Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Chapter Text
Prologue: The Funeral
The rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching London in a heavy, unyielding gloom. The cobblestones of the small churchyard glistened with a sheen of water, each droplet amplifying the eerie quiet that blanketed the mourners. Spring flowers, usually a symbol of renewal, were scattered across the grass, their colors dulled by the grey of the storm. The church bell tolled softly in the distance, each chime an aching reminder of the loss they had gathered to honor.
Penelope Featherington stood near the edge of the freshly turned earth, her face pale as parchment, almost translucent against the inky black of her mourning attire. Her vivid red hair, hidden beneath the brim of a soaked black bonnet, only made her pallor more striking. Her hands clutched the edges of her shawl, as if the fabric could hold her together. But her face betrayed nothing—no tears, no anguish, just a stark emptiness that spoke of a grief too vast for words.
Beside her, Anthony Bridgerton stood like a statue carved of stone, his jaw tight, his dark eyes fixed on the twin coffins lowered into the ground. In his hand, he clutched a single white rose, its delicate petals battered by the rain. The droplets clung to his lashes, but whether they were tears or merely the rain, no one could say. He had not wept since the news had reached them, nor had he spoken of it. His grief sat heavy and silent, an unbearable weight he bore without complaint, even as it hollowed him from within.
Their faces were a portrait of shared desolation, yet neither dared to turn toward the other. Instead, their gazes remained locked on the scene before them, their emotions buried deep beneath the surface. They were like twin shadows cast by the same storm, bound together by pain but unable to find solace in one another.
The rest of the Bridgerton family stood behind them, a sea of black. Violet Bridgerton held a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Eloise, usually so bold, looked fragile, her head bowed as she clung to Benedict's arm for support. Gregory and Hyacinth, too young to carry such grief, stood together, their hands intertwined, their faces pale and lost. The family had been brought to its knees, its foundation shaken by the sudden, devastating loss of Colin and Kate.
The priest’s voice droned on, the words lost in the wind and rain. It felt almost cruel, the way the world continued to turn, the way the rain continued to fall, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed.
When the priest finally fell silent, Anthony stepped forward, his movements deliberate but strained. He looked down at the coffins, his knuckles whitening around the stem of the rose. For a moment, it seemed as though he might speak, might offer some fragment of himself to the memory of his brother and sister-in-law. But the words never came. Instead, he knelt, placing the rose atop the dark wood of Colin’s coffin. He lingered there, his shoulders taut with the weight of unspoken anguish.
Penelope followed, though she did not kneel. She stood beside Anthony, her hands folded tightly in front of her. Her lips moved silently, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a plea. She placed her hand briefly on the coffin, her fingers trembling before she withdrew them. She looked to Anthony then, her green eyes glassy, but he did not meet her gaze.
As the rain poured and the mourners stood frozen in their grief, Penelope and Anthony became the still center of the storm—a man and a woman united in loss, but utterly alone in their sorrow. The finality of the moment settled over them, a suffocating weight they could not escape.
The coffins were lowered, swallowed by the earth, and with them, the brightest light of the Bridgerton family. The rain showed no mercy, nor did the sky above.
And in that moment, beneath the deluge, Anthony and Penelope became ghosts of themselves, trapped in the shadows of the lives they had once known.
Chapter 2: CHAPTER ONE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
before
The morning light streamed through the tall windows of Colin Bridgerton’s London flat, illuminating the sleek, minimalist decor with a soft, golden hue. Penelope Featherington lay curled up against Colin on the oversized bed, her cheek resting against his chest as she traced lazy circles on his bare skin. The faint hum of the city buzzed in the background, but inside the cozy bedroom, it felt as if time had slowed.
“You know,” Colin murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath her ear, “I didn’t think being engaged would feel this... peaceful. Don’t get me wrong, I knew it would be good, but this? This feels like a dream.”
Penelope tilted her head up, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “That’s because it hasn’t sunk in for you yet. Wait until you’re wrangling with the caterer over seating arrangements or I’m debating centerpieces with your mum.”
Colin groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the pillow. “God, I forgot about the wedding logistics. Maybe we should just elope.”
Penelope laughed, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him. “Don’t even joke about that. Eloise would never forgive me for depriving her of a Bridgerton family wedding.”
He grinned, pulling her closer. “Fine. Big wedding it is. But after that, it’s just you and me. No interruptions, no responsibilities. I’m serious about that honeymoon in Santorini.”
Penelope sighed contentedly, resting her chin on his chest. “You and your obsession with Greece. Fine, Santorini it is. Though I still think Tuscany has its charms.”
“Penelope Featherington, are you trying to out-romance me?”
Her laughter bubbled out, filling the room. “Maybe. Am I succeeding?”
Colin brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression softening. “You always do.”
For a moment, they were quiet, lost in the warmth of each other’s presence. The future felt like a wide-open horizon, full of possibility.
Across town, Anthony Bridgerton stood in the corner of his spacious home office, a phone pressed to his ear and a coffee cup balanced precariously in his other hand. His laptop sat open on the desk, its screen filled with spreadsheets and a list of upcoming business meetings.
“No, Gareth,” Anthony said, his tone clipped. “I don’t care if the contractor says the project will take another week. We agreed on Friday. Make it happen.” He paused, listening to the response, his jaw tightening. “Then find someone who can deliver on time. Call me when you’ve sorted it out.”
He ended the call with a sharp tap and tossed his phone onto the desk with a sigh. Behind him, Kate leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed as she watched him with a knowing look.
“You’re overloading yourself again,” Kate said, stepping inside. “I thought we agreed you’d delegate more.”
Anthony turned to her, already weary of the argument. “It’s not that simple, Kate. I’ve got deadlines. I can’t exactly delegate the Manchester negotiations to someone else.”
Kate sighed, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “You can’t do everything, Anthony. And I’m supposed to be in Manchester with the charity board this week. I can’t cancel; they’re expecting me.”
Anthony frowned, clearly torn. “You’re not going alone. It’s a long drive, and you’ll need someone to help with everything.”
“Well, I’d take you, but you’re too busy trying to single-handedly run the world,” Kate teased, though her tone softened as she reached for his hand. “Ask Colin. He’s been looking for ways to contribute more. And if I remember correctly, he and Penelope were planning to visit Manchester anyway.”
Anthony hesitated, the idea clearly appealing. “You think he’d do it? I don’t want to disrupt his plans.”
Kate smiled, already reaching for her phone. “He adores you. He’ll say yes. And I wouldn’t mind the company—Colin’s always good for a laugh.”
Anthony exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Fine. Call him. But if anything goes wrong, I’m holding him responsible.”
Kate shook her head, her smile growing. “You’re impossible. But don’t worry—I’ll keep him in line.”
As she dialed Colin, Anthony returned to his desk, throwing himself back into his work. To him, it was a simple enough arrangement.
Neither he nor Kate had any way of knowing just how catastrophic this decision would turn out to be.
Later That Week
Colin adjusted the strap of his leather overnight bag, standing by the front door of Bridgerton House with his signature boyish grin. Dressed in a crisp navy blazer and dark jeans, he looked more like someone heading off on a holiday than a business trip to Manchester.
"Alright," he announced, his voice light and teasing as always. "Ready to be your loyal chauffeur, travel companion, and—what did Anthony say?—'designated adult supervision.' I’m not sure which part of that statement I should be most offended by."
Kate chuckled as she descended the staircase, a garment bag slung over her arm and a travel mug of tea in her hand. “You should be flattered. Anthony doesn’t trust many people to keep me in line.”
Colin placed a hand over his heart, feigning dramatic shock. “Me? Keep you in line? Kate, you wound me. I thought this would be more of a partnership. Two capable adults tackling Manchester together, maybe indulging in some room service.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me there’s at least one free evening for a nice dinner. I draw the line at hotel vending machine snacks.”
Kate smiled, shaking her head as she handed him her garment bag. “As long as you don’t derail the meetings by charming the entire room with your anecdotes, I think we can manage dinner.”
“Charming? Me? I’m just naturally engaging,” Colin said, slinging the garment bag over his shoulder. He caught sight of the small notebook in her hand and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that? A list of all the ways I’ll inevitably annoy you?”
Kate smirked, tucking the notebook into her tote bag. “It’s a list of the agenda for tomorrow. Though I might start that second list if you don’t behave.”
Colin laughed, opening the front door for her. “Noted. I’ll keep my antics to a minimum. Scout’s honor.”
As they stepped out into the brisk spring air, Kate glanced over at him, her expression softening. “Thank you for coming with me, Colin. I know you didn’t have to. Especially with everything you’ve got going on.”
Colin shrugged, his grin gentler now. “Hey, it’s no trouble. Besides, Penelope told me if I didn’t go, I’d have to start addressing wedding invitations instead. This feels like the better deal.”
Kate laughed, her shoulders relaxing as they made their way to the waiting car. “Remind me to thank her for sparing you.”
“Please do. And let her know I’m expecting a hero’s welcome when we get back. Maybe even a medal,” Colin said, holding the car door open for Kate with a playful bow.
She rolled her eyes but smiled as she slipped inside. As the car pulled away, his humor filled the space, a welcome reprieve from the weight of the trip ahead.
present
The skies over London wept endlessly, the heavy rain drumming against the windows of Bridgerton House. Inside, the grand estate felt unnervingly silent, its usual hum of activity replaced by an oppressive stillness. The family gathered in the drawing room, each member cloaked in black, their faces pale and hollowed by grief.
Penelope Featherington sat on the far end of the couch, her posture rigid, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her engagement ring—a symbol of a future she’d once imagined so brightly—gleamed faintly against her trembling fingers. Her pale face, stark against her dark dress, betrayed no tears, but her eyes, glassy and unfocused, told a story of unimaginable loss.
Colin was gone.
Across the room, Anthony Bridgerton stood by the window, his back to the family. One hand gripped the windowsill, the other clutching a single white rose, its delicate petals stark against the storm outside. His shoulders, usually so broad and commanding, seemed to sag under the weight of his grief. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles whitened with the force of his grip.
Kate was gone too.
The two had been on their way to Manchester. The roads had been slick with rain, visibility poor. The accident had happened less than an hour into their journey, a head-on collision with an oncoming lorry. The emergency services had called it instant, merciful in its swiftness. But there was no mercy in the aftermath, no solace for those left behind.
“I should have gone with her,” Anthony muttered, breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was raw, barely audible.
Violet Bridgerton, seated near the fireplace with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, filled with fresh tears. “Anthony, don’t. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Can’t I?” Anthony turned to face the room, his dark eyes burning with guilt. “I should have canceled my meetings. I should have driven her myself. Colin shouldn’t have gone—he had no business being there. It should have been me.”
“Anthony,” Benedict said softly, rising from his chair. “This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known—”
“Of course, I should have known!” Anthony snapped, his voice cracking. “The weather was terrible, and I sent them anyway. My wife, my brother—” His voice faltered, and he turned away, unable to finish.
Penelope flinched at his words, her knuckles white as she clenched her hands tighter. The echo of Colin’s laughter, his easy charm, and the plans they’d made together rang in her mind like a cruel joke. He was supposed to be here, next to her, teasing her about how serious she looked in black. Instead, he was gone, and the world felt unbearable in its emptiness.
Eloise, seated beside Penelope, reached out and took her hand, her own trembling. “We’re all here, Pen. You’re not alone,” she whispered, her voice shaky but sincere.
But Penelope felt alone. Even surrounded by the Bridgertons, by the people who loved Colin as deeply as she did, her grief felt isolating, a cavern she could never climb out of.
Hyacinth sat beside Gregory, the youngest Bridgertons leaning into each other for support. Their faces were pale and drawn, their usual playful bickering replaced by silent tears. Gregory’s arm rested protectively around his sister, but even his steady presence couldn’t mask the way his own lips trembled.
The storm outside raged on, as if the heavens themselves were mourning. The sound of raindrops pounding against the glass filled the room, a relentless reminder of the terrible night that had stolen Colin and Kate.
In the corner, a small table held two framed photographs: Colin’s bright, mischievous smile and Kate’s warm, confident gaze. Between them sat a simple candle, its flame flickering weakly against the draft.
“We’ll never be the same,” Violet said softly, her voice breaking. “Our family will never be whole again.”
No one responded. The truth of her words hung heavily in the air, undeniable and devastating.
Anthony turned back to the window, gripping the rose so tightly that its stem snapped, a single white petal falling to the floor. For the first time since the news had come, his carefully maintained composure cracked. His shoulders shook, and a single, silent tear rolled down his cheek, lost among the rain streaking the glass.
And in the center of it all, Penelope sat frozen, her heart shattered, her future stolen, and her world forever changed.
The house was quiet, almost eerily so, as Penelope climbed the stairs to Anthony’s studio. The faint echoes of her footsteps on the polished wood felt intrusive in the stillness, but she didn’t stop. She needed to see him. She needed to say it out loud.
When she reached the door, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the brass handle. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow. How could she tell him, of all people, in the midst of this crushing grief?
She opened the door slowly.
Anthony sat in the dimly lit room, hunched over his desk. His usually immaculate hair was disheveled, and his crisp black shirt looked like it had been hastily thrown on. Papers were scattered across the surface, but Anthony wasn’t working. He was staring at the rose he had held earlier, its broken stem lying discarded beside it.
“Anthony,” Penelope said softly, her voice breaking the heavy silence.
He looked up, his eyes hollow and bloodshot. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as though he were struggling to place her in the fog of his grief. Then he nodded toward the chair opposite him.
“Penelope,” he murmured. “Come in.”
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She perched on the edge of the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The weight of the silence between them was almost unbearable.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone downstairs… they’re grieving, but it’s not the same. You’re the only one who—” She stopped, her throat tightening.
Anthony’s jaw clenched, and he nodded slowly. “I know.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain outside battered the windows, the sound filling the room like a somber rhythm.
“I miss him,” Penelope said finally, her voice trembling. “I keep thinking he’s going to walk through the door, that this is all some terrible mistake. But then I remember… he’s gone. And Kate…”
Her voice broke, and she covered her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs threatening to escape.
Anthony leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly. “I keep replaying it,” he said, his voice rough. “If I had just gone with her… If I hadn’t been so damn busy…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Penelope looked at him, her own pain reflected in his dark eyes. She hadn’t expected this—this raw vulnerability from Anthony, who was always so composed, so controlled.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling but firm.
Anthony straightened, his brows furrowing. “What is it?”
Penelope took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she rested them on her stomach. “This morning, I… I found out something. Something I didn’t expect. Anthony, I’m pregnant.”
For a moment, the room was utterly still. Anthony stared at her, his expression unreadable.
“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, her voice softer this time. “Colin… he didn’t know. I didn’t know until today.”
Anthony leaned back in his chair, his eyes dropping to her stomach. The weight of her words hung heavily in the air.
“Does anyone else know?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
Anthony ran a hand over his face, his expression a mix of shock and grief. “Penelope… I—” He stopped, searching for the right words.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, tears streaming down her face now. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”
Anthony’s gaze softened, and for the first time that day, his stern demeanor cracked. He rose from his chair and crossed the room to kneel in front of her.
“You won’t have to do this alone,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions in his eyes. “You’re family, Penelope. We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Penelope nodded, the smallest flicker of relief breaking through her anguish. For the first time since she’d heard the news, she felt the faintest glimmer of hope.
As the rain continued to fall outside, they sat together in the quiet studio, bound by their shared grief and the fragile beginnings of a new life.
Chapter 3: CHAPTER TWO
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWO
The morning light filtered through the grey clouds, muted and subdued, much like the mood that had settled over Bridgerton House. Penelope sat in the family’s cozy sitting room, her hands nervously fidgeting in her lap. Across from her, Eloise perched on the edge of the armchair, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied her best friend.
“You’re worrying me, Pen,” Eloise said, her voice tinged with concern. “You’ve been quiet all morning, and that’s never a good sign. What’s going on?”
Penelope hesitated, the words catching in her throat. She hadn’t planned on telling anyone else so soon, but Eloise had a way of prying the truth out of her. And if there was anyone she could trust, it was Eloise.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope finally spoke. “I found out something yesterday. Something… big.” Her voice wavered, and she clasped her hands tightly to steady herself. “I’m pregnant, Eloise.”
The room fell silent. Eloise blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process the words. “You’re… pregnant?”
Penelope nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know until yesterday. Colin didn’t know either. He… he never got the chance to.”
The weight of her grief hung heavy in the air, but before Penelope could spiral, Eloise sprang from her chair and crossed the room in two quick strides. She knelt in front of Penelope, grabbing her hands and holding them tightly.
“Pen, listen to me,” Eloise said, her voice firm but gentle. “This is a lot, I know. And I know it feels overwhelming, especially now. But you’re not alone. I’m here. Whatever you need—anything at all—I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Penelope let out a shaky breath, her tears spilling over. “I don’t know if I can do this, Eloise. I’m terrified.”
“You can,” Eloise said with conviction. “You’re stronger than you think, Pen. And this baby… this baby is part of Colin. It’s a part of him that’s still here, with you.”
Penelope nodded slowly, the truth of Eloise’s words sinking in. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but now, the thought brought a small measure of comfort.
Eloise smiled softly, squeezing her hands. “So, what’s next? Have you been to the doctor yet?”
“No,” Penelope admitted. “I’m supposed to schedule an ultrasound, but I… I didn’t want to go alone.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” Eloise said, her tone brightening. “We’ll go together. You’re not doing any of this alone, Pen. Not while I’m around.”
Penelope managed a small smile, the first genuine one in days. “Thank you, Eloise. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out,” Eloise said, her smile widening. “Now, let’s make that appointment. And don’t even think about trying to cancel on me—I’m officially your partner in crime for all things baby-related.”
For the first time since the accident, Penelope felt a sliver of hope. With Eloise by her side, she wasn’t entirely alone in this journey. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave her something to hold onto—a lifeline in the storm.
The rain had eased into a light drizzle, the grey sky still heavy with clouds as Penelope sat by the window in Bridgerton House, staring blankly at the garden beyond. In her lap, her phone rested, the screen glowing faintly with the confirmation of her ultrasound appointment. She had planned to go with Eloise, who had insisted on being by her side. But a last-minute work crisis had pulled Eloise away.
“I hate this,” Eloise said apologetically, standing in the doorway with her coat slung over her arm. “I promised I’d go with you, and now I’m letting you down.”
Penelope turned to her, shaking her head quickly. “You’re not letting me down, Eloise. It’s fine. I’ll go on my own.”
Eloise frowned, her brow furrowing. “No, it’s not fine, Pen. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.” She paused, chewing on her lip thoughtfully, before an idea lit up her face. “Wait here.”
Before Penelope could ask what she meant, Eloise darted out of the room, leaving Penelope sitting there, confused and anxious.
Minutes later, Eloise returned, and this time, she wasn’t alone. Anthony followed her into the room, his expression unreadable but steady.
“What’s going on?” Penelope asked, her voice small.
“I can’t go with you,” Eloise said softly, her eyes flicking between Penelope and Anthony. “But Anthony can.”
Penelope’s eyes widened, and she looked to Anthony, expecting resistance, a protest, or even an excuse. But Anthony didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll go,” he said simply, his tone resolute.
“Anthony, you don’t have to—” Penelope started, but he cut her off.
“I want to,” he said firmly. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
His words were straightforward, almost brusque, but there was something in his expression that softened the edges—something that made Penelope’s throat tighten. She nodded, unable to find the words to argue.
The waiting room at the clinic was sterile and quiet, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights filling the silence. Penelope sat stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Beside her, Anthony was calm and composed, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked around the room.
“Thank you for coming,” Penelope said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.
Anthony turned to her, his expression softening. “You don’t need to thank me, Penelope.”
She looked down at her hands, her heart pounding. “It’s just… I didn’t want to bother anyone. I thought I could do this on my own, but it feels so much harder than I expected.”
Anthony leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he regarded her carefully. “You don’t have to do anything on your own,” he said quietly. “Not now. Not ever. Colin was my brother, and you’re family, Pen. Whatever you need, I’m here.”
Penelope felt a lump rise in her throat, and she blinked back tears. She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
The nurse called her name, and Anthony rose with her, his hand hovering near her back as if to offer support without being overbearing. They walked together to the ultrasound room, the small space dimly lit and clinical.
As Penelope lay back on the examination table, Anthony settled in the chair beside her, his presence steady and grounding. The technician began her work, and within moments, the room filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of a heartbeat.
Penelope’s breath caught, and she turned to look at the screen, where a tiny, flickering shape appeared. Her tears spilled over, silent and unchecked.
Anthony’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, his expression unreadable but deeply focused. Slowly, he reached out and rested a hand lightly on Penelope’s shoulder.
“It’s Colin,” Penelope whispered through her tears. “A part of him.”
Anthony nodded, his jaw tight, but his eyes glimmered with emotion. “And you,” he said softly. “Both of you.”
The soft, rhythmic sound of the baby’s heartbeat echoed in the small ultrasound room, filling the silence with an unspoken promise of life. Penelope lay on the examination table, her gaze fixed on the screen where the tiny flickering shape of her baby appeared. Anthony sat beside her, silent but steady, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
The technician smiled gently as she wiped the gel from Penelope’s stomach. “Everything looks good for now,” she said. “The heartbeat is strong, and there’s nothing concerning at this stage. But it’s still very early—just eight weeks.”
Penelope nodded, her heart swelling with relief but also tightening with worry. “What does that mean? Should I be doing anything differently?”
The technician turned toward her and handed her a small printout of the ultrasound image. “At this stage, the most important thing is to take care of yourself. Rest when you need to, eat well, and avoid stress as much as you can. It’s too early to predict much, but so far, things look as they should.”
A moment later, the doctor entered, glancing briefly at the screen before sitting down. He gave Penelope a reassuring smile but spoke with measured caution.
“You’re healthy, and there’s nothing to indicate any issues at this point,” he began. “But since it’s only the eighth week, I would advise you to wait before sharing the news widely. The first trimester is always a delicate time.”
Penelope felt her throat tighten. “So, there’s a chance something could go wrong?”
The doctor’s expression softened. “There’s always some risk in the early weeks, but it’s nothing to be overly alarmed about. Many pregnancies progress perfectly normally. It’s just a good idea to keep the news private for now, to give yourself time to adjust and focus on your well-being.”
Anthony, who had been silent throughout the appointment, spoke up then. “Is there anything specific she should avoid?”
The doctor glanced at him, seeming to take note of Anthony’s steady presence. “Nothing out of the ordinary—no heavy lifting, no excessive stress, and try to maintain a balanced lifestyle. Most of all, just take it one day at a time.”
Penelope nodded again, her fingers tightening around the small ultrasound printout in her hands. She could feel Anthony watching her, his concern palpable even in his silence.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly.
As they left the clinic, the rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool. Penelope clutched the printout close to her chest, her mind swirling with a mixture of emotions—hope, fear, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
Anthony walked beside her, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. They didn’t speak until they reached his car, where he paused, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
"I’ll wait to tell the family, I'm not yet ready and it's an early stage. ” Penelope said finally, her voice quiet but firm.
Anthony nodded. “Whatever you think is best. But whenever you’re ready, Penelope, you won’t face it alone.”
She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Thank you, Anthony. For everything.”
He shook his head slightly, his gaze softening. “It’s what Colin would have wanted. And it’s what you deserve.”
The car was quiet as Anthony drove, the gentle hum of the engine the only sound between them. Penelope sat in the passenger seat, holding the ultrasound printout carefully in her lap, as though it were the most delicate thing in the world.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Anthony directly, but she could feel his presence—steady, unyielding, and somehow comforting. He hadn’t spoken much since leaving the clinic, and she wasn’t sure if the silence was meant to give her space or if he was lost in his own thoughts.
It wasn’t until they were halfway back to Bridgerton House, the rain-slicked streets of London glistening under the faint afternoon light, that Anthony finally broke the silence.
“You know,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the road, “Kate and I always talked about having children.”
Penelope turned to him, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. His hands were steady on the steering wheel, but his knuckles were white, gripping a little too tightly.
“We wanted a big family,” he continued, his voice low but steady. “Kate used to joke that we’d end up with enough children to fill a cricket team.” He let out a small, bitter laugh. “She always said she wanted the house to be chaotic, filled with noise and laughter.”
Penelope swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the ultrasound printout. “Anthony…”
“She would have been the most incredible mother,” he said, his jaw tightening. “She had this way of making everything seem brighter, like even the hardest days didn’t feel so bad when she was around.” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “We were trying. For months. And then…”
He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. The weight of his loss was palpable, pressing heavily in the small space between them.
“I didn’t know,” Penelope said softly.
Anthony glanced at her briefly before returning his focus to the road. “We hadn’t told anyone yet. We didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up until…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “And now, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It does matter,” Penelope said firmly, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice. “It mattered to Kate, and it matters to you. And it still matters now.”
Anthony didn’t respond immediately, but his grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly. “Colin would have been a great father,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now. “He talked about it once, not long after you two got engaged. He said he couldn’t wait to see you as a mother.”
Penelope felt tears sting her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. “He told me the same thing,” she whispered. “I thought we’d have more time.”
Anthony’s expression tightened, and he exhaled deeply. “So did I.”
For a moment, the car fell into silence again, the weight of shared grief settling between them. But this time, it felt less isolating, as though speaking the words aloud had lifted a small part of the burden.
When they pulled into the driveway at Bridgerton House, Anthony turned off the engine but didn’t move to get out. He turned to Penelope, his gaze steady but filled with an unspoken understanding.
“You have something now,” he said, nodding toward the ultrasound printout in her lap. “Something of Colin’s. And of yours. Don’t let fear take that away from you.”
Penelope looked down at the printout, her fingers brushing lightly over the tiny image. “I’m scared, Anthony,” she admitted, her voice trembling.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’re not alone. We’ll get through this. All of it.”
She nodded, her tears finally spilling over, but this time, they weren’t just for the loss. They were for the life ahead, fragile and uncertain, but still full of possibility. And for the first time since Colin’s death, Penelope didn’t feel completely lost.
Chapter 4: CHAPTER THREE
Summary:
“I don’t want you to feel obligated,” Penelope murmured, her voice trembling. “This isn’t your responsibility, Anthony. You don’t have to—”
“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. “You’re family, Penelope. Colin would have wanted me to look after you and the baby. And I… I want to. Don’t push me away.”
Chapter Text
The soft hum of chatter filled the Bridgerton dining room as the family gathered for Easter breakfast. Despite the heaviness of recent weeks, Violet had insisted on tradition, hoping to bring a sense of normalcy to the household. The table was adorned with pastel flowers and decorated eggs, the aroma of freshly baked bread and coffee mingling in the air.
Penelope sat quietly near the end of the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She pushed her food around on her plate, her appetite absent, though she tried to mask it. Her face was pale, a faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow, but she kept her head down, hoping no one would notice.
Daphne, seated across from her, narrowed her eyes. “Penelope, are you all right?” she asked gently, leaning forward.
Penelope looked up quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Just a little tired.”
Daphne’s gaze lingered, unconvinced. Before she could press further, Penelope winced, her hand darting to her abdomen as a sharp, stabbing pain shot through her.
“Penelope?” Daphne’s voice was louder now, edged with concern.
The room grew quiet as everyone turned to look. Penelope’s face had gone stark white, and her breathing was shallow.
“I—I’m fine,” Penelope stammered, but her voice was trembling, and the pain was impossible to hide.
“No, you’re not,” Daphne said firmly, rising from her chair. “Anthony!”
Anthony, who had been standing near the window, turned sharply at the sound of his name. The urgency in Daphne’s voice made him cross the room in seconds, his eyes locking onto Penelope, who was now clutching her abdomen.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his tone steady but filled with tension.
“She’s in pain,” Daphne said, gesturing toward Penelope. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m fine,” Penelope tried to insist, but the pain surged again, stealing her breath and leaving her doubled over.
Anthony crouched beside her chair, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Penelope, look at me,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “Where does it hurt?”
“My stomach,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. “It’s sharp, and—” She broke off, gasping as another wave of pain hit her.
Anthony’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained composed. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
“Anthony—” Penelope began to protest, but he cut her off.
“No arguments,” he said firmly, already standing and helping her to her feet. “Daphne, get her coat. Benedict, bring the car around.”
Daphne moved quickly, grabbing Penelope’s coat and draping it over her shoulders as Anthony guided her toward the door.
“Everything will be all right,” he murmured to Penelope, his voice steady even as his eyes betrayed his worry. “I promise.”
The family watched in stunned silence as Anthony and Daphne helped Penelope out of the house, the festive breakfast forgotten. The sense of normalcy Violet had tried to create had shattered in an instant, replaced by a palpable tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud.
As the car pulled out of the driveway, Violet clasped her hands tightly, silently praying that whatever lay ahead, they would all find the strength to face it together.
The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air as Anthony paced the corridor outside Penelope’s hospital room. His mind raced, replaying the morning’s events, each moment fueling the knot of worry in his chest. He had insisted on being with her in the ambulance, holding her hand tightly as her pain ebbed and flowed. Now, he waited, his jaw tight and his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
A nurse appeared at the door, motioning for him to enter. Anthony didn’t hesitate, stepping inside to find Penelope propped up on the hospital bed, her face pale but her expression calmer than it had been.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman with a calm demeanor, stood at the foot of the bed, holding a clipboard. She glanced at Anthony, then back at Penelope. “We’ve done a thorough check,” she began. “The baby is fine for now, but this is what we’d classify as a sensitive pregnancy.”
Penelope’s lips trembled, and she gripped the blanket tightly. “What does that mean?”
The doctor’s expression softened. “It means you’re at a higher risk of complications. The pain you experienced was likely due to stress and physical strain. Moving forward, it’s crucial that you rest and avoid anything that could put unnecessary pressure on your body. No heavy lifting, no overexertion, and as little stress as possible.”
Penelope nodded slowly, her throat tightening. “And the baby?”
“There’s no immediate danger,” the doctor reassured her, “but you need to be cautious. The next few weeks are critical. If you follow the guidelines and take care of yourself, there’s a good chance everything will progress normally.”
Anthony, standing by Penelope’s side, spoke up, his voice steady. “What can I do to help?”
The doctor turned to him, a faint smile on her lips. “A lot, actually. She’ll need emotional support, help with day-to-day tasks, and someone to make sure she doesn’t push herself too hard. That’s where you come in.”
The nurse, who had been noting details in the chart, chimed in, her tone light but firm. “You’re the father, right? You’ll want to keep a close eye on her.”
Anthony didn’t flinch. He didn’t correct them, didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
Penelope’s eyes widened slightly, her gaze snapping to Anthony. But he was already focused on the doctor, listening intently to every word of advice. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself at a loss. For a moment, she let herself lean into the comfort of his steady presence.
The doctor continued, unaware of Penelope’s reaction. “Good. With the right care and vigilance, there’s every reason to believe this pregnancy can be carried to term. But it’s essential to keep stress levels as low as possible.”
Penelope nodded again, her hand drifting to her abdomen. “Thank you, doctor.”
After a few more instructions, the doctor and nurse left, leaving Penelope and Anthony alone in the quiet room. The beeping of the monitor filled the silence, a steady reminder of the life they were trying to protect.
“Anthony…” Penelope began, her voice uncertain.
He turned to her, pulling a chair closer to the bed and sitting down. “Before you say anything, let me be clear,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “I don’t care what anyone else assumes, and I don’t care if this complicates things. What matters is that you and the baby are okay. That’s all I care about.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she looked down at her hands, her voice trembling. “I don’t know how to do this, Anthony. I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, reaching out to place his hand over hers. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Together.”
“I don’t want you to feel obligated,” Penelope murmured, her voice trembling. “This isn’t your responsibility, Anthony. You don’t have to—”
“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. “You’re family, Penelope. Colin would have wanted me to look after you and the baby. And I… I want to. Don’t push me away.”
The drive back to Bridgerton House was steeped in a silence so heavy it seemed to press against the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a muted world of damp streets and gray skies. Penelope sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed out the window, though she didn’t seem to see anything at all.
Her fingers twisted the edge of the ultrasound printout, the delicate image of her child now smeared with the faint impression of her grip. The doctor’s words replayed in her mind like a cruel metronome—*sensitive, high risk, uncertain.* Each beat seemed louder than the last.
Anthony’s hands remained steady on the steering wheel, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t said much since leaving the hospital, but there was a tension in his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened and his fingers tapped against the wheel when they stopped at a red light.
The weight of it all hung between them—grief for what was lost, fear for what might still slip away.
As they turned into the driveway of Bridgerton House, Anthony slowed the car to a stop but didn’t immediately cut the engine. Penelope didn’t move, her hands still clenched around the fragile printout.
When Anthony finally stepped out and came around to her side, she startled slightly at the sound of the door opening. He extended his hand, and she stared at it for a long moment, as though it were a question she didn’t know how to answer.
Eventually, she placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding. He helped her to her feet, his movements deliberate, though he didn’t meet her gaze.
Together, they walked toward the house, their steps in sync but their minds far apart. Anthony’s presence was steady, unyielding, but Penelope could feel the cracks beneath the surface. She knew he was carrying more than just his own grief—he was carrying hers too, even if she hadn’t asked him to.
The door to the house opened before they reached it, the warm glow spilling out into the gray of the afternoon. For a moment, Penelope paused at the threshold, her chest tightening at the thought of stepping back into the chaos of family life, into the questions and the quiet judgment she feared would come.
Anthony didn’t push her. He simply stood beside her, his hand hovering near her elbow, offering support without words.
Finally, she stepped inside, the printout still clutched in her trembling hands. The fragile image of her future was just that—fragile. But for now, she carried it. And so did he.
The Bridgerton house was unusually quiet as Anthony and Penelope returned from the hospital. The family had been alerted that something was wrong, and they waited anxiously in the drawing room. Violet sat stiffly in an armchair, wringing her hands, while Eloise paced back and forth, her sharp gaze fixed on the door. She knew what was coming, having kept Penelope’s secret for days, but even she felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
When the door finally opened, and Anthony walked in with Penelope by his side, all eyes turned to them. Anthony’s face was unreadable, but there was a tension in his posture that betrayed his concern. Penelope, pale and tired, avoided everyone’s gaze, her fingers clutching her coat tightly around her.
“What’s going on?” Violet asked, her voice breaking the silence. “Anthony? Penelope?”
Anthony guided Penelope to the nearest chair, helping her sit before stepping forward to address the family. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his usual composure cracking just slightly.
“Penelope is pregnant,” he said simply, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of the news.
The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps and murmurs. Eloise stopped pacing, and Violet rose from her chair, her hand pressing against her chest as if steadying herself.
“Pregnant?” Daphne echoed, her voice filled with surprise and something softer—hope.
Anthony raised a hand to silence the questions before they could start. “Yes, she’s pregnant. Colin’s baby.” His voice caught slightly on his brother’s name, but he pushed through. “We found out just recently. And while it’s wonderful news, the pregnancy is… complicated.”
Violet stepped closer, her concern etched deeply into her face. “What do you mean, complicated?”
“The doctor says it’s a sensitive pregnancy,” Anthony explained, glancing briefly at Penelope before continuing. “There’s no immediate danger, but it’s high-risk. Penelope needs to rest, avoid stress, and follow strict guidelines to ensure the baby’s safety.”
Another round of murmurs spread through the room, but this time it was laced with worry. Penelope finally looked up, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I’m sorry to worry everyone. I didn’t want to be a burden—”
“You are not a burden,” Anthony interrupted firmly, his sharp tone cutting off any argument. He turned to the rest of the family, his expression hardening into one of command. “Starting today, Penelope will be staying here, with us. She cannot do this alone, and I won’t allow her to.”
“Anthony,” Penelope protested weakly, but he didn’t let her finish.
“This isn’t up for debate, Penelope,” he said, his tone softening slightly as he met her gaze. “You need help. Colin would want us to take care of you, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Violet nodded, her eyes misty but resolute. “Of course. You’ll have all the support you need, my dear.”
Daphne smiled reassuringly. “You’re part of this family, Penelope. We’ll take care of you.”
Eloise, her shock fading into a performance that would convince anyone she hadn’t already known, crossed the room to sit beside Penelope, grabbing her hand. “You’re not getting rid of us, so you might as well accept it,” she said lightly, though her grip was firm.
Anthony scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over each of his siblings. “That means all of us need to step up. Penelope is not to lift a finger. Meals, errands, whatever she needs—we handle it.”
Benedict raised a hand in mock seriousness. “Are we allowed to let her breathe, or is that on the restricted list too?”
Anthony shot him a glare, but it only made Penelope laugh softly, a sound that felt like a balm to the tension in the room.
Eloise squeezed Penelope’s hand as the others began discussing logistics. Leaning closer, she whispered, “You owe me for keeping my mouth shut. I was bursting to tell everyone.”
Penelope glanced at her, her lips quirking up in the faintest smile. “Thank you, Eloise. For keeping the secret—and for everything else.”
Eloise winked. “What are sisters for?”
By the end of the day, Penelope’s things had been moved into Bridgerton House, and Anthony’s decree was in full effect. She wasn’t allowed to lift a finger, and every family member had taken on a role to ensure she followed the doctor’s instructions.
The late afternoon sunlight streamed into Penelope’s room at Bridgerton House, casting a warm glow over the soft pastels of the decor. Penelope sat propped up in bed, a cup of herbal tea in her hands, her body wrapped in a cozy blanket. The house was unusually quiet for once, giving her a rare moment of peace.
A gentle knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts, and Daphne stepped inside, her expression warm and welcoming. She carried a small tray with a plate of biscuits and another cup of tea.
“I thought you could use some company,” Daphne said, closing the door behind her and setting the tray on the bedside table.
Penelope smiled faintly, grateful for the gesture. “You didn’t have to go out of your way, Daphne. I’m fine.”
“Penelope, I live next to this house. This is hardly ‘out of my way,’” Daphne said with a teasing smile, settling into the armchair beside the bed. She leaned forward slightly, her tone softening. “Besides, I know how overwhelming pregnancy can be, even without… everything else.”
Penelope hesitated, her fingers tightening around the mug. “You’ve been through this twice already,” she said, her voice tinged with both admiration and curiosity. “How do you manage it all?”
Daphne exhaled softly, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not easy, I won’t lie. Both of my pregnancies were different. With August, I was constantly nauseous for months, and by the time Amelia came, I felt like I could barely keep up with him and Simon.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “But I had Simon by my side through it all, and that made it bearable.”
Her smile faded slightly as she studied Penelope’s face. “I know this is different for you, Pen. You’ve lost so much already. But that doesn’t mean you have to do this alone.”
Penelope blinked back tears, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I’m trying, Daphne. I really am. But some days, it feels like too much. Like I’m failing before I’ve even started.”
“You’re not failing,” Daphne said firmly, reaching out to take Penelope’s hand. “You’re grieving, and you’re trying to build something new at the same time. That’s not failure—that’s strength.”
Penelope looked down at their joined hands, her throat tightening. “How did you deal with the fear? The constant worry that something might go wrong?”
Daphne’s expression softened further. “I won’t lie to you, Pen. The fear never really goes away. Even now, I worry about my children. But the love you feel for them, even before they’re born, is so much bigger than the fear. And that love will carry you through, even on the hardest days.”
Penelope nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Colin wanted children so badly. He was so excited to start a family.”
Daphne squeezed her hand gently. “And now you’re giving him the most beautiful legacy. This baby is a part of him, Pen. A part of both of you.”
The words settled deep in Penelope’s heart, filling her with both grief and hope. She took a deep breath, allowing herself to lean into the comfort of Daphne’s presence.
“You’re going to be an incredible mother, Pen,” Daphne said softly, her voice filled with certainty. “And we’re all here to make sure you never have to do it alone.”
For the first time in weeks, Penelope allowed herself to believe it. She wasn’t alone, and with the Bridgertons by her side, she began to feel a fragile sense of strength growing within her.
Chapter 5: CHAPTER FOUR
Summary:
The word wife echoed in his mind again, not as a mistake but as a possibility. And though he didn’t fully understand what it meant for them yet, one thing was clear—he had already begun to accept it.
Not just as a responsibility.
But as something far more.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and deep purple as Anthony made his way to Penelope’s room. It had become his ritual—checking in on her every evening after the rest of the house had settled into its nightly rhythm. At first, it was out of duty, a sense of responsibility to his brother’s memory and the life Penelope now carried. But over time, these visits became something more, though Anthony wasn’t sure he could name it.
He knocked softly on the door before stepping inside, finding Penelope curled up in an armchair near the window. She had a book in her lap, though the faraway look in her eyes suggested she hadn’t been reading.
“Anthony,” she said softly, closing the book as he approached.
“Still awake?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I could say the same to you,” she replied, her voice lighter than it had been earlier in the day.
He sat in the chair opposite hers, leaning back and letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s harder to sleep these days. Too much on my mind.”
She nodded, understanding all too well. “It feels like the nights are the worst. That’s when it all hits, doesn’t it? The silence, the emptiness.”
Anthony looked at her, his gaze steady. “Yes, it does.”
For a moment, they sat in shared silence, the unspoken grief between them palpable. Then Penelope broke the quiet, her voice hesitant.
“Do you ever feel like… you’re just waiting for it to stop hurting?” she asked, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her blanket.
Anthony’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Every day,” he admitted. “But I don’t think it ever truly stops. You just learn to carry it differently.”
Penelope’s eyes glistened, and she nodded slowly. “I miss him so much. And now, with the baby… it feels like I’m living in two worlds. One where he’s still with me and one where he’s not.”
Anthony’s throat tightened, and he reached out, resting his hand gently on hers. “You’re not alone in this, Penelope. I know it doesn’t make the pain go away, but I’m here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”
She looked at him, her green eyes searching his face. For the first time, she saw something in Anthony she hadn’t noticed before—a vulnerability, a rawness that mirrored her own.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
They fell into a rhythm during these evening talks, sharing stories about Colin, about Kate, and about the lives they had both lost. Anthony would tell her about the times Colin had been his partner in crime as a child, and Penelope would share how Colin’s sense of humor had carried her through the darkest days.
But their conversations weren’t always about the past. Slowly, they began to talk about the future—about the baby, about Penelope’s hopes and fears, and about Anthony’s growing sense of responsibility toward her and the child.
One evening, as the rain pattered softly against the windows, Penelope leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Do you think Colin would have been a good father?”
Anthony smiled faintly, the ghost of a laugh escaping him. “Without a doubt. He would have spoiled the child rotten, though. You’d have been the one to keep them in line.”
Penelope laughed softly, the sound bittersweet. “I think he would have loved that.”
Anthony’s expression grew serious, and he leaned forward, his voice low. “He would have been so proud of you, Penelope. For everything you’re doing, for your strength. You’re carrying a part of him forward, and that’s… incredible.”
Her breath caught, and she looked away, blinking back tears. “I don’t feel strong, Anthony. Most days, I feel like I’m barely holding on.”
“You are fucking strong, Pen,” he said firmly. “Stronger than you know. And you’re not holding on alone.”
Their connection deepened with each passing evening, a bond forged in shared pain but growing into something more. Neither of them spoke of it, but it lingered in the quiet moments between words, in the way their gazes held a little longer than necessary, in the comfort they found in each other’s presence.
Grief had brought them together, but as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that something else was beginning to take root—something fragile and unspoken, but undeniably real.
The familiar hum of the hospital filled the air as Penelope and Anthony waited in the doctor’s office. It had been a few weeks since the Easter scare, and Penelope’s anxiety was palpable. She sat stiffly on the exam table, her hands twisting in her lap, while Anthony sat beside her, calm and composed. He had insisted on coming with her, as he always did now, his steady presence a quiet reassurance she had come to rely on.
The familiar hum of the hospital filled the air as Penelope and Anthony sat in the doctor’s office. Penelope perched nervously on the exam table, her hands gripping the edge tightly, while Anthony sat beside her, calm and composed. He had insisted on being there, as he always did, his steady presence a constant reassurance.
Dr. Meadows entered with a warm smile, flipping through her notes. “Good news,” she began, settling into her chair. “The crisis appears to be over. The baby is doing well, and your body has stabilized. However,” she added, glancing over her glasses, “this is still a sensitive pregnancy. While I don’t foresee any immediate complications, your wife will need to be closely monitored for the remainder of the term.”
Penelope froze, her breath catching.
Wife.
The word lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken between them. Her gaze flickered to Anthony, waiting for him to correct the doctor, to explain that she wasn’t his wife. But he didn’t.
Instead, Anthony nodded without hesitation. “Of course. We’ll make sure she’s well cared for,” he said calmly, as though the assumption were entirely natural.
Penelope blinked, her chest tightening. She wanted to speak, to clarify, but the doctor was already moving on, offering advice and instructions for the coming weeks.
“Penelope,” Dr. Meadows said, drawing her attention back, “you’re past the critical stage, but the next trimester will be key. Rest is still essential, as is reducing stress. With proper care, I see no reason why you shouldn’t have a healthy pregnancy.”
Penelope nodded mutely, murmuring her thanks, her mind still fixated on the word wife.
Anthony, as always, took the lead in asking follow-up questions. He inquired about her diet, the safest ways to manage her energy, and any warning signs they should be mindful of. He listened intently, his focus unwavering, and Penelope couldn’t help but notice how natural he seemed in this role.
When the appointment ended, Dr. Meadows stood, offering them a kind smile. “You’re in good hands,” she said. “Just keep following the plan, and I’m confident everything will go smoothly. Take care of your wife, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Anthony nodded again, his expression steady. “I will.”
Penelope opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Anthony gently guided her out of the office, his hand resting lightly on her back.
The car ride home was quiet, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Penelope sat with her hands resting protectively over her stomach, the ultrasound printout tucked safely into her purse.
“Anthony,” she said finally, breaking the silence.
He glanced at her briefly, his expression calm. “Yes?”
“Back at the hospital,” she began, her voice uncertain. “When Dr. Meadows called me your wife… you didn’t say anything.”
Anthony kept his eyes on the road, his grip steady on the wheel. “There wasn’t a need to correct her.”
Penelope turned toward him, her brow furrowing. “But I’m not—”
“I know you’re not,” Anthony interrupted gently, his tone soft but firm. “But right now, none of that matters. If the doctor assumes you’re my wife and that makes things easier, then so be it. What matters is that you and the baby are safe.”
His words settled heavily in her chest, filling her with a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite name. “Anthony, I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”
“I don’t feel like I have to do anything,” he said, cutting her off again. He glanced at her for a moment before turning his focus back to the road. “I’m here because I want to be, Penelope. You’re not doing this alone. I told you that, and I meant it.”
Penelope’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers brushing over the ultrasound printout in her lap. The weight of his unwavering support both comforted and confused her.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.
Anthony didn’t respond, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything more.
As they pulled into the driveway at Bridgerton House, Penelope glanced at Anthony again, her thoughts swirling. He had accepted the doctor’s assumption so easily, so naturally, as though the word wife wasn’t just a mistake but something he had already begun to embrace.
The idea both terrified and intrigued her. And though she didn’t yet know what it all meant, one thing was certain—Anthony Bridgerton was far more than just her late fiancé’s brother.
The drive back to Bridgerton House was quiet, the low hum of the engine filling the space between them. Anthony kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, but his mind was anything but calm.
The word wife echoed in his thoughts, as though the doctor had planted it there to take root and grow into something he couldn’t quite define. He hadn’t planned to let the assumption go uncorrected, yet when the moment came, the words to clarify had never even occurred to him.
Instead, he had agreed.
And it wasn’t because he wanted to avoid complicating things. No, it was because deep down, something about the word had felt… right.
He glanced at Penelope briefly as she sat beside him, her fingers brushing the edge of the ultrasound printout in her lap. She looked so fragile, her face pale and her shoulders tense, but there was also a quiet strength about her that had drawn him in ever since the night of the accident.
He’d told himself that his role in her life was purely one of responsibility—an obligation to Colin, a way of honoring his brother’s memory. But the more time he spent with her, the more that line of thinking felt like a lie.
Anthony tightened his grip on the wheel, exhaling slowly.
When Dr. Meadows had called her his wife, the word hadn’t felt like an accusation or a mistake. It had felt… inevitable. And for the first time in weeks, he realized that his role in Penelope’s life had grown far beyond what he’d initially intended.
At first, it had been about Colin. About protecting her and the baby. About fulfilling a promise he’d made silently in his heart the moment he’d heard the news. But now, there was something else—something unspoken and fragile but undeniably real.
He hadn’t planned for this.
He hadn’t planned for the way her laughter, even quiet and hesitant, seemed to ease the suffocating weight of his grief. He hadn’t planned for the way their evening conversations felt like the only part of his day where he could truly breathe. He hadn’t planned for how fiercely he cared about her and the child she carried.
And he certainly hadn’t planned for how natural it had felt to let the doctor call her his wife.
“Anthony,” Penelope’s soft voice broke through his thoughts.
“Yes?” he replied, glancing at her again.
“When Dr. Meadows called me your wife… you didn’t say anything.”
Her tone was tentative, and Anthony could hear the unspoken questions behind it. He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully.
“There wasn’t a need to correct her,” he said simply.
“But I’m not—”
“I know you’re not,” he interrupted, his voice softening. “But does it matter? What matters is that you and the baby are safe. If it makes things easier for her to think we’re married, then so be it.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth, but it was close enough. He didn’t have the courage to tell her the rest—not yet.
Penelope fell silent, her gaze dropping to her lap. Anthony could feel her uncertainty, her confusion, but he also knew she wouldn’t press further. Not now.
He pulled into the driveway at Bridgerton House and turned off the engine. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the day settling over them.
“Thank you,” Penelope said softly, her voice barely audible.
Anthony turned to her, his gaze steady. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said quietly. “I told you, Penelope—you’re not doing this alone.”
As she stepped out of the car and walked toward the house, Anthony lingered, resting his hands on the steering wheel.
The word wife echoed in his mind again, not as a mistake but as a possibility. And though he didn’t fully understand what it meant for them yet, one thing was clear—he had already begun to accept it.
Not just as a responsibility.
But as something far more.
The faint murmur of voices from the drawing room reached Penelope as she sat in the garden, cradling a cup of tea that had long gone cold. The arrival of her mother, Portia Featherington, had been expected, though not eagerly anticipated. Since the tragedy, Penelope had dreaded this moment, knowing her mother’s reaction would be a mix of performative grief and unrelenting questions.
When Violet had gently told her earlier that Portia had returned from her extended visit to America and was coming to see her, Penelope had braced herself.
The door to Bridgerton House opened with a soft creak, revealing Portia Featherington standing on the threshold, her luggage abandoned at her feet. She looked as though she’d aged years in the span of weeks, her usually vibrant demeanor replaced by a pale, hollow expression. The lines around her eyes were deeper, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of grief.
“Penelope,” she whispered, stepping inside and pulling her daughter into a tight embrace.
Penelope froze for a moment before returning the hug, her hands gripping her mother’s back. It had been weeks since she’d seen Portia, who had been visiting her eldest daughter in America when the accident happened. Now, standing in the entryway of Bridgerton House, the enormity of everything that had happened seemed to catch up with her all at once.
“Oh, my darling girl,” Portia murmured, her voice trembling. “How are you even standing? Colin…” Her voice broke, and she pulled back, her hands cupping Penelope’s face.
“I’m managing, Mama,” Penelope said softly, though her own voice wavered.
Portia shook her head, her tears already spilling over. “Managing? How can you manage? He’s gone, Penelope. Colin’s gone!”
Her words struck like a hammer, and Penelope flinched. She glanced toward the hallway, where Violet and Eloise had appeared, their faces carefully blank as they gave her and Portia space. Anthony stood further back, his arms crossed, his jaw tight.
“Mama,” Penelope said gently, her hands reaching for her mother’s. “Please don’t—”
“How can I not?” Portia interrupted, her grief spilling out unchecked. “You were supposed to have your whole life together. A wedding, children, a future! And now… now it’s all gone.”
Her words were sharp, laced with anguish, and Penelope felt them like physical blows. She opened her mouth to respond, but Anthony’s voice cut through the tension.
“Mrs. Featherington.”
Portia turned, startled by his sudden interjection. Anthony stepped forward, his posture composed but his tone firm.
“Perhaps we should sit,” he said, gesturing toward the living room. “This isn’t the best place for this conversation.”
Portia hesitated, her expression wavering as she looked back at Penelope. Then she nodded, allowing herself to be guided into the room.
Seated on the couch, Portia dabbed delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Violet sat beside her, her hand resting gently on her arm, while Penelope sat across from her, flanked by Eloise and Anthony.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Portia said, her voice trembling. “Colin… he was supposed to take care of you, Penelope. He was supposed to give you everything you deserved.”
Penelope’s hands twisted in her lap, her voice small. “I know, Mama. I know.”
Portia’s gaze flickered briefly to Violet, her eyes glistening. “It’s just too much. My poor daughter, left alone in the prime of her life…” She sighed dramatically, her hand pressed to her chest. “And with so many changes ahead…”
Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Violet’s hand remained steady on Portia’s arm, though her own gaze was sharp, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“And you, Penelope?” Portia asked, turning her focus back to her daughter. “How are you doing this? How are you managing?”
Penelope hesitated, her fingers trembling as they rested on the edge of her skirt. “I’m not doing it alone,” she said softly, glancing briefly at Anthony.
Portia’s eyes widened slightly, darting between her daughter and Anthony. “What do you mean?”
Penelope took a deep breath, her hands coming to rest protectively over her stomach. “Mama… I’m pregnant.”
The room fell silent, the weight of the revelation settling heavily in the air. Portia’s expression froze, her wide eyes blinking rapidly. For a moment, she said nothing, her lips parting and closing as though searching for the right response.
“Pregnant?” she finally whispered.
Penelope nodded, her voice barely audible. “It’s Colin’s baby.”
Portia’s reaction came suddenly, a choked sob escaping her lips as she reached for her daughter. “Oh, Penelope… my darling girl, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I wanted to wait until you were back,” Penelope explained, her voice quivering. “And it’s still early, so I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
Portia pulled back slightly, her hands still gripping Penelope’s. Her face was a mask of practiced sorrow, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of calculation—a detail Violet caught instantly.
“This baby,” Portia said, her voice growing steadier, almost eager. “It’s a miracle. Colin’s legacy. We must make sure everything is perfect for you, Penelope. The best doctors, the finest care. Nothing is too much.”
Anthony, standing nearby, caught the faint change in Portia’s tone, and his brow furrowed slightly. He said nothing, watching as Portia’s words took on a rehearsed quality, her focus shifting subtly from genuine concern to something closer to performance.
“We’ll make sure she has everything she needs,” Violet said smoothly, her tone gentle but firm. “She’s in good hands here.”
Portia hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as she turned toward Violet. “Of course,” she said quickly, her smile brittle. “But I’ll oversee things, naturally. After all, Penelope is my daughter.”
“And she’s part of this family now,” Violet replied, her voice calm but with an unmistakable edge.
Portia blinked, clearly caught off guard by Violet’s quiet authority. She glanced at Anthony, perhaps expecting him to chime in, but his expression was stony, unreadable.
“Thank you,” Portia said finally, though her tone lacked warmth. “It’s… comforting to know you’re all so involved.”
Anthony finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “Colin would have wanted her to be cared for. That’s all that matters.”
Portia offered a tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course.”
Violet watched as Portia leaned back slightly, her polished facade slipping back into place. She exchanged a brief glance with Anthony, a silent understanding passing between them.
Penelope, however, seemed oblivious to her mother’s undercurrent of self-interest. She looked at Portia with teary eyes, clutching her hand as if she were the anchor Penelope had always longed for.
“We’ll be all right, Mama,” Penelope said softly. “The Bridgertons have been wonderful.”
“Yes,” Portia replied, patting her daughter’s hand. “Of course, darling. You’re so lucky to have them.”
Violet’s gaze lingered on Portia, her lips pressing into a thin line as the conversation shifted. She resolved to keep a close eye on Portia’s involvement. Penelope’s trust in her mother might be unshakable, but Violet and Anthony could see through the cracks in her performance.
For now, they said nothing. But they wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—compromise Penelope or the baby.
The Bridgerton dining room buzzed with quiet conversation as the family gathered for dinner. Penelope sat between Eloise and Hyacinth, her face softened by the warm glow of the chandelier above. Across the table, Anthony sat near Violet, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes constantly flickering toward Penelope.
Portia Featherington, seated beside Violet, took in the scene with her usual keen gaze. Despite her earlier display of maternal affection, she couldn’t help but analyze the subtle dynamics of the room. As much as Portia loved her daughter, she was, above all, a woman who prided herself on observation. And tonight, something in the air felt different.
Anthony’s attentiveness was impossible to miss. A quiet word to Hyacinth when she passed the breadbasket too quickly toward Penelope, his subtle offer to refill her glass before she even asked, the way his gaze lingered on her when she wasn’t looking.
Portia’s brows knit together briefly, though she kept her expression neutral. She observed Penelope, who seemed more at ease than she’d expected given her circumstances. The grief was still there, but there was something steadying her—someone steadying her.
Anthony.
Portia’s gaze darted between the two of them, her sharp mind piecing together the nuances. The glances, the quiet conversations, the unspoken understanding that seemed to pass between them. It was far more than mere concern.
“Penelope, you’re not eating much,” Portia said, her tone light but laced with pointed curiosity. “Are you feeling unwell again?”
Penelope looked up quickly, startled by the question. “No, Mama, I’m fine. Just not very hungry tonight.”
“Anthony,” Portia said suddenly, turning her focus to him. “You’ve been so involved in Penelope’s care. It’s admirable, really. Colin would be so grateful.”
Anthony looked up from his plate, his expression calm and measured. “It’s what any of us would do,” he replied smoothly. “Penelope is family.”
“Of course,” Portia said, her smile faint and brittle. “Still, you’ve taken quite an active role. It must be… quite the adjustment for you.”
There was no mistaking the sharp edge to her words, but Anthony didn’t flinch. He met her gaze evenly, his tone unwavering. “It’s not an adjustment. It’s a priority.”
Penelope glanced between them, oblivious to the undercurrent in the exchange. “Anthony’s been wonderful, Mama,” she said earnestly. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Portia’s lips twitched, but she said nothing further, instead turning her focus back to her plate.
The table grew quiet at his words, the weight of their shared loss briefly descending over the group. Violet, sensing the tension, spoke up with a soft smile.
“It’s wonderful how supportive you’ve been, Anthony. Penelope’s lucky to have you.”
Portia’s gaze lingered on Anthony for a beat too long before she turned back to her plate, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yes, lucky indeed.”
The rest of the meal passed with subdued conversation, but Portia remained watchful. There was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—something beyond Anthony’s sense of duty.
After dinner, Violet suggested a quiet wine evening in the sitting room. The table had been cleared, the younger Bridgertons excused, and the house settled into its usual evening calm. She poured two glasses of red and handed one to Portia before settling into the armchair across from her.
“This is lovely,” Portia said, taking a sip, though her tone was distracted.
“I thought we could use a moment,” Violet replied, her voice gentle but deliberate. “It’s been… a difficult time for all of us.”
Portia sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Yes, it has. Losing Colin was devastating. And… Kate,” she added awkwardly, as though the name hadn’t quite come naturally. “I can’t imagine how Anthony must be managing.”
Violet’s expression softened, though her grief was evident in the lines around her eyes. “He manages as best he can, as we all do. Kate was his anchor in so many ways. Losing her… it’s something I don’t think he’ll ever truly recover from. It broke something in him. She was his partner, his equal, and losing her left a void he can’t fill.”
Portia nodded, though her expression remained carefully guarded. “And now, it seems Penelope and the baby have become his focus.”
Violet studied Portia for a moment before responding. “Yes. They’ve given him a reason to keep moving forward. Anthony needs that, especially now.”
Portia tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening. “Don’t you think it’s a bit… unusual? A man grieving his wife taking on such a role in Penelope’s life?”
Violet placed her glass down with deliberate care, meeting Portia’s gaze evenly. “Unusual, perhaps. But not unnatural. Anthony has always felt the weight of responsibility for this family. That responsibility has grown to include Penelope and the baby, and it’s given him purpose.”
Portia’s lips tightened, her expression unreadable. “Purpose is one thing, Violet. But the bond between them—it seems deeper than mere responsibility.”
Violet’s expression didn’t waver. “Perhaps it is. But is that a bad thing, Portia? They’ve both endured unimaginable loss. If they’ve found comfort in each other, who are we to question it?”
Portia hesitated, her fingers lightly tapping the stem of her glass. “I only want what’s best for Penelope.”
Violet’s expression didn’t change, though her gaze sharpened. “They’ve grown close, as anyone would when bound by shared grief. That doesn’t mean it’s anything more.”
Portia leaned back, her smile thin. “Perhaps. But the way he looks at her, the way he’s so attentive… I wonder if he even realizes it himself.”
Violet set her glass down carefully. “Whatever bond they’ve formed, Portia, it’s rooted in care and support. Anthony is doing what he believes is right. And as long as Penelope and the baby are safe, I won’t question his motives.”
Portia studied her, her expression unreadable. “You’re quite protective of them both, aren’t you?”
Violet’s gaze softened, but her voice was resolute. “Penelope is part of this family now. And I won’t let anything—or anyone—compromise her well-being.”
The air between them grew heavy, Portia’s sharp gaze clashing with Violet’s quiet strength. Finally, Portia smiled again, though it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Of course, Violet,” she said lightly, raising her glass. “To family.”
“To family,” Violet echoed, her tone calm but her eyes unwavering.
As the evening wore on, Portia remained composed, but her mind churned with the observations she had made. Anthony Bridgerton was no ordinary man, and his connection to her daughter was far from simple. She didn’t know where this bond between her daughter and Anthony might lead, but one thing was certain—she would be watching.
Chapter 6: CHAPTER FIVE
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIVE
The house was still, save for the occasional creak of the old wood floors or the muffled sounds of Bridgerton family life drifting through the walls. Penelope sat by the window in her room, the afternoon light streaming in and casting long shadows across the floor. Her fingers brushed over the ultrasound photo resting in her lap, her thumb tracing the faint outline of the tiny life growing inside her.
Grief was a strange thing, she thought, a weight that shifted but never truly left. Some days, it felt manageable, like a dull ache she could carry without too much effort. But other days, it was unbearable, a crushing tide that pulled her under, leaving her gasping for air.
Today was one of the harder days.
She missed Colin with an intensity that was almost physical. His laughter, his warmth, the way he could make even the dullest moment feel like an adventure. It was cruel, she thought, that the universe had given her this precious gift—this baby—only to take Colin away before he could know.
Penelope wiped at her cheeks, realizing only then that tears had begun to fall. She wasn’t the kind of person who cried easily, but grief had a way of breaking down even the strongest defenses.
Most of the time, she tried to focus on the baby, on the future. It was the only way she knew how to keep going. She thought about the little things—whether the baby would have Colin’s mischievous grin or his easy charm, whether they would inherit her love of books or Colin’s wanderlust.
But then there were moments like this, when the weight of his absence was too much to bear. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the chair as she breathed deeply, trying to steady herself.
“Colin,” she whispered into the quiet, her voice trembling. “What am I supposed to do without you?”
The grief was suffocating, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something else—something fragile but insistent. Hope. The baby was her tether to Colin, a reminder that a part of him still lived on. And in the baby, she found her reason to keep moving forward, even when it felt impossible.
But moving forward didn’t mean forgetting.
Every evening when Anthony came to sit with her, she found herself talking about Colin in ways she hadn’t allowed herself before. It was easier with him—someone who understood, who had loved Colin as deeply as she had, though in a different way.
Anthony never pushed her to be stronger than she was. He listened, quietly and attentively, as she shared memories of Colin or moments of doubt about the future. He didn’t offer platitudes or tell her to look on the bright side. He simply was, his presence steady and grounding, like a lighthouse in the storm.
Grief, she realized, wasn’t something to conquer. It was something to carry, to learn to live with. And though it felt impossible now, she had to believe that one day, it would feel lighter.
For now, she allowed herself to sit with the sadness, the longing, and the fragile hope. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, but it was enough to keep going. And for today, that was all she could ask for.
The evenings were the hardest for Anthony. The quiet of Bridgerton House that once brought a sense of calm now felt oppressive, filled with ghosts of what could have been. He sat in his study, a glass of whiskey untouched on the desk before him, staring at the faint glow of the fireplace. His thoughts always drifted to Kate at this hour.
Kate.
He could still hear her voice, the sharp edge of her wit, the way her laughter would fill the house and draw everyone into her orbit. She had been a force of nature, and now, in her absence, the world felt so much smaller.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. The ache in his chest was constant, a dull throb that he had come to accept as part of himself. Losing Kate was like losing a limb—he could still feel her presence in everything he did, even though she was no longer there.
He reached for the small photograph on his desk, the one he’d been avoiding all day. It was a candid moment, taken at one of their rare holidays—Kate, sitting on the grass with Newton at her feet, her smile radiant as she looked toward the camera. He remembered that day vividly. She’d teased him for being too serious, too focused on responsibilities.
“Anthony,” she had said, her tone full of mock exasperation, “if you don’t learn to loosen up, I’ll be forced to drag you into the lake myself.”
He smiled faintly at the memory, though it quickly faded. The house was emptier without her—her energy, her warmth, her ability to challenge him in ways no one else dared to.
Grief had hit him like a tidal wave in the weeks after the accident, but he hadn’t allowed himself to drown in it. He couldn’t. There were too many people depending on him—his siblings, his mother, and now Penelope and the baby. But the grief didn’t go away. It lingered, a quiet presence in every moment, in every thought.
He thought about the future they had planned. The children they had hoped for. Kate had wanted a big family, a house filled with chaos and laughter. She’d talked about it often, teasing him that he would need to learn patience if they ended up with more than one child as spirited as Hyacinth.
Anthony’s throat tightened, and he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. She had been so certain they would have that future. And he had believed it too. But now… now all that was left were memories and a hollow sense of what could have been.
Still, he felt her absence in Penelope’s presence. She had the same determination Kate had, the same quiet strength that refused to be crushed by grief, even when it threatened to overwhelm her.
He saw Kate in the way he approached Penelope’s pregnancy—not as a duty, but as something he was compelled to protect. Kate had always told him he cared too much, that he carried the world on his shoulders, but in Penelope’s case, she would have understood.
Kate would have been the first to insist he step up, to remind him of what family meant.
“You’d better not let her do this alone,” he could almost hear Kate saying, her voice sharp but affectionate.
“I won’t,” he whispered into the quiet.
The grief would never leave him. He knew that now. But as he thought of Penelope and the baby, he realized that maybe, just maybe, there was still a way forward. Not the life he had planned, but one Kate would have been proud of him for living.
He set the photograph back on the desk and stood, his gaze lingering on the flickering fire.
“I’ll do right by her,” he said softly, as if Kate could hear him. “By all of them.”
And for the first time in weeks, the weight in his chest felt just a little lighter.
The cemetery was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the warm but restless wind. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming lilacs, a deceptive hint of life in a place that held only loss. The sky was layered in muted greys, the London weather indecisive, balancing between the last chill of spring and the slow, creeping warmth of summer.
Anthony walked ahead, his pace measured, his shoulders tense. He didn’t turn back to check if Penelope was following—he knew she was. He could hear the soft sound of her steps on the gravel, feel the weight of her presence behind him.
When they reached the graves, he stopped. His hands curled into fists before he exhaled and slowly, carefully, placed them in his coat pockets instead. His gaze dropped to the freshly carved names, side by side, etched into the cold stone. Kate Sharma Bridgerton. Colin Bridgerton.
Penelope hesitated beside him, standing still for a long moment before she finally stepped forward. Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingertips barely brushing the smooth surface of the gravestone. She didn’t cry, but Anthony could see the way her chest rose and fell, deep and controlled, as if she were fighting for breath.
The wind shifted, stirring the loose strands of her hair, lifting them before letting them fall again against her cheek. She raised a hand to brush them back, but her fingers hovered, then fell away, as though she had forgotten the motion halfway through.
Without thinking, Anthony reached out. His fingers found hers—lightly, briefly. A quiet touch, more grounding than comforting. Penelope didn’t move away.
She knelt slowly, her dress pooling around her, one hand resting on her stomach. Her thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles there, her gaze still fixed on the names in front of her.
Anthony swallowed hard. His throat burned, but no sound escaped. His grief did not demand to be spoken—it simply existed, heavy and immovable.
The wind carried the scent of damp earth and fresh rain, swirling between them, tugging at the fabric of Penelope’s dress and the hem of Anthony’s coat. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. The world had slowed to this moment, a quiet space where grief did not need words, where their sorrow could exist without the weight of explanation.
Anthony remained standing, his hands still deep in his pockets, his gaze locked on the names in front of him. But every so often, his eyes flickered to Penelope—her bowed head, the way her fingers curled lightly against the gravestone, the way her shoulders trembled so subtly it would have been imperceptible to anyone else.
She was so small beside him, yet she carried a weight even he couldn’t comprehend. Colin’s child growing inside her, a part of him still here, still real. Anthony wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
A soft breath escaped her lips, barely audible over the wind. Her fingers traced a slow, delicate line over Colin’s name, lingering there as though she could somehow feel him beneath the cold stone. Anthony watched, his chest tightening at the quiet reverence of the gesture.
Then, as if sensing his gaze, she turned her hand slightly, palm up, fingers relaxing against the damp marble. It was not an invitation, not a plea for comfort—just an offering of something neither of them could name.
Anthony exhaled, long and slow, before he moved.
He lowered himself beside her, mirroring her posture, his knees pressing into the damp earth. And then, without hesitation, he reached out. His fingers brushed hers lightly before settling against her palm, warm and steady.
Penelope didn’t flinch.
She didn’t pull away.
She simply let their hands rest there, the weight of his touch neither overwhelming nor intrusive. A silent understanding passed between them, deeper than words, heavier than grief itself.
Anthony turned his hand, his fingers curling gently around hers. A quiet offering of strength.
And when Penelope’s fingers curled back, gripping him in return, Anthony understood what it meant.
They were not alone.
Not in their grief.
Not in this moment.
And perhaps, not in whatever came next.
The soft hum of conversation filled the small, intimate restaurant as Penelope and Anthony sat at a quiet corner table. The candlelight between them flickered gently, casting a warm glow over the untouched plates in front of them. Penelope toyed with her fork, her gaze flitting between the tablecloth and Anthony’s calm, steady expression.
“I know you’re wondering why I brought you here,” Anthony said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was low, even, but there was a softness in it that she wasn’t used to hearing.
Penelope glanced up, offering a faint smile. “I figured you were just trying to get me out of the house,” she said, her tone light, though her hands betrayed her nervousness as they gripped the edge of the table.
“That too,” Anthony admitted, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But there’s more to it than that.”
She set her fork down, her brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”
Anthony leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Kate and I started the foundation together,” he began, his voice softening as he spoke her name. “It was her vision, really. She was always the driving force behind it. I just followed her lead.”
Penelope nodded, her throat tightening. She had heard Colin speak often of Kate’s passion for the foundation—the way she poured her heart into helping others, the way she made it seem effortless.
Anthony hesitated for a moment, then continued. “After the accident… I couldn’t even look at the files. It felt like—like trying to hold onto something that was already gone.” He exhaled, his hands tightening briefly before relaxing. “But now… I think I need to do this. Not just for her, but for me. For us.”
Penelope tilted her head slightly, her brows drawing together. “What do you mean, ‘for us’?”
Anthony’s gaze met hers, steady and unwavering. “I want to take her role. To keep the foundation alive, the way she would have wanted. And I want you to be part of it, Penelope.”
Her breath caught, and she leaned back in her chair, her fingers gripping the edge of the table again. “Anthony, I don’t… I don’t know if I can do that. It was Colin’s dream too, and I—” She stopped, her voice faltering.
Anthony leaned back, giving her space but not relenting. “I’m not asking you to forget, Penelope. I’m not even asking you to dive in right away. But you’re part of this, whether you realize it or not. Colin believed in the foundation, just like Kate did. And I believe in you.”
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She looked away, her gaze falling to the flickering candlelight. “It feels like moving on,” she said softly, her voice trembling.
“It’s not moving on,” Anthony said gently. “It’s moving forward. There’s a difference.”
Penelope’s breath hitched at Anthony’s words, her fingers tightening around the glass of water she had been nursing all evening. She stared at the flickering candle between them, watching as the wax melted and pooled at the base, as if time itself was slipping away.
“You’ve been there for everything,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “Every evening, every doctor’s visit, every moment when I thought I couldn’t handle this. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you properly.”
Anthony shook his head, leaning forward slightly, his arms resting on the table. “You don’t need to thank me,” he replied. His voice was steady but low, as though he were speaking something fragile into existence. “This isn’t about gratitude, Penelope. I told you, you’re not doing this alone. I meant it.”
She exhaled slowly, looking up at him, her brows drawing together. “Why?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Why does it feel like this is more than just you keeping a promise to Colin?”
Anthony studied her carefully, his jaw tightening as he considered his response. He hadn’t planned for this conversation tonight, but the weight of her question begged an answer. Slowly, he exhaled, his hand brushing through his hair.
“Because it is more,” he admitted quietly. “At first, it was about Colin. About honoring him and making sure you and the baby were cared for. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about him.”
Penelope’s breath hitched, and she looked away, blinking quickly. “I’ve felt the same,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to admit it—to myself or anyone else—but you’ve become… more important than I ever expected.”
The words lingered between them, fragile but real.
Anthony reached for his glass of water, taking a slow sip before setting it back down, his fingers lingering on the stem. “But that doesn’t mean we’re ready,” he said firmly, his gaze locking onto hers. “I’m not. And I don’t think you are, either.”
Penelope nodded slowly, her chest tightening. “I’m not,” she agreed, her voice trembling. “There’s too much… too much I haven’t dealt with yet. Too much I’m still carrying.”
They sat with that truth between them, neither willing to push past it, neither ready to leave it entirely unsaid.
Anthony leaned back slightly, exhaling. “So,” he said, shifting the tone ever so slightly, “tell me something, Penelope. Something about you.”
She arched a brow. “I just told you something.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Not about me. Not about Colin. About you. What’s a dream of yours—one you’ve never told anyone?”
She hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. Then, after a moment, she let out a quiet chuckle. “You’ll think it’s ridiculous.”
“Try me.”
She exhaled, finally indulging him. “Fine. When I was younger, I used to dream about becoming a writer. But not just any writer—a secret one. The kind who writes under a pseudonym and never reveals her true identity.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A literary mystery?”
“Exactly,” she said, her smile small but real. “I imagined living in a little cottage by the sea, writing novels while the entire town gossiped about who I was. Maybe I’d wear a dramatic cloak and disappear into the mist whenever someone got too close to discovering the truth.”
Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course you would. You do love a bit of theatrics.”
Penelope tilted her head at him. “And what about you? What’s a dream you’ve never told anyone?”
Anthony leaned back in his chair, considering. Then, after a moment, he admitted, “I used to have this ridiculous fantasy about running away to Italy and opening a vineyard.”
Penelope’s eyes widened in delight. “A vineyard? You?”
“Yes,” he admitted, smirking slightly. “I imagined long days in the sun, perfecting the art of winemaking. Evenings spent sipping my own wine, contemplating the beauty of the Italian countryside.”
She covered her mouth, trying to suppress a giggle. “Anthony Bridgerton, the vineyard owner. I can’t picture it.”
He sighed dramatically. “Well, I abandoned the idea when I realized I had absolutely no idea how to make wine.”
She shook her head, grinning. “That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, at least it’s not running into the mist in a cloak,” he countered.
Their laughter melted into a comfortable silence, the tension of the evening easing.
Then, Penelope spoke again, her voice softer now. “It’s nice,” she admitted. “Talking like this. Like we’re not just… grieving.”
Anthony nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “It is.”
They weren’t ready for more. Not yet. The pain still lived in them, the wounds of loss too fresh. But tonight, for the first time, grief wasn’t the only thing binding them. There was something else—something quieter, something fragile. A tentative hope.
Penelope picked up her glass of water, raising it slightly toward him.
“To moving forward,” she said.
Anthony lifted his own glass, his eyes never leaving hers.
“To moving forward,” he echoed.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIX
Another month had passed. Spring had quietly deepened into early summer, the gardens around Bridgerton House blooming with color, and the air thick with the scent of lilac and new beginnings. And yet, grief still hung in the corners of the house—quieter now, but ever present, like a breath half-held.
It was Benedict who said what everyone else had been tiptoeing around.
“I’ve decided to move forward with my engagement to Sophie.”
He said it one evening over dinner, his tone quiet but resolute, hands folded in front of him. Sophie wasn’t there—he’d asked her for time to make peace with everything before officially resuming their plans. Now, he was ready.
The room stilled. Violet looked up, blinking, but her expression was gentle. Eloise stopped mid-bite. Gregory sat forward in his chair.
It was Anthony who eventually broke the silence.
“I think that’s the right decision,” he said, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounded. “We’ve mourned. We are mourning. But if we don’t start living again, we’ll lose ourselves in it.” He glanced down for a moment, then back at Benedict. “Colin would want this. So would Kate.”
There was no debate. Only soft nods and quiet agreement.
And across the table, Penelope lowered her eyes, her heart beating just a little faster.
Later, as the evening sun filtered in golden through the windows, Penelope stood alone in the garden, hands resting over her slight bump. The baby had started moving this week—just little flutters, like soft wings brushing from inside—and it had awakened something in her.
Life.
She wasn’t ready to smile without sadness. But she was ready, at least, to try.
Anthony found her out there not long after dinner. He didn’t say anything at first—just walked beside her, their steps slow and silent. Eventually, Penelope spoke.
“Do you think it’s wrong?” she asked, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “To want to keep going? To want something more than the grief?”
Anthony shook his head slowly. “No. I think it would be wrong not to.”
She looked down at her belly, then back at him. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m betraying him every time I breathe a little easier.”
“I know,” he said. And he did.
They stood like that for a while, side by side, not touching, not needing to. Bound not just by shared grief anymore, but by a quiet, growing understanding that there was still life ahead of them—uncertain, painful, but real.
And in the distance, a soft breeze rustled through the trees, as if the world, too, was beginning to exhale.
The foundation office had a quiet hum of productivity as Penelope stepped inside, her hand instinctively resting on the growing curve of her stomach. It had been Anthony’s suggestion, but the decision had been hers. She wanted to be part of something meaningful—something that honored both Colin’s and Kate’s legacies. And so, she joined the foundation.
At first, it felt daunting. The space was alive with energy, files piled high on desks, staff bustling between meetings and projects. But it didn’t take long for Penelope to find her place. She started small—organizing documents, drafting letters, brainstorming ideas. The work gave her purpose, a sense of forward motion she hadn’t felt in months.
Her pregnancy, now impossible to hide, was a quiet point of joy among the team. Penelope caught people glancing at her belly with soft smiles, though no one dared to comment outright. Except, of course, for Eloise.
“I’m just saying,” Eloise declared one afternoon, lounging dramatically in one of the office chairs, “you’re glowing. It’s positively unfair.”
Penelope laughed, adjusting the stack of papers in her arms. “I think that’s just the sweat from climbing the stairs,” she replied, though her cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment.
Eloise waved her off, grinning. “Nonsense. Pregnancy suits you. And don’t tell anyone, but…” She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “I secretly adore children.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow, smirking. “This is a secret?”
Eloise shrugged, twirling a pen in her hand. “I have a reputation to uphold. But I’ve been told I’m excellent at entertaining toddlers. Daphne’s children practically worship me.”
As if summoned, Daphne arrived later that afternoon with her two children in tow—Augie, a boisterous three-year-old, and Amelia, a wide-eyed toddler clutching a stuffed bunny. The children brought a burst of energy to the office, their laughter echoing through the halls as they darted between desks.
“Don’t let them distract you too much,” Daphne warned with a knowing smile as she settled into a chair beside Penelope. “Augie’s mission in life is to charm everyone into abandoning their work.”
“And he’s succeeding,” Penelope said, watching as Eloise chased the children around the office, her usually sharp demeanor softened into delighted laughter.
Daphne glanced at Penelope, her expression warm but curious. “How are you feeling? You look… settled. Happier.”
Penelope hesitated, her hand drifting to her stomach. “I think I am,” she admitted softly. “It’s not that the grief is gone—it’s still there. But being here, working on something that matters… it helps.”
Daphne nodded, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Colin and Kate would be proud of you. And this baby… they’ll know how much love they were born into.”
Penelope blinked back tears, her smile trembling but genuine. “Thank you, Daphne.”
Over the weeks, Penelope grew more confident in her role at the foundation. She worked closely with Anthony, who guided her with quiet patience, and Eloise, whose boundless energy brought a sense of fun to even the most tedious tasks.
One afternoon, as Penelope reviewed a proposal for a new project, she glanced around the office. Daphne sat nearby, soothing Amelia while discussing ideas with one of the staff. Eloise was entertaining Augie with exaggerated impressions of various animals, much to the boy’s delight.
For the first time in a long time, Penelope felt a sense of belonging—not just in the work but in the connections she was building. Her pregnancy, once a source of fear and uncertainty, had become a symbol of hope.
And as she ran a hand over her growing belly, she allowed herself to dream of the future—not just for her, but for the child she would soon bring into the world. With the foundation, with the Bridgertons, and with the quiet strength she had rediscovered in herself, she felt ready to embrace whatever came next.
It was late in the afternoon, and the foundation office had grown quiet. Most of the team had packed up for the day, leaving behind a peaceful stillness that Penelope found comforting. She lingered at her desk, her hands resting lightly on her growing belly as she reread a draft for a new project proposal.
The setting sun cast a golden glow through the windows, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room. Feeling the need to stretch her legs, Penelope rose from her chair and made her way down the hall, planning to grab a cup of tea before heading home.
As she rounded the corner near the break room, a flicker of movement caught her eye. She paused, instinctively stepping back into the shadows. What she saw made her stop short, her heart skipping a beat.
There, tucked into the corner where the hallway turned toward the storage room, was Eloise—her sharp, no-nonsense demeanor completely gone. She was leaning against the wall, her hands tangled in the jacket of Alec Montgomery, one of the most important figures in Anthony’s company. Alec, the chief financial officer and a man known for his calm and professional demeanor, looked anything but composed.
They were kissing, their movements unguarded and intense. Alec’s hand cupped Eloise’s face as if she were the most precious thing in the world, while Eloise pulled him closer with a kind of passion Penelope had never imagined seeing in her friend.
Penelope’s mouth fell open in shock. Eloise? The fiercely independent, always skeptical Eloise? Making out with Alec Montgomery?
She quickly stepped back, her heart racing. She hadn’t meant to intrude—this was clearly a private moment—but the sight of Eloise so utterly transformed left her stunned.
Penelope retreated to her desk, her mind swirling. She hadn’t even known Eloise was interested in anyone, let alone someone like Alec. He was charming, certainly, but also so… serious. The pairing felt both surprising and, in some strange way, perfect.
As the initial shock wore off, a smile spread across Penelope’s face. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Eloise so unguarded, so alive. It was a side of her friend she hadn’t known existed, and the realization filled her with quiet happiness.
When Eloise reappeared a short while later, her hair slightly tousled but her expression as composed as ever, Penelope said nothing. She simply smiled at her friend, a knowing warmth in her gaze.
Eloise narrowed her eyes slightly, sensing something unspoken, but Penelope only laughed softly and turned back to her work.
Some secrets, she thought, were better left unspoken—especially when they brought happiness to someone who deserved it.
The Bridgerton house was quieter than usual that evening. The air was heavy, as if the walls themselves carried the weight of the day. Penelope sat in the drawing room, her hands resting on the curve of her belly, now unmistakable in its progress. She felt the baby shift slightly and smiled faintly, but the smile faded as her gaze drifted toward the empty chair across from her.
Anthony had been silent all evening. He hadn’t said much at dinner, his responses clipped and distant. She knew why. Today marked six months since Colin and Kate’s deaths. Six months that had both crawled and flown by, leaving behind an ache that never truly lessened, even as life began to move forward.
Penelope glanced out the window, the twilight settling over the garden in a blanket of quiet. The soft sounds of the household—servants moving about, the faint clink of dishes being cleared—barely registered. All she could focus on was the way the grief had crept back in, subtle but undeniable, as the milestone loomed.
When Anthony finally entered the room, his presence filled the space like a shadow. He moved to his usual chair but didn’t sit. Instead, he stood by the window, one hand resting on the back of the chair, the other tucked into his pocket. His expression was unreadable, his profile stark against the fading light.
“Anthony,” Penelope said softly, her voice breaking the silence.
He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on something unseen beyond the window. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Half a year,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Penelope nodded, her hand moving in slow circles over her belly. “It feels… impossible, doesn’t it? That it’s been so long. And yet, it feels like yesterday.”
He turned then, his eyes meeting hers. They were heavy with the grief they both carried, but there was something else there too—a quiet resolve. “It’s strange,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I thought time would make it easier. That the sharpness would fade. But it doesn’t.”
“No,” Penelope agreed. “It doesn’t fade. It just… changes.”
Anthony’s gaze dropped to her stomach, the faintest flicker of something softer crossing his face. “You’re the proof of that,” he said quietly. “Life goes on, even when it feels like it shouldn’t.”
Penelope felt a lump rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down. “Sometimes, I feel guilty,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “That I’m moving forward. That this baby is growing, and I’m… living, while they’re not.”
Anthony moved to sit across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I feel it too,” he said, his tone steady but tinged with pain. “Every time I think about the foundation, every time I laugh at something Benedict or Eloise says. It feels like I’m betraying them somehow.”
“But we’re not,” Penelope said, her voice firmer than she expected. “Living isn’t a betrayal. It’s what they’d want for us, isn’t it? To carry on.”
Anthony nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “It is. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet between them filled with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Penelope shifted, wincing slightly as the baby kicked. Anthony’s eyes immediately softened, and he leaned back, giving her space.
“You’re right,” he said after a moment. “We carry them with us. In the work we do, in the way we live. And in that baby,” he added, nodding toward her stomach.
Penelope smiled faintly, her hand resting protectively over her belly. “And in the love they gave us. That doesn’t go away.”
Anthony’s gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable but filled with something that felt like understanding. “No, it doesn’t,” he said softly.
The evening stretched on, the room bathed in the soft glow of the fading sun. They didn’t say much after that, but they didn’t need to. In their shared silence, in the quiet understanding between them, they found a sense of peace—fragile, but real.
Grief was still there, but so was life.
The foundation office was alive with quiet activity, papers shuffling, phones ringing softly in the background, and the occasional murmur of conversation. Penelope moved through the space with growing confidence, her hand instinctively resting on her round belly as she navigated between desks. Her presence had become a staple at the foundation, and the staff greeted her with warm smiles as she passed.
Her due date loomed closer—Christmas. It felt almost poetic to her, the idea of bringing new life into the world on the very day that symbolized hope and renewal. But for now, she was focused on the work in front of her.
“Penelope, do you have a moment?” Eloise called, poking her head out from one of the side offices.
Penelope smiled and made her way over, pausing briefly to adjust the scarf draped around her shoulders. “What’s up?”
Eloise grinned, holding up a stack of papers. “These are the applications for the holiday grant program. We need to narrow them down by the end of the week, and I could use your insight. You’re better at spotting the ones with genuine potential.”
Penelope chuckled, easing into a chair across from Eloise. “You flatter me, but let’s be honest—you just don’t want to read them all yourself.”
“Guilty as charged,” Eloise said, laughing. “But seriously, you’re good at this. It’s like you have a sixth sense for people’s stories.”
Penelope picked up the stack of applications, her fingers skimming over the first few pages. “Well, if this baby has the same knack, maybe they’ll be a great judge of character too.”
Eloise leaned back in her chair, her grin softening into something more genuine. “Speaking of which… how are you feeling? Christmas is creeping up fast.”
Penelope rested a hand on her belly, smiling faintly. “I’m ready. Nervous, of course, but… ready. It feels right, you know? To have something joyful to look forward to.”
Eloise nodded, her expression warm. “It suits you, Pen. I mean, you’re terrifyingly efficient at this job, but you’re glowing too. It’s nice to see.”
Before Penelope could respond, the door to the office opened, and Daphne entered, balancing a tray of coffees and a paper bag. Behind her, Augie and Amelia followed, their laughter filling the space like sunlight.
“Coffee delivery,” Daphne announced, setting the tray down on Eloise’s desk. “And cookies, because it’s impossible to say no to Augie when he begs for them.”
Penelope laughed as Augie darted toward her, his little arms reaching out for a hug. She leaned down to meet him, her belly getting in the way, and ruffled his hair. “Thank you for the cookies, Augie. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t eat them all!” Eloise warned, snatching one for herself as Amelia toddled over to climb into her lap.
Daphne settled into a nearby chair, watching the scene with a soft smile. “You know, this place feels more like a family than an office these days,” she said.
Penelope glanced around, her heart swelling at the sight of Eloise balancing paperwork and a giggling toddler, Daphne handing Augie a cookie, and the rest of the team working together with quiet determination.
“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly.
The foundation office was alive with quiet activity, papers shuffling, phones ringing softly in the background, and the occasional murmur of conversation. Penelope moved through the space with growing confidence, her hand instinctively resting on her round belly as she navigated between desks. Her presence had become a staple at the foundation, and the staff greeted her with warm smiles as she passed.
Her due date loomed closer—Christmas. It felt almost poetic to her, the idea of bringing new life into the world on the very day that symbolized hope and renewal. But for now, she was focused on the work in front of her.
“Penelope, do you have a moment?” Eloise called, poking her head out from one of the side offices.
Penelope smiled and made her way over, pausing briefly to adjust the scarf draped around her shoulders. “What’s up?”
Eloise grinned, holding up a stack of papers. “These are the applications for the holiday grant program. We need to narrow them down by the end of the week, and I could use your insight. You’re better at spotting the ones with genuine potential.”
Penelope chuckled, easing into a chair across from Eloise. “You flatter me, but let’s be honest—you just don’t want to read them all yourself.”
“Guilty as charged,” Eloise said, laughing. “But seriously, you’re good at this. It’s like you have a sixth sense for people’s stories.”
Penelope picked up the stack of applications, her fingers skimming over the first few pages. “Well, if this baby has the same knack, maybe they’ll be a great judge of character too.”
Eloise leaned back in her chair, her grin softening into something more genuine. “Speaking of which… how are you feeling? Christmas is creeping up fast.”
Penelope rested a hand on her belly, smiling faintly. “I’m ready. Nervous, of course, but… ready. It feels right, you know? To have something joyful to look forward to.”
Eloise nodded, her expression warm. “It suits you, Pen. I mean, you’re terrifyingly efficient at this job, but you’re glowing too. It’s nice to see.”
Before Penelope could respond, the door to the office opened, and Daphne entered, balancing a tray of coffees and a paper bag. Behind her, Augie and Amelia followed, their laughter filling the space like sunlight.
“Coffee delivery,” Daphne announced, setting the tray down on Eloise’s desk. “And cookies, because it’s impossible to say no to Augie when he begs for them.”
Penelope laughed as Augie darted toward her, his little arms reaching out for a hug. She leaned down to meet him, her belly getting in the way, and ruffled his hair. “Thank you for the cookies, Augie. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t eat them all!” Eloise warned, snatching one for herself as Amelia toddled over to climb into her lap.
Daphne settled into a nearby chair, watching the scene with a soft smile. “You know, this place feels more like a family than an office these days,” she said.
Penelope glanced around, her heart swelling at the sight of Eloise balancing paperwork and a giggling toddler, Daphne handing Augie a cookie, and the rest of the team working together with quiet determination.
“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly.
As the day wound down, Penelope found herself back at her desk, reviewing the holiday grant applications Eloise had handed her earlier. The baby shifted as she worked, a gentle reminder of how close she was to the day her life would change forever.
Anthony appeared in the doorway, his presence as steady as ever. “How are things coming along?” he asked, leaning against the frame.
“Slow but steady,” Penelope replied, glancing up with a smile. “Eloise is trying to rope me into doing all the hard work again.”
Anthony smirked. “That sounds about right. But you should wrap up soon—you need rest.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m pregnant, Anthony, not made of glass.”
“Still,” he said, his tone softer. “Christmas is only a few weeks away, and I’d rather not have to drag you out of here when you go into labor.”
Penelope laughed, shaking her head. “Fine. Just a little longer. These stories… they’re worth it.”
Anthony returned to the room, carrying two mugs of tea. He set one down in front of her and pulled a chair next to hers, sitting so their shoulders almost touched.
“Let me see what you’ve got,” he said, his tone light but curious.
Penelope slid the top few papers toward him. “These are my favorites so far. But be warned—some of them will make you cry.”
Anthony smirked. “I don’t cry.”
“Of course not,” she said with mock seriousness. “You’re Anthony Bridgerton. A rock. Completely impervious to emotion.”
He laughed softly, a rare sound that made Penelope’s heart feel lighter. “Exactly. Now, let’s see these stories.”
They fell into a rhythm as they read through the applications together. Anthony would skim one, occasionally reading a passage aloud, while Penelope offered her thoughts on another. Their commentary ranged from thoughtful discussions about the applicants’ needs to lighthearted jokes about particularly convoluted sentences.
“This one,” Anthony said, holding up a paper, “wants funding for a community garden that also doubles as a petting zoo. That’s… ambitious.”
Penelope chuckled, taking the paper from him. “It’s sweet, though. Imagine the children. And the baby goats.”
“Fine,” Anthony relented, grinning. “But only because of the goats.”
They shared another laugh, their heads leaning closer together as they continued working. Penelope’s laughter was infectious, her cheeks glowing faintly from the warmth of the tea and the joy of the moment.
Anthony glanced at her as she spoke, her voice animated as she defended another applicant’s dream of a mobile library. He had always admired her determination and kindness, but tonight, something shifted.
The way her smile lingered even when she wasn’t speaking. The way she rested her hand on her belly protectively, unconsciously. The way her laughter softened the edges of his own grief.
For the first time, Anthony saw Penelope not just as Colin’s fiancée or the mother of his brother’s child, but as something more—someone who had quietly become a cornerstone in his life.
He shook the thought away quickly, turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. It wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t ready to unpack what it meant.
But the feeling lingered, a quiet warmth he couldn’t ignore.
“You’re staring,” Penelope said suddenly, her voice teasing.
Anthony blinked, caught off guard. “I am not.”
“You are,” she said, her smile widening. “You’ve been looking at me for at least five minutes.”
Anthony coughed, trying to cover his embarrassment. “I was thinking. About the mobile library.”
“Of course,” Penelope said, clearly unconvinced but merciful enough not to press the matter. “The mobile library. Very riveting.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding admitting you were staring,” she replied with a grin, returning her attention to the papers.
They worked for another hour, their laughter filling the otherwise quiet office. When they finally called it a night, Penelope leaned back in her chair, stretching carefully.
“This was nice,” she said softly, her smile fading into something gentler. “Thank you, Anthony.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “It was,” he agreed. “And you’re welcome.”
As they gathered their things and prepared to leave, Anthony couldn’t shake the new light in which he saw her. He didn’t know what it meant—only that it was there, and that it felt as natural as breathing.
For now, he tucked the thought away, content to leave it unexplored. But deep down, he knew something had shifted between them, even if neither of them was ready to acknowledge it yet.
Notes:
it was hard couple of weeks. but I'm slowly back.
Chapter 8: CHAPTER SEVEN
Summary:
At checkout, the cashier looked at them, smiled warmly.
“You two will be wonderful parents.”
Penelope froze.
Anthony didn’t blink.
He reached into his wallet, handed over his card, and said: “Thank you.”
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVEN
It started with a question she’d rehearsed a dozen times in her head but still stumbled over when it left her mouth.
They were alone. Late evening. Kitchen quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft ticking of the wall clock. Anthony leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, nursing a half-cold cup of tea he hadn't really touched. Penelope sat at the table, her hands resting on the curve of her belly, eyes tracing the grain in the wood.
The light was dim. Just the overhead lamp and the steady pulse of the storm outside—rain against glass like breath on skin.
“I need to go,” she said, not looking at him. “To this… thing. A class.”
Anthony glanced up, waiting.
“Preparation,” she clarified. “For labour.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t want to go alone.”
Her voice was small, but not unsure. Just quiet. Like she'd already been disappointed by the answer in her head.
He set down the mug and crossed the kitchen slowly. Sat across from her, the space between them barely wide enough for their knees not to touch. His eyes flicked down to her hands. One was pressing lightly on the edge of the table. The other cupped the side of her stomach. Protective. Unconscious.
“Of course,” he said.
Just that.
No hesitation. No performative duty. Just quiet resolve.
Penelope nodded. Swallowed. Her fingers brushed his briefly—accidental. Or maybe not. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
The class was held at a women’s clinic on the east side. They were the last to arrive.
It was warm inside, too warm. Penelope unbuttoned her coat with one hand and pressed the other against her lower back. Anthony helped her out of it before she could ask. His hand brushed her shoulder, steadied her elbow. Familiar now, the way he touched her. Natural.
The nurse at the front desk smiled and handed over the clipboard.
“Names?”
Penelope hesitated just a beat too long. The pen in her hand hovered.
“Penelope Bridgerton,” she said.
It slipped out like breath. Habit. Hope. Or something between the two.
The nurse smiled, oblivious. “And your husband?”
Anthony didn’t blink. “Anthony Bridgerton.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Not then.
The room was too warm. Linoleum floors. Laminated diagrams. A faint, antiseptic tang in the air that clung to the corners of the walls like ghosts. Eight couples. Folding chairs in a wide, imperfect circle. A fake baby doll lay on a hospital sheet near the front of the room, swaddled too perfectly to be real.
Penelope shifted in her seat, trying to ease the pressure off her back. Anthony—already watching—reached behind her without a word, slid a firm pillow into the small of her spine.
She exhaled. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t need to.
The instructor, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes and a voice trained to soothe, stood at the front.
“Tonight, we’re going to walk through the stages of labour. And more importantly, how your partners can support you.”
She smiled. Gestured to the men.
“You’re going to be their anchor. Their breath. Their body. You’ll hold them when they need it. Step back when they don’t. You’re the calm in the storm.”
Penelope’s hand instinctively sought her belly. The baby shifted beneath her palm. Anthony’s gaze dropped to the movement, then lifted—slow, searching—to her face.
She looked away first.
The instructor continued. “I want you to partner up. You’ll practice physical support during contractions. Gentle touch. Encouragement. Pressure when needed. Don’t be shy. Labour is not a quiet thing.”
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the room. Anthony didn’t laugh. Neither did Penelope.
When the instructor asked the partners to kneel beside their seats, Anthony obeyed without hesitation.
She felt his knees brush her boots. His hand steadied itself on the side of her calf as he knelt. A warm, grounding weight.
“Alright,” the instructor called. “Let’s simulate a contraction. Mothers, close your eyes. Partners, place one hand on their lower back. Use your voice. Your breath. Let them lean on you.”
Penelope hesitated—then let her eyes slip shut.
Anthony’s palm found her lower back. Firm. Solid. His other hand curled around hers, fingers threading without demand. His breath, steady and deliberate, aligned with hers.
In. Out. In.
She hadn’t realized how loud the world had been until that moment. The closeness. The quiet.
His hand moved in slow, grounding circles. She leaned into it. Into him.
She felt his chest rise—close, too close—just in front of her. His thumb traced over the ridge of her knuckles, slow and rhythmic.
“You’re doing good,” he murmured, the words low enough only she could hear.
It wasn’t real. The contraction. The pain.
But her eyes stung anyway.
“Switch positions,” the instructor called. “Now, I want partners behind them. Kneeling. One arm around the front, supporting the belly. Other hand for comfort. Close your eyes if it helps.”
Penelope shifted forward. Anthony moved without pause.
Kneeling behind her, he curved his body to hers. One arm looped carefully around her middle, his palm supporting the swell of her stomach. The other rested flat between her collarbones, splayed gently—not possessive, not hesitant. Just there.
Penelope’s breath hitched.
His head was close. She could feel the brush of his jaw against the crown of her head. His warmth along her spine. The press of his chest with each breath.
Her hands came up to his forearm, light and shaking. She held him there. Anchored him as he was anchoring her.
His voice again, lower now. Closer.
“You’re safe.”
The words shouldn’t have made her heart twist the way they did.
But they did.
And she didn’t pull away.
When the class ended, she stayed seated, her fingers still loosely curled around his wrist.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not until she exhaled, leaned her head back against his shoulder for the briefest moment.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything in return. Just rested his forehead against the side of hers. Just for a second.
The baby store was warm. Too bright. Rows of soft, pastel things blurred together like a dream she hadn’t meant to have.
Penelope stood just inside the entrance, her coat still hanging open, hands pressed low against her stomach. Seven months. The weight of it changed how she moved. How she breathed. How she saw the world.
Anthony stood beside her. His hand brushed her back lightly—barely there. Just a signal: I’m here.
She didn’t speak. Just walked forward, slowly, aisle by aisle. There was a hush to the place. No music. No children. Just shelves of impossibly tiny things and the squeak of her shoes on the polished floor.
He followed her.
She paused by the bassinets first. White wicker. Pale oak. Soft grey.
“I don’t know how to choose,” she murmured.
“You don’t have to,” Anthony said. “We’ll look. That’s all.”
We.
Not you.
Not I.
Just we.
She nodded.
A moment passed.
Then: “That one.” She pointed to a simple bassinet with a pale wooden frame and a cream linen liner. No frills. No patterns.
He didn’t ask why. He just read the tag. Took a photo. Quiet and efficient, like he was filing it away. They kept walking. The next aisle was bottles. Nipples. Sterilizers. Penelope picked up a glass bottle, held it to the light.
“I don’t know if I want to breastfeed,” she said. “Is that awful?”
Anthony was silent. Then: “I think whatever you choose will be right.”
She blinked. Looked at him. No judgment. Just truth. She placed the bottle in the basket he’d taken from the front.
Later, they stopped in front of shelves stacked with impossibly small clothes. Sleepers. Socks. Onesies the size of her hand.
Penelope touched a soft, knitted cardigan. Her fingers trembled.
“I thought we’d have more time,” she said, barely audible.
Anthony didn’t answer. Just stepped closer. Reached around her without touching. Pulled a green sleeper down from the rack. Stars on it.
“You liked stars,” he said.
She looked at him. Swallowed hard. Nodded. He folded the sleeper, slowly, and placed it in the basket. They moved on.
Wipes. Creams. Diapers. He asked questions here. Quiet ones.
“What kind of cream do you think?”
“Do we need a changing pad?”
He used we again. Every time.
It steadied her more than she wanted to admit.
Near the end of the trip, she stopped. Her hand pressed low against her stomach again.
The baby kicked.
Hard.
She inhaled sharply, surprised. Her knees bent a little.
Anthony was there instantly, his hand at her elbow, the other cupping her lower back.
“You alright?”
“He’s strong,” she whispered, blinking quickly. “Stronger than I expected.”
His hand slid around to her belly, tentative. Then settled. Warm. Anchoring. Her hand over his.
They stayed like that. Between shelves of baby blankets. Her hand over his. His breath steady behind her. Close.
“He’ll be okay,” Anthony said, low.
It was the first time he’d said he.
Not it.
Not the baby.
And Penelope—she didn’t cry. But her throat ached with it.
At checkout, the cashier looked at them, smiled warmly.
“You two will be wonderful parents.”
Penelope froze.
Anthony didn’t blink.
He reached into his wallet, handed over his card, and said: “Thank you.”
No corrections.
No clarifications.
Later, in the car, the bags in the back seat, Penelope sat with her hands resting on her knees. Quiet. Tired.
“You didn’t correct her,” she said softly.
Anthony kept his eyes on the road. “No.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Then: “Because I didn’t want to.”
Her breath caught.
And for a long while, neither of them said another word.
But when he pulled into the driveway, his hand found hers briefly as she reached for the door handle.
A small thing.
But not meaningless.
Nothing was, anymore.
Chapter 9: CHAPTER EIGHT
Summary:
A nurse entered with discharge papers and a bundled pink hat. “Ready to take this one home?”
Penelope nodded, but she didn’t move. Just watched Anthony cross the room to gently gather Carlie in his arms.
“Let’s get you settled,” the nurse murmured, adjusting the blanket around the infant. Then she glanced up at Anthony and asked casually, “You got the car seat ready, Dad?”
There was a beat.
Penelope turned her head. Anthony didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct her.
He only nodded. “Yeah. It’s already installed.”
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHT
The pain started just after sunrise. It wasn’t dramatic—not at first. Just a tightness, low and unfamiliar, enough to make Penelope pause halfway down the staircase and grip the bannister with a quiet curse caught between her teeth.
She stood there a moment, one hand braced on the polished rail, the other cupped under her stomach like instinct. The house was still mostly asleep. Pale light slipped through the tall windows. In the kitchen, the coffee machine clicked to life on its timer. Everything felt still. Ordinary.
Except her body was shifting. Opening.
She didn’t call for anyone. Just breathed. Just waited.
And then she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her—barefoot, unhurried, familiar. She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him.
“Penelope?”
Anthony’s voice was rough with sleep, softer than usual. He was shirtless, in drawstring pants, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck like he hadn’t meant to wake up early but something had told him to.
She turned her head slowly. Her face was pale. Calm. But her grip on the bannister hadn’t loosened.
“I think…” she began, then stopped. Swallowed. “I think it’s time.”
He didn’t ask questions. Just crossed the space between them and placed one hand low on her back. His other hand touched her wrist where it gripped the bannister and stayed there, steady and warm, until she exhaled.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The car ride was quiet. She sat curled slightly, head turned toward the glass, watching the rain trace slow lines down the window. Every few minutes, her breath hitched and he would glance over. But she never cried out. Never flinched.
Anthony drove like a man with one task and no room for fear.
When she gripped the seatbelt hard enough to make her knuckles whiten, he reached over and took her hand. Just held it. No words.
She didn’t let go.
The labor room was white. Too white. Penelope winced at the lights, at the sharp press of monitors against her skin, at the clatter of strangers moving too quickly. But Anthony stayed beside her. One hand on her hip. The other curled around hers, thumb stroking rhythmically across the back of her hand like it was the only thing keeping time.
When the pain surged—sharp and blinding—she didn’t scream. She turned into his shoulder, face buried against his collarbone, and sobbed once. Quietly.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over, low against her ear. “You’re not alone.”
Time lost shape. At some point, the room darkened. Her body felt far away. Then the doctor said something clipped and urgent, and suddenly—
A cry.
Shrill. Wet. New.
Penelope gasped.
Then silence.
Then—
“She’s perfect,” the nurse said softly.
Penelope turned her head, searching, but her vision blurred. And then she saw Anthony. Standing a few feet away, utterly still. Holding her.
The baby.
Their baby?
No. Not theirs. Not yet.
But he held her like she belonged to him. One hand behind the baby’s neck, the other cradling her bottom, his body curved protectively around her tiny form. His jaw trembled. His eyes never left the infant’s face.
Penelope whispered, barely audible, “Carlie Kate.”
Anthony blinked. Looked up. Met her eyes.
He didn’t speak. Just nodded once.
The hospital room was quiet hours later. Carlie slept, curled like a comma against Penelope’s chest. Anthony sat nearby, watching the two of them like he couldn’t quite believe they were real.
Family had come and gone. Violet had cried, hands shaking as she kissed Penelope’s forehead. Eloise had placed a soft blue crocheted hat on the baby’s head. Benedict had stood in the corner and watched with glassy eyes, then brought Anthony a terrible cup of vending machine coffee and squeezed his shoulder before leaving.
But now it was just them.
The room smelled like antiseptic and baby powder. Outside, the rain had stopped.
Anthony stood. Crossed the space between them slowly. She thought he might leave. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed.
“May I?” he asked softly.
Penelope hesitated. Then nodded.
He reached down and carefully lifted Carlie from her chest. Cradled her again. This time more confidently. She stirred once, then nestled into him.
He looked at her for a long time. Then at Penelope.
“She looks like him,” he said quietly.
Penelope nodded, tears burning behind her eyes. “I know.”
“But her mouth,” Anthony added, brushing a knuckle gently down Carlie’s cheek. “That’s you.”
They sat like that for a long time. Just watching her breathe.
And then, as if the moment had always been waiting for them, Anthony shifted, letting Carlie rest against his chest. Penelope turned slightly, shoulder touching his.
She could feel his heartbeat.
“I know she’s not mine,” he said eventually. “But I want to… be here. For her. For you.”
Penelope turned her head, cheek brushing his shoulder.
“You already are.”
Neither of them said anything after that.
There were no promises. No declarations. No labels.
Just the three of them, breathing in rhythm, hearts recalibrating around something quietly, utterly new.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds in pale strips. Penelope lay propped on a pillow, Carlie tucked against her, her tiny fists still curled like she hadn’t quite decided whether the world was safe yet.
Anthony packed quietly. Folded the extra clothes into the overnight bag. Made a list of everything they needed for the pediatrician visit. Called the car. All of it quietly, efficiently, like breathing.
A nurse entered with discharge papers and a bundled pink hat. “Ready to take this one home?”
Penelope nodded, but she didn’t move. Just watched Anthony cross the room to gently gather Carlie in his arms.
“Let’s get you settled,” the nurse murmured, adjusting the blanket around the infant. Then she glanced up at Anthony and asked casually, “You got the car seat ready, Dad?”
There was a beat.
Penelope turned her head. Anthony didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct her.
He only nodded. “Yeah. It’s already installed.”
And that was it.
No explanation. No ceremony.
Just the three of them, quietly crossing the threshold between one kind of life and another.
The car turned onto the long gravel drive, crunching softly beneath the tires. Rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the garden glistening in the late morning light. Penelope sat still in the backseat, , her body aching in places she didn’t have names for.
She hadn’t expected anyone to be waiting.
But as they pulled up to the Bridgerton house—Anthony’s house, she reminded herself, not hers, not really—the front door opened.
And they were all there.
Violet stood at the top of the steps, hands clasped at her chest, eyes already wet. Daphne beside her, holding Augie on her hip. Eloise, arms crossed but face soft. Gregory. Hyacinth. Benedict. Even Francesca had come down from Scotland.
It wasn’t loud. No shouts or balloons or clapping. Just a quiet line of people standing in the morning sun, watching as Anthony stepped out of the car and came around to open Penelope’s door.
She moved slowly, every muscle trembling from exhaustion. But when she stepped out, still cradling Carlie, the family didn’t crowd her.
They simply made space.
Soft murmurs. A few quiet gasps. Violet’s hand on her cheek. Francesca brushing a blanket back from the baby’s face. Daphne squeezing her arm. Eloise holding her gaze for a beat longer than expected.
Penelope didn’t know what she had imagined—awkwardness, hesitation, too many eyes—but it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t the way Anthony hovered just behind her, not pushing but close enough that she could lean back if she needed.
It wasn’t the way Benedict took the bag from Anthony’s hand without being asked.
Or how Hyacinth whispered, “She’s so small,” like she was holding something sacred in her voice.
Penelope stood there, still and overwhelmed, and felt something she hadn’t expected to feel in that moment—something fuller than relief, warmer than gratitude.
Later, when the afternoon sun had turned golden and Carlie had finally fallen asleep in the bassinet by the window, Penelope sank into the armchair in the upstairs guest room. She didn’t remember sitting down. Just that her body had begun to shake and someone—probably Daphne—had taken the baby gently from her arms.
Violet came upstairs quietly, touched her shoulder, and said, “We’ll give you some time.”
And just like that, the house emptied of sound.
The family filtered out one by one, not because they were unwelcome, but because they knew. Because love, at its best, knows when to step back.
Anthony came in last. He placed a glass of water on the side table. Closed the door.
Penelope leaned her head back, eyes fluttering shut.
Anthony stood near the window. Watching her. Watching the baby. Saying nothing.
The room was still.
Not lonely.
Just full in a quieter way.
That night, Carlie cried. Often.
Anthony didn’t hesitate. Every time she stirred, he moved. Changed diapers. Held her in the crook of his arm while Penelope leaned against a wall, blinking through the ache in her spine.
At 4 a.m., Penelope sat on the nursery rocker, half asleep, feeding Carlie. Her nightshirt was wrinkled, her hair a mess. Milk leaked slowly onto the burp cloth.
Anthony came in and crouched at her feet. No words. Just one hand wrapped around her ankle.
Grounding.
She leaned her head back and let her eyes close for a few seconds. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
She opened her eyes. “Like I survived.”
Anthony didn’t smile. But something passed over his face. Something reverent.
“You did,” he said.
Eloise wandered into the nursery one morning midweek, yawning, barefoot, clutching a cup of tea and a novel under her arm.
She didn’t knock. Just leaned in the doorway, blinking sleepily, and said, “I heard the gremlin from my room. Thought I’d come see what state you were in.”
Penelope was in the rocking chair, Carlie curled against her chest, one hand absently patting her back.
Eloise stepped inside, took one look at Anthony—bleary-eyed, adjusting a baby sling with a level of focus usually reserved for emergency surgery—and smirked.
“Oh dear God,” she muttered. “He’s gone full dad.”
Anthony glanced up. “I’m managing.”
“You have something—” she pointed vaguely at his shoulder, “—spit-up, maybe. Or existential defeat. Hard to tell.”
Penelope snorted softly. Eloise grinned and came closer, leaning down to kiss Carlie’s head. “Hello, squish. Has he told you the duck joke yet? No? Good. Don’t encourage him.”
Benedict was quieter. Present, but soft at the edges.
He passed through the house like he always had—barefoot, carrying sketchbooks, humming off-key—and now and then he would pause.
Sometimes in the doorway, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes beside Anthony who stood at the sink rinsing bottles at midnight with shadows under his eyes.
He didn’t offer advice. Just handed him a glass of water. Or took the bottle and finished rinsing it himself.
One afternoon, he left a sketch on the nightstand in Penelope’s room—her cradling Carlie, hair loose, shoulders slumped in quiet strength. No note. Just a truth left behind.
Violet was everywhere and nowhere—appearing in doorways with folded laundry, slipping warm cups of broth into Penelope’s hands, brushing past Anthony in the hall with a knowing look and a hand on his back.
She didn’t make speeches.
She simply made space.
And that, somehow, felt like love.
Daphne visited near the end of the first month, arriving with a tin of oatmeal cookies and an expression that said she’d been waiting weeks for this.
She beelined for Carlie, scooped her up with confident arms, and said, “She’s got Bridgerton eyes. Poor girl.”
Penelope laughed. A little too hard.
Then Daphne sat her down in the kitchen and began—gently, relentlessly—offloading years of unsolicited but warm advice.
“Let her cry sometimes. It’s not cruel, it’s sanity.”
“Always keep one hand on the pram and the other on your caffeine.”
“And don’t forget,” she added, glancing toward Anthony, “he’ll be insufferable for a while, but you’ll miss it if he stops trying so hard.”
Anthony, walking by, paused. “I can hear you.”
Daphne didn’t blink. “Good.”
Portia arrived unannounced one breezy Sunday afternoon.
She came bearing lace booties, an extravagant stuffed giraffe, and a wide-brimmed hat that didn’t match the season.
But when she saw Penelope holding Carlie by the window, she stopped. Went still.
“Oh,” she whispered. “She’s… she’s beautiful.”
Penelope waited for the inevitable correction, the comment about Colin’s nose or the color of her curls. But it didn’t come.
Portia walked slowly over, touched the baby’s foot, and sat beside her daughter with unexpected gentleness.
“You’re doing well,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”
And somehow—Penelope believed her.
And then the rhythm came.
Not in a rush. Not with any grand declaration.
But in the soft, unnoticed things.
Anthony rising before her to change a diaper. Penelope dozing beside him on the couch, Carlie asleep between them. Eloise walking past with a sarcastic remark but leaving a clean muslin cloth on the armrest. Benedict returning with groceries no one asked for. Violet folding a blanket and tucking it just-so around the baby’s feet.
There was no conversation about who they were. No demand for labels.
Just proximity. Attention. Breath syncing over weeks.
And in that quiet, something solid began to form.
Not Colin’s family. Not what had been lost.
Something new.
That night, when Penelope woke to the sound of Carlie stirring, she found Anthony already there. Shirtless, sleepy, cradling her daughter against his chest and pacing slowly across the nursery floor.
She leaned her head against the doorframe.
He turned toward her.
And smiled.
No words passed between them. No grand shift. Just warmth. Familiarity. The silent gravity of something growing without being named.
Her daughter.
But in that quiet, watching him hold her—so careful, so steady—Penelope felt it rise in her chest like breath returning after too long underwater.
She wanted her to be theirs.
Their home. The beginning of something neither of them had dared to expect—but had somehow, quietly, begun to become real.
Notes:
3 more chapters to the end!!
Chapter 10
Summary:
Penelope leaned against the doorframe, half-hidden in the shadow, just watching them.
Anthony was patient in a way she hadn’t expected. He didn’t rush Carlie when she was determined to figure something out on her own. He didn’t scold when she pulled his hair or smeared sticky fingers across his shirt. He simply steadied her. Held her when she wobbled. Guided her without forcing.
And Carlie—God, Carlie looked at him like he was her entire compass.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINE
The house had grown quieter somehow, though it was never truly still. There were always footsteps in the hall. Laughter somewhere. A door closing softly. The creak of old wood under shifting weight.
But the mornings belonged to them.
Penelope woke to sunlight pooled across the edge of the bed, her hair sticking damply to her temple, and the low murmur of Anthony’s voice coming from the nursery. It was always his voice she heard first.
She pulled on a soft robe and padded barefoot across the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
Anthony stood with his back to her, shirt rumpled, hair a little too messy for someone who claimed he hadn’t slept in, holding Carlie at his hip while fastening one-handed the buttons on her pale yellow cardigan.
“You don’t need this many layers,” he told the baby seriously, as though she might argue. “But your grandmother insists. And we both know she wins.”
Carlie reached up and grabbed his collar instead, babbling something incoherent. He nodded solemnly, playing along. “Agreed. Eloise is far too opinionated before breakfast.”
Penelope laughed softly, the sound spilling into the room like sunlight. Anthony turned at the sound, half-smiling.
“You should be resting,” he said, but his tone was gentle, without edge.
“I am resting,” she countered. “I’m leaning against the wall, aren’t I?”
He raised an eyebrow, then held out Carlie without ceremony. Penelope stepped forward, gathering her daughter close, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of milk and lavender soap.
Breakfast happened in layers.
Violet was already in the kitchen, hair pinned neatly, humming faintly under her breath as she stirred something at the stove. Eloise sat cross-legged on the counter, reading the newspaper upside down for no discernible reason. Benedict was sketching absently on a napkin, brow furrowed.
“Morning,” Penelope said, shifting Carlie to her other hip.
“Finally,” Eloise replied, without looking up. “Your daughter’s been conducting a symphony upstairs since six. You should be proud.”
“She’s advanced,” Anthony said dryly, setting mugs on the table.
“She’s loud,” Eloise corrected, peering over the newspaper. “Also, she definitely prefers him.” She tipped her head toward Anthony. “You’re aware of that, right?”
Penelope glanced down at Carlie, who was gnawing on her sleeve but turned her head at the sound of Anthony’s voice in the next breath.
Penelope pretended not to notice the small tug in her chest.
Later, after breakfast, Carlie toddled unsteadily across the carpet, chasing the wooden block Benedict had rolled toward her. Anthony knelt nearby, steadying her when she stumbled, murmuring soft encouragements under his breath.
“You do realise,” Benedict said from his armchair, smirking faintly, “you’ve become entirely insufferable.”
Anthony didn’t look up. “She’s walking.”
“Yes,” Benedict said dryly. “People tend to, eventually.”
Anthony ignored him, holding out his hands to Carlie as she took a few wobbly steps before collapsing against his chest with a delighted squeal. He gathered her up, kissed the top of her curls, and glanced up at Penelope without meaning to.
She met his gaze.
Something warm passed between them. Quiet. Steady. Unspoken.
Afternoons often blurred together now. The rhythm of them felt settled, though neither Penelope nor Anthony had ever spoken about it.
Carlie’s laughter carried through the halls like small bells, punctuated by the thud of toys against wood and Eloise’s exaggerated sighs whenever she had to retrieve one from under the sofa.
Anthony was on the floor in the sitting room, legs folded beneath him, sleeves rolled carelessly past his elbows. Carlie sat between his knees, clutching a worn block in both hands, smacking it against the rug with deep concentration.
“You’re meant to stack them,” he said seriously, demonstrating by placing two blocks carefully on top of each other.
Carlie looked at him. Blinked once. Then sent them both tumbling with a sharp slap of her hand.
Anthony sighed theatrically. “Hopeless.”
From the armchair, Eloise snorted without lifting her book. “She’s smarter than you already.”
“She’s destructive,” he corrected, adjusting her balance before she toppled sideways.
“She’s a Bridgerton,” Eloise said, flipping the page. “Same thing.”
Penelope leaned against the doorframe, half-hidden in the shadow, just watching them.
Anthony was patient in a way she hadn’t expected. He didn’t rush Carlie when she was determined to figure something out on her own. He didn’t scold when she pulled his hair or smeared sticky fingers across his shirt. He simply steadied her. Held her when she wobbled. Guided her without forcing.
And Carlie—God, Carlie looked at him like he was her entire compass.
She caught herself smiling. Then stopped, trying to school her expression, though there was no one to hide from.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.
Anthony had just returned from a rehearsal, his tie loosened, jacket draped haphazardly over the sofa. Carlie, perched in Penelope’s lap, twisted suddenly and launched herself forward, arms outstretched.
Anthony froze mid-step, startled.
Carlie bounced, impatient, and then said it—clear, unmistakable:
“Dada!”
The sound cut through the room like silence breaking.
Anthony stopped breathing. So did Penelope.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then he crossed the space between them slowly, almost cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if the moment was allowed to be real.
“You heard that,” he said finally, his voice rough.
Penelope nodded, holding Carlie closer. “I heard.”
Carlie wriggled until Anthony took her, small hands fisting into his shirt, babbling something soft and incoherent against his neck. He kissed her hair, his jaw tightening.
Later that night, long after the house had gone quiet, Penelope lay awake listening to Carlie’s soft breathing from the crib across the room. Anthony had fallen asleep in the armchair nearby, one leg stretched awkwardly, arms folded over his chest.
He’d refused to leave, even after she insisted he go to bed. Said he liked being there in case she woke.
The lamplight caught on the sharp edge of his jaw, softened him somehow.
Penelope watched him for a long time, something restless blooming in her chest.
The weeks after Carlie’s first word settled into something quieter. Not simple, not easy—but balanced in a way Penelope hadn’t expected.
She and Anthony were both back at work now. Different worlds, different hours, different weights pulling at them—but somehow, they’d learned to move around each other without needing to discuss it.
In the mornings, Anthony rose first. Always. She’d hear him moving through the house before dawn, his footsteps soft as he slipped into the nursery to check on Carlie. Sometimes she found him there, crouched by the crib, pressing a kiss to her hair before heading out.
On the days Penelope left early, he made breakfast for both of them—toast, tea, something quick—and left her a note on the counter: She’s fed. Asleep. You’ve got this.
When he stayed late, Penelope handled bedtime. Sat cross-legged on the floor, humming softly while Carlie gnawed on her favorite wooden ring. Sometimes, when Anthony came home past midnight, he’d find them both asleep in the rocking chair, her head tilted against the window, Carlie curled against her chest.
He never woke her. Just carried Carlie carefully to her crib, adjusted the blanket around her tiny legs, and—once, just once—he brushed Penelope’s hair gently back from her face before turning out the light.
They became something like a team without ever calling it that.
Eloise called it “domestic chaos disguised as efficiency,” watching them trade tasks in silence one morning over coffee while Carlie crawled under the table, determined to chew on the table leg.
“You realise you’re doing entire conversations without speaking, right?” she said, reaching down to pull Carlie free.
Anthony glanced at Penelope, passing her the clean bottle she hadn’t asked for. “Efficient,” he said simply.
Eloise rolled her eyes. “Tragic.”
It wasn’t always seamless.
There were nights when both of them were exhausted, tension sharp around the edges of small things—a misplaced pacifier, a forgotten appointment, emails unanswered. But even then, the frustration never lasted long.
Anthony had a way of grounding her without words. A hand at the small of her back as she paced. A quiet reminder to breathe when she forgot how. Sometimes, when she was overwhelmed, he’d take Carlie without being asked and disappear into the nursery until the world felt steady again.
And Penelope, in turn, had learned his silences. She knew when to bring him tea after a long day, when to leave him space, and when to simply sit beside him without filling the quiet.
Somehow, without ever deciding to, they’d built a rhythm around each other.
One Sunday afternoon, Benedict sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, carving a small wooden horse with meticulous focus. The shavings curled into little spirals around his feet.
Anthony leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him work.
“You realise,” Benedict said without looking up, “you’ve become a parody of yourself.”
Anthony frowned. “How, exactly?”
Benedict gestured vaguely with the carving knife toward Carlie, who sat in Anthony’s lap chewing on the corner of a muslin cloth. “This. All of it. You’re utterly gone for her.”
Anthony glanced down at Carlie, who blinked up at him with wide, sticky eyes, and shrugged. “She likes me.”
“She tolerates you,” Benedict corrected, smirking faintly. “You’ve become insufferable.”
Anthony looked unbothered. “You’re carving her a toy horse.”
Benedict paused. “Shut up.”
Later, in the kitchen, Eloise perched on the counter with Carlie balanced on her hip, holding a spoon like a scepter.
“She prefers me,” Eloise announced as Penelope passed by, reaching for a clean bottle. “You do realise that, don’t you?”
Anthony, pouring tea, didn’t glance up. “She cried when you picked her up yesterday.”
“She was testing me,” Eloise replied serenely. “Bonding through adversity.”
Penelope laughed softly, shaking her head as she took Carlie back. Eloise huffed. “Fine. Maybe she prefers you, but only because you spend all your time bribing her.”
Anthony handed Carlie a small piece of fruit. “It’s called parenting.”
“It’s called manipulation,” Eloise countered, stealing the fruit for herself.
olet stayed quiet through most of it. But sometimes, Penelope caught her watching them.
Once, on a rainy afternoon, Violet stood in the doorway while Anthony sat cross-legged on the rug, holding Carlie steady as she attempted to stack blocks. Penelope sat nearby, watching his hands guide her little fingers.
“She adores him,” Violet said softly, her voice almost reverent.
Penelope didn’t look up. “I know.”
Violet touched her shoulder lightly, grounding her. “She should,” she said simply. “He’s already hers.”
Penelope’s throat tightened, but she only nodded.
It was the first time they’d left Carlie.
Penelope hesitated in the doorway, coat folded over her arm, watching Violet sway gently with the baby. Carlie rested her cheek against her grandmother’s shoulder, tiny hands clutching at the soft fabric of her dress.
“She’ll be fine,” Violet said softly, as though sensing the tightness in Penelope’s chest. “Go. You deserve one night where the world doesn’t ask anything of you.”
Penelope nodded, but the motion felt mechanical. Her throat caught when Carlie made a soft sound, turning her head at the sound of her voice.
“She’ll be fine,” Anthony repeated, quiet behind her. Not reassurance. A promise.
When Penelope glanced back, his expression was steady. Unreadable. But his hand brushed lightly at the small of her back, guiding her toward the door.
The hotel was silent. The stillness sat strangely against her skin, like a world holding its breath.
The day blurred: meetings, reports, polite conversation. She went through the motions, but the absence of Carlie — and, strangely, the absence of Anthony’s usual proximity — carved a restlessness into her.
By evening, there was nowhere else to be.
Neither suggested the bar. They just found themselves there.
The space was dim, the lights low and golden, shadows pooling at the edges. The muted hum of conversation surrounded them, a distant echo rather than a presence.
Anthony ordered bourbon. Penelope wrapped her fingers around a glass of wine she barely touched.
For the first time in more than a year, there was no nursery down the hall. No bottles to warm. No quiet cries pulling them from sleep.
For the first time, it was just them.
They sat opposite each other at a small corner table, a soft silence between them that wasn’t uncomfortable, just weighted. Penelope traced the rim of her glass, watching the condensation gather and drip down her fingertips.
Anthony leaned back, his jacket discarded, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. She realised, distantly, that she’d almost forgotten what he looked like without exhaustion clinging to his edges.
He looked younger. Softer. Different.
He was watching her.
Penelope glanced up and caught his gaze, and it felt like touching a live wire. Her chest tightened, breath catching before she could stop it.
“What?” she asked, attempting something light, though her voice came out lower than she meant it to.
He tilted his head slightly, resting his thumb against the edge of his glass. “You’re laughing again,” he said softly. “I’d missed that.”
Her throat tightened. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice everything,” he said.
The words hung there between them, louder than the music, louder than the conversations around them.
It happened slowly, and then all at once.
Penelope set her glass down carefully, aware of the tremor in her hand. Anthony’s gaze never wavered.
He reached across the table first — fingertips brushing lightly beneath her jaw, tentative, like testing the shape of permission.
Penelope exhaled, leaning infinitesimally into his hand before she even thought to.
That was enough.
The kiss wasn’t soft at first. It wasn’t gentle. It was years of holding, of burying, of choosing silence over everything else — spilling out in one suspended moment.
Anthony’s other hand came to rest against the side of her neck, anchoring her as though he’d been waiting for this and was terrified she might change her mind.
Penelope’s fingers curled around his wrist instinctively, holding him there. Not pulling him closer yet — just needing him steady, needing the weight of this to be real.
Her breath caught when he deepened it — slow, deliberate, patient but full of heat barely restrained.
It wasn’t just desire. It was inevitability.
When they finally broke apart, Penelope’s forehead rested against his, both of them still, breathing the same unsteady air.
Neither spoke. There was nothing to say.
Later, she stood outside her hotel room door, the key cold in her hand.
She should go inside. Sleep. Pretend.
Instead, she crossed the hall and knocked once.
The door opened almost immediately.
Anthony stood there barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair slightly mussed. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was steady, unwavering.
He didn’t ask why she was there.
She didn’t explain.
She stepped inside, brushing against him as she passed.
The door clicked softly shut behind her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was dim, the city lights spilling faintly through the half-drawn curtains, painting thin silver lines across the carpet.
Penelope stood there, still and uncertain, her pulse heavy against the silence.
Anthony didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. He just watched her, his tie gone, shirt half undone, sleeves falling loose around his forearms.
She exhaled slowly, as though the air between them had thickened, and when her gaze finally met his, it was like something unspoken passed between them — the permission neither of them had needed, but both had been waiting for.
He reached for her then. Not rushed, not demanding. Just a quiet inevitability.
Her breath caught when his hand brushed along her jaw, his thumb tracing lightly beneath her lip before sliding into her hair.
And then he kissed her again.
This one was different.
Slower. Deeper. Steady in a way that felt like surrender — not to desire but to everything they’d been holding back.
Penelope’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer without thought, without hesitation. His palm pressed to the small of her back, guiding her gently until she was against him fully, the length of him grounding her.
The kiss shifted, soft and deliberate, his mouth opening over hers, tasting of bourbon and warmth. Her body trembled when his hand slid beneath the edge of her blouse, fingertips brushing bare skin with an almost reverent restraint, like he’d been imagining this for far too long to rush it now.
She made a quiet sound against his mouth — almost a sigh, almost a release — and felt him exhale sharply in response, his forehead dropping to hers for a moment, breath mingling, both of them still caught between need and restraint.
When they finally moved, it was unhurried.
Anthony lifted her onto the bed carefully, as though he was afraid she might break beneath his hands, and she let him, sinking back into the cool sheets, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he knelt over her.
He kissed her again, slower this time, lips tracing her jaw, her throat, the hollow beneath her ear — each touch deliberate, as though he wanted to memorize her inch by inch.
Penelope threaded her fingers into his hair, tilting his face up until their mouths met again, and something inside her loosened all at once, all the tension she’d been holding since Colin’s death, since Carlie’s birth, since the day Anthony had quietly stepped into her life and stayed.
There was no rush. No frantic tearing away.
Every movement was deliberate. Every kiss lingered.
It was careful, yes — but full of something deeper than restraint.
Full of want. Full of need. Full of a tenderness so heavy she thought it might break her open.
Anthony touched her like he’d been carrying this weight for months — maybe longer. Like each shift of his palm across her skin was something he’d dreamed of but never let himself take.
When he finally slid inside her, it was slow. Perfectly slow.
Penelope’s breath caught, her fingers gripping his shoulders hard, and his hand came to her hip to steady her, his other braced above her head.
Their eyes met — just for a second — and she felt everything there.
The longing. The quiet ache. The wordless promise neither of them could say aloud yet.
Anthony kissed her again, softer now, until it blurred into something endless, something that felt like coming home.
They moved together like they’d been waiting a lifetime — unspoken affection spilling into every touch, every shiver, every quiet sigh caught between their mouths.
It wasn’t urgent.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was the kind of intimacy born not from hunger, but from recognition.
From finally, finally letting go.
When it was over, Anthony stayed above her, their breaths tangled, foreheads resting together as if either of them moved too soon, the spell would break.
Neither spoke.
He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone once, almost absently, and Penelope closed her eyes, leaning into the touch.
Something had shifted.
Not loudly. Not obviously.
But completely.
The morning broke softly, pale light spilling through the sheer curtains, cutting faint gold across the hotel room floor.
Penelope woke first, her cheek pressed against Anthony’s shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath her ear. For a moment, she lay still, letting the weight of the night settle inside her.
She hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not yet. Not like this.
And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single thing.
Anthony stirred, his arm shifting around her waist, pulling her instinctively closer before he’d even opened his eyes. When he did, his gaze met hers — steady, quiet, unreadable.
Neither of them spoke.
There was no need.
Anthony sat up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, and raked a hand through his hair. Penelope sat beside him, legs curled beneath her, the silence between them soft rather than strained.
Finally, he glanced sideways at her.
“We should go back,” he said, voice low, rough from sleep.
Penelope blinked, heart stuttering, until he added — quietly, deliberately:
“To our daughter.”
Something inside her loosened. The way he said it. Our.
She nodded, barely trusting herself to speak. “Yes.”
They dressed without hurry, without pretense. Anthony buttoned his shirt slowly, sleeves rolled haphazardly, while Penelope smoothed the wrinkles from her dress with shaking hands.
No words passed between them, but there were glances — soft, weighted, lingering.
When they left the room, the air in the hallway felt different somehow. The world hadn’t shifted, but they had.
Back at the Bridgerton house, Violet opened the door with Carlie balanced easily on her hip.
“Someone’s been waiting for you,” she whispered, kissing the top of Carlie’s head before passing her carefully into Penelope’s arms.
Carlie made a delighted sound, curling small fists into her mother’s blouse. Then, almost immediately, she stretched toward Anthony, babbling something soft and insistent.
Anthony took her without hesitation, cradling her easily, pressing a quiet kiss into her curls.
Neither he nor Penelope said anything.
But when their eyes met, it was there.
Whatever they were now, whatever they’d begun last night — Carlie was at the center of it.
And somehow, that made it feel inevitable.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TEN
It had been different, last year.
Carlie’s first birthday had passed quietly — a small table in the Bridgerton gardens, soft lemon cakes, a handful of wildflowers cut fresh from Violet’s greenhouse. It wasn’t a celebration so much as a moment to breathe. To honour how far they’d come.
Penelope remembered the way Carlie’s curls stuck to her damp forehead as she leaned against Anthony’s shoulder, impossibly small in his arms. She remembered Eloise insisting on singing off-key, Benedict presenting a sketch he’d drawn of Carlie asleep, and Violet kissing her cheek with a whispered, “You’re doing beautifully, my dear.”
That day, Carlie had surprised them all. Reaching for Anthony, steady on wobbly legs, she’d called out clearly:
“Dada.”
Anthony hadn’t spoken for a full minute after, his throat working silently, eyes damp though he’d tried to hide it. And when Carlie turned, reaching for Penelope next, she’d said:
“Mama.”
Everything shifted that day, though no one spoke of it. They didn’t need to.
Now, a year later, the house was alive with noise and light.
Carlie’s second birthday was nothing like the first. The Bridgerton gardens were strung with pale bunting, tiny paper lanterns swaying lazily in the breeze. Tables were laid out beneath the big oak tree, full of cakes and soft fruit and bowls of jam Violet had prepared herself.
Anthony stood on the lawn, holding Carlie’s hand as she toddled across the grass in a pale yellow dress, curls bouncing wildly in the sunlight. In her other fist, she clutched the small stuffed bunny Eloise had gifted her — already dragged half through the dirt.
Penelope watched from the terrace, hands wrapped around a teacup that had long since gone cold. Her gaze followed them — father and daughter — as Carlie shrieked with laughter when Anthony swung her carefully up onto his shoulders.
The sound threaded through her chest, soft and bright and grounding.
“Don’t look now,” Eloise murmured beside her, sipping lemonade like it was champagne, “but you two are married in everything but name It’s obscene.”
Penelope blinked, heat creeping up her neck. “We are not—”
“You are,” Eloise said flatly, nodding toward Anthony, who was now pretending to be chased across the grass by Benedict wearing a ridiculous paper crown Carlie had made herself. “Look at him. Completely gone. And for what? A two-year-old tyrant who commands him with sticky hands and snack crumbs.”
“She’s his world,” Penelope said softly, half to herself.
Eloise shot her a sidelong glance but didn’t comment, only nudging her shoulder gently before wandering off to referee Gregory and Hyacinth’s increasingly chaotic game of tag.
From across the lawn, Anthony caught Penelope’s eye.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.
He just smiled. Small. Quiet. Meant only for her.
And Penelope felt it — the warmth curling low in her chest, the recognition of everything they had built together without ever naming it.
This wasn’t the life she’d imagined years ago. But somehow, it was the only one that made sense.
he gardens looked like something out of a memory.
Violet had arranged everything herself — soft bunting strung between the old oak trees, tables draped in pale linen, little vases of wildflowers placed just so. There were baskets of lemon biscuits, sugared berries, scones still warm from the oven.
Carried on the warm summer air, there was laughter everywhere.
Gregory and Hyacinth raced around the far end of the lawn, shrieking with a level of energy Penelope didn’t remember ever possessing at their age. Eloise, balancing a plate precariously in one hand and Carlie’s new stuffed bunny in the other, narrated the chaos loudly for Carlie’s “future memoirs.”
Benedict stood near the trellis, sketchbook in hand, muttering something about “capturing her curls before she grows out of this exact softness.”
And through it all, Carlie ran — barefoot, wild, her pale yellow dress already grass-stained at the hem, curls tumbling as she darted between Anthony’s legs and Eloise’s outstretched hands.
Anthony, for his part, let her tug him where she pleased, lifting her carefully when she demanded it, crouching low when she wanted him on the ground, patient and steady despite the chaos unfolding around them.
“Penelope,” Violet called softly, touching her elbow. “Come here a moment, dearest.”
She followed her into the shade beneath the largest oak tree, where Violet pressed a small velvet box into her palm.
“It’s for her,” Violet said, voice catching slightly.
Inside lay a delicate gold locket, tiny and perfect, engraved with Colin’s initials on the back.
Penelope’s breath stilled. “Violet…”
“She’ll want it when she’s older,” Violet said gently, brushing a stray curl from Carlie’s forehead as she passed. “So she’ll always know where she came from.”
Penelope swallowed against the ache in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Anthony appeared then, carrying Carlie against his chest, her small arms looped loosely around his neck. His gaze flicked from the locket to Penelope’s face, reading everything she didn’t say aloud. He didn’t speak either — just touched her hand briefly, grounding her in the way only he could.
Benedict’s laugh carried from somewhere nearby, followed by Eloise yelling something sharp and witty in return.
“You realise,” Benedict called over, pointing toward Anthony as though making a declaration, “he’s completely unrecognisable these days.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“You’ve gone full domesticated,” Benedict said, smirking as he gestured toward Carlie, who was busy inspecting a ladybug crawling up Anthony’s sleeve. “Burp cloths, bedtime songs, collecting wildflowers on demand — you’re done for, brother.”
Anthony glanced at Carlie, who patted his cheek with sticky fingers and then planted a wet, unbalanced kiss on his chin. He smiled faintly, unbothered. “Seems worth it.”
Eloise groaned loudly, throwing her hands in the air. “Disgusting. I need more cake to survive this.”
As the afternoon slipped into evening, the party grew quieter.
Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting soft pools of golden light across the garden. The younger Bridgertons sprawled lazily on picnic blankets, half-asleep from too much sugar. Violet disappeared inside to fetch tea, Benedict and Eloise still bickering somewhere near the terrace.
Penelope stood at the edge of the lawn, sipping the last of her cooled tea, watching Carlie chase shadows in the fading light.
Anthony joined her silently, shoulder brushing hers as he passed her a plate she hadn’t asked for — scones split neatly, jam tucked into the corner.
She took it without thinking, fingers brushing his.
The contact was brief, but her breath caught anyway.
Anthony said nothing. Neither did she.
But there was something in the silence between them. A steadiness. A knowing.
calling out:
“Dada! Mama! Look!”
Anthony’s hand found Penelope’s before she could move, his thumb brushing lightly along her knuckles.
Together, they watched their daughter spin under the fading light, curls catching gold where the lantern glow met the setting sun.
The weight of it — of all they’d built without meaning to — pressed between them like something inevitable.
Anthony didn’t let go of her hand.
The house was hushed after the party, the warm hum of the day settling into soft stillness.
Carrying Carlie upstairs, Anthony pressed a kiss into her curls, breathing in that faint lavender scent before laying her gently in the crib. Penelope stood nearby, smoothing the edge of the blanket around her daughter’s legs.
For a while, they both stayed there, neither speaking, listening to Carlie’s quiet, even breaths.
Then Anthony reached for Penelope’s hand, threading his fingers through hers, and tugged her softly toward the hallway.
“Come outside,” he murmured.
The balcony doors opened onto warm night air, the last threads of lantern light still glowing faintly in the garden below. The faint chatter of Eloise and Benedict drifted somewhere distant, but here — it was quiet.
Penelope leaned against the railing, palms resting on the cool stone, the soft hum of crickets rising from the hedgerows below. Anthony stood close enough that their arms brushed, but he didn’t speak at first.
Instead, he watched her — the faint light catching in her hair, her gaze turned toward the gardens where paper lanterns still swayed in the breeze.
“You know,” he said finally, voice low, deliberate, “this feels different now.”
She glanced at him, brow furrowed slightly. “What does?”
“Us.”
The word hung between them, fragile and solid all at once.
Anthony shifted, resting one hand on the railing beside hers, his thumb brushing against the back of her knuckles.
“I’ve been thinking about last year,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the dark lawn below. “How lost I felt. How… untethered we both were.”
Penelope’s throat tightened, but she stayed silent.
“And then there was Carlie,” he continued, glancing toward the softly lit window of the nursery. “And somehow, you. And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like I was holding everyone together. It started feeling like…” He hesitated, breath catching faintly. “Like you were holding me, too.”
Penelope swallowed hard, fingers curling lightly into the railing, but before she could answer, Anthony turned toward her fully.
His hand found hers, warm and steady, and when she looked up, he was already watching her.
“I don’t want this to stay unspoken,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”
From his pocket, he drew a small velvet box — simple, understated, as though it had been waiting there for months.
He opened it without flourish, revealing a delicate gold band — nothing extravagant, but timeless and steady.
“Marry me,” he said.
Just that.
No questions. No promises he hadn’t already made a hundred quiet ways over the last two years.
Penelope’s breath caught, tears blurring the edges of her vision.
For a long moment, she didn’t move — just stared at him, at the ring, at the way his thumb brushed her wrist like he was grounding them both.
Then she nodded. Once. Small, trembling.
“Yes,” she whispered, the word breaking softly between them.
Anthony exhaled, relief unspooling from his shoulders as though he’d been holding his breath forever.
He slipped the ring onto her finger, his thumb lingering there briefly before lifting her hand to his lips, pressing a quiet kiss against her knuckles.
When Penelope finally looked up, Anthony was smiling — small and certain, the kind of smile meant only for her.
And for the first time, neither of them tried to hide it.
Back inside, Carlie was fast asleep, curled on her side, one tiny fist resting beneath her cheek, her stuffed bunny tucked safely under her arm.
Anthony leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching her with a stillness Penelope had come to know well.
“She’s grown so fast,” he murmured, his voice rough from the weight of the day.
Penelope stood beside him, resting her shoulder lightly against his. “Sometimes it feels like we missed whole months without noticing.”
He turned his head slightly, looking at her profile. “No,” he said softly. “We didn’t miss them. We were here. Every minute of them.”
They settled on the floor, backs against the nursery wall, knees drawn up, the soft hum of Carlie’s breathing filling the space between them. Toys were scattered lazily across the rug — a wooden horse Benedict had carved, Eloise’s handmade picture book, small blocks stacked unevenly near the window.
Anthony reached for her hand without thinking, his thumb brushing along the new ring resting there.
Penelope glanced down at their joined hands, her breath catching quietly.
After a long moment, she whispered, almost as if afraid to disturb the quiet:
“I didn’t think I’d have this again.”
Anthony’s thumb stilled over her knuckles. “This?”
“A home. A family,” she said softly. “Something… steady.”
He turned, leaning slightly so his shoulder brushed hers. “You were always going to,” he said simply. “Even when you didn’t believe it.”
Penelope blinked against the warmth pricking her eyes and leaned her head gently against his shoulder.
The quiet stretched.
Neither of them moved for a long while. Carlie stirred once in her crib and settled again, sighing softly in her sleep.
“I love you,” Penelope said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, her words carried in the low light of the room.
Anthony didn’t answer at once. He just closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and turned to press a kiss into her hair.
“I know,” he said softly, his mouth brushing her temple. “I love you, too.”
Later, when they finally rose, Anthony bent to tuck the blanket more securely around Carlie’s tiny shoulders. Penelope stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly against the frame, watching him without speaking.
The lamplight caught the gold of her ring, warm and quiet and certain.
And as she glanced back at him — Anthony with their daughter safe in his arms, the house full of laughter lingering like a soft memory — she realised something she hadn’t before:
The future no longer felt like a foreign land.
It was theirs.
Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The wedding was small by Bridgerton standards.
No grand ballroom, no orchestra, no glittering procession of guests. Just family gathered in the gardens, beneath the wide oak tree that had stood for generations, lanterns swaying softly in the early summer air.
Penelope stood in front of the mirror in her simple ivory gown, smoothing the silk with trembling hands. Eloise fussed behind her, muttering about hems and veils and refusing to admit she was crying until Penelope caught her reflection — eyes suspiciously bright.
“You’re beautiful,” Eloise said finally, her voice low, almost reluctant. “I suppose that means I have to behave.”
“You don’t,” Penelope said, smiling faintly.
“I know,” Eloise answered, smirking.
Carlie made her entrance first. Three years old, curls barely tamed into braids, clutching a basket of petals with both hands. She walked down the aisle with great concentration, scattering clumps of flowers in uneven handfuls. At one point she stopped completely, waving enthusiastically at Benedict, who feigned swooning until Gregory had to catch him.
By the time Penelope stepped into the sunlight, Anthony was already watching her.
It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t awe.
It was recognition.
As if he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
The vows were simple, spoken softly under the oak.
Violet wept quietly into her handkerchief. Benedict leaned too far back in his chair, almost toppling, and Eloise whispered something sharp that made Francesca stifle a laugh.
When Carlie grew restless, she padded up the aisle and pressed herself firmly against Anthony’s leg, refusing to let go.
Anthony only smiled, steadying her with one hand as he finished his vow with the other.
When the officiant finally said, “You may kiss your bride,” Anthony didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and kissed her — not rushed, not showy, just certain.
The kind of kiss that said everything without needing to.
The reception was as unhurried as the vows.
Tables were draped with wildflowers in mismatched jars. Music floated softly from strings on the terrace. Children darted between the adults, barefoot in the grass, laughter echoing off the hedges.
Violet moved from table to table with her usual quiet grace, making sure every guest had a plate, stopping now and then to press a kiss into Penelope’s cheek or brush Anthony’s sleeve in silent pride.
Benedict sketched, of course, catching Penelope mid-laugh with Carlie in her lap. Eloise delivered a speech that veered wildly from sarcastic to sincere, leaving everyone in stitches and Violet dabbing her eyes again. Francesca and Gregory danced under the lanterns, tugging Hyacinth along until she gave in.
It felt less like a wedding and more like a gathering they had all been waiting for without realising it.
And through it all, Anthony never strayed far from Penelope.
His hand found hers under the table. His shoulder brushed hers when they spoke to guests. When Carlie grew tired and began to rub her eyes, he lifted her easily, holding her against his chest as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Nearly four years they had been building this life — not in declarations, but in the quiet rhythm of mornings and nights, in shared laughter, in the steady raising of a daughter who had stitched them together long before rings or vows.
This day wasn’t a beginning.
It was simply the naming of what had already been true.
By the time the lanterns had burned low and the last plates had been cleared, the garden was almost empty.
The air had cooled; a faint breeze rustled the grass. The laughter of the day lingered only in echoes, folded into the hush of twilight.
Benedict scooped Carlie into his arms, her curls tumbled and her dress wrinkled from the long day. She clung to her stuffed bunny, eyelids heavy.
“I’ll take her in,” he said softly, glancing at Anthony, then Penelope. His smile was knowing, gentle. “You stay.”
Anthony nodded once. “Thank you.”
Penelope brushed a kiss across her daughter’s warm cheek before Benedict carried her toward the house. The door closed quietly behind them, leaving only the two of them in the wide, starlit garden.
Anthony sat down on the grass beneath the oak, tugging his shoes off, toes sinking into the cool earth. Penelope lowered herself beside him, her dress pooling around her. For a while they said nothing, listening to the soft hum of crickets, lanterns swaying faintly overhead.
Anthony leaned back against the trunk, tilting his head toward her. “Not bad for a wedding,” he said quietly.
She smiled, resting her hand lightly over his. “Not bad.”
The silence stretched, comfortable. Penelope let her gaze drift toward the house, then down to her lap, her fingers tightening faintly in her skirts.
“There’s something I should tell you,” she said softly.
Anthony straightened, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Pen?”
She hesitated, then guided his hand gently to her stomach. The motion was small, but deliberate.
Anthony froze. His eyes searched hers, wide, breath caught in his throat.
“Are you—” He broke off, unable to finish.
Penelope nodded, her lips trembling into a small smile. “Yes.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then his hand spread fully against her, protective, reverent. He bent forward, resting his forehead against hers, his breath unsteady.
“Another one,” he whispered.
Her laugh was quiet, careful. “Yes, another one.”
He kissed her then — soft, certain, no urgency, just the steady promise of all they had built and all that was still to come.
When they pulled apart, Anthony pressed his lips once more against her temple, still holding her close.
The garden was quiet around them. The lanterns glowed low. The house was full of family and warmth.
And here, under the oak, Penelope felt the future stir — not foreign, not unreachable.
Simply theirs.
five years later
Five years later.
The path to the cemetery was dappled in early autumn light, the trees just beginning to turn. The air carried that faint edge of coolness that came before the season shifted.
Anthony walked beside Penelope, their hands joined loosely, while the children ran ahead.
Carlie — eight now, her curls longer, her stride purposeful — held Edmund’s hand firmly as she guided him toward the gate. He was only four, still full of boundless questions and easily distracted, but she steered him carefully, her voice soft but insistent.
“Slow down, Eddie. Careful on the stones.”
“I am careful,” Edmund protested, skipping anyway.
Penelope smiled faintly. “She’s already you,” she murmured to Anthony.
He glanced at his daughter, the way her shoulders squared, protective and certain. “She’s herself,” he said softly. “But yes… perhaps a little.”
The grave was shaded by ivy and oak, the names cut deep into stone: Kate Bridgerton. Colin Bridgerton.
Carlie led Edmund right up to it, crouching to help him set down the small bunch of daisies they had picked from Violet’s garden that morning.
“There,” she said firmly, brushing dirt from her hands. “Nice and neat.”
Edmund frowned, tilting his head. “Do they see them?”
“Yes,” Carlie said without hesitation. “They do. Mama said so.”
Penelope’s breath caught, but she didn’t correct her.
Anthony rested his hand at the small of her back, steady and warm.
They stood together in silence for a long while. Carlie traced her fingers lightly across the engraved names, lips moving as if she were whispering something private. Edmund pressed himself against Anthony’s leg, small hand curling into his father’s trousers.
Penelope looked at them — at her children, at Anthony — and felt no sharp ache. No breaking.
The grief was there, but softened, shaped now into memory and belonging.
Anthony bent, lifting Edmund into his arms, then reached for Carlie, brushing her curls back from her face. She slipped her small hand into Penelope’s without needing to be asked.
When they turned back down the path, the four of them moving together, Penelope felt it — that deep, certain grounding.
Once, the future had felt unreachable. Foreign.
Now, with Anthony’s hand in hers and their children at their sides, she knew the truth.
The future was no longer a foreign land.
It was home.
Notes:
and that's a wrap.
it was a lovely journey, thank you for being here!
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