Chapter Text
The vultures are circling. Hungry eyed and ravenous, their talons as sharp as their teeth, flashing dangerously under the ballroom's crystal chandeliers as they beam widely in Anthony’s direction.
They are determined to box him in from all angles even as he searches valiantly for an escape route, cornering him off so succinctly that he must assume they had assembled to plan their attack in advance, working as a pack to stalk their prey.
Anthony bypasses several other eligible gentlemen closely, excusing himself through the middle of chatting lords in the hope that the band of overzealous Mama’s on his tail might see fit to deem one of them as an adequate prize to feed their simpering daughters’ appetites for toe crushing dances and mind numbing pleasantries.
No such luck occurs as Anthony glances over his shoulder to find the cluster of women still fast approaching, then forward again to realise that he has been inadvertently guiding himself into the path of another. Desperate eyes scan the room for his brothers, hoping one of them might be able to read his distress and offer a hasty rescue, but Colin is nowhere to be found and Benedict is watching on with unfiltered glee, clearly delighting in his elder brother’s predicament. The useless git even goes so far as to raise his flask as if in toast, taking a long pull from it before disappearing in the direction of the card room, adding further insult to injury.
Just you wait, Benedict Bridgerton, Anthony thinks, battling to maintain at least a mild expression on his face. He must be failing as when he spots his Mother on the edge of the dance floor she is making an odd twisting motion with the index finger from each hand in front of her cheeks, the meaning of which Anthony is only able to ascertain when he makes out her mouthing the word ‘smile’ along with the action. Her efforts have the opposite of their intended effect, causing a scowl to finally form over the viscount’s handsome features. From his Mother’s side, Lady Danbury’s laughter echoes all the way to his ears, punctuated by two joyous bangs of her cane against the wood floor.
Seeing no point in heading in their direction - especially as it has been the two scheming ladies’ rather loud declarations regarding his intentions to find a wife which had found him scurrying around the dance floor in the first place - Anthony casts one final, desperate look around the room, clinging to his last shred of hope for salvation.
“Lord Bridgerton!” A horribly nasal voice calls out to him, far too close for his liking, and he knows that time is very much running out.
Then, suddenly, finally, his gaze catches on a promising flash of yellow tucked close to the wall behind the refreshments table and he bee lines straight for it before even realising what it is, cutting right through the array of dancing couples on the floor.
The sound of tutting and irritated whispers behind him only encourages him to plough forward until finally he is upon his target, pleased to note that he has put a good distance between himself and his pursuers, and that they are making the much longer, slower, proper route around the room. It seems even his incredibly brash display has not been enough to deter them, but only bought him a few minutes of respite in the shade of a particularly towering potted plant.
“Oh! Lord Bridgerton,” The Yellow Thing - ah, Penelope Featherington, of course - squeaks, surprised to find the disgruntled viscount suddenly sharing in the space usually reserved for her and her alone, sequestered behind the table furthest away from the crowds. “Are you quite alright?”
“Miss Featherington. I am well, thank you,” he replies without looking her way, though the grimace that passes over Anthony’s features as he peers over at a spot to his left discredits his words entirely. “For now at least.” He amends with a huff that she’s not entirely sure was for her ears.
Following his gaze, Penelope sees the veritable droves of ladies heading in their direction and has to lift her gloved hand quickly to hide her indelicate snort.
“Do not worry, My Lord, for you should find yourself quite safe at my side.” Registering her words, Anthony finally turns his head to face her, with brows furrowed. He tilts his head in question, prompting her to elaborate, “I am the Ton’s most renowned social pariah - if you think you have seen skittering when Lady Danbury approaches then just wait and see how they react when they realise you are standing with me.”
His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, belaying his shock at Penelope’s sardonic tone, and she gasps under his scrutiny, realising too late just how inappropriate her bold statement had been, no matter the familiarity she has long shared with his siblings.
“Oh, forgive me, My Lord, I-“ her hurried apology is cut off by the sound of polite applause as the quadrille comes to an end and the formerly dancing couples begin to disperse, except for one pair who stay out on the floor with their hands still joined in anticipation of the coming waltz.
Penelope is sure to get a good look at them, making mental note of their names so that she can properly report later on the unengaged couple’s rather scandalous decision to embark on two dances together, and one right after the other, no less! She wonders if Mr Brookes had intentionally signed his name beside both tracks on Miss Lockwood’s card in advance or if the pair had simply been so swept up in their first set that they could not bare to wait until the next ball to find themselves so close again.
“Oh, bugger,” Anthony hisses beside her, pulling her attention back to him, only to be met with the sight of the back of his head. Leaning forward and craning her neck in the same direction so she can see past his broad frame, Penelope realises the viscount’s gaze is set once again upon the various collections of women who are now taking advantage of the brief respite between songs to cut across the middle of the room, following the same path as Anthony had before, only far more politely.
Penelope, loathe as she often is to be on the receiving end of attention of any kind - particularly from the Ton’s more brazenly cutting members - feels sympathetic to the Viscount’s plight and casts her eyes about the room, hoping to help secure him a quick escape (even is it would leave her alone to fend against what would surely be a plethora of rather underhanded remarks from Cressida Cowper and her merry band of cronies, who are leading the charge in their direction).
Looking instead towards the small stage at the end of the room, she can see the string quartet are readying their instruments, signalling that the waltz is soon to begin, and people around them are moving to secure their partners and take to the floor, where they will spend the next half hour engaging in pleasant conversation and revelry if they are lucky (or leave with bleeding toes and tired ears, if not). Penelope lights up with an idea, nudging Anthony just enough with her elbow to draw his eyes back to her before she indicates towards the amassing throng of couples.
“You should dance,” she tells him, then quickly tacks on a polite, “My Lord,” tipping her head in the direction of the floor.
“I am not much one for dancing, Miss Featherington,” he responds, though she can see he is weighing up the merit of her suggestion in the way his jittering seems to slow and his eyes flit towards the band.
“As we all know, My Lord,” Penelope responds with an amused smile pulling at her lips, surprising Anthony once again with her apparent penchant for boldness, drawing his gaze back to hers, “otherwise you would not be cowering over here with me. However, I do not suppose you are much for waiting here to be preyed upon, either. What shall it be, Lord Bridgerton - spend the next half hour twirling about with one woman, and one of your own choosing, or be entrapped for the rest of your evening by the many?”
“It would be terribly improper - near irreputable, even - for anyone to interrupt me mid dance, and even more so a waltz…” Anthony muses, tilting his head to the side as he studies the fidgeting couples before them, all waiting anxiously for the set to begin. Each pairing stands at least two feet apart from the next, with some exchanging pleasantries and others awkward smiles, but all of them share in the fact that they are left completely undisturbed by any persons outside of their partner.
“And the floor looks rather full already; there will surely be quite the wave of people dispelling back out in all directions when the dance ends, giving you ample opportunity to slip amongst them towards the nearest terrace or smoking room, should you position yourself strategically” Penelope finishes helpfully.
“Oh, dear Viscount!” The shrill voice of Lady Cowper calls, and even Penelope winces at it’s volume, willing said viscount to hurry up and move before she, too, is trampled in the oncoming crush.
Fortunately, he needs no further convincing.
“Right,” Anthony nods, then shocks Penelope when he reaches down to clasp her hand and starts propelling them both forward, hasty as the first sounds of strings begin to echo through the room, “come along, then.”
Penelope has to quicken her step to keep up with his long strides, lest she be dragged along behind him, and it’s only a few blurred moments before she finds herself secured in his hold towards the centre of the floor. She thanks her small stature - as well as, she supposes, the imposing figure Anthony makes - as they cut easily through the crowds between the wall and the dancefloor without trodding on any toes or knocking into any shoulders.
If she had her wits about her, Penelope would likely be able to come up with a clever quip about the way the guests part in haste to clear the Viscount’s determined path and the bewildered stares they grant her with when they spot her scurrying along at his heel, but she is feeling terribly frazzled by the sudden change to her usual ballroom routine. She can only hope that the words will come to her later tonight, for the spectacle they are creating will have to be addressed in tomorrow’s issue of Whistledown.
Only the first few steps of the dance have been taken when Anthony finds them a suitable spot - not too close to the edge of the floor that they can be easily pounced upon, but neither are they so far into the middle that his later escape from the room will be impeded. For once, Penelope is grateful for her mother’s militant insistence towards her daughters’ proper education in all forms of dance, as it is only years of hard earned muscle memory that allows her to fall into the delicate choreography when she would much prefer to melt into the floor.
“My Lord,” she hisses, when finally she has caught her breath enough to speak, “I did not mean you should dance with me!”
“I’d argue you were the only clear choice,” he rebuts, effortlessly leading her into a twirl that mirrors the other couples, “not just for proximity’s sake, but because the whole point of your suggestion was that I could avoid being stuck with some mindless debutante. Even if I had had time to select someone else, given that I have no earthly desire to share a waltz with either of my attending sisters, who else could I have possibly seen fit to partner myself with?”
His explanation renders Penelope without a clever retort for just long enough that she thinks he is likely beginning to worry that he has, in fact, trapped himself in lacklustre company, so she hastens to force her mouth into saying anything in response.
“You could just as well have grabbed the nearest potted plant and they likely would have mistaken it for me anyways” She quips, tilting her eyes down towards her bright floral gown, “at least then you’d be at no risk of having your toes stepped on.”
“Miss Featherington, you do yourself a disservice to say such things,” Anthony replies, a hint of chastisement in his tone, though she can see the amusement paired with it in the way his lips twitch at the corner, “we have been dancing together for at least five minutes already and you are yet to set a foot out of place. I’d argue it is your shoes which are in far more danger of being tarnished than mine, given how out of practice you all know I am.”
Penelope feels her cheeks pink from both his praise and the recall of her earlier jibe, shaking her head slightly, “you are too kind, Lord Bridgerton, and charitably forgiving.”
Much to her ongoing surprise, Anthony barks a loud laugh to her assessment, tilting his head back so he misses the way several fresh eyes turn to look in their direction. “Oh, if only my siblings were able to hear you - charitable, you say; would you mind terribly repeating that the next time you take tea with Eloise?”
It takes her briefly off guard to have him jest with her so freely, even though she has spent enough time in his home to know already that this more humorous side of him exists, even if she is usually only witness to it when he is trading barbs and sly remarks with his brothers. She ponders why he does not share it more often and more widely, for he somehow paints himself an even more handsome picture when he smiles.
The rest of their dance passes in similar ease, with nary a missed step or squashed toe between them, until soon the song’s melody begins to stretch and slow, winding down towards the end of the dance. Recognising this, Anthony turns his head to begin plotting the route he will take away form the ballroom, only to discover that his dedicated hunters are lurking in their packs as close to the dance floor’s edge as they can manage, batting their fans and fluttering their lashes shamelessly in his direction.
“Dear God, they are still circling,” he says through gritted teeth, turning back to face his partner lest his gaze linger on any of the other women for too long that they get the wrong impression and think him interested in their attentions. “There is nothing else for it, I suppose; we must dance again,” he tells Penelope, who seeks to comfort him but only disappoints when she squeezes her hand briefly around his tense shoulder whilst shaking her head with a sympathetic smile, withdrawing from his reach.
“Lord Bridgerton, as much as I would like to offer you my continued assistance, you know as well as I do the spectacle we would make of ourselves if we stayed on the floor for another song,” she says gently, feeling somewhat as though she is talking to a young child and not a man who towers above her both in height and social standing, “sharing multiple dances is reserved only for married couples, or those who are engaged to be so. If you and I were to partner together for the next set, I imagine a select few of the Mamas would be positively rampant in their haste to insinuate a betrothal between us, if only to take humour in the utter ludicrousy of such a notion.”
Her words, however, do not seem to have the intended effect on Anthony, who continues to lead their steps towards the end of the dance with that same determined look on his face.
“Perhaps the assumption would keep them at bay for a while,” he says, though Penelope suspects he is speaking more to himself than to her, as his head tilts and his eyes seem fixed on a crystal chandelier, “though if I were to take that route and find it successful, perhaps a more permanent solution would be to simply take you as my bride and be done with them altogether,” he adds, only this time he is definitely talking to her, and looking far too serious for the subject matter at hand. “What say you, Miss Featherington; will you marry me?”
“Lord Bridgerton!” She gasps, then quickly clears her throat as she realises the music has finally come to its conclusion and her voice has risen a step too high in the now distinctly quieter room. Quieter, she says, “you are fortunate that I know well enough to take your proposal for the jest that it is, My Lord, for a gentleman such as yourself could very quickly find himself trapped after saying such a thing to a young lady, especially after sharing a very public waltz with her.”
To say Anthony looks dejected by her round-about refusal would be an overstatement, for it is not as though her quick refusal of his fleeting whim will cause him an ounce of heartbreak, but there is something annoyingly pitiful in his expression as he turns towards the approaching fleet, seeming to have succumbed to his fate, that obliges her to continue to play the part of his shield for a short while longer.
“However,” she begins, hooking a gloved finger over her lips in an attempt to conceal the amused smile she can not suppress as the Viscount whips back around to face her, eyes wide and pleading. Looking at her as he is now, so uncharacteristically helpless and eager for rescue, she can almost picture a brown fur tail wagging behind him. She’s fairly certain his ears actually prick up. “However,” she starts again, “it would not be out of the bounds of propriety for you to escort me back to a safe spot along the wall; perhaps just over there, beside the door closest to the gentlemen’s card room?”
The charming grin reappears on his face instantaneously and Anthony wastes no time in securing her hand in the crook of his elbow, then begins to guide the pair of them in the direction she had indicated. He is kind enough to stop and collect a lemonade for her as they pass the refreshments table, while he takes a flute of champagne for himself, and they sip their drinks slowly as they follow the path they have laid for themselves.
“I must apologise, Miss Featherington,” he says, nodding his head politely to a group of lords who lift their drinks to him as they pass them by.
“Whatever for, My Lord?”
“For my abruptness, I suppose, but namely the way I hauled you onto the dance floor with little thought to propriety or good manners. I could at least have taken a moment to sign your dance card, even in my self absorbed haste.”
Instead of the humble acceptance he is anticipating, Anthony receives only the tinkle of amused laughter, coupled with the sight of Penelope leaning further into his arm so she can press her own gloved hand over her lips to stifle the sound.
“My Lord, if it were a sin to leave my dance card unsigned then there would not be a gentleman in London without need for atonement, for it has remained decidedly blank at each and every ball I have attended since my debut,” she giggles, draining the last of her lemonade as they cross paths with a butler so that she can seamlessly deposit the empty glass on his tray.
“That can not be true,” Anthony responds, brows furrowed yet again as he looks down at her, “you have danced before, I have seen you. With one or the other of my own brothers once at almost every ball, at the very least.”
“It must be another Bridgerton trait, then,” Penelope says, waving her now free hand towards him, “you share the brown hair, the charm, and the habit of plucking unseemly dance partners from the wall, knowing there is no need to sign their cards.”
She says it with an easy grin, as though she finds the truth in her words entirely amusing and does not view his brothers’ thoughtless actions as a slight against her, however unintentional. Anthony is, for the first time this evening, inclined to disagree with her assessment.
“Let me be the first, then,” he responds seriously, pulling them to an abrupt stop and reaching for the pencil at her wrist.
“Oh, Lord Bridgerton, I did not mean- you needn’t bother with that. It is not as though you need to reserve a dance which has already ended.”
“It is not a bother, Miss Featherington,” he tsks, bending to sign his name and title beside the waltz, “I am rectifying my mistake of not having filled out your card properly before taking you to the floor, in hopes that you might forgive me for my more egregious misstep of having skipped over asking for the opportunity in the first place.”
“There is nothing to forgive, My Lord,” she responds softly, allowing a quietly pleased smile to overtake her lips as she fingers the parchment dangling once again from her wrist, “being allowed to engage in a ball’s activities is recompense enough, especially with such a capable partner.”
Anthony straightens to his full height, a proud smile stretching over his usually stern face, and her stomach flutters funnily. Perhaps I am in need of further refreshment, she thinks.
“Then I shall endeavour to sign your card again at the Weatherby’s ball on Tuesday, if I should find you in attendance. And amenable,” he pauses until she gives a quick nod of affirmation, then continues, “though next time I insist you choose our dance. Pick your favourite and I shall claim my spot in it’s place.”
“You really mustn’t trouble yourself with humouring my fancies, Lord Bridgerton,” she insists, though she feels a bubbling sort of anticipation at the thought of partnering with him again, “your mother will almost surely push one of your brothers to ask me, as she so often does, and I will have my customary dance with one of them.”
“Well, clearly they have been failing in their duties as worthy partners to you if they have yet to sign your dance card - something I’m sure my Mother will give them quite the tongue lashing for when she hears it,” Anthony tells her, allowing his smugness to leak into his expression as he pictures getting to be the one to relay said information to their dear Mama; how quickly her sights will turn away from him in order to dole out her admonishments. Have that, Benedict.
“Besides,” he continues, “I must confess I make my offer with at least some selfish intent, for I find that I have discovered quite the surprising favour for dancing this evening - truly, you would be indulging me to accept my most humble request.”
“In that case, how could I refuse?”
“Excellent,” he nods, with a suspiciously mischievous twinkle in his eye. Penelope recognises it as the same one she has seen in Eloise many times and she wonders if Viscount Bridgerton has the same penchant for mischief as his sister - as all of his siblings - and whether she will be fortunate enough to see that side of him step out into the light. “Then you will have ample time to reconsider my other offer before then, as well. Perhaps then we could engage in two dances, maybe even a third.”
Deploying the rest of his Bridgerton Charm, Anthony winks at her, then turns and hastens himself from the ballroom before she can respond, leaving a fiercely flushed and flustered Featherington in his wake.