Chapter Text
The Bridgerton library was cool and quiet as Penelope waited for Eloise to come home from her visit to modiste. She wondered why bother with new gowns now that they were both spinsters with no prospects in sight for marriage. Setting into a spinsterhouse was their only fate now, Eloise's by choice, her's by luck.
She had been here countless times before, always waiting for Eloise to finish some task or another before they embarked on their usual afternoon walk. So the servants didn't even blink twice before giving her entry to this room that felt like a safe haven to her. She had always taken great comforts in the smell of old books and knowledge.
Today was no different—at least, it hadn’t been.
Penelope’s fingers had idly traced the spines of the books, trailing over the embossed titles with no real interest, until one in particular caught her eye. It was tucked away on a higher shelf, its deep burgundy leather cover worn with time. The gold lettering had faded, but something about it beckoned her.
Curiosity guided her hands as she pulled it free. The book was heavier than expected, its pages thick and filled with exquisite font. The title adorned the cover beautifully.
But what gave her pause was the title—” How to ruin a Lady without ruining a Lady.’
With a glance toward the door, ensuring no one would walk in on her, she cracked it open.
The words that met her eyes were unlike anything she had ever read. No romantic poetry or veiled references to love—this was something else entirely. It was desire, raw and unfiltered. Passion spilled across the pages in elegant script, detailing things she had only imagined in the dim corners of her mind.
Her breath hitched as she turned the pages, each passage more scandalous than the last. Heat crept up her neck, down her spine, pooling low in her belly. Her lips parted, and she shifted on her feet, suddenly restless.
She shouldn’t be reading this.
But she couldn’t stop.
She sank onto the settee in the farthest corner of the room, the book trembling in her grip. Her bodice felt unbearably tight, the stays pressing against her heated skin. The air was thick, suffocating. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she let one hand drift over her bodice, smoothing over the fabric, pressing just enough to feel something—
The sharp click of a lock turning made her freeze.
A door had closed. Firmly.
And someone had locked it.
Penelope’s breath hitched as the lock clicked into place. The room felt smaller, the weight of her own shame pressing down on her as she clutched the scandalous book to her chest.
Slowly, she turned.
And there, standing by the door, was Gregory Bridgerton.
Fresh from Eton, taller than she remembered, his youthful face now sharpened with adulthood—but it was his expression that truly set her off balance.
Not shock.
Not reproach.
No, Gregory was smiling. A slow, almost pleased smile that curled at the edges of his mouth like he had stumbled upon something utterly delightful.
The worst part? He wasn’t looking at her like a younger brother catching his sister’s friend in a compromising position.
He was looking at her like a man.
Heat rushed up her neck, flooding her cheeks in a mortifying blush. “Gregory,” she said, breathless, too caught off guard to form anything more coherent.
His dark eyes flicked to the book she clutched against her chest, then back to her flushed face. “Well, well, Penelope,” he drawled, stepping further into the room, amusement laced through every syllable. “I was hoping to find you here, but I certainly wasn’t expecting…” His gaze dropped to the book, his lips curving. “That.”
She swallowed hard, torn between throwing the book across the room and insisting she hadn’t actually been reading it. “It’s— it’s not what it looks like.”
Gregory’s brows lifted in clear disbelief. “Oh? So you weren’t just sitting here, all alone, in a dimly lit library, reading about… physical indulgences?”
She let out a strangled sound. “You—you are entirely too bold for someone who has only just left school.”
That made him laugh, a warm, rich sound that only flustered her more. “Ah, Penelope,” he mused, stepping closer still, “I do think it’s time you stopped seeing me as a boy. I know what that book is about. But I don't think you do.”
Penelope took an instinctive step back, her pulse hammering. This was Gregory—Eloise’s younger brother, the mischievous child who used to pull pigtails and climb trees.
Except he wasn’t a child anymore.
Her eyes darted lower, and dear God, there was no mistaking the very large evidence of that fact.
A proper lady would have averted her gaze.
She did not.
“Like what you see, Pen?”
“You—you are being highly improper,” she stammered, forcing her eyes back up to his face.
Gregory only smiled wider, utterly unrepentant. “So are you, dearest Penelope,” he countered smoothly, nodding toward the book. “Shall we just agree that impropriety is the theme of the day?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. She couldn’t argue with that.
“I should go,” she muttered, but when she made to move, he stepped forward, blocking her path with deliberate ease.
Her breath hitched.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
Her pulse roared in her ears. “Gregory—”
“Stop saying my name like that,” he murmured, lifting a hand—slowly, deliberately—until his fingers brushed against her jaw. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent a shock of awareness through her.
“I—”
His fingers curled, tilting her face up until their eyes met fully. “And stop talking about my age,” he added, voice lower now, rougher. “Just accept that I’m a man now.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Because her body understood the truth of his words before her mind did.
“And I've been waiting to become one for years… for.. for you—”
Her lips parted, her entire frame tingling, burning.
Gregory’s thumb traced along the curve of her cheek. “Good girl,” he murmured, his eyes dark with intent.
Penelope shivered.
And heaven help her, but she didn’t pull away.
Penelope’s breath shuddered out of her. The library—its towering bookshelves, the distant rustle of leaves outside—blurred into nothingness.
All she could focus on was him.
Gregory’s fingers, warm and firm, cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek with almost reverence. His eyes, dark and intent, flickered down to her lips, lingering there—waiting.
For her permission.
For her surrender.
And God help her, but she gave it.
Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting just slightly—just enough.
Gregory inhaled sharply. And then—
He kissed her.
The moment their lips met, a shock of warmth unfurled in her chest, spreading outward, curling into every part of her.
It was soft at first. Gentle. Tentative. As if he knew this was her first kiss and intended to savor the moment.
But then she made a sound—a helpless, breathless little sigh against his mouth—and something in him changed.
A low groan rumbled from his throat, and suddenly, his hands weren’t just cupping her face—they were holding her, anchoring her as he deepened the kiss.
His lips moved over hers, coaxing, tasting, taking, and she—
She melted.
Her fingers, still curled around the book, slackened, and the scandalous tome thudded onto the floor, forgotten.
Gregory pulled her closer, his body pressing against hers, solid and warm. Her hands—hesitant, trembling—rose to clutch at the front of his coat, needing something to ground herself in the storm of sensation.
This—this—was what she had read about in secret, what she had imagined in the lonely corners of her mind.
But the words on the page had never truly captured this—
The heat. The urgency. The feeling of being utterly, completely desired.
When Gregory finally broke the kiss, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against hers.
“Penelope,” he murmured, voice thick with something dangerously close to need.
She was shaking. Her lips felt swollen, her heart galloping wildly in her chest.
Her first kiss.
And it had been with Gregory Bridgerton.
Dear God, what had she done?
Penelope might not know what exactly she had triggered yet, but she knew one thing very well. When In doubt, don't!
So she ran.