Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton had returned from Greece with a tan, a satchel of half-finished poems, and the kind of inflated self-regard that only a year abroad and a few mistresses could give a man.
London, by comparison, reeked of routine and artifice. The women simpered. The men postured. The gossip recycled itself like laundry left too long on the line.
He found it all terribly beneath him.
But he was out of money.
However, Anthony had made it perfectly clear that there would be no more funds unless Colin showed his face in society, supported Eloise’s debut like a proper brother, and at least pretended to take his place among the Ton seriously.
So here he was at the Cowper ball, sipping wine he thought tasted like spoiled cherries, forced to play the charming Bridgerton once more.
“Mr. Bridgerton, you’re positively glowing,” Winifred Barragan purred at his side, eyes bright with admiration and calculation. “Did you catch the sun or something… wilder on your travels?”
“A little of both,” he replied smoothly. “Greece is full of temples and temptation, you know.”
“And yet you returned to us,” Annette Clifton interjected, mischief dancing in her smile. “Is London truly more thrilling than ancient ruins?”
Colin laughed. “I ran out of wine and goodwill. Anthony said I’d have to earn both back by showing my face in society.” He tossed it out, nonchalantly, as if it was just another clever excuse tossed into the ballroom air. But there was something about needing to earn anything from Anthony that still made his shoulders tighten.
“Well,” Annette said, leaning closer with a conspiratorial smile, “you certainly have the charm for it.”
“The charm,” Cressida added smoothly, her eyes gleaming, “but did you bring back any scandals worth whispering about?”
Colin smirked. He had, of course, but none he was willing to say aloud. Not yet. Besides, he was enjoying the attention. The eyes on him. The subtle pull of admiration from across the room.
“I must say,” Cressida went on, voice silk-wrapped and dangerous, “you’ve done well to entertain us tonight, instead of your usual… companion.”
Colin raised a brow. “Companion?”
“You know,” Cressida said, her smile all sweetness laced with something colder. “Your little shadow.”
“Oh - Penelope?”
He hadn’t thought of her in weeks.
Months, maybe.
Her affection had been a constant for so long, he’d stopped noticing it. It was familiar. Harmless. Almost quaint. But now, dulled by wine and drifting on the praise of newer distractions, it felt like something from another life. A quieter, softer one he’d long since outgrown.
“Honestly,” Cressida murmured, voice low and honeyed, “it’s almost sad, isn’t it? Still looking at you like you’re the hero of some tragic poem.”
Colin shrugged. “She’s always been loyal. Like a hound waiting by the door long after its master’s moved on.”
He paused, glass halfway to his lips. That sounded worse aloud than it had in his head.
Laughter. Someone - Fife, maybe? - nearly spat out their drink.
“Don’t be cruel,” Mary Ann Hallewell said, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her delight.
“What? I’m only telling the truth,” Colin continued, chuckling, clearly unaware - or uncaring - of who might be listening. “She’s sweet, of course. And loyal in that… peculiar, floral-patterned way. But affection that intense? It’s rather suffocating, don’t you think?”
The laughter turned louder.
“Penelope Featherington’s been pining after me since I was in short trousers,” Colin said with a lazy shrug. “I’m surprised she hasn’t embroidered my name into her corset by now.”
Cressida giggled, her voice high and false. “Perhaps she has. Perhaps you should check.”
And that’s when he felt it.
A shift. Not in the room, but in the air. The way laughter faltered just long enough. The way someone nearby went very, very still.
Colin turned, just enough to see her.
Penelope.
Penelope's blood ran cold. Her fingers twitched at her side, then stilled. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
He knew.
He’d always known.
Not just the girlish admiration. Not just the stolen glances or blushing silences. He knew about the years spent hoping, quietly, foolishly, that he might look at her and see more.
And that knowing was something she could never forgive.
Penelope didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears, a thunderous reminder of every wasted moment.
“There you are,” Eloise’s voice broke through the haze, urgent and low. She touched Penelope’s arm gently, concern furrowing her brow. “Don’t listen to him, he’s been drinking all night. He’s trying to impress those silly girls, and you know how dim he gets when he’s posturing.”
Penelope laughed once, brittle and small.
“He doesn’t have to try hard. I think the entire room’s impressed by how deeply one man can bury his head in his own ego.”
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. Not here. Not in front of them. In front of him.
But something broke.
Eloise reached for her hand. “Let’s go sit down. Or find cake. Or I’ll push him down the stairs. Just say the word.”
Penelope nodded mutely, letting Eloise lead her away.
But not everyone turned away.
From the far end of the room, half-hidden by marble columns and flickering candlelight, Anthony Bridgerton had witnessed the entire exchange.
His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked in his cheek. He hadn’t heard every word, but he’d heard enough.
And in his glass, untouched and warm in his hand, the brandy trembled.
Notes:
Story takes place at the beginning(ish) of Season 2.
I've taken Colin's awareness of Penelope's feelings from their book but instead of having ignored it, this Colin has not only acknowledged it, but has been cruel with it.
Douche Canoe indeed.None of this is pre-written and I have a vague outline done. But I was excited, so posted earlier than usual.
Thank Kathy0518 when you get a chance. This one is for her. 💕💕💕
Chapter 2: Fucked Around
Summary:
Anthony is capital A angry.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Bridgerton carriage ride home from the Cowper ball was silent.
Not the sort of silence that settled naturally, like fog on the Thames. No, this was the brittle kind - sharp-edged and waiting to snap.
Colin sat across from Anthony, slouched slightly, head buzzing with half-sober confusion. The laughter had faded, but the warmth of the wine still clung to his skin, and the echo of his own words still sounded clever in the back of his mind… until they didn’t.
He hadn’t meant for it to go that far. He hadn’t even seen her. It had all been in jest, hadn’t it? And yet…
He knew he’d crossed a line. He just wasn’t sure which one, or how deeply.
Anthony hadn’t said a word since they climbed into the carriage. He hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t acknowledged him, not even with a sigh or a glare.
He simply stared out the window, jaw tight, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. A marble statue of judgment. The only sign he was even breathing was the steady clench and unclench of his right fist.
Colin cleared his throat once, then thought better of it.
He watched London roll by in blurry gold and shadow. Watched gaslamps flicker in the fog. Watched the night retreat, inch by inch.
And still, Anthony said nothing.
It was worse than shouting.
By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Bridgerton House, Colin’s stomach had begun to turn - not from drink, but dread. He stepped down first, boots crunching lightly against gravel.
Anthony followed, slow and precise.
The door had barely shut behind them when Anthony’s voice, cold and razor-sharp, cut through the quiet.
“My study. Now.”
Colin turned, startled, but the command brooked no hesitation. Anthony was already moving down the corridor, ungloving his hands with calm, deliberate menace.
Colin followed, the knot in his throat tightening with every step.
Anthony’s study was a place for decisions.
Tonight, it was a courtroom and Colin knew before he crossed the threshold that there would be no appeal.
He entered, trying to gather what was left of his dignity. But Anthony’s silence, his stillness behind the desk, left no room for it.
“You embarrassed yourself,” Anthony said, not looking up.
Colin swallowed. “It was a joke -”
“It was cruelty.” The words cracked like a whip. “You humiliated her. In front of half the Ton.”
Colin exhaled slowly, trying to find solid ground. “I had a few drinks, and Cressida was -”
“Don’t you dare blame Cressida Cowper for your cowardice.”
Colin’s mouth snapped shut.
Anthony stood, moving from behind the desk, each step deliberate.
“You knew. You’ve always known how Penelope felt about you. And instead of treating that with care, with basic decency, you turned it into a spectacle. A parlor trick. A bit of cheap theatre to amuse girls who would abandon you the second your charm wears thin.”
Colin bristled. “It’s not like I meant -”
“You meant every bloody word,” Anthony hissed. “And don’t insult us both by pretending otherwise.”
He stopped just short of Colin, voice dropping to a low, dangerous quiet.
“She looked at you like you’d torn her open in front of everyone. And you just stood there wondering why the laughter stopped.”
A beat.
“You won’t get to fix this,” Anthony said, voice like ice.
Colin blinked. “What?”
“You won’t get to apologize. Or to weep and whimper and hope she forgives you. You won’t be here to remind her of your cruelty at every turn.”
Anthony moved closer, forcing Colin to retreat a step. “You’re leaving. By the end of the week.
And not to the south of France, or some sun-drenched villa where you can drink your guilt away. You’re going somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. And once you’re there, you will find a job, and a way to make your own living. Because the coffers, Colin?” Anthony smiled then - tight, grim, unamused. “They’re closed.”
Colin stared at him.
“I’ll give you enough to get settled,” Anthony continued. “But after that? You earn it. You want food, you work for it. You want a roof? You pay for it. Let’s see how amusing the world feels when it stops handing you everything.”
Colin sat down hard, the blood draining from his face.
Anthony didn’t stop. “You’ll attend no further engagements. You’ll pack your things and wait in this house until I’ve made the arrangements.”
“Mother will never agree -”
“She already has,” Anthony said coolly. “The moment word reached her about what you’d done, she asked me to send you away. I told her I planned to.”
Colin gave a bitter laugh. “So that’s it? You’re choosing a Featherington over your own brother? A wallflower who’s been obsessed with me since she could braid her hair?”
Anthony stared at him, expression unchanged.
“Penelope Featherington,” Colin continued, voice rising, “is hardly a victim. She’s been clinging to the Bridgertons like ivy for years. And I’m the villain because I finally said what everyone’s been thinking?”
Anthony’s hand flattened against the desk.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re the villain because you knew she cared for you and still chose to humiliate her. Because you wanted to impress a pack of simpering fools who wouldn’t recognize loyalty if it slapped them across the face.”
Colin’s jaw tightened, but Anthony continued.
“You mock her because you don’t understand her. Because she doesn’t make you feel important or clever or worldly. But here’s what you don’t see - she’s everything you pretend to be - clever, brave, loyal beyond reason - and she doesn’t need to raise her voice or charm a crowd to matter.”
Colin shifted in his chair, suddenly less sure.
“You may have been too drunk to notice, but the moment she walked past you without blinking, you lost something. And the worst part? She won’t come back. She’s done. And I -” Anthony leaned forward, eyes like iron, “- I will not allow you to orbit her pain just because you’re uncomfortable with your own insignificance.”
The room fell silent, thick with heat and finality.
“You will go,” Anthony said again. “And you will stay gone. For a good long while.”
Then he walked back to his chair, dismissed Colin with a glance, and reached for his ledger.
Colin stood slowly, the weight of it all sinking in at last. But Anthony didn’t look up.
He was already finished with him.
Colin left the room without another word.
And behind him, the door closed like a gavel falling.
Notes:
We’ll find out more about how Anthony came to hold Penelope in such high esteem soon.
But next, Colin enters the Find Out portion of Fuck Around…
Chapter 3: Finding Out
Summary:
The family weighs in on Colin’s actions…
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Colin tried Violet first.
She was in her sitting room, working on some embroidery, expression unreadable. He stepped inside with the clumsy contrition of a boy caught breaking a window, expecting some soft scolding, some maternal smoothing-over.
What he got was silence.
“I assume you’ve spoken to Anthony,” he began, the charm already straining in his voice. “I… I may have misjudged the mood last night.”
Violet didn’t even look up. “You humiliated a young woman who has never shown you anything but kindness.”
“It was a joke,” he tried. “Poorly timed, perhaps - ”
“It was cruelty,” she interrupted, voice low but sharp. “And I am not angry, Colin. I am disappointed. That will last far longer.”
He swallowed, throat dry.
“Anthony means to send me away.”
“I know.” She set down her hoop and rose with deliberate grace. “And I agreed. Your brother is the head of this family. You’ve brought shame to our name. I will not fight for you this time.”
She didn’t wait for him to speak again. The conversation, like her patience, was over.
Benedict was in the library, sketchbook abandoned on a nearby table. Colin didn’t knock.
“Ben - ”
Benedict looked up, jaw tight. “If you’re looking for understanding, you’ve come to the wrong brother.”
Colin exhaled sharply. “You’ve always been the reasonable one. Can’t you at least admit this is all… being blown out of proportion?”
“You stood in a crowded ballroom and reduced her to a joke,” Benedict snapped. “And not just her. You made everyone who ever cared about you look like fools for trusting you.”
Colin shifted his weight. “She’ll get over it.”
Benedict stood. “She might. She’s kind enough to possibly give you forgiveness you don’t deserve. But those of us who care about her - who have considered her part of this family since she and Eloise were in pinafores - we won’t.”
He let that hang between them before finishing, voice cold,
“And the fact that you can so easily assume she - or any of us - will forgive you tells me you haven’t learned a damn thing.”
Eloise found him in the hallway, halfway to the drawing room. Her steps were sharp, her expression murderous.
“Penelope won’t even say your name,” she hissed. “Do you know what that means, you absolute arse?”
He opened his mouth. She raised a hand and he flinched, just slightly.
“No. You don’t get to talk.”
She stepped in close. “She loved you. As a friend. As more. She’s spent most of her life trying to believe you were worth it. That all the nonsense you spouted in your stupid journals meant there was depth beneath the charm.”
Her voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “And what did you do? You threw her to the wolves. You made her a joke. You took the safest, kindest part of her and turned it into something people laughed at.”
Colin said nothing. He couldn’t.
Eloise kept going. “I’ve seen her cry over you. I’ve watched her make excuses for your selfishness, your arrogance, your obliviousness. I have spent years trying to believe you were more than what people said you were.”
She paused. “They were right.”
She stepped back, trembling with fury.
“I hope the silence that follows you out of this house is louder than anything you’ve ever heard. Don’t come to me for comfort. Don’t come to me at all.”
And then she was gone - spitting fire, leaving only smoke behind.
He tried Daphne.
She had always been his soft place to land. The one who’d snuck sweets into his pockets during long sermons. The one who’d listened to his ramblings about Greece and Venice and half-finished poems. When he’d been a boy too sensitive to be Anthony and too loud to be Benedict, she’d been the only one who seemed to understand him.
So he arrived at Hastings House with hope tucked beneath his shame, expecting the familiar sound of her voice, the forgiveness that used to come so easily.
Instead, a footman opened the door.
“Her Grace is not receiving visitors.”
“I’m her brother,” Colin said, stunned. “She’ll see me.”
The man didn’t blink. “Her Grace instructed us not to make exceptions.”
The door closed.
No letter followed.
No explanation.
Just silence, clean and cold.
And that, somehow, cut deeper than all the shouting in the world.
Hyacinth and Gregory were in the nursery, arguing over who had the last chocolate macaroon.
Colin lingered in the doorway.
Hyacinth saw him first.
“You’re leaving,” she said flatly.
He nodded.
Gregory shrugged. “Eloise says you were awful.”
Hyacinth crossed her arms. “Penelope always deserved better than you anyway.”
There wasn’t venom in her tone. Just fact.
He left without another word.
His trunks were packed. The servants were quiet. Anthony had arranged passage to Scotland - some distant estate near Inverkeith, barely staffed, in need of work and repairs. He’d be given enough funds to settle in. After that, he was on his own.
Anthony had meant it when he said there would be no allowance. No sympathy. No safety net.
Colin stepped out onto the front steps, squinting into the pale afternoon sun. The carriage waited.
He glanced across the street to Featherington House.
The window was empty.
She wasn’t there.
She was always there - watching, waiting, smiling faintly when she thought he couldn’t see.
Not anymore.
And that - not the exile, not the shame, not even the silence - that was what stung.
He set his jaw.
All this - for a stupid chit with a crush.
He climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him.
He did not look back.
Notes:
I guess we know where Penelope ranks in the Bridgerton family.
✌🏻out, Douche Canoe. You will not be missed.
Next up, Penelope.
Chapter Text
The Featherington carriage was stifling.
Penelope sat rigidly beside her mother, who was still chattering about how much lemon posset was too much for a lady to consume in public. Across from her, Prudence sulked over Lord Hardy’s inattention, and Philippa had fallen asleep with her head against Albion’s shoulder, snoring faintly.
Penelope said nothing.
Not when her mother instructed Prudence to set her cap for someone new. Not when Philippa snorted and snored. Not when the carriage lurched over the cobblestones, shaking loose the last scraps of conversation.
Her gloves were damp, the delicate seams pressed into her palms from how tightly she’d been clenching her fists.
She hadn’t cried.
Not when Eloise had led her, shaking, to the garden. Not when she finally exhaled all the air she’d been holding in her lungs since the first cruel laugh. Not even when Eloise, with rare and terrible gentleness, offered a handkerchief and a whispered promise to set Cressida’s hair on fire and blame the wind.
She hadn’t cried, because Penelope wasn’t hurt anymore.
She was done.
Done waiting.
Done hoping.
Done bleeding herself dry for a boy who saw her devotion as something to mock - something pitiful and small. Who tossed it aside between sips of wine and the approval of girls with cruel smiles and sharper teeth than kindness.
Colin Bridgerton had known.
And instead of offering her grace - or even simple decency - he’d made her a punchline.
That was the cruelty of it.
The dream she’d nurtured for half her life hadn’t ended in flames or fury. It didn’t shatter.
It simply stopped.
Cold. Hollow. Irretrievable.
The next day, Eloise found her in the Featherington drawing room. She didn’t launch into a speech, just lowered herself into the chair opposite and folded her hands in her lap.
“He’s leaving,” she said at last, her voice careful.
Penelope kept her gaze on her teacup, turning it slightly until the handle lined up with the saucer.
“Anthony is sending him away. He won’t be at anything. Not this week. Not for a while.”
The clock ticked between them. Eloise leaned forward. “Do you need anything?”
Penelope shook her head once. “No.”
They stayed there for a while, neither speaking again. There was nothing left to say.
That evening, when Portia suggested something “optimistic and coral-toned,” Penelope said no. She reached instead for a glacial blue gown from the back of her wardrobe - older, a little severe at the collar, but unmistakably hers. It turned her eyes to frost.
Certainly not soft or warm.
Just clear. And impossible to ignore.
She had Rae pin her hair back with silver combs and added a touch of color to her lips. Not for beauty, but for precision.
When she walked into Lady Danbury’s supper, she moved with quiet certainty. Her shoulders were square, her eyes steady. She greeted each guest with measured poise and offered exactly as much warmth as they deserved.
As Eloise had promised, Colin was not there.
But if he had been - if he had seen her walk past without a second glance - he would have known.
He had lost something.
Irrevocably.
There would be one final Whistledown column.
Not a scandal sheet. Not gossip.
A reckoning.
She would write her truth - about what it meant to be mocked for loving too much. About surviving the kind of humiliation that left no bruises but changed everything. About what it takes to walk away from something you once believed might save you.
And then she would never write his name again.
No more longing glances.
No more ink spilled on what-ifs.
No more Colin Bridgerton.
He would not get another drop of her.
That chapter was finished.
Penelope Featherington would not mourn its ending.
She would close the book.
And rise.
Notes:
Welcome to the BAMF Penelope Featherington era.
Chapter Text
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers
Volume XX, No. 41
Dearest Gentle Readers,
Devotion is a curious thing.
It is often admired from afar, yet so rarely valued up close. Those who inspire it are praised for attracting such loyalty, yet too many discard it the moment it ceases to serve their pride. The affection once paraded as proof of their worth becomes, instead, the butt of their jokes - an entertainment for those who mistake cruelty for wit.
Recently, this author bore witness to such a scene. A young woman - well known for her unremarkable gowns and steadfast regard - became the subject of a young gentleman’s amusement. Not behind closed doors. Not in the confidence of friends. But in a crowded ballroom, between glasses of wine and the laughter of companions too empty to know the cost of their mirth.
What might have been an opportunity for courtesy instead became a performance of conceit. The gentleman in question, long accustomed to admiration, saw fit to turn another’s loyalty into a parlor trick - an easy jest to earn the approval of those around him.
This column will not name him.
Not because he has earned discretion, but because the lady at the heart of this display has earned her peace. She deserves to be more than a punchline. She deserves to move forward unshadowed by the arrogance of a man who never understood the value of the regard he was given.
Let the gentleman know - you were seen.
Let his companions know - you were heard.
And let the lady - who bore the insult with silent dignity - know this: the fault was never yours. The shame lies solely with the man who proved himself unworthy.
As for this author -
It has become increasingly clear that this society is not interested in reflection, only spectacle. It applauds cruelty, rewards arrogance, and dresses its ugliest instincts in silk gloves and polished boots.
There was a time I believed truth - when aimed true - might provoke change. But some ballrooms are too loud to listen.
And so this will be my final column.
Not because there is nothing left to say.
But because the audience no longer deserves to hear it.
Let the Ton devour itself.
This quill will write no more.
Yours, now and always,
Lady Whistledown
Featherington House – Morning Room
Portia read the column once, then again, slower.
Her tea sat untouched, going cold.
She did not speak when she reached the final line. She simply folded the paper in neat quarters, hands moving with unusual care, and set it beside her plate.
“Well,” she said softly. “That is… unexpected.”
Prudence, already elbow-deep in marmalade, barely looked up. “Did someone get caught with a footman?”
Portia ignored her. Her gaze was fixed out the window, distant and sharp.
She had recognized the girl in the story.
Of course she had.
But what startled her wasn’t the accuracy. It was the tone.
For once, Lady Whistledown hadn’t mocked her daughter. She had defended her.
Protected her.
And that, more than anything, made Portia pause.
“She has never been kind to Penelope,” Portia murmured, half to herself. “Not once. And yet...”
She trailed off, lips pressed tight. A rare frown between her brows.
“Perhaps even Whistledown knows a line when it’s been crossed.”
Prudence blinked, then frowned. “You think she wrote about Penelope?”
Portia turned, her tone brisk again. “I think Whistledown saw something at that ball. Something ugly. And rather than twist the knife, she put it down.”
She stood, straightening her skirts. “Whoever that girl was in the story, she deserved better. I’m glad someone said so.”
Then, quieter, “Even if it came a little too late.”
She didn’t name Penelope.
But she didn’t need to.
She just poured herself a fresh cup of tea.
And let the column speak for itself.
Bridgerton House
Eloise had taken the paper to her room and read it in bed, knees drawn to her chest.
By the time she finished, she was crying.
Not because it was cruel, but because it wasn’t.
It was love, and pain, and dignity sharpened into prose. And she felt every word like a thread pulled from her own heart.
She pressed the paper to her chest and whispered, “Goodbye.”
Whoever she was, Lady Whistledown had written something honest.
And she’d walked away before the world could demand more.
Eloise respected that.
Lady Danbury’s Parlor
Lady Danbury read the final column with a hum of approval.
No more suspicion. No more shadowy hints.
She knew exactly who had written it.
And she admired her all the more for it.
“About time,” she muttered, tapping her cane once against the hearth. “No one that sharp should waste her talents on ballrooms and buffoons.”
She poured herself another cup of tea and allowed herself the smallest, most wicked smile.
“Well done, Miss Featherington.”
The Queen’s Morning Room
Her Majesty read the column once, set it aside, and scowled.
“So that’s it?” she asked. “The curtain falls?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the attendant confirmed.
The Queen pursed her lips, then waved a hand dismissively. “If she’s truly finished, I see no need to waste resources.”
She reached for her next letter.
“Let the girl have her peace. If she dares write again, we’ll find her. Until then... let the Ton entertain itself.”
Notes:
Migraine from hell left me from responding to all your wonderful comments last chapter. But I read them all and I adore them - and you.
Thank you.
May we all aspire to be Penelope in her BAMF era. I can't wait to show you how she and Anthony find their way to one another...
Chapter Text
The sun was already high by the time Penelope stirred. She’d slept longer than she meant to, but there was no urgency in her body. No adrenaline. No racing thoughts. Just stillness.
The sort that came after a final page had been turned and sent into the world.
She sat up slowly, ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders. It hadn’t come from dancing. It had come from standing tall. From holding her ground while others waited for her to falter.
Across the room, her gown from the other night lay draped over a chair. Glacial blue silk, cool in the light. It looked exactly as she intended - severe, composed, untouchable.
The version of herself she had shown them all.
And now that part was finished.
Penelope dressed without ceremony. She didn’t reach for the brighter colors her mother preferred. She didn’t reach for the quill - there was nothing more to say.
She simply walked downstairs with the quiet certainty of someone who had already done what needed doing.
The rest - the endless invitations, the polite smiles, the appearances for the sake of appearances - no longer interested her.
She was finished performing.
It was time to leave the stage.
The Featherington breakfast table was already well supplied with tea, toast, and tension.
Prudence, spooning jam onto her plate with theatrical precision, glanced across at Penelope.
“So,” she began in a tone sweet enough to curdle, “how does it feel to have the entire Ton know you’re the ‘unremarkable gown’ girl? Though,” she added, reaching for a scone, “I suppose it’s better than being the one who wasted all that… what was it Whistledown called it? ‘Steadfast regard’? On him.”
Philippa gave a small, confused hum. “I thought that part was rather romantic.”
Portia’s knife paused just long enough to make Prudence glance up.
“Whistledown was clear,” she said, resuming the clean slice through her egg. “The shame in that story didn’t belong to the lady.”
Prudence sniffed. “I was only saying -”
“You were only being tiresome,” Portia cut in. “Eat your breakfast.”
Philippa, oblivious, perked up. “Do you think Whistledown will write again? I like when she describes people’s hair.”
Portia poured herself more tea. “If she does, it will be her choice. And if she doesn’t…” She shrugged lightly. “She has already said enough to make the right people think twice.”
Silence followed - not the easy sort, but brittle and deliberate. Penelope kept her focus on the steam curling from her cup, breathing in the faint sting of lemon. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain.
“There will still be whispers,” Portia added, matter-of-fact. “But fewer than if she had named him.”
Penelope only lifted her teacup, letting the steam blur her view of them all.
Portia carried on, slipping back into the familiar comfort of strategy. “Now, you will attend the Patridge garden party, and the Smythe-Smith musicale after that. We have made progress, and I will not have it undone by hiding.”
“I’m not hiding,” Penelope said, voice even. “But I will not be going.”
Portia’s head snapped up. “Of course you will.”
“No,” Penelope repeated, and this time the word landed with the quiet finality of a slammed door. “I will not.”
Even Philippa stopped mid-bite.
“I see,” Portia said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “You are still brooding over -”
“I am not brooding.” Penelope set her cup down with deliberate care. “I showed up. I stood tall. I smiled. I let them see me. But I am tired, Mama. Tired of pretending everything is fine. Tired of smiling just enough so no one asks why it feels like I have stopped breathing.”
A silence settled. Not cold, but startled.
“I want to leave London before the season ends.”
Portia’s spoon hovered mid-air.
“You want to what?”
“Leave London,” Penelope said. Calmly. Without drama. “Before the season ends. I have had enough.”
Portia did not move for a long moment. Then she flicked her hand toward the rest of the table without looking away from Penelope. “Out.”
Philippa blinked. “But we are still -”
“Take your breakfast and go. Now.”
Prudence muttered something under her breath, but rose with her plate. Albion followed without protest, nudging Philippa along as she stuffed the last of her toast into her mouth.
When the door shut behind them, Portia crossed to it and turned the lock. When she faced Penelope again, her tone had shifted.
“I will not have you making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I am not,” Penelope replied. “That is the point. I have already made one, have I not?”
Portia’s fingers tightened on the back of a chair. “You think slipping away will solve anything?”
“It will solve something,” Penelope said. “For me.”
A pause - long enough for Portia’s gaze to travel over her daughter’s face, weighing what she saw there against whatever plan she had been about to deliver.
When she spoke again, her tone had cooled, but the edge was different. Calculating. “You held your head high at Lady Danbury’s. You made them look." She studied Penelope in silence, as if weighing the cost of continuing the fight against what could be gained by ending it. "Maybe you have done enough.”
Penelope blinked, startled by the concession.
“I cannot leave,” Portia continued. “Not with your father gone and the new heir still unaccounted for. The estate paperwork is a mess. And if I disappear to Cornwall, the vultures will think I have fled with silver candlesticks under my skirts.”
“But you -”
“I said I cannot leave. I did not say you could not.”
A pause.
“Petunia,” Portia declared. “She has been ill, has she not?”
“I do not know?”
“She has now. She wrote in January about her ankles. That is something. I will say she needs a companion. You will stay in Cornwall until the season ends. Longer, if need be.”
Penelope stared at her. “You would really let me go?”
Portia’s brows lifted. “I gain nothing by keeping you here when you are unhappy. And I am not in the business of wasting resources.”
It was in that moment that Penelope understood. Her mother was not only allowing her to go. She was crafting the story that would make her absence unremarkable. Covering her retreat before the vultures could circle. It was not tenderness, not exactly, but it was protection in Portia’s language.
Penelope’s mouth twitched. “That is one way to put it.”
“It is the only way to put it. Go. Rest. Heal. People will forget what they think they saw, and when you return, you will be stronger for it. That benefits us all.”
A beat.
“Thank you,” Penelope said quietly.
“Do not thank me. Just write to Petunia and make sure she plays along. And take something warm. The coast is dreadful this time of year.”
Notes:
You're all amazing. The love you have for Pen, the hate for Colin...it makes my heart happy.
Next up - Cornwall and a note from our viscount.
Chapter Text
The journey to Cornwall took the better part of two days, the road narrowing into winding lanes lined with gorse and heather. By the time the Featherington carriage crested the last hill before Aunt Petunia’s estate, the air had shifted - salt on the wind, gulls wheeling overhead, the distant sound of waves against rock. It felt like stepping into a different country entirely.
Petunia Fitzgerald, as Penelope’s mother had promised, was ill. Not in the sense that she was bedridden - far from it - but rather that she had declared herself “delicate” enough to avoid the chaos of London, preferring the solitude of the Cornish coast.
Her welcome was brisk.
“You’ve come,” Petunia said, meeting Penelope in the stone-flagged hall with a handkerchief in one hand and a teacup in the other. “I don’t expect conversation. I expect you to keep out of the draughts, eat what Cook puts in front of you, and remember this is not a place for idle chatter.”
It was, oddly, the kindest greeting Penelope had received in months.
The days unfolded quietly. Petunia took breakfast alone, leaving Penelope free to rise when she pleased. There were no constant knocks at the door, no sudden visits from simpering acquaintances, no need to sit through hours of her mother’s maneuvering at the card table.
Instead, Penelope walked.
She took the narrow cliff path until the wind tangled her hair beyond repair, until the roar of the sea drowned out everything London had ever said about her. She stood barefoot in the wet sand at low tide, watching the foam curl and retreat, letting the chill bite her skin until she could no longer remember the heat of humiliation.
Some afternoons, she read in the long, sun-warmed parlor that looked out over the garden. Not scandal sheets. Not her own words. Just novels with tattered spines and poetry collections that smelled faintly of dust and lavender.
She thought often of Eloise - her quicksilver friend who would have filled these rooms with restless energy and impossible questions - but she didn’t write. Not yet.
At night, she slept without dreaming.
Notes:
Ya'll. Your comments are a driving force - I love how much you love a Badass Pen.
She's going to do some healing in Cornwall. Maybe get a new pen pal (Colin isn't the only one who can write letters...)
Chapter Text
Penelope told herself there was no need to reply. Courtesy had been satisfied, and silence would have been the simpler choice. Yet when she sat at her desk, the quiet pressed close, and his card in the drawer seemed louder than the fire at her back. Before she could think better of it, her pen was moving.
To the Viscount Bridgerton,
Your note reached me by way of my mother. Cornwall does, in fact, suit. The wind plays havoc with hairstyles, the hens refuse all sense, and my aunt’s cat has claimed the warmest patch of floor with the authority of a monarch.
Thank you for the information regarding your brother. I have no wish to discuss him further, and I trust you will not find that rude.
There is little to recommend London to me at present; on that point, we are agreed. You chose your word with care - indefinitely. It makes no promises, and yet it is decisive. I find I appreciate decisiveness.
If Miss Bridgerton requires news, she may be satisfied to learn that Aunt Petunia grows currants in defiance of the wind, and that I am learning which cliff paths can be taken without ensuring my name in the scandal sheets. Should you wish for a report on the temper of geese, you have only to ask.
With thanks for your courtesy,
P. Featherington
A week passed before a reply came.
In that time, Penelope found her mind turning less to the ballroom where everything had soured and more to the cool tang of salt air. The sea wind tugged her hair loose until pins gave up entirely. She walked the cliff path until her cheeks stung, fed the hens despite their ungratefulness, and read in the long, sunlit parlor without once being interrupted by someone seeking gossip.
When Anthony Bridgerton’s card arrived, it was tucked among Aunt Petunia’s correspondence - seed orders, a bill from the grocer, a note from a neighbor about a missing lamb. His handwriting was neat, deliberate.
She had not expected him to write again. His first message she had understood - duty, pure and simple. Smoothing Colin’s disgrace for Eloise’s sake, offering reassurance for his mother’s. Her own reply had been little more than courtesy. But a second letter…that was not duty. That was decision. And it unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
Miss Featherington,
I am glad to hear Cornwall agrees with you, wind and geese notwithstanding. London, meanwhile, offers little beyond noise. The season continues much as it always does - too loud, too long, and too often mistaken for significance. The musicales are dubious in quality, the balls tolerable in dancing if not in conversation.
Eloise insists I remind you to take care on the cliffs. She has also developed a theory that Cornish hens are fiercer than those in town; I declined to ask how she reached this conclusion.
It is no small thing, finding a place where one may walk, or write, without interruption. Cornwall seems to suit you.
A. Bridgerton
The note was spare, but she read it twice before setting it aside. His hand was steady, his phrasing exact, and though there was nothing in it that might be called warmth, neither was there dismissal. He had chosen to write to her again. That thought carried her farther into the day than she expected.
The next morning, Aunt Petunia pressed her into helping with the hens, muttering about their bad tempers. Penelope scattered feed into the straw and, quite without meaning to, thought of Anthony’s line about Eloise - so succinct, so wry she could almost hear the dryness in his voice. To her own surprise, she smiled. Actually smiled. Ridiculous, really, when they’d exchanged only two letters.
To the Viscount Bridgerton,
Your description of London is precisely why I find Cornwall preferable. Here, one may walk an entire morning without being obliged to say anything at all - of consequence or inconsequence, which is rarer still. The silence feels more companionable than most conversation.
Please tell Eloise the cliffs are less perilous than she imagines, provided one remembers not to trust a ledge simply because it appears solid. It is a useful principle in more than one area of life, I think.
From this distance, London’s noise is mercifully faint. I find I do not miss it. Your reports are more than sufficient.
P. Featherington
Another week passed. Two notes arrived from Eloise in the meantime, all breathless speculation and cryptic references to matters Penelope pretended not to understand. She wrote back to Eloise as she always had - brisk, fond - but when Anthony’s envelope appeared in the day’s post, she set Eloise’s aside to open his first. She was not entirely sure what that meant.
Miss Featherington,
I agree with your principle regarding ledges. Appearances can be deceiving, especially in rooms where wit is performed as readily as dance steps.
Eloise has been uncharacteristically quiet since your departure, which I take to mean she is storing her commentary for the next time she sees you. My mother will be grateful for the reprieve, though I suspect it cannot last.
Cornwall seems to suit you. There is a steadiness in places that ask little and offer quiet in return. It is no small thing to find such ground, nor to know what to do with it once found.
A. Bridgerton
The note was not long, yet his choice of words seemed stubbornly unwilling to stay on the page. Steadiness. Trust Anthony Bridgerton to sound like a man delivering a lecture even from Cornwall’s distance. And still, she caught herself turning it over later - while scattering grain for the hens or tucking her bookmark into place - as though the word had been meant to follow her.
Rain arrived and stayed for three days. The sea vanished behind a curtain of mist; the cliff paths became treacherous with mud. Penelope stayed indoors, reading in the long parlor until the windows blurred, then retreating to the desk in her room. Aunt Petunia’s eyes flicked to the growing stack of envelopes in the drawer but, true to her word, she said nothing.
Penelope felt oddly protective of them, as though they belonged to a part of her no one else had the right to name. She wondered what Anthony Bridgerton thought of her letters. She wondered why it mattered. And then she reached for her pen.
To the Viscount Bridgerton,
Cornwall does suit me. It is not exciting, but I have learned to value that. The air smells of salt, the wind ignores all arguments, and no one here feels compelled to remark upon my gowns. Even the cat seems to consider such topics beneath him.
Your note spoke of steadiness. It is not a word often chosen, and I find myself thinking of it more than is reasonable. Perhaps you are right - there is value in a place, or a person, that asks little and yet endures.
Please tell Eloise that I have not yet fallen from a cliff, though I have been chased twice by the same goose. I consider that an achievement. (On second thought, perhaps do not tell her. She would only find a way to make a theory of it.)
Should I learn anything further about Cornish soil or poultry, I will, of course, keep you informed.
P. Featherington
The post arrived late, the road muddied from rain. Aunt Petunia grumbled over the grocer’s bill, then vanished into the pantry, leaving Penelope to sort the rest. When she saw his hand among the envelopes, her fingers paused - not out of doubt that he would write again, but because she realized she had begun to expect it.
Expectation was perilous. It left too much room for disappointment. And yet, when she broke the seal, her mouth curved before she had even finished reading.
Miss Featherington,
I am pleased to hear Cornwall continues to agree with you - and even more pleased to learn you have survived two encounters with the same goose. Should there be a third, Eloise insists it must be classified as a vendetta.
The cliffs, I hope, remain in your favor. Your principle is sound - what appears secure often is not, while what looks dangerous can sometimes be relied upon. It is a lesson worth remembering, in Cornwall and elsewhere.
London offers little of equal use. A musicale last week might have been tolerable had the performers remembered the notes, and supper afterward would have been pleasant had the conversation risen above hats. I find myself preferring your accounts of wind and currants. At least they are honest.
You are right. There is merit in the unexciting.
A. Bridgerton
She read the letter once through, then again more slowly, her eyes catching on a single line as if it had been set apart for her:
I find myself preferring your accounts of wind and currants. At least they are honest.
It was not poetry. It was not even particularly warm. And yet it sat with her differently than any compliment ever had. He had not praised her gowns, or her manner, or her place in a room. He had written of her words.
The rain tapped steady against the glass, a quiet percussion to the stillness in the room. She laid the card atop the others in her drawer, though she lingered longer than was necessary before closing it.
When she rose, Aunt Petunia’s cat had claimed the hearth, curled in imperious satisfaction. Penelope reached down to stroke its fur, her thoughts drifting unbidden back to neat, deliberate handwriting and the man who had chosen - twice, then three times -to answer her.
It was foolish to smile at such a thing. More foolish still to admit she was already wondering what she might say in return. But she smiled anyway.
Notes:
In the next chapter, we get Anthony’s POV…
Chapter Text
The night Anthony truly saw Penelope Featherington was the night everything shifted.
He had left White’s in a foul temper, the brandy bitter on his tongue, when movement across the street caught his eye - a lone figure in a cloak climbing into a hired hack. At first he thought he must be mistaken. But when the lantern light struck her face, there was no mistaking it.
Penelope Featherington.
At this hour? Alone?
Suspicion prickled sharp and hot. He knew he ought to stop her. Instead, he followed.
The hack rattled through narrow streets until it stopped before a printer’s shop, the windows dark save for a single lamp inside. Anthony lingered in the shadows, every sense alert, and heard her voice - firm, certain - as she spoke of schedules and proofs.
Whistledown.
The realization landed like a blow. Foolish girl. Did she have any notion of the danger she courted? Did she understand what would happen if the wrong person discovered her secret? His first instinct was to break the door down, drag her home, forbid her from ever taking such a risk again. Instead, he stood frozen, fury warring with something he did not yet dare to name.
But he did not. He only stood there, pulse hammering, the truth settling into him with the force of something that could not be undone.
He followed her home, half-furious, half-unnerved, until he saw her safely inside. Only then did the storm in his head begin to settle. She had been Whistledown all along - saving Daphne from Berbrooke, stopping Colin from binding himself to Marina. Once the shock dulled, he could not deny it - society owed her more than it would ever admit.
In the days that followed, he began to watch her more carefully. At balls, in gardens, across crowded rooms. He noticed when she slipped away to listen, when her gaze sharpened as though she were tucking details into memory. The disguise was clever, but once he knew, the signs were everywhere.
He also saw what she thought she concealed. The way her eyes softened whenever they found Colin. The loyalty, the patience, the foolish devotion that earned her nothing in return. Anthony had never thought his brother cruel until the night Colin mocked her for it. Sending him away had been the least Anthony could do. Penelope might never know that he had uncovered her secret, and she certainly did not seem to need his help carrying it. But he could act where Colin was concerned, and he had.
He told himself the note he sent her once she settled in Cornwall was duty alone - a formal assurance that Colin was gone, that the matter was finished, that her place with the rest of his family was untouched.
When her reply came, the words lingered with him far longer than they had any right to. They were measured and sharp, but there was a vitality in them that made the usual correspondence he endured feel bloodless by comparison. He read them once, twice, a third time, as though her voice might rise from the page if only he lingered long enough.
He had not looked for another letter, and yet it arrived. Then another. Then a third. With each, he told himself it was only courtesy - a polite acknowledgment of Eloise’s brother, a nod to the Viscount who had done what Colin would not. But the more he read, the less that explanation held. There was wit in her turns of phrase, quiet fire tucked between the lines, and something that felt dangerously close to intimacy. They did not read like duty. They read like her. And he found himself wanting more.
He began to watch the post in a way he never had before. Ordinarily it brought him nothing but dull accounts, invitations he had no wish to accept, and endless demands for his attention. But now, tucked among the rest, there might be one slim envelope in her hand. When it came, he opened it at once, before his mother’s correspondence, before the contracts and ledgers that normally consumed him.
Her words had a clarity he envied. In writing to her, he discovered he could admit what he thought of London without gilding it - how tiresome the season was, how shallow the conversation, how wearying the endless repetition of the same faces and ambitions. She replied without judgment, answering him as though he were simply a man with an opinion, not a viscount balancing the weight of his name.
He said nothing to anyone. Not when his mother’s eyes flicked to him with that familiar gleam of speculation as he set a letter aside with more care than the rest. Not when Francesca’s cool gaze lingered a moment too long on the envelope in his hand, her silence sharper than any remark. He kept it to himself - the quiet waiting for her replies, the faint anticipation each time the post arrived, the private sense that, for once, he was writing to someone who saw past the polish of his name.
Yet he caught himself noticing the silences she left behind. At balls, when Eloise grew too sharp without anyone there to soften her edge. At dinners, when laughter faltered and the pause stretched longer than it ought. Even at home, when his mother mentioned Cornwall in passing, it struck him with a weight no one else seemed to feel. The air felt thinner in those moments, as though something steady had slipped quietly out of place.
Only in her letters did she remain - slim envelopes tucked among accounts and invitations. They were not long, not effusive, but they were hers - measured and clear, carrying a steadiness he had begun to crave.
He told himself it was nothing more than friendship, an extension of courtesy, a tether between Eloise’s companion and Eloise’s brother. But even as he set her latest note aside with deliberate care, he knew the truth pressed closer than that.
He still grumbled at the accounts and invitations - but when her envelope appeared among them, everything else fell away.
Notes:
Sorry for the delay. Someone quit at work, and I have taken on their duties. And there's a lot of duties. Plus the kids started school this week - one in kindergarten and one in their senior year. I'm a single mama raising my niece and my son, so between them and work? Life has been slightly insane.
The muse has been MIA and I'm not completely happy with this chapter (or what I have of the next), but I'm tired of staring at it hoping it'll get better. Hopefully you'll like it.
I'll be back as soon as I can...appreciate you all!!
Chapter 10: Of Quills and Geese
Chapter Text
The goose launched its campaign at first light.
Penelope had risen early, hoping to gather kindling before the coastal wind scattered every twig across the moor. She did not expect battle. But the goose - enormous, unrepentant, and clearly possessed of some obscure vendetta - burst from the shrubs with a flurry of wings and an outraged honk that rattled the bucket in her hands.
Penelope shrieked. Dignity fled. The basket swung wildly as she stumbled backward through damp grass, fending off the feathered tyrant with all the grace of a startled milkmaid.
From the porch, Aunt Petunia stood with her tea, utterly unmoved.
“It likes you,” she said, voice dry as driftwood.
“It tried to bite me,” Penelope gasped, brandishing a broken twig like a saber. “Again.”
“Its affection is… intense.”
The goose gave a final honk of warning and stalked away, victorious, while Penelope glared at its retreating tail feathers. She was laughing before she reached the kitchen door, the absurdity too much to hold in.
That night, with wind pressing at the windows and firelight flickering across her desk, she wrote without intention. The page pulled her forward. She did not pause to consider propriety or precedent. She simply wrote.
To the Viscount Bridgerton,
The goose has struck again. I can only assume it bears a grudge. Perhaps I looked at it wrong. Or perhaps, as Aunt Petunia insists, it is “full of passionate feeling.” Toward me.
Today’s attack came without warning. One moment I was gathering kindling; the next, I was engaged in mortal combat with a creature whose wingspan defies both physics and decency. I defended myself with a basket and what dignity remained. Neither proved sufficient.
If it kills me - and I am not ruling that out - you may tell people I met my end nobly. Perhaps in a duel. Perhaps in defense of hearth and home. What matters is that you omit the part about feathers and screaming.
Your most recent letter was unexpected. And, if I may say, far preferable to the polished nonsense one typically receives from London. You write like a man with no interest in impressing the room, which I find both startling and refreshing.
The wind here continues its campaign against all vanity. My hair has ceased attempting civility, the cat has claimed the chair I like best, and the hens refuse to recognize authority of any kind. And yet, I find myself… content. More than I had expected.
I hope you are well, and that the geese in your vicinity are less ambitious.
P. Featherington
She had not meant to anticipate a reply. Yet each morning, when the post arrived, she found herself pausing, listening for the clatter of the gate latch. Her fingers twitched toward the window before she realized what she was doing.
Ridiculous. Entirely absurd.
She had exchanged scarcely a dozen words with Lord Anthony Bridgerton in person, none of particular note. And yet here she was - waiting to hear what he might say about her letter. Her letter about a goose, of all things.
Aunt Petunia watched her fuss with the tea tray that afternoon, one eyebrow arching in silent commentary. She said nothing, save to hand Penelope a bowl of currants with the dry remark, “They won’t prune themselves.”
Penelope snorted and set to work, ignoring how often her gaze flicked toward the front window.
Miss Featherington,
Should the goose succeed in its campaign, I will personally lead the charge to have it tried for treason. I am confident Eloise would join me, though I suspect she would first wish to interview it - for scientific purposes.
In the event of your untimely demise at the wings of such a beast, rest assured I shall spin a tale of epic proportions - a final stand upon the cliffs, wind in your hair, defiance in your eyes. The truth will be conveniently omitted.
I must confess something of your last letter lingered - not the goose (though it is memorable), but your manner of writing. It is… bracing. Free of performance. Most of my conversations of late feel like balancing on ice - all gloss and no footing. Your letters, by contrast, feel more like solid ground.
Cornwall suits you.
A. Bridgerton
Her smile unfolded without effort.
Her fingertips brushed the ink of his signature before she could stop herself. She jerked her hand away as if burned, flushed with the absurdity of the gesture.
Still, she read it again that night - by candlelight, shawl drawn close - and found herself smiling again.
The next day, while peeling apples for Petunia’s tarts, she caught herself humming under her breath. Petunia said nothing, but one of her eyebrows climbed to such a height Penelope felt compelled to mutter something about the summer salt air. Petunia only snorted.
Lord Bridgerton,
If Eloise is to be my second in the coming goose duel, I regret to inform you that the goose has already won. She is brilliant, of course, but I’ve seen the way she looks at geese - admiration, not strategy.
I was struck, in your last letter, by your observation that my writing lacks artifice. I hardly know what to do with such a statement. It sounds rather like a compliment, though not the sort I am accustomed to receiving. Still, I am glad of it.
Cornwall has a way of stripping things bare. The wind here is unrelenting - it tugs at hairpins, secrets, intentions. Everything feels… less managed. Which perhaps explains why it feels easier to write to you here.
(Though I do not think the goose appreciates honesty. It seems firmly against me, no matter how sincere I try to be.)
Thank you for writing. I didn’t expect this correspondence, but I’ve come to look forward to it more than I mean to admit.
Penelope
The next post came. Then another.
Nothing.
She did not panic. That would be absurd. Perhaps the letter had been mislaid. Or perhaps he was simply busy. A viscount, after all, had duties. Expectations.
Or perhaps she had been too honest.
Perhaps admitting she looked forward to the letters had frightened him into stopping.
Still, she found herself holding her breath whenever the clatter of hooves came near the gate - only to let it out again, slow and steady, when they passed by.
Aunt Petunia noticed, of course.
“Men always take longer,” she said, setting her empty teacup aside. “To notice what they’re feeling. To decide it’s safe to say it. Or to determine what to wear while doing it.”
Penelope blinked. “This isn’t -”
“I didn’t say it was,” Petunia replied, and resumed her knitting.
Miss Featherington,
I must apologize for the delay. I would like to say I was waiting for the right words, but the truth is I was caught off guard by your last letter. I have re-read it more times than I should admit.
I think you may be the first person to thank me for writing without expecting something in return. That alone would make your letters worth answering.
But there is more. You write as though you are not trying to impress anyone. That is rare. Rarer still is how much I find myself looking forward to what you will say next.
You wrote that you hadn’t expected this correspondence, but that you now look forward to it - more than you mean to admit.
I read that line twice. I hope you won’t mind if I confess that the feeling is mutual.
You also wrote of Cornwall stripping things bare. I think you do the same in your letters. You set aside performance, and what remains is clarity. Honesty. That is rare. And I find I value it more than I expected.
A.
She read his words in the pale morning light, the scent of salt and lemon tea curling through the air.
He had not written anything untoward. No declarations. No flirtation. And yet -
What remains is clarity. Honesty.
The words lodged in her chest, startling in their simplicity. They did not press against her like a demand. They opened, like a window unlatched in a close room.
She touched the corner of the letter, smoothing it flat with careful fingers, then placed it with the others, lined neatly in her drawer beneath a thread of lavender. The stack had grown taller. The silence between them no longer felt like a pause. It felt like listening.
She stood in the doorway and looked out at the sea. The tide was low and glittering. Somewhere inland, he was reading her words too.
Neither of them had said anything that could not be taken back.
But soon, she thought, one of them would.
Chapter 11: Paper and Presence
Chapter Text
The rain had been steady all morning, soft and insistent, folding the coast into itself. Sea and sky had blurred at the edges, both reduced to a single, silver expanse. The fire cracked low behind her, throwing gentle shadows across the parlor walls.
Penelope sat at her desk, sleeves pushed back, fingers ink-stained. A thread of lemon tea and wet stone lingered in the air.
She had told herself she wouldn’t write.
But she had also laid out her stationery. She had trimmed the quill. She had filled the inkwell carefully, as though the act of preparation wasn’t already an answer.
The silence between them had changed. It was no longer a waiting room. It was a conversation. A rhythm. A pull.
She picked up her pen.
Lord Bridgerton,
It has rained for three days without pause. The garden is drowning. The hens sulk. Aunt Petunia has declared the weather a sure sign that society will collapse by Thursday.
I’ve spent most of the hours inside with books and the kind of ink stains that do not come out, no matter what Aunt swears about vinegar and prayer. The ink insists on misbehaving. I insist on blaming the goose.
But that is not why I’m writing. Not truly.
I have come to understand that Cornwall does not demand performance. It does not require polish or spectacle. It only asks for presence. The sea does not care whether I am clever. The goose certainly does not.
There is a quiet here I did not expect to miss. Not the kind bred in polite society - calculated silences and soft judgments - but a quiet that allows for… being.
You asked if I ever tire of performance. I do. More often than I admit. There is a loneliness in pretending. A hollowness, even when surrounded.
Sometimes I wonder - if I stopped performing, would anyone still look? Would anyone still see?
I don’t have an answer yet. But I think I’m writing to you because… you never seem to look away.
P.
When Anthony read the letter, he did not move for a long time.
The ink smudge near her signature was still there - slightly smeared, as though she had hesitated before finishing her name. He could almost see her in the moment - fingers still, brow furrowed, deciding what to hold back and what to give.
He read it again.
Then again.
She had not flirted. She had not confessed.
And yet - she had given him something true.
Not performance. Not polish.
Presence.
Miss Featherington,
Your question has lingered with me more than I expected.
You asked if anyone would still look - still see - if you stopped performing.
I cannot speak for the world, Penelope. But I can speak for myself.
I see you.
I do not mean the version others watch at balls or luncheons. Not the girl with the forced smile or the carefully chosen silence. I mean the one who writes with ink on her hands, who names the truth aloud even when no one else dares. The one who makes me think more clearly than I do alone.
I have read your letters by firelight and daylight and candle glow. I have read them more than once. I have found myself waiting for them in the way one waits for something one does not want to admit they need.
They are not performance.
They are presence, as you say. They are you.
And for reasons I do not entirely understand, I find myself wanting more.
A.
Penelope read his words twice - once quickly, her breath caught in her chest, and then again more slowly, as though each line demanded its own moment.
I see you.
For reasons I do not entirely understand, I find myself wanting more.
The paper trembled faintly in her hand. She pressed it to her lap, anchoring it there, her pulse unsteady in her throat. He had not written much - Anthony never did - but what he had said rang clear, like truth struck against stone.
There was no flourish. No riddles. Just him.
And her, reading it like a confession.
She sat still for a long time. The fire had burned low. Outside, the rain had softened into mist, barely there but endless. The sea was hidden behind fog, and still she could feel it - moving, waiting.
They had begun something. She could no longer call it a correspondence. Not really. There were too many truths between the lines now, too many silences that felt like promises.
They were learning each other - line by line, word by word - without the noise of ballrooms or the weight of family expectations. Letters had stripped away the stage. What remained was… them.
No titles. No expectations. Just… wanting.
She did not know what came next.
But she knew what she would do now.
She reached for her pen.
Lord Bridgerton,
You wrote that you see me.
That would have once frightened me.
There is a particular safety in invisibility, especially for a girl who has been watched but never truly seen. I learned early how to speak without saying much. How to smile without meaning it. How to vanish in plain sight.
But now you say you see me and I find I do not want to disappear.
I do not know what to make of that yet.
But I am writing to you in the quiet, while the fire burns low and the rain taps at the window, because I want you to know - I read your words and I stayed still for a long time afterward, as if moving would undo them.
They didn’t scare me.
Not this time.
There is something unfolding between us - not loudly, not quickly - but with a kind of gravity I have never known before. I do not think I could stop it, even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
P.
The fire at White’s burned low, the smoke dense, the air thick with brandy and dull bravado. Around him, laughter swelled and collapsed in waves - an endless tide of nothing.
Anthony tried to listen as Fife recounted some tedious disaster involving a pheasant, a hedge, and a misfiring gun, but his mind was elsewhere.
Circling.
Always back to the same place.
I am not certain who I am when no one is watching.
Penelope’s words had struck him like flint against steel. He had read them once in the early hours, then again before shaving, and a third time by candlelight. The third reading had left him staring blankly at the paper, the words too sharp to touch.
They were not flirtation.
They were not performance.
They were her.
And they were - God help him - for him.
“Viscount?” someone prompted.
He blinked. Realized, belatedly, that a question had been asked. He muttered something vague and inoffensive, which was apparently sufficient - laughter erupted at the table again, and someone poured him another drink.
He did not stay long after.
When he returned home, the house was quiet. Not just silent, but hollow. The kind of stillness that made a man aware of his own breath.
He didn’t go to his study right away.
He paused in the front hall instead, where the day’s post waited on the side table, tied with a familiar bit of twine.
He knew better than to hope.
And yet.
His fingers moved of their own accord, sifting through the pile.
Ledgers. An invitation to a hunting party. A folded note from his mother, left in her familiar hand, reminding him to respond to Francesca’s last letter. As if he ever didn’t.
No slim envelope in that particular shade of cream.
No ink that curled just slightly where she lingered.
No P.
He told himself it meant nothing. He had written last. It was her turn, if turns were even being counted.
Still, when he finally stepped into his study, the room felt thinner without her.
He sat. Opened the ledger. Closed it again.
His finger tapped a restless rhythm against the desk, too quick, too uneven. His body was here, but his thoughts were far from it - caught in that slow, precise unfurling they’d begun. Word by word. Truth by truth.
The Season would soon end.
Eloise would grumble that the last ball was a catastrophe. Gregory would misplace something. His mother would begin her campaign to shepherd them all back to Kent.
And Penelope Featherington would remain in Cornwall.
Unless -
The thought arrived half-formed, fragile.
Unless Eloise invited her.
It would be natural. Innocent. Eloise missed her terribly. She said as much daily, and often loudly. If Penelope came to Aubrey Hall, it would draw no scrutiny.
No suspicion.
Just… possibility.
Anthony leaned back in his chair.
The faintest tug at his mouth gave him away.
Yes.
He would speak to Eloise.
Chapter 12: An Invitation
Chapter Text
The Season was ending.
The air inside Bridgerton House had shifted.
Gone was the press of perfume and trailing silks, the clipped heels of eager mamas ushering daughters across polished floors. The grand drawing rooms, once alive with flirtation and card tables, now smelled faintly of wax and linen as if the house itself had exhaled and gone still.
Flowers no longer arrived daily. The halls were lined with trunks and half-tied ribbons, quiet echoes of something being packed away - something ending.
There were still dances, still suppers, but the thrill was gone. The mood had thinned like steam from a kettle left too long on the stove.
Everyone knew it was time to go.
Eloise was draped across the drawing room chaise in what could only be described as a dramatic sulk. One leg flung over the armrest, hair pinned with the kind of rebellion that suggested she’d done it twice and given up.
She held a letter at arm’s length, squinting at it as though its contents might rearrange themselves if properly glared at.
“The goose is persistent,” she declared. “Its politics remain unstable, though Aunt Petunia believes it’s mellowed since the rhubarb harvest. I remain unconvinced.”
From behind the morning paper, Anthony raised one brow.
“She also says the wind is ruthless, the cat is judgmental, and she can’t recall the last time anyone complimented her hair.” Eloise glanced up. “Frankly, I think she’s beginning to unravel. Beautifully, but still.”
“She sounds better,” Violet murmured, her embroidery needle catching light. “Less like someone trying to sound cheerful.”
“She is better,” Eloise said, a little more quietly now. “Cornwall suits her. She’s always liked dramatic weather and creatures that don’t ask questions.”
There was a pause.
And then, softly - unexpectedly,
“You should invite her to Kent.”
Eloise blinked. “What?”
Anthony didn’t look up. “Aubrey Hall. Invite her.”
She sat upright, sudden suspicion rising. “She’s just had a change, Anthony. She’s only just found her footing again. She has cliffs now. And goats. It’s all she ever wanted.”
“She’s still lonely,” he said. Quiet. Controlled.
The room stilled.
Even Violet’s needle stopped moving.
Anthony turned a page he hadn’t read. His voice came again, lower this time. “She shouldn’t stay away too long. It might become… permanent.”
Eloise watched him.
“You don’t usually meddle,” she said carefully.
He didn’t respond. Not right away.
Then, “It’s not meddling.”
He hesitated.
“It’s an invitation.”
Violet glanced toward him, just once, before returning to her stitching, slower now.
Eloise opened her mouth, then thought better of it. She caught her mother’s eye. Something passed between them.
Violet was the one to speak. “That’s thoughtful of you.”
Anthony shook his head. “It’s practical.”
But his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
This time, when he turned a page, the paper trembled in his hands.
Eloise stood. “I’ll write to her tonight,” she said lightly. “And I’ll tell her it was your idea.”
“It wasn’t,” he muttered.
“Of course not,” she murmured, walking away. “But I’m telling her it was.”
Anthony didn’t stop her.
But he stopped pretending to read.
Penelope was in the garden when the letter came - or what passed for a garden in Aunt Petunia’s world. Rows of stubborn herbs lined the path, and the gooseberries drooped like tired old men. One brave sprig of lavender fought the mist by the broken sundial.
The envelope bore Eloise’s unmistakable hand, though the edges were smudged and the ink a little blurred, like the letter had fought its way through the rain to reach her.
She read it in the sun-warmed parlor, seated at the small table where Aunt Petunia used to wage war with her jam jars. The wind curled in through the open windows, dragging the curtains in like breath.
Pen,
Your goose concerns me. I’ve begun to suspect it’s a manifestation of your repressed rage. If you name it, I believe you’ll regain control of your emotional landscape.
Anthony says you should come to Aubrey Hall. (Yes, that Anthony.) He claims it’s for my benefit, but we both know he only reads letters when they come from you.
Mother agrees it would be good for you to be somewhere familiar. Personally, I think you should come because I’m bored and Gregory has started winning at chess.
Bring the cat. Leave the goose.
E.
Penelope folded the letter slowly and placed it on the windowsill. The breeze tugged at it gently.
She did not reach to stop it.
Aubrey Hall.
The name alone felt like a touch on a bruise she hadn’t let herself examine too closely. She had left London to escape the noise, the rules, the careful choreography of being seen. And now this - this wasn’t London.
It was worse.
It was him.
Not in public. Not in passing. Not in silence.
This would mean seeing him again. After everything they hadn’t said.
She stood in the quiet room and stared at the sky through the warped glass of the windowpane. The tide was low again. The wind had picked up.
The truth was simple - she wanted to go.
And that frightened her more than any refusal.
She mentioned the invitation over supper, her tone light, almost bored.
Aunt Petunia only nodded and handed her the larger vase for the flowers she’d gathered that afternoon. “The lavender needs cutting tomorrow,” she said.
It wasn’t discussed again.
That night, Penelope wrote back to Eloise. She told her about the cat’s vendetta against the kitchen curtains, the goose’s latest power grab, and a farmer who claimed his butter could predict the weather.
She did not mention the invitation.
A week later, another letter came.
This one was thin. Plain. Just a single sheet, folded twice and sealed with a modest press of wax.
No flourish.
No title.
Just her name.
Miss Featherington,
The geese at Aubrey Hall are less political than yours, though no less determined.
There’s a bench in the south garden, near the lavender. I don’t let the others find it. It’s quiet there. Easy to think.
I imagine you’d like it.
A.
She read it once. Then again.
Anthony wrote like he lived - with purpose. No unnecessary words. No extravagance.
And yet.
Her fingers traced the edge of the page. That final line.
She did not answer.
Not yet.
But she folded the letter gently and placed it with the others that neatly stacked beneath a thread of lavender, in the drawer she never let Aunt Petunia tidy.
And then - though she would never have said it aloud -
She began to think.
About lavender.
About benches.
About what it might mean to be quiet with him.
And what it might mean not to be.
Chapter 13: The Answer to Silence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The house was quieter than usual, though not in the comfortable way of a Sunday afternoon or a late night when the city slept. This quiet felt heavier, like something being dismantled carefully, piece by piece. The laughter had faded. The flowers were gone. The scent of wax and folded linen lingered faintly in the corners of the hall.
The servants moved quickly, but even their footsteps seemed muted by the thick, gray air that pressed against the windows. Outside, London wore its morning like a shrug - misty, half-hearted, reluctant to let go of anything. Carriages clattered past in a dull rhythm. Ribbons trailed from the corners of trunks. Somewhere down the corridor, Hyacinth was arguing with Gregory, and Violet’s voice rose calmly above them both, orchestrating order with her usual impossible grace.
Everyone was preparing to leave.
Everyone was moving forward.
Except Anthony.
He was not at breakfast. He was not packing. He was not, so far as anyone had seen, doing much of anything.
In his study, the fire had long since burned down to ash. A cup of tea sat untouched on the edge of his desk beside a neat stack of unopened correspondence. A map of Aubrey Hall lay half-unrolled, its edges curling slightly from the damp, but he hadn’t glanced at it in days.
He read nothing. He wrote nothing. He sat, as if the room might offer an answer he had somehow missed.
Penelope hadn’t written.
It had been over a week now - a week since his last letter, the one he’d kept simple, almost spare, but full of the quiet space he’d made for her. Not a question. Not an invitation. Just a bench in the garden and the thought that she might belong there.
Once, her silence had felt like a breath - a pause between thoughts, gentle and expectant. But now it echoed louder. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t final.
But it was deliberate.
And he didn’t know what to do with that.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Eloise.
“You’re not dressed,” she said, arms folded as she crossed the room.
“I will be,” he replied, his voice low.
“We’re leaving in an hour.”
“I know.”
She studied him. “Still no word from her?”
Anthony said nothing.
“She’s thinking,” Eloise said, softer now. “You know how she is. She thinks before she breathes.”
“She’s been thinking for a long time.”
“She’s allowed to.”
“I know.”
The room fell quiet. A clock ticked in the corner, more insistently than it should have.
Eloise stepped closer, her tone shifting. “You’ve spent your whole life managing things - what you say, what you show, what you let people think they see. But I know you, Anthony. And I know her. Whatever you wrote to her - it wasn’t that.”
He looked at her then, not sharply, but like a man who had run out of places to hide and knew it.
“She’s probably reading it again right now,” Eloise said. “And trying not to feel too much, which, as you know, never works for long.”
Anthony turned away, his gaze drifting toward the window, where the mist still clung to the glass like breath.
“You could go to her,” Eloise said.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t gentle, either. It was a truth offered plainly, as only a sibling could.
He didn’t speak.
“You have every excuse,” she continued, stepping back. “You could say it’s for the estate. Or the livestock. Or that you’re chasing the goose. But we both know it’s none of that.”
Anthony said nothing, but she could see the flicker in his jaw.
“If you wait for her to come to you, she might not,” Eloise said. “Not because she doesn’t want to. But because she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to want it.”
He didn’t move, but the silence had changed. It no longer felt passive. It felt like decision, coiled and waiting.
Eloise paused in the doorway, then added, without irony, “Besides, you’ll be insufferable all summer if you don’t.”
And then she was gone.
The house resumed its rhythm - trunks being loaded, goodbyes being said, carriage wheels shifting on gravel - but Anthony stood motionless, staring at nothing, while the words she hadn’t written pressed louder in his chest than the ones she had.
By the time the carriages pulled away from Grosvenor Street, bound for the green hills of Kent and the clean air of Aubrey Hall, Anthony was no longer in London.
He hadn’t told his mother.
He hadn’t written a note.
He had only taken his coat, packed a small bag, and slid one letter into the inner pocket - the one folded with careful hands and sealed simply, the one that said “I imagine you’d like it,” and said everything else between the lines.
The road to Cornwall stretched long and gray before him.
She hadn’t answered.
So now, he would.
Notes:
Anyone else squeeeee?
Chapter 14: Where the Silence Led
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The rain had stopped sometime in the early hours, leaving the world hushed and glistening. Fog clung to the hills like a half-tucked blanket, stretching long and low across the moor, bleeding into the hedgerows and flower beds until everything soft and certain blurred at the edges.
Inside, the kitchen was warm.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, its glow washing amber across the scrubbed wooden floor. The kettle hissed gently. A half-finished letter sat on the table – ink drying in a flourish she couldn’t quite bring herself to end.
Penelope hadn’t slept well.
Not since Anthony's last letter arrived.
There’s a bench in the south garden, near the lavender.
I imagine you’d like it.
She had read that line three times before folding it away. Tucked it under the edge of the teacup as if that might stop it from looking at her. As if the invitation – because it was one – might behave like any other letter and politely wait its turn.
But it hadn’t waited. It had lived in the room with her, louder in its silence than all of Aunt Petunia’s sensible observations about goose habits and currant bushes combined.
She hadn’t written back.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she did.
And that was the problem.
She’d come to Cornwall to escape it all – the silks, the smiles, the relentless performance of being pleasant enough to ignore. She’d needed quiet. She’d needed space.
And she had found it.
The kind that didn’t ask for anything. That didn’t press or perform. That let her breathe.
She had not expected Anthony Bridgerton to follow her into that quiet. Not with declarations or demands, but with letters – precise, observant, maddeningly sincere.
They weren’t long. They weren’t bold.
But they saw her.
Cornwall suits you.
You write like someone who’s stopped trying to impress the room.
I find myself wanting more.
He hadn’t praised her looks. He hadn’t flirted. He had thanked her for her clarity. Told her she made him think. Made space, instead of taking it.
And now, gently, he had asked her to come to him.
But she hadn’t answered.
Because answering meant something.
Even silence had begun to mean something.
She told herself she didn’t know. That she was still deciding. But maybe the truth was simpler –
She was afraid.
Because it wasn’t just Anthony she’d be returning to. It was the world she’d left behind.
A world that had overlooked her – and then, when it finally deigned to look, made her a joke.
She hadn’t stepped into the light that night.
Colin had dragged her there.
Her affection, once private, had become punchline. Something soft and loyal and easy to mock.
And the room had laughed.
Whistledown had been her shield. A way to be sharp when softness failed. To be heard when her real voice wasn’t wanted. Being invisible had hurt, but visibility hadn’t saved her either. The spotlight could strip you bare just as quickly as the shadows could smother you.
Now Anthony was offering her something quieter.
Not a stage. Not a spotlight. Just… a bench. A garden. A space beside him.
But that space would be visible, too.
Even if this never became more than letters – even if it ended before it began – it would be seen. She would be seen.
And could she bear that?
Could she survive it, if the world turned on her again?
But then again…
Could she go back to being invisible?
Not now. Not after being seen – truly seen – by him.
And if she stepped into that light again, and it burned?
What would be left of her then?
The kettle had begun to hiss behind her, soft and steady, a warning that barely broke through the hush of the morning.
Penelope turned slowly, her movements quiet and deliberate, as though anything too sudden might shatter the fragile stillness in the room. She lifted her teacup with both hands and carried it to the basin, the warmth of it seeping into her palms even as the air around her felt suspended and cool. Like it was holding its breath.
She set the cup down, porcelain meeting porcelain with a gentle tap, and let her fingertips linger against the edge of the sink.
Then she looked up.
Through the kitchen window – its glass slightly warped by age and damp with condensation – the world beyond had blurred into pale mist and curling fog. The stone path was slick with rain, the garden still wet from a night that had not fully released its hold.
And there – just past the brambles, half-shadowed in the gray light – stood Anthony Bridgerton.
It wasn't a vision. Not a trick of the fog.
He was real. He was here.
His coat was unfastened, the dark wool stirring faintly in the breeze, the wind tugging at it like something alive. He wore no hat, carried no umbrella, offered no protection against the elements. He looked weathered by the morning but entirely unbothered, as though he had been standing there for some time – and intended to remain for longer still.
He wasn’t moving.
He hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t called out. Hadn’t stepped toward the door.
He was simply waiting.
Watching.
Not with demand. Not even with hope.
It did not feel like a man come to insist on something. It felt like someone who had arrived not for an answer, but to offer proof that she didn’t need to give one. Not in ink. Not with practiced charm. Not with the safety of careful silence.
Not with anything more than her presence – should she choose to give it.
And being seen like that – without pretense or armor – was terrifying in a way no ballroom ever had been.
Her hand curled lightly against the edge of the basin. She didn’t move.
The glass had begun to fog at the corners, a soft breath of condensation creeping outward. It might have been hers. Or his. Or perhaps the moment itself, exhaling after holding its breath for far too long.
Something inside her shifted – not a grand revelation, but a quiet loosening of the threads she’d pulled tight around herself for months.
Anthony.
She had imagined him here once, idly. Wondered how he might look against the backdrop of Cornwall. What his letters would sound like if they were spoken aloud. What kind of man he became when stripped of title and formality.
And now he was standing in her aunt’s garden, as though summoned not by words – but by waiting.
She took one deep, steadying breath.
And then she moved.
Out through the back door. Onto the damp grass. Her shawl slipping from one shoulder, her boots sinking slightly into the softened earth.
The air between them clouded with her breath.
He didn’t speak.
Not at first.
And neither did she.
They simply stood there – two figures stitched into the same hush, the same impossible morning.
At last, her voice came, rough with disbelief.
"You're here."
He looked at her. No smile. Just honesty.
"I wasn’t sure if I should come."
"Then why did you?"
A pause.
A breath.
"Because you didn’t say no."
She blinked. The fog thickened. Her heart did something foolish.
"I didn’t say yes either."
He nodded. Quietly. As if every word that came next would matter.
"I’ll go," he said, "if you ask me to. But I had to see for myself. What your silence truly meant."
The goose honked somewhere in the distance – oblivious, furious.
But the rest of the world held still.
Neither of them moved.
But the distance between them had already changed.
Notes:
Anthony’s arrival was inspired by this scene:
Here’s a Spoiler for Chapter 16
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