Chapter Text
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It was a morning like any other, except that my head pounded with a familiar rhythm, a souvenir from too many drinks the night before. It was a grim reminder of my poor choices. White’s had been a mistake; the brothel afterward, even more so. Now, I hoped a stroll through Hyde Park might finally clear the lingering fog in my mind.
And then I saw her.
Miss Penelope Featherington sat alone on a weathered bench, her body folded in on itself, her gaze locked on the still water ahead. Her hair, usually pinned and neat, tumbled in loose curls over her shoulders. She wore a pale green dress, wrinkled and thin, with no gloves or shawl to ward off the morning chill. Her bare feet rested on the damp ground, pale against the mist-covered grass.
But it wasn’t her disheveled state that stopped me in my tracks.
It was her eyes.
They were empty, hollow. The light I’d seen dancing in them at every ball, every stolen glance across crowded rooms, was gone. It had been completely snuffed out.
I felt my chest tighten, as though someone had reached in and twisted my heart.
“Miss Featherington,” I called softly.
No reaction.
I tried again, louder this time. “Miss Featherington.”
Still nothing.
I swallowed, then ventured, “Penelope.”
Her head jerked as if breaking free of invisible chains. She turned to face me, her eyes wide with shock. A deep frown creased her brow, and for a fleeting moment, I was sure she was about to cry.
She cleared her throat, her voice brittle and uneven. “Lord Fife… what are you doing here?”
There was an edge to her tone. It was defiant, almost irritated. A chuckle escaped me before I could stop it, though there was no humour in it.
“I believe I should be the one asking that. It is far too early for a young lady to be wandering Hyde Park alone, and barefoot, at that. Where is your lady’s maid?”
She turned back to the water, her voice sharp and bitter. “A ruined woman needs no chaperone, and what I do is no concern of yours.”
The words landed like stones.
“You are not ruined, Miss Featherington,” I said gently.
Her head snapped toward me, eyes blazing with something far darker than anger. “What do you want, Lord Fife? A squeeze in the shadows like your peers? Or perhaps a proposition to warm your bed?”
I flinched as though struck. What cruel tongues had filled her mind with such poison? I would find them. I would not let this stand.
Slowly, so as not to startle her, I removed my coat. My voice softened, almost pleading. “What I want, Miss Featherington, is for you to take this coat and stop shivering. It’s too cold, and I’d rather not see you fall ill.”
Her breath caught. She looked at the coat, then at me, suspicion and disbelief flickering across her face, as if kindness itself was foreign and untrustworthy.
I stepped closer, draping it gently over her shoulders. She stiffened beneath my touch but didn’t pull away.
“Better?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes… thank you.”
“Come,” I urged softly. “Let me take you home before your mother discovers you’ve gone.”
She gave a bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob.“She wouldn’t care. Not now… Not after I’ve ruined everything for them.”
My heart ached. I tilted my head, trying to catch her eyes. “Not all is lost.”
Her voice cracked as she interrupted me. “But it is! There’s nothing left for me here.”
I stepped closer, my tone steady, unwavering. “I disagree.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice hollow. “When the season ends, I’ll leave Mayfair for good.”
“And where will you go?” I asked, careful not to sound accusing.
Her lip curled in disdain. “Why? Is finding me like this not enough gossip for you, Lord Fife?”
I swallowed my frustration, lowering my voice to a gentle murmur. “No, Miss Featherington. I’ve no intention of feeding the ton’s appetite for cruelty. I only wish to understand… to speak to you as a friend might.”
She said nothing. We walked in silence until my carriage came into view. The footman opened the door, and I extended my hand to her.
She froze. “I’ll walk,” she muttered, fumbling to return my coat.
I caught her hand but not tightly, just enough to stop her trembling fingers. She flinched at my touch.
“Penelope,” I said softly, using her name deliberately, “forgive my bluntness… but you have no shoes, no coat, and it’s bitterly cold. Please. Let me take you home safely. That’s all I want.”
Her eyes shimmered with unspoken pain. She hesitated, her lips parting as though she might refuse again.
“If anyone sees us,” she whispered, “you’ll be the talk of the ton before noon.”
“Let them talk,” I said, my voice rougher now, surprising even myself.
She stared at me, searching my face for mockery. Finding none.
I let my expression soften, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. “And if they do… we’ll run away to the countryside. Perhaps it’s not such a terrible thing to escape these vipers together.”
“Fine,” she said at last.
I offered my hand again, and this time she took it, a small, fragile hand trembling in mine.
Inside the carriage, I took a seat opposite her, maintaining a careful distance to avoid crowding her. The ride passed in silence. I found myself stealing glances at her now and then, trying not to stare, but something about her held my gaze.
When we arrived at her home, I exited first, turning to help her down. She accepted my hand with less hesitation now, her grip firmer, warmer.
“Thank you,” I said softly, bowing slightly. “For allowing me to see you safely home.”
She clutched my coat for a moment longer before handing it back. “Thank you… for your kindness,” she whispered. Then, with hurried steps, she vanished toward the servants’ entrance, slipping like a shadow into the house.
I stood there long after she’d disappeared, her hollow eyes burning into my memory. The absence of her usual warmth haunted me.
As the carriage carried me away, fury rose within me. I had once called Colin Bridgerton my friend, but no friend of mine would wound a woman so deeply. This wasn’t the sting of the ton’s whispers. What I had seen in Penelope Featherington was something far worse. The quiet devastation of a woman utterly and heartbreakingly broken.
It was hard to believe this was how their story ended.
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From the moment Penelope Featherington first debuted, every man of standing, including myself, remained on the sidelines. It wasn't because she lacked charm or wit, but because it was plain as day where her heart lay. The girl was utterly and irrevocably besotted with Colin Bridgerton.
And truth be told, Colin was no different. He just hadn’t yet grasped the depth of his own feelings. It was always there, simmering beneath the surface. The way his eyes sought her out at every assembly, how his laugh came easier when she was near, how no ball seemed complete without a dance with her in his arms. They had a friendship that needed no explanation, no performance. They belonged to each other long before either of them admitted it. Not even to themselves.
Any man with a working pair of eyes knew it. We all knew it, so we stayed away. We let it be. We waited for the inevitable day when Colin would finally see what was right in front of him. I even tried once to speed along that revelation. One night, after too many drinks, I asked him directly if he was courting her. I thought perhaps hearing it aloud would shake some sense into him. Instead, the fool humiliated her.
He slurred out some thoughtless jest, and I will never forget his words: “I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”
In that single, careless boast, Colin Bridgerton damned her. The ton had whispered about her before, but his words sealed her fate. They were unforgiving, cutting deep enough to scar, and they made her nearly unmarriageable. Penelope heard it all. I will never forget the look on her face when those cruel syllables struck her, the heartbreak that shattered her quiet dignity.
That was never my intention. I had only meant to wake him up, to force him to see her and their connection. Instead, I watched her heart break, and I did nothing to stop it.
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So when this season at last brought them together, when I saw Colin stumbling over himself to win her back from Lord Debling, I felt something rare, genuine joy. Joy for my friend. Joy for her.
Finally, after years of waiting and silent yearning, they had found each other. A true love match in a world where marriages were forged not by affection but by advantage. I thought theirs was to be one of those rare stories where love triumphed over duty.
But I was wrong. He abandoned her.
And the Bridgertons… the Bridgertons were no better.
How could they, a family that had once embraced her, abandon her so completely? They cast her out as if she were nothing more than yesterday’s gossip, swept away before dawn. At every ball, every soiree, they turned their backs, leaving her to stand alone, as though she were unworthy of even a polite nod.
They made her disposable.
They did not simply ignore her, they rejected her publicly and cruelly, as though she were filth to be scraped from their glittering name.
And yet… it was Colin. Colin.
Colin who had promised himself to her, who had asked for her hand, and who had pledged himself to her before God and family. He walked away from their wedding a week before it was to take place. The ton feasted on her humiliation like vultures on carrion. Even Lady Whistledown, the mysterious voice everyone admired, chose to defend Colin, twisting the narrative until Penelope bore all the shame.
Decency demanded that Anthony Bridgerton step in to shield her from the ruin his brother had caused. Benedict, at the very least, could have done what honour dictated and offered his own hand in Colin’s place. But none of them did. Not one lifted a finger to protect her. They left her to drown.
By the time I reached home, the fury inside me was a living thing. My blood thundered in my ears as I strode to my study. I poured a drink, downed it in one gulp, and when the fire in my chest only burned hotter, I hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered like the fragile remains of my loyalty to that family.
I was no saint. I had my sins; God knows I had plenty. But the look in Penelope Featherington’s eyes would haunt me until my last breath. It was the same hollow, desperate look I had once seen in my mother’s eyes, a silent, creeping despair that started small, eating away at her spirit until nothing remained. She wasted to nothing but shadows, her laughter died, and her smiles became brittle masks meant only for me.
And now, I saw it again in Penelope. Something inside me broke. I could not stand by, not like the Bridgertons, and not like all the others who turned their backs on her as if she were nothing.
No.
If they would not stand for her… I would.
The bond of friendship I had once shared with Anthony, with Benedict, and most of all with Colin, was now ash. Loyalty meant nothing if it demanded I watch an innocent woman be crushed beneath their indifference.
From this day forward, Penelope Featherington would not face this hell alone. Not while I still drew breath.