Good God....it Hurts

by Ceirdwyn24

Summary:

Anthony Bridgerton threw out his back...again. Penelope comes upon him cursing. She helps ...and slowly his Obsession begins

Notes:

• Inspired by Hurts so good by katie_606

Thanks go to Katie_606 for allowing me to rewrite her excellent Penedict fanfiction into a AU of it as Penthony.

I encourage you to check it out it is very good.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 Behind Thorns and under coats

Summary:

A back aches, and someone lends a hand.

Notes:

Thanks go to Katie_606 for allowing me to re-write her Penedict Fanfiction into a Penthony version

The Queen's Garden Party was abuzz with cruel delight.

 

Lady Whistledown had not been heard from in months, and now the bon ton dared to speculate aloud: dead? Fallen from grace? Perhaps finally unmasked? Every hedge and statue seemed to echo with veiled laughter, every cluster of feathers and lace a chorus of judgment.

 

Penelope Featherington walked the gravel path alone.

 

She kept her hands clasped before her, her umbrella closed and useless beneath a rare break in the clouds. Her gown was pale green with embroidered ivy climbing its hem—chosen by her for once, still she was ignored by everyone else. She walked slowly, deliberately, as if each step might root her to the earth and make her disappear entirely.

Their laughter echoed in her ears, sharp and shrill and maddeningly familiar. A chorus of jackals tearing into a carcass. Her carcass, if only they knew. If only they dared.

 

She passed a trio of girls in lilac and pearl who tittered behind their fans. One said something too low to catch. The others gasped, then laughed harder.

 

Penelope's chin lifted. She fought the urge to whirl around and cut them down with words she had polished into daggers. She could destroy them with half a sentence. But that would mean revealing herself, and that she could not risk. Not yet.

 

She breathed through her nose. She had survived worse.

 

A high peel of masculine laughter drifted from the topiary to her left.

 

Colin.

 

She knew that laugh. Had followed it through ballrooms and parlors like a song she could not stop humming. It used to make her heart flutter.

 

Now it made her skin crawl.

 

She kept walking.

 

He had not seen her. She would not let him. Not today.

 

Around the bend of the hedges, sunlight angled sharply through the leaves, dappled and gold. The air was fragrant with lavender and something else—roses, perhaps, though Penelope could no longer smell them without remembering.

 

A sharp curse tore through the birdsong.

 

Penelope halted.

 

It was not a muttered exclamation. The language was rather colourful, the tone though. It was a raw, bitten-off thing, laced with pain and rage and something deeper. 

 

She stepped carefully around the corner.

 

There, half-concealed by iron scrollwork and afternoon light, stood Anthony Bridgerton.

 

Or rather, he leaned stiffly against a wrought iron bench, one hand braced on its back, the other pressed to his lower spine. His coat was askew, jaw clenched, face flushed.

 

His eyes were closed.

 

She should have turned away. She should have let him be.

 

But something in the tension of his body stopped her.

 

"Lord Bridgerton?" she asked, voice soft but clear.

 

His head snapped up. His eyes found hers in an instant.

 

"Miss Featherington," he said, his voice rough with surprise.

 

He straightened with visible effort, grimacing as he did. "Forgive me. That was... inelegant language."

 

"You look to be in pain," she said, taking a small step forward.

 

His pride bristled, she could see it in the sudden stiffness of his shoulders. But he gave a terse nod. "I threw my back. Again. A cursed reminder of my youth and idiocy."

 

A pause.

 

Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.

 

Not the bright, breathy smile of a girl desperate to be liked. Not the polite smile of someone hiding discomfort. A small, amused curl of her lips—knowing, poised.

 

"I might help," she said. "If you'd let me."

 

His brows rose. Not in disbelief, but in intrigue.

 

She watched him weigh her. Assess her. The calculation in his gaze was not unkind, only... new. Curious.

 

"You...what?" he said, slightly incredulously.

 

"My mother suffers the same. I've learned a few techniques."

 

Anthony hesitated. This Penelope was not the one he recalled fading into wallpaper. There was something newly cut about her. Not harsh. But sharp.

 

And in that moment, with pain radiating through his back and her eyes fixed on him like twin blades, he found himself nodding.

 

"If you are sure"

 

"I am," she said, and stepped closer.

 

She had not learned this from books. No, it was Genevieve Delacroix who had shown her—gently, conspiratorially, like an elder sister pulling back a curtain. During quiet evenings in the back room of the modiste's shop, between sips of sweet wine and fits of scandalous laughter, Genevieve had spoken frankly about men, about longing, about how touch could both wound and heal. Penelope had listened with wide eyes and an open heart, letting those whispered lessons settle deep into her bones. She was grateful for them now—grateful for Genevieve’s honesty, her care, and the way she had treated Penelope not as a silly girl but as a woman growing into her own knowing.

Penelope had listened, asked questions, even practiced on herself, grateful beyond words for the Genevieve's wicked tutelage. 

 

Penelope moved with quiet confidence, closing the space between them with a grace he did not remember her having. She stopped just short of touching him, her eyes scanning his form like a physician might assess a wounded soldier.

 

"May I?" she asked, voice low.

 

Anthony gave a short grunt of assent, too proud to beg, too pained to refuse. His breath hitched as she reached forward.

 

She slid her hand beneath his coat with careful precision, her gloved fingers brushing the linen of his shirt. His body flinched.

 

"I'll stay above the shirt," she murmured.

 

It shouldn’t have felt like a promise, but it did.

 

"Where exactly?" she asked.

 

"Left side," he muttered. "Lower. Just—God—there."

 

She found the knot instantly. Her fingers began to move—slowly at first, then with increasing firmness. She pressed and rotated, thumb digging just enough to make him wince, then groan.

 

Anthony’s eyes shut. His breath came through his nose, sharp and uneven. He felt absurdly exposed, like a man stripped of all armor.

 

And worse—he was enjoying it.

 

Her hands were warm, deft. The pressure she applied was deliberate, knowledgeable. Not just helpful. Not just medicinal. Intimate.

 

He gripped the edge of the bench so tightly his knuckles whitened.

 

Penelope’s gaze was focused, her brow furrowed in concentration. And yet, her touch was not clinical. It was deliberate, even reverent. She moved lower, then up again, following the cords of muscle like she was learning the map of him.

 

Anthony fought the urge to tilt his head back and exhale aloud.

 

When her thumb swept inward, over the edge of his spine, he let out a strangled noise—not quite a moan, but something dangerously close.

 

Penelope paused.

 

Her eyes flicked up to his face. His jaw was tight, his eyes still shut, his lips slightly parted. She watched his throat work around a swallow.

 

She had not meant to enjoy this. And yet—

 

She continued, slower now. Drawing it out.

 

Her left hand came up to rest lightly on his shoulder. Not necessary. Just steadying.

 

He was breathing through clenched teeth.

 

"You carry tension like a man who does not allow himself to be touched," she said, so softly it barely reached him.

 

His eyes opened. He turned around slightly looking over his shoulder and down at her.

 

Their eyes locked.

 

Heat flared between them—unmistakable. Impossible to ignore.

 

Penelope’s lips parted. She did not drop her gaze. Her fingers stilled, then pressed, then released.

 

Anthony’s pulse thundered in his ears. His entire body was tight, trembling, and it had very little to do with his back.

 

She saw it.

 

The shift. The flush rising up his neck. The way his hips angled slightly away from her—but too late.

 

The evidence of his arousal was unmistakable.

 

Her eyes dipped—one flicker, no more. Then rose again, slowly.

 

Their breath mingled in the air between them. His chest rose and fell, hers matching it. Her hand still rested on his shoulder, thumb moving just slightly now, almost in comfort.

 

"Is that better?" she asked, voice like velvet, low and amused.

 

Anthony cleared his throat. It came out as a growl.

 

"Yes," he managed, hoarse. "Remarkably."

 

She withdrew her hand with agonizing care, as if drawing something invisible out of him with it.

 

"You're welcome," she said, stepping back.

 

He missed her heat the instant it was gone.

 

Penelope did not turn immediately. She let him see her watching him—studying him. She let the silence speak.

 

Then, finally, she gave a small, composed nod.

 

"For what it’s worth," she said as she turned to go, "I think Kate was a fool to refuse you."

 

She walked a few steps, then paused—just at the edge of the hedgerow. Her voice floated back to him, sweet and sultry:

 

"And if ever the... need... arises again, you know where to find me."

 

The deliberate pause between each word was what made that sentence entirely...not so innocent.

 

Then she was gone.

 

Anthony remained frozen, spine straight, shoulders squared.

 

And aching in a far more complicated way.

 

He didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Not until the heat in his blood had settled. Not until the scent of her—fruity and something bookish—faded from his senses.

Not until he accepted the truth:

 

He definitely was a rake, and he would never be able to look at Penelope Featherington the same way again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I will be re-writin the original Fanfiction one chapter at a time

Chapter 2: Chapter 2 Burn beneath the cravat

Summary:

After their encounter, once he has calmed down, Anthony seeks Penelope...why exactly he does not know.

Notes:

Here is the 2nd chapter.

Rewrite is going but slow.

Anthony Bridgerton reentered the Queen’s Garden Party as if nothing had happened—except, of course, everything had.

 

The sun was still shining. The orchestra still played something florid and unmemorable. But his body felt off-kilter. His coat too warm. His cravat too tight. His skin tingled beneath layers of tailored decorum.

 

He moved through the crowd like a man trying to recall the shape of his own limbs.

 

No one else seemed to notice. No one else could possibly know.

 

Except her.

 

His breath caught again.

 

Penelope Featherington.

 

Not the wallflower. Not the harmless friend of his brother and sister. Not the girl with too-bright dresses and too-eager smiles.

 

But the woman who had touched him. Unmade him. Whispered a line into the air that now burned itself into the base of his spine.

 

“If ever the… need… arises again, you know where to find me.”

 

He adjusted his cravat, though it wasn’t crooked.

 

He could still feel her.

 

Her fingers—stronger than they had any right to be. Her voice—cool, composed, wrapped around fire. Her scent—sharp citrus and something softer, like pressed pages.

 

He was a man used to desire. To restraint. To burying everything beneath layers of control.

 

But this—this was not desire.

 

It was disruption.

 

He had kissed women. Touched them. Been touched in return. And taken them. 

 

But no one had ever seen him like that. No one had reached beneath the skin and drawn him out like a secret.

 

"Looking for someone, brother?"

 

Anthony startled. He turned to find Eloise at his elbow, her expression equal parts curiosity and mischief.

 

"No," he lied.

 

She narrowed her eyes. "You're twitchier than usual. Is that a sunburn, or are you blushing?"

 

"Neither. Must be the heat."

 

She blinked at him. "You just adjusted your cravat for the third time in a minute."

 

He scowled. "Do you catalog my movements so precisely at every party?"

 

"Only when you're behaving like a man who’s either done something wicked—or is about to."

 

Anthony opened his mouth to retort, but his eyes flicked across the lawn—and froze.

 

Colin.

 

And a sudden, unpleasant memory surfaced—something Colin had said, months ago, about Penelope.

 

Something cruel.

 

Anthony’s mouth flattened into a line.

 

He left Eloise standing mid-question and crossed the garden.

 

Time to ask his brother some very pointed questions.

 

 

---

 

 

Colin stood with a drink in hand, basking in some inane joke retold by Lord Fife no doubt, when Anthony approached with the slow, purposeful stride of a man ready to strike.

 

"Brother," Colin said, half-grinning. "Did I miss your annual sermon on the perils of strong punch and stronger women?"

 

"Spare me," Anthony muttered. "I was looking for Penelope Featherington. She is often at your side at these functions, is she not?"

 

Colin froze.

 

The laughter fled his face, replaced by a faint flush. "I... well, not lately."

 

Anthony narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

 

Colin looked everywhere but at him. "She overheard something. Something I... may have said. To Fife. And some of the others."

 

Anthony’s voice dropped into ice. "What did you say?"

 

Colin winced. "That I would never court her. Not in anyone’s wildest fantasies. And I might have added people would be mad to think so."

 

Silence stretched taut between them.

 

"And you said this aloud? In her own home?" He said in a low and dangerous tone.

 

"I didn’t think she could hear," Colin mumbled.

 

Anthony exhaled sharply through his nose, restraining the urge to shake him. "That's what you are going with? Tell me, do you often enjoy insulting women who care for you?"

 

Colin’s cheeks flushed. "She was my friend. I didn’t want to give people the wrong idea—"

 

"And in doing so, you gave them every wrong idea imaginable. You all but declared her unmarriageable. You diminished her, Colin. You made her feel small. Not to mention you are lucky that did not make it into Whistledown!"

 

Anthony’s voice was not raised—but it struck like a slap.

 

Colin looked wounded, but Anthony turned from him without another word.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"To thank her," Anthony said simply. "She did me a kindness today. One I did not deserve. And for not killing you. Which you absolutely did.

 

He thought to himself: I can still feel her hands on me.

 

 

---

 

Penelope stood beneath a shade tree near the reflecting pool, her gaze distant. She had considered leaving the party altogether. But something rooted her there. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was hope.

 

She did not expect to hear his voice again so soon.

 

"Miss Featherington."

 

She turned, heart stuttering.

 

Anthony Bridgerton was approaching with long, purposeful strides. His coat had been adjusted. His cravat re-tied. But his eyes—they were still undone.

 

"My lord," she said, dipping into a practiced curtsey.

 

He stopped too close. Not scandalously so—but close enough to remember her fingertips.

 

"You worked some sort of sorcery on me," he said, his gaze unwavering.

 

She gave a small, satisfied smile. "I only did what you allowed."

 

He stared at her for a long moment. "I'm beginning to think I shouldn’t have."

 

Her chin lifted, challenging. "Because you enjoyed it?"

 

"Yes," he admitted. "In ways too improper to explain."

 

The air between them pulsed with tension. Heat. Something unspoken but dangerously loud.

 

Penelope did not look away. "You might have to explain less than you think. As mentioned I'm always happy to assist," she said softly. "My Hands are quite adept....with rising things.... " she smirked lightly.

 

His jaw tightened. His breath hitched.

 

"Miss Featherington!" Anthony said rather put out by how explicit she was being.

 

"I talk of kneading bread dough of course, kneading that and kneading muscles requires similar techniques." She said in a sweet tone.

 

A tone that amused Anthony despite his better judgment .

 

And despite his expression barely changing, Penelope saw the softening of his eyes and a slight crinkling of them. 

 

Why that was equivalent to a full blown smile on others.

 

So she dared to reiterate: "Consider my offer a standing one."

 

 

"I’ll try not to take advantage of such a kind offer." He murmured once more floored by her forwardness.

 

"Hmm," she murmured, brushing past him, skirts catching on his coat like a whisper. "Do keep it in mind though."

 

He turned, thunderstruck for the second time in a single hour. What had happened with their sweet innocent little Penny?

 

She didn’t look back.

 

But she knew—absolutely—that he was watching.

 

His eyes followed her until he could no longer see her without moving. 

 

He nervously shifted his weight again.

 

Why had he sought her out again? 

 

To thank her? 

 

To find out if her flirtation was fluke? To...flirt more? 

 

Or...far more damning...to just be near her?

 

He did not know the answer, his mind was rushing, pounding and a flush, that had spread, made him feel much too warm. 

 

--

 

As she walked away Penelope was contemplative.

 

She had no idea where this newfound confidence was coming from, but she was enjoying it immensely as his chocolate eyes bored into her and danced with subtle amusement.

 

Between the behaviour of her late father, uncouth mother, missing criminal cousin, and most recently Colin Bridgerton and his big mouth, Penelope often felt like the entirety of London had conspired against her to ensure she is the most undesirable marriage prospect in the entire country. 

 

Now she was abundantly clear on Colin’s feelings for her - or lack thereof, and him having poisoned the well for her with any other potential suitors, she decides she may as well have fun on the way to spinsterhood. 

 

And who better to have fun with than a capital R rake. 

 

She was basically ruined already, so what did it matter if she added one more nail to the coffin of her prospects.

 

What’s the worst that could happen? 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 Musings after Midnight

Summary:

Penelope and Anthony think of what happened that day

Penelope: Shift in Gravity

Penelope couldn't sleep.

She lay on her side, eyes wide open in the dark, hands folded beneath her cheek like a girl pretending to dream.

But her thoughts refused the lull of rest. They sparked and sizzled across her skin, flickering at the edge of memory--vivid, hot, and wholly unlike anything she'd known before.

She had touched him.

She had touched Anthony Bridgerton.

And he had not stopped her.

No--he had leaned into it. Let her in. Wanted it.

Penelope swallowed hard, her lips tingling with the echo of words she should never have said and yet could
not regret.

"My hands are quite adept... with rising things."

She let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and covered her face with her hands.

What in God's name had possessed her? She had flirted--brazenly.

Shamelessly. With the Viscount, no less.

The same man who could cow entire rooms with a single raised brow.

And yet--she'd done more than hold her own. She'd teased him. Touched him. Watched him unravel beneath
her hands.

That sound he made--low, strangled, unwilling. A sound she hadn't known she could draw from a man.

Not just a man. From him.

Anthony, who had loomed so large in her imagination for years--first as Colin's daunting older brother, then as
a brooding rake with a heartbreak history and a voice like crushed velvet.

He had always seemed unreachable.

Too proud. Too contained.

But today, he had cracked open beneath her touch. And it had changed something.

In him. In her.

Maybe both.

She had gone to the Queen's Garden Party prepared to be invisible.

She had left it unforgettable.

And the strangest part--no, the most exhilarating part--was not merely that Anthony Bridgerton had desired
her.

It was that she had felt it before he had even realized it himself.

That tension in his voice when she offered her touch.

The flutter in his breath when her fingers found the knot in his back.

The way he had stiffened--not from pain, but from the sheer shock of pleasure.

Penelope wrapped her arms around her knees, now upright in bed, heart thudding too loudly in her ears.

That had not been a girl's power. That had been something else. Something older. Sharper.

"You carry tension like a man who does not allow himself to be touched."

She had said it softly, but she had meant it. She had seen him, and not just the armor he wore.

And for once--for once in her cursed, half-seen life--someone had looked at her like she mattered. Not like she
was silly, or invisible, or too much and never enough at once.

But like a force.

Like fire.

She rose, the bedsheets whispering against her as she crossed the floor to the window.

Moonlight spilled across the floor, silver and cool, a balm to her feverish skin.

She touched the windowpane, as if the coolness might center her.

But her reflection stared back--pale, freckled, eyes wide and shining not with pride or regret, but awakening.

She did not know if Anthony would call on her.

Did not know if she had just flirted her way into disaster.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn't care.

Let them whisper.

Let them stare.

She was done waiting to be chosen second. Done dreaming behind fans and beneath hats too loud for her own
voice.

If she was to be ruined, then let it be on her terms.

She pressed two fingers to her lips and smiled.

Not a girl's smile.

A woman's.

And somewhere, across the city, she knew--he would not be sleeping either.

-----

A Man Unmade

Anthony Bridgerton could not sleep.
He had always been a man of discipline.

A creature of duty. A soldier in all but name--rigid in routine, austere in pleasure, exacting in every part of himself that might otherwise slip.

And now, at two in the morning, he lay tangled in linen sheets, heart pounding, every inch of him aching--not from injury.

From want.

From her.

Penelope Featherington.

The name used to be background noise.

Sweet, harmless, pleasant enough in the way soft wallpaper was.

Familiar. Unthreatening.

Now, it echoed through him like a struck bell.

She had touched him.

Not brushed. Not patted. Touched.

With intention. With knowledge.

With permission he had not consciously granted, but found himself giving all the same.

And worse--he had liked it.

No. He had craved it.

Her hands--sure, confident, sinfully warm--had found the exact knot in his lower back and undone him. She
had known what she was doing. Not guessed. Not hoped. Known.

"My hands are quite adept... with rising things."

He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, burying his flushed face in the pillow. His body, traitorous and tight, surged at the memory.

She had meant it. Every wicked syllable. She had watched him squirm beneath her and smiled like a cat toying with its prey.

And yet, it wasn't just the innuendo that haunted him.

It was the certainty.

That calm, devastating poise. The way she looked at him, not like a man to be won, but like a mystery already
solved.

No woman had ever made him feel like that.

Not Sienna Rosso, whose beauty had once set his veins alight--but whose passion had always demanded
something from him, always on her terms, always wrapped in need.

Not Kate Sharma, whose fire had matched his in intensity but not in control. With Kate, he had clashed,
wrestled, burned.

But Penelope... she had done neither.
She had read him. As if she'd studied the lines of his spine, the slope of his tension, and knew how to unravel
him thread by thread.

And the worst part?

She had done it gently.

had known what she was doing. Not guessed. Not hoped. Known.

"My hands are quite adept... with rising things."

He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, burying his flushed face in the pillow. His body, traitorous and tight, surged at the memory.

She had meant it. Every wicked syllable. She had watched him squirm beneath her and smiled like a cat toying with its prey.

And yet, it wasn't just the innuendo that haunted him.

It was the certainty.

That calm, devastating poise. The way she looked at him, not like a man to be won, but like a mystery already solved.

No woman had ever made him feel like that.

Not Sienna Rosso, whose beauty had once set his veins alight--but whose passion had always demanded
something from him, always on her terms, always wrapped in need.

Not Kate Sharma, whose fire had matched his in intensity but not in control. With Kate, he had clashed,
wrestled, burned.

But Penelope... she had done neither.

She had read him. As if she'd studied the lines of his spine, the slope of his tension, and knew how to unravel
him thread by thread.

And the worst part?

She had done it gently.

She had touched him, yes.

But it was her voice that haunted him now.

That tone--soft, amused, perched perfectly between propriety and sin.

That velvet cadence when she said
kneading bread dough, with a face so sweet and a smirk so dangerous, he'd nearly gasped aloud.

And then she had walked away.

No flutter. No fluster. No apology.

She had left him standing there, blood hot, heart hammering, trousers tight--and smiling.

As if she'd just won a game he hadn't realized he was playing.

He shifted again, restless, burning.

He was not a stranger to seduction.

He had seen women blush and giggle and scheme and stammer.

He had watched desire bloom in their eyes, had taken it, returned it, enjoyed it.

But Penelope--Penelope Featherington--had offered nothing so simple.

She had offered power.

And she had wielded it with terrifying grace.

No woman had ever reached inside his carefully erected walls and touched something so vulnerable.

No one had seen him like that--unguarded, undone, his breath hissing through his teeth as her thumb dragged over the curve of his spine.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets.

She saw too much.

And worse--she had enjoyed it.

That smile. That confident, knowing curve of her lips. Not coy. Not innocent. Certain.

He had misjudged her entirely.

For years, she had been a fixture.

Colin's little shadow. Eloise's confidante. A girl with far too much hair, far too little fashion sense, and a laugh that had seemed a little too earnest to be fashionable.

And now--Now he could barely blink without seeing her.

Not just her face, or her hands. But her mind. Her insight. Her smirk.

Her voice saying, "You might have to explain less than you think."

That line pierced him sharper than the others.

Because it implied knowing.

Experience. Not the clumsy experimentation of a girl. But the confidence of a woman who had learned.

From whom?

Who had taught her those touches?

Who had earned the right to see her like this, like this?

The thought hit him like a lash.

He sat up, breath ragged.

The jealousy that surged in him was ridiculous. Baseless. Utterly unjustified.

He had no claim on her. He barely knew her.

And yet--his chest burned with the idea that someone else might have been there first.

That another man had felt the heat of her hands, the cleverness of her mouth, the power of her voice dropping low in flirtation.

It was absurd.

It was hypocritical.

How many lovers had he had? How many women's names had he long since forgotten, even as they whispered his into the dark?

And yet the thought of Penelope with anyone else--No. He couldn't stomach it.

He wanted to be the only one who knew how her breath hitched when her fingers grazed bare skin.

The only one who got to hear that wicked, teasing note in her voice when she decided to drive a man mad.

He wanted--God help him--he wanted all of her.

Not just her hands, or her mouth, or her laugh. Not even just her desire.

He wanted to be the one she chose.

The one she turned to when she bared her throat, when she wielded her
sharpness, when she needed to be seen.

And he wanted to ruin any man who had already had that.

He scrubbed a hand across his face.
He was being irrational.

Possessive.

Dangerous.

But he could not deny the truth:

Penelope Featherington had unmade him with one touch and a handful of words.

And if he didn't get her out of his head soon--

His hand moved with practiced precision, but his mind--his mind was chaos.

He saw her as she had looked that afternoon--eyes dark with amusement, lips parted in a smirk that held more
danger than any duel. Her fingers, elegant and sure, working beneath the fabric of his coat. The pressure of her
thumb at the base of his spine, the sweep of her voice murmuring something half-innocent, half-sin.

He imagined her leaning in, hair brushing his cheek, breath hot against his ear.

"May I?"

God, yes.

He clenched his teeth, trying to quiet the groan that clawed its way up his throat.

His hips lifted involuntarily,
chasing the friction he both craved and resented.

This wasn't release.

It was reliving.

A helpless attempt to exorcise her from his blood--and failing.

He imagined her watching him now--smirking, knowing, triumphant. Not cruel. But assured.

As if she had claimed him and simply left the mark behind.

His grip tightened.

"You carry tension like a man who does not allow himself to be touched..."

He let out a gasp--sharp, broken.

The end came swiftly, a convulsion of heat and breath, his body jerking once beneath the sheets as his eyes
squeezed shut against the rush of it.
For a moment, silence.

Only his ragged breath, loud in the quiet room.

And afterward, flushed and panting and disgusted with himself, he let the hypocrisy settle heavy on his chest.

He was a rake.

But for the first time in his life, he wanted to be better.

For her.

And that scared him most of all.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 Unseen No More

Summary:

A ball, a dance and propriety hanging on by a thread

Lady Danbury’s Ball was a riot of color and spectacle. Silk, candlelight, and secrets spun through the air like smoke. It was the kind of evening built for scandal—the kind where reputations could be won or ruined with a single glance.

 

Penelope Featherington stood at the edge of the floor, alone.

 

Her gown was a rich emerald green, a shade Genevieve Delacroix had insisted upon. “If they refuse to look at you,” the modiste had declared, “make it impossible not to see you.”

 

And they saw her.

 

Not with admiration. Not yet. But with surprise. With confusion.

 

The same girl in the corner of last season’s ballrooms was now draped in silk that shimmered like cut leaves and moved like water. Her hair, once tightly pinned and tucked behind bows, now framed her face in soft, deliberate waves.

 

But still—no suitors approached.

 

Not even the ones known for pity dances.

 

Penelope held her head high, her hands gently resting on the edges of her untouched dance card. She had expected this. Anticipated it, even. Colin’s words had slithered through the ton like smoke: Not even in your wildest fantasies.

 

She was no longer just a wallflower. She was a cautionary tale. An object of curiosity. A scandal-in-waiting.

 

Still, she smiled.

 

Not the smile she used to wear—the one that begged not to be mocked. This one was quieter. Sharper. Like a blade sheathed in dimples.

 

She told herself she did not mind standing alone.

 

That she preferred it.

 

That she could not—would not—let anyone see the crack forming just beneath her ribs.

 

The music swelled. Another quadrille. Another set she would not be invited to join.

 

Penelope turned slightly, intending to move toward the punch table, when—

 

“Miss Featherington.”

 

His voice landed on her skin before she even turned.

 

Low. Intent. Familiar.

 

She pivoted slowly.

 

Anthony Bridgerton stood before her, impeccably dressed in deep navy with subtle black embroidery. His gloves were immaculate. His gaze, anything but.

 

There was no amusement in his expression.

 

There was focus.

 

He executed a precise bow. “Might I have the honour of this dance?”

 

Penelope blinked once.

 

His formality, his tone—so proper, and yet something in it curled warm beneath her skin.

 

She dipped into a graceful curtsey. “The honour is mine, my lord.”

 

She placed her hand in his.

 

The ballroom seemed to hush. Just slightly. Just enough.

 

A Bridgerton. And not just any Bridgerton. The Viscount.

 

With her.

 

As they moved to the floor, heads turned. Fans twitched. The musicians faltered for half a beat, then recovered.

 

It ought to have been a simple exchange. A dance, a bow, a curtsy. Polite. Forgettable.

 

But Penelope’s eyes—lidded, amused, just a touch smug—told another story entirely.

 

As she dipped in her starting curtsy, she looked up through her lashes—calm, composed, and wickedly content.

 

Anthony bowed low, but his heart beat like war drums.

 

She was radiant. Not in the glittering, jeweled way the ton favored, but in something subtler. More dangerous.

 

Confidence.

 

Her hand slid into his as he led her, and for a moment—just a moment—he forgot his own name.

 

Her gloves were satin, yes, but he could feel the heat of her even through the fabric. The pressure of her fingers against his palm. The slight, deliberate curl of them. She held his hand like a secret.

 

And it thrilled him.

 

They took their opening steps in silence, eyes locked. The orchestra was playing something in a minor key, lush and low and perfect for the way she moved—smooth and measured, each step a study in control.

 

But then, she tilted her chin and said, lightly, “You dance like a man with a great many thoughts.”

 

He raised a brow. “And you observe like a woman who expects to be the subject of them.”

 

“I do not expect,” she said sweetly, “I know.”

 

That earned her a sharp exhale from his nose. Nearly a laugh. Nearly.

 

He spun her, slow and smooth, letting his fingers trail a fraction longer than proper along the inside of her wrist as she returned to frame.

 

She felt it. He saw it—the small stutter in her breath. The way her throat bobbed before she composed herself again.

 

They danced on.

 

Penelope’s pulse thrummed in her ears.

 

Anthony's hand was settled at her waist.

 

Firm. Possessive. Warm.

 

She had been touched before—escorted, led, turned—but never like this. Not like he already knew her rhythm. Not like he meant to memorize it.

 

She lifted her gaze to his, and he was already watching her.

 

He did not smile.

 

But he looked at her like he saw her.

 

Not as his brother’s friend. Not as a background ornament.

 

But as the woman who had once pressed her hands to his spine and left him aching.

 

Anthony’s hand tightened ever so slightly at Penelope’s waist as the music swelled.

 

The rhythm of the waltz swept them along with its motion, each turn and step drawing them closer. It was not the first time they had danced—not technically—but it was the first time it felt like this. 

 

Measured, charged, inexorably intentional.

 

Penelope’s posture was perfect, but her breath hitched as his thumb, gloved though it was, stroked a subtle arc at the small of her back. The touch was barely there. But it echoed.

 

“You’ve stunned the room,” he said, voice low, for her ears alone. “And yet you stand here as if it means nothing.”

 

Penelope met his gaze without hesitation. “That is because it does not.

 

 I did not dress for them, my lord.”

 

He swallowed.

 

“You dress for yourself, then?”

 

A pause. Then a smile—small, sharp, a secret tucked between lips.

 

“No,” she said. “Not entirely.”

 

She did not elaborate.

 

He did not ask.

 

The music continued. They turned. Her skirts whispered around them.

“You are different this season,” he said quietly. “Sharper. More assured.”

 

“I might say the same of you.”

 

“Do you approve?”

 

“I do not require your approval,” she replied.

 

He laughed, soft and surprised. “That was not the question.”

 

“No,” she admitted. “But it was the answer.”

 

Another turn. The pressure of his hand changed—slid a fraction lower.

 

She felt it.

 

He saw her feel it.

 

His voice dropped. “You have not said whether your offer still stands.”

 

Penelope tilted her head, as if considering. “Which offer, my lord? I’ve made several.”

 

He blinked, thrown. “The one regarding… rising matters.”

 

Her eyes gleamed. “Ah. That one.”

 

The final notes of the waltz drew near. Couples began their last sweeping rotations.

 

Penelope leaned in, her voice a breath against his jaw. “I did say it was a standing offer, did I not?”

 

He tensed. His voice, when it came, was low and steady.

 

“You did. And I will not pretend the offer does not tempt me greatly.”

 

Her lips curved.

 

“But to take you up on it ,” he continued, “would not be proper."

 

Her brow arched. “I see.”

 

“Well, my lord,” she said lightly, “then I shall look forward to the day you have had your fill of being proper.”

 

He exhaled slowly. “It will not be today.”

 

“No?” she murmured.

 

“I think, for now,” he said, eyes still locked to hers, “I shall do as I have done and take care of any... rising matters myself.”

 

A beat.

 

Penelope leaned ever so slightly closer.

 

“Well, then,” she said, the words warm and velvet-smooth, “I shall continue to do the same.”

 

Anthony closed his eyes briefly.

 

Anthony hoarsely asked—too quietly—“Do you always wield this much power when you dance?”

 

She didn’t blink. “Only when I wish to.”

 

“And now?”

 

A tilt of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. “Do you feel powerless?”

 

He spun her again—perhaps a shade too quickly. She laughed, low and quiet, and it thrilled through him like wine in his blood.

 

When she returned to him, he took her waist with a little more firmness.

 

Her eyes widened—only a fraction—but he saw it. Felt her draw breath like it mattered.

 

She stepped closer. Not improper. Not quite.

 

But her hand slipped along his bicep, not just for balance. She lingered. And her thumb… it moved. Just once. A caress masked as adjustment.

 

It took every scrap of restraint he had not to pull her in flush against him.

 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Featherington,” he murmured, lips barely moving.

 

She tilted her head, lashes sweeping down, voice a whisper of silk. “Oh? And what game would that be?”

 

He met her gaze, molten and dark and full of things he should not say. “One I very much want to lose.”

 

She didn’t answer him with words.

 

She didn’t need to.

 

Her eyes—sharp, molten, so alive—flicked down to his mouth, just for a second.

 

Then the music ended.

 

The applause rippled around them, polite and meaningless. But Anthony hardly heard it. He stood still, hand at her waist, hers at his arm, as the room moved on without them.

 

Only when the next song began did Penelope gently step back.

 

She lowered into a graceful curtsy once more, head bowed in perfect form. But when she rose—God help him—she looked up through her lashes again, and he knew.

 

She was not teasing him.

 

She was daring him.

 

He bowed with the same elegance. But his fingers brushed hers a fraction longer than required. His thumb caught the base of her palm. No one would notice.

 

But she did.

 

The air between them thrummed.

 

“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she said, voice demure, tone utterly not.

 

His mouth was too dry. “The pleasure was mine.”

 

As she turned, her skirts whispered against his leg. She paused. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to make him aware of the warmth where her body had just been.

 

Then she walked away—slow, measured. Spine straight. Shoulders bare beneath her pale green gown and glowing like temptation itself under the chandeliers.

 

He didn’t stop watching her.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Every step away from him felt like a threat. And he—who had always known how to walk away first—suddenly hated the distance.

 

He hadn’t offered to call on her.

 

He hadn’t asked for a second dance.

 

He hadn’t promised anything.

 

But something had shifted between them—and they both knew it.

She was not his.

But she had danced with him like she might choose to be.

And that, Anthony thought grimly, would be enough to keep him awake all night.

They were parted, for the night.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: A Mother's Instinct and an Artist's Eye

Summary:

Benedict and Violet Witness the dance and shamelessly eavesdrop on it all

Notes:

Not part of the original fanfiction I just felt it. And I thought it funny. Hope you do too.

Violet Bridgerton was halfway through politely declining another matchmaking attempt from Lady Jersey when she stilled. Her fan faltered. Her hand curled just slightly tighter around her gloves.

 

“…That is not—” she began.

 

“What is not?” Benedict asked, bemused, turning toward her.

 

She nodded toward the edge of the dance floor, barely restraining a smile. “There. By the punch. Look.”

 

Benedict followed her gaze—and promptly squinted.

 

“…Is that Anthony?” he said, incredulous. “Standing in front of Miss Featherington?”

 

“Not just standing.” Violet’s fan snapped open again, now purely for cover. “He’s bowing.”

 

Sure enough, Anthony Bridgerton was executing a courtly, precise bow in front of Penelope Featherington. And not just any bow, either—the kind of bow usually reserved for duchesses and debutantes one fully intended to ruin.

 

“Oh dear,” Violet whispered.

 

Penelope curtseyed in reply, her face calm—no, confident—and placed her hand into Anthony’s as if this were a regular occurrence. As if she were the one granting him favor.

 

Benedict blinked. “I’m sorry, when did that happen? Last I checked she could barely form a sentence around him.”

 

Violet made a quiet, positively delighted noise. “Apparently that has changed.”

 

They watched as the pair moved to the center of the floor. Around them, fans twitched and heads turned. The musicians faltered for the briefest second.

 

Benedict leaned closer. “Did you see that? She looked up through her lashes. Like a cat who knows exactly which cream to spill.”

 

Violet gave him a sharp look—but not a disapproving one. “Do not be vulgar, dear.”

 

“I’m not! I’m impressed.” His eyes sparkled. “She’s glorious.”

 

The dance began. The orchestra played something moody and low, a minor key underscoring their movement. Anthony took the lead—but Penelope followed with poise.

 

And then—

 

“You dance like a man with a great many thoughts,” came Penelope’s voice, just loud enough to carry.

 

Violet’s brows rose halfway to her hairline. “Did she just—”

 

“She did,” Benedict said, lips twitching.

 

Anthony’s voice followed, droll and unmistakably flirtatious: “And you observe like a woman who expects to be the subject of them.”

 

“Oh my,” Violet whispered.

 

“I feel we should not be hearing this,” Benedict said, gleeful. “But I absolutely want to.”

 

Violet snapped her fan shut and took Benedict by the arm.

 

“We’re dancing,” she declared.

 

“We are?” he said, laughing.

 

“Yes. I am not letting your brother seduce a Featherington on the dance floor without at least a competent witness.”

 

They stepped onto the floor, blending into the current of dancers as discreetly as a hawk among sparrows.

 

“I do not expect,” Penelope was saying sweetly as they passed, “I know.”

 

Benedict made a choking sound. “That’s not even flirting anymore. That’s—warfare.”

 

“She is daring him,” Violet whispered, eyes wide. “And I do believe he’s enjoying it.”

 

“I know he is,” Benedict muttered. “Look at his face—he’s barely holding himself together.”

 

“I haven’t seen him look like that since…” Violet trailed off.

 

“Sienna?” Benedict supplied gently.

 

“No,” Violet said after a moment. “No, this is something else.”

 

They turned again, adjusting their position to follow the couple’s slow orbit across the room.

 

“She’s magnificent,” Benedict murmured. “Not just lovely. She’s in control.”

 

Violet gave a soft, conspiratorial laugh. “I think she’s been preparing for this moment for years.”

 

“Would explain why Anthony looks like a thundercloud about to break.”

 

“And yet he has not let go of her hand,” Violet said. “Not even slightly. Look at the way his fingers are curled—like he’d drag her away if given half a reason.”

 

Another pass. Another overheard line—

 

“You’ve stunned the room,” Anthony murmured, low enough to be scandalous. “And yet you stand here as if it means nothing.”

 

Penelope, cool as ever, replied, “That is because it does not. I did not dress for them, my lord.”

 

Violet gasped softly, biting the edge of her glove. “She is unmaking him.”

 

“I want to paint this,” Benedict said reverently. “Not the scene. Her. In green silk and wickedness.”

 

They turned once more.

 

“Not entirely,” Penelope was saying now, with that same secret curve to her lips.

 

Anthony swallowed.

 

Benedict raised a brow. “That did not sound innocent.”

 

“Oh, darling,” Violet said, eyes twinkling. “It wasn’t meant to.”

 

 

“You have not said whether your offer still stands,” Anthony said, voice low enough to warm candlewax.

 

Violet missed a step.

 

“Offer?” she hissed under her breath to Benedict, eyes locked on the pair.

 

Benedict, grinning too widely, executed a graceful pivot. “She offered something, clearly. And he’s not asking about an embroidery lesson.”

 

Penelope tilted her head, full of feline composure. “Which offer, my lord? I’ve made several.”

 

Violet pressed her left hand to her chest, scandalized. “Several? Benedict—she’s toying with him!”

 

“I know,” Benedict whispered gleefully. “She’s magnificent. If this were a painting, I’d call it Eve Offering the Apple, with Extra Smirk.”

 

Anthony blinked, thrown. “The one regarding… rising matters.”

 

Violet made a sound not dissimilar to a squeak.

 

“Oh dear God,” she said faintly, and then added, “We are still in public.”

 

Benedict, struggling to contain his laughter, said, “He sounds like a schoolboy trying to confess to having impure dreams.”

 

“She sounds like she’s had them,” Violet snapped, though not unkindly.

 

“Ah. That one,” Penelope said, utterly unruffled.

 

The music was nearing its final swell, but the tension between the two dancers had long outpaced the waltz.

 

Violet and Benedict moved in sync again, circling just behind them. A few other couples were beginning to take notice—but none were as dialed in as mother and son.

 

Penelope leaned in—far too close for propriety—and her words brushed his jaw like a stolen kiss.

 

“I did say it was a standing offer, did I not?”

 

Anthony tensed. Visibly.

 

Benedict’s eyebrows nearly flew off his face.

 

“She is flirting like a rogue,” he whispered. “I love her.”

 

Violet had stopped dancing entirely for a breath. She stared, then yanked Benedict back into motion by the sleeve.

 

“I adore her,” she corrected him. “And Anthony looks like he is about to combust.”

 

Anthony’s voice came, ragged but still clinging to civility: “You did. And I will not pretend the offer does not tempt me greatly.”

 

Penelope’s lips curved.

 

Benedict glanced at his mother, both brows arched high. “Did he just admit—”

 

“Yes,” Violet said, too quickly. “Yes, he did.”

 

“But to take you up on it,” Anthony continued, “would not be proper.”

 

Violet’s mouth twitched, half in sympathy, half in unfiltered amusement.

 

“He still thinks propriety will save him, poor boy.”

 

“Too late,” Benedict murmured. “His heart’s already off his leash.”

 

Penelope arched a brow. “I see.”

 

“Well, my lord,” she said lightly, “then I shall look forward to the day you have had your fill of being proper.”

 

Benedict outright laughed—quietly, but not quietly enough.

 

Violet elbowed him sharply. “Shhh!”

 

“You cannot tell me that wasn’t perfect,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

 

Anthony’s exhale was so slow it practically steamed. “It will not be today.”

 

Penelope, voice like poured silk, purred, “No?”

 

Benedict muttered, “I’m sweating.”

 

“I think, for now,” Anthony said, locked in her gaze, “I shall do as I have done and take care of any… rising matters myself.”

 

There was a beat of pure silence.

 

Benedict lost all ability to function. He clutched Violet’s arm for support.

 

“Did he—did he just admit to ...and on a ballroom floor?”

 

Violet inhaled sharply, fanning herself with great urgency. “That’s not what he meant.”

 

A pause.

 

“Although… yes. That’s absolutely what he meant.”

 

Penelope leaned in ever so slightly, her voice like a secret wrapped in velvet.

 

“Well, then,” she said, tone devastatingly smooth, “I shall continue to do the same.”

 

Anthony closed his eyes, visibly stricken.

 

Violet wheezed. “She’s talking about herself—! Oh good God. That girl."

 

“She is starting to become legendary” Benedict whispered.

 

“Do you always wield this much power when you dance?” Anthony asked, hoarsely.

 

Penelope didn’t blink. “Only when I wish to.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Do you feel powerless?”

 

Benedict made a strangled noise. “This is art, poetry with footwork.”

 

Anthony spun her quickly—an act of desperation more than flair. Penelope laughed, low and dangerous.

 

When she returned to him, he took her waist with more force.

 

Her eyes widened, just barely, and Violet gripped Benedict’s wrist.

 

“That was not subtle.”

 

“That was feral,” Benedict replied.

 

Penelope stepped closer—not improper. Not quite. But her hand slid along his bicep, and her thumb moved. A caress.

 

Anthony barely held on to himself.

 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Featherington,” he said, voice so dark it practically burned.

 

Penelope tilted her head. “Oh? And what game would that be?”

 

Anthony, molten and lost, replied, “One I very much want to lose.”

 

And still—still—the music hadn’t quite ended.

 

Violet stared. Then whispered, “I must write to Daphne.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Benedict hissed. “We are keeping this to ourselves until I finish the portrait.”

 

Penelope didn’t answer with words. She didn’t need to.

 

Her eyes flicked down to Anthony’s mouth.

 

Just once.

 

Then the music ended.

 

Applause rippled, irrelevant.

 

Violet fanned herself again with shaking hands.

 

Anthony didn’t move. Penelope didn’t flinch. They stood in suspended gravity.

 

When the next dance began, she finally stepped back, curtsied. And as she rose—

 

Benedict murmured, reverent and stunned, “She’s not teasing him.”

 

“No,” Violet agreed, softly. “She’s daring him.”

 

Penelope dipped into her final curtsy, graceful as a queen in disguise.

 

But when she rose—oh, when she rose—her gaze locked with Anthony’s, lidded and dangerous. Her lashes lifted slow and sharp. Her mouth didn’t smile. It dared.

 

Anthony bowed with a matching elegance, but—

 

“Oh heavens,” Violet murmured, watching closely. “Did you see that?”

 

“I did,” Benedict said, awed. “He brushed her fingers. His thumb—at the base of her palm.”

 

“No one else would notice,” Violet breathed.

 

“But she did.”

 

Benedict nodded. “And she’s smiling. Not like a debutante. Like a goddess with plans.”

 

The air between the dancers shimmered—charged, humming, almost intimate enough to snap.

 

“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” Penelope said, her voice demure, but her tone a siren’s call.

 

Anthony’s mouth parted. He looked a man half-drowned. “The pleasure was mine.”

 

And then she turned.

 

Her skirts whispered against his leg—just enough.

 

She paused.

 

Just long enough to leave a mark.

 

Then she walked away—slow, measured, leaving a trail of devastation in her wake.

 

Anthony didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t.

 

“Oh no,” Violet said softly.

 

Benedict frowned. “What?”

 

“He’s done for.”

 

The Viscount stood on the ballroom floor like a statue left out in the rain. Damp with want. Cracked open in silence.

 

“Look at him,” Violet said. “He didn’t ask for a second dance. Didn’t even offer to call on her. He’s rattled to his spine.”

 

“She danced with him like she might choose to be his,” Benedict murmured.

 

Violet nodded. “And now he’s terrified she won’t.”

 

They turned another circle, but neither of them looked at their own steps.

 

They watched Anthony.

 

They watched him track Penelope across the floor with hungry, helpless eyes.

 

Every step she took away from him etched itself deeper into his shoulders.

 

“He didn’t walk away first,” Violet said. “He always walks away first.”

 

“Not this time,” Benedict said. “She left him.”

 

They drifted off the floor, finally, as the song changed and the spell broke.

 

Violet exhaled as she pressed her hand to her heart. “She didn’t just flirt with him. She rewrote him.”

 

Benedict was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Would you be terribly upset if I asked to paint her?”

 

Violet gave him a sidelong glance. “I’d be upset if you didn’t.”

 

“She belongs in oil,” Benedict murmured. “In green silk and a look that says yes, I dared you, and I won.”

 

They stood together near the refreshment table now, watching as Anthony slowly—finally—tore his eyes away and turned, a little unsteady, a little dazed.

 

“Where is he going?” Violet asked.

 

“To try and breathe again,” Benedict said. “Or possibly to commit murder. Depends on who he blames for her being that irresistible.”

 

Violet considered, then smiled. “I hope he blames himself.”

 

“Oh, I think he will,” Benedict said.

 

They were silent for a moment, the clink of glasses and rustle of silk filling the air between them.

 

Then Violet said, “Well. That was delicious.”

 

“Should we tell anyone?” Benedict asked.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

They clinked glasses. Watched the storm walk off in human form. And together, they grinned like two children who had seen something very grown-up—and knew they would never look at their brother the same way again.

 

 

 

Notes:

Anthony had to get his "Good god" somewhere.... :-)

Chapter 6: Chapter 6 Echoes of (E)motion

Summary:

Once more our pair finds themselves thinking about each other

Notes:

Again not part of the original Fanfiction but i just felt it

 

Penelope: The Stillness After

 

Penelope lay awake, staring at the canopy above her bed, where moonlight filtered in through gauze curtains and cast shifting shadows like dancers across the ceiling.

 

She had danced with Anthony Bridgerton.

 

That alone should have been enough to keep her awake — the sheer novelty, the scandalous audacity of it. But it wasn’t novelty that stirred beneath her skin. It was memory.

 

The heat of his hand at her waist. The weight of his gaze, dark and unreadable and so very focused. The way the music curled around them but never quite reached their shared silence — the silence that hummed with meaning.

 

She had always imagined herself invisible. Or, at best, an accessory to someone else's scene. A punchline. A pity. A fixture meant to be overlooked.

 

But tonight, she had been something else entirely.

 

He had looked at her like a man watching a match strike tinder — not surprised by the fire, but arrested by its glow.

 

And she — she had not looked away.

 

She pressed her palms against her cheeks, half-expecting them to burn. Her whole body felt too warm, too aware.

 

The hem of her nightdress tangled around her legs as she shifted, restless. Her fingers traced idle patterns along the sheets, imagining — not for the first time — the subtle arc of his thumb against her spine. It had been gloved, but the intent had been bare.

 

And then there was his voice. That low, rough murmur. “You have not said whether your offer still stands.”

 

She had known, the moment he asked, that he was no longer teasing. That something in him had fractured. That he had begun to believe she might be more than a diversion.

 

More than a friend.

 

More than a girl.

 

The thought made her dizzy.

 

Not because she doubted it — not anymore — but because of how fiercely she wanted to be right.

 

She should be frightened. A ruined reputation. A wrecked future. All of it hung by a thread.

 

But she wasn’t frightened.

 

She was… alive.

 

She moved to sit by the window, legs tucked beneath her, forehead brushing the glass. The city lay beyond, soft and quiet and blinking with candlelight. Somewhere, he was out there — perhaps staring at his ceiling, as she had been. Perhaps replaying each moment with the same trembling, unbearable attention.

 

She could still feel the echo of his touch, even through gloves. The way his fingers had lingered — the pressure, the heat, the promise.

 

And then there were his eyes.

 

Not soft. Not sweet. But steady. Focused. Possessive in a way that made her breath catch, not from fear but from recognition.

 

Penelope had lived her whole life in the background. Watching. Wanting. Wishing.

 

But not tonight.

 

Tonight, she had taken the floor with the most powerful man in the room — and made him follow her lead.

 

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, perhaps the whispers would come. Perhaps the world would begin to notice.

 

But tonight…

 

She closed her eyes and smiled.

 

Tonight, the Viscount had looked at her like she was the scandal he would set fire to propriety to possess.

 

Anthony: Fracture Lines

 

Anthony sat alone in the dark, elbows braced on his knees, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to his skin.

 

The ballroom had faded hours ago, but she had not.

 

Penelope Featherington.

 

He said her name aloud, once — just to see how it felt in the stillness.

 

It did not feel innocent.

 

It had never sounded like sin before. But now… now it curled against his tongue like something indulgent, something too rich for the likes of him. Too alive.

 

She had looked at him like a woman who already knew the ending. Who had written it, sealed it, and handed it to him with a bow.

 

He was a man who prized control. Who clung to order like it could anchor him to sanity. And yet with her—

 

With her, everything had bent.

 

He should not have asked her if the offer still stood.

 

He should not have needed to.

 

But the moment her breath brushed his jaw, when she leaned in with that devastating calm and said, “I did say it was a standing offer,” — something inside him had snapped. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… irrevocably.

 

She had known what she was doing.

 

And worse — she’d done it before. Had to have. No one spoke like that without practice. No one touched like that without memory in their hands.

 

His teeth ground together.

 

Who?

 

Who had she laughed with like that? Touched like that? Undone?

 

The thought lodged like glass in his throat.

 

He had no claim to her. No right. But the idea that another man might have once pressed his mouth to the back of her hand — that hand — or coaxed that exact amused little smile from her lips, left him sick with something too old and too primal to name.

 

And yet, beneath the rage and arousal, deeper still, was something far more dangerous:

 

He wanted to know her.

 

Not just her cleverness, not just her body — though God help him, both were already etched into his bones.

 

He wanted to know what made her ache.

 

What made her cry.

 

What had taught her how to wield that power — and what it had cost her.

 

He poured himself a drink, then didn’t touch it.

 

The crystal glass sat untouched beside his hand, trembling only from the pulse in his fingers. He stared at it like it might offer a distraction, but all it did was reflect her face — smiling, sure, the heat of her breath still dancing along his collar.

 

He tried to think of anyone else. Sienna. Kate. A dozen women whose names he had once remembered. Nothing came.

 

Only her.

 

Her voice, silk over a blade.

Her fingers, reverent and wicked.

Her control — God, her control — like a leash he hadn’t realized he wore until she tugged it.

 

His hand moved to his thigh, unthinking.

 

It wasn’t lust, not really. Not anymore.

 

It was need. Worship.

 

He leaned back in the chair, legs parted, shirt open at the throat. He closed his eyes, and she was there. A whisper behind the lids.

 

“I dress for myself... not entirely.”

 

That smile. That knowledge.

 

His hand was steady, practiced — but what filled him wasn’t the usual rush of release. It was longing. Desperate, bone-deep longing.

 

He imagined her whispering again, “May I?”, but this time with no gloves. No audience. No silk between them.

 

His other hand clenched the arm of the chair. His hips lifted helplessly into his palm, chasing something that felt nothing like conquest — and everything like surrender.

 

It did not take long.

 

When it came, it was silent — violent in its stillness. His whole body seized, a groan caught behind his teeth, eyes screwed shut.

 

For a moment, he felt suspended. Hollowed.

 

And then shame settled in like ash.

 

He rose too quickly, the chair scraping against the floor. His trousers half-undone, his breath still uneven, he dragged a hand down his face and stared at the ghost of her in the window glass.

 

He felt ridiculous.

 

But more than that — he felt lost.

 

This wasn’t seduction. This wasn’t power.

 

This was something else. Something dangerous.

 

Because he wanted her again — yes. But not just to fuck. Not just to ruin.

 

He wanted her safe. He wanted her happy. He wanted to see her smile again and know he was the cause of it.

 

And that… that was what terrified him most of all.

 

He sat again, elbows on his knees, head bowed like a man in prayer — or penance.

 

The quiet roared in his ears.

 

“Well, my lord,” she said lightly, “then I shall look forward to the day you have had your fill of being proper.”

 

It was meant as a jest. Light, teasing.

 

But it didn’t feel light now. Not at all.

 

It felt like a thread pulled loose from something tightly bound. A warning. A promise. A clock ticking down.

 

Anthony had built his entire life on the scaffold of propriety. Duty. Discipline.

 

The rules had kept him sane. Safe.

 

And now—

 

Now a woman in green silk had slipped beneath his skin and spoken the words that might one day burn it all to the ground.

 

“The day you have had your fill of being proper…”

 

God help him — what if that day had already come?

 

What if it had been tonight?

 

What if she already knew?

 

And across the city, sleepless and breathless in separate rooms, they both sat in the quiet dark—haunted by the same waltz, the same heat, the same almost.

 

Two hearts, beating out of rhythm with the world.

Two mouths, parted by memory, not distance.

Two hands, still aching with the echo of touch.

 

They were not each other's yet.

 

But they were no longer their own.

 

Not entirely.

 

Not anymore.

 

 

 

Notes:

Next Up:

The Opera

Chapter 7: Chapter 7 What Lingers in the Wings

Summary:

Penelope asks for one little favor. Anthony tries to behave. They both fail spectacularly.

Anthony did not hate the opera.

 

Not anymore.

 

Once, it had stirred something in him—longing, escape, the illusion of freedom wrapped in soprano high notes. He had sat in this very theatre and let Sienna Rosso’s voice seduce the ache from his bones. Back then, he had imagined the opera a kind of refuge.

 

Now? It reminded him of the weight of memory. Of things he had wanted and could not keep. Of the lie that desire was simple.

 

He slipped out of his box before the second aria could begin.

 

He told himself it was the heat.

 

He told himself he needed air.

 

But in truth, he needed space from the orchestra’s swell—because it didn’t stir longing anymore. It stirred something harder. Something sharp and restless.

 

And then he saw her. Penelope.

 

She stood near a marble pillar, her back to him, dabbing discreetly at her eyes.

 

He slowed.

 

“Miss Featherington?” he asked, softer than he meant to.

 

She startled, then turned quickly. “Lord Bridgerton.” Her smile was brittle.

 

“Forgive me, I— It’s silly. I’m fine.”

 

This was not the self assured seductress of the past week. This was perhaps the last remnants of the girl he once thought he knew. 

 

Anthony watched her from a few feet away, unsure of what to say. She looked… fragile, but not weak. As though her pain had crystallized into something sharp and gleaming.

 

“You’re not fine,” he said gently. Trying to for a soothing coaxing tone.

 

“I’m just… I identified too much with the heroine.” She gave a watery smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The heroine’s fate—her loneliness—it struck a little too close to home. It made me sad.”

 

“She dies unloved,” he said. “And unseen.”

 

She nodded. “She had so much to give. No one ever wanted it.”

 

Her voice cracked.

 

He stepped toward her.

 

Anthony hesitated. Then offered his arm. “Walk with me. There’s a side room.”

 

She nodded and took it, her fingers light and warm against his sleeve.

 

The antechamber was dim, quiet. Too quiet. Penelope could still hear the music bleeding through the walls—tragedy dressed as art. The heroine was alone on stage.

 

Just as she had always feared she would be in life.

 

“Penelope—you said you felt for the heroine?” he asked with warmth trying to convey he would listen.

 

“I was the heroine,” she whispered. “She had so much love to give, and no one wanted it. She loved alone. Always alone.”

 

He swallowed.

 

“And you fear that’s your future?" He asked in a gentle tone but inside not believing this woman that played him like a fiddle was so...blind.

 

Penelope gave him a small, sharp nod.

 

He reached for her hand without thinking. She let him take it.

 

“Anthony?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

 

His name in her voice. It nearly stopped his breath. It was the first time she had said his name aloud. At least the first time he consciously heard. It sounded so right.

 

"How you can feel that way, and yet tease me so effortlessly feels rather contradictory." he mumbled.

 

Trying to understand the little woman in front of him.

 

"Anthony?" she said once more this time her tone surer.

 

“Yes, Penelope?” oh her name...spoken directly to her for the first time also felt...so right. But hopefully not the last. 

 

She looked at him, wide-eyed but steady. “Could I ask you a favor?”

 

He nodded, cautious. “Of course.”

 

“Would you kiss me?” she asked in a small and hopeful voice.

 

He blinked. “What?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

 

There was a pause.

 

 “Please, It doesn't have to mean anything to you, or at all. I promise. And I would never expect anything from you because of it. But I want to know what it's like to be kissed.” she explained quickly before she lost her nerve. 

 

He stared at her. She had never been kissed? What? How?

 

His hesitation due to his surprise by this revelation must have given her the wrong impression.

 

"Oh God forget I said anything." Her face flushed scarlet, and she turned away quickly. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

 

She shook her head, clearly mortified. “That was foolish—I shouldn’t have—”

 

She turned away before he could even fully comprehend what that revelation meant.

 

Stunned as he was by his seductress of the past week, being quite innocent after all.

 

All his thoughts of jealousy, of possesiveness of wanting to ruin any past lovers..baseless …

 

But one statement though, rang in his ears still "It doesn't have to mean anything to you, or at all. I promise. And I would never expect anything from you because of it." It gutted him, not because of what it said—but because of what it meant.

 

It doesn't have to mean anything to you....like it wouldn't mean everything to him.

 

I would never expect anything…

Because no one ever gave her a reason to.

Because even now, asking for this one, impossibly wonderful thing, she was already prpmising to shield him from consequence.

She was making it safe—for him. Something inside Anthony cracked open.

 

Before he could form any coherent sentences to voice his thoughts she turned towards him again.

 

“No,” she said suddenly said, turning back. Her eyes blazed now, her voice cracking but full of fierce self-possession. “No. I’m not going to forget it.”

 

He straightened at looked at her cracked open now and ready to receive....anything...

 

“I’ve spent my life forgetting things. Swallowing things. Never saying what I want because it might embarrass someone or make them look at me too closely. But not this. Not tonight.”

 

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You do not know how long is spent swallowing my feelings, hiding them, begging to be seen… I just want to know. Just once what it's like to be kissed. Please Anthony if you want me at all..."

 

A fleeting nearly angry thought crossed his mind. If you want me at all??? How could she not know..."

 

And at that last plea Anthony had no more reservations left in him.

 

Without fully realizing he’d moved, he cupped her face and lowered his face to hers.

 

Without another word, he cupped her cheek with a gentleness he did not know he had. Her skin was hot beneath his touch. She leaned in, instinctive, like a flower turning toward sunlight.

 

Then he kissed her.

 

Soft, at first—lips barely brushing. A question, suspended in air. Her mouth was soft—warm, alive.

 

She answered, she kissed back no longer hesitant, she kissed like a woman who had imagined this more than once, perhaps even with him

 

Her mouth met his with a quiet clumsy urgency. Her hands came up to his chest, clutching his lapels like she was holding on for balance, or for dear life.

 

He didn’t mean to deepen it, Or to press against her. And yet...her body—her— she was right there, warm and yielding, and she made a tiny, breathless sound when his hand slid down to her waist. That sound undid him.

 

He pressed her gently against the paneled wall, deepening the kiss without meaning to. His hand moved to her waist—possessive again—and she shivered in response.

 

The kiss deepened even more. His hand fanned across the small of her back, pulling her against him while he pressed into her at the same time. His other hand slid into her hair, tilting her head, controlling the angle.

 

Penelope melted into him. Only Feeling now not thinking.

 

She felt dazed and sharp at the same time. More alive and present than ever and yet...floating.

 

So this is what it feels like. To be wanted. To be touched like one’s mouth was a secret worth unlocking.

 

He kissed her like he needed the taste of her—like he’d been starving and hadn’t even known until this moment.

 

She was dizzy. Light-headed. She couldn’t feel the floor beneath her feet. Her body burned. Her lips tingled. And she could feel—Yes. He wanted her. Most assuredly. 

 

She gasped into his mouth, not from shock, but yearning to feel more.

 

He pulled back slightly, just enough to whisper her name against her lips. “Penelope…”

 

She trembled. Not from fear. From something far more dangerous.

 

They were pressed chest to chest, breath intermingling, the world reduced to heat and heartbeat.

 

Anthony knew if he did not stop now...he would do something inredibly inadvisable and improper, and this was not the place for it. 

 

So he drew back, slowly, letting his hands fall from her body as if they ached to stay. Hands lightly grasping air.

 

Penelope stepped away just as carefully, smoothing her gloves. She cast one last look at him, and when her eyes flicked downward, she saw the truth of his body’s reaction.

 

She didn’t speak of it. She simply looked.

 

Then gave him a small, knowing smile—wicked, tender, devastating.

 

It said: I know. I remember. I liked it.

 

"Penelope, Penelope..." the sound of her name was breathless and spoken more akin to a prayer than anything else.

 

"Thank you Anthony...that felt ...wonderful." she said and she was already ralling herself composing herself. Pulling away.

 

He could not have that and took her Hand again. "Penelope, sweet Penelope..."

 

She pulled away her Hand gently and shushed him with one finger.

"No Anthony, no false promises. i know you, you are a Captial R Rake... I know this is Lust. I do not need you to explain that. I know you're you...and I am ...just me. As I said no expectations. And please no pity."

 

Anthony stepped back and looked at Penelope...seeing for the first time beneath the shy Girl, the brazen seductress and the insecure maiden that asked for her first kiss. 

 

He saw beneath her masks fully for the first time...and saw someone broken...as broken as him. Perhaps only in different ways. But still broken.

 

How could he explain to her...that he wanted expectations...that she had made him his...that if anyone was pitying anyone it was her pitying him?

 

An old, grumpy and broken Rake. 

 

Then voices echoed down the corridor—the crowd was spilling out for intermission.

 

They stepped apart a perfectly proper distance and just stared at each other.

 

Before he could speak again, the doors opened and the crowds began to pour out and also into the extra room. Their temporary sanctuary.

 

They separated even more, smoothing gloves and jackets, as if a single thread held their composure together.

 

---

 

Across the hall, Colin stared into a drink he didn’t remember ordering.

 

Eloise appeared beside him, wide-eyed. “Brother,” she hissed.

 

“Why is Anthony looking at Penelope like she’s his next meal?”

 

Colin’s head whipped around. He saw it then—Anthony and Penelope across the room, too far apart to be improper but not nearly far enough to be innocent.

 

The heat between them struck him like a slap.

 

“No,” he said flatly. “No, no, no.”

 

He put the glass down, hard.

 

“Brother! Miss Featherington!” Colin greeted them too loudly, approaching like a man on a mission. “What an odd pairing.”

 

Anthony didn’t blink. “Not so odd. Miss Featherington and I are well acquainted.”

 

Penelope made a strangled noise between a laugh and gasp.

 

Eloise stepped forward, tugged Penelope by the hand. “Excuse us.”

 

Eloise tugged Penelope into the very room Anthony and Penelope had just left.

 

 

Once out of earshot Eloise hissed, “What is going on Penelope?”

 

 

“Nothing,” Penelope said, trying for a non-chalant tone.

 

“That wasn’t nothing.” Eloise countered. 

 

 

“He’s just a friend,” Penelope deflected. “Like Colin once was.”

 

 

"You, you mean that?,” Eloise said feeling uneasy. Most assuredly reading between the lines.

 

"Yes, yes I do." Penelope answered confidently. 

 

"Now if you excuse me I have to find my mother...I am feeling a bit under the weather."

 

Back in the hall:

“What’s going on between you and Penelope?” Colin demanded.

Anthony didn’t bother denying it.

 “You had your chance. You spat on it. No keep out of it. On her. Do not interfere. Do not make me regret being so lenient with you... brother.” he said the word brother with so much venom it made Colin recoil.

Then Anthony turned and walked away. Trying to find Penelope once more. He wanted to make her understand....

Notes:

Well the it seems it is flowing right now...now don't go expecting new chapters every day

Chapter 8: Chapter 8 Witness in the Wings

Summary:

Benedict just wanted a moment of peace at the opera. Instead, he accidentally witnesses his brother get emotionally obliterated by Penelope Featherington asking for a kiss. There are feelings. There is flailing. There is absolutely no way he’s telling anyone… except maybe their mother.

 

The opera had dulled him early tonight. Not from any lack of talent on stage, but from a familiar restlessness clawing at his ribs—a kind of hunger he had no name for. He’d excused himself from the family box under the pretense of air, but instead of venturing outside, he'd wandered into the adjoining antechamber and collapsed onto a forgotten sofa tucked in a darkened corner behind an ornate screen. The high-backed piece was soft and long, its curved frame shielding him almost entirely from view. He had no intention of sleeping, merely of disappearing for a while.

 

And so when he heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps and the rustle of skirts, he went still—every limb freezing as he recognized the voices. Anthony. Penelope Featherington. Good God.

 

He almost announced himself.

 

Almost.

 

But then Anthony spoke.

 

And Benedict—normally the most fidgety of the Bridgertons—lay back, stock-still, heart in his throat, and listened.

 

 

 

> “Penelope—you said you felt for the heroine?”<

 

 

 

Benedict’s brows furrowed. Anthony? Listening? Listening with warmth? This he had to hear. He blinked up at the ceiling as Penelope answered, her voice small but edged with something unmistakably raw.

 

> “I was the heroine,” 

 “She had so much love to give, and no one wanted it. She loved alone. Always alone.”<

 

 

And just like that, Benedict stopped breathing.

 

He felt the ache of that truth settle over him like a stone blanket. God, Penelope. All these years. She had been right there—always in the corner, always polite, always bright—and they had never looked. I never looked. Was this the same woman that had teased Anthony?

 

> “And you fear that’s your future?”<

 

 

Benedict’s stomach twisted. Not just from her pain, but from the gentleness in Anthony’s voice—like he was being careful with something precious.

 

You idiot, Benedict thought toward himself. You painted her once with lemon-sweet light and called it whimsy. You thought you’d seen her. You didn’t.

 

> Anthony?"<

 

 

Benedict’s spine prickled. He felt like a trespasser. Her saying his brother’s name—his Christian name—with such hesitant longing? It felt too intimate to witness.

 

> “How you can feel that way, and yet tease me so effortlessly feels rather contradictory.”

 

“Anthony?”

 

“Yes, Penelope?”<

 

 

The breath caught in Benedict’s throat. Well, he thought with a spark of incredulous glee, there goes the viscount. His brother’s voice was barely tethered, gentled into something reverent. Penelope. He’s never said a name like that before.

 

And then—

 

> “Would you kiss me?”<

 

 

 

Benedict jerked in place like he’d been doused with cold water. What—?

 

> “What?”<

 

“Please, it doesn't have to mean anything to you, or at all. I promise. And I would never expect anything from you because of it. But I want to know what it's like to be kissed.”<

 

 

There was a pounding in his ears now.

 

His first thought was: She's never been kissed?!?!? 

 

Then a feeling of ...discomfort spread, not from shame at overhearing, not entirely—but from the way her words splintered something in him.

 

All that time teasing Anthony and yet...she thinks that’s all she deserves. A kiss that means nothing. She’s already excusing him. She’s already bracing for rejection, for disappointment, as if it’s inevitable.

 

> “Oh God forget I said anything.”

 

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

 

“That was foolish—I shouldn’t have—”<

 

 

He could feel her shrinking from the other side of the room, even without seeing. And he hated—loathed—that she could ask for something so human, so heartbreakingly pure, and immediately swallow herself in shame.

 

And we let her feel like this. All of us. Even me.

 

 

Benedict’s jaw tightened. She’s innocent. Not an experienced seductress and siren. Innocent!

 

Previously they had looked at her—he had looked at her—with amused detachment, treating her presence like background embroidery to the real scene. And now—now—he saw how deeply they had misjudged her. Before this season and even after that ball...

 

 

Benedict’s hands curled into fists against the upholstery. You stupid, stupid man, he thought, unsure if he meant Anthony or himself. She’s not asking for your pity—she’s offering her heart with no strings attached. And she thinks that makes her easier to love. Or rather, not worth loving at all.

 

 

Anthony Bridgerton, if you do not kiss that girl right this moment—propriety be damned—I will rise from this sofa and do it myself.

 

He could barely sit still. His whole body buzzed with tension. With rage. With wonder. How the hell did we miss her?

 

Something inside Benedict cracked open.

 

 Here was his brother—his rigid, tightly wound, Viscount of Duty brother—being undone not by scandal or seduction, but by an impossibly sweet request. By a girl with soft hands and shattered self-worth, offering herself without demand.

 

 

>“No,” ...“No. I’m not going to forget it.”<

 

 

Benedict’s breath caught, then released in a slow, reverent exhale.

 

There she is.

 

This wasn’t the quiet Penelope who shrank from ballrooms and stammered at attention. This was the woman from the ball, this was someone clawing her way into the light, trembling and defiant and utterly magnificent. And all at once, Benedict wanted to cheer. Yes, don’t forget it. Don’t let him forget it either.

 

He didn’t move a muscle—not a breath too loud, not a limb too twitchy. He wouldn’t dare break the spell.

 

> “I’ve spent my life forgetting things. Swallowing things. Never saying what I want because it might embarrass someone or make them look at me too closely. But not this. Not tonight.”<

 

 

Benedict closed his eyes for a moment, as if her words were something sacred, something fragile.

 

 

God, Penelope, he thought, grief and guilt twisting together. We did that to you. All of us. Every time we laughed past you. Every time we called you sweet or invisible or odd and thought it was harmless.

 

And Anthony—oh, Anthony, his brother stood there speechless, and he'd wager he had been cracked open.

 

He didn’t envy Anthony the kiss, exactly.

 

 

But he did envy that he had earned her trust enough to be the one to give it to her. That he had someone to share in something so meaningful and beautiful.

 

> “Penelope…”<

 

 

 

The whisper sliced through Benedict like a blade wrapped in velvet.

 

 

Not “Miss Featherington.” Not “you.” Not even “darling.”

 

 

Penelope.

 

 

And the way Anthony said it—God. Like it was prayer, or invocation. Like it was a name he’d waited lifetimes to speak. There was awe in his voice. And something else—something so tender it left Benedict blinking rapidly, unsure if his eyes had stung because of the heat or something altogether different.

 

You’re done for, he thought at Anthony. Utterly undone. Do you realize it yet?

 

Benedict’s pulse thudded in his throat again—hard, ragged.

 

Inadvisable. Improper. That was the language of the Ton, of decorum, of the endless rulebook Anthony usually bled by. And now his brother was contemplating breaking all of it, because Penelope Featherington had asked to be kissed.

 

Because she had asked for nothing—and in return, he suspected unwittingly taken the whole of Anthony for herself. 

 

 

There was a quiet shift. A pause. And then—*

 

The unmistakable hush of a woman seeing something she should not acknowledge—but did. And did with grace. And humor.

 

Benedict’s ears burned.

 

Not with shame, but with awe. She wasn’t startled. She didn’t squeal, or scold, or retreat. She simply… was.

 

Benedict pressed his head back against the curve of the sofa, overwhelmed.

 

He had never considered Penelope Featherington capable of such layered, poised devastation. But she had just wrecked the Viscount of Bridgerton and probably had no idea. 

 

> "Penelope, Penelope..."<

 

That’s twice now, Benedict thought. Twice he’s said her name like it’s sacred. And this time, it wasn’t just a breath—it was a surrender. He’d heard Anthony curse and whisper and cry out before, but never like this. Never with this much genuine emotion.

 

You absolute fool, Benedict thought again, but with no scorn this time. You’re in love with her ...do you know that? 

 

 

 

> "Thank you Anthony... that felt ...wonderful." 

 "Penelope, sweet Penelope..."

 

The shift was immediate—Benedict felt it like a cold breeze after a fever. Where moments ago there had been surrender, there was now a retreat. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, and yet—

 

She’s leaving Anthony behind already he realized. And that knowledge landed hard. Penelope had caught fire—blazed—and now she was snuffing herself out again before anyone else could. Before he—Anthony—could.

 

> "No Anthony, no false promises. I know you, you are a Capital R Rake... I know this is Lust. I do not need you to explain that. I know you're you... and I am... just me. As I said, no expectations. And please, no pity."<

 

 

 

Benedict flinched as if struck and could only think What?!?! What the Hell??!?!?! No. No, no, no, no. 

 

Every word she said chipped something off the man she was speaking to—and off the man who was quietly istening in the dark.

 

Just me? What madness had they all been living in, to let her believe that? To let her carry that belief around like an anchor sewn into her skirts?

 

His throat worked around something thick and furious. She thinks she’s no one. That she’s ordinary. And she thinks my brother—my impossibly ruined, improbably tender-hearted brother—kissed her out of pity?!?!?

 

 

Benedict swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling as if it could stop the pricking behind his eyes.

 

 

There was a cruel symmetry in it.

 

 

Two people—shattered differently, but shattered all the same—meeting in a half-lit room, pressing together as if the shape of the other might be the missing piece. But neither believed they deserved to be whole.

 

 

God, Penelope. He wanted to leap out, shake her, hold her, anything—and yet he stayed frozen, because somehow he knew this wasn’t his moment.

 

 

This was Anthony’s ruin. And maybe, if he did the right thing now, his resurrection.

 

 

Benedict closed his eyes. Tell her, he begged silently. Please, Anthony, tell her. Before she walks out of here thinking it meant nothing. Tell her—Go to her- do something for Gods sake! 

 

 

Then voices echoed down the corridor—the crowd was spilling out for intermission.

 

 

Benedict was quietly devastated their moment had been interrupted at such a critical time.

 

 

Benedict didn’t move, not for a full ten seconds. Not even as footsteps began shifting beyond the door. Not even as the moment dissipated like smoke.

 

 

Because in the space of a single scene—one kiss—everything had changed. For Anthony. For Penelope. And for him.

 

 

The moment the door clicked shut and the sound of her retreating steps dissolved into the soft echo of laughter and intermission chatter, Benedict slowly sat up.

 

 

He did not move quickly. He moved like a man climbing out of a spell—like every limb had been submerged in some strange, silken current and was only now coming free. He sat hunched for a moment, elbows braced on his knees, hands pressed flat together in front of his mouth.

 

Good God, he thought. What have I just witnessed?

 

 

It hadn’t been scandalous, not truly. No garments removed. No indecency beyond a kiss—albeit a kiss that had shaken the bloody walls. And yet…

 

 

He felt as though he had seen something private. Precious. Not just lust—though there had been plenty of that—but vulnerability. Earnestness. Hope.

 

 

He closed his eyes and breathed in.

 

 

She had never been kissed. And now she had. And she had asked for it—no, claimed it. In a voice that had started as a tremble and grown into something fierce. Something fiery. Something unforgettable.

 

 

Benedict leaned back slowly, resting his head against the carved frame of the sofa, and whispered to himself in a low, astonished breath:

 

 

“She did it again.”

 

 

His thoughts reeled back to the ball, to that dance—when he and Mother had shadowed the two of them like gossiping hawks, watching Penelope Featherington utterly unmake the Viscount on the ballroom floor. She had been radiant then—teasing, poised, sure of herself in green silk and slow-smiling defiance.

 

 

But this?

 

 

This had not been the huntress. This had been the girl behind the mask—wounded, yearning, radiant with fragile bravery. And Anthony had just stood there like he was watching a star fall just for him.

 

 

“She dared him,” Benedict whispered again, thinking back to Violet’s words. “She’s still daring him.”

 

 

Only now, she was also leaving him. 

 

 

Just like she had on the dance floor. Just like she had now. Every time she touched Anthony, Benedict was sure it rewrote something in his brother—and every time she walked away, she made that rewriting echo in her absence.

 

 

He’s undone, Benedict thought. Utterly. She kissed him, then refused to let him make it mean more. Because she doesn’t believe he can. Or will.

 

 

He exhaled, a sound caught between reverence and fury. She’s wrong, he thought. She’s so bloody wrong! He was rather certain, it meant everything to his obtuse brother.

 

 

And to Benedict?

 

 

It meant he would never, ever overlook Penelope Featherington again.

 

 

He needed to find their Mother ...those two stubborn idiots would need all the help that him and Mother could offer. One believed herself unworthy of being loved. And the other? Anthony was afraid of love....once bitten twice shy....

 

But Benedict now had a burning desire to never hear Penelope doubting herself ever again. And so help him he would, with the help of his Mother, make it happen. 

 

 

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 Torment and Turmoil

Summary:

Just a short internal Monologue of Anthony’s...what did he think of the kiss?

Much to his annoyance Anthony could not find Penelope. Later when entering the Family box he had to learn from Eloise that Penelope had gone home early. 

 

He did not notice the significant look Eloise gave him or the silent understanding that passed between Benedict and his mother.

 

 

Anthony stayed for the rest of the opera.

 

At least, that’s what he told people later.

 

But truly—he stayed only in body. His mind had slipped sideways into a different room, a different moment, and refused to leave it.

 

He sat beside his mother like a statue, unmoving, unspeaking, while the music thundered through the theatre. The soprano's voice soared into something tragic and magnificent, and it was as if the notes bled right into him—because she had bled into him.

 

Penelope Featherington.

 

Penelope, who had stood near that marble pillar dabbing at her eyes.

 

Penelope, who had startled when he said, “Miss Featherington?”

 

And who had answered, “Lord Bridgerton. Forgive me, I— It’s silly. I’m fine.”

 

But she hadn’t been fine.

 

He had known it. You're not fine, he had said gently, and meant every word. And what had she answered?

 

“I just… I identified too much with the heroine.”

 

He could still hear her voice—soft, aching. He remembered the way she wouldn’t quite meet his gaze. The brittleness in her smile. The echo of tears in her lashes.

 

“The heroine’s fate—her loneliness—it struck a little too close to home. It made me sad.”

 

Sad.

 

He had felt a fist close around his ribs at that.

 

Because hadn’t he seen her all week, luminous and sharp and irresistible? Hadn’t she made his pulse stutter with every sly smile? How could she still believe she was fated to be forgotten?

 

“She dies unloved,” he’d said. “And unseen.”

 

He hadn’t expected her to agree so easily.

 

But she had. She had nodded, and said in a voice barely holding together:

 

“She had so much to give. No one ever wanted it.”

 

God.

 

He closed his eyes now and let those words wreck him all over again.

 

No one ever wanted it.

 

It.

 

Her.

 

As if she were some inconvenient offering no one had ever thought to accept.

 

Anthony sat upright in his chair, every muscle tight. His mother cast him a glance, but he didn’t notice.

 

His mind was back in the quiet antechamber, where the walls seemed to echo her sorrow.

 

“I was the heroine,” she had whispered. “She had so much love to give, and no one wanted it. She loved alone. Always alone.”

 

Alone.

 

She had said it like a sentence handed down by the world itself. A fate. A truth.

 

And he—he had wanted to shout. No. Not alone. Not anymore. You foolish, brave, beautiful girl—you are wanted.

 

But he had only managed, “And you fear that’s your future?” Softly. Stupidly.

 

She had nodded.

 

And he had reached for her hand, not thinking.

 

Because what else was there to do, when a woman stood in front of you with her soul bared and her hands empty?

 

“Anthony?” she had asked, barely above a whisper.

 

It had stopped his breath.

 

His name, from her lips—soft, unsure, like she was testing how it felt.

 

He had heard it thousands of times. Screamed across fencing matches. Murmured in parlors. Moaned in bedrooms.

 

But never like that.

 

Not trembling.

 

Not reverent.

 

Not wrapped in hope like a prayer.

 

He could still hear the syllables now, echoing in his mind, in his chest. And it struck him how right it had sounded. How utterly and horrifyingly right.

 

And so he’d answered, trying to swallow the sudden ache in his throat: “Yes, Penelope?”

 

Her name, returned. Spoken aloud. Not as a joke. Not as a duty. But like it mattered.

 

Because it did. Because she did.

 

She had looked at him then—wide-eyed, steady, with a kind of quiet desperation that cut through every last defense he thought he still had.

 

“Could I ask you a favor?”

 

He had nodded. Of course he had nodded. How could he not?

 

“Of course.”

 

And then—

 

“Would you kiss me?”

 

He had blinked.

 

He was blinking still.

 

That one line—those four words—had shattered the world beneath his feet.

 

He hadn’t known how to answer. Because how could he answer something so delicate, so startling, so utterly ... undeserved?

 

And before he could even begin to respond, she had rushed in with more:

 

“Please. It doesn’t have to mean anything to you, or at all. I promise. And I would never expect anything from you because of it. But I want to know what it’s like to be kissed.”

 

She had said it so quickly. So clearly. As if she were offering him a secret, something she might snatch back at any second.

 

And he—God help him—had just stared.

 

She’s never been kissed?

 

It hadn’t occurred to him. Not for a second. Not after the way she teased and parried and laughed with heat in her eyes. Not after the way she made him feel like he was the one on unsteady ground.

 

And yet, she had asked him for her first kiss.

 

And she had asked it like she was apologizing for wanting.

 

Like it didn’t need to mean anything to him.

 

As if it wouldn’t mean everything.

 

He hadn’t answered fast enough. He knew that now. Because her face had crumpled. Her shoulders had tensed.

 

“Oh God, forget I said anything" ....“Never mind. ....Forget I said anything.”

 

No, he had wanted to say. Don’t take it back.

 

And he had stood there. Reeling.

 

She thought she had embarrassed herself, when all he could feel was how thoroughly she had laid him bare.

 

“No.”

 

That one word—small, sharp, defiant—had arrested the breath in his lungs.

 

“No. I’m not going to forget it.”

 

She had turned back to him, her eyes blazing with feeling now, her voice cracking but full of something he recognized far too well: fierce self-possession. Not false bravado. Not performative courage. Something deeper. Earned.

 

Something that looked a hell of a lot like his own breaking point.

 

She had straightened her spine, and he had found himself straightening too. Not in defiance. But in awe.

 

“I’ve spent my life forgetting things. Swallowing things. Never saying what I want because it might embarrass someone or make them look at me too closely.”

 

He had wanted to touch her again right then. Not to kiss her. Just to anchor himself. To deserve whatever came next.

 

“But not this. Not tonight.”

 

Those words had rung through him like a vow. She would not be erased this time. She would not be small, or overlooked, or silent.

 

And he—Anthony bloody Bridgerton, who had kissed and ruined and left a dozen women—stood there feeling more vulnerable than he had in years.

 

“You do not know how long I’ve spent swallowing my feelings, hiding them, begging to be seen…”

 

God, he did know. That was the problem.

 

In some ways he’d done the same for years—swallowed, hidden, carried. Until it had left him nearly hollow.

 

And she—this woman in front of him—was peeling that truth out of him without even trying. Just by standing there and refusing to shrink.

 

“I just want to know. Just once, what it's like to be kissed. Please, Anthony, if you want me at all…”

 

That was the line that undid him.

 

If you want me at all.

 

How could she not know?

 

Did she not see what she had reduced him to? Did she not see the way he looked at her now, as though the entire world had narrowed to the curve of her mouth and the sound of his name on her lips?

 

He had felt it then—not arousal, not even affection. Something... Louder. A possessive fury at every man who had made her believe she was unwanted. Unworthy.

 

And so he had moved.

 

Not with calculation.

 

Not with seduction.

 

But with need.

 

He had cupped her cheek with a reverence that surprised even him. Her skin had been warm—fevered—and she had leaned into his hand like it was the only thing holding her to earth.

 

Then he had kissed her.

 

And it had broken him open.

 

At first, it had been careful—gentle, almost reverent. Just a brush of lips. A test. A question.

 

But the moment she leaned in ...he was lost.

 

Because she answered with such earnest hunger. Her lips were warm, pliant, hesitant but giving. She clutched his lapels like she was steadying herself, and he had felt that trust, that desire, right through the fine wool of his coat.

 

And then she made that sound—barely a breath, almost a gasp—when his hand slid down to her waist.

 

It undid him even more.

 

He didn’t mean to deepen the kiss. Not truly. But how could he not? How could he stand upright and noble while Penelope Featherington kissed him like he was the first man she’d ever wanted?

 

Because he was.

 

Because she asked you, his mind reminded him savagely. Because she chose you.

 

He pressed her back against the paneled wall—gently, yes, but with no room left between them. Her body yielded instantly, her curves fitting against him like a mold he hadn't realized he’d been shaped for.

 

And he’d felt her.

 

All of her.

 

But especially—God above—he had felt her hips shift, her softness brush against his hardness, and it had struck through him like lightning. There was no hiding it. No polite retreat. No adjustment of clothing that could disguise the full-body, traitorous, undeniable need that surged up in him.

 

She would have felt it. She had felt it.

 

And she didn’t pull away.

 

No—she kissed him harder.

 

And he—

 

He had groaned into her mouth.

 

Low, involuntary, guttural.

 

She tasted like heat and rain and wonder. And when he angled her head to kiss her deeper, he wasn’t just claiming her—he was giving up.

 

His other hand fanned across her back, palm flat, pulling her closer still, as if it were possible. His thigh bracketed hers. His body aligned along hers with aching precision. Her breasts were pressed to his chest. Her breath—rapid, stuttering—fanned against his cheek, and her fingers clutched at his coat like she was falling.

 

He wanted to be the thing she fell into.

 

He wanted to lift her, pin her, press her to the wall and grind into her until her knees gave out and her voice broke around his name.

 

But more than that, more than lust—he wanted to stay there.

 

He wanted to keep kissing her until the opera burned down and the world started over.

 

But it couldn’t go on.

 

Not there. Not in that hallway with the crowd just beyond the wall and every inch of him screaming to strip propriety from her body and take what she had already given him in trust.

 

He forced himself to draw back. Slowly. With effort. With agony.

 

His lips parted from hers, and for a second he hovered—breathless, starving, still tasting her. Her lips were red now, kissed open. Her eyes dazed. Her chest rising and falling like she’d run a race. Her scent—orange blossom, warmth, her—hung in the air between them like smoke.

 

He had to let go.

 

So he did.

 

He let his hands fall from her body, even though every part of him protested.

 

His fingers twitched, still tingling with the memory of her curves, her heat, the way she had melted into him like she belonged there.

 

And then she stepped back, slowly, gracefully, smoothing her gloves as though she hadn’t just set him aflame.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Couldn’t.

 

Because then—then—she looked at him.

 

And looked down.

 

And saw.

 

He had felt himself hard against her, straining. There had been no way to hide it. Not then. Not now.

 

And she didn’t gasp or flee.

 

She looked.

 

Then she smiled.

 

Small. Knowing. Devastating.

 

Not coy. Not embarrassed.

 

But like a woman who had just confirmed everything she needed to know.

 

That smile would haunt him.

 

That smile would own him.

 

“Penelope… Penelope…” he had breathed her name like a man drowning.

 

She didn’t reply.

 

Just, “Thank you, Anthony… that felt… wonderful.”

 

And she had already begun to gather herself. Steadying. Composed.

 

While he—Anthony Bridgerton, who had faced Parliament, death, heartbreak—stood there with his soul in his throat, unable to do anything but reach for her hand again and murmur, “Penelope. Sweet Penelope…”

 

And then she had done something that should not have surprised him—but did.

 

She... shushed him.

 

She lifted one gloved finger and.... shushed him.

 

No Anthony, she’d said. No false promises. You are a Capital R Rake… I know this is lust. I do not need you to explain that. I know you're you… and I am just me. As I said, no expectations. And please, no pity.

 

That had stunned him more than the kiss.

 

Because it wasn’t just her refusal to indulge in fantasy. It was the brutal clarity. The steel beneath her softness. She had seen him—not just his hunger or his title or his kiss—but him.

 

And she’d given him the clearest permission not to care.

 

Except… he did.

 

More than he could admit. More than he had words for.

 

And when she pulled away again, and he looked at her—not as a seductress or a virgin or a friend of his sister—but as herself, fully herself—he realized with hollow, terrifying certainty:

 

She had given him her kiss.

 

And taken every last piece of him in return.

 

The crowd began to stir behind the doors.

 

Then came the intermission. Before he could find a way to tell her...something. at least that she was never "just" anything.

 

He and Penelope stepped apart instinctively, the distance between their bodies suddenly a chasm—but the heat lingered, clinging to his skin like damp linen in summer.

 

They adjusted gloves. Jackets. Composure. As if it were possible.

 

Anthony could still feel her breath in his mouth. Still smelled the sharp citrus of her hair. His breeches were tight, painfully so, but there was no time—no space—to fix himself.

 

He watched her try to pretend. Saw her spine straighten, her gloves smooth. That same smile hovering like a secret she wouldn’t share.

 

But he knew it.

 

He had it.

 

It had happened.

 

And nothing—not the opera, not London, not the goddamn Queen herself—could take it from him.

 

They walked back into the hall separated, but his eyes never left her.

 

He felt it before he saw it—Colin’s sudden stillness across the way. The low, incredulous voice:

 

“Brother… why is Anthony looking at Penelope like she’s his next meal?”

Eloise had asked.

 

Because she was.

 

Not just a meal. A revelation. A ruin. A reward.

 

Colin turned. And saw.

 

And Anthony saw him see.

 

Too far apart to be improper. Not nearly far enough to be innocent.

 

The heat between them had followed them out like smoke.

 

Eloise had lead Penelope away oddly enough towards the same room that they had just been in.

 

He spoke to Colin, not kindly, because he was done being lenient.

 

Done pretending this was some passing madness.

 

Because the kiss had changed something. Yes, it had been Penelope’s first.

 

But what echoed in Anthony’s mind now—what lit something in his blood—was the realization that it didn’t have to be the last.

 

Her first kiss had been his.

 

That meant her first time being touched, her first time being tasted, her first time taken—could be his too.

 

All her firsts.

 

The idea settled over him like thunder.

 

Not possessiveness, not exactly—not just. But something older. More primal. That if she had never been kissed until him, then the rest of her could still be untouched. Still his to claim. To learn. To ruin and to worship.

 

Not just her body. Her thoughts. Her secrets. Her love.

 

And God help him—

 

That appealed.

 

Far more than it should.

 

Notes:

Soon there will be more,

More Anthony, more Penelope snd more Violet and Benedict plotting

Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Schemes

Summary:

Benedict tell Violet what he unwittingly witnessed...Violet reacts.

The evening had settled into stillness after the opera, and Violet Bridgerton sat alone in her private sitting room, the lamplight flickering softly as her gaze lingered on nothing in particular—lost in the quiet tangle of her thoughts.

 

 

The embers in the hearth were low, but the scent of rosewater and wood smoke lingered in the air. Violet Bridgerton sat in her favorite chair, shawl draped loosely around her shoulders, a book open in her lap—unread.

 

She looked up the moment Benedict entered without knocking.

 

There was something in his eyes. A sharpness. A weight.

 

“Benedict?” she asked, setting the book aside immediately. “What is it?”

 

He shut the door behind him with deliberate care. No theatrics. No humor. Just silence.

 

“I saw something,” he said, voice low. “Or rather—I heard something, mostly.”

 

She blinked. “At the opera?”

 

He nodded once, then crossed the room to lean against the mantel. He didn’t sit. He looked like a man carrying something heavy and trying not to drop it.

 

“I was in the antechamber. I didn’t mean to overhear. I was—hiding. From the world. And then Anthony came in. With Penelope Featherington.”

 

Violet sat up straighter.

 

Benedict let out a long breath. “I know I should’ve left. I nearly did. But then—he spoke. And I’ve never heard him sound like that before. Not ever.”

 

Violet opened her mouth, but he raised a hand.

 

“I need you to hear what I heard,” he said softly. “Because it changed everything I thought I knew. About her. About him. I need you to hear not only what I heard but how it sounded. So I am going to dust off my acting skills...I will try to reproduce it as faithfully as I can.

 

She nodded once. Silent.

 

And so he began.

 

> “Penelope—you said you felt for the heroine?”

 

Benedict’s voice, when he quoted, was careful. Respectful. Like he was reading scripture from memory.

 

He looked at his mother. "Anthony said it with warmth, Mother. With—tenderness. I didn’t know he had that tone in him.”

 

Violet’s eyes widened, breath caught. “And her reply?”

 

Benedict met her gaze and then closed his eyes trying to remember the exact cadence.

 

 “I was the heroine. She had so much love to give, and no one wanted it. She loved alone. Always alone.”

 

 

He stopped. Swallowed.

 

And Violet’s hand flew to her chest.

 

“She said that?” she whispered.

 

Benedict only nodded.

 

Benedict lowered his gaze to the fire.

 

“Mother,” he said quietly, “when I heard her say that, I felt like someone had struck me across the chest. She wasn’t just being poetic. She was... confessing.”

 

And then... “And you fear that’s your future?” his voice mimicking Anthony’s once more.

 

 

Violet’s breath hitched. Her voice came gently, barely above a whisper. “That’s Anthony’s voice again?”

 

He nodded. “Soft as I’ve ever heard it. Like he was holding something fragile in both hands and terrified it might crack.”

 

Benedict’s jaw tightened faintly. “And then she said his name.”

 

He looked up, a flicker of awe passing through him.

 

> “Anthony?”

 

 

 

> “How you can feel that way, and yet tease me so effortlessly feels rather contradictory.”

 

 

 

Violet’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, her brows drawing together. When she opened them again, they shimmered.

 

“She called him by name, and he answered her… like that?” she said softly. “With reverence?”

 

Benedict gave a small, dry laugh. “It was the way he said it, Mother. Like her name was a secret he’d been dying to say aloud.”

 

Benedict pushed off the mantel just slightly, beginning to pace now—not out of restlessness, but as if the memory physically moved through him.

 

> “Would you kiss me?”

 

 

 

> “What?”

 

 

 

> “Please, it doesn't have to mean anything to you, or at all. I promise. And I would never expect anything from you because of it. But I want to know what it's like to be kissed.”

 

 

He turned to face Violet, voice catching.

 

“She begged him, Mother. Not out of seduction—out of loneliness. To think the brazen girl we heard, had never bren kissed. And she gave him a way out while she was doing it.”

 

Violet pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, my poor girl…” she whispered. “To offer so much and expect nothing in return…”

 

Benedict’s voice dropped lower, raw with memory.

 

> “Oh God forget I said anything. That was foolish—I shouldn’t have—”

 

 

 

He turned away, shoulders tense. “She panicked, Mother. The moment she asked, she tried to take it back. As if just wanting something for herself was too much. As if she’d already learned the world would punish her for asking.”

 

Violet rose from her chair without realizing it, one hand braced on the back. Her voice shook. “Because we taught her that,” she said. “All of us. Society. Her mother. Even us.”

 

Benedict nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the rug. "But then thank god:

 

 

> “No. I’m not going to forget it. I’ve spent my life forgetting things. Swallowing things. Never saying what I want because it might embarrass someone or make them look at me too closely. But not this. Not tonight.”

 

 

 

His voice cracked slightly on the last line. “She didn’t just ask for a kiss, Mother. She claimed her voice. Her right to be seen. It was… it was one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard.”

 

Violet’s eyes welled. “And your brother? How did he answer that kind of courage?”

 

Benedict’s shoulders sagged slightly.

 

“There was a kiss, Mother.”

 

Violet drew in a sharp breath.

 

“I didn’t mean to witness it. But I was behind the back of a couch—I couldn’t move without ruining it. I heard them and when I looked—just for a second—I saw them. It was so tender and passionate at the same time. His hand was cupping her cheek. It wasn’t lust, . It was…” anyway I moved down again.

 

And next

 

> “Penelope, sweet Penelope…”

 

 

 

“I can barely name it…perhaps grace,” Benedict finished quietly. “It was grace, Mother.”

 

Violet pressed a hand to her heart. “Then why… why does it feel like this story isn’t finished?”

 

Benedict’s mouth curled into something between a wince and a grimace.

 

“Because she stepped back. Pulled away.”

 

He ran a hand through his hair, still disbelieving.

 

She then proceeded to say 

 

> “No, Anthony, no false promises. I know you, you are a Rake... I know this is Lust. I do not need you to explain that. I know you're you... and I am... just me. As I said, no expectations. And please, no pity.”

 

 

 

Violet let out a soft, wounded sound. “Oh, Penelope…”

 

“She thinks she’s forgettable,” Benedict said bitterly. “That she’s nothing but a passing desire to him. That he’d need pity to want her.” He looked at his mother, eyes shining with helpless anger. “She kissed him and excused him in the same breath, just to protect herself from what she thought was coming.”

 

Violet sank slowly back into her chair, one trembling hand over her mouth.

 

“My God,” she whispered. “She’s protecting herself from hope.”

 

Benedict gave a humorless laugh.

 

> “Just me,” she said. “As if that’s some kind of curse. As if being Penelope Featherington is not enough.”

 

 

 

He turned, pacing again. “And Anthony… he just stood there, stunned. Not from rejection, I think. From being seen. And then having her vanish before he could speak. It gutted him.”

 

Violet’s eyes were wet now, her voice thin. “She’s been dismissed for so long she no longer believes she can be truly wanted. And he’s so afraid of love, he doesn’t know how to chase it when it stands right before him.”

 

Benedict stopped pacing, fists clenched at his sides.

 

> “I know you're you... and I am... just me.”

 

 

 

> “No expectations. And please, no pity.”

 

 

 

And then before Anthony could react...intermission happened.

 

 

 

His voice cracked on the last line. “She left him standing there like he’d been carved from stone. And the worst part, Mother? She thinks she was being kind. She thinks she was sparing him.”

 

Violet closed her eyes, tears slipping free now. “She gave him a gift… and then took the blame for it. As though her joy, her desire, her existence were a burden.”

 

He was so absent the rest of the evening he did not even come home with us...he is still thinking about it I wager...."

 

She looked up at Benedict, fierce now through her sorrow. “We have to fix this.”

 

 

Violet drew a steadying breath, adjusting her shawl like armor.

 

 

“Not a ball. Not theatrics. She’d see it as pity—or worse, strategy.”

 

She paced now, slowly, deliberately. “We need something gentler. Calmer. Somewhere she doesn’t have to perform or defend.”

 

She looked back at Benedict, eyes sharp.

 

“A private supper. Just the right people. You. Me. Daphne. Simon. People she once trusted. People who saw her long before this season—and who now regret not looking closer.”

 

Benedict’s lips parted in understanding. “She needs to feel safe.”

 

Violet nodded. “Safe enough to believe she’s wanted.”

 

 

Violet tapped one finger to her lips. “A single supper may soften her. But it won’t be enough. She won’t trust it. She’ll think it’s an accident—or worse, charity.”

 

She turned to Benedict, eyes sparkling now with maternal mischief. “No. We need frequency. Familiarity. Repetition. Gentle, unrelenting placement.”

 

Benedict tilted his head. “You mean to wear her down.”

 

“I mean to build her up,” Violet said firmly. “But yes—while also gently, irreversibly making her part of this family.”

 

He smiled. “So… what do we do?”

 

She began to tick off items on her fingers. “First—tea invitations. Several. She’s close to Eloise, and I suspect Daphne still adores her. So we rotate—me, Daphne, Eloise, perhaps even Francesca when she’s in town.”

 

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “And when she arrives?”

 

“She’s always seated near Anthony,” Violet said without hesitation. “Always beside him. And if she ever chooses the end of the table herself, we simply adjust.”

 

Benedict grinned. “Strategic seating. Classic.”

 

“Then we encourage the promenade circuit. With Auggie. That boy needs sunshine, and Daphne can’t run after him forever. Who better to help than Penelope?”

 

“She loves children,” Benedict murmured. “And she’d never say no to helping Daphne.”

 

“Exactly,” Violet said, triumphant. “And if Anthony happens to join that walk… purely to see his nephew, of course…”

 

Benedict gave a theatrical sigh. “Such a coincidence.”

 

Violet smirked. “The world is full of them.”

 

He hesitated, then added, “I could ask her to sit for me.”

 

Violet blinked. “Sit for—?”

 

“A sketch,” he said. “And then a painting. She’ll refuse at first, I think. But if I couch it in artistry, and curiosity, and let her know I see her… she might say yes.”

 

Violet’s gaze turned warm. “That would be a beautiful gift to her. And a damning one to your brother.”

 

“Jealousy's a powerful motivator,” Benedict said with a sly grin.

 

Violet crossed her arms, satisfied. “Then let’s give him every reason to act.”

 

 

Violet paced once more, the firelight catching the silver in her hair. “We’ll need variation. Some encounters quiet and private. Others public but unthreatening. Enough exposure to tempt—but never trap.”

 

Benedict leaned on the arm of a chair, one brow raised. “So… a layered assault.”

 

“Exactly.” She turned toward him, counting anew on her fingers.

 

1. The Modiste

“We send her to Madame Delacroix with a voucher—something generous and specific. I’ll arrange for the appointment to coincide with Anthony’s next fitting.”

 

Benedict chuckled. “He loathes fittings.”

 

“Which means he’ll be extra irritable. She’ll walk in, he’ll snap, she’ll scold, and I suspect his ears will turn red for hours.”

 

2. The Family Reading Circle

“Daphne is fond of that poetry reading she hosts on Wednesdays. If Penelope attends…”

 

“…Anthony will groan and claim it’s beneath him,” Benedict said.

 

Violet smiled. “And then he’ll attend anyway. And if Penelope reads aloud—”

 

“He’ll shatter like sugar glass,” Benedict said with relish.

 

3. The Gardens 

“Hyacinth’s obsession with exotic orchids. We loan Penelope a specimen to illustrate. Anthony finds her alone in the greenhouse. The air smells like jasmine. Her fingers are stained with ink and pollen…”

 

Benedict pressed a hand to his heart. “He’s doomed.”

 

4. The Music Room

“She plays the piano,” Violet said suddenly.

 

Benedict blinked. “Does she?”

 

“Beautifully. She never plays in company, but Eloise told me she’s quite gifted. We could encourage Gregory or Hyacinth to need a ‘tutor’—”

 

“And Penelope sits beside him or her to help. Anthony walks past. Hears the music. Sees her smile.”

 

Violet sighed. “What a picture that would make.”

 

5. A Rainy Day

“If I can contrive to have them caught together in a passing rain,” Violet mused, “perhaps at Bridgerton House, or while returning from tea…”

 

“She’ll get wet,” Benedict said, catching on.

 

“She’ll shiver. He’ll offer his coat. And she—God willing—will refuse it just to spite him.”

 

Benedict laughed aloud. "Not to mention the rain would accentuate her curves."

 

Violet smiled serenely. “It doesn’t take much to break down a stubborn man. Just repetition. And a clever girl who’s already halfway inside his heart.”

 

So with hope and a good dose of glee they started planning.

 

Anthony and Penelope would no know what hit them...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11: Chapter 11 The Gaze that Burns

Summary:

Tea and Conversation

 The Gaze that Burns

The tea was over-steeped.

Penelope didn’t say a word about it, of course. She accepted her cup from Eloise with a warm smile, her gloves already folded neatly in her lap. She sat with composed posture, every movement deliberate, every word careful.

She had dressed too carefully. She knew that. The green ribbon at her throat was knotted just so, her gown unwrinkled, her hair meticulously pinned. But it was never really about clothes. Not when her insides felt so exposed.

“Thank you for the invitation, Eloise,” she said lightly, setting her cup down on its saucer without a clink.

“And good afternoon, Anthony.” She let the name linger—soft but unafraid.

Then, after the briefest pause, she added—turning with an unreadable smile toward the last occupant of the room:

“Mr. Bridgerton.”

The temperature shifted.

Colin linked, confused.

And it gave her far more satisfaction than it ought to.

She said his name. And his alone.

Anthony’s eyes lifted slowly from the paper—not that he’d absorbed a single word. He had been reading the same paragraph about a grain levy for the past ten minutes, with no memory of what it even meant. Every part of his attention had been trained on her: the curve of her fingers, the scent that stirred the air when she walked past, the way her voice cracked ever so slightly when she greeted him.

But when she turned to Colin—his brother, for God’s sake—and referred to him only as Mr. Bridgerton?

Anthony almost smirked.

Something primal in him stirred, possessive and sharp. She remembers. She remembers everything.

And she was punishing Colin for it.

The ribbon at her neck matched the colour of spring grass, and Anthony suddenly wanted to undo it with his teeth.

He adjusted his grip on the paper.

Anthony would say nothing. He would give her space. But he could not—would not—look away.

Colin heard it.

Mr. Bridgerton.

It landed like a slap dressed in silk.

He hadn’t expected warmth, not after their awkwardness in recent months, but Penelope’s tone had always been animated, eager—personal. Even when she annoyed him. Even when he ignored her. But now… it was like being spoken to by a stranger.

He didn’t even have time to respond before she turned back to Eloise with a soft “So, how have you been, darling?” as if he didn’t exist.

Colin forced a chuckle. “Well. Seems I’m demoted to formality now. Should I be calling you Miss Featherington in return?”

Penelope didn’t miss a beat. She looked at him with a smile that might have been mistaken for polite if one didn’t see the iron behind it.

“If you’d like, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied. “But I am not the one who insisted on disassociation.”

The room went quiet.

Eloise choked on her tea.

Anthony’s paper made a faint crackle—unfolding in his lap, still unread.

Colin’s ears burned. Oh, bloody hell.

Eloise stared down at her cup, eyes wide, pretending not to notice the sudden drop in air pressure that had overtaken the room. Penelope was furious—but she was being so elegant about it that only someone who knew her well (and perhaps one very guilty eldest brother) would even spot it.

And Anthony? He was doing that thing where he looked vaguely like a lion eyeing a lamb—and Colin looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

This had been a tea. A simple, innocent tea.

She cleared her throat, determined to steer them all away from the battlefield.

“Penelope, didn’t you say you were reading something new?” she blurted. “Another novel by that elusive A Lady? What was it called again?”

Penelope blinked once—then graciously took the out.

“Pride and Prejudice. I just finished it.” Her voice softened. “It’s… marvelous.”

And just like that, the temperature shifted again.

Pride and Prejudice. Another anonymous novel by the mysterious A Lady. He’d scoffed at the first one, Sense and Sensibility, when his mother praised it, and hadn’t bothered with it at the time.

But Penelope’s tone was reverent. Almost wistful.

She spoke as if the story had done something to her—as if it had opened a door in her chest and let something wild and secret fly out. Her eyes sparkled. Her lips twitched at the corners.

Anthony felt the jolt low in his spine.

She was taken with it.

With the author.

With someone called Darcy.

He did not know who this Mister Darcy was, but he already despised him.

Anthony leaned forward, folding the paper and setting it aside—gently, with careful precision, as if his body hadn’t just been hijacked by sudden jealousy.

“I may read it myself,” he said neutrally. “If it’s left such an impression.”

Penelope looked at him, startled.

The smile that touched her mouth was small, but real. “You might find yourself sympathizing with certain characters more than you’d expect.”

Eloise snorted into her tea. “Yes, yes. We all know which one you mean.”

Penelope had tried not to think about it.

But Mr. Darcy’s refusal—his gritted, gruff admiration, so clumsily offered and so completely misunderstood—had settled into her bones in a way she could not shake. His desire had been undeniable, and yet his words, at first, had cut. Dismissive. Proud. Bound by status and expectation.

She had cried the first time she read it.

And now, seated here, she felt the same ache bloom again.

Anthony watched her with the same intensity she had imagined in those pages. Something burning behind his eyes—wanting, but careful. Respectful, but full of restraint.

She wanted to kiss him again.

Worse—she wanted to ask him to kiss her. Wanted to undo her own pride. Wanted him to abandon his restraint.

Damn propriety.

She reached for her tea and took a measured sip.

And still did not look at Colin.

They were talking about books now. Books he hadn’t read. Books he hadn’t even heard of.

Penelope’s voice went soft again—her lashes low, her smile gentle, intimate. Not for him. Never for him now.

When Anthony leaned forward and actually offered to read a novel, Colin nearly dropped his cup.

He didn’t read for pleasure. Anthony never did. And yet he was smiling now—softly, attentively—like Penelope’s opinion mattered more than anything else in the room.

Colin felt heat rising in his chest.

Not rage. Not exactly.

But something twisted. Sour and sharp.

He had known Penelope forever. She’d once hung on his every word.

Now she barely looked at him.

And that damned Mr. Bridgerton again—said with such precise distance, it made his name feel like a wall she’d built to keep him out.

It was the first time he wondered—truly, deeply—what exactly he had thrown away.

“So tell me,” Eloise said, eager to maintain the illusion of lightness, “what makes Pride and Prejudice better than the last one? I haven’t read it yet—don’t spoil too much.”

Penelope smiled. “It’s sharper. More biting. But not cruel. It’s a story about understanding… and misunderstanding. And about how pride and assumptions can blind us to love.”

Anthony stilled.

Penelope didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

“There’s a scene in particular,” she continued softly, “where a man confesses something… not kindly, but with honesty. It is clumsy. Imperfect. And she rejects him for it.”

Eloise tilted her head. “Sounds dramatic.”

“It is,” Penelope murmured. “But it’s also very human.”

Anthony’s hand tightened around his cup, thumb pressing against porcelain.

He didn’t know the scene she meant, but he could feel the weight of it. And the way she said a man confesses something… and is rejected—it lodged deep in his chest.

Colin cleared his throat. “Well, not everyone can be clever and charming all the time.”

Penelope looked over. Her gaze was calm, neutral.

“No. But kindness is always within reach.”

Colin flushed.

Eloise, sensing danger, leapt in. “Well, I shall certainly read it now—if only to know what you’re all so mysteriously dancing around.”

Penelope set her cup down. “You’ll enjoy it, I think.”

She rose gracefully from her chair.

“I should be going. Mama will want the latest gossip, and I must invent some.”

The moment Penelope stood, Anthony did too.

It was automatic. Instinctual.

“Allow me,” he said, already moving before anyone could object.

She hesitated, just briefly. Then nodded.

Behind them, Colin shifted in his seat, a low frown forming on his brow. But he said nothing. Eloise, for her part, simply sipped her tea and watched with the dispassion of a girl observing birds in the park.

Anthony said nothing as they walked.

But he felt everything.

The soft rustle of her skirt beside him. The whisper of her perfume—something with lavender and clove. The way she carried herself, no longer the girl who once trailed after his brother, but a woman who had learned stillness, sharpness, poise.

He wanted to reach for her hand.

He didn’t.

They reached the front hall. He opened the door.

“Thank you,” Penelope said, her voice low, almost a murmur. She didn’t step out yet.

Their eyes met.

And for a long, aching second, neither moved.

“I will read it,” Anthony said suddenly, hoarsely. “The book. I meant it.”

Penelope’s mouth curved, just barely.

“I think you’ll find yourself in it,” she said, soft and teasing.

He swallowed. His hand was still on the door.

“I’d rather find you in it,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Penelope blinked—visibly startled. Her lips parted. Then slowly—deliberately—she stepped past him and into the sunlight.

“Careful, Lord Bridgerton,” she said over her shoulder. “One should never say things like that unless one truly means them.”

And then she was gone.

Anthony stared after her.

Never hearing his quiet: "I do."

The wind stirred the leaves. The air felt too still.

He let the door fall shut behind her with a soft click—and stood there, alone in the echo of her absence.

 

 

Notes:

I won't post much as my toddler is ill you shall have to make do with my very few moments in between.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12 An afternoon Chat

Summary:

Just quick chat about a book

The sun slanted lazily across the Bridgerton drawing room, pooling golden light on the rug where Eloise had, as usual, sat herself cross-legged rather than on the proper edge of a chair. Penelope sat nearby on the settee, legs primly crossed, teacup in hand. Her shoulders were relaxed, a rare thing.

Eloise’s voice was animated. “I swear, if one more man in fiction begins a sentence with ‘My feelings will not allow me to be silent’, I might scream. Say nothing then, sir! Go away!”

Penelope laughed—actually laughed—and set her teacup down with a clink. “He does sound pompous. But tell me it didn’t make your heart race.”

“It did not.” But Eloise was smiling too much to be convincing.

“I liked the letter better,” Penelope said, her voice growing softer. “When he explains himself. All his walls drop then. It’s the first moment I believed he could love someone. That he might have a heart at all.”

Eloise tilted her head. “You like the brooding sort.”

“I like… sincerity. Even if it’s awkward.”

Eloise snorted. “Well, you’re certainly in the wrong drawing room if that’s what you’re after.”

Penelope was about to reply when the sound of the front door and heavy bootsteps rang faintly from the hall.

Three sets.

Penelope’s spine straightened, just slightly. She lifted her chin.

“Let the theatre begin,” she murmured.

Eloise shot her a sideways grin. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Penelope arched a brow.

“I swear. I bet it was Benedict.”

A pause.

“Actually—no. I know it was Benedict. He’s the meddling Bridgerton.”

Penelope huffed a breath of laughter. “Gets it from your mother.”

“Unquestionably,” Eloise said brightly.

“It’s genetic.”

The door opened with a practiced click, followed by the faintest murmur of male voices.

Eloise didn’t turn around.

Penelope didn’t have to.

The energy in the room shifted—something warmer, heavier, laced with awareness.

And then they stepped in.

Anthony first, tall and composed, his cravat a little askew, as if he’d dressed quickly. He looked directly at Penelope and faltered for the briefest moment—his breath catching, his mouth opening as if to say something, then closing again.

Behind him, Benedict offered a too-innocent smile, gaze flicking knowingly between the two women. He dropped easily into the armchair beside Eloise like he hadn’t just orchestrated a slow-moving social collision.

Colin came in last. Slower. A beat behind. His eyes went first to Penelope—then to the space between her and Anthony—and something shifted in his jaw.

“Penelope” Colin said with a polite nod, standing stiffly by the door.

Penelope gave him a small, elegant smile. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

Colin blinked.

Anthony, who had turned to greet his sister, stopped mid-motion. His brow knit. His mouth twitched, as if trying not to smirk. “Surely Colin has earned the privilege of his Christian name,” he said mildly.

Penelope didn’t look away. “Perhaps,” she said, “but formality suits some better than others.”

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. Benedict made a soft, wheezing sound behind his teacup.

Colin cleared his throat and crossed to pour himself a drink, shoulders held stiff with a careful kind of wounded dignity.

Anthony tried—failed—not to glance back at Penelope. She had already returned to her seat, the book resting on her lap, fingers lightly touching the edges of the cover.

“I’ve only just begun the book,” he said, finally. “But this… Darcy fellow. He certainly makes an impression.”

Penelope’s eyes snapped to his.

Her lips parted slightly, not in surprise, but something far warmer—curious. Alert.

“And what impression is that, Anthony?”

Anthony stepped closer. Not so close as to cause gossip, but enough that he could lower his voice just a touch.

“He’s blunt. Proud. Terrible at first impressions. But it’s obvious he cares… deeply, in fact. Perhaps too much.”

He meant it playfully. Almost.

But the air between them hummed now.

“Perhaps,” Penelope murmured.

“Some men do not realize they are in love until they’ve already ruined everything.”

Anthony held her gaze. “Some men get a second chance.”

“Do they?”

“They pray for it.”

Behind them, Benedict slowly leaned toward Eloise and whispered “I told you this would be fun."

Colin hovered near the sideboard longer than necessary, glass in hand, brow furrowed as he listened to the exchange between his brother and Penelope.

The tone between them was… strange.

Not quite flirtation. Not quite rivalry.

But it was intimate. Familiar in a way that made his skin itch.

“I suppose,” Colin said too suddenly, stepping forward, “Darcy’s problem is that he thinks too highly of himself. That he believes his affection is a gift to be bestowed.”

Penelope turned her gaze toward him. It wasn’t cold, exactly. But it wasn’t warm either.

“How fascinating,” she said. “I always thought his problem was pride. And perhaps the belief that he could not be loved in return. That someone like her would never say yes.”

Colin shifted. “Well—yes. But also the arrogance of it. Of confessing love as though the other person ought to be grateful.”

Penelope tilted her head. “Or perhaps as though he simply had to say it.

Even knowing it would likely be rejected.”

Anthony said nothing. But his eyes were fixed on her face with an intensity that made Benedict raise both brows.

Colin’s jaw worked. He turned to Eloise. “You’ve actually read it?”

“I have,” she replied, lifting her teacup with a small, satisfied nod. “Twice, in fact. I enjoyed it far more than I expected. The social commentary is sharp. And the heroine has teeth.”

Penelope smiled. “She does. And a spine. I admire her immensely.”

Colin cleared his throat. “I started it, but truthfully... I found it a bit dull. Just another day in the ton, wasn’t it? Balls and misunderstandings and marriage proposals.”

Penelope looked at him then. A soft blink. “Is that what it felt like to you?”

He gave a helpless half-smile. “Well—yes. It all seemed rather predictable.”

She nodded once, slowly. “I suppose if one has never been overlooked, or misunderstood, or loved someone who didn’t look back… it might be.”

Colin swallowed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she said lightly. And then she turned her face back toward Anthony.

Eloise stretched her legs and stood with a dramatic groan, shaking out her skirts. “If we don’t leave now, Mama will have my head for abandoning the dress fitting entirely.”

Penelope rose with careful grace, her fingers trailing along the cover of the book before she set it down.

She turned to Benedict first. “Good day, Benedict.”

A beat, and her voice softened—affectionate, genuine—“And thank you, Eloise.”

Then, lastly, she turned to Anthony.

She didn’t curtsy.

She didn’t rush.

Her eyes lingered on his, and then—deliberately—they dipped lower. Just for a breath. A quick but unmistakable survey: cravat, waistcoat, the trim cut of his thighs.

Anthony’s breath stilled in his chest.

“I look forward to discussing the ending with you, Anthony." She said, voice honeyed, low. “Do let me know what you think… once you've finished.”

A pause. Her smile curved, slow and secret. “Until then… sweet dreams.”

And then she turned.

Colin stepped forward, almost a stammer in his motion. “Allow me to escort you to -

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope said, not even glancing back. “My house is just across the square."

And then she was gone. Just like that.

Anthony had not moved. Not even to breathe properly.

Benedict looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “That’s what we call game, dear brother.”

Colin said nothing. Only stared at the closed door, jaw tight, fingers clenched at his sides.

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t Penelope’s attention he missed.

It was her absence.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13 The Walk Worth Watching

Summary:

a promenade accidentally on purpose at the same time

Violet Bridgerton sipped her morning tea with serene calculation, as if she had not just slipped a folded banknote to the Featherington scullery maid via her own footman not two days prior.

“I do think a promenade is in order,” she said lightly, folding the morning paper with practiced elegance. “Hyde Park, this afternoon. The weather promises to be tolerable.”

Anthony didn’t look up from the ledgers he’d foolishly brought to the table. “A promenade?”

“With the Bassets,” Violet added. “I’ve already invited Daphne and Simon. It’s been far too long since the families took the air together.”

Across the table, Benedict arched a brow but said nothing. Only gave her a knowing look over the rim of his tea cup.

“You’re meddling again,” Eloise muttered, without looking up from her book.

“I’m encouraging familial unity,” Violet replied.

“I’d rather read about someone being strangled with a cravat.”

“That can be arranged,” Benedict murmured to her.

Colin arrived late to the table, hair slightly mussed and expression distracted. “What’s this about strangling?”

“Promenade,” Anthony answered dully.

“Oh. Right. I suppose I’ll come. Better than spending the afternoon listening to Lady Bletchley talk about her dogs.”

Violet smiled, utterly unbothered. “Lovely. We’ll depart just before two.”

Anthony finally looked up, suspicious. “You’ve already chosen the time?”

Violet waved a hand. “It seemed as good an hour as any.”

Benedict hummed. “What’s at Hyde Park at two, Mother?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said airily. “Sunlight. Ducks. The usual.”

She did not mention the letter she'd intercepted in the Featherington household, or the tidy silver coins she'd handed to the kitchen maid who had, with an almost regretful look, confirmed that the Featherington women would be promenading at the very same hour.

Coincidence. Naturally.

---

At the Featherington house, chaos reigned as usual.

“Philippa, do not wear the bonnet with the velvet bow. You’ll look like a goose in mourning,” Portia declared, snatching the offending hat away.

She turned on Penelope next. “And for heaven’s sake, at least try to keep up today. I can’t have you dragging behind like some ancient spinster.”

Penelope smoothed her gloves without reaction. “Of course, Mama.”

She didn’t bother reminding Portia that she was only one and twenty, or that Philippa had three years on her when she got married.

Portia was already distracted, clucking over Prudence’s sash. “A walk through the park may do us some good. A bit of sun, some fresh air, perhaps someone respectable will see Penelope and think—ah well, she’s not quite dead yet.”

Penelope did not roll her eyes. But she did briefly consider how Violet Bridgerton might delight in that turn of phrase.

If her instincts were right—and they often were—today’s walk would not be quite the idle meander her mother expected.

She allowed herself the smallest smile as she picked up her parasol and followed her family out the door.

The late afternoon sun draped Hyde Park in a pale golden haze. The gravel walkways sparkled faintly underfoot, and the trimmed trees cast sharp shadows that danced as the wind stirred their leaves.

Simon Basset held little Auggie aloft by both arms, swinging him gently as the boy shrieked with laughter, feet barely skimming the ground. Daphne, radiant and serene, strolled beside them with one gloved hand on her husband's arm and the other tugging gently at her bonnet's ribbon.

Violet Bridgerton walked just ahead, flanked by her three sons and Eloise. She had chosen her position very deliberately: far enough ahead to be noticed, close enough to take credit for grace.

Benedict leaned down toward her as they turned a bend in the path. “Are you sure they’ll be here?”

Violet didn’t even glance at him. “I would be shocked if they weren’t.”

And indeed—there they were. The unmistakable burst of chartreuse and pastel yellow, moving toward them from the eastward path like a sunbeam at war with its surroundings.

Penelope Featherington came into view first, just to the side of her sisters, with her head turned toward the trees—disinterested but still walking neatly. Her dress was such a light yellow it look cream, her hair was pinned in a style Genevieve likely invented to frustrate her mother: elegant, copper bright, but just a little too loose.

Anthony saw her before she saw him.

His chest tightened at once, as if struck.

She looked… not radiant, exactly. Something subtler. Quieter. A woman not trying to be seen, and so drawing every eye.

Portia Featherington’s voice rang out with affected delight. “Well! Isn’t this the happiest of coincidences?”

Violet feigned surprise with the mastery of a seasoned actress. “Mrs. Featherington! What a pleasant surprise. Are you promenading as well?”

“As are you! What luck.”

Penelope’s gaze flicked from Violet to Daphne—who offered a small, genuine smile—and then to Simon. Then, very briefly, her eyes met Anthony’s.

And held.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow.

But he looked at her like a man seeing something through mist at last, and not merely a dream.

Penelope inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to glance away. Instead, she met his gaze full-on. Not shy. Not bold, either.

Just… there.

And then she turned toward Daphne, giving the duchess a warm nod. “Your Grace. What a beautiful day for a walk.”

Daphne stepped forward with a knowing grin. “It is, isn’t it? Auggie’s been demanding to see the ducks. And Simon needed a break from account books.”

Simon grunted in good humor. “A man must breathe.”

Behind them, Benedict bumped shoulders with Anthony—subtly.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” Anthony muttered.

“You are.”

Colin lingered at the back of the Bridgerton party, just far enough behind to watch it all unfold. His eyes darted from Penelope to Anthony. Then to Penelope again.

She hadn’t even noticed him.

Or perhaps she had. And was pretending not to.

He straightened his coat and joined the group more visibly, clearing his throat as he caught up. “Miss Featherington.”

She didn’t look his way. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Nothing else.

Colin blinked, stung by how cold it sounded.

Like a title. Not a name.

Not a friend.

The paths were wide enough for ten to walk abreast, but somehow the group naturally arranged itself in more intimate clusters.

Simon strolled ahead, his son wriggling in his arms and narrating in urgent, toddler babble the anticipated duck encounter. Daphne and Violet followed with Portia just behind, leaving the younger generation to sort themselves into smaller knots of conversation—or brooding silence.

Henry Dankworth offered Prudence his arm with a grin that was more affable than intelligent, but he doted on her genuinely, and she on him.

Albion Finch, despite his awkward gait and occasional squinting, spoke earnestly with Phillipa, pointing out seasonal flowers and offering botanical trivia as if she hadn’t heard it a dozen times.

The Featherington line, by all accounts, was now stably married off—except for one.

Penelope walked alone.

Until Auggie Basset squirmed down from his father’s arms with a triumphant chirp and made a beeline for her.

“Miss ‘Nelope!”

Penelope turned at once, already crouching by the time Auggie hurled himself into her skirts. She laughed, startled but delighted, and wrapped her arms around him.

“Well, hello, Master Basset,” she said with playful gravity. “You’ve grown half a foot since I saw you last.”

“I see ducks,” Auggie announced with urgency. “Wanna show you.”

“Do you now?” Penelope replied, her fingers adjusting his little cravat with practiced ease. “Well then, lead the way.”

She offered him her hand and let him tug her down the path, skipping slightly to match his enthusiasm.

Behind her, Anthony watched.

And something broke open in his chest.

Not desire. Not entirely. Not even mostly.

Just… warmth.

She wasn’t wearing anything extraordinary—pale yellow nearly cream muslin with white trim, gloves that had seen better stitching, parasol folded against her elbow.

But her laugh, real and high and bright, echoed across the gravel, and for a moment Anthony imagined something that had nothing to do with passion.

He saw her in a garden with sunlight in her hair, her skirt hiked inelegantly as she bent to kiss a scraped knee. He saw a little boy with dark curls and a stubborn jaw—his jaw—climbing her lap with sticky fingers.

He saw her in their drawing room, head bent beside Hyacinth’s, both giggling over some new book. He saw her older, softer, still freckled, and lovely.

And he wanted it. All of it.

So much it scared him.

Beside him, Benedict didn’t speak, but he looked at his brother sideways with a half-smile.

Colin, on the other hand, stood stiffly just behind them, watching Penelope as she bent to let Auggie point at ducks on the lake.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

Not once.

And he couldn’t stop staring at the way her gown clung to her waist, how her body shifted as she moved. Her laughter didn’t sound like it had for him—not when they danced, not even when they were children.

It sounded… lighter now.

And he didn’t know why, but the thought of Penelope playing with a child who wasn’t his—maybe Anthony’s, or some other man’s—made something cold and sharp twist in his gut.

He hadn’t wanted her. Not really. Not when it mattered.

But now—

“Colin,” Eloise said abruptly, sidling up beside him, “you look as though you’ve eaten a wasp.”

He blinked. “Do I?”

“You do.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, and began walking again, just a step faster than the others.

Eloise, satisfied she had pricked something, turned her eyes toward Penelope and smiled.

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered softly to herself. “They really haven’t the faintest idea what they’ve done.” And I get to watch, she thought to herself.

 

Penelope straightened as Auggie was called back by his mother, but she lingered on the lake’s edge for a moment longer. Her hand rested lightly on the parasol handle, gaze drifting across the water where the ducks had begun their lazy circuit. The breeze teased a wisp of her red hair loose.

Anthony broke from the group—almost without realizing it—and came to stand beside her.

He didn’t speak at once. Just looked out at the same glimmering surface, letting the silence settle warm between them.

“It suits you,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “That laugh.”

Penelope turned her head, slowly. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

“You do.” He didn’t look at her, but his jaw flexed. “It sounds like a life I’d like to live.”

A startled breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, she didn’t respond.

“I was only amusing a child,” she said lightly.

He turned to her then. Full on. Dark eyes fixed and flickering. “You were being exactly who you are. That’s the part I keep remembering.”

She flushed, breath hitching at the honesty of it.

Before either could say more, Auggie shouted something from up ahead, and Penelope glanced toward him, grateful for the excuse to look away. Her voice was quiet when she spoke again.

“You should rejoin your family, my lord.”

Anthony stepped closer, almost imperceptibly. His voice was velvet and steel.

“I will. But not before I say—Penelope, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

She looked up at him.

He looked down at her.

And for one second, her whole body wanted to rise to the kiss she imagined waiting in the air between them.

But she stepped back.

“I look forward to our next conversation,” she said softly, her lips twitching into something between a smile and a warning. “You still owe me thoughts on Mr. Darcy.”

She didn’t wait for his reply.

As she turned and walked away—head high, eyes ahead—Anthony let out a slow, pent breath. And behind him, Benedict gave Violet the most subtle of nods.

She returned it, eyes shining.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Mission: Underhanded Orchestration was proceeding perfectly.

Meanwhile, a few paces behind, Colin Bridgerton had gone quiet.

He had seen it. The moment. The nearness. The way Penelope had looked up at Anthony as though he were the one man who saw her fully. The way Anthony had looked at her as if the rest of the world had gone silent.

It shouldn’t matter. He had said cruel things. Hadn’t wanted her. Hadn’t thought about her like that.

But now—

His mind betrayed him.

He saw her at Bridgerton House—his house—seated at the pianoforte in the drawing room with a child in her lap. A little boy with her mouth and his eyes. A dark head of hair curling in exactly the way his had at that age. The child giggled, freckled, and squirming, and Penelope looked down at him with all the patience and wonder of a woman in love with her life.

He saw her in the country, shaded by a straw hat, standing at the edge of an orchard as two more children ran toward her. One with a lopsided grin like his own, the other already holding a book. She laughed as they tackled her skirts, her hands stretching out to catch them, her smile his to kiss.

She was wearing a simple gown. Her hair had come slightly undone.

But she was his wife.

His Penelope. His home.

And something twisted in him—sharp, regretful, aching.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured aloud, voice thin. “I didn’t know she could… be like this.”

Eloise, walking beside him, didn’t look his way. But her voice struck hard.

“You never cared to see.”

The promenade continued along the lakeside path, the families drifting in easy clusters. Birds sang overhead, and the water glistened with midsummer light.

Portia Featherington, entirely oblivious to any undercurrents, was loudly declaring her relief that both her elder daughters had found such handsome and gainfully employed husbands.

Albion Finch was nodding solemnly. Henry Dankworth was smiling politely, though one suspected he had not heard a word.

Violet Bridgerton artfully allowed her steps to slow.

Hyacinth darted forward to show Auggie a beetle.

Gregory made a dramatic noise of disgust.

And in the midst of this carefully choreographed scattering, Anthony found himself beside Penelope once more—only this time, he didn’t let the moment drift.

“May I steal you for a moment?” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

She blinked at him but nodded.

They stepped off the path slightly, into the shade of a wide oak whose roots buckled the lawn. Close enough to hear the others but just out of view.

For a second, neither spoke.

Then Anthony cleared his throat. “I was hoping… I wanted to ask whether I might—”

She turned to him too quickly. “You don’t have to.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said quickly, gently, her voice full of careful grace. “That kiss—it was… It was unexpected. But you don’t have to follow it with anything. Truly. I understand.”

He looked utterly nonplussed. “Penelope—”

She pressed on, as though afraid she wouldn’t finish if she paused. “You were being kind. Perhaps… perhaps caught in a moment. But I know what I am. What I look like. I’ve never been the sort of woman that men chase down the lane for. You don’t need to pretend—”

“Stop,” he said, softly but firmly. “Just—stop.”

Penelope looked at him, startled.

“I wasn’t being kind,” he said, stepping closer. “I was being honest.”

Her breath hitched.

He studied her face, every flicker of disbelief and wariness in her eyes. “Do you truly believe I kiss women I don’t want? That I look at them—like I look at you—out of pity?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Anthony’s jaw tightened, then softened. “You think so little of yourself,” he said, almost to himself. “And I—God, Penelope, I want to show you everything I see.”

Her hands trembled slightly where they gripped her parasol. She looked away, toward the path, where Eloise’s laughter rang like a bell.

“Anthony…”

He waited.

“I… I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want time,” he said, quietly. “Time to prove that this—whatever this is—deserves more than stolen moments and assumptions.”

Her gaze snapped to his.

But before either could speak again, Portia’s voice floated through the air. “Penelope! Dear, we mustn’t linger. The sun is quite unkind to your complexion.”

Penelope flinched. Not visibly. But Anthony saw it.

She gave him a brittle smile, eyes glassy with emotions neither of them had words for yet.

“Another time,” she said softly, with a tiny nod.

Then she turned and walked away.

Anthony didn’t follow.

He stayed beneath the oak, eyes on the path long after she had gone.

Behind him, Violet and Benedict shared another quiet glance.

The fire in Anthony’s study had burned low.

The brandy in his glass had long gone tepid.

He sat in his armchair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar loosened. A single lamp glowed on the table beside him, illuminating the worn copy of Pride and Prejudice now resting in his lap.

He’d meant to read only a few pages before bed. He was already several chapters in, thanks to his sister’s urging and… curiosity sparked by Penelope’s admiration.

But he hadn’t stopped.

Not when Darcy had fumbled his first declaration.

Not when Elizabeth had flayed him alive with her refusal.

Not when that letter—the letter—had pulled back the curtain and shown a man not cold, but wounded. Not cruel, but inept at expressing himself without armor. Not prideful, but terrified that love might render him powerless.

Anthony stared down at the final page, heart thrumming.

He could scarcely breathe.

He hadn’t just read Darcy. He had felt him.

The impossible weight of responsibility.

The pressure to marry well. The expectation to be unmoved, unaffected. The grief, the fear, the desire, the failure—God, the failure—to say what mattered most before it was too late.

And the way it had nearly cost him the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Anthony closed the book with a trembling hand.

His chest felt too tight. His mouth too dry.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and whispered into the night:

“She thinks I’m doing her a favor.”

A beat.

“She thinks I want her out of guilt.”

And another:

“She has no idea what it is to want someone this much.”

He pressed his fingers into his eyes.

He needed her to understand.

But every time he tried, she slipped through his grasp.

And he—Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, head of one of the most powerful families in England—felt like nothing more than a tongue-tied fool in her presence.

 

 

 

Chapter 14: Chapter 14 A Passage and a Plan

Summary:

Overhearing on Purpose

 The door to Anthony’s study creaked open just as he was lifting his pen.

He didn’t look up. “I’m working, Benedict.”

“Clearly,” came the reply, dry as the paper in his ledger. “Ravishing accounts. Arousing columns of figures. Tell me, do you moan when the ink dries?”

Anthony finally raised his head, unimpressed. “What do you want?”

“To save you from yourself.” Benedict grinned and crooked a finger. “Come along.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“You have excuses.” His tone gentled. “This one comes with music.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed, but he rose.

Benedict led him—not toward the drawing room or salon, but down a narrow passage near the back stairs. It was barely wide enough for two grown men. Anthony ducked slightly under a low beam. The stone was cool, the sconces unlit.

When they stopped, Benedict pointed toward a small sliver in the wall—an intentionally unsealed panel, left decades ago, likely for servants to listen in or for mischievous children to spy from.

Through it, Anthony could see the music room.

And there, seated gracefully at the pianoforte, was Penelope Featherington.

Her posture was relaxed but attentive, her hands moving gently across the keys. Hyacinth sat beside her, chin propped in her hand, utterly focused.

“She listens to her,” Benedict murmured, tilting his head. “Better than she does to her instructor.”

Anthony stared, unmoving.

Penelope’s hair today was not severely pinned, but softly swept back, curls brushing her cheek. She looked… comfortable. Happy. Like someone who belonged.

“I told Hyacinth she could ask her to sing,” Benedict added, almost teasing.

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “You meddling bastard.”

“I learned from the best.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “Your meddling is becoming less and less subtle.”

“Oh, is it?” Benedict’s smile curved. “I must be losing my touch.”

But Anthony didn’t answer. He was already watching again.

Inside the music room, Hyacinth wriggled excitedly on the bench.

“But you must, Penelope,” she insisted, hands clutched together. “You said you used to sing with your sisters.”

Penelope laughed softly. “Badly. I used to sing badly with my sisters.”

“Nonsense,” Hyacinth grinned. “You sing when no one’s listening. You hum when you read. I’ve heard you.”

“You spy on me?”

“Only a little.”

Penelope arched a brow but smiled. “What if I told you I haven’t the lungs for opera?”

“Then don’t sing opera.” Hyacinth tilted her head dramatically. “Sing something for me. Something old. Something pretty.”

Penelope gave a theatrical sigh. “You are relentless.”

“I take after my family.”

With a chuckle and a glance toward the door—just in case Violet or Eloise or any number of chaos-loving Bridgertons were eavesdropping—Penelope lifted her hands, letting them hover briefly over the keys. She didn’t play. Not now. Instead, she inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

And then she began.

“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme…”

Her voice was not strong. Not trained. It didn’t ring out like a soprano meant for a concert hall. But it was something else—something better. Low, tender, almost secret. A melody that seemed to come from some mossy grove or fire-warmed kitchen, worn by memory and love.

Anthony’s breath caught.

He hadn’t realized he’d leaned closer to the wall until he saw Benedict watching him from the corner of his eye.

“She sounds like…” he began.

But he had no words.

Like safety. Like home. Like something you forgot you needed until you heard it again and couldn’t live without it.

Benedict didn’t interrupt.

He simply watched his brother fall.

The last word faded like mist.

“She once was a true love of mine…”

Penelope didn’t look up when the song ended. Her fingers remained still on her lap, her shoulders lowered but not slouched. There was a silence between her and Hyacinth that didn’t need filling.

Hyacinth, bless her, didn’t clap. She just smiled, softer than usual. “Thank you,” she said. “That was perfect.”

“It’s a bit sad,” Penelope murmured.

“All the best things are.”

On the other side of the passage wall, Anthony stared at the crack in the panel as if it were a window into another life.

A life he wasn’t living.

“She’ll make a wonderful aunt,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

Benedict gave him a slow look. “Or a wonderful mother.”

Anthony swallowed. “Don’t.”

“I’m not mocking you.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you so afraid of?”

Anthony turned his head sharply toward him. “Of not being enough.”

Benedict’s brows rose. “You?”

“I tried,” Anthony said, voice hoarse now. “I tried to tell her. The day of the promenade, when she looked like she belonged with all of us—when she made Auggie laugh like that—I thought, this is it. I could see it all: her with our children, our life together. I could feel it.”

“And?”

“She wouldn’t let me.”

Benedict tilted his head. “What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to court her. She said I didn’t owe her anything.”

“Ah,” Benedict breathed, understanding instantly.

“She thinks it’s pity. Or duty. Or some misplaced sense of honour.”

“Well.” Benedict leaned casually against the stone. “It is honour, in part. But not the kind she thinks. It’s the kind that compels you to stay. To try. To love even when it terrifies you.”

Anthony said nothing.

“You ought to just call on her,” Benedict added after a pause.

“Properly.”

“I can’t find the words.”

“Then find the gesture.”

Inside the music room, Hyacinth had returned to her scales, her fingers skipping across the ivory with just enough effort to count as practice. Penelope remained seated beside her, half-turned, guiding gently, listening more than she spoke.

Anthony stood behind the secret panel, utterly still.

She wasn’t looking at anyone now. Not playing to an audience. Not trying to impress. And yet—this was the woman he couldn’t look away from.

Hair soft and slightly disheveled from the song. Cheeks still warm from singing. Hands resting lightly on the bench beside her—hands that had once cupped his jaw and pulled him into that kiss.

He didn’t need candlelight or stormy nights or rain-slicked walks to feel enchanted.

He needed this.

Penelope Featherington, in the daylight, guiding a girl too clever for her own good, humming under her breath, unaware of her own power.

“She’s not what I imagined,” Anthony murmured.

“No,” Benedict said quietly beside him. “She’s better.”

The older brother exhaled slowly.

And Benedict, for once, didn’t tease. He didn’t make light of it or push further.

He simply reached out and laid a firm, steadying hand on Anthony’s shoulder.

And in that silence, in that gesture, Anthony understood:

He wasn’t the only one who saw her clearly now.

 

 The Gods, the Ball, and the Mother of Meddling

The dining room at Bridgerton House was a hive of laughter and clinking silverware—one of the rare evenings where most of the family was present and (mostly) in good spirits.

Violet sat at the head of the table, her posture as pristine as her planning was diabolical. Beside her, Hyacinth chatted animatedly with Gregory about mythology books she’d been reading for inspiration. Across the table, Eloise picked at her potatoes while rolling her eyes at Colin, who had once again taken it upon himself to explain how much better the food was in Italy.

Anthony was unusually quiet.

He was watching Penelope.

She was seated between Eloise and Hyacinth, and though her cheeks still flushed whenever she caught Anthony’s gaze, she met it this time with a faint—infuriatingly faint—smile.

Benedict, as always, was watching him.

And Violet?

Violet cleared her throat with all the innocent grace of a lioness licking her paw before a pounce.

“I do hope you’ve all cleared your schedules for the end of the month,” she said breezily.

“Why?” Colin asked, tearing into his roll.

“Because we are throwing a ball.”

That earned some scattered interest and one theatrical groan (Eloise). Anthony raised an eyebrow.

“I thought we weren’t to host until after Ascot,” he said.

“Oh, that was before I had inspiration.” Violet set her wineglass down with a delicate clink. “A themed ball. Gods, Goddesses, and Creatures of Myth.”

Hyacinth sat up straight. “I want to be a siren.”

“You are a siren,” Gregory muttered.

Violet continued, undeterred. “Eloise has—regrettably—declined to assist me with planning this year. But as luck would have it...” She smiled toward Penelope, who instantly froze with her fork mid-air. “Miss Featherington has the most exquisite mind for detail and order.”

Penelope blinked. “I… I—thank you, Lady Bridgerton. But I’m not certain—”

“Nonsense.” Violet waved her off. “Why, I daresay you’ve more taste and tact than half the debutantes combined. I’ve seen the way you bring order to chaos. If anyone can turn myth into reality, it’s you.”

Penelope fought the urge to shrivel.

Anthony coughed into his wine.

“But I don’t—”

“You will.” Violet smiled serenely. “I insist.”

Across the table, Anthony’s brow furrowed. She was manipulating this. He knew it. She wanted Penelope more firmly ensconced in their orbit. He couldn’t decide whether to be alarmed or grateful. Likely both.

And then Violet twisted the knife.

“Oh, and Penelope—of course your gown will be provided.”

Penelope went still. “Pardon?”

“The costume. A gift. I insist. The ball cannot succeed without your vision.” Violet tilted her head toward Anthony’s end of the table, where he now sat fully upright. “It’s the very least we can do.”

Penelope tried not to glance at Anthony.

Anthony did not try at all.

Benedict reached for more potatoes with the smirk of a man who knew exactly what was happening.

 

 

Chapter 15: Chapter 15 Terrifying Hope

Summary:

Penelope didn’t plan to be seen. Anthony never meant to watch. But when he enters the modiste’s shop and finds her transformed—fiery-haired, ivy-clad, and utterly unashamed—neither of them leaves unscathed.

Anthony should have known something was amiss the moment he stepped out of the carriage and found the modiste's shop unusually quiet for that hour of the afternoon. Violet had told him his fitting was at three o’clock sharp—though that had seemed suspicious in itself, as she rarely cared when or if he visited Madame Delacroix. But he’d come anyway. And now—

 

He opened the door.

 

The bell above tinkled, light and delicate, a sound that barely registered before he stopped short.

 

She hadn’t seen him yet.

 

Penelope stood on the raised platform before a triptych of mirrors, facing slightly away, while Genevieve circled with her pins and trims. Her hair was unbound, cascading in a fiery torrent down her back—longer than he’d ever imagined—thick, rich, and utterly untamed. Leaves twined atop it. Ivy. Tiny flowers, like careless afterthoughts. Her dress—if it could be called such—clung to her figure in a way that made his mouth go dry. Green silk hugged her waist, her hips, the curve of her thighs. The neckline was modest enough not to cause scandal, and yet every inch of the bodice was tailored to her contours, like forest vines had grown around her body and simply decided to stay. The dress looked like it was made of green ivy leaves in various shades of green.

 

She was... otherworldly. Elemental. No longer the shy girl in yellow.

 

A goddess born of earth and shadow.

 

And Anthony Bridgerton forgot how to breathe.

 

Anthony had seen many beautiful women in his life. Had bedded more than a few. But nothing—nothing—had ever struck him with the raw, unfiltered force of this.

 

He felt it low in his belly first, the tightening. The undeniable pull. Heat flooded his chest, his throat, all the way to his ears. His hands, still gloved, twitched at his sides. He ached to reach for her, to touch the skin bared at her shoulders, to trail his fingers through that wild red hair and see if it was as soft as it looked.

 

He was hard already, damn it. A single glance and he was reduced to this—tight-laced and desperate and utterly, thoroughly undone.

 

And then she turned.

 

It was just the tilt of her head, responding to something Genevieve said, but it was enough. Her eyes found his in the mirror.

 

She startled.

 

He saw it in the quick intake of breath, the widening of her gaze. But then, instead of reaching for a robe or blushing into the floor, she straightened.

 

Met his stare head-on.

 

There was fire in her now. No flinching. No apology.

 

It nearly felled him.

 

They stared at each other across the polished room—he, rooted in the entry like a man struck by lightning; she, still poised atop the platform, transformed and glowing.

 

The silence was not awkward.

 

It was feral.

 

Penelope’s chest rose and fell a little too quickly, though her chin didn’t dip. She didn’t look away. If anything, she looked him over. Slowly. Her gaze traveled the length of him with deliberate intent—starting at the curls at his temple, lingering at the fall of his cravat, the firm set of his jaw, the way his shoulders filled his coat. Her eyes dropped slightly lower, to the place where his fists had clenched and unclenched in his gloves.

 

She said nothing. But her lips parted slightly.

 

And Anthony? Anthony felt like a boy again—too big for his skin, too hard in his trousers, and far too aware of every inch of her.

 

Genevieve stepped back, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ah, Monsieur Bridgerton. You are early.”

 

Anthony didn’t answer her.

 

Penelope had looked away—at last—but only to meet her own reflection. She touched the wreath at her brow as if she hardly recognized the woman staring back.

 

He did. He knew her now. Knew what she looked like kissed, breathless, arched against a library wall. And yet—

 

This Penelope was something else entirely. Not his. Not yet. But soon, if the gods allowed.

 

She hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Least of all him.

 

The moment she saw him reflected in the mirror—tall, dark, thunderstruck—her breath had caught, sharp and traitorous in her throat. Anthony bloody Bridgerton, in her modiste’s shop, eyes devouring her like she was the last sin he ever meant to commit.

 

She should have been mortified. She was, for a heartbeat. But then—then something shifted.

 

He didn’t look away. Not for one second. Not even to blink. And there was no disgust in his stare, no mockery, no pity. Just heat. Unhidden, untempered, unrelenting.

 

Penelope felt it in the curl of her toes against the silk-lined platform. In the sudden tightness across her chest. In the strange bloom of power—terrifying and addictive—that surged through her.

 

So she didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover herself or shrink back.

 

Instead, she stared right back.

 

And when her gaze wandered over him—his stormy expression, his flushed throat, the way his coat hung open at his sides like it had just been torn from his shoulders—something coiled low in her belly.

 

She liked his hunger.

 

She liked being the cause of it.

 

And even as her heart pounded and her breath stuttered, she knew one thing with sudden, terrible clarity:

 

She wasn’t finished with Anthony Bridgerton.

 

Not even close.

 

“Shall we give Lord Bridgerton a moment?” Genevieve asked lightly, far too amused for Penelope’s comfort.

 

Penelope didn’t answer. She simply stepped down from the platform with deliberate grace, the green silk rustling like leaves in wind. Her …bare feet …touched the floor, and Anthony’s eyes followed the movement as if her soles had cast a spell on the boards themselves.

 

He hadn’t spoken. Not a single word. And neither had she.

 

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the robe Genevieve offered, a pale thing meant only to cover the costume between fittings. She shrugged into it without breaking his gaze—though her face was flushed, her body still pulsing with the awareness of his body watching.

 

Genevieve, saint or devil, busied herself with notes and adjustments, clicking her tongue in faux concentration. “We’ll finish the hem tomorrow, yes? The bodice fits like a second skin already. No need to adjust that.”

 

Anthony exhaled audibly.

 

Penelope’s eyes snapped to him again.

 

He looked as if he might burst into flame—tense, upright, his jaw clenched, his gaze dark as smoke. But still, he said nothing.

 

She turned toward the changing screen.

 

With each step she took, she imagined his gaze lingering on her hair, still loose around her waist. She had never worn it down in public—not once. But in this moment, she was not Penelope Featherington.

 

She was something more. Something mythic.

 

And part of her did not want to give that power back.

 

She vanished behind the dressing screen, and still he saw her.

 

Not the fabric or the motion or the sensible gown she would return in—but her.

Penelope.

 

A woman cloaked in leaves and hair like fire, who had looked at him like she might devour him just as surely as he longed to lose himself in her.

 

He had never known that hunger could ache.

 

His fists ached from clenching. His shoulders from holding still. His cock—dear God—he couldn’t even shift for fear it would draw attention to the impossible, painful swell that had risen the moment she turned her gaze on him.

 

And yet it wasn’t just desire. It was awe.

 

She hadn’t been a simpering debutante or a flirt. She had stood there in that painted light like a goddess of forest and flame, and she had met him. Matched him. Dared him.

 

It was beautiful. It was also infuriating. Because he couldn’t have her. Not like this. Not now. Not unless she truly chose him—not because of circumstance, survival, gratitude or even lust. Because she wanted him.

 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing once, twice.

 

He had come to see about the final fittings for his own costume.

 

Now, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to undo hers.

 

Penelope stepped out from behind the screen, hair now wound into a tight braid and pinned in place—her armor, her disguise. The gown she wore was sensible, soft blue with grey trimming, nondescript and modest.

 

She felt like a lie in it.

 

Anthony was facing the door, his back to her, his body stiff with restraint. He hadn’t spoken once, hadn’t approached her, hadn’t even met her eyes since that moment in the mirror. But she felt his attention shift the second she stepped forward. Like heat drawn to heat.

 

She paused.

 

She didn’t want to be hidden again. She didn’t want him to see her as small or frightened or someone in need of shielding.

 

So she drew in a breath, lifted her chin—and cleared her throat.

 

Anthony turned.

 

And there it was again. That look.

 

Like he was watching her disrobe all over again. Not with vulgarity, but with something nearly holy. Reverent. Devouring.

 

He had thought the worst was over. That he had composed himself. But then she reappeared and—God—it was like watching a star tuck itself into a shadow.

 

He missed her hair already.

 

He missed the scent of forest that seemed to rise off her skin in that green silk. He missed her.

 

She looked tidy now, proper, safe. And all he could think was how much he wanted to ruin her again—carefully, joyfully, with permission.

 

But not here. Not yet.

 

Never before had he known the agony of patience like this.

 

He was still looking at her like that. Like she was something he shouldn’t want—but did.

 

It scared her. Not because she didn’t want him to look—but because she did.

 

Because she wanted to be that woman again—the one with ivy in her hair and a secret in her smile. The one who could make Anthony Bridgerton go breathless with just a turn of the head.

 

And yet here she was again, ordinary. She hated how much that stung.

 

Anthony cleared his throat first—low, gravelly, a sound she felt before she heard. “Would you allow me to escort you home, Miss Featherington?”

 

Penelope blinked at the formality of it. She had been “Penelope” to him, at least in private. This…this was something else.

 

“Yes,” she said, and her voice didn’t shake. She wasn’t sure how.

 

Genevieve, still humming to herself in triumph, opened the door and gestured grandly as if she were sending royalty out into the street. Thinking to herself she would have to provide Lord Bridgerton with an alternate fitting time.

 

“Rae,” Anthony called, and Penelope’s lips twitched when the footman appeared almost immediately—no doubt having waited just out of earshot with his arms crossed like a chaperone.

 

“Would you mind riding up front with the coachman?” Anthony asked him, his voice so polite it had to be insincere.

 

Rae looked at her Mistress in confirmation and only then nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He gave Penelope a brief glance —curious, unreadable—and climbed up to the driver’s box.

 

Anthony extended his hand to Penelope. She hesitated.

 

She knew what that hand could do. Knew the way it had trembled slightly before sliding down her spine that night at the opera. Knew it could cradle her cheek or pin her wrists above her head with equal tenderness.

 

She placed her hand in his. He helped her into the carriage, then followed, sitting across from her. A chaste choice, on the surface.

 

But the space between them felt molten. The carriage rocked gently as it began to roll, and the noise of London faded to the sound of leather creaking, wheels turning—and breath.

 

Just breath. Penelope looked out the window, then back at him.

 

She should say something. Anything. But all she could think was he saw me.

 

And he was still looking.

 

She hadn’t let go of his hand right away. He could still feel the shape of it—warm, smaller, soft and impossibly firm all at once—lingering in his palm.

 

She was looking away now, pretending to be calm, pretending she hadn’t once again unraveled him without even touching him.

 

He didn’t want to be across from her. He wanted to be beside her.

 

He wanted to pin her to the bench and bury his face in her neck until she forgot every man who ever failed to see her.

 

But instead, he sat back, fists clenched, mouth shut. Because this wasn’t about what he wanted. It never had been.

 

The silence had stretched thin enough to tremble.

 

Penelope’s voice, when it came, was soft. Casual, almost—except for the sharp heat behind it.

 

“Have you had your fill yet,” she asked, “of being proper?”

 

Anthony’s gaze snapped to her. And then lower. Her mouth.

 

A flicker of a smirk ghosted there, even as her eyes shone wide and wounded, hopeful and reckless all at once.

 

He didn’t answer. he lunged. Not in some brutish, unthinking way—but in a kind of inevitability. As if her words had unlocked something already coiled and snarling inside him.

 

His mouth caught hers with heat and hunger—but his hands, always his hands, stayed above her waist. One at her cheek, the other cupping the nape of her neck. His fingers trembled just a little as he tilted her head to deepen the kiss.

 

He would not touch her elsewhere. He would not lose control.

 

Proper? There was nothing proper in the way her lips parted under his, nothing civil in the way she gasped when his tongue stroked hers. She tasted like sharpness and longing and apples. She felt like surrender.

 

And he would not take it. Not like this. But God, let me kiss her.

 

The world narrowed. There were no wheels, no windows, no road—just the press of his mouth on hers. Just the shudder he gave when her hands slid around his shoulders. The way he kissed her like he was falling, and she the only thing that might catch him.

 

So she held him. And then—she moved.

 

Subtly at first. Her hips shifted forward, toward him, as her fingers curled into his back. But it wasn’t enough. Not quite. Her palm slid lower. Hesitating… before brushing along his thigh. Seeking. Finding….

 

Anthony froze for half a second. His whole body went taut. She touched him. There.

 

And it was everything and not enough and far, far too much.

 

Her hand wasn’t timid. She was testing. Weighing. Wanting.

 

He groaned—quiet, involuntary—and kissed her harder, just once, as if to thank her and warn her all at once.

 

Then he broke the kiss. Breathless. Wrecked. He caught her wrists gently, pulled them up between them.

 

His forehead came to rest against hers.

 

“No more,” he whispered.

 

Her eyes were huge. Hurt. The start of retreat blooming on her face like a bruise.

 

He exhaled shakily. “Penelope…”

 

His hands were so gentle.

 

Not restraining. Not rejecting. Just holding her still. His thumbs brushed soft circles into her wrists, grounding them both.

 

She looked down, the heat in her cheeks now tinged with shame.

 

But then he spoke—quietly, reverently, like an invocation.

 

“Kissing you feels like coming home… and going to heaven… at the same time.”

 

Penelope’s eyes snapped up. Her breath caught. He looked wrecked. Completely.

 

His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing her in and resisting her at once. His voice was hoarse with restraint, but his eyes—those eyes—were molten.

 

“But no more, Penelope. Not until you listen.”

 

She flinched, just slightly.

 

Not because of his words—but because a voice inside her had already started to scold. You always want too much. You always reach too far. You’re not meant for this.

 

She braced for rejection. But Anthony continued.

 

“When I say you’ve enchanted me… I mean it.”
“Will you let me court you? Properly?” he begged. Say yes. Say yes, and I will build you a life where you never have to ask if you’re wanted again.

 

He could still feel the imprint of her hand—where she had touched him like a woman, not a fantasy. And he had wanted her, yes. Still did.

 

But what scorched him more was how she looked at him now. Like she could not believe she was worth this.

 

And that made him want to fall to his knees.

 

She blinked. What? What would a man like him want with someone like her?

 

He was not cruel—never had been. But he was proper, principled, and surrounded by women who fit that mold: stunning, demure, light on their feet and empty of complicated longing.

 

She was not light. Not quiet. And not quite untouched anymore, either.

 

So she said what she always did when she felt herself slipping toward hope:

 

“Anthony… you don’t have to.”

 

His face darkened—not in anger, but in something far more volatile.

 

“Shhh,” he said again, shaking his head. “I hate that you do that. That you dismiss yourself so.”

 

“Is it so hard to believe lust is only a small part of what I feel for you?”

 

He took her hands again, but this time laced his fingers with hers.

 

“Will you not allow me to have more than just your body?”

 

Penelope’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She didn’t trust herself to answer.

 

Because the truth was, she wanted more too. So much more it frightened her.

 

But she didn’t believe she deserved it. Not from him. “But I am not…”

 

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence: beautiful, worthy, enough…

 

But he finished it for her.

 

“Oh my sweet Penelope. You are a voluptuous, beautiful goddess,” he whispered, “and I ardently admire and care for you… just. As. You. are. There only one thing I would change about you …and it is your persistent lack of belief in your self-worth.

 

Her breath stilled.

 

“Penelope, one day, when we are old and grey and wrinkled… I will still adore your mind, heart and soul.”

 

He brushed a kiss to the back of her hand. His voice was shaking.

 

“Will you not consider I am in earnest?”

 

Penelope sat very still.

 

A tear slipped silently down one cheek. She didn’t even try to wipe it away.

 

She looked at him.

 

Saw how vulnerable he was now. How much he wanted her to believe him.

 

And she almost did.

 

“I will think about it,” she said, her voice a whisper.

 

She didn’t say no. It wasn’t the triumph he’d longed for—no breathless yes, no trembling fingers reaching for him again. But it was not no.

 

And with Penelope Featherington, that meant something. That meant everything.

 

She had flinched when he’d praised her. Winced when he spoke of more than her body, as if the very idea was too heavy to bear.

 

But she had listened. She had stayed.

 

And now she sat beside him, quiet and shaken, but with a small flame flickering behind her eyes.

 

He dared not touch her again. Dared not tempt the fragile thread of trust they’d spun together in these few minutes of honesty.

 

But in his chest, something loosened. You will think about it. He would take that. For now. Because she was thinking of him.

 

And one day, one day, she would know she had always been more than enough.

 

He meant it. God help her, he meant it. She had pushed—refused, even—but he had not retreated. Not out of pride or propriety or shame. He had stayed.

 

He had held her hands like they were precious things. Called her a goddess. Spoke of her mind, her heart, their future!

 

It would have been easier if he’d just wanted her body. If he’d been like she had assumed men to be—awed by the thrill of secrecy, the heat of her mouth, the curve of her hips.

 

But this? This was hope. And it was terrifying.

 

It opened up possibilities she’d locked away long ago—little girl dreams she had buried in yellow fabric and tight corsets and silence.

 

And now he had offered them back to her. Not as a rescue—but as a partner. A man who saw her. Desired her. Admired her.

 

She felt fragile under the weight of it. But also stronger than she had in years.

 

“I will think about it,” she had said. And she would.

 

And that night, when the house was quiet and the world gave her space to breathe, she would think of him.

And burn for him.

 

Notes:

Finally finally Penelope is starting to give in

Chapter 16: Chapter 16 Thinking Alone Together

The manor was quiet.

Too quiet.

Anthony had returned to his chambers with the stiff restraint of a soldier keeping formation. No extra word to Benedict, no teasing smile at Hyacinth or comment to Eloise. Just a nod. A retreat.

Now, with the door locked behind him and the silence pressing in, he sagged against it.

She had said she would think about it.

And he had played the gentleman. The proper suitor. The man who wanted her whole self, not just her soft thighs and clever mouth and the wicked sparkle in her eye when she thought no one saw.

But God—God, he wanted her.

He stripped off his coat and waistcoat with impatient jerks, then paused.

The scent of her lingered on his gloves.

He brought one to his face, inhaled deeply—citrus and ink and something earthy he could never name.

His cock throbbed in his trousers.

He closed his eyes.

And in the darkness behind his lids, she bloomed.

Penelope.

Hair down, wild with wind and temptation. Eyes narrowed in challenge. Mouth pink and just parted, a flush on her cheeks not from shame—but from power.

From knowing he would do anything she asked.

He kicked off his boots. Unfastened his trousers. He hissed softly as he freed himself, already hard, already aching.

One hand braced on the edge of the washbasin.

The other wrapped around himself.

“Have you had your fill of being proper?”

Her voice echoed in his mind, low and teasing. Her mouth had brushed his with urgency and want. And then—God help him—she had touched him.

That wicked little hand, bolder than he’d ever dared dream.

She had reached for him.

He groaned.

In his mind, she did more than reach. In his mind, she knelt.

Not shy. Not innocent. But commanding.

She would look up through her lashes and say his name—not "Lord Bridgerton," not “Viscount,” not even “sir.” Anthony.

She would say it with reverence.

Then she would open her mouth and—

He gripped himself tighter.

But his imagination shifted, unbidden.

Now she was not kneeling.

Now she was riding him. Hair loose and wild, fingers splayed over his chest as she moved—slow and sure—using him. Owning him.

And he would let her.

Because that was the truth of it.

Yes, he wanted to possess her. Take her. Ravage and wreck her in every way she would allow.

But more than that?

He wanted her to take him.

To use his body for her pleasure.

To seek him out—not because she was grateful or curious or lonely—but because she wanted him.

Because she knew he would worship her.

Because he did.

His rhythm faltered.

His breath caught.

His grip shifted—tighter, firmer—sliding his palm from base to tip, knuckles pale with restraint. He didn’t want to come quickly. He wanted to feel it. All of it. Every flicker of heat, every pulse of blood, every imagined breath against his skin.

His hips jerked forward, involuntarily, into the curve of his hand.

He exhaled through clenched teeth.

Penelope was there.

Not in his room, not truly. But in the fever-dream behind his eyes, she was everywhere.

She was gasping his name, back arching as she moved atop him, her breasts bouncing with every rock of her hips. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her lips were red, kiss-swollen, and parted—murmuring little praises between breathless moans.

And he was lost to her.

Not just in the way his body yearned—but in the way she looked at him in that fantasy. Like he was hers.

Not a Viscount. Not a title. Not an obligation or legacy.

Just Anthony.

Just hers.

His thighs tensed, muscles trembling as he thrust again into his fist, slick with the evidence of his longing. His abdomen clenched, sweat prickling at the base of his spine. His breath was ragged, chest heaving.

The image shifted—again.

Now she was on her knees in front of him. Bold and brazen.

She pressed him down, her soft weight covering him from, whispering in his ear how she would ride him next. That he would lie there—on his back, his control stripped from him—and she would take what she wanted. What he offered.

And he would give it, gladly.

A harsh sound escaped him—a groan, strangled and low.

His cock throbbed painfully in his hand.

The tension built.

He was so close. Teetering on the edge.

But he didn’t let go—not yet.

Because she said she would think about it.

Because in his mind, she said yes.

And he wanted to linger in that version of the world a moment longer.

Where she undid him with her fingers. Her voice. Her smile.

Where he didn’t just want her—but deserved her.

Where her pleasure was in his hands.

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

Her phantom voice—the one he conjured from memory and hope—whispered his name like a promise. Not sharp or needy. Loving.

That undid him.

With one final stroke, his back arched off the bed. His toes curled against the sheets, and he groaned—quiet, guttural, like it had been dragged from somewhere deep. He spilled over his hand in pulsing waves, each contraction shuddering through him with helpless force.

His other hand fisted in the pillow.

“Penelope…”

The name left his lips like a prayer. Not shouted. Breathed.

It was not the first time he had said it in the dark.

But it was the first time it meant this.

Not just lust. Not just wanting.

It meant: I miss you.

I want to see your face when I fall apart.

I want to kiss you after.

He stayed there, panting, heart hammering, the mess cooling on his hand, stickiness a small, vulgar reminder of how real it had felt—and how not real it was.

His body trembled, not from exertion now, but from something quieter. Something lonelier.

He sat up slowly, wiping himself clean with a handkerchief he’d tucked near the bed.

He couldn’t bring himself to ring for the valet.

Not now. Not like this.

This—this was not what a Viscount was supposed to be.

This was a man aching for a woman he could not yet claim. A man who had known pleasure—plenty of it, in his life—but had never quite touched this kind of longing before.

Because for the first time, it wasn’t about release.

It was about connection.

About holding her after.

About building something—slowly, beautifully, stupidly—with someone who might not even believe she was worth being chosen.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

That she did not see what he saw. That she didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t her body, her mouth, her curves that brought him to his knees.

It was her wit.

Her strength.

Her loyalty.

Her ability to carry so much pain and still laugh.

He reached for the book again—Pride and Prejudice—but didn’t open it.

Instead, he stared at the wall. At nothing.

One day, he thought, I will touch her in truth. Not just in dreams.

And she will finally believe she is adored.

---

The moment Penelope was alone in her bedchamber, she exhaled.

Not a sigh.

Not a breath.

A tremor.

Her hands shook slightly as she undid the braid, each pin clinking against the dressing table like tiny declarations of chaos. The coil unwound, and her hair tumbled free—not unlike how it had fallen around her shoulders during the fitting, or how Anthony had looked at her then, with reverence and hunger braided so tightly together they were nearly indistinguishable.

Her skin still remembered the press of his lips against her mouth, her cheeks, her jaw.

The careful way his fingers cupped only her shoulders—as if he were afraid touching more might unravel them both.

It almost had.

And yet, it wasn’t just his touch she burned for. It was his words.

You are a voluptuous, beautiful goddess.

She sat at the edge of her bed, knees parted slightly, shift soft against her thighs. The candlelight flickered, gilding her curves in gold. One hand lay limp in her lap, the other trailing absentmindedly up her sternum, resting lightly at the base of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a moth caught in lace.

She had never been spoken to like that. Not even in her dreams.

Not like she mattered. Not like she was wanted, but wanted exactly as she was.

Not improved. Not pitied. Not shaped into someone else.

Just… Penelope.

Penelope with the soft middle, the sharp tongue, the unreadable eyes, the secrets tucked behind each page she wrote.

He had looked at her like he would burn down the world for the privilege of touching her again.

She breathed in through her nose, and let it out in a shudder, her hand drifting lower over the gentle slope of her breast, brushing across her nipple.

It tightened under her palm.

She didn’t flinch.

Not this time.

This time she allowed it.

Because his words still rang in her head, low and shaking and sure:

“You are more than your body.”

“I ardently admire and care for you.”

She wanted to cry.

Instead, she lifted her shift—just slightly—and laid back onto the mattress.

Tonight, she would not hide from herself.

She would not close her eyes and pretend she was someone else. She would not imagine herself thinner, fairer, softer, smaller.

She would be Penelope Featherington, and she would feel.

Her legs shifted apart, the cotton of her shift stretching gently across her thighs. Her hands were bare—she had removed her gloves earlier—and now her fingertips traced lightly along the inside of her left leg, not quite touching the heat that had gathered between them, but close enough that her skin tingled with anticipation.

She wasn’t in a hurry.

It wasn’t about chasing the end.

It was about believing—just for a moment—that she was as desirable as he claimed. That he wasn’t lying. That she could be the woman Anthony Bridgerton imagined, wanted, even revered.

She pictured his hands—strong, warm, callused in a way that betrayed real work—settling atop hers. Guiding. Encouraging. Worshipping.

And then she let herself imagine them replaced by his mouth.

Her hips twitched instinctively.

A flush rose to her cheeks, but she didn’t retreat from the thought. Instead, she leaned into it. Allowed it. Her right hand crept higher, sliding between her thighs, parting the heat and softness with the gentlest brush of fingers. Wet.

Already.

She gasped.

Not because it startled her, but because she realized—it hadn’t taken much.

Just the memory of his voice, the burn of his gaze, the feeling of being seen.

She stroked herself slowly, experimentally, circling the swollen nub with light pressure, the way she’d learned in silence and secrecy. But this time, she didn’t think of faceless fantasies or wistful longings.

She thought of him.

Of the way his mouth had claimed hers in the carriage, desperate and reverent all at once.

Of the way he had said, “You’ve enchanted me.”

Of how he had stopped her—not out of rejection, but because he wanted more.

More than her body.

More than lust.

More than a stolen night.

Her back arched slightly. Her left hand fisted the sheets.

And in her mind, he was with her.

Kissing her again, yes—but this time with hands pressed flat to her hips, holding her still as his mouth moved lower.

Lower.

His voice echoed in her fantasy—ragged, rough, “Let me adore you. Let me learn every inch of you.”

Her breathing quickened. Her thighs trembled. She pressed harder, her strokes no longer exploratory, but confident—guided by the rising wave inside her and the impossible warmth that memory had left in its wake.

She imagined whispering his name against his neck. She imagined him moaning hers into her belly.

She imagined being loved.

Not pitied.

Not tolerated.

Loved.

The pleasure built slowly, curling upward like the leafing of spring vines, fresh and delicate and full of promise. It wasn’t frantic or desperate.

It was hopeful.

And that frightened her more than anything.

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Her breath came in shallow puffs now—barely audible, save for the occasional whisper of linen shifting beneath her. Her shift had bunched around her hips, exposing the curve of her belly, the swell of her thighs. She kept her knees bent, parted just enough to welcome herself fully—no longer tentative, but purposeful.

Her fingers moved in languid circles, gliding through slick heat with a reverence she hadn’t allowed herself in years. Perhaps ever.

There had always been shame before. A desperate need to rush it, to finish, to be done. As though the act itself were evidence of her unworthiness, and the less time she spent steeped in that desire, the better.

But tonight… tonight was different.

He had made it different.

His hands hadn’t groped. His words hadn’t belittled. His eyes hadn’t flinched.

Instead, he’d looked at her as if she were a discovery. A marvel.

As if her curves were a gift, not a burden.

As if the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her stomach, the roundness of her thighs were exactly what he’d dreamed of.

And now—alone, untouched but not unloved—she tried to see herself through his gaze.

Her other hand moved slowly to her chest, cupping one breast through the shift, brushing her thumb in lazy arcs across the hardened peak. She gasped again—quieter this time—as the sensation danced through her like static.

Would he kiss her here, too? she wondered.

Would he murmur against her skin, call her beautiful in that breathless, disbelieving way he had?

Her thighs flexed, her fingers stuttering in their rhythm before resuming. It was harder now to keep her hips still, her body aching to arch into something more. Her mind drifted again.

Not to a singular act, but to scenes.

To being pulled gently into his lap. To feeling his palm at her lower back, guiding her hips forward.

To his voice, low and hoarse in her ear, “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

To the sound he’d made in the carriage when she had dared to stroke him—his gasp, the shudder she had felt beneath her palm.

Would he sound like that again? Would he say her name?

She moaned softly—not from physical friction alone, but from the overwhelming need that swept through her.

Not just for release.

But for him.

To be seen and held and worshipped in the way he had only just begun to offer.

It wasn’t only lust—it was ache.

A deep, hungry, hollow ache that curled in her belly and behind her ribs and between her legs like a fire waiting for fuel.

But still she held off.

Still she hovered.

Because she didn’t want this to end quickly.

She wanted to believe in it. In herself. In him.

She wanted to stay here—in this space of possibility—a little while longer.

Her breath was trembling now. Not quick, not ragged—but fragile.

Each exhale caught at the back of her throat like a prayer she wasn’t sure she deserved to whisper.

Her fingers moved a little more deliberately now—still soft, still slow, but no longer uncertain. She traced the places that made her shudder, her hand moving with the rhythm of her own need. Her other palm still pressed lightly to her breast, thumb stroking with quiet insistence. Her shift rustled faintly with every movement, the faint slick sound of her fingers louder now in the hush of the night.

She was wet—more than she had ever been. And warm. And open.

But most of all, she was soft.

Soft in her body.

Soft in her soul.

Soft in her surrender.

“You are a voluptuous, beautiful goddess,” he had said.

And gods help her—she believed him.

Not in the way she once might have—clutching praise to her chest like a starving bird. No. This was different.

This was a woman choosing to see herself as desirable. Worthy.

And in her mind, he was watching her now.

Not in fantasy alone, but in truth—in some alternate reality, perhaps, where he had stayed in the carriage and locked the doors and whispered, “Show me how you take pleasure, Penelope. Let me see what delights you.”

Her knees drew higher. Her hips began to move—not wildly, but steadily. A slow rocking, meeting the rhythm of her hand.

In her mind, his hands gripped her thighs. His mouth pressed to her stomach. His eyes never left her face.

“That’s it,” she imagined him murmuring. “Let go. Come for me, sweetheart.”

And with those imagined words, her body arched.

The sensation bloomed outward, sweet and slow and full. Not sharp, not desperate—but complete. Like a wave rising and cresting and spilling gently over itself.

She gasped—just once. Then again. Her hand stayed where it was, fingers gently circling through the ebb of it, riding the pleasure until it softened.

Her chest heaved. Her lips parted. Her body tingled.

She lay back, boneless and stunned, staring at the ceiling.

And then—

A giggle.

Small. Disbelieving. Pure.

Not because the act was funny, but because she had done it.

She had touched herself not to forget pain, or spite loneliness, or escape into illusion.

She had done it to remember him.

To remember what he had said.

And to believe—just a little more—that she might actually be worthy of being loved.

The cool night air kissed the damp skin of her neck, and her shift clung lightly to the curve of her body. The candles had burned low, casting golden half-shadows on the ceiling, flickering like the soft licks of a remembered fire.

Penelope exhaled.

Her hand slid from between her thighs and settled on her belly, palm spread wide as though to hold herself together—to anchor herself to her own body, her own pleasure, her own name.

Her fingers still tingled.

Her chest still fluttered with the final aftershocks, like the echo of a bell that had already rung.

But more than that—

She felt… calm.

Not empty. Not undone.

Full.

As though something had settled inside her for the first time in years. A truth, perhaps. Or a choice. Or a whisper of hope.

He wants more than your body.

She had heard those words before—spoken by others, spoken to others—but never in a tone so reverent, so awestruck, so heartbreakingly sure.

And he had meant it.

Anthony Bridgerton had meant it.

She let her eyes drift shut, her lips parted slightly. Her head turned into the pillow, hair fanned across the linen in soft red waves. Her thighs stayed open for a moment longer—unguarded, unashamed—until she finally shifted onto her side, curling gently into herself.

Not in defense.

But in peace.

The moonlight slipped across her floor in a silver ribbon, catching the edge of a stack of papers on her desk, the hem of her dressing gown on the chair, the glint of her hairpin on the windowsill. Familiar objects in a world that, for the first time in a long time, no longer felt entirely against her.

I will think about it, she had said.

She would. She was.

Penelope Featherington smiled faintly into the quiet dark.

And then she let herself sleep.

Not from exhaustion.

Not from despair.

But because—for once—she wanted to wake up.

---

Anthony lay back against the pillows, the sheets wrinkled from his own hand, his own ache, his own longing.

But he was no longer restless.

Not quite.

His body still hummed, skin warm and hypersensitive in places, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of release. Yet beneath the physical, beneath the craving and the fantasy, something gentler pulsed now at the center of his being.

Hope.

For days, for weeks—even for years—he had known desire. Known it as a burden, a vice, a thing to be controlled, beaten back, locked away.

But tonight… tonight he had let it breathe.

Not to dominate her. Not to claim her.

But to feel her.

To imagine, yes, with trembling clarity—her breath on his chest, her fingers laced in his hair, her voice catching as he buried himself in her—but more than that: to imagine waking with her. Laughing with her. Seeing her eyes alight with curiosity, with confidence, with joy.

He turned his head on the pillow and let out a quiet exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

He had told her she enchanted him.

He meant it.

He would say it again, and again, if he had to. He would court her like no man had ever dared court Penelope Featherington. Not for show. Not to mend reputations or fulfill duty. But because her smile—when she let it shine—made his ribs ache. Because her voice steadied something in him that had long gone loose. Because he wanted to know her, in the way a man knows the shape of home.

He turned onto his side.

The fire was low. The room still held the scent of beeswax, of night air, and—faintly—of her.

Or perhaps that was only memory.

No matter. He would see her soon.

Anthony closed his eyes.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he looked forward to the morning.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17 Let the Light In

Summary:

Penelope only came to talk books with Eloise. She did not expect to be studied, sketched, and seen—by both Bridgerton brothers in entirely different ways.

The morning came softly.

 

Not with fanfare, nor trumpet of birdsong, but in the hush of pale golden light spilling across rooftops, threading through gauze curtains, warming floorboards still cool from the night.

 

Penelope stirred first—eyes fluttering open, lashes damp with sleep. For one suspended breath, she lay still, cradled in silence, her body still pulsing faintly with the echoes of what she’d given herself the night before.

 

Not regret.

 

Not shame.

 

But the quiet hum of a promise beginning to take root.

 

She drew a hand over her collarbone, her lips quirking slightly at the memory. And then—because the hour was decent and her presence was expected—she rose, donned her day dress, and moved with calm precision toward whatever would follow.

 

Elsewhere, Anthony had woken too.

 

Later than usual. Later than a Viscount ought to, in fact.

 

But he did not chastise himself for it.

 

Instead, he sat at the edge of his bed with bare feet on the rug and a strange calm in his chest. His pulse no longer warred with him. His breath came easy. He dressed himself with deliberation, nodded to a maid when breakfast was mentioned, and ignored the slight teasing in Benedict’s eyes when they crossed paths in the hall.

 

He had not yet seen Penelope again.

 

But he would.

 

And when he did—he would make himself known.

---

Penelope arrived with a purpose. She had rehearsed a dozen versions of the conversation on her way over—some witty, others impassioned, and at least one that ended in her weeping into Eloise’s shoulder. But none of them accounted for how oddly nervous she felt just stepping into Bridgerton House again.

 

Not because of Eloise.

 

Because of him.

 

The hall was warm and golden with late morning sun, but her palms were cool against her gloves. A footman took her pelisse with a nod and an entirely unnecessary flourish, and Penelope resisted the urge to ask whether the Viscount was home. She was not here for him. Not today. Not deliberately anyway.

 

The drawing room was wide open and airy, and Eloise stood by the window, her familiar silhouette framed in swaths of light and lace curtains. She turned quickly when Penelope entered, her face brightening as though she had been waiting all morning for precisely this.

 

“You’re late,” Eloise said without censure, grinning. “I was beginning to think you had been waylaid by a proposal from Mr. Darcy himself. Usually I'm the late one.”

 

Penelope laughed, grateful for the easy return to their rhythm. “He might have, but I was determined not to swoon.”

 

“You never would.” Eloise came forward and took her hands, pressing them briefly. “I want to hear everything. Your thoughts, your impressions. Was it not just… I don’t know. Vivid?”

 

Penelope’s expression bloomed with genuine pleasure. “It was like reading a mirror I didn’t know I was holding. Not for myself—though I did rather hope I was more Lizzy than Mary—but for the way it laid bare how we… how we move through the world. With too much sense and not enough power.”

 

Eloise nodded emphatically. “That’s what I felt too. And I must say, I am growing rather fond of this ‘A Lady.’ Even more than Whistledown, in some ways. She doesn’t rely on barbs—just wit and insight.”

 

Penelope tilted her head, lips curving slightly. “That’s because she is not trying to survive by it.”

 

Their laughter mingled as they sat, skirts rustling softly, and the talk turned quickly from general impressions to character analysis. Penelope’s voice lifted when discussing Lizzy’s strength, and lowered with a strange reverence when she spoke of Mr. Darcy’s evolution. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed—not with flirtation, but with thought, engagement, life.

 

Eloise noticed it. And somewhere down the corridor, someone else did too.

 

The voices drifted down the corridor like the faint sound of music carried by wind—low, feminine, animated.

 

Anthony paused mid-step just outside the morning room. His intention had been to escape into the library to re-read the final pages of Pride and Prejudice, but Penelope’s voice—warm, sharp, lilting with mischief—snagged him like a hook behind the breastbone.

 

He wasn’t alone in pausing. Benedict had fallen quiet too.

 

Anthony glanced at his brother, who was grinning with the kind of sly satisfaction usually reserved for surprise sketch commissions and garden-party mischief. Benedict leaned slightly toward the open door, head tilted like a fox scenting something interesting.

 

“That’s Penelope, is it not?” Benedict whispered, as though confirming something already known.

 

Anthony made a noncommittal noise. “And Eloise.”

 

“Indeed,” Benedict murmured, then took a deliberate step closer to the doorframe, now in full view of anyone in the room should they turn. “And if I’m not mistaken, they’re discussing Pride and Prejudice. You did finish it, didn’t you?”

 

Anthony gave him a withering look. “You know I have.”

 

“And you had… thoughts.”

 

Anthony folded his arms. “I am capable of thoughts.”

 

“Oh, really? Ar you now" Benedict stated with mock surprise" good,” Benedict added more mildly. “Then go in. Join the discussion.”

 

“What?”

 

Benedict’s grin widened. “You’re always telling the rest of us to make ourselves useful. Now’s your chance. Be useful. Contribute to the literary conversation. You have so many thoughts, after all.”

 

Anthony opened his mouth to object—but in that moment, Penelope’s laugh rang out again, rich and sincere, and his heart gave a quiet, humiliating jolt.

 

Benedict’s voice softened. “Go on, brother. She likes you, you know.”

 

Anthony hesitated, then straightened his shoulders. “She, she tolerates me.”

 

“She looked like she might devour you whole last week.”

 

Anthony glared. “That was not—”

 

“Go.” Benedict urged exasperated.

 

With a soft curse and a muttered prayer to no one in particular, Anthony stepped forward—each footfall absurdly loud in his own ears—as if his heartbeat hadn’t already made enough noise.

 

Penelope was in the middle of explaining why Elizabeth Bennet’s refusal was the most dignified scene in the entire novel—head tilted, fingers dancing lightly in the air for emphasis—when movement in the doorway caught her attention.

 

She turned, and the rest of her sentence crumbled.

 

Anthony Bridgerton stood there.

 

Not stiff and formal like at a ball. Not distant like at some grand gathering. But casual—disarmingly so. Coat open, shirt collar slightly mussed like he had been running fingers through his hair, which indeed looked tousled and exasperated in equal measure. His book—her book—was tucked beneath one arm.

 

His gaze found hers instantly.

 

It was a jolt.

 

No bow. No smile. Just those deep, unreadable eyes sweeping over her like a second skin, and something fluttered low in her belly.

 

“Anthony,” Eloise said, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I finished the book,” he replied smoothly, his voice low and rumbling like the promise of rain. “Thought I’d join the discussion.”

 

Penelope’s mouth went dry. Her heart thudded once, stupidly loud. Her skin prickled, though she did not move, save for a single pulse at her throat.

 

Anthony approached, never breaking eye contact. The way he moved—deliberate, measured, almost predatory—sent a flush to the base of her neck.

 

Penelope forced herself to glance away first, down to her lap, adjusting her skirts with trembling fingers. She could feel Eloise looking between them, but she didn’t dare look up again.

 

Not yet.

 

“Did you like it?” Penelope asked, her voice steadier than she felt. “Pride and Prejudice?”

 

Anthony set the book on the table, took the empty chair across from her—and only then did she lift her eyes.

 

Their knees nearly touched.

 

“I did,” he said simply. “Though I suspect I missed quite a bit, since I’m not entirely sure I was reading it with the same… attention.”

 

The pause was brief, but telling.

 

Penelope’s breath caught.

 

Eloise blinked between them, then said flatly, “Is it a fever, or are you two simply—”

 

“I found myself sympathizing with Darcy,” Anthony continued, smoothly cutting off his sister. “He speaks poorly. He broods. He fails to say what he means—especially when it matters most. And he is, apparently, prone to falling for fiercely intelligent women who see right through his charm.”

 

That did it.

 

Penelope flushed, blood rushing so suddenly to her face she thought her ears might start ringing. She swallowed—once, then again—and dared to meet his gaze.

 

There it was.

 

The heat. The honesty. The quiet ache.

 

And under the table, she curled her fingers into her skirt to keep them from shaking.

 

Penelope wet her lips. She hadn’t meant to—hadn’t realized she’d done it—until she saw Anthony’s gaze flick there and linger. She felt the warmth rise all the way to her scalp.

 

Focus, she told herself sternly. You are a rational creature. You are having a perfectly civil literary conversation. About Darcy, not… desire.

 

“I suppose,” she said carefully, threading her voice with lightness, “that Mr. Darcy’s charm lies precisely in how badly he bungles everything. His proposals are a masterclass in what not to say.”

 

Anthony leaned in just a touch, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And yet,” he said, “Elizabeth forgave him.”

 

Penelope stared. Her heart skipped. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said Elizabeth. Like it meant something. Like he knew exactly what he was implying—and was daring her to meet him there.

 

“I imagine it helped that he… showed his admiration in other ways,” Penelope managed, folding her hands in her lap tightly. “Through action. Through protection. Through recognizing her family’s circumstances and still wanting her all the same.”

 

“Not out of pity,” Anthony said, his voice low. “Out of respect. Out of…” He hesitated. “Something else.”

 

That last part was for her. She knew it. Felt it deep in her bones.

 

Eloise, bless her, had gone completely still, eyes flicking between them like a spectator at some kind of sporting match.

 

And then—salvation, distraction, and trouble all at once—Benedict appeared in the doorway, sketchbook in hand.

 

“Pardon me,” he said brightly, as if he hadn’t just caught the tail end of a wildly loaded exchange. “But did someone say fiercely intelligent women?”

 

He was looking straight at Penelope, of course.

 

Penelope huffed a soft laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “You’re  overdoing the compliments, Benedict.”

 

“Hardly,” he said. “I already know I’m charming. I just wanted to see you blush. Mission accomplished.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, though the colour in her cheeks only deepened.

 

“On the contrary,” Benedict said, crossing into the room and tossing himself into a chair with exaggerated ease, “I think now would be an excellent time for a bit of artistic diversion. Penelope, the light is hitting you perfectly right now. You must sit for me. I insist.”

 

Anthony stiffened—just slightly—but didn’t look away.

 

Penelope blinked. “You… want to sketch me?”

 

Benedict grinned. “Why not? You’re luminous at the moment. Absolutely glowing with wit and righteous judgment. Very Lizzy of you.”

 

Penelope opened her mouth to protest—surely he was joking—but found herself caught off guard. Benedict wasn’t joking. His eyes were warm, honest, delighted. And not in the teasing way most people smiled at her when offering something flattering and immediately retracting it. He meant it.

 

She glanced down at her gown—a seafoam green with delicate white stitching—and tried to imagine how it might look translated into pencil strokes. She had dressed carefully today, wanting to feel like someone worthy of being in the Bridgerton drawing room. But she had not expected to be noticed like this.

 

Still, she hesitated. The idea of being observed, truly seen, even by someone as affable as Benedict… it made her chest tighten.

 

“But I’m not—” she began.

 

“You are,” Benedict said gently, as if reading her mind. “You are quite possibly the most interesting subject I’ve had in weeks. No one else would think to tilt her chin the way you just did in indignation over Darcy’s first proposal.”

 

Penelope flushed.

 

Anthony, who had been silent, leaned slightly against the edge of his armchair arms crossed. His eyes—unreadable, but intent—never left Penelope’s face. He said nothing. But inwardly, he was boiling.

 

It should be him noticing the way her gown clung at the waist. It should be him catching the way her lips curved when she fought back a retort. It should be his compliments making her glow, not his brother’s.

 

And worse—she was letting Benedict see her. She was listening.

 

He tried to school his face into impassivity, but his jaw ticked.

 

Penelope, meanwhile, was overwhelmed—but strangely, comforted. Benedict didn’t make her feel like she was being assessed or appraised. He made her feel like she was part of something creative. Collaborative.

 

And so, after a moment, she nodded. “All right. If you promise not to make me look like a tragic Greek statue.”

 

Benedict gasped theatrically. “You wound me. I’ll make you look like a goddess, thank you very much.”

 

Anthony made a low sound under his breath.

 

Oh, this was glorious. Eloise had done her very best to stay quiet—to let Penelope have her moment—but it was becoming increasingly difficult not to grin like a cat that got the cream.

 

Because honestly, how often did one get to witness the usually unflappable Viscount slowly unravel over a woman? 

 

She leaned her elbow on the armrest and propped her chin on her hand, eyes flitting between Benedict, who was nowrummaging for charcoal and arranging parchment with theatrical glee, and Anthony, who was doing his best impression of Mount Vesuvius mid-eruption, only with more jaw clenching and brooding silence.

 

Her gaze flicked to Penelope, who looked adorably confused and flustered, blinking as if she couldn’t quite understand how she’d become the sun around which both brothers now circled. Eloise could see the gears turning in her friend's head—always too quick to dismiss herself, always wary of too much attention. But she was beginning to believe it. Not fully. Not yet. But the cracks in her doubt had begun to let in the light.

 

Eloise’s eyes darted to Anthony again.

 

Oh, he was seething. And the best part? He had no idea how to say it. No idea what to do about it. She could see the war in his eyes—duty, desire, something deeper and more frightened. He didn’t just want Penelope. He wanted her safe. He wanted her happy. He wanted her in his life, in some irrevocable, impossible way. And he had no idea how to tell her that without sounding like a madman.

 

She suppressed a snort. Honestly. Men.

 

Beside her, Benedict finally found his perfect position, announcing triumphantly, “Here we are! Now, Miss Featherington, if you’d kindly sit just there and think literary thoughts, I’ll try not to make you look like a ghost.”

 

Eloise leaned closer to Penelope and whispered, “You’ve now had your portrait requested. All you need is a duel in your name and you’ll have completed your heroine arc.”

 

Penelope swatted her lightly.

 

Anthony didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Just watched.

 

Eloise didn’t need to look at him to know he would remain here. She could feel it. The air had changed.

 

She bit her lip to keep from smiling again.

 

Let the sketching begin.

 

Penelope sat carefully in the chair Benedict indicated—angled slightly toward the light, chin turned just so, hands resting in her lap as if she were nothing more than a page in a book he was about to illustrate.

 

It was absurd.

It was absurd to feel this exposed, this visible, simply by sitting. No dance, no speech, no writing—just… being. And yet Benedict had tilted his head like a composer hearing a tune and said, “Stay just like that.”

 

And Anthony—

She dared not look at him. Not yet. His gaze felt like sunlight through stained glass: filtered, fractured, and far too intense. She could feel it on her skin—on the slope of her neck, on the soft curl of hair near her ear, on the line of her shoulder. And though he said nothing, she could almost hear him thinking.

 

“Just look at me,” Benedict said gently, from where he’d taken his place on the low stool across from her. His voice was warm, unbothered. Familiar.

 

She did.

 

Benedict’s brow furrowed as he began the first lines, quick strokes moving with purpose across the page.

 

“You’ve an extraordinary face for drawing,” he murmured absently. “Animated. Clever. Most people hide behind their expressions. You wear yours like a tapestry.”

 

Penelope flushed. “That sounds… a bit much.”

 

Anthony shifted.

 

“No,” Benedict said, looking up. “It sounds like the truth.”

 

A moment passed. Then another. The scratching of pencil on paper filled the space between them.

 

Behind Benedict, Anthony sat very still.

 

He had no skill for sketching. No talent for capturing anything beyond numbers and schedules. But if he could… he would draw the exact way Penelope looked just now. Not only the lines of her face, but the softness in her eyes, the faint smile trying not to form. The way she breathed.

 

She wasn’t posing. She was present.

 

And he—Anthony—was drowning in it.

 

She hadn’t called him Lord Bridgerton today. Nor had she said his name. But there was something in her silence when she glanced his way—something secret and devastating and entirely hers. And he wanted to be worthy of it.

 

He folded his hands in his lap to still them.

 

Benedict continued his work, occasionally tilting the paper or chewing on his pencil.

 

“How long has it been since you painted a woman outside of the salon?” Anthony asked finally, his voice low.

 

Benedict didn’t glance back. “Too long.”

 

Penelope pretended not to hear.

 

But inside her chest, her heart was a fluttering thing. She didn’t know if she liked being seen. But for the first time, she wondered what it might be like to allow it.

 

The minutes passed in soft, suspended silence—only the occasional scratch of pencil or the creak of Benedict’s stool interrupting the hush. Outside the window, a bird sang something bright and foolish, utterly at odds with the strange solemnity in the room.

 

Benedict sat back at last, brow slightly damp with focus. He turned the page slightly, studying it, then gave a small hum of satisfaction.

 

“Would you like to see?”

 

Penelope blinked, then nodded.

 

He turned the sketch toward her.

 

She gasped—softly, almost reverently.

 

It was not perfect. Her chin was slightly stronger than it appeared in the mirror, her mouth less tentative, her eyes more direct. But that was the truth of it: he had not drawn the Penelope she saw in her glass. He had drawn the Penelope she might be—could be—when no one was looking.

 

When she allowed herself to exist.

 

“I…” Her throat felt tight. “That cannot be me.”

 

Benedict smiled gently. “It’s exactly you.”

 

She swallowed hard, and—unable to meet his eyes—ran her finger along the edge of the paper. “Thank you.”

 

Anthony was silent.

 

He had not moved. Not an inch.

 

Because he could not. Not with the storm in his chest, in his belly, in the place beneath his ribs where her voice and her silence and her brilliance had begun to live.

 

The sketch had captured something he had always known but never quite named. She was becoming. Not changing, not putting on a mask—but becoming. Sharpening. Strengthening. Like steel pulled from the fire.

 

And he wanted—good God, he ached—to be someone who deserved to be by her side when she arrived.

 

Benedict cleared his throat. “Penelope… if it’s not too forward—I wonder if I might turn this into a watercolor. A proper one. You’d need to sit for me again, of course.”

 

Penelope looked startled. “Again?”

 

“Only if you’d like to,” he said quickly. “The light, the fabric of your gown—it inspired something. You wouldn’t need to pose long. Perhaps just return tomorrow and the day after, in the same dress? I’ll prepare the palette tonight.”

 

She hesitated. Just a beat.

 

And then—

 

“All right,” she said softly. “If you’re certain.”

 

“I am.”

 

Anthony’s throat tightened.

 

He watched as Penelope smiled—not the quiet, polite one she wore at parties, but something true. She looked lovely in that moment—dangerously lovely. And he couldn’t stop himself from imagining that dress again, from memorizing the shade, from silently resolving—

 

I will be here tomorrow. And every day after.

 

Penelope rose from the stool carefully, smoothing the folds of her gown as though reluctant to disturb the spell of the afternoon. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem before she tucked them behind her back, willing herself into composure.

 

“I should go,” she said at last, addressing the room. “I did promise my mother to call on Madame Delacroix before supper.”

 

Eloise stood as well. “I’ll see you out.”

 

Penelope shook her head with a smile. “No need. I remember the way.”

 

There was a pause—one of those soft, breath-held moments when a simple exit became something else entirely. Three pairs of eyes followed her: each gaze different, each threaded with their own burdens.

 

Benedict, still seated, offered a small, crooked smile that barely concealed his own pride. He had seen her this afternoon, and drawn her as he knew her to be. A friend, a subject, a spark. He’d nudged open a door—and she had walked through it. He could feel her changing and he noticed Anthony irrational jealousy.  This would be fun.

 

Eloise bit her lip, a thousand thoughts flickering behind her bright eyes. There had been moments, during the sketching, where she was sure she’d glimpsed something profound blooming just behind Pen’s soft smiles. Something changing. She didn’t know what to name it—but she liked it. A great deal.

 

And then there was Anthony.

 

He had stood the moment Penelope did—but he hadn’t moved. Not closer. Not away. His arms were at his sides, taut as bowstrings, as if unsure whether he was meant to restrain himself or reach for her.

 

Penelope hesitated only briefly—then turned fully to him.

 

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said sweetly.

 

The words were teasing, but her smile was anything but. It was warm. True. And something in it—something deep behind her eyes—seemed to say:

 

I saw you. I see you still.

 

Anthony’s breath caught.

 

And then—just as she passed him by the threshold—she let her gaze trail slowly down his form, deliberate and unhurried, before it met his again. Not coy. Not flirtatious.

 

But knowing.

 

It hit him like a shot to the gut.

 

“Have a pleasant evening,” she said lightly. “And sweet dreams.”

 

She was gone before he could answer.

 

The door closed with a soft click.

 

Anthony exhaled. Only then did he realize how long he'd been holding his breath.

 

Benedict leaned in closer to Anthony and clapped a quiet hand to his shoulder—wordless, warm.

 

“You’re doomed,” he murmured under his breath.

 

Anthony didn’t disagree.

 

Eloise stood at the window, watching Penelope’s figure retreat down the walk, the late sun catching the coppery gleam in her hair. For a moment, Eloise forgot to blink.

 

That wasn’t her Pen, not quite. Or perhaps—perhaps it always had been, and she had simply been too close to notice. There was strength there, and softness. A kind of quiet power that needed no audience. And a warmth—God, the warmth—she gave so freely to others, but had hoarded away from herself for far too long.

 

“She’s in a very good mood lately,” she had said aloud.

 

What she didn’t say was: I think she’s coming into her own.

 

Eloise pressed her palm to the window frame, her voice a murmur only to herself.

 

“She may not be a spinster with me anymore,” she said with a rueful smile, “but she’ll be my sister. And that’s…almost as good.”

 

Her heart swelled with something that felt like pride, and maybe a bit of ache too—because growing up meant letting go, didn’t it?

 

But for Pen, she’d let go gladly.

 

Benedict returned to his sketch, eyes half-focused but mind far away. His fingers moved instinctively, smudging a line here, darkening a curve there—but the woman on the page was no longer simply graphite and shading.

 

She was a memory now. A mood. A truth.

 

He'd seen her before—he had known her. But today, she had allowed herself to be seen. And what a view it was.

 

Benedict’s smile was quiet, satisfied. Not the satisfaction of conquest, but of clarity. He’d helped orchestrate a moment and it had worked—marvelously.

 

He glanced toward Anthony, whose jaw was tense, eyes still fixed on the door that had long since closed. And then he looked to Eloise, radiant with secret joy.

 

A soft chuckle escaped him.

 

“Maybe I am a meddler,” he thought to himself, dragging a fingertip down the side of the page. “I get it from Mama, after all.”

 

And wasn’t it lovely—when meddling felt like hope?

 

Anthony hadn’t moved. Not really. His hand still hovered faintly in the air, as though he'd meant to touch her. To stop her. But he hadn’t.

 

Because he couldn’t—not yet.

 

Her smile had struck him clean through. Not just the way it crinkled at the corners or the velvet softness of her voice.

 

It was what she hadn’t said.

 

He could feel it still. Like a burn beneath his skin.

 

Her final look had ruined him.

 

Have a pleasant evening. And sweet dreams.

 

As if she didn’t already own every single one.

 

Anthony pressed his palm to his chest—right over the heartbeat that felt too fast. Too loud. Too full.

 

He didn’t know how he’d make it until tomorrow.

 

But he would. He’d wait. He’d show her. That he could be more. That she was more.

 

That she was not just a warm body or a clever mind—but the woman who could unmake him and remake him in the same breath.

 

And God help him, he wanted her to.

 

Chapter 18: Chapter 18 First Strokes of Seeing and of Myths retold

Summary:

Benedict tries to paint a masterpiece.
Anthony accidentally becomes a leading man.
Penelope? Penelope just sits there and causes emotional crises by being herself.

The next day, Penelope found herself seated once again in the Bridgerton drawing room, visiting with Eloise.

It still felt surreal sometimes—this return to civility, as if the rift over Lady Whistledown had never fractured them. Things were not perfect between them, but they were close enough to pretend. And today, Penelope was not pretending much.

 

Benedict and Anthony entered the room.

 

“Miss Featherington how delightful…I already set up the easel as you see.” He waved at the easel she had indeed seen.

 

“The light is perfect!” Benedict announced “Thank you for returning again and in the same wonderful dress too” Then Benedict turned towards Elois with a frown “Move.”

 

“Excuse me?” Eloise said, offended.

 

“Please,” Benedict amended.

 

With a grumble, Eloise slid off the settee moving to the other side of the room, and Benedict claimed the seat. “Don’t move, Penelope. Just turn your head a touch—there. Toward the window. That’s it.”

 

Penelope blinked. She should refuse. She was not a portrait subject; she was barely considered visible at all. And he had the sketch to work off of…but oh well alright. He did look rather like a puppy with those pleading eyes.

 

But the moment felt strangely sacred. Anthony had not left the room. He stood behind Benedict now, arms folded, saying nothing. Watching.

 

And that, perhaps, was why she stayed and did her best to do this.

 

Benedict got up again and started sketching in silence at the easel. Eloise rolled her eyes and said she would be bored out of her mind if she stayed.

 

Anthony remained and took the place beside her and started speaking with Penelope.

 

She felt the weight of his attention as surely as she felt the sunlight on her cheek. It made her skin warm in ways the sun could not account for.

 

Anthony and Penelope were exchanging the expected pleasantries.

 

She watched Benedict’s charcoal dance across the page, but it was Anthony she was aware of—his slow breaths, the way he seemed to study her not as a subject but as something more primal. Soon the pleasantries were finished with Anthony’s last inquiry no her mother was not back yet from helping Phillipa in her confinement....and soon it seemed Benedict was done with his sketch as he picked up his brushes next.

 

Benedict’s brush moved in careful, patient strokes, the quiet swish of water against pigment was the only sound in the Bridgerton drawing room for several long minutes.

 

He sat perched on a low stool, angled toward another window where the light was best, a faint furrow between his brows and his tongue resting in concentration against the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t spoken in some time, save to request—gently, of course—that Penelope turn her chin half an inch to the left.

 

She had obliged with a shy smile and returned to stillness, hands folded loosely in her lap. Anthony, seated on the nearby settee with one leg draped casually over the other, appeared to be reading—or pretending to. The book lay forgotten on his thigh, thumb marking the page, while his gaze rested not on the print but on the woman across from him.

 

“I have finished it by the way” Anthony said softly.

 

Penelope’s eyes flicked toward him. “Finished what?”

He allowed a half-smile. “Pride and Prejudice. And now I also read Sense and Sensibility.”

 

A hint of color rose in her cheeks. “Oh, you read them both. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. You know I finished Pride and Prejudice in two sittings, the other… well, it took my time.”

 

“I would have guessed so,” he said. “It was the same for me. There’s more of you in that one.”

 

She tilted her head. “More of me?”

 

“Elinor,” he said simply. “All sense. Quiet, reserved, kind to a fault. Hiding entire oceans behind calm expressions. That’s you.”

 

Her lips parted, then curved—part amusement, part caution. “And Eloise?”

 

He gave a low chuckle. “Marianne, of course. All drama and instinct, forever quoting poetry and declaring society beneath her.”

 

“I hope you didn’t say that to her directly.”

 

“I value my life too much.”

 

Penelope laughed, but her smile softened quickly, growing thoughtful. “Elinor is often misread, you know. They all think her cold. Dutiful. But I don’t think she’s ever been anything but… quietly breaking.”

 

Anthony’s smile faded. “And still holding everything together.”

 

She nodded, once.

He set the book aside completely, both hands now free. “Sometimes, restraint is the most generous thing a person can offer. Especially when one has no idea how welcome their truer feelings would be.”

 

She met his gaze for a moment too long, then glanced down at her hands. Her fingers were laced too tightly.

 

“I think,” she said slowly, “that Elinor spends so much time managing others, she forgets what it feels like to be seen herself. To have someone care enough to look beyond her composure.”

 

Anthony didn’t move. “I think anyone would be lucky to see that far.”

 

Across the room, Benedict’s brush made another whispering sweep against the paper.

 

“I suppose,” Anthony said after a moment, “that’s why I liked Darcy more than I thought I would.”

 

Penelope’s brows lifted, curious.

 

“At first,” he continued, “I couldn’t stand him. All that arrogance. That brooding silence. He reminded me of half the men I’m forced to dine with.”

 

“And yet?” she prompted gently.

 

“And yet,” he said, shifting slightly on the settee, “I came to think that perhaps it wasn’t arrogance. Not entirely. Perhaps he simply didn’t know how to speak when what he felt was too large to fit inside ordinary words.”

 

Penelope looked down at her lap. “Pride can look an awful lot like disdain.”

 

Anthony nodded. “Or fear.”

 

She turned to him then, slowly, her voice just above a whisper. “Some people look at others like they’re a storm on the horizon.”

 

His breath caught. “And some storms are worth chasing.”

 

That hung in the air between them—too sharp, too open—and neither of them looked away.

 

Penelope’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Her fingers had gone still in her lap.

 

After a beat, she lowered her eyes again. “Lizzie Bennet would never have married a man simply because it was time. Or expected. Or convenient.”

 

“No,” Anthony agreed. “She needed respect. Understanding. Affection.”

 

“Equality,” Penelope said.

 

There was another pause, thick with unsaid things.

 

“I admired her,” Anthony said, voice low. “But I envied Darcy.”

 

She glanced sideways at him. “Oh?”

 

“To be so completely undone by one woman,” he murmured. “To come apart and still be worthy. To be… loved.”

 

Penelope was still. She drew one slow breath before replying. “And yet, still be loved, even when you get it wrong at first.”

 

His hand twitched against his thigh.

 

Their eyes met again—this time held.

 

She did not look away.

 

 

A slow breath passed between them—hers drawn in, his let out. The quiet in the room had shifted. The air felt warmer somehow, thicker. Every scrape of Benedict’s brush against paper now felt impossibly loud.

 

And then—

 

“If you could both refrain from dramatic revelations for the next five minutes,” Benedict said without looking up, “I might manage to paint Penelope’s left shoulder without having to start over again.”

 

Penelope startled, her posture subtly adjusting. “Oh—was I moving?”

 

“Only slightly,” Benedict said airily, dipping his brush again. “Just enough to shift the light and completely ruin my progress.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, cheeks flushing.

 

“No, no. It’s entirely understandable,” he said, his voice far too innocent. “It’s very difficult to sit still while someone composes sonnets at you through metaphors borrowed from A Lady.”

 

Anthony gave a soft huff. “That was hardly—”

 

“Mm,” Benedict replied noncommittally, eyes still on the paper. “Try not to sigh so deeply, Anthony. It’s stirring the curtains.”

 

Penelope pressed her fingers to her lips—too late to stop a laugh from escaping. She ducked her head, but the blush on her cheeks was unmistakable.

 

Anthony ran a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath about “artists being insufferable.”

 

“I heard that,” Benedict said.

 

“You were meant to.” Anthony retorted.

 

Benedict said nothing more—just resumed his work, humming a low, tuneless melody as if nothing in the world were amiss.

 

But Penelope sat very, very still after that.

 

And though Anthony did not speak again, he did not leave either.

 

At last, Benedict leaned back from the easel with a satisfied sigh, brushing the underside of his wrist against his temple. “That’s it for today. The colors need time to dry before I ruin them by overworking the shadows.” He glanced at her over the top of the canvas. “Would you mind terribly coming again tomorrow, Penelope?”

 

She adjusted the fold of her shawl and nodded. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

 

She looked toward Anthony, her voice quiet but clear. “Will you be here too?”

 

Anthony’s gaze didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”

Penelope smiled—and this time, it reached her eyes.

 

Then, as she rose from her seat and smoothed her skirts, she glanced at Anthony, the corner of her mouth lifting just so. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

His eyes lingered on her a beat too long. “Count on it.”

 

 

Painting Day 2

Penelope arrived earlier than she meant to.

 

Not early enough to seem overeager, she hoped—but early enough that Rae gave her a look of mild suspicion as she handed off her shawl and gloves in the front hall. It was not yet noon, and the household was still emerging from its morning rhythms. Penelope smoothed her skirts, reminded herself she had been invited, and told Rae—too cheerily—that she was expected in the drawing room.

 

She did not add: And I hope he’s already there.

 

When she stepped inside, she found the easel already set up near the same window as before. A small porcelain dish of clean water sat beside Benedict’s brushes, each carefully laid out. The sketch rested on the stand, but no paper had been clipped atop it yet. Benedict was not in the room.

 

But Anthony was.

 

He stood by the window with one arm braced against the casing, back partially turned toward her, deep in thought or else pretending to be. He turned at the sound of her steps.

 

A beat passed.

 

Then— “You’re early.”

 

Penelope folded her hands, as if to keep them from fidgeting. “So are you.”

 

He smiled, the kind that hovered at one corner of his mouth and never quite spread all the way. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”

 

“Nor did I,” she said softly.

 

She moved to sit in the same chair as yesterday, but paused, brushing invisible dust from the cushion as a means of distraction. Anthony stepped forward then, clearing his throat.

 

“May I?” He gestured to the chair.

 

She blinked. “To help me sit?”

 

“To help you adjust it,” he said, though his voice dropped an octave. “And perhaps… to delay the moment you must sit still and pretend I’m not looking at you.”

 

Her breath caught—but she didn’t look away.

 

“Very well,” she said, and sat.

 

His fingers barely grazed the carved wooden back of the chair as he straightened it behind her.

 

Just then, Benedict entered with a mug of tea in one hand and a sheaf of paper in the other. He paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion.

 

“Well,” he said. “I see I’ve interrupted something.”

 

“You did not,” Penelope said quickly.

 

“You absolutely did,” Anthony murmured, then added more loudly, “I was adjusting the chair.”

 

Benedict took a long sip of his tea and muttered, “Mmm, yes. I often heroically adjust furniture with longing silence.”

 

Penelope tried not to laugh—and failed.

 

Benedict, apparently satisfied that no scandal had occurred in the two minutes he’d been absent, took up his position behind the easel. “Same angle, if you please, Miss Featherington. And please do not move this time unless a fire breaks out or you feel faint.”

 

“I shall do my best,” she said.

 

Anthony returned to his usual seat, though he sat forward now, elbows on knees, as if the stillness of yesterday had been an anomaly he could not quite replicate.

 

It was quieter for a time—Benedict sketching in the broad blocks of shape and color he hadn’t dared approach the day before, Penelope holding her posture with quiet grace, and Anthony watching her with open ease.

 

It was Anthony who spoke first.

 

Benedict’s brush whisked confidently across the paper—until Anthony, still leaning forward, mused aloud, “You know when I was a boy, I thought there could be no finer hero than Perseus.”

 

The bristles halted mid‑stroke.

 

Penelope’s gaze slid to Anthony. “Perseus, my lord? Slayer of monsters, rescuer of princesses?”

 

He nodded, half‑smiling at the childhood memory. “Exactly so.”

 

“Then,” she said softly, “permit me another telling—one you will not find in Mr. Lemprière’s dictionary.”

 

Benedict lowered his brush; the watercolor bead at its tip quivered, forgotten.

 

Penelope’s voice took on the silken cadence delivering a scandalous reveal.

 

“First, see her as she was meant to be seen,” Penelope begins. “A girl of soft laughter and sharper wit, bright as a May morning in Grosvenor Square. She could have been our dearest Daphne: gracious to every caller, but quicker of tongue than society ever credits.”

 

The drawing room seems to brighten with that imagined innocence, only so the contrast to come will bruise more deeply.

 

“She was never alone,” Penelope continues, “for two sisters flanked her—mirrors of affection, co‑conspirators in every childhood prank. In them she trusted, as I trust Philippa and Prudence when the world is kind—though the world is rarely kind.”

 

A subtle ache colors her voice; even Benedict’s brush hesitates as she invokes sisterhood imperiled.

 

“They say her hair caught the sun so greedily it burned to gold, and her smile was gentle, the way Francesca can soothe a room with half a glance. Everyone praised her beauty… until beauty ceased to be a blessing.”

 

The words burned to gold glide seamlessly into burned by fate—a foreshadow Penelope does not speak, yet the men hear.

 

“Unlike us, she chose no quadrille, no season’s parade of suitors. She vowed her life to wisdom itself—Athena—vowing, too, her body would remain her own. In truth,” Penelope says, eyes steady on Anthony, “she was a nun in marble colonnades, prayers in place of dowries, chastity in place of chaperones.”

 

“Enter Poseidon: a god with the manners of Nigel Berbrooke and the power of empire. He desires, he takes notice. He wants, therefore the wanting is righteous—so he believes.”

 

Anthony’s jaw sets; Daphne’s near‑ruin echoes in the silence.

 

“She refuses him. Of course she does. Imagine Daphne turning a suitor aside with cool dignity—only the suitor is not a baron but a force that churns the oceans. What hope has virtue against the tide?”

 

Penelope’s voice drops, taut.

 

“So he forces her. Because he can. Because she is mortal. Because humiliating Athena is simpler than besting her. How many maids in Mayfair learn that a gentleman’s title can be a cudgel, that behind a closed door ‘no’ becomes merely a decorative syllable? Nigel Berbrookes maid among them by the way. She and 3 others I know of were not given a choice by that cad.”

 

She lets the question hang—Anthony remembers the pregnant servant Berbrooke abandoned. He had not known …that it had been rape. And more than once it seemed.

 

“Anyway I digress. When Poseidon is sated, he fades like sea‑mist. She, the once pure maiden is left on temple steps—torn linen, torn vows, torn soul. He does not look back. Why would a god or man of rank look back at the ruin he leaves among those beneath him?”

 

A bitter echo of earls who seduce, then shrug.

 

“Worse than pain is the indifference that follows it. She is a broken chalice left for temple sweepers to discard. Poseidon’s appetite is sated; the world forgets the cup ever held holy wine.”

 

Benedict’s brush finally stills completely; pigment pools, forgotten.

 

“She prays,” Penelope whispers, “eyes raw, heart in shards. We know that prayer, do we not? The plea for sanctuary … only to be told sanctuary belongs to the stainless, and she is stained.”

 

Anthony glances away; guilt prickles.

 

They say gods claim their lovers. Perhaps the ton would nod approvingly: ‘How proper—he will marry her now.’ Imagine being bound for eternity to the hands that bruised you. The special hell we call ‘making an honest woman.’   Is that honesty — or a lifelong sentence of torture? ”

 

Penelope’s voice turns crystalline.

 

“Athena answers—but not with justice. She condemns Medusa to monstrous visage: cracked marble skin, a crown of serpents, eyes so weary of weeping they petrify all who dare to look. Society does likewise: mark the girl, send her to an aunt in Cornwall, hide the babe, whisper ‘ruined’ till the word itself becomes scales.”

 

“So there she sits—exiled, terrified of the power forced upon her—when wave after wave of men arrive, swords raised, eager to be heroes by ending a life they never sought to understand. Imagine each gentleman of the ton lining up to ‘save’ her honor by ending her story.”

 

Penelope draws breath, the silence stretching thin.

 

“Perseus does not come to heal. He comes for a trophy. He severs her head, mounts it like a hunting prize, and the bards declare him virtuous. Tell me, my lord—”

 

Her eyes pin Anthony, “—what is a hero who builds his legend on a girl the world first betrayed, then cursed, then butchered?”

 

By the time Penelope’s final question lands, Anthony’s throat is tight, Benedict’s palette forgotten in his hand, and the air between them hurts to breathe—because heroes and monsters no longer seem so easy to name.

 

For a long moment, Anthony said nothing.

 

Not because he did not have thoughts—but because none of them felt worthy.

 

The version of Perseus he had carried since boyhood—sword gleaming, cloak billowing, virtue unquestioned—had crumbled like chalk in the rain. In its place stood something far more uncomfortable. And behind it, the shape of Medusa, weeping in the temple dust.

 

He cleared his throat, but the sound was hoarse. “I… I never knew….was never taught.”

 

Penelope’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t soften. She simply waited.

 

“I never thought,” he said again, slower now, “to ask what happened to her. Only what he did.”

 

His hands curled loosely in his lap. “I thought slaying the monster made him a hero. That he was saving someone. That the head he carried proved his strength.”

 

Anthony’s jaw flexed. “But he didn’t save her. He didn’t even try. And the strength… wasn’t his. It was stolen. Just like everything else she had.”

 

He looked at Penelope then, and it was not admiration in his gaze—it was sorrow. Deep and raw.

 

“I see it now. How easy it is for men to rewrite pain as triumph. To call conquest courage, to call silence grace, to call a woman’s ruin the price of someone else’s rise.”

 

His voice dropped. “I wonder how many stories I’ve heard—lived—and never thought to ask who paid for the happy ending.”

 

Benedict didn’t speak. He’d long since lowered his brush entirely.

 

Anthony leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Not to Medusa. Not to Perseus. But to the woman across from him.

 

“For believing the version where the monster dies and no one asks why she screamed.”

 

Benedict finally set down his brush with finality.

 

Not delicately, not with flair—just quietly. Almost reverently. The bristles rested across the lip of the water dish, the pigment trailing into pale blue ripples.

 

Benedict looked at his canvas, then at Penelope, then past her, as if searching for the shape of something he had never thought to paint.

 

“I’ve drawn monsters before,” Benedict said at last. “In sketches, in margins, in stories half-remembered from Greek and Latin. And I’ve painted heroes—cloaks billowing, swords gleaming, the whole mythic theatre. But I never… I never thought about the frame.”

 

Penelope tilted her head. Benedict pressed on, his voice low.

 

“I never asked who told me which one was the monster. Or what had to be done to her before the story could call her that.”

 

He dragged a hand through his curls, eyes flicking between the water dish and his canvas. “I’ve always believed beauty was a kind of truth. That if I just looked closely enough, I’d find meaning in shadow and light. But now I think—” His breath caught. “Now I think I’ve been painting Perseus when I should have been asking where Medusa went.”

 

The room went quiet again, save for the faint tap of water against glass.

 

He looked at Penelope. There was no flirtation in it. No whimsy. Just the heavy, humble awe of a man watching a portrait unfold—not in ink, but in truth.

 

“You said you weren’t visible,” he said softly. “But I see you now. I think I’ve been seeing everything wrong.”

 

Then, simply: “I’m sorry, Penelope. Truly.”

 

Penelope folded her hands in her lap—still the portrait subject, yet suddenly the one painting the room in starker hues.

 

“I thank you both,” she said, voice even but unmistakably firm. “But an apology is only the beginning. You are men—Bridgerton’s, at that. Your words echo farther than mine ever will. If this tale has moved you, then use the privilege it has laid bare.”

 

Anthony straightened; Benedict’s shoulders drew back.

 

“First,” she continued, “lead by example. In every club, every card room, every hunting party, make it clear that a woman’s consent is not a jest and her reputation is not currency for men to barter.

 

“Second, listen to Eloise—truly listen. Her arguments may tumble out in every direction, but the heart of them is sound. Lend her your structure, not your dismissal.

 

“Third, the next time you hear a rumor that paints a woman as reckless or ruined, ask: If a man had done the same, what would be said? The answer will shame more than Medusa’s gaze ever could.

 

“And last”—her gaze swept from brother to brother—“put yourselves in our shoes before judgment leaves your lips. Think. Feel. Be empathetic. That is all I ask.”

 

A hush settled, heavy yet hopeful—two men newly aware of the weight they carried, and a woman who had, at last, handed it to them.

 

Benedict was the first to speak, his voice still hushed. “I think... we could all use some tea.”

 

Anthony stood before anyone could move. “I’ll ring.”

 

The bell’s chime echoed softly down the hall. No one spoke while they waited.

 

When the maid arrived, Penelope requested her usual—just a bit of honey, no milk. Benedict asked for whatever was strong and hot. Anthony requested nothing at all but still remained standing, as though unsure whether to stay or leave.

 

A few minutes later, a modest tray was brought in—china cups, sugar, a plate of lemon biscuits, and a single neatly cut finger sandwich that no one reached for at first.

 

They sipped in silence.

 

Benedict picked up a biscuit, broke it in half, and passed the smaller piece to Penelope without a word. She accepted it, fingers brushing his.

 

Anthony poured for her—steady, careful—as if the clink of porcelain might undo them all.

 

No conversation resumed. There was no need.

 

When the cups were empty and the last crumb gone, Benedict wiped his fingers on a cloth, then rose and tapped the edge of his palette.

 

“Well,” he said softly, more reverent than amused, “shall we try again?”

 

Penelope resumed her pose.

 

Anthony sat again, this time closer than before.

 

And Benedict began to paint.

 

Anthony broke the silence after a time, his voice softer than usual, as though afraid to disturb the fragile air around them.

 

“Do you have a favourite?” he asked. “Greek myth, I mean.”

 

Penelope didn’t answer at once. Her gaze had drifted to the window, the afternoon sun touching her cheek with the faintest golden glow.

 

“Yes,” she said finally. “Philemon and Baucis.”

 

Anthony frowned slightly. “That’s the one where the old couple die and become trees?”

 

“More or less.” A small smile touched her lips. “They welcomed Zeus and Hermes in disguise when everyone else turned them away. Their cottage was poor, their food modest, but they were generous—kind. So the gods spared them when they drowned the rest of the village. And when Philemon and Baucis asked for one last wish, it was simply this: that they never live a day without the other.”

 

Anthony shifted slightly, his brow still drawn. “A rather sad, depressing story.”

 

Penelope looked at him then—not sharply, but steadily. “I happen to think theirs is the best romance.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“They were not gods,” she said quietly. “Not heroes. Just two people who loved each other so completely they couldn’t bear to be parted—not by age, not by death. So Zeus entwined them forever—two trees, side by side, rooted in the same earth. Still together. Still alive, in a way.”

 

Anthony said nothing.

 

She went on, her voice lower now. “Is it not the ultimate declaration of love—to love someone whether or not you are alive, or even human? Across every lifetime? No passion plays, no battles, no tragedy for the poets. Just... endurance.”

 

She looked back to the window.

 

“I would take that kind of love,” she murmured. “Quiet. Steady. Real.”

 

Anthony did not move, but something in his chest cracked like old bark.

 

Anthony didn’t speak right away.

 

He simply looked at her—really looked at her. The way her lashes brushed her cheek when she blinked. The way her fingers rested, still and folded, like she was made for quiet loyalty rather than spectacle. The kind of woman who would open her door to wandering gods with only barley bread to offer and not a single hesitation.

 

“You know,” he said at last, voice husky, “I always thought love was supposed to be fire.”

 

Penelope turned her head slightly. “And now?”

 

He swallowed. “Now I think... maybe it’s not the burning that matters. Maybe it’s what stays when the flame quiets. When the world goes still. And two people are still there.”

 

She said nothing, but he saw the way her breath caught—just slightly.

 

Anthony looked down at his hands, then back to her. “I don’t know if I believe in fate, or gods meddling in human lives. But I believe in building something that lasts. Something that doesn’t have to be loud to be… true.”

 

Their eyes met.

 

“I’d like that,” he said softly. “To build something like that. Side by side. Rooted.”

 

Penelope didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

 

But she smiled—small and luminous and hopeful.

 

And she held his gaze until Benedict quietly cleared his throat and said, “If you two are done becoming a myth yourselves, I’d very much like to finish this painting while the light still cooperates.”

 

They both laughed—too softly, too breathlessly.

 

But neither looked away. Not yet.

 

A while later Benedict leaned back, eyeing his work with a critical squint and a pleased nod. “One more sitting should do it,” he murmured. “Just a few finishing touches.”

 

Penelope relaxed her posture at last and turned to Anthony with a half-smile. “Then I suppose I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

 

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, warm and unguarded. “Perhaps we’ll choose a lighter topic next time,” she added, teasingly. “Unless you’re secretly fond of tragic Norse epics as well.”

 

Anthony chuckled low in his throat. “Only if you promise to rewrite those, too.”

 

She laughed—and the sound followed her all the way to the door.

 

Chapter Epilogue:

 

Anthony Bridgerton stormed into his brother’s studio like a man on a mission—or possibly a battlefield.

 

“Benedict.”

 

The name came out tight, controlled, but with all the underlying energy of a carriage about to veer off-course.

 

Benedict didn’t look up from his sketchpad. “Mm?”

 

Anthony closed the door with unnecessary force. “Did you know?”

 

“About the painting drying beautifully? Yes. I just checked.”

 

Anthony took two sharp steps forward. “About the story. The medusa story.”

 

That got Benedict’s attention. He raised a brow. “She told you that tale today. You were there. You cried, if I recall.”

 

“I did not cry,” Anthony growled.

 

Benedict flipped a page. “Fine. You breathed emotionally.”

 

“I was going to go as Perseus!” Anthony burst out, hands flying to his hair in something bordering on existential crisis. “To the ball. The gods and monsters ball that Penelope and Mother are planning. I had the breastplate fitted and everything.”

 

Benedict blinked. Then—slowly, like a man unwrapping a truly exquisite gift—he smiled.

“Oh, Anthony.”

 

Anthony started to pace. “She told that story with conviction. With meaning. She painted Perseus as a—a symbol of destruction. Of blind heroism. The sort of man who slays what he does not understand.”

 

Benedict, who had clearly been waiting for this moment all his life, set down his pencil with reverence. “And you, brother, were planning to show up dressed as her symbolic trauma?”

 

Anthony whirled on him. “Exactly.”

 

Benedict leaned back in his chair. “There’s still time to change. Be something else. I hear our dear Penelope is going as a woodland nymph.”

 

Anthony frowned. “I know…Mother, accidentally I am sure, told me the wrong fitting time at the modiste and I saw her in her unfinished costume. How do you know?”

 

“Yes complete accident I am sure. A nymph,” Benedict repeated, utterly unbothered. “Lots of ivy. Apparently mother tried to suggest less fabric, and Penelope said, and I quote, ‘Let the ivy speak for itself.’”

 

Anthony made a strangled sound.

 

Benedict studied him for a beat. “Well, if she’s going as a nymph, maybe you should go as… a tree.”

 

Anthony blinked.

 

“You’d match,” Benedict continued, utterly deadpan. “Stand near her all evening. Get watered. Soak up metaphorical sunlight.”

 

Anthony glared. But then—strangely—he paused.

 

His brows furrowed in thought. “Actually... perhaps... not just any tree.”

 

“Oh Lord,” Benedict muttered.

 

“Philemon,” Anthony said softly, eyes unfocusing. “And Baucis. The old couple who were turned into intertwined trees at the end of their lives. For their faithfulness. Their love.”

 

Benedict blinked.

 

Anthony, now inspired, went to the window and looked out into the street as though he might summon costume ideas from the clouds. “She said she loves that story that it’s her favorite.”

 

“Anthony,” Benedict said, rising slowly, “I was joking.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You’re really going to go to a grand mythological ball dressed as a tree.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you need help building roots?”

 

“I will not dignify that with a response.”

 

Benedict threw his hands up. “At this rate, you’ll propose via bark carving.”

 

Anthony turned back, smiling faintly, shoulders lowering with purpose. “If she’s to be my nymph, Benedict… then I should damn well be her forest.”

 

Benedict stared. Then—softly, sincerely—he said, “She’s going to love you for that.”

 

“I hope,” Anthony murmured, more to the window than his brother, “she already does.”

 

And in that quiet moment, as the sun dipped golden behind the rooftops, it was not the Viscount or the artist who stood in the studio—but the roots of something ancient and growing.

 

Notes:

Vacation time is really starting now. My Husband is off with me. We will be taking the kids camping and going almost entirely “off grid” soon. So I wanted to give you something to tide you over.

This was written during multiple nap times (my toddler's) …I hope it still flows.

I have no beta so all mistakes are mine. I use spellcheck but there is only so much that can compensate for someone writing in a language not their own.

Anyway I will be back in September. And rest assured I am and will be mentally working on all my unfinished stories.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19 Her Silence Was a Yes

Summary:

She told him a fable.
He heard a confession.
And without ever saying it out loud she finally gave him his long awaited answer.
Yes!

The third day of painting dawned brighter than the others—light spilling through the tall windows in thick bands of gold. The drawing room was warm and quiet, the air smelling faintly of lemon polish and pigment.

 

Penelope settled into her chair with the grace of someone who had begun to grow used to being looked at—if not as a debutante, then as something better: seen.

 

Benedict offered his usual greeting and made a few adjustments to the angle of her pose, muttering about shadows and sleeves. Then he retreated behind the easel, leaving them once again in their now-familiar triangle: artist, subject, and... whatever Anthony had become.

 

He was seated across from her today, a cup of tea in one hand, his expression open and unusually soft.

 

He was the one to break the silence. “If you could do anything,” he asked, “without consequence or limit—what would it be?”

 

Penelope blinked, startled. “Do?”

 

He nodded. “Be. Live. Become.”

 

She hesitated—then smiled. “I would write.”

 

Anthony’s eyes brightened with interest. “You mean books?”

 

“All sorts of things,” she admitted, the words rushing forward as if they’d been waiting.

 

“Novels, yes, but also children’s stories. And political essays. Commentary. Exposés. Things that matter. Things that shape how people see the world.”

 

Anthony looked at her like she’d just opened a secret door. “You want to be an author and a journalist?”

 

Penelope nodded. “Ideally, yes. I know it sounds silly.”

 

“I don’t think it does,” he said, quietly sincere. “I think it sounds like a life worth living.”

 

She flushed, but his tone encouraged her.

 

He leaned forward slightly. “If I had a wife who wanted to write—anything, everything—I would support her. Gladly.”

 

The word wife landed like a feather dropped into a still pool.

 

Penelope didn’t reply but gave a small nod…saying understood and thank you.

 

After a moment, he sat back, running a hand through his hair. “As for me... I would have bred horses.”

 

She blinked. “Truly?”

 

Anthony nodded. “They’re easier than people. They tell you what they need. They don't lie. And they don’t pretend not to feel things just because they’re expected to.”

 

She smiled gently. “And you’d be happy with that?”

 

He shrugged. “Sometimes I think I’d be happiest in a muddy field with a stable full of temperamental mares and nothing to govern but the foaling schedule.”

 

Penelope laughed.

 

He smiled back—then hesitated.

 

“Would you…” he asked, tilting his head. “Would you tell me one of your children’s stories?”

 

Penelope tilted her head. “You want to hear one now?”

 

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Unless it’s a thousand pages. I think I can sit for a fable.”

 

She glanced at Benedict behind the easel. “Can I speak, or will that ruin your brushwork?”

 

Benedict didn’t look up. “Speak softly. Move only your lips. And don’t make me laugh.”

 

She turned back to Anthony, her smile blooming wider. “Alright, then. I’ll tell you my favorite.”

 

 

 

Penelope’s voice lowered into something just above a whisper—measured, warm, like she had told stories to imaginary children in candlelight for years.

 

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there lived a curious young mermaid princess who had everything one could dream of—pearls and coral palaces and sea horses that pulled golden chariots. But what she wanted most was... the world above.”

 

Her eyes drifted toward the window, as if she could still see that other world shimmering just beyond the glass.

 

“She swam to the surface often, breaking the rules, of course—because she couldn’t help it. She listened to sailors sing, watched ships float like castles in the sky, and longed to walk on two legs instead of fins. Her father—the Sea King—warned her again and again. Humans were dangerous, he said. Cruel. The world above was not meant for her kind. He only wanted to keep her safe.”

 

A pause.

 

“But she only felt caged.”

 

Anthony leaned forward slightly, caught already, the teacup in his hand forgotten.

 

“One day,” Penelope continued, “during a great storm, she saw a ship struck by lightning. It cracked apart like a walnut, and she dove through fire and wreckage to save a young man flung into the sea. A prince.”

 

Her voice gentled. “He was barely conscious when she dragged him to shore—coughing and beautiful and terribly, terribly mortal. She laid him on the sand and sang to him while he slept. She knew she should go. But she couldn’t—not when her heart had already begun to speak in a language she hadn’t known she knew.”

 

She smiled faintly. “The way one does when one sees someone not just with their eyes, but with their soul.”

 

Anthony’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

 

“But he didn’t see her. Not properly. And when he awoke, she was gone. He remembered a voice, a melody—but not the girl.”

 

Penelope’s fingers tightened lightly in her lap. “So… the little mermaid made a choice. She went to the sea witch who lived in the dark places—where the water runs cold and sharp—and she offered her voice. Her song. The part of herself that had always told her who she was.”

 

A breath. “In return, she was given legs. Three days. If the prince kissed her before the sun set on the third, her soul would remain her own. If not... she would become sea foam. Forgotten.”

 

“She emerged from the waves alone and voiceless, every step like knives in her feet. But she walked. She danced. She tried to tell him, with her eyes and her laughter, that she loved him. That she had saved him. That she belonged with him.”

 

Anthony did not move. Benedict’s brush had long since stilled.

 

“But he looked past her,” Penelope whispered. “Because he was still searching for the girl with the voice. The one who had sung to him on the shore.”

 

“And then,” she went on, “the sea witch returned. In disguise. With the mermaid’s stolen voice inside her throat and a crown of lies. She cast a spell on the prince—clouded his eyes and his heart. He was going to marry the wrong girl. The day was almost gone.”

Penelope’s breath shivered just once before continuing.

 

“But even then, the little mermaid did not fight with blades. She did not rage or curse or plead. She simply tried. She leapt into the waves to stop the wedding, to break the spell, to protect the man she loved—even if it cost her everything.”

 

“And it nearly did.”

 

Anthony was still. Struck.

 

“But in the end... he saw her. He saw the truth. And when he did, he fought for her—not because she demanded it, but because he chose her. Fully. Finally. And she fought for him too. Not with magic. Not with power. But with love.”

 

Penelope’s voice gentled, curling around the final lines like a lullaby.

 

“In the end, her father came to understand. He saw that keeping her safe had also meant keeping her silent. So he gave her legs—not as a curse, but as a gift. And she rose from the sea, voice restored, heart still hers.”

 

“She lived, at last, in both realms.”

 

Penelope folded her hands in her lap again, gaze drifting to the middle distance.

 

“It’s just a story,” she said softly. “But I’ve always thought there was something beautiful in the idea that even when you give up your voice, your truth finds a way to be heard.”

 

She paused, then added, even softer looking at Anthony:

“Even if the prince doesn’t hear it right away.”

 

Anthony didn’t speak at first. He couldn’t.

 

There was something in his throat—tight, aching, too full. He stared at Penelope like he was seeing her across a great distance, and only now realizing how long he’d been looking without truly seeing.

 

When he did speak, it was a near-whisper.

 

“You say it’s just a story,” he murmured, “but I think it’s a confession.”

 

Penelope turned to him slowly, eyes wide, uncertain.

 

“A girl who gives up everything for the hope of being loved in return,” he went on, “who endures pain just to be near someone who doesn’t even know how much she’s already done for him. A girl who never raises her voice, even when she has none.” His voice dropped further. “That isn’t a fable. That’s…” His gaze found hers and held it. “That’s heartbreak wearing a crown.”

 

Penelope blinked, but didn’t look away.

 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like he could somehow bridge the space with sheer will. “But she still saves him. Even after all of it. She still dives into the waves for him.”

 

He shook his head slightly, and his next words came not from a place of awe, but of guilt.

 

“I think I’ve been the prince,” he said. “too long. Looking for the wrong girl, listening for the wrong voice. Blind to the one who’d already saved me. My eyes are wide open …they see now…more clearly than ever before.”

 

The silence that followed stretched like gold leaf—thin, delicate, luminous.

 

Then, softer still, he added, “And I would give anything… anything at all… to be the prince who is seen in return.”

 

Penelope didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

 

Instead, she looked at him—truly looked at him—with a softness that was steady, unflinching, and impossibly deep.

 

Her smile came slowly, like the sun rising over still water. It was small, and quiet, and utterly transformative. There was love in it—not loud or confessed, but offered, gently. A recognition. An answer.

 

She sat a little taller in her chair. Her shoulders loosened. Her hands unclasped in her lap. And though she said nothing, her entire posture shifted into something open and present and seen.

 

Anthony exhaled, long and low, like a man who had been underwater far too long and had only just breached the surface.

 

And for the first time, the silence between them did not ache.

 

It shimmered.

 

A moment passed. Then another.

 

And just as the air between them began to hum with something too fragile to name—

 

Benedict cleared his throat behind the easel.

 

“I like that story very much,” he said, his voice notably softer than usual. “Even if it did put me off sea witches and princes for the foreseeable future.”

 

Penelope turned, startled—but smiling.

 

He stepped out from behind the canvas, a faint smear of blue-green on the back of his hand. “If you ever do decide to publish those stories of yours, Miss Featherington… I should like to offer my services.”

 

“Your services?”

 

“As an illustrator,” Benedict said, with a slight, theatrical bow. “My landscapes are passable, but I’ve always wanted to draw mermaids.”

 

Penelope laughed—a real, clear laugh that made Anthony’s heart tug in his chest.

 

“Well then,” she said, eyes shining, “you’d better be prepared to draw dragons and dancing cats in boots as well.”

 

“I live to suffer for my art,” Benedict replied, already reaching for a fresh brush.

 

Penelope turned back to Anthony just briefly—only briefly—but her smile, that same warm, wordless thing, lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet.

 

And Anthony knew then—he would follow her voice anywhere.

 

Benedict took one final step back, brush poised in the air, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

“Well,” he said, with a modest nod, “it’s done. Just needs a few days to dry.”

 

Anthony looked up, his brow lifting.

 

“You may look,” Benedict added, glancing between them. “If you’d like. Carefully.”

 

Penelope hesitated—then rose with quiet curiosity and made her way to the easel, her skirts whispering across the floor. Anthony joined her, standing just behind her left shoulder.

 

And then she saw it.

 

Her breath caught.

 

The woman on the paper was lit by softness and shadow—eyes watchful, mouth half-smiling, hair kissed by sunlight. She looked calm. Thoughtful. Strong. She looked like someone with secrets, someone with stories, someone who had been chosen by the artist, not merely captured.

She looked... beautiful.

 

Her hand drifted to her throat.

 

“Is that really me?” she asked, voice barely a breath.

 

Anthony stepped closer, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

 

“Yes,” he said simply. “That is you.”

 

She turned slightly, as if needing proof.

 

He didn’t look away. “You really are that beautiful, Penelope.”

 

His voice was steady now. Quiet, but certain.

 

“I look at you—and I see this.”

 

Penelope didn’t respond—not aloud.

 

But her hand drifted to the edge of the easel, just to steady herself.

 

And she did not stop smiling.

 

Penelope stared at the portrait as if it might dissolve before her eyes. Her gaze traced the sweep of brushstrokes over her hair, the curve of her cheek, the light caught in the corners of her eyes. But when she finally turned her head, it was not toward the artist.

 

It was toward Anthony.

 

“Would you…” she began, her voice quiet, deliberate, “keep it for me?”

 

She gestured, not to the canvas, but to the space between it and him—as though the question hung not on paper, but in the air.

 

Both brothers blinked.

 

Anthony stepped forward slowly, uncertain. “Me?”

 

“Yes,” she said simply, gaze steady. Her eyes held his. Would you keep me?

 

Anthony drew in a breath as if steadying himself, then said, “I will keep it safe. I will honor it. And I will cherish it.”

 

But what he was really saying—what he let echo in the silence that followed—was: I will honor you. I will cherish you. I will protect you. I will keep you safe.

 

A beat passed. Then Penelope nodded, lips curving into something luminous and private. “See that you do,” she murmured. “I shall return the favor… one day.”

 

Her words hung between them like a promise. Court me, and I will stand beside you. Not beneath you. Not behind. Beside.

 

The smile she gave him then was not polite. It was not modest. It was not cautious.

 

It was love. Unveiled. Hopeful. Entirely realized.

 

Anthony’s chest ached from the force of it.

 

She glanced toward the door, collecting herself with a soft inhale. “The ball we’re planning—it’s in three days now, isn’t it?”

 

Anthony blinked, caught for a moment in the wake of her smile. “It is,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “And from what Mother tells me, it may be the most flawlessly organized event in Bridgerton history.”

 

Penelope smiled, just a little. “Your mother did the hard part. I only helped tie the ribbons.”

 

“You did far more than that,” he said softly. “She’s been singing your praises all week.”

 

Penelope gave a modest dip of her head. “It’s been a joy to plan. I only hope the night lives up to all the effort.”

 

He took a step closer. “Penelope…”

 

She looked up.

 

Cautiously Anthony asked. “May I ask you to dance twice at the ball?”

 

Her smile deepened. “You may have as many dances as you want, my lord.”

 

Anthony stood still as she turned and left the room, skirts whispering like the soft rustle of pages being turned.

 

He watched her go. Said nothing.

 

Until finally—

 

“So,” Benedict said behind him, as if clearing his throat on behalf of the entire moment.

 

Anthony didn’t move.

 

Benedict waited. One beat. Then another.

 

Then: “Are we going to talk about what just happened, or shall we let the silence combust along with you?”

 

Anthony exhaled through his nose. “I… It’s…”

 

Benedict tilted his head. “That was a love declaration and a declaration of intent. The subtext was about as subtle as an opera fan in a drawing room. And you know it.”

 

Anthony stayed silent.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like that,” Benedict went on. “Sharp. Brazen. Bloody luminous. Colin made her shrink into corners, but with you—” he gave a low whistle, “she glows.”

 

Anthony finally turned. His eyes flicked back to the portrait.

 

Benedict squinted. “Tell me, what will you do now?”

 

Anthony huffed, then laughed—a startled, breathless sound. “Benedict… she finally gave me permission. To court her. For marriage.”

 

He ran a hand through his hair. “I worked for it. Waited. Hoped. And now I have it. And I am nervous.”

 

Benedict arched a brow. “Nervous? You?”

 

“Yes.” Anthony’s smile turned sheepish. “She matters.”

 

Benedict leaned in. “How long has this mattered?”

 

Anthony hesitated. Then, slowly, “Since the Queen’s Garden Party. I was in pain. My back. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

 

“You didn’t tell me.”

 

“I stepped away. Thought I’d catch my breath.”

 

He looked off, as if reliving the moment. “She found me. Penelope. She offered to help.”

 

Benedict turned fully, now entirely focused.

 

“She asked if she could touch me. Slipped her hand under my coat—just at the lower back. She found the knot immediately. Her fingers were… precise. Strong.”

 

He coughed once. “And then I made a sound.”

 

Benedict’s eyes lit up. “A sound?”

 

“Not a polite one.”

 

Benedict grinned. “She made you moan? In public?”

 

Anthony didn’t deny it.

 

Benedict gave a gleeful whistle. “God, I wish it had been my back.”

 

Anthony’s head snapped toward him. “Stay. Away. From her.” He nearly growled.

 

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Are you growling at me?”

 

“She’s not—” Anthony faltered, then steadied. “She’s not what I thought. She never was.”

 

Benedict nodded slowly. “No. She’s extraordinary. You’re just now seeing it.”

 

“I looked…without seeing,” Anthony muttered. “I just didn’t know what I was seeing.”

 

Benedict leaned back, satisfied. “You’re serious about her.”

 

Anthony nodded. “She will be my Viscountess.”

 

His eyes returned to the painting, soft with something fierce.

 

Benedict studied him. “She unmade you a little, didn’t she?”

 

Anthony’s voice was low. “She didn’t just unmake me. She saw me. That day at the garden, she touched me like she knew me. Then she walked away.”

 

“And you’ve been lost ever since,” Benedict murmured.

 

Anthony nodded.

 

Benedict clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

 

He started for the door, then called over his shoulder with a smirk, “Now that I know you’re a wolf in a rut.”

 

Anthony shot him a dark look. “It’s not just… physical.”

 

“I know,” Benedict said cheerfully, vanishing into the hall. “Mother will be thrilled.”

 

Notes:

So I am home again but there are still 2 weeks summer vacation left. So update will continue to be sporadic until the middle of September when schools and kindergardens open again. After that I should return to a weekly schedule to most of my Fanfictions.

And don't worry...I did in Fact continue writing...but with pen and paper. I need to trancribe it all...and partially sort it.

Notes:

I will be writing and posting this 1 chapter at a time. I am rewriting the whole Fic.