Chapter Text
Fortune’s Favoured
When fortune hunters seeking the title of Baron Featherington target Penelope, despite her ardent refusals, Anthony Bridgerton finds himself stepping in as a protector. But Penelope isn’t as defenseless as she seems, and Anthony can’t help but look at the young Miss Featherington in a new light. He’d sworn never to fall in love, especially after the disaster with the Miss Sharmas, but surely that doesn’t rule out a marriage of convenience that might grant them both the freedom they desire.
~~~
The buzz of muttered voices running through the ballroom alerted Anthony that change was in the air, some key piece of gossip or scandal of which he had yet to be availed, already spreading through the Ton. Blood in the water.
He tore his gaze from Eloise – dancing clumsily with Lord Lumley, and if he were a viscount first and brother second he might have intervened but it gave him inordinate pleasure to watch the buffoon wince every time she bruised a toe – to find the source. There, near the entrance doors; the tacky citrus hues and clashing red hair that could only be Featheringtons. Lady Featherington herself led the way, her disagreeably foolish daughter, Prudence, at her side. Both held their heads high as young gentlemen and mamas descended.
“Has the Queen named a rather dubious diamond this year?” Anthony murmured to his mother, a frown growing. There was no sign of either of the younger Featheringtons, one had married in the last season of course, but Penelope--
Then he saw her. Lingering some distance from her family, in a dress of pale sage that clung to her body in a flattering curve of silk.
It struck Anthony that he had not seen Penelope in months, perhaps not since that last, dreadful season with the scandal of the two Miss Sharmas and his own heartbreak. In that time apart she had changed, remarkably so. No more tight curls and empire waistlines; her hair shone in a tumble of pleasing waves over one shoulder, her decolletage dangerously full. Perhaps it was the whiskey in his blood, but he rather fancied that he looked upon a woman, rather than the girl fresh from her leading strings that he remembered.
“Something unfortunately more mundane, my dear,” Violet replied, her eyes solemn as they too found Penelope. “Lady Featherington has made it known that the former Lord Featherington left the title and holdings of the barony in abeyance for the first born son of whichever daughter produces an heir first. Every untitled gentleman in the Ton has staked a claim.”
Anthony all but spat out his drink. “Of all the fatwitted–”
She sighed. “You know I do not like to speak ill of others, but I cannot understand the foolishness of that woman. Surely she must not wish for her girls to become the target of faint hearted fortune hunters, and yet…”
A loud bray of laughter cut through the room; Prudence happily sniggered at whatever witticism one of her suitors whispered in her ear while Lady Featherington smiled tolerantly nearby.
“The oldest does not seem much perturbed,” Anthony noted, though it was obvious the same could not be said for her younger sister.
A foppish boy he thought might be one of the younger Harbournes appeared to be making some sort of attempt to corner Penelope, despite her clear desire to remain separate from the crowd. He saw panic flash in her eyes for an instant and a hot lance of anger rolled through Anthony’s chest. He took a step towards them when Penelope herself executed a rather clever side step and slipped towards the refreshment table.
“It is dear Penelope I worry for, I have not managed to speak with her since her quarrel with Eloise. It hurts my heart that they have not put aside whatever differences that came between them, and I know it hurts Eloise too.” Violet squeezed Anthony’s arm, an earnest look on her face. “I know she is not one of our own, but… perhaps…”
“Miss Featherington has been a great friend to our family. I will keep watch, mother, rest assured,” Anthony said, anticipating the request without a second thought. It was, after all, the gentlemanly thing to do.
~~~
As Penelope attempted to slip away from another boorish potential suitor she silently cursed her mother’s grasping, greedy idiocy. Surely it would be better to be destitute than endure the unique torture of insincere poetry and hollow love confessions? Though at least she'd managed to persuade her mama to focus on Prudence, allowing Penelope the freedom to finally choose her own fashions.
“Your eyes, Miss Featherington, remind me of a summer sky in June!”
“How kind of you to say so, Mister Martins. Is that your mother I see, waving from across the floor? Perhaps you should attend to her?” Penelope suggested.
It was not in fact Lady Martins, who Penelope had already spotted sneaking through the same door as Lord Aubry a few moments previously -- and wouldn’t that have been a delicious morsel for Whistledown, if only she had not promised herself to be more circumspect with the scandals she revealed -- but the distraction granted her the moment she needed to escape.
She had become quite adept at fleeing. The shadows Penelope once resented were now a welcome relief from the dogged pursuit of the worst the Ton had to offer, and she traversed them expertly as she made her way towards the quiet relief of the terrace. Her days of dreaming for a love match were long over now, Penelope made her peace with that in the lonely months since Colin’s laughter and Eloise’s spite broke her apart, but she craved freedom. A chance to escape her mama, to forge that purpose she’d once glibly described to Colin. Unfortunately, it would take either an understanding husband or a fortune far greater than she’d managed to save from her earnings so far to achieve.
Before the season, before her mama's tasteless announcement, Penelope had hoped to achieve at least one on her third try at the marriage mart. That dream was all but dead now too. Drowned under a mountain of overly perfumed dandies ravenous for a title, whose attentions made her work as Whistledown frustratingly difficult.
Oh, what it was to live to regret having suitors, Eloise had the right of it after all, Penelope thought, skirting a pillar.
“Ah, Miss Featherington!”
Penelope bit back an unladylike expletive as Lord Fife stepped into her path. The terrace door beyond his shoulder mocked her with the closeness of her failed escape. “Lord Fife,” she snapped. Fife gave no indication of offence at her tone, waving forward a buck-toothed gentleman whose demeanor was almost as arrogant as his own.
“This is a friend of mine, Mister Devonshire–”
“Forgive me, Lord Fife, I am feeling quite unwell and need a moment,” she said, then, when Fife looked as if he might protest, “alone.”
She swept past them both with as much dignity as she could muster despite her short stature. For a moment it seemed as if Fife’s friend - whatever his name - intended to snatch her back, but Penelope had walked the alleys of Bloomsbury for too long to be so easily caught by wandering hands. With a quick side-step, she was out.
The cool spring air filled her lungs and for a moment all Penelope could do was breathe. Then a group of chattering ladies passed by and Penelope found herself stumbling further from the crowd, her feet carrying her to an abandoned corner of the terrace. There was a peaceful beauty to the gardens beyond, the noise of the ball a dull murmur at her back. Penelope couldn’t help but look for the little tells, the lone walkers coming and going and the scandals following in their wake. What would she write about tonight?
“Dearest gentle reader, what a season we have begun! Bid farewell to tedium; a great game of marriage is afoot, with the astonishing news that the Featherington barony may be within the grasp of any ambitious gentleman who can bear to wed one of the most displeasing daughters. A gamble indeed…” she muttered to herself, testing her turn of phrase. Perhaps a little lacking in wit?
Her fingers ached for her notebook, safely stored in the seat of her regular hack. It was only the second ball of the season and already the attention on her was too great to risk carrying anything on her person.
“Damn and blast,” she swore.
“And I thought you a lady.” Penelope whirled. Lord Fife’s friend, Devonshire, grinned back. A predatory edge to his eyes that pricked a chill down her spine. Devonshire… there had been rumours amongst the maids at the market, hadn’t there?
“Forgive me, Mister Devonshire, but I believe I said I required a moment alone,” Penelope straightened, meeting him head on.
“Are we not quite alone here, Miss Featherington? Almost scandalously so,” he stepped closer, and for all Penelope’s bravado she couldn’t help but retreat. He was right, her feet had carried her further from the lights of the ballroom than she intended.
“I think you have mistaken the meaning of the word alone, Mister Devonshire, but do not fear, I suddenly find myself in need of refreshment. I will return to the ballroom, goodnight,” she snapped, her voice weaker than she intended despite the harsh words.
Devonshire’s grin widened and he stepped in her way, crowding closer. “A moment of your time, Miss Featherington. I believe I should like the opportunity to press my suit, unless you are opposed? Though it hardly matters if you are.”
Penelope managed to avoid the first hand that grabbed for her arm, but not the second, so tight she could already feel the beginning of a bruise on her shoulder.
“Unhand me!” She hissed.
“I do not think I shall,” Devonshire leered.
“Between your sister and yourself, you have the better physique for childbearing,” his eyes raked over her, and fear flooded Penelope’s gut; cold and grasping. “The sooner begun, the better.”
“The lady told you to–” a familiar voice, seething with anger, sounded just as Penelope’s knee met Devonshire’s groin. He buckled with a wounded cry, revealing Anthony Bridgerton’s furious approach.
~~~
Anthony could not recall feeling rage as intense as the burning in his chest when he saw Penelope’s small form struggling against a gentleman in the dark. Nor surprise so great as watching her all but unman the cad.
“Lord Bridgerton!”
The relief on Penelope’s face stoked Anthony’s anger once more. He reached her in two strides, putting his body between her and the bastard still mewling on the floor.
“You–” the man - for Anthony refused to think of him as a gentleman - spluttered. “You have found Miss Featherington and I in a rather compromising position–”
Anthony’s heart sank at the implication. He opened his mouth to argue the point but paused as Penelope pushed herself forward.
“Was it a thousand pounds your father spent, Mister Devonshire?”
The sneer on Devonshire’s face stiffened. Anthony glanced at Penelope, had he ever seen her look so self-assured, so bold?
“I- I hardly know what you–” Devonshire floundered.
“No… I recall now,” Penelope continued. “It was five thousand. Five thousand to silence your sister’s maid. Do you think he would believe it money well spent, in light of your continued proclivities? Could any sum stop word spreading, if such a secret was whispered in the right ear?”
“How– you could not–”
“I hardly think you best placed to tell Miss Featherington what she may or may not do,” Anthony snapped. He felt Penelope’s hand on his arm but couldn’t tell if it was in warning or encouragement. His pride leaned towards encouragement. “I suggest you seek the comforts of your family estate before first light, should you wish to retain any appearance of the gentlemanly honour you so obviously fail to possess.”
Devonshire scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward.
“Go. Now.” At the final snap of Anthony’s words, the man broke and fled towards the house.
Anthony watched him leave, still bristling. A chuff of laughter at his side drew his attention. Penelope gazed up him, the torchlight warm on her creamy skin, a wry smile on her lips.
“I had it in hand,” she said. “But… you have my thanks, Lord Bridgerton.”
“I do not need your thanks, it is what any true gentleman should do, particularly in your current–”
“Unfortunate circumstances?” Penelope finished, sighing softly. “Well, you shall have them anyway.”
“You should not have been out here on your own in any case,” Anthony took hold of her hand, still resting on his arm, and looped them together to lead her back towards the ball. “He will not be the only cad who imagines a less conventional route to your hand.”
“No, nor is he the first,” Penelope yanked her hand from Anthony’s arm, leaving behind a lingering warmth. Her eyes flashed with ire. “And I am quite able to care for myself. You would be well placed to remember I am not one of your sisters, at your mercy to be lectured and coddled.”
“I do not think of you as–” Anthony tried to protest.
“Goodnight, Lord Bridgerton.”
And with that, Penelope was away, her curls bouncing against her back as her hips swayed beneath the silk of her dress. Speechless, Anthony was struck again by the realisation that she had become a woman. And God, he thought, what a woman.