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Penelope couldn’t breathe.
Rationally, she knew that wasn’t possible. Knew that every inhale of air she pulled frantically into her lungs was breathing. But panic was clawing at her throat, white hot and constricting, and with a palm pressed urgently against her chest, she could not calm herself down.
No, couldn’t breathe wasn’t right. It was more that it hurt to breathe. That her heart felt three sizes too big under her heaving palm, her burning chest struggling to contain a fierce pain it had never felt before.
Because Colin was courting Marina.
Colin was in love.
Or at least, he believed himself to be.
Her Colin.
Although… he wasn’t really hers, was he? He never had been. He had never looked at her the way he looked at Marina. So many times, she had silently begged him to. So many afternoons spent praying he would glance her way, his smile filling her chest with light so much warmer than the sun. So many balls where she clung to the walls, eagerly hoping he would take her hand and spin her around the floor—and while he often did, was the only one who even saw her—Penelope had always been greedy, and it wasn’t enough.
She was his dearest friend, she knew that. She was grateful for it, for their closeness, but she wanted more.
They were so young. He was just a boy, and she was just a girl… but she wanted him to look at her the way a man looks at a woman.
Now he never would.
“I believe he will propose soon,” Marina’s voice echoed in her mind.
The memory of it was loud and unwelcome, hitting her square in the chest, as painful as the first time she heard it. She had sunk into her pillows then as Marina continued, furiously biting into her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, but burrowing herself into the sheets in an attempt to escape hadn’t deterred her cousin.
Pacing her bedchamber, Penelope remembered more of their conversation—
“He is not like the other young men who play games and guard their affections.”
—and suddenly another emotion, something hot and indignant and angry began to crowd alongside the panic in her chest.
How did Marina know what he was like?
She did not know him.
Not the way Penelope did.
Anyone in the Ton could deduce that Colin Bridgerton wore his heart on his sleeve, uninterested in the games other gentlemen played. One did not have to be Lady Whistledown to notice that he was not like his brothers, so uninterested in love, or the Duke, so scared of it. Marina should not consider herself special for observing these things, Penelope thought with an unladylike scorn that heated her cheeks.
They were obvious.
If she truly knew him, inside and out in a way only a wife should, she would know other things. Things Penelope knew. Things she had soaked in and absorbed, just by virtue of a lifetime of loving him.
She would know that while he did not play those games, he did love games in general—he liked playing cards in the Bridgerton gardens with Hyacinth, though he alway cheated, and he favoured the green mallet in pall mall, and he cheated at that too. She mentioned his light eyes the other afternoon, but if she truly knew him, she would know that they shone a shade darker when he was sad, more moonlight blue than sapphire. She would know that he dreamt of travelling, and he wasn't a particularly proficient rider, but that didn't stop him from trying anyway. Colin always tried. To be better, to be useful, to be loved.
“He will be a wonderful father,” she had said and as she remembered, Penelope’s anger flared again.
Well of course, she knew that. From the moment his own father died, and he had held his head high with so much strength, helping his older siblings look after the younger ones, Penelope had known that. Marina hadn’t even been here then. She hadn’t seen him. She hadn’t dreamt of him.
Penelope had. She could not count how many nights she had dreamt of him being a father—a father to her children. She was just a girl herself, but she knew she wanted it with an intensity that made her ache.
She was absolutely certain; there would never be anyone else for her. Her bruised and battered heart would love Colin Bridgerton forever, living for their friendship for that was better than not having him in her life at all.
“The best part is, when we wed, I will be able to stay in town,” she heard that voice again, kind words that were taunting nonetheless, “…and since you and Eloise are so close, we will all practically be sisters.”
Penelope stopped her pacing.
Eloise.
Her eyes slid shut, the name immediately calming her, and suddenly she knew.
She needed her.
She pulled in a tremulous breath, found her cloak, and slipped into the night—pulled towards the Bridgerton who held the other half of her heart.
Not many knew it, but there was a secret entrance to the Bridgerton estate through a gap in the wrought iron gate.
Penelope used it now and then to sneak into the gardens, meeting Eloise when the sun went down and their mothers would think it inappropriate. As if ideas could only be shared in the light of day, as if their questioning minds stalled and grew silent the moment the moon graced the sky.
Penelope would slip through the gap, rueing the day when she became too big to do such a thing, and come face to face with her friend already waiting for her. If they hadn’t agreed to meet, as was the case tonight, she would sneak through the servant’s entrance to Bridgerton House and simply knock on her bedroom door. Eloise was always pleased to see her, and Penelope seemed to stop growing at the age of four and ten, so the size of the gap never became an issue.
Only there was an issue tonight, because as she squeezed through the gate and entered the courtyard at the back of the house, a Bridgerton was already there, sitting on the bench near the servant’s entrance, and it wasn’t Eloise.
Penelope froze, her eyes widening.
Colin.
He must have heard her sharp inhale of surprise because his gaze lifted from the book he was reading, his own eyes blinking wildly at the sight of her. He frowned, his next blink a beat too long, as though he thought he must be dreaming. As though she couldn’t possibly be there.
Penelope’s cheeks burst into heat, utterly mortified. She was well and truly caught… and by the boy she was crying over nonetheless.
It took him a moment, but eventually he cleared his throat and stood. He greeted her with a small nod of his head, his hands clasped behind his back. She shouldn’t have been there, in the middle of the night bathed in moonlight, but she was still a lady after-all, and he was still a gentleman. A very surprised, very confused gentleman.
“Penelope?” he spoke her name like a question, his tone unbearably soft.
“Forgive me,” she gasped, breathless, and she didn’t know what to say so she just blurted out, “what are you doing here?”
He frowned.
“I live here…”
“Of course,” she muttered, embarrassed, wanting the ground to swallow her whole, “but why are you not in your bedchamber?”
“I could not sleep, so I thought I would get some fresh air and try to read,” he explained, his voice lifting a little in amusement, “now why are you not in your bedchamber?”
She swallowed, her mind racing as she tried to come up with an excuse for why she was there.
“I… I was merely… I have come to see…”
Her words trailed off lamely, falling to ashes on her tongue. The air was cool, the seasons on the brink of change, autumn bleeding into winter, but she was burning.
Colin frowned again at her discomfort, the confusion etched on his face clear to see, and then that face seemed to suddenly pale.
“Surely you are not…” he looked a little horrified then, strangely queasy, “please tell me you have not stolen away here in the middle of the night to see Anthony, or… god forbid, Benedict…”
Penelope’s eyes widened, her cheeks burning even hotter under the accusation. She wondered briefly why the possibility (ludicrous though it was) clearly bothered him so. His jaw was clenched tightly, a muscle along it fluttering, and his fingers were twitching at his side. He looked… troubled by the thought, and while she assumed it was because he was a gentleman and he fancied himself the protector of her honour (what else could it be?), she could not deny it gave her a little thrill.
“Of course not!” she insisted, unable to meet his eyes, though she practically felt the air around him relax and still, “I… if you must know, I wanted to see Eloise.”
“You have come here, unchaperoned in the middle of the night, to see my sister?”
“I do it all the time!” she blurted, her eyes widening as her hand slapped over her mouth.
Why did I say that?
Colin blinked.
Then he smiled, one of his eyebrows climbing to his hairline.
“Penelope Featherington,” he drawled her name, eyes dancing, “I do believe you are quite the rule breaker.”
She almost wanted to laugh. He had no idea. Everyone considered her to be this timid little mouse, always clinging to the walls, never to speak and never to be spoken to. They underestimated her. After-all, she was just a girl, and a girl of little importance. Her mother told her to be quiet, that a woman could not have an opinion, and her father never cared enough to ask. They and the ton did not believe she had anything worthwhile to say.
But she did.
She did have things to say, and she noticed things, but while Whistledown had given her power, it had would never give her the one thing she wanted most.
Him.
Looking at him now, so handsome with the strong line of his jaw bathed in moonlight, she felt a tightness begin to crowd her chest again. She felt her breath tighten. Because he was so charming, and so kind, and of course he would be the one to find her here because he was always the one to find her. He was the only one who ever saw her, who made her feel as though she mattered, who laughed when her bonnet knocked him into the mud and brushed himself off as though he should be the one humiliated.
He did not only see her—at balls, at afternoon teas, at games of pall mall—he looked for her.
And yet.
He would never be hers.
It surged again and hit her all at once—Marina’s words, all her wasted affection, all the times he was loving to her, but not quite loving enough.
Suddenly she felt completely, utterly, hopelessly alone.
“I’m sorry, I should not have come,” she gasped out, her breath catching, “I will go.”
She took a step back, prepared to turn on her heel, but he was taking a step forward.
“Pen…”
Perhaps it was the stress of the day, or perhaps it was something else, but that name… it caused her to break.
Her hand returned to her mouth, a sob stifled under her palm. She shook her head and turned to escape, but he was quicker.
“Penelope, wait!”
Warm fingers suddenly curled around her wrist. She inhaled sharply, her skin tingling as she slowly, warily, turned back to face him. She thought she must have been crying because her vision was a little blurry, and the cool wind whistled a little sharper across her burning cheeks. Her gaze flicked from his face, his handsome expression etched in concern, to the fingers he had wrapped around her wrist and back again.
His fingers had slipped under the sleeve of her robe, and she wasn’t wearing gloves.
He had never touched her when she wasn’t wearing gloves.
He had never touched her bare skin before.
She swallowed, sparks skittering across her skin. It was a simple touch, barely a touch at all really, but she felt as though she were on fire. Colin drew back slightly, his lips parting, a curious expression flitting over his face as he stared at his own hand.
When he finally locked gazes with her, she couldn’t place the look in his eyes. She just knew he looked rattled too.
“Forgive me,” he whispered and why did his voice sound so low? “I should not have…”
He let her go.
Her skin tingled, whining from the loss.
He blinked, recovering his hold on himself.
“Will you tell me what is bothering you?” he asked, his tone unbearably soft, “please, Pen? Perhaps I could help?”
She did laugh at that, a sharp and bitter sound. Guilt seized her chest at the hurt expression that swept over his face.
It was not his fault she was so upset.
It was not his fault that she loved him so… and it was not his fault that he did not love her in return.
“You cannot help me,” she muttered, “I have to go.”
“Don’t.”
She swallowed, panic rising from the pit of her stomach. If she stayed here, he would unravel her. He would chip away until there was nothing left, until she broke and told him everything. She needed to escape.
“Just—” only he was speaking again, fingers dancing against the pad of his thumb at his side, “if you will not tell me what is troubling you, just tell me what Eloise would have done. Please. It pains me to see you so upset.”
Penelope shook her head. She could not. Because Eloise would have grabbed her without a second thought, and embraced her while she cried, but Colin could not do that…
Could he?
Her desperate mind sparked to life with the thought of it. The thought of his arms around her. He had always been her safe place, he was sure to feel like it too. It wasn’t proper, and she was certain he would say no, but she was also certain she had nothing left to lose.
“You would do as she would have done?” she asked, her nerves fluttering.
The sincere, earnest expression on his kind face only made her heart pound faster.
“I would do anything.”
Penelope swallowed, knowing she was teetering on a cliff’s edge—and then she jumped.
A sob catching in her throat, she asked, “she would have held me as I cried. Would you… would you hold me?”
He blinked, his lips parting in surprise. She knew that whatever he had been expecting, it had not been that. Perhaps he thought Eloise would have spoken to her, as he does, or listened to her, as he does even more often. Perhaps he thought they would play cards as a distraction, or gossip about the ton, or read together by candlelight, or… anything else.
“Penelope, I…”
She screwed her eyes shut at the husk of his voice, lined with painful hesitation.
“I apologise,” she said quickly, her breath catching, “I know it is not proper, it is only… I am so rarely held. You cannot even begin to understand how that feels… the loneliness, the lack of human connection. It eats away at you. You cannot understand. Not you, not a Bridgerton who has grown up surrounded by unconditional love. Your Mama held you often as a boy, I imagine? Your father too?”
He swallowed, suddenly looking so much younger, like the boy he still was, not the man he was pretending to be. He looked like her Colin then, the boy who grinned up at her from the mud, not the man courting Marina, so determined to be taken seriously.
He didn’t speak, but he nodded, and it was answer enough.
“My mother never did,” Penelope choked out, “she said it made one weak. My father did not care enough to challenge her. I know they must have held me once, but I cannot remember it. So yes, I… I think I should like to be held.”
She needed it. Her skin was alight, itching, her arms winding their way around her waist as though she needed to physically hold herself together.
He still wasn’t saying anything.
Why wasn’t he saying anything?
Cheeks burning in utter humiliation, she would not beg anymore. She muttered another apology under her breath, but before she could move to run again, he finally spoke.
“Very well.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his, stunned.
“Pardon?”
He gave a little shrug, taking a step towards her.
“Very well,” he said again, confidently this time, “I will hold you.”
“But it is not… it is not proper,” she stammered, even though she was the one asking for it.
He tipped his head to the side.
“We have always danced on the edge of propriety, have we not?” he asked with a kind smile.
She supposed that was true. After-all, how many times had he taken her hand, in-front of other people nonetheless, and dragged her into an empty room unchaperoned? How many times had they written letters to each other, something only lovers did? How many times had he addressed her not only by her Christian name, but his own shortened version of it? Nothing about their relationship had ever been appropriate or proper, and Colin had never cared to make it otherwise. He chased scandal, found it amusing, a mischievous rule breaker through and through.
He simply did not care. Not when it came to her. He wanted her in his life, so he just… made it so. While she blushed every time he took her hand and dragged her to the dancefloor, her eyes darting around to see who was watching, he stood tall and kept his attention fixed only on her. He was so very unashamed of her… and it was a heady, intoxicating thing for a girl who had always been ashamed.
He took another step towards her, and whether it was his open arms or the soft look in his eyes, her bottom lip began to tremble. She pulled it between her teeth, biting into it stubbornly, but the moment he finally, finally, wrapped her up in his arms, she broke.
A little whimper rolled from her throat as she screwed her eyes shut, her burning cheek pressed against his chest. He hushed her, a deep, soothing sound that only made her cry more. One of his arms wound around her waist, holding her to him, while the other came to the back of her neck, his fingers stroking gently through her curls.
At his closeness, Penelope couldn’t breathe again. She had never been so close to a boy, the proximity in itself was rather scandalous, and she could feel heat crawling up her neck, her entire body on fire. He was warm, and solid, and why did he have to smell so good? Like cedarwood, and saddle leather, and something else uniquely him. His fingers were threading softly, the pads pressing against her scalp with a delicious sort of pressure.
She wasn’t sure how long they were silent for, the only sounds around them the white noise of a few chirping birds and the beat of a water fountain in the distance.
Eventually he spoke, his chest rumbling under her cheek.
“I have never seen your hair like this.”
It was a murmured remark, the pressure of his fingers disappearing for a moment as she assumed he was picking up a strand in particular and observing it under the moonlight. She felt the slight tug, as though he were wrapping it around his finger in curiosity before dropping it again.
“I can try to put it up,” she whispered, knowing this was inappropriate too, the way her hair fell in loose curls around her face, tumbling down her back.
“No,” he answered quickly, “I only mean to say… it rather suits you.”
She was grateful he couldn’t see her face as she blushed, burrowing further into his chest. The embrace felt even better than she had imagined, and she had imagined it, so many times of course. She could feel her blood rushing, her pulse pounding in her ears and, curiously, even between her thighs. Her entire body felt alive in ways it had never felt alive before, and she knew this would only make her fall harder. Faster. Just like the evening he had rejected Cressida Cowper’s invitation to dance and took her hand instead, just another push to slip her further under.
“Pen,” he whispered, his palm rubbing comfortingly over her back, “please will you tell me what has you so upset? I truly hate seeing you this way.”
The question made her think about his courtship with Marina, and thinking about his courtship with Marina made her cry. She sniffled, trying to stop the tears, but once one fell, they rolled quickly down her cheeks.
“Penelope.”
“Please do not marry her.”
It just came flying out of her mouth, pulled unbidden by his achingly gentle whisper of her name.
She felt him stiffen.
“What?”
He shifted, trying to make her look at him, but she could not.
“You're trembling,” he noted with a concern that simply made her cry harder. He shifted them again, and he must have not truly been trying before because this time he used his strength, and she was powerless to stop herself from being moved.
He turned her in his arms but didn’t step away, his hands falling to her hips instead. She couldn’t look at him, her face on fire and her eyes squeezed shut.
A sharp inhale hitched from her throat when she felt his fingers at her jaw. Then his thumb was wiping at her tears, his touch so tender it made her ache. He whispered her name once more, his hand slipping until it was cupping her cheek, and she found the strength to flutter her eyes open.
“What did you mean?”
She gazed up at him through teary eyes and she regretted it… but the confession was released now, and she could not put it back in the bottle. She could not shove it back down.
“Please don’t court Marina. Please don’t marry her,” she sobbed, her voice catching, “I know I have no right to ask that of you, and I am being selfish and cowardly in not being able to tell you why, but please don’t. Please. Please—”
She felt the panic begin to rise within her, tightening her chest and making it heave. Colin blinked, clearly shocked, but he never let her go and he never pushed her away. In-fact, he hushed her again, soft and soothing, his thumb running gently over her flushed cheek.
Then he pulled her back into him.
Penelope wept, her fingers clutching his jacket either side in tight fists. She felt as though she was at risk of falling away, disappearing into nothingness, and she needed him to anchor her to the world. She was untethered now, and she knew in a moment, she would lose him. He would pull away from her, and tell her she was being unreasonable, and he would marry Marina because he loved her.
And Penelope would be alone again.
Only… he did not pull away.
In-fact, he murmured a simple word so unexpected, she was certain she must have misheard.
“Alright.”
“What?” she breathed, “but… you love her…”
He hummed, his chest moving under her.
“I like her very much,” he admitted, and Penelope felt her stomach drop, twisting into painful knots, “but truth be told, I do not know if I love her. It’s very early. Perhaps I do not even know what love is. I do not know exactly how I feel about Marina… but Pen, I know exactly how I feel about you. You are kind, and warm, and so very dear to me. I cannot imagine my life without you in it. So if my marrying your cousin causes you this much pain… then I will not do it.”
A strangled noise left her throat, half a sob, half an incredulous laugh, because he was so sweet and so generous and so kind, she had no idea what to do with all this love inside her. She just held him tighter, her eyes falling shut again as her pain turned to relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered into the night, her breaths beginning to calm.
He held her tighter in response, fingers threading through her hair again.
“I should go,” she whispered eventually, her eyes beginning to burn with tiredness, her body suddenly exhausted from the stress of the evening.
“Just one more minute.”
Her heart skipped a beat at his request, something warm stirring inside her chest.
Why did he want to keep holding her? She wondered, hope blooming like a flower inside her.
“Colin… I really should go. What if someone saw us like this?” her voice dropped to a hushed, scandalised whisper, “we would be forced to marry…”
“Then we shall be married,” he answered simply, “and I shall have my best friend by my side my entire life. That does not sound so horrible a fate, does it?
The flower burst and blossomed, sunlight exploding inside her. She tried and failed to stop the smile from splitting her cheeks, feeling his fingers drawing absentminded circles on the small of her back.
When he spoke again, his voice was lined with a bashful, almost shy sort of curiosity. As though he was slowly coming to some sort of revelation, a cloud lifting, and the force of it made his chest cave beneath her cheek.
“Penelope, forgive me but…” he paused for a moment before pushing the words out, “this feels… right, does it not?”
Her breath hitched, happiness and nerves fluttering inside her with the hope of something new.
“Yes, Colin,” she whispered into his chest, “it feels right.”