.

In the end, Violet only sighs. “How is Penelope?”

Embittered, Colin remembers her whispering. Disturbed. Humiliated.

“Penelope is…” Colin trails off, lost for words. “Penelope is very, very strong.”

High praise, but it feels inadequate. She deserves more.

“I have often gotten that impression,” Violet says, softly. “Was she very upset by Whistledown’s report?”

“She was entirely unbothered. She hears worse in her household every day.”

This observation escapes him without his permission. He feels somewhat guilty for sharing something private, but he is greatly comforted by the devastation in his mother’s eyes, by the knowledge that another person cares so dearly about Penelope.

“She has been subjected to cruelty for her entire life,” Colin murmurs. A glaze overcomes his vision. He does not push his mother away when she steps forth with open arms. He reacts as a boy would: meets her halfway, his arms earnest and not tolerant. He sheds quiet tears, does his best not to tremble.

“My dear boy,” Violet says, her hands flurrying over his broad back. She has never had so much of him to touch in a moment like this.

“How terrible you must feel. There is no pain as great as knowing that a person you love has suffered,” she says. “I am sorry, my darling.”

“She is so gentle, so bright…”

“She is, she certainly is. She deserves far better than she has had so far in life. But, Colin, you should know – ” Violet pulls away from him, frames his tear-stained face with loving hands. “People intimate with misery know a very rich joy when it finally finds them. Penelope will be deeply happy when she is your wife, I can assure you.”

Colin emits a strange, choked laugh. “Assuming that is what she wants.”

Violet gives Colin an incredulous, admiring look. “There is nobody in the world like you, Colin Bridgerton.”

It is not exactly a compliment. Perhaps Colin’s confusion shows on his face, because his mother adds, “You are exactly what Penelope needs.”

Colin resists the instinctive urge to counter her. She has to be right, he knows. Penelope needs strength and compassion. The thought galvanises him.

He strides across the street the following morning with determination. He is ready to take action. He no longer cares about how her family perceives him. Everything going according to plan, they will be distant figures for Colin and Penelope, come the end of the season.

Perhaps sooner. The kiss she gives him that night is promising. She glows with a serenity he has seldom seen in her. She is so happy she giggles with it.

Under the moonlight, between languid kisses and sweet nothings, she confides in him, “There is nothing in the world that makes me happier than being with you.”

His fear for her fate begins to fade.

This is romance, Colin is relieved to realise. Neither of them have spoken a whisper of love, but their affection for one another has become romantic in nature. Penelope shares his feelings, he is certain of it. After their kiss, he notices enchantment in her eyes, unhidden wanting, every time she looks at him.

He brings her a painted porcelain inkwell and an array of pretty, sturdy quills. The gesture is clear and moves Penelope to impropriety. She reaches to touch his face and, for a desperate moment, Colin thinks she might kiss him in the middle of the Featherington drawing room. He thinks of her mother’s reaction to that and grins.

But Penelope lowers her hand shyly, wraps it around his elbow instead.

“I wonder if my sharp words will reach me, while I am using such beautiful quills.”

“You speak as though there is no beauty in your sharpness,” Colin says. “If these quills impede Whistledown, you could write something gentle instead. For you, for me.”

Colin has been writing love letters, himself. He feels somewhat bashful about giving them to Penelope, a writer renowned across Mayfair, but he knows that poetry is a requirement of any decent suitor. Penelope is a romantic girl and a forgiving friend; she will appreciate his letters, despite their flaws.

Indeed, when he hands her the sealed envelope, she looks thrilled.

“This appears to be much longer than your first letter,” Penelope murmurs. “I suppose I cannot hope for another invitation to a moonlit tryst?”

“Penelope!” Colin exclaims, with a startled laugh.

She blushes, looks down at her lap. “I apologise. That was very forward.”

“Do not apologise,” he says firmly. “I am – I am so glad that you enjoyed our time together. I confess I have dreamed of nothing else since.”

Penelope gazes at him, her eyes enormous. “Can we please kiss again? Soon?”

It will be challenging to find opportunities, burdened as they are by constant supervision, but Colin is creative. He has some ideas: they can meet in hidden corners of the park, or perhaps on terraces at balls. He ignores the thought that occurs to him, that privacy would come easily if they were married.

He stares at the tree that grows outside her bedroom window and wonders about how sturdy the branches are.

Colin takes care with her gown, ensuring every whorl of fabric is tucked into the rowboat. Penelope watches him, her cheeks pink with gratitude.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, as he climbs in after her. He senses that her thanks refers to more than protecting the dryness of her dress. He is glad that she recognises the care in every motion he makes.

He offers her a winning smile and settles on the bench across from her. He leans backwards to untie them from the decking, then reaches for the oars. He moves smoothly, pulls them across the lake at a gliding pace, not unlike their accompanying swans. Colin feels steady, feels certain. This journey is not different from any other he will share with Penelope. He will keep her safe throughout it. 

It is not a question of his confidence anymore. It is sheer necessity.

Penelope is unsuccessful in her efforts to be discreet, watching his arms flex as he rows. Colin thinks it is a testament to her fondness for him, that she stares at him when they are ensconced by a scene of immense, idyllic beauty.

Colin has chosen the perfect day for their boat ride. Azure, cloudless. The park is beautified by fine weather. Flowers arch across the lake, providing resting spots for the dragonflies that flit across the water. He notices some bumble bees dancing along the blossoms and smiles ruefully. He never knows what to think of the innocent creatures. He rows on, determined to be stable.

Eventually, he sets down the oars, allowing the boat to drift slowly.

“This is my first time on the lake,” Penelope tells him.

Colin fights a frown. He loved crossing the lake as a child.

“How are you finding it?”

“It is wonderful. I am grateful you suggested it.”

“I am grateful you accepted,” he replies, leaning forward to press their knees together. 

“The view is splendid,” Penelope adds. “I am sure you would describe it well.”

Colin lifts his gaze from their touching legs, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I am thinking of the letter you wrote me. It was crafted with such delicate care. I did not realise you were a poet.”

“I am not,” Colin says, chuckling. 

“Your writing suggests otherwise.”

Penelope gives every impression of sincerity. Colin will not laugh at her for being biassed by her feelings for him, but he knows better. Benedict is an artist. Penelope is a writer. Colin knows them both well enough to recognise the differences between their work and his longtime habit of recording his daily musings in journals.

“It speaks well of you that you indulge my silly scribblings,” Colin says.

She gives him a furrowed look, something nearly cross. “I speak in earnest.”

“Then I thank you,” Colin replies, hastily schooling the mirth from his expression. “That is a tremendous compliment to receive from Lady Whistledown herself.”

Penelope smiles. “It remains surreal to discuss such matters openly.”

“The secret must have been a heavy burden.”

“Indeed. A heavy, lonely burden. It is such a relief to be free of it now.”

Her face does not reflect relief, exactly. She looks at him with a great deal of feeling and Colin tries, in vain, to understand what she is thinking about.

“It is because of you that my burden is lessened,” she says, softly. “I hope you realise how much it meant to me – that you listened to me, that you tried to understand me.”

Colin is entirely aware of the significance of patience to her. He nods at her, takes her hands to cradle her, to punctuate his understanding.

“Everything seems different now that you know,” Penelope continues. “Truthfully, I am not certain that I see the merit in Whistledown, any longer.”

Instinctive disagreement spreads through Colin. He is confused by his own reaction, when he has so much anxiety about Whistledown, about the real and abstract forms of danger the scandal sheet puts Penelope in. He worries about the way she goads the Queen, the way she lingers in jaded tones.

Still, he knows that Whistledown is important. He knows that there is depth to its value that he has yet to fathom.

“I am surprised to hear you say that,” Colin says, slowly.

Penelope’s face twists into a sweet pout. “May I tell you something I have learned? It is… a delicate matter.”

“Of course,” Colin says. He cannot deny how intrigued he feels – privileged, even. As though he is getting an exclusive preview into the next edition of Whistledown.

She fiddles with her fingers, deep in consideration. He can see how conflicted she is.

“I promise you, I will not share any secrets you share with me,” he murmurs.

“It concerns my cousin,” Penelope says, quietly. “She would be ruined if she were found out.”

Colin tries not to be offended by Penelope’s hesitation. It speaks more to the gravity of the secret than it does to her trust in him, he consoles himself.

“I understand if you do not wish to tell me,” Colin says, reluctantly.

“I do wish to tell you,” Penelope says. “I am going to, though I worry it is wrong of me to do so. Marina is with child.”

In an instant, all of the air rushes out of his lungs. Colin stares at Penelope, amazed and horrified. He looks over the water, the grass, at the blurry figure of Marina beneath the Featherington tent, entertaining one of her suitors.

His mind blurs. Even from this distance, he can see her smile. He recalls Penelope’s words about Whistledown’s audience, about discontentment in a community that shuns the truth. He can only imagine what that smile costs Marina.

He turns back to Penelope, observes her troubled expression with regret.

“Do you know who the father is?” Colin manages to ask.

Penelope nods. “His name is George Crane. He is not a member of the Ton. You need not concern yourself with seeking justice.”

Colin is not certain of that yet. “Where is he now?”

“He is fighting in Spain.”

He nearly curses. He stares over the lake, his thoughts rumbling with worry. No young lady deserves to endure the terror that Marina faces.

“He has written that he loves her,” Penelope says, as though this is comforting. “I have seen the letters. They are romantic, passionate.”

A scoff is torn from Colin. “His words mean little when he has taken liberties with her and left her unmarried, at risk.”

Penelope looks curious. “Liberties?”

Colin is reminded that Lady Whistledown is an adolescent girl, newly debuted. As chaste and innocent as every other gently bred lady in the Ton. He is faintly mortified by his loose tongue, faintly amused by her intrigued reaction.

It seems that Marina has not told Penelope the truth. A quiet part of Colin is glad for that. He wants to be the one to introduce her to these things – though he can hardly think about it at present.

“Forgive me,” Colin says. “I have spoken out of turn.”

Penelope sighs, but she does not push him. 

“It goes without saying that Whistledown will not report this,” she says. “But I worry that it would have, if Marina were not my cousin.”

She looks away from him, stares at the lake, the darting insects. They are so tiny they are hardly seen; shiny flecks of movement detectable only by sunshine.

“The truth is that it can be quite scary,” Penelope murmurs. “Hearing such grown-up, wicked things. There are times where I hardly understand what I am writing about. There is power in Whistledown, power that I do not always feel capable of wielding. It wears on me. I worry it will change me.”

Colin realises that he does not share this worry. When he considers Penelope as Lady Whistledown, he only sees the same person. More of her, perhaps. A clarified portrait.

“Your concern about your influence indicates your character,” Colin says. “But I know your intentions. I have faith in your ability to put your success to good use. It may make a difference for you if you receive some meaningful support.”

Penelope manages a wan smile. “I sense you are offering it.”

“I hope you will accept it.”

She nods furtively. There is that sense of longing in her eyes again, a lustrous chasm he longs to fill. She looks as vulnerable as Colin feels.

“This trouble with Marina worries you greatly,” Colin says. 

It is not a question, but he waits for her nod.

“Perhaps we should take action.”

“George Crane is quite beyond reach,” Penelope reminds him.

“Then we should contact his next of kin,” Colin says, undeterred. “Do you believe Marina would know who that is? His father, or his brother, I suppose. We can conduct our own research, if you would prefer to leave Marina out of this.”

“Colin – you told me you would not tell anybody – ”

“And I promise you, I will not,” he promises. “I am only making suggestions. I suppose Marina’s plan at present is to marry an oblivious suitor and claim the child is his. It is rather ill-formed. Her deception will be obvious to most – to all, if she does not marry in the next month. Has she any serious prospects?”

Colin is immediately regretful about thinking out loud. He can see that he has incited more panic in Penelope. She looks ready to jump from the boat.

“I am sorry, Pen,” Colin says, wincing. “I realise it is not my business. But these circumstances are terrible and I wish to spare you from them.”

Penelope shakes her head. “Your urgency is appropriate. I shall speak to Marina about your solution – it is more sensible than her own, and far preferable to anything my mother has devised.”

“If she is amenable, I can acquire help from Anthony and perhaps my mother.”

Penelope falters. “Would you truly do that for her?”

“She is your family,” he says. She seems to find it remarkable, but he is not sure why.

Penelope squeezes his hands. “I wish I could embrace you.”

“Nobody can scold us on the water.”

“But when we return…”

“The lecture will be worth it,” Colin declares, pulling her closer. 

He tucks her carefully under his arm, wary of how they may counterbalance the boat. He holds her cheek to his chest and wishes that there were less layers between them, that he could peel away every covering and get to the core of her.

Every moment spent with Penelope on the dance floor is magical. Colin craves a means of recording their time together, of keeping her joy vivid in his mind for all time. She is incandescently happy, beautiful beyond comprehension.

Penelope twirls between his arms, dazzled and dazzling, and Colin beams as he watches her, holds her. It is with great reluctance that he leads her away from the fray, but she is flushed, in need of a break.

“Stay here a moment,” Colin says, easing her fallen curls behind her ear. “I shall fetch you a lemonade while you catch your breath.”

He kisses the shell of her knuckles before he leaves her.

On his way back from the refreshment table, he comes across Daphne. His sister is resplendent in her disquiet, staring forlornly across the ballroom. Colin represses the guilt that occurs to him, when he recounts Daphne’s recent suffering; how Penelope worsened matters and how Colin did not struggle to forgive her.

Daphne brightens when she notices Colin. “I was wondering if you would ever give Penelope a reprieve.”

Colin chuckles. “Yes, I am quite a demanding dance partner.”

“But a thoughtful one, as well,” Daphne says, gesturing to the glasses of lemonade he carries.

“We must replenish ourselves before we carry on.”

“You have already shared two dances!”

“I doubt Penelope will deny me a third dance.”

The possibility makes Colin frown. No reasonable person could expect him to go without twirling Penelope and holding her in his arms for the rest of the night.

“I hope she will not deny me,” he adds, feeling petulant.

“I doubt Penelope would deny you anything you wished for.”

Colin considers the question he is preparing to ask Penelope and desperately hopes his sister is right in this estimation.

“Let us hope you are correct, when she holds such power over my wishes.”

Daphne makes a soft, cooing noise. “Oh, Colin. You seem so happy.”

He can see that she is glad for him. A rush of affection for Daphne overwhelms Colin.

“Of course I am happy,” Colin says. “I have danced twice with the most beautiful girl in the ballroom, and now the second most beautiful deigns to speak to me. I am having a fine evening, indeed.”

Daphne laughs at that, her face thoughtful and somewhat wry. “You make it seem so easy, brother. I do not know how you do it.”

“What is it you are referring to?” he asks, gently.

“I do not know. Courtship, perhaps. Navigating the Ton. Life, I suppose,” she exhales a rather dramatic sigh. That is more like the Daphne he knows. Colin smiles.

“Appearances can be deceiving. I have my own struggles with the Ton, I assure you.”

“It hardly matters, when you are all but betrothed to the girl that you love.”

“The way Mother speaks, you are in a similar situation with your Duke,” Colin says.

“I am not,” Daphne scoffs. “He is one of many suitors I am considering.”

“Are you telling me you do not favour him? I have seen the way you look at him.”

Daphne gives him a wounded look, reminiscent of the days where he would refuse, then quickly relent, to playing alongside her with her dolls.

“He has made no promises to me,” she mutters. 

It dawns on Colin that Daphne is in a similar position to him – close to a love she has not yet secured. Tasting something she wants desperately, uncertain if she will get to have it. Colin is not surprised to discover that even the meticulous, perfect Daphne withers in the throes of such a sorry predicament.

“I understand,” Colin says, quietly. “Penelope has made no allusion to marriage, nor love, for the duration of our courtship. I cannot be certain how she feels.”

Daphne does not look comforted. In fact, she looks quite offended.

“You are a fool,” she declares. “The nerve of you to compare our situations – when it is clear as day to anybody with a working mind that Penelope would lay her life down for you, and Simon is merely – ”

She cuts herself off, takes a moment to gather her breath. Colin stares at her, feeling rather cross, rather chagrined, and entirely doubtful. Does Daphne know Penelope well enough to make these assessments? She has mentioned Pen’s absolute devotion to him twice now. But Penelope has made far loftier confessions than love to him. If she loved him, she would have said so by now.

“You know not of what you speak,” Colin says.

“I know more about how a lady is supposed to conduct herself in a courtship than you do,” Daphne replies, brutally. “It is not Penelope’s role to propose. If you want to know her feelings, you need only ask her plainly.”

The unspoken is clear to him: Daphne feels she has no freedom to ask her Duke about his feelings. Colin supposes that there is a difference, when ladies are expected to be demure. He wonders if it is possible that this is what restrains Penelope from talking to him about her feelings and her desires.

But since her confession, society rules have factored less into their dynamic. He knows that Penelope is not coy with him. Perhaps she refrains from speaking for the same reason that he does: fear, that her love is not reciprocated.

How funny that would be.

“I am sorry you are powerless, Daphne,” Colin says. “This role you have been given does not serve you well. I realise it is scandalous, but perhaps you should ask your Duke about his feelings, as well. If he is a man worthy of your company, he will only respect you for your bravery.”

Daphne looks daunted one moment and determined the next. The way it rushes across her face is so familiar to Colin. That is their Bridgerton blood, he knows.

He seeks out Penelope, sees her figure shrinking into shadows, clinging to the wall. He expects she begrudges that space for holding her so well.

“Perhaps it is time for us all to be brave,” Colin says.

The next time that Colin sees his name printed in Whistledown, he is tempted to laugh, and he is tempted to weep. He does a bit of both; chuckles rawly while tears sting his eyes. It is quite a spectacle for the servants passing the drawing room where he sits, but Colin does not care.

It would seem that the sun shines brighter for Mr Colin Bridgerton, these days. London’s most charming bachelor was all smiles at the Blyton Ball, as he escorted Miss Penelope Featherington to the dance floor not once, not twice, but three times in a single evening. Scandalous, indeed, but when has Mr Bridgerton ever abided by foolish rules? This Author is not surprised that he is as bold a suitor as he was a flirt. Indeed, I am ashamed to write in a world where Mr Bridgerton cannot dance as often as he pleases. The poor man was visibly disappointed when a Mozart melody began to play after his third dance with his dear Miss Featherington, and the sensible girl could not be persuaded to indulge him once more.

He puts his teacup down and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“My god,” he murmurs.

Love has grown heavy in every organ, every bone. There is no part of him that is untouched by Penelope. He feels her in his shoulders, in his elbows, in his toes. 

How much of him has she actually touched? His face, his hands. His lips. Whispers of what she owns – important whispers, but still simple whispers. Colin wishes to show her everything, but he has not even told her that he loves her.

The weight is too much to bear alone anymore. Not now that she has called him out for being so besotted with her in front of the whole of London. She is complimenting him in her column; she has always complimented him in her column. He loves her with a fervour that he did not realise was even possible.

It is truer and rawer than anything the Ton could perceive with comfort. But Colin knows that Penelope will accept him with kindness, regardless of how she feels for him.

He barely waits for the dusk to wane. Night veils the street and he slithers across it to inspect that tree he so often thinks about. It will do, he decides, barely testing the lowest branch. It is a hasty, graceless ascent, one that etches thin scratches on his hands, on one of his cheeks, but he does not register the sting. He is perched precariously by her window, staring at the backs of her curtains.

For the first time since he read Whistledown this morning, Colin feels doubtful about his plan. But it is far too late to turn back now. He knocks on the glass.

Penelope appears between the curtains, her confusion blurring into incredulity and then delight. Colin grins at her, fans his hand on the glass. She aligns her fingers along his and they both chuckle at what little she fills of his outline.

“Can you open the window?” he says, softly, enunciating so she might read his lips.

Penelope looks uncertain. It takes several tries before she can get the rusty latch to yield, and then Colin helps her to slide the window upwards, and he tumbles eagerly from the rooftop, landing on the wooden planes of her bedroom floor. A small onslaught of leaves and twigs follows after him.

“Oh, are you alright?” Penelope asks, her hands fluttering around him.

Colin lifts his head to look at her. She wears a gauzy white nightgown that flows around her ankles. Her feet are bare and impossibly tiny. He thinks he could hold them both in one palm. He hopes she will let him test the theory.

Her hair is plaited with a silk ribbon that curls loosely past her waist. She is unbound. Her eyes are tired and bright. He has never seen so much of her.

“You are so beautiful,” Colin blurts.

Penelope flushes, wraps her arms around her waist. “Oh. Thank you.”

Colin swivels himself upright, looking around her bedroom. He has never been within it before and he soon finds that he likes it, likes the way that it is filled by her spirit, her warmth. There is the desk where she writes her brilliant articles; there is the pillow where she rests her brilliant mind. There is the window where she yearns for more. There, in the mirror she misunderstands, is the man who will give it to her.

“I – I am sorry,” Colin says. “I know this is absurd, even for me.”

“I am becoming desensitised to your audacity,” Penelope teases him. There is something so magical about her laughter. Colin laughs with her, overcome.

“That only makes sense,” he says. “I adored your latest article.”

Penelope looks as though she could melt. “You did?”

Colin nods. “I have never liked myself more than I did while reading that.”

“Colin,” she says his name with great tenderness.

“I cannot tell you how delighted, how moved I felt when I first read it. I could not decide if I should laugh or cry.”

“Over one simple paragraph?” Penelope asks, sounding weak.

“Nothing you write is simple,” Colin retorts. “There is nuance in all of it.”

Penelope surges towards him, grasps his hands. “I am so glad that you see it.”

“Of course I see it,” Colin says. “It is you, and I love you.”

She is so surprised that she drops his hands. Her eyes become wide and glassy, expressing disbelief that he hopes to stomp out before it can be verbalised.

“I love you, Pen,” he says, again. “That is why I am here, deeming rules foolish, damning them. I could not spend another night without you knowing.”

Penelope is dazed. She stares at him with a crease on her brow, her mouth ajar, as though he has told her a riddle. She touches his chest with such hesitation he realises that she doubts her reality, expects him to fade away. He guides her hand to his heart, which pulses with enough vigour to affirm he is real.

“I love you,” Colin repeats, when Penelope dares to look him in the eyes.

Laughter bubbles in her wobbly mouth. Then she puts her hands on either side of his neck and drags him down towards her, clumsily pressing their mouths together. Colin smooths the motion with ease, captures her lips carefully, brushes the inside of her cheek with his tongue. He holds her jaw, kisses her again and again, leads her backwards, until she tips onto her bed, giggling helplessly.

“Colin,” she whispers, as he peppers kisses along her chin, her nose, her brow. “Colin, I have – I have always loved you – ”

He groans. He should not want it to be true – should not want her to have wanted him and gone without him – but he does. Selfishly, he does.

“Pen,” Colin murmurs, looking down at her. His enthusiasm with her has undone her hair and it now spreads around her head in lustrous waves, catching the candlelight. Her lips are swollen, changed by his love. Her eyes glisten. She is panting, breathless with joy.

“I love you, too,” she says, her small hand hooking in his shirt. “I have loved you for years, since the moment we met. I love you, Colin, I love you dearly.”

There is some agony in her voice. His fear of unrequited love has been more than a possibility for her. Colin wants to linger in that pain, wants to honour it, but his attention is finite. He can only focus on his rippling, searing happiness.

She loves him. 

He kisses her forehead, an ode to her cleverness. He kisses her breastbone, an ode to her compassion. He rises on his hands to look her in the eyes.

“Marry me,” Colin whispers.

“Yes, yes,” Penelope says, yanking him down to kiss him again. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

Penelope once imagined kissing to be a placid affair. Until recently, her experience with romance was confined to subtle fiction, ink on paper, and polite displays of courtship. The closest embrace she has seen a couple share is during a waltz; a dance defined by elegance and control.

She did not expect to exchange air with Colin. She did not expect him to curl his tongue along hers. She did not expect this sliding, frantic puckering. 

Colin is so vivid before her, so alive. He is swaying and sighing, touching her hair, touching her waist. The same person she has always known in such a different context. Unchanged, despite everything.

He pulls away and she whimpers pathetically.

“I love you,” Colin murmurs, then seals his lips back over hers. Penelope places her hand on the back of his head, coaxing him closer. She is starving and, for the first time in her memory, hopeful that she might get her fill.

The grip she has on his hair makes him groan; Penelope licks his lips, swallows the sounds he makes. Her calf hooks around his knees, trying to bring him nearer, and he lands heavily between her thighs. The weight of him makes her stomach whirl and blaze with want – for what, she is not certain.

What more could she want? Her back is arching, her chest is heaving. She wants him closer, but he could not be closer. His hands already bleed into her skin.

She rolls forward, quite without thinking about it, aligning their hips. The motion brings Penelope a searing spike. She gasps, jerks away. She stares at Colin, whose face has become very still, with wide, alarmed eyes.

She is relieved by the appearance of his familiar, gentle smile.

“Are you alright?” Colin asks.

Penelope nods, feeling shy. She falls back onto her pillows, rushing to compose herself. Colin runs his fingers along the auburn clouds that have gathered above her shoulders, drapes her hair artfully down her chest. When her breathing has steadied, he leans in and pecks her lips in the manner she once believed all kisses started and ended.

Hunger pushes away her embarrassment and she cranes upwards to deepen their contact. She notices that he is careful to keep some distance between their bodies, but he indulges her with vibrance until his breath runs short. 

“I love you,” Colin says, when he must tear away from her. “My bride-to-be.”

“You will be my husband,” Penelope whispers, awed. She would pinch herself if her hands were not full of him.

Colin nuzzles his nose against hers. “What happy tidings we will have for Sunday tea tomorrow. My family will be thrilled. My mother, especially.”

Penelope laughs. “Do you not intend to speak with my father before we make our announcement?”

His face falls. “Oh. Of course. Forgive me, I was swept away in my excitement.”

“You forgot,” Penelope realises, laughing more, so much that she shakes with it. “How I love you. Please do not apologise. I would prefer that we break the news to your family before mine, and we might as well. It is not as though there is any chance of my father denying you.”

“I ought to do this properly,” Colin sighs. “If I am being perfectly honest, I resent my obligation to speak with him about any matter that concerns you. He rescinded any claim on you long ago, in my view. As did the rest of your family. You are mine.”

Penelope feels her eyes begin to water. She doubts he realises what a relief it is for her to hear those words. He is accepting responsibility for something she gave him years ago.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I have been yours for a very long time.”

Since the day they met, she told him, but she believes it was the day she was born. He has had an entire person to call his own for seventeen years. Nearly as long as he has been alive. 

Colin stares down at her, looking very solemn. “I will spend a lifetime begging your forgiveness for not seeing you sooner.”

“There is no need. It does not matter when you see me now.”

“I see nothing else,” he tells her, pressing his lips to hers once more. He breaks away sooner than she expects, before her breath has even been lost. Penelope complains with incoherent murmurs, but she does not convince him to lower himself back down to her.

Reason returns to Penelope. He must leave soon, of course. Every moment they spend together risks their exposure a fraction more. But he makes no haste. He reaches for her hands, pulls her upright, then off the bed altogether.

“What are you doing?” Penelope whispers.

Colin smiles and drops to one knee. She giggles, understanding the gesture he means to make, but falters when he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and withdraws a jewellery box that is so small it could only contain a ring.

“Oh,” she breathes. “I assumed your proposal was impulsive.” 

“Well, clearly,” Colin chuckles. “But only in its delivery. It was not unplanned. I have your ring.”

Her ring. When her mother speaks to her about the possibility of receiving a proposal from Mr Bridgerton, she often mentions his ring. But the ring does not belong to Colin. He is giving it to Penelope.

And what a ring it is. A hoop of delicate pearls, luminous in the moonlight. Penelope considers the vaguely floral formation and remembers the daisies that Colin used to pick for her when they were children.

“I have never seen such a beautiful ring,” Penelope says. “For its appearance and for its meaning.”

“This is the ring that my father gave to my mother,” Colin tells her. His pleasure for inheriting the ring is clear, but his face is not smug. He respects the gravity of the gift that Violet has given them.

As does Penelope. “Is your mother certain she wishes to part with it?”

That tender look he reserves for her blossoms over his face. He takes her hand and slides his latest promise over her ring finger.

Colin nods. “Yes. She insisted upon it, in fact. She is quite pleased by the similarities between her match and mine.”

“She believes our union is similar to hers and your father’s?” Penelope asks, disbelieving. Her dim memories of Edmund Bridgerton contain the most radiant demonstrations of love she has witnessed a man bestow upon his wife and children. Penelope recalls Violet’s anguish when her husband died and recognises her devotion to Colin. But surely, she cannot assume that Colin feels for her the way that his father felt for his mother.

“My mother and father were close friends before they realised they were in love,” Colin explains. “He was charming, she was shy.”

Here, he grins. He presses a kiss to the skin above her ring and rises from his knees to stand before her. He brushes his thumb over her flushed cheek.

“It meant very much to my mother that her ring’s next wearer would know a love as true as she did,” Colin says, softly. “Fate is rather funny, is it not?”

Penelope is overwhelmed. All she can think to do is wrap her arms around him. So she does. She feels his sigh of bliss when she lays her face on his chest. He holds her with secure, stable arms. There is no doubt that she is safe here and she dreads the nearness of their separation.

“I do not wish for you to go,” Penelope murmurs.

“I will stay a while longer,” Colin answers. He startles her when he swoops one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees; he carries her to her pillows as though she is a small child, then tucks her under the sheets as though she is precious.

“It will be such a relief when we have a home of our own. We will have all of the time in the world to spend together.”

“A home of our own,” Penelope repeats, feeling dizzy.

“A home of your own,” he adds, his voice measured.

Penelope smiles bashfully, aware that she is being beheld with far more clarity than she has before. 

“Where will we live?” she asks.

“There are a few properties in the family,” Colin replies. “I have one in mind for us. I planned to discuss the matter with Anthony tomorrow morning. Perhaps I should delay that conversation until you have reviewed the house.”

How absurd. An assembly of four walls containing Colin would suit Penelope with alien perfection. 

“I trust your judgement,” Penelope manages. Although… “Are there any citrus-coloured walls?”

He chuckles, presses a kiss to her brow. “No. The house is as blue as all Bridgerton houses are. The hue is rather rich – like the ocean.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“We can use your yellow dresses as kindling during our first winter,” Colin suggests.

Penelope laughs so heartily that she feels obliged to clamp her hand over her mouth, afraid that she will be overheard. Colin shares her humour, looking down at her with his increasingly familiar rapture.

It overtakes his mirth, after some time. “I hope you know that you will never be expected to endure anything you dislike, when we are married. Of course I will stock your wardrobe with dresses that fit your taste, but that is the least of it.”

She nods, blinks away tears. “I know. I am so looking forward to reading in open spaces without fear of criticism. Over tea, perhaps.”

“Oh, Pen,” Colin murmurs, clearly heartbroken. “We will have reading parties, the two of us, with tea and scones. Every day if you wish.”

She sheds some tears that he kisses away. His lips are plush on the corners of her eyes. He is so close. Love is so much more than she thought it would be.

“We have been engaged for less than an hour and I am already impatient to be married to you,” she sniffles. “What a wretched, ungrateful girl I am.”

“You must not speak of yourself that way,” Colin chastises her gently, kissing her temple. “You are, in fact, far more gracious in feeling than I am. My patience to marry you has been fading since the day you accepted my suit.”

Such a proclamation can only be met with a kiss. Penelope emits a noise not unlike a whimper and pulls Colin down to press their lips together. Within moments of back and forth, she is struck anew by how different kissing is from what she expected. There is a rhythm to it, a constant motion. It makes her move, makes her rise. When he shifts a certain way, brushes his knee high on her thigh, that same throb from earlier emerges. Penelope could only call the sound she makes a moan.

Colin pauses. There is soft intrigue in his gaze, something nearly sorry.

“I – ” Penelope tries to apologise, tries to explain herself. She has no words, no inkling of what is happening to her.

“I did not know kissing would be like this,” she says, finally.

“Neither did I,” Colin says.

The implication goes against several pieces of gossip she has heard.

“Do you mean you have never – ?”

He shakes his head. “No, I have kissed girls before. But there is nothing that compares to this. I did not realise it could be so rich, so fulfilling.”

Penelope smiles, dances her thumb along his mouth. 

“Did those other girls… react like me?” she inquires delicately.

“Ah, well…”

Colin glances down and Penelope follows his gaze. There is nothing out of the ordinary in her appearance, no outward indication of the sparkles in her stomach, of the unfamiliar throbbing between her hips.

“I cannot be certain, when I have never been so close to another. But I do not believe so.”

“I do not understand it,” Penelope mumbles, embarrassed. “Is it normal?”

“Yes,” Colin says, with such immediacy that some of her worry abates. “It is perfectly normal. I know that young ladies are not informed about these matters, but I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.”

He interprets her growing confusion as unappeased distress.

“Truly, it is a good thing. A wonderful thing. It means that you want me.”

“Of course I want you,” Penelope says, unmoved by what is obvious. She hesitates before she continues, not wanting to give Colin the impression that his kissing is unsatisfactory. “I have this strange sense that I want more of you – but how could that be possible? You could not be closer than this. Perhaps I simply want you to continue kissing me. But then there is this…”

She trails off, swirls her fingers along her sternum.

“There is this… burning…” she murmurs. 

Colin swallows. He traces light spirals over her ribcage, then her stomach, raising spots over her skin, even through the muslin material of her nightgown. His touch prompts Penelope to clench her legs together.

“There are ways for me to be closer,” he tells her.

Penelope stares at him. “How?”

His face is very conflicted. “It is a form of intimacy that is normally reserved for married couples.”

“Intimacy,” Penelope repeats.

“I have a similar reaction to you,” Colin says, his face warm under her fingers. He leans down, presses his hips into hers. The contact is gentle, but there is a heaviness in his pants that throbs against her. 

“On our wedding night, if you are comfortable and ready, we will join together at this point,” he explains, before lifting himself from her. Penelope misses the weight of him immediately.

“What if I was ready now?” Penelope asks. She truly believes she is. This is Colin, and there is no part of him that she could not bear, that she does not want to bear. He is the very reason that she was born, after all.

She feels an innate sense of correctness about him putting so much of himself inside of her, in a place she hardly ever thinks about. A place nobody else touches. It will be a tight fit, a tight embrace. She is not surprised that her body wanted it before her mind knew it for what it was.

“I am afraid it would not be enjoyable for you,” Colin murmurs. “I hoped to ask my brother for advice before I held you so closely.”

“Anthony?” Penelope asks, horrified.

“Certainly not. Benedict.”

Penelope finds that she is no less mortified by this notion. “I think I would prefer for you to simply try until you figure it out. I doubt you have any need for guidance – your touch has only brought me bliss.”

He chuckles, his eyes soft again. “Your faith in me means a great deal. But it will hurt the first time.”

“I won’t mind,” Penelope says, solemnly.

Colin is quiet, meeting her eyes. He sees her trust for what it is.

“You will have to forgive me for saying so, but I am desperately looking forward to this part of our marriage,” he murmurs.

“As am I. I wish we did not have to wait to be married.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But these circumstances do not suit me. I would prefer that we have the freedom to be loud and take our time. I will prepare you beforehand and take care of you afterwards. I will not see it rushed.”

“You must go soon,” she remembers, clinging to him.

“Not yet,” Colin says. It is not his first and will not be his last time making a statement to this effect on this night.

The colours that collect in her bedroom shift over the time that he lingers. Her candle burns out and cloaks the world in darkness. Penelope blinks until her vision adjusts, and even blind, she can see Colin. She explores his features with careful strokes; his eyebrows, his nose, his jaw.

“I have always wanted to touch you like this,” she tells him, disrupting a peaceful silence.

“You may touch me as often as you like.”

Penelope sits in anticipation of an ending, but the night stretches generously, unwinds like a spool, enveloping her in silk. Colin is here, present with her. Inhaling her, exhaling her. Aligning their mouths, telling her he loves her. Risking reputation out of reluctance to leave her arms. Light returns before he admits that he should go; even then, he insists on holding her by the window, stealing several more moments and kisses from her.

“I love you,” he whispers into her hair. “I will see you soon.”

This is not as desperate as it feels.

At the very least, it is a desperation she can depend upon.

Penelope is concerned about how her night – utterly sleepless, utterly precious – might show on her face. But the girl in the mirror is shining. Her lips, even when they are still, are slightly upturned.

Perhaps their shape has been altered by Colin; her frown smothered out of existence by his kisses and replaced by a perpetual rosy sheen. Penelope is pink before her maid puts on her rouge. 

When she crosses the street to Bridgerton House, she finds Colin waiting for her in the doorway. There is no trace of exhaustion in his appearance, which does not surprise Penelope. If she has survived the night without a shadow on her fade, it makes sense that he remains picturesque. 

“I missed you,” Penelope whispers, reaching for his hands.

Colin does not remind her that they have been apart for mere hours. He kisses her knuckles and guides her inside the house.

“We have such a long wait ahead of us,” Colin sighs.

If Penelope did not share his longing, she might say that a matter of weeks is not a terribly long period to wait. But she cannot muster the conviction to speak the sensible observation out loud.

“We will have a lifetime after that,” she consoles him.

He kisses her hand once more before he leads her through the drawing room.

The Bridgertons have not been prepared for Colin’s announcement. They are not staring at the door in anticipation of her arrival, as she knows they would be, if they were waiting for special news. Penelope thought that Colin might have told them beforehand. She realises she is equal parts grateful and terrified for the opportunity to witness their authentic reactions.

Everybody is present, A through to H. Violet and Daphne are nursing teacups and chatting with fretful animation. Francesca plays the piano; Eloise is bent over a book. Anthony is playing a game of cards with Hyacinth and Gregory; Benedict is standing behind him, helping the children cheat with frantic hand gestures.

Penelope wonders who Colin will approach first. She is entirely shocked when he raises his voice and simply says, “We are engaged!”

She is almost as startled as the rest of the family. She watches as their faces – all so similarly beautiful – unfurl with delighted shock.

Hyacinth is the quickest to absorb the news. She bounds over to the couple with open arms, sails past Colin to fling herself at Penelope.

“Oh!” Penelope cries. She has never been held with such exuberance that it made her stagger.

“You will be my sister! I have known you for as long as I can remember and now you will be my sister,” Hyacinth says. She sounds incredibly joyous. She is rocking Penelope back and forth, as though they are dancing.

Penelope does not wish to separate from Hyacinth, but she is gone as abruptly as she appeared, off to hug her darling big brother. Her absence is filled by a tender, beatific Violet. The happiness in her expression is all it takes for Penelope to succumb to the tears that well over her eyes.

“I am so delighted,” Violet says, touching Penelope’s cheek. “Dearest girl.”

“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope whispers. She is pulled into an embrace that she knows she will remember for all of her days.

She then receives hugs from a bouncing Daphne, a purposeful Francesca, a shy Gregory, and a jovial Benedict. He is the third man besides her father and her fiancé to embrace her, but it does not occur to Penelope to question the propriety of his gesture. He is to be her family. The way he whirls her around is playful, brotherly. Penelope laughs as she is spun on the spot.

“You could stand to be more gentle with my wife, Benedict,” Colin says, scowling.

“Ah, but she is not yet your wife,” Anthony says.

“There is still time for you to back out,” Benedict tells Penelope, his eyes glinting. “None of us would blame you if you saw fit to run for the hills.”

“Yes we would!” Hyacinth cries, looking at Penelope. “You will be my sister!”

“You know, that sounded rather like a threat,” Benedict says, amused.

“It is,” Hyacinth says, her tone very serious.

“I assure you, Hyacinth, I have no intention of breaking our engagement,” Penelope says, blushing at the very thought.

“What a relief that is,” Anthony says, fairly taking Penelope’s breath away. He approaches her with an outstretched hand that she gingerly accepts.

The formidable Viscount offers her a very kind smile.

“Welcome to the family, Penelope,” he says, squeezing her hand.

At some point of the evening she spent with Colin, Penelope accepted the fact that she would be loved deeply for the rest of her days. Now, standing among the circle of his siblings, all of their faces glowing as they look at her, she accepts that she will be loved widely, as well. She looks between these people that she has known and loved from a distance for so long with wonder and gratitude. She can hardly wait to get to know them better; to love them as thoroughly as she knows she could.

It seems remarkable to Penelope that the one Bridgerton who should not be smiling at her in this moment would be the one whose affection she trusted to hold regardless of her attachment to Colin.

Eloise hovers on the edge of the scene, her hands fiercely twined. There is a strange look on her face, both sheepish and hopeful.

Penelope is uncertain what to expect from her fiery friend. They have seen little of each other in recent weeks; Penelope has been distracted with Colin and Eloise has been avoiding her, understandably unnerved. Now there is such obvious love in Eloise’s eyes that Penelope feels brave enough to approach her.

“Congratulations, Penelope,” Eloise whispers.

“Do you mean it?” Penelope asks, her heart swelling.

Eloise nods, smiles sadly. “I did not realise I would ever lose you this way. But I have never seen you so happy. That makes me happy.”

It is, simultaneously, the least and most Eloise has ever sounded like herself.

“You are not losing me,” Penelope says. “In fact, you will see much more of me after I am married. Imagine the freedom we will have, without my mama controlling me!”

A laugh expels from Eloise. She nods, and Penelope has the impression it is a message for herself, an affirmation.

Then she pouts, unable to help herself. “Did you have to move with quite so much haste? I had only just fathomed that my brother was courting you. Now I must start over with his proposal. I imagine, by the time I have accepted your engagement, you will already be married.”

“You are not usually so slow on the uptake,” Penelope teases her. 

The way that Eloise rolls her eyes is so familiar that it makes Penelope beam. Before Colin, she owed all of the love in her life to Eloise. She reaches for her hands, feeling teary again. “You do realise, by that point, we will be sisters?”

Eloise’s smile trembles. “Yes. I suppose that is even better than sharing our spinsterhoods.”

If Penelope did not know Eloise would scoff at her, she would voice her certainty that spinsterhood does not await her friend. Eloise will fall in love, one day, and it will consume her, as everything that matters to her consumes her.

It is their family’s way. Made from love, to love.

Penelope, in her perfect design for Colin, proves the theory well.

The necessary routine is followed. Colin acquires permission to propose from Penelope’s father and escorts his fiancé to her family garden to pretend to give her the ring. Sitting on their treasured bench, Penelope slips it from the pocket of her dress and puts it on her finger herself.

“I am grateful I have no need to take this off again,” she sighs.

“You never shall,” Colin says, sounding serene. “Do you suppose we have much time before we are expected inside? I am not certain how long ordinary proposals take.”

“I suppose that would make your proposal extraordinary?”

He arches an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“Of course not. It was perfect.”

It was an evening of such resplendent happiness she still marvels at her own presence within it.

“I will cherish that memory forever,” she adds.

“As will I,” Colin assures her, folding his hands around hers. “Here, I have something for you – it is not as impressive as my last token, but nonetheless – ”

He gives her another envelope. Penelope accepts it with more care than simple paper should warrant, but she cannot repress her gratitude. Colin’s writing is sacred to her. She feels honoured to receive it.

“You wondered about how I would describe the lake in Hyde Park,” Colin says.

“Oh, thank you,” Penelope says, rising on the bench to kiss his cheek.

Aware that their time is limited, she unfolds the letter at once and pours over his elegant script. As she expected, his words create a bright portrait of the stunning scene through which they floated, that day. He pays respect to the sun for painting glistens on the water, to each of the flowers that bordered the ripples. He writes about Penelope and her beauty with delusional bias.

“Have you considered publishing?” Penelope asks, still staring at the page.

Colin scoffs with fervour to imply she has said something absurd.

“You must have,” she says, ignoring his reaction. “This is not the prose of an unpracticed writer. This is part of you.”

He stares at her, bewildered. 

“I keep a journal,” he says, after a moment. “That hardly makes me a writer.”

Penelope smiles softly at him. “Before my father’s solicitor found my first Whistledown draft, I never would have called myself a writer, either. Writing is simply something I do. It is something I have always done.”

She can see in his expression that he relates to this phenomenon. How could he not? The proof is in her hands.

“I have been writing since I was a child,” Colin admits. “My day does not feel complete if I do not set pen to paper.”

“Well, your practice has paid off,” Penelope says. “Your writing is brilliant. You really should consider pursuing it.”

She is pleased to recognise the thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“Perhaps… if I were to refine my craft, to set about a proper project…” he murmurs. “Perhaps it would do me good. I want to be worthy of you, after all.”

Penelope’s brow furrows. “Of course you are worthy. Do you doubt as much?”

His face crinkles, belies his concern, his fearful feelings. Penelope has seen too much of Colin of late to view him as the charmed, perfect man she did in the early days of her infatuation with him. He is as human as she is, she knows. But he is never frank about this reality.

Now, his armour seems loose.

“I… I was quite concerned at the beginning of our courtship,” Colin says, his voice low. “When I realised my feelings for you had changed, I felt so young and inept. Surely, only a fool could be so blind as to call upon a girl residing in the same house as his future wife.”

Penelope frowns. “You were not a fool.”

“I appeared so impetuous to your family,” he carries on, frowning. “I was anxious about their perception of me. Now that I know the extent of the suffering they have brought you, their opinion no longer matters to me. But I am more determined than ever to do right by you.”

Her incredulity struggles to articulate itself.

“You have done right by me,” she warbles. “You have done more than that, Colin. The kindness, the love you have given me – it has drawn me out of unspeakable darkness. You have brought me to life.”

“Pen…” Colin murmurs her name so faintly it is barely a sound.

“You have no need to do anything for me,” Penelope says. “I only want you to be you. The kind, feeling, good-hearted man I love.”

His mouth twists into an odd, emotional smile.

“Just being you is enough, Colin.”

He shakes his head. There is dubious awe in his expression. She looks forward to the day when he will receive her compliments with lazy smiles.

The day will come. She is confident of that. She is even confident that she will someday accept his returning praise for her without question.

“You make it sound so simple,” Colin says.

“It is simple,” Penelope replies, laughing. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoes. She cannot blame him for dipping low and kissing her, despite the daylight and the proximity of her family.

The ring is already on her finger. Their ending is decided.

Throughout wedding preparations, Violet is an unflinching ally. Penelope learns more all the time about people and their capacities; the ever-gentle, ever-good Lady Bridgerton can be stern and even underhanded when she has cause to be. It is a hefty relief for Penelope to know that the people she admires contain those human facilities she so dislikes in herself.

Though, for how smoothly Violet secures her desired outcomes – or, rather, Penelope’s desired outcomes – she hardly seems reprehensible. Really, it makes Penelope admire her all the more.

“We have already compromised on the presence of your preferred colours in the wedding ceremony,” Violet tells Portia, with an air of resigned patience ordinarily used around children. “The bouquet features yellow roses.”

(Violet insisted it would suit Colin and Penelope’s love story, its roots in friendship. The meaning is clear, so it hardly feels like a compromise.)

“I see no reason why Penelope should not choose the colours featured in her trousseau.”

“This wedding – the first of my daughters’ – will appear to be such a melancholy affair,” Portia huffs. “I suppose you wish for your trousseau to be designed in similar colours, Penelope? All pastels?”

“I have never worn citrus colours as well as you do,” Penelope replies demurely.

The look on Portia’s face is not quite flattered. Though, if Penelope thinks about it, she is not being dishonest. She cannot imagine a woman like her mother wearing subtle colours; the loudness suits her.

“Pale colours may be unbecoming with your ruddy complexion,” Portia warns.

Penelope frowns, tries to ignore the sour flavour that rises in her throat. Visits to the modiste are stressful enough for her without an external voice criticising her appearance. This particular visit, where she is selecting nightgowns designed for removal by Violet’s son – in her presence – feels difficult in a specific manner. 

“I must disagree,” Violet tells Portia, her smile strained. “Penelope’s porcelain skin is accentuated by gentle colours. I notice how lovely she looks every time I see her wearing pink.”

She lifts a sample of pale blue silk over Penelope’s chest.

“Yes, beautiful,” Violet says. “Do you see how it brings out her eyes?”

Portia stares at her daughter for a charged, fleeting moment, then averts her gaze. “I suppose. If you will excuse me, Lady Bridgerton, there was another fabric I wished to review at the front of the store…”

Penelope watches her mother disappear behind the curtain. She feels dim surprise and considerable relief. She did not expect her to relent so soon.

Violet makes a fuss over her, arranging her hair carefully over the shining material she keeps held over her front.

“You must disregard your mother’s cruel words,” she says, softly. “Even her unfortunate taste could not conceal your loveliness. You are a beautiful girl, Penelope.”

Scarlet rushes into her cheeks. It is one thing to receive compliments of this nature from Colin, who she knows to be partial to her. It is quite another to receive them from Violet, the matriarch of the best-looking family in England.

“Thank you,” Penelope squeaks.

“I hope I am not the first person to tell you this.”

“You are not. Colin often tells me,” Penelope says, then blushes some more. Should she be divulging this to the woman who will be her mother-in-law?

“That is a relief to hear,” Violet sighs. “Of course, I am not very surprised. Colin is such a thoughtful boy – although, he is not a boy now, is he? He is a man. The first of my sons to marry.”

A pensive look overcomes Violet. She lowers the fabric from Penelope so that she may look at her son’s bride, unobscured. Amazingly, Penelope feels no compulsion to squirm as Violet brushes her fingers over the ivory silk of the unfinished wedding dress. There is nothing but love in her eyes.

“And he is marrying for love,” Violet gushes. “Oh, Penelope. I am so grateful that Colin gathered the courage to confess his feelings to you. Now I can rest in the knowledge that he will be happy, and that you will be happy.”

Penelope smiles shakily and opens her arms, eager for another hug. Violet does not hesitate to wind her arms around the young girl.

“Thank you,” Penelope whispers into her shoulder. “I am so grateful that you approve. You have been like a mother to me for years.”

Violet looks as adoring as Penelope feels. “Now you will be my daughter in name as well as in heart.”

They remain entwined until Portia returns to them, with rolls of materials in shades of pink draped over her arm. Violet gives Penelope a final squeeze before she resumes her argument with Portia; managing, within moments, to sequester the harsh magentas into a far corner.

As the afternoon carries on, Penelope is less surprised by her mother’s growing tendency to give up on the debates that emerge. She knows, all too well, how difficult it is to muster motivation to speak one’s mind in the presence of people who view the world so differently.

It is incidental revenge, when Penelope merely wants to decorate her wedding in her favourite colours. But the justice is not lost on her.

Penelope fiddles with the dance card laced to her wrist, feeling wistful. Every column on her card contains a signature – the same signature. Colin has made a habit of signing for her every dance since they became engaged, wishing to claim her dances in name even if he is not permitted to twirl her through the entire night, as would be his preference.

She takes pleasure in the way that his Is loop into Ns; she appreciates the thoughtless flair of his script. Those days where Penelope clung to his handwriting and yearned for him should have ended, if not with their courtship, then certainly with their engagement. But while she waits for Colin to return to her, she presses the card he has signed to the fragile skin on her wrist and consciously, viscerally wants him.

“I see that your card is gathering more signatures these days.”

Penelope turns in the direction of the clipped voice. She blinks, dazed by the sight of Cressida Cowper. The young lady looks as she always has before; statuesque, simpering. An unchanging figure from a life that Penelope has already left behind. Even standing before her, staring at her with nasty, gleaming eyes, Cressida seems surreal.

“Much has certainly changed this season,” Penelope acknowledges.

“Or perhaps very little has,” Cressida suggests, with a sickly smile. “Mr Bridgerton is known to be a rather soft-hearted man. While I would not have guessed that his pity for you would extend beyond a simple dance, it is consistent with his character that it has.”

Somehow, Penelope is tempted to laugh. It is not because she finds Cressida to be funny. It is because she knows she could be devastated by this interaction, but she is not. This is the last ball she will attend as Miss Featherington; within days, she will be Mrs Bridgerton, and Cressida will still be Miss Cowper.

Her taunting feels empty. As does the meaning in her perception of Penelope.

“You are free to believe whatever you wish,” Penelope says, softly. It is not a very clever response, not a very witty one, but she feels proud of herself, as she walks away from her long-time tormentor. 

She held her own. She used her tongue and not her pen.

It is not long before she finds Colin. Between his impressive height and her deep familiarity and attunement with him, he is easy to pick out of a crowd. He spots her, as well; his face lights up with a grin when he does.

They meet in the middle of the distance that separates them, and he offers her a glass of lemonade.

“Impatient, were you?” Colin teases her, warmly. “I apologise for my delayed return. I was intercepted by my brothers. They see fit to include me in their every inane debate.” 

“As they should,” Penelope says. “You are wonderful company.”

He softens. “I shall not deprive you of it any longer. Come, Pen.”

Outside the ballroom, a terrace decked in moonlight shrouds them in merciful quiet. Penelope, if not exactly shaken by Cressida, still wants to be held in the place she feels safest. She leans into Colin, closes her eyes.

“Are you well?” Colin asks, his voice hushed.

Penelope breathes him in – feels the crisp fabric of his jacket shift along her cheek, feels the caress of his hands in her hair – and nods. 

They wed with splendour unfit for third-born children. Penelope, adorned in pearl-white satin, is breathless on her father’s limp arm, blushing beneath the attention of at least fifty guests. She walks on unsteady feet beneath wreaths draped in blue chiffon, twisted with yellow roses and purple hyacinths. There is more beauty in this wedding than Penelope ever believed herself to deserve.

She trembles. Colin notices.

He is, as expected, the most beautiful groom to ever grace an altar. He waits for her, his eyes rich blue and full of compassion, full of love. The flowers perched in his lapel match the flowers swelling in her hands.

When Colin nods, Penelope forgets her surroundings and the anxiety they incite. She only has to cross the length of the aisle, and then she will be standing by his side. She can manage that.

For his sake, she will be brave.

The ceremony is elegant and prim, and the wedding breakfast is joyous and scandalous. Penelope, tired of sticking to walls, requests a dance in broad daylight; Colin, enraptured beyond reason, strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers and then kisses her in front of all of their guests.

Their impertinent familiarity does not end here. Colin holds Penelope closely against his frame as they speak with their families and sip from flutes of champagne; tucks his arm around her waist, pulls her to rest on his hip. It is a constant embrace, sustained through laughter and chatter with their siblings, their mothers, their cousins, and even their aunts and uncles. Penelope has no inclination to pull away, however many questioning looks they garner. She feels cherished by his absent-minded affection. She wants to stay settled against him forever, surely loved and surely his. 

In a break between conversations with relatives, Penelope falls further into him, and Colin cranes down to kiss her crown.

“How much longer must we wait now?” he asks her, in an undertone.

Penelope tilts her head at him, confused. They have been counting down the days to the wedding for weeks now. She did not expect for Colin to ask her this question while she was wearing a white gown.

“Perhaps you were not paying attention in the church,” Penelope replies.

He laughs. “On the contrary, I committed every moment – and indeed every beat between moments – to my memory.”

“But you did not notice the end of our waiting period?”

A fond smile beautifies him. “It seems we have been counting down to separate occasions. My wait will not end until you are home.”

“Then your wait ended long ago,” Penelope says, arranging her fingers around his chest. “My home is not a place, not a house. It is you.”

His mouth parts and then closes. A curious smile overtakes him. He wants to answer her, but there are some feelings that words cannot encompass.

Penelope knows that frustration well.

“I love you,” Colin says. “I wish I had something more coherent to give you.”

“That is all one should say when they are in love,” Penelope replies. “They should declare it. Assuredly, fervently. Loudly.”

Colin grins wickedly. “Is that a challenge?”

“Heavens, no,” Penelope says, realising her mistake. “As it stands, we are doomed to be regarded forever as the married couple with the least decorum in the Ton.”

“I would not count on that,” Colin says. “I am the first of my siblings to marry, after all. We should hold onto the title while we can.”

With that in mind, Penelope cannot deny him another kiss – not for her pleasure, she tells herself, so much as for the expression of a love so luminous it eludes the words of even the most talented writers.

Chapter Text

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

– E.E. Cummings

It is Penelope who reminds him of his intention to travel. Colin is so startled that the world – for him, this one small girl, sitting by his side on a loveseat and discreetly playing with his fingers in the folds of her gown – begins to blur.

His tour. Before that life-altering dance with Penelope, Colin had thought of little else besides his impending travels. The hope of finding novelty, of departure and exploration, brought him a measure of excitement previously unknown.

“I have scarcely given my tour a thought in the passing weeks,” Colin admits. “My plans were altered when we began courting, of course.”

“I see no reason to alter your plans,” Penelope says. “You were so excited to travel.”

“That was before I realised that whatever excitement awaits overseas pales in comparison to the happiness of home.”

There is no mistaking his meaning, not even for a person as self-doubting as Penelope. She giggles and blushes, going pink with her acceptance.

“Yes, exactly,” Colin says, daring to skim his fingers over her face, to trace the warmth of her skin. “This is all I could ever want. Your laughter.”

“Colin,” Penelope says his name through giggles. “My family…”

He returns his hand to their secret tangle, resisting the urge to grumble.

“I can hardly believe that I told your father that it was my intention for us to have a long courtship,” Colin says. “This wait is torture. I cannot be alone with you, cannot be free with my affection for you, for another five weeks.”

In Colin’s mind, Penelope is already his wife. He is already her husband. Why must he suffer the indignity of a chaperone? The continued requirement is almost insulting.

Penelope is not giving him the sympathy he wishes for. She is still giggling.

“Why do you look so amused?” Colin asks, pouting at her.

“Five weeks does not seem a very long time to me,” Penelope says. “When it comes to my love for you, I have learned to be patient.”

“You are much more reasonable than me.”

“I am simply less used to getting my own way,” she teases him. She squeezes his smallest finger with all of hers. He wriggles his digit, reciprocating as he can.

“Well, not for much longer,” Colin replies. Disarming her, certainly. She expected to fluster him and has wound up flustered herself. 

“If that is true,” Penelope says, slowly, “then perhaps you should reconsider your decision to delay your tour.”

Colin raises an eyebrow at her. She cannot be suggesting that he leave for his travels, per his original plans. By now, she must know that he would be miserable.

“You could take me with you,” she says, quietly. She is hesitant, fearful of being presumptuous and unladylike, but Colin does not have the presence of mind to soothe her worry, nor to repress the urge to touch her.

He takes her face between his hands and smacks a laughing kiss to her mouth.

“Pen! What a wondrous idea!” Colin exclaims. “Oh, imagine, we will spend our honeymoon in Greece.”

Portia is on her way to scold them again, and Colin does not care. He ignores her when she arrives, when she delivers her brief lecture, his eyes fixed only on his world, on the girl so happy that her mouth twitches with a repressed smile.

The moment they are alone again – as alone as is permitted, for now – Penelope slips her hand back into his. Colin dedicates a moment to appreciating the visual of his large hand enveloping her tiny one, obscured by the green silk of her dress.

“Five more weeks,” Penelope says. She presses her thumb onto each of his five fingernails and he registers every touch as a kiss.

Penelope is perched on a window seat with her legs tucked beneath her and her loose hair pouring down her back. The floaty nightdress she wears is almost sheer, putting most of her lustre on display. It is several shades lighter than the azure ocean she admires, rising and falling in smooth ripples through the glass.

Sprawled in bed, Colin blinks and yawns and wonders if he is truly awake. His reality has become suspiciously dreamlike. He knew to expect bliss in his marriage to Penelope – felt impatient for it, entitled to it, in fact – but their honeymoon allows a form of hedonism that makes even Colin blush, at times.

“Pen,” he calls, not very loudly, but she hears him. She always does.

Penelope turns to him, her mouth opening with delight. She slips off the seat, stands on lovely bare feet. Colin is familiar with this nightdress; in his pleasure to see her shrouded in pale lace, he can almost forgive her for putting it back on. Still, his hand creeps up her thigh when she joins him on the bed. She crawls along his form and her silky hair dangles over his torso, his chest, then comes to coil over his shoulders and his neck. There is so much of it, and it is so bright in the way it captures sunlight, so sweet in its fragrance, that all of his senses are invaded. Colin closes his eyes in the hopes of being consumed even more.

“Good morning,” Penelope says, brushing her nose against his.

“Morning,” he murmurs. He pulls his hand out from under her dress, away from the soft curve of her hip, so that he can wrap both of his arms tightly around her waist.

They tilt sideways to snuggle. Colin kisses her forehead, sighs happily.

“How did you sleep?” Penelope asks.

Colin remembers how quickly and deeply he fell asleep the night before and feels the need to laugh. “I believe you know the answer to that.”

She laughs with him. “I have found it easier to sleep lately, as well.”

His expectations for intimacy were high, after listening to so many of his brothers’ fervid reports. But Colin is astounded. Nothing he has heard or read about lovemaking could have prepared him for how it would feel, what it would mean – he suspects this is because it does not mean to many what it means to them.

Penelope is equally moved. He sees it in her face, every time he lays her bare.

“I think it is because of the pleasure,” Penelope says, shyly. “But I also think it is because you hold me afterwards. There is no place as peaceful as your arms.”

She stirs somehow closer, perhaps meaning to demonstrate. Colin lays his cheek on her temple, on all of that glossy hair, and remembers how nervous he used to be about providing for her, taking care of her, being the man she deserved.

There are any number of things he could say in response to her compliment – then I will hold you in them forever, I am just as peaceful in your arms, I love you.

He says, “I am so glad that you share my feelings.”

He is somewhat quiet. He recognises wonder in how similarly they feel for one another; he senses it is something they must treat solemnly. Quietly.

Penelope has tipped her head back onto her pillow. Colin prefers having their faces nuzzled together, but he says nothing. She is inspecting him with luminous curiosity.

One eye to another. Blue and blue. This close, it is all he can see of her.

“Do you ever feel… ?” she trails off. “No. How silly.”

It is the furthest thing from silly. Colin forgets the odd compulsion to be quiet about the absolute nature of their shared love. If acknowledging these things out loud is a threat to the stillness of the sensible earth, then it can shake in the wake of Penelope’s certainty. He will not let her doubt herself.

He takes her hand, lays it carefully over his chest.

“I carry you here, inside my heart,” Colin says, softly. “Is that what you mean?”

She is wide-eyed, breathless. She nods.

Nothing in the space surrounding them even trembles. Colin glances around their lodgings, notes his clothes littering the chair in the corner, the curtain by the window furling and unfurling in the faint breeze. The sea still rolls ahead of them.

So he goes on.

“I believe I always have. Perhaps, when that clever wind sent your bonnet flying into my face, the shock of my fall dislodged the contents of both our chests, and we each picked up the wrong heart afterwards.”

Penelope giggles fiercely. Her smile is wide with relief and her eyes are bright with adoration. “Or perhaps we each picked up the right one.”

“Yes,” Colin says, chuckling as well. “Yes, of course we did.”

When he kisses her, he feels the thrum of it in both of their hearts. He wonders if he will always feel this much of her, or if this cosmic thread that joins them will grow shyer in the midst of mundane life.

He believes he knows. He is looking forward to being proven right.

Part of Colin worries about the changes that await them in England. He fears not for their happiness; nobody could take that away from them. But there are realities at home that did not impede them abroad. Complications and responsibilities. The voyage home marks the end of months of indulgence, where Colin should have acquainted himself with the unknown world and instead conducted a thorough study of Penelope’s skin, and soul, and the contents of her trousseau. 

(Within every breathtaking scene they entered, Colin appreciated the sky or the sea or the hills only in the context of how it silhouetted his love; how her auburn hair shone and fluttered in the breeze and upstaged the vivid colours everywhere.)

Now, they are returning to a life where love exists beyond one another, in forms over which they have little control. Colin recalls Anthony’s ominous declaration to find himself a Viscountess, and expects disaster. He regards Eloise’s impending debut with similar dread. His mother will probably expect a baby from them, given Daphne and Simon’s happy news; a baby that neither of them feels ready to have. Penelope definitely expects him to do something about the writing that flowed from him over the course of their trip, the journal filled with details of their travels. Then there is Whistledown. Colin worries about Whistledown. 

“Are you truly so disappointed that our tour has ended?” Penelope asks him, their first night on the ship home. Her voice is hushed, her face is worried. 

Colin grins at her choice of words. He called it “my tour” so often. He spends a moment entertaining a strange thought about going back in time and telling that boy about how very correct he was to feel excited about his travels. 

“I am only disappointed that I must divide my attention between you and my other responsibilities,” he assures her. “I am looking forward to returning home.”

Penelope nods her agreement. “I miss your mother.”

That admission fills Colin with great tenderness. He joins her on the bed, takes her hands between his. “She will be so thrilled to see you. All of the family will.”

“Even Anthony?” Penelope jests.

“Certainly Anthony!” Colin exclaims, laughing. “He has always spoken highly of you. However gruff he seems, I can assure you that he has a very kind heart beneath his bravado.”

“I know. He has always been quite gentle with me, and he was so welcoming when we were engaged,” Penelope pauses, considering. “I hope he will not settle for anything less than love this season.”

This, Colin thinks, is what it means to share a family.

“I hope the same thing,” he tells her. “I am relieved that he intends to marry soon, but his motivation concerns me. I only hope that his Penelope might enter the scene early on, and send his plans into disarray.”

Penelope smiles weakly. “His Penelope?”

“I am unaware of a more appropriate descriptor for one’s destined love.”

She makes a sound that is part sigh and part laugh. “You are more than my heart can bear, at times.”

She accommodates her overwhelmed feelings with a kiss on his cheek. Perhaps the contact should feel minimal in comparison to all they have shared, but it lights Colin up from the inside out. He watches her pull away from him with crinkled eyes.

“Perhaps we can steer Anthony in the right direction,” Penelope says. “Subtly, of course.”

“We can certainly try,” Colin murmurs. 

“We will,” she assures him. “It is the reason I do not dread our honeymoon ending. I am so excited to return home and become closer to your family – our family. But more than anything, I am excited to settle into our house. Our home.”

Penelope is almost bouncing with what she feels; there is earnest joy in her eyes and he realises, as he takes in her gentle face, that she is very, very young. He recalls his hesitation for courting her at such an early stage of her life, and he understands why he wanted to be careful with her then, because he wants to be careful with her now.

She has so much ahead of her. An entire life that Colin will get to share. 

He thinks of the future, of the years they will have together, of his smiles, of her smiles. He understands why Penelope welcomes the end of their tour. 

Colin shares her trust in their fate.