Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton had married Penelope Featherington knowing her secret, but the truth he had uncovered became a wedge between them from the very start. In the beginning, he thought he could overcome the turmoil of emotions roiling inside him—shame, betrayal, and a jealousy he could barely acknowledge even to himself. How could he admit to envying her success, her cunning, her voice? It was a voice he had never truly heard until it was revealed to him in the scandal sheets of Lady Whistledown.
He had convinced himself that love could bridge the chasm between them. He told himself he admired her wit, her determination, her ability to thrive in a society that so often dismissed her. But admiration and love were not enough to quiet the bitterness gnawing at his soul. The wounds festered, and instead of healing, his feelings of inadequacy grew.
From the first day of their marriage, Colin withdrew. Penelope, ever patient and hopeful, gave him space. She believed—naively, perhaps—that he would come to understand her reasons, her motivations, her desperate need to have a voice in a world dominated by men. She thought he loved her enough to forgive her for keeping such a monumental secret. She thought he would eventually pull her into his arms and tell her they could face the future together.
But he never did.
Their first month as husband and wife was marked by silence and distance. The house they shared felt like a cavern, its vastness amplifying the emptiness between them. Penelope’s attempts to bridge the gap were met with indifference. She organized dinners, hoping to spark conversation. She suggested walks in the garden, longing for even the smallest moment of connection. But Colin’s responses were perfunctory at best. He was present in body but absent in spirit, his mind elsewhere, his heart locked away.
She might have continued trying, might have held on to hope a little longer, if not for the night he disappeared.
It happened so abruptly that Penelope had no time to prepare, no warning to steel herself against the blow. She woke to find a note pinned to the door of the bedchamber that should have been theirs, had he been a better man.
This isn’t working.
Those three words were all he left her. No explanation, no apology, no promise of return. By the time she realized he was gone, so too were his belongings. He had slipped away in the dead of night, leaving her to face the consequences of his departure alone.
The timing of his escape was calculated. The season had ended, and the ton had scattered. His family was far-flung: Anthony was in India, Benedict in Dover, Francesca and Eloise in Scotland. Violet had taken Gregory and Hyacinth to visit the Bassets in the countryside. The Featherington household had also dispersed, with Lady Featherington and her other daughters retiring to the family’s estate. Penelope was left with only Rae, her loyal maid, for company.
It was Rae who first noticed the change in Penelope. She saw the pallor in her mistress’s cheeks, the way she clutched her stomach as if trying to steady herself. She heard the retching behind closed doors and the soft, broken sobs that followed. Concerned, Rae called for a physician, who confirmed what Penelope had not dared to suspect: she was with child.
The news should have been a source of joy, but for Penelope, it was a cruel twist of fate. How could she bring a child into a world where its father had abandoned them? How could she reconcile the life growing inside her with the emptiness that now consumed her?
Rae became her anchor. She cared for Penelope with a quiet determination, holding her hair back when the nausea overwhelmed her, fetching her tea to soothe her stomach, and sitting by her bedside when the loneliness became too much to bear. Through it all, Penelope tried to maintain a facade of strength, but her heart was heavy with despair.
Colin’s absence was a wound that refused to heal. She replayed their last moments together, searching for signs she might have missed, words she might have said to change his mind. But no amount of reflection could undo what had been done. He had left, and she was alone.
Through it all, Penelope’s resolve grew. She would not let Colin’s abandonment define her. She would raise this child with or without him. Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, as the fire crackled and the house settled into silence, she allowed herself the luxury of tears. Not for herself, but for the man she had loved and the marriage that could have been.
And so, as the winter winds howled outside, Penelope Featherington—soon to be a mother, always a fighter—clenched her fists and vowed to forge ahead. For her child. For herself. For a future that Colin had forfeited but that she would claim, no matter the cost.
Colin, meanwhile, was in Italy. But his whereabouts were a mystery to Penelope. She didn’t know where he was, and even if she had, she doubted he would have read any letter from her. He exchanged correspondence only with Anthony and his mother, weaving careful lies of contentment and adventure. Letters from his other siblings went unanswered, and those intended for Penelope—her name written in careful script—he tossed into the fire without hesitation, as if destroying the evidence of her existence could erase his guilt.
As the months went by, Penelope found herself confined to her world of quiet solitude. The doctor had ordered weeks of bed rest, and Rae ensured she complied, despite Penelope’s protests. Those days stretched long and silent, broken only by the occasional sound of Rae bustling about or the pages of a book turning. Once cleared by the physician, Penelope ventured out sparingly, her steps tentative, her presence in public subdued.
Correspondence no longer occupied her thoughts. Instead, she read voraciously, losing herself in stories far removed from her own. When the words weren’t enough to dull the ache, she tried her hand at writing. A novel began to take shape—a story of a wallflower who had dared to hope for a happy ending, only to find it slipping through her fingers. The irony was not lost on her.
By the time she was five months pregnant, her condition was undeniable. Her dresses hung differently, her movements slower, her body a testament to the child she carried. On one of her rare outings, she quietly slipped out of Genevieve’s shop, clutching a small parcel of fabric. She kept her head down, hoping to avoid attention.
But fate had other plans.
“Penelope?”
The voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly, her heart pounding. There stood Benedict Bridgerton, freshly returned from Dover. His expression shifted rapidly—from surprise to confusion, and then to something sharper as his gaze traveled to her rounded abdomen.
“Penelope,” he said again, softer this time, his voice laden with unspoken questions. “You’re—”
She pressed a hand to her stomach instinctively, her other clutching the parcel tightly. “Benedict,” she said, her voice calm though her heart raced. “It’s lovely to see you.”
Before she could say more, Penelope noticied his expression of curiosity and concern.
“Sister,” he said again, stepping closer. “When did you return? And where is Colin?”
She froze, her mind scrambling for an answer. “I... I’ve been here for some time,” she managed, her voice faltering.
Benedict frowned. “But Colin said—he wrote to Anthony, to Mother. He said you were on an extended honeymoon.”
Her throat tightened. “Did he?”
“He did,” Benedict confirmed, his tone growing sharper. “I’ve missed you both. I wanted to invite you to dine with me, but... Penelope, what’s going on?”
His concern, so genuine and so direct, cut through her defenses. She stammered, trying to find the words, but her thoughts tangled. “I—I don’t think that’s possible. Colin and I—he’s...”
Benedict’s frown deepened as her voice trailed off. “He’s what?”
“I don’t know where he is,” she admitted quietly, the weight of her confession pressing down on her.
The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap. Benedict’s brows furrowed, disbelief etched into his features. “What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know where your husband is?”
Penelope bit her lip, the weight of the truth pressing down on her. “He left, Benedict,” she said softly. “He left before I even knew...” Her voice cracked, and her hands instinctively moved to her belly.
Benedict’s expression shifted from confusion to shock. “He left?” he repeated, incredulous. “What do you mean, he left? When? Why? You’re—” His words cut off as realization dawned. He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on her. “Does he know?”
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “He was gone before I knew I was—” She stopped, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. “He doesn’t know.”
Benedict stared at her as though she had just spoken a foreign language. “Why haven’t you told him?” he asked, his voice rising. “Surely you could have written to him—”
“I don’t know where he is!” she burst out, her composure shattering. “I have no way of contacting him. And even if I did, what could I say that he wouldn’t ignore?”
Benedict’s face reddened, his anger and frustration palpable. “This is—this is madness,” he sputtered. “How could he leave you? Leave you like this? And without any way for you to reach him?”
Penelope looked away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I didn’t want you to know,” she said quietly. “I thought I could handle it. But every day, it becomes harder to pretend that I can.”
Benedict ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. “This is unfathomable,” he muttered, pacing in agitation. “Colin, irresponsible? Leaving his pregnant wife?” He stopped abruptly, turning to her. “This cannot stand, Penelope. It simply cannot. I will write to him myself.”
“No,” she said sharply, stepping forward. “You can’t. Please, Benedict. He doesn’t want to be found. And I—I don’t want to force him to return if his heart isn’t in it.”
Benedict’s expression softened, though his frustration still simmered beneath the surface. “You don’t deserve this,” he said quietly. “And Colin... Colin doesn’t deserve you.”
Penelope gave him a faint, weary smile. “Thank you, Benedict. But I’m afraid it’s not about what anyone deserves anymore. It’s about what is.”
Benedict stood frozen in place, his thoughts spiraling. What could have driven Colin away? The question clung to him, unanswered, and the weight of it pressed heavily on his chest.
Penelope, ever perceptive, seemed to sense his inner turmoil. Her voice broke the silence, soft and tinged with regret. “It’s my fault,” she said, her gaze fixed on the cobblestones beneath her feet.
Benedict blinked, startled. “Your fault? Penelope, that’s absurd. Colin leaving—”
“He couldn’t overcome it,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. “What I did—what I kept from him—it was too much. He thought it best to make a clean break.”
A bitter laugh escaped Benedict before he could stop it. “A clean break?” he echoed, incredulous. “How could it be clean with the baggage he left behind? With you—” He stopped himself, his eyes flicking to her rounded stomach.
Her cheeks flushed, and she hesitated. “It happened before the wedding,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Only once. I had no reason to think... I didn’t realize until after he’d already gone.”
The revelation hit Benedict like a blow, and he struggled to piece together the fragments of their story. “He left because of what you did?” he asked, his tone softer now, more bewildered than accusatory.
Penelope nodded, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I made mistakes, Benedict. I kept secrets I shouldn’t have. Colin... he couldn’t forgive me. And I don’t blame him.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened, his frustration giving way to a profound sadness. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Colin has always been... impulsive, yes, but to abandon you like this? To leave without a word, without a thought for what might happen?”
“He thought it was for the best,” Penelope said, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. “He thought he’d be better off without me. That we both would be.”
Benedict stared at her, his heart aching for his brother, for Penelope, and for the child who would grow up amidst the remnants of their fractured marriage. He wanted to rage at Colin, to demand answers—but more than that, he wanted to help.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly, his voice firm. “Whatever you need, Penelope, I’ll make sure you have it. For you and for the baby.”
She met his gaze, her lips trembling into a faint smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
But as she turned to go, the puzzle of Colin’s departure lingered in Benedict’s mind, gnawing at him. His brother’s actions were incomprehensible, and yet, beneath it all, Benedict knew there was more to the story—more to Penelope’s pain, to Colin’s retreat.
He resolved, then and there, to uncover the truth. For Penelope. For the child. And for the brother he no longer recognized.