Chapter 1: A Knock at Midnight
Chapter Text
Penelope's POV
It was late, the Featherington house wrapped in the uneasy silence of midnight. Penelope sat curled up in her room, a book open but unread upon her lap, her mind circling endlessly. Marina’s secret weighed on her shoulders like a stone. She had known of the pregnancy for weeks now, had written and rewritten Whistledown drafts that might expose it, only to tear them up. She thought she had more time. Time to find the right words. Time to save Colin without destroying him.
But time, it seemed, had already slipped away.
The muffled rise and fall of voices drew her from her thoughts. Her parents’ chamber was across the hall from her own, and though Pen had never been a practiced eavesdropper, something in the urgent hiss of her mother’s tone made her pause. She crept to her door, cracked it open, and strained to listen.
“—must be done quickly, before the Bridgertons can interfere,” her mother was whispering. “The boy is soft enough to be persuaded. Marina will insist upon Gretna Green if necessary. Once vows are spoken, the matter is finished.”
Pen’s blood turned to ice.
Her father made some low, fretful protest, but Portia’s sharper voice cut across his. “Do you want her ruined entirely? Do you want us ruined? This is the only way. Marina’s child will be passed off as a Bridgerton heir, and Colin will have no choice but to keep her. By the time the truth is guessed, it will be far too late.”
A roaring filled Penelope’s ears, drowning out the rest.
Gretna Green. Marriage. Colin.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, her heart lurching painfully. She had tried—she had tried to warn him, gently, subtly, when the engagement had been announced. She’d begged him to consider. But Colin, with all the bright arrogance of a young man certain he was in love, had only laughed off her worries, dismissing them as girlish jealousy.
And now it was too late.
Her mother’s scheme would destroy him.
Her knees nearly gave way beneath her as she backed from the door, retreating into the shadows of her own chamber. Whistledown could not save him now. A printed column, a rumor in the sheets, would come too late once Colin and Marina had fled London.
She needed someone who could act. Someone who would not dismiss her as Colin had. Someone who could protect the Bridgertons from ruin.
Anthony.
The thought came sharp and certain, cutting through her panic. Anthony Bridgerton, stern and unyielding, who carried his family’s honor as though it were a shield strapped to his chest. He would believe her—or at least he would listen long enough to act.
Before she could second-guess the madness of it, Pen was shoving her feet into slippers and dragging a cloak around her shoulders. There was no time for hesitation, no time for shame at what she was about to do. She ignored the voice in her head that whispered that no well-bred young lady had any business running to a gentleman’s house in the dead of night.
She was halfway down the back stairs before she realized she was trembling.
“Please,” she whispered to herself as she slipped into the cool night air, the Featherington house silent behind her. “Please let me not be too late.”
And then she was running through the darkened streets, heart hammering, praying Anthony Bridgerton would open his door.
The Bridgerton townhouse loomed ahead like a fortress, dark save for the faint glow of a lamp in a downstairs window. Penelope’s legs burned from the run, her breath catching in her throat as she pounded on the side entrance. For one terrifying moment, she thought no one would come. Then, at last, the door creaked open.
“Miss Featherington?” Humboldt, the butler, blinked down at her, candle trembling in his hand. “What on earth—”
“There’s no time,” she burst out, voice shaking. “I must see Lord Bridgerton. Now.”
Before the poor man could so much as protest, Penelope swept past him, her slippers skidding on the polished floors. She ignored his startled, “Miss Penelope!” and took the stairs two at a time, her cloak trailing behind her. She had been here enough times to know the way—to Eloise’s chambers, to the nursery, and yes, to the Viscount’s rooms.
Her heart thundered as she seized the handle, wrenched the door open, and plunged inside.
The chamber was dark, heavy with the warmth of sleep. A deep groan sounded from the bed.
“Good God—what—” came Anthony Bridgerton’s voice, hoarse and annoyed. The sheets rustled as he sat up.
A match flared; a lamp was lit. And suddenly there he was—half-naked, hair mussed, eyes narrowing as they landed on her.
Penelope froze, mortification flooding her cheeks scarlet. “Oh! I—I beg your pardon, I didn’t—”
Anthony raked a hand down his face, trying to force his brain to catch up with what his eyes were telling him. “Miss Featherington?” His voice cracked in disbelief. “It is the middle of the bloody night—what are you doing in my bedchamber?”
Pen made a helpless, strangled sound, twisting her cloak tighter around herself as if it could shield her from the scandal of it all. “Forgive me, my lord, I would never—never—if it weren’t dire, I swear it! But Colin—oh, God, Colin—”
That name snapped him awake faster than any cold bath. He swung his legs to the floor and reached for a shirt, tugging it over his head with clipped, irritated movements. “What of Colin?”
“They’ve gone,” Pen gasped, clutching the cloak so hard her fingers ached. “Marina—and my mother helped her—she’s carrying another man’s child and they mean to trap him. They’re on their way to Gretna Green.”
Anthony went still. For a heartbeat, she thought he would laugh at her, dismiss her as Colin had. But his face hardened, jaw tightening, eyes sharp with calculation. Without a word, he strode past her into the corridor, throwing open his brother’s door.
The room was empty.
The bed, untouched.
Anthony swore violently, the sound echoing down the hall.
It was enough to wake the house. Doors opened along the corridor. Benedict appeared, shirtless, hair sticking up at odd angles. Violet, elegant even in her night-robe, hurried forward, her expression pinched with alarm.
“What is happening?” Violet demanded, eyes darting between her eldest son—half-dressed, wild-eyed—and Penelope Featherington, of all people, flushed and trembling in her cloak. “Anthony, why is Miss Featherington in your room at this hour?”
It was mortification so complete Pen thought she might sink through the floor. Her tongue felt heavy, but if she did not speak now, it would be worse later. She pressed shaking hands together and forced the words out.
“Because I am Lady Whistledown.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Benedict’s jaw dropped. Violet’s hand flew to her throat. Anthony blinked once, twice, as though certain he must still be dreaming.
Pen’s voice broke as she rushed on, words tumbling over themselves. “I knew Marina was with child—that it wasn’t Colin’s. I tried to stop him, I tried to warn him, but he would not listen. I thought there was more time, but there isn’t. Not anymore. They’re gone. And if we don’t stop them…” Her breath hitched, her eyes burning with tears. “He will be ruined.”
The corridor seemed to spin around her. She saw Violet’s pale shock, Benedict’s incredulous gape, and Anthony—Anthony staring at her with a mixture of fury, astonishment, and something else. Something unreadable.
And in that suspended, breathless moment, Pen knew there was no going back.
Anthony's POV
Anthony had thought himself beyond shock. War, death, the viscountcy—all of it had burned the innocence from him years ago. Yet as Penelope Featherington’s confession hung in the corridor air, he found himself staggered.
Lady Whistledown.
The quiet girl who trailed after Eloise, cheeks flushed, words stammering. The girl who had just burst into his bedchamber like a thunderbolt from God. The same girl now stood before him, cloak pulled tight, trembling—but with her chin high, her voice firm enough to rattle the walls.
It was absurd. And yet it made a twisted kind of sense.
Anthony forced himself to swallow down his astonishment and take control. Colin was gone. That was what mattered.
“Not here,” he said at last, his voice sharp as a whip. He caught his mother’s wrist and steered them all—Benedict, still gawping; Violet, pale with fury and fear; Penelope, near weeping—toward his mother’s sitting room. The fire had long gone cold, the air chill, but it would do.
Once the door was shut behind them, Violet turned, eyes flashing.
“Anthony. Explain. Now.”
He drew a breath, fighting for control. “Colin has eloped. Marina Thompson is carrying another man’s child. Penelope overheard her mother’s scheme. They are bound for Gretna Green.”
Violet swayed, one hand bracing against the arm of her chair. “Dear Lord.”
Benedict gave a low whistle, dropping into a seat. “Well. That explains the odd air about the Featheringtons. But—” he cut a disbelieving glance toward Penelope—“Whistledown? Truly?”
Penelope flinched but did not back down. Her small hands twisted in her cloak, but her voice was steady. “Yes. I wrote every word. I did it to provide for my family, to carve out a voice of my own. I never meant to hurt any of you, but I could not stand by while my mother schemed.”
Anthony’s mouth pressed into a grim line. He should have been furious—he was, truthfully—but alongside the fury was a grudging, impossible admiration. It took steel to stand in this room, to admit such a crime to the very people she had written about.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Violet’s voice cracked. “The danger you’ve placed yourself in? If the Queen knew—if anyone knew—” She broke off, her eyes glistening with tears. “And now Colin—my sweet boy—”
“I will bring him back,” Anthony said, cutting through the rising tide of panic. “Before vows are spoken. If the marriage is sealed, I have no choice but to disinherit him.”
Violet’s head snapped up. “Anthony!”
“I mean it,” he said flatly. “I will not have the Bridgerton line tarnished by deceit. Marina’s child is not his, and I will not allow a lie to root itself in our family. Colin may hate me for it, but I will not waver.”
The room went deathly still.
Anthony’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He saw Penelope out of the corner of his eye, her gaze fixed on him—not in judgment, but in understanding. That startled him more than anything. She saw what no one else seemed to: the weight he carried, the burden of honor that left him no room for softness.
“You cannot go alone,” Benedict said at last, rising. “You’ll need me.”
“You’ll stay,” Anthony snapped. “The family must be protected if I fail. London cannot be left without a Bridgerton presence.”
Benedict’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.
Violet pressed a hand to her temple, visibly fighting to remain composed. “At least…at least wait until morning.”
“There is no time,” Anthony said. “Every mile Colin travels brings him closer to ruin.” He turned toward the door, already calculating how quickly he could have the horses saddled.
“I am coming with you.”
The words, quiet but firm, drew his gaze. Penelope stood straighter now, color high in her cheeks, eyes blazing with something that looked far too much like courage.
“Absolutely not,” he said, sharper than he intended. “It is scandal enough you were in my chamber tonight. You will remain here—”
“You will not silence me!” she burst out, surprising them all. “I am the one who uncovered this. I know Marina’s deceit better than anyone. If you face her, if you face Colin, you will need my voice. You may not want me at your side, Lord Bridgerton, but I will not be left behind while your brother is led to his destruction.”
The fire in her words made his stomach twist.
For one mad instant, Anthony thought of the scene they must present: his mother aghast, Benedict dumbfounded, Penelope Featherington standing toe-to-toe with him in the middle of the night.
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to curse. He wanted to—
Instead, he inclined his head, slow and deliberate. “Very well. But understand me, Miss Featherington—if you falter, if you fall, I will not turn back. Do you comprehend me?”
Her chin lifted. “I will not fall.”
Silence rang in the little sitting room. Violet sank heavily into a chair, pressing a hand to her brow as if she could not bear another moment. Benedict muttered something that might have been a prayer.
Anthony turned toward the door, his decision made. His course was set.
There would be no stopping until Colin was found.
The night pressed cool and damp against his skin as the horses thundered along the empty road, their hooves striking sparks on the stone. Anthony hands clutching the reins, his focus split between the dark ribbon of highway ahead and the figure riding steadily at his side.
Penelope Featherington.
Of all the things that had startled him this cursed night—her pounding on his door, her wild confession, her transformation from timid wallflower into a storm—nothing unsettled him quite like the sight of her now.
He had expected to leave her behind within the first mile. He had expected her to clutch the reins in terror, to beg for the carriage, to fall behind. But instead, she rode with an ease that rivaled his own, back straight, hands steady, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The cloak whipped about her like a banner, the lamplight catching the strands of her hair as they escaped her bonnet.
“You ride,” he said at last, unable to keep the note of astonishment from his voice.
Pen shot him a glance that was almost smug. “I am not entirely helpless, my lord.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself. “You could have fooled me all these years.”
“I find people are eager to believe what they already expect,” she replied evenly, nudging her horse closer to his. “If I play the part of the quiet, timid girl, no one looks twice at me. It is useful.”
“Useful,” he echoed, his gaze lingering on her in the shifting moonlight. “To write as Whistledown.”
Her lips curved, not quite a smile, but not a denial either. “It would be rather difficult to slip into gambling halls and clubs in my own skin, do you not think? Easier to observe quietly. Easier still when no one bothers to see you.”
Anthony felt the words land with a weight heavier than he liked. How many times had he dismissed her himself? Eloise’s shadow, a mousy little friend with downcast eyes. How often had he not seen her?
“I must say,” he said slowly, “you are far cleverer than you allow the world to know.”
Her cheeks colored, though her gaze did not falter. “And you, Lord Bridgerton, are far more aware than you let your family believe.”
He barked a short laugh. “Do not flatter me. I have a reputation for being a cold, interfering ass, and I have earned every inch of it.”
“Yes,” Penelope agreed at once, so dryly he could not help glancing at her in mock-offense. “You have.”
“You wound me.”
“Not nearly so much as you wounded half the young ladies you refused to dance with last season,” she shot back. “Lady Whistledown may have taken some liberties, but I assure you—your surly glares and stiff waltzes required very little embellishment.”
Anthony groaned. “God above, you did write that drivel about my dancing.”
“Entirely accurate drivel.” Now she did smile, a quick spark of mischief that startled him more than her tears had earlier.
“You ruinous creature,” he muttered, though his lips twitched against his will.
They rode in silence for a stretch, the horses’ breath misting in the cool air, until Pen spoke again, softer this time.
“I never lied about Siena, you know. Only recorded what everyone already whispered.”
Anthony’s grip on the reins tightened, his jaw locking. Siena. Even now the name stung, a memory of bitterness and ash. He had loved her—he thought he had—and she had made a fool of him.
Pen’s voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “It was not malice, Anthony. It was truth. And the truth would have come out, whether I wrote it or not.”
The use of his name startled him almost as much as the softness in her tone. Few dared address him so directly. He found himself answering before he could think better of it.
“Truth is a weapon,” he said quietly. “You wield it more ruthlessly than most men I know.”
She hesitated, then: “And yet you do not hate me for it.”
He looked at her, really looked at her—the fire in her eyes, the steel beneath her trembling voice, the determination that had carried her onto the road with him tonight.
“No,” he said, surprising himself with the honesty of it. “I think I admire you.”
Her breath caught, and she turned her face away, the moonlight gilding her cheek.
He forced himself to go on, to keep the silence from swallowing them. “Did you also enjoy parading Simon’s scandal across your pages? Or my sister’s misfortune with Berbrooke?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “No. Those were…difficult choices. I regret hurting Daphne, I truly do. But exposing Berbrooke’s intentions protected her.” She bit her lip, glancing at him with sudden fierceness. “Would you rather I had kept quiet, and let her suffer in silence?”
The retort struck him square in the chest. He remembered Daphne’s pale face, her trembling confession, his helpless fury.
“No,” he admitted hoarsely. “You were right. I only wish—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I wish I had seen sooner.”
The night stretched around them, filled only with the rhythmic thrum of hooves. For the first time in years, Anthony felt the weight on his shoulders shift—slightly, but enough to notice. It was strange, this sharing of burdens with a girl he had barely noticed a fortnight ago. Stranger still how easily her words pierced through the armor he had built around himself.
Penelope Featherington. Lady Whistledown. His unlikely ally on the road to Gretna Green.
He risked another glance at her. She sat tall in the saddle, hair loose about her face, cloak snapping in the wind. There was a fierceness in her he had never imagined, and a warmth that unsettled him more than her sharp words.
For the first time since Colin’s empty bed had greeted him, Anthony allowed himself a sliver of hope. Perhaps they would catch him in time. Perhaps disaster could be averted.
And perhaps—just perhaps—this mad ride north would change far more than Colin’s fate.
The sun had been up for hours, but the road stretched endlessly, dusty and unchanging. Their horses plodded at an easier pace now, the frenzy of their first night’s ride tempered by the knowledge that Colin and Marina had a day’s head start. They would catch them—Anthony would see to it—but the chase had become a long grind north.
He expected silence. Instead, he found himself talking.
It began with little things: where the best posting inns were, the stories of reckless duels fought on these very roads, old memories of traveling with his father. To his surprise, Penelope listened—truly listened—not with the glazed politeness of society, but with sharp eyes and thoughtful questions. She did not simper or flatter. She prodded, she challenged.
When he confessed, half under his breath, that he hated inns because he had spent too many nights sleeping in them while escorting his father on Parliament business, she had only murmured, “Then you dislike them for the same reason I envy them.”
That startled a laugh out of him. “Envy? Of dingy straw pallets and thin soup?”
“You forget, Lord Bridgerton, my family’s house is not always filled with the comfort yours is,” she said lightly, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “At least an innkeeper is polite, if only for coin. My sisters… well, they have never let me forget what I am.”
Anthony slowed his horse, glancing at her. “What you are?”
“The ugly one,” she said simply, her voice calm in a way that made it worse. “The overlooked one. The one no one dances with unless Eloise drags them over. It is not cruel if it is true, is it? At least, that is what my mother would say.”
Anthony felt something twist painfully in his chest.
“And yet,” he said, his tone harder than he meant, “you write yourself into Whistledown’s sheets. If anyone has been cruel to you, it is yourself.”
She blinked, startled. “I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in. “Your column mocks wallflowers, ridicules spinsters, feeds the wolves the very scraps they tear you with. Why?”
Her hands tightened on her reins. For a moment he thought she might not answer. Then, quietly: “Because that is what everyone else already says. I only give their words a sharper ink. Better to hold the quill myself than be cut by someone else’s.”
Anthony exhaled slowly, anger and admiration colliding within him.
“You should not have to,” he said, softer now. “It is a defense no girl should need.”
She gave a brittle smile. “Well. I long ago accepted I would never marry. The wallflower is safest when pressed to the edges, away from the dance floor. I made my peace with it.”
The words, spoken so calmly, ignited a rare, reckless spark in Anthony. Perhaps it was the long road, perhaps the exhaustion, perhaps simply that she had shown him more truth in two days than anyone else had in years.
“You are wrong,” he said at last, the words low, almost rough.
Her head jerked toward him, eyes wide.
Anthony held her gaze, steady. “You are not ugly, Penelope. Not forgettable. Not some shadow skulking at the edge of the ballroom. You are the one who notices what others miss, who feels what others dismiss. You care with a fierceness most men could never summon, and you have the courage to ride beside me now, when most would have cowered at the scandal of it. That is no small thing. That is beauty.”
He paused, his chest rising sharply. “Any man would be fortunate to call you his wife. Fortunate—and proud. Tell me, what greater fool is there than the one who cannot see you?”
The silence that followed was thick, electric. Pen’s lips parted, her breath catching, her eyes shining in a way that made his throat tighten.
She tried to deflect, her voice faltering. “Well. Colin certainly does not.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched at the mention of his brother, but Pen’s expression stopped him. She was not wounded—not anymore. There was a clarity in her gaze that spoke of something closed, something finished.
“I thought I loved him,” she admitted quietly, almost to herself. “I thought I saw in him the kindness no one else gave me. But when I tried to warn him—when I begged him to think—he spoke down to me as though I were a child. Whatever feelings I had… they withered in that moment. I realize now it was never love. Only hope. And hope can die very quickly.”
Anthony’s grip tightened on the reins, his chest aching in a way he could not name.
“You deserved better than his dismissal,” he said, his voice rough.
Pen laughed softly, without mirth. “I have long since learned to expect nothing else.”
That was too much. He turned to her fully, reining in his horse so that they slowed to a walk. “Do not say that. Do not diminish yourself in that way, not before me. You are—” He broke off, shaking his head. The words felt dangerous on his tongue, too raw. But she deserved them. She deserved someone to say them. “You are remarkable, Penelope Featherington. And I will not hear you say otherwise.”
Her eyes locked on his, luminous in the fading light, and for a suspended moment he felt the ground shift beneath him.
The world shrank to the space between them: the rhythm of hooves, the creak of saddles, the shared air as their horses walked side by side. She looked at him as though she were seeing him for the first time—not the viscount, not the tyrant of the ballroom, but the man behind it.
And God help him, he wanted her to keep looking.
Anthony tore his gaze away, forcing his eyes back to the road, his pulse hammering far too fast. He had no business thinking of her like this. She was Eloise’s friend. She was the girl he had dismissed for years. She was—
She was more than he had ever guessed.
And every mile they rode together drew her closer to the center of his thoughts.
Penelope's POV
The clatter of wheels reached her ears first, faint but distinct, carried on the wind. Pen sat straighter in her saddle, pulse leaping. When Anthony raised a hand, they slowed to a trot, both straining toward the bend in the road.
And then she saw it: the dark shape of a carriage lumbering north, a single lantern swinging on its side. Marina’s carriage.
Her stomach turned over.
Anthony’s jaw was set like stone. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, before urging his horse into a gallop.
Pen’s instinct was to argue—but her breath caught at the sight of him, tall and commanding in the moonlight, cloak whipping behind him. He looked every inch the Viscount, every inch the protector of his family. For a moment, she could only watch in stunned silence as he surged forward to intercept his brother.
The startled shouts of a driver cracked the night. The carriage lurched to a halt under Anthony’s raised hand. He swung down from his horse with grim authority, striding to the door.
“Colin!” His voice rang like thunder. “Get out.”
The door burst open, and Colin stumbled into the road, pale but defiant. “Anthony? What the devil—”
“Enough.” Anthony’s tone was steel. “Do you have any notion of what you are about to do? Of what ruin you invite upon yourself, upon this family?”
Colin’s hands clenched. “You cannot stop me. I love her, and she loves me—”
“Love?” Anthony barked, incredulous. “Is that what you call this farce?” He pointed toward the carriage. “Your Marina carries another man’s child. That is the truth of it. She means to chain you to her deceit before it can be discovered.”
The words rang out, sharp and merciless. Pen flinched, even knowing they were true.
Colin staggered back as though struck. “No. No, that is—” His gaze snapped to her, wild. “Penelope. This is your doing, isn’t it? Your poison words, your envy—you could not bear to see me happy, so you’ve spun this vile tale—”
The fury in his eyes made her throat seize. She had prepared herself for this, for his anger, for his betrayal. But hearing it—the boy she had once loved, spitting such venom—still cut deep.
Before she could muster a reply, Anthony moved. He stepped squarely between them, his presence filling the road, his voice low and dangerous.
“You will not speak to her that way.”
Colin froze.
Anthony’s hand was iron at his side, his body angled just enough to shield her. For a moment, Pen could only stare at his back, broad and unyielding, and feel the shiver that ran through her.
The desire startled her—unwelcome, impossible—and yet it burned beneath her ribs all the same. Anthony Bridgerton, the man she had always thought cold and unreachable, stood before her like a shield, like the only solid thing in the world.
Colin, trembling with rage, pointed at her over Anthony’s shoulder. “She has always meddled, always whispered. What lies has she fed you? You think her innocent, but she—”
“I know what she is,” Anthony cut him off, sharp as a blade. His voice softened only slightly as he glanced back, his gaze flicking over Pen for the briefest instant before returning to Colin. “She is the one who saved you. You would already be trapped if not for her courage. If you cannot see that, then you are more a fool than I feared.”
Pen’s breath caught. The road, the carriage, Marina’s tearful silhouette in the window—all of it blurred as those words echoed in her chest.
For the first time, Colin faltered. His face crumpled, boyish stubbornness clashing with dawning horror. “It cannot be true. Marina—tell him—”
But Marina’s sobs were answer enough.
Colin stumbled back, shaking his head, grief and fury twisting together.
And Pen, standing just behind Anthony’s shoulder, felt the sharp ache of her old affection for Colin die entirely. The boy she had once adored would have sacrificed her without hesitation. The man before her—the one she had never allowed herself to dream of—had shielded her with a single word.
And it was that moment, as the lantern’s light cast Anthony in fire and shadow, that Pen knew: her heart was no longer Colin’s to wound.
Anthony's POV
Anthony had faced down lords in Parliament, duelists at dawn, men twice his size in defense of his family’s name. None of them unnerved him half so much as watching Penelope Featherington step forward in the middle of that desolate road, cloak whipping about her, eyes blazing like judgment itself.
“Marina,” she said, her voice cold, stripped of every girlish tremor he had ever heard from her lips. “How dare you.”
The words cracked like a whip. Marina flinched, tears spilling as she clutched the carriage door.
“You would bind yourself to this family on a lie? You would ruin Colin—ruin all of them—for your own gain?” Pen’s tone did not rise, yet the force in it was enough to make even Anthony still. “Do you think yourself clever? You are nothing but a coward. A thief of futures. And I will not pity you.”
Marina’s mouth opened, some plea half-formed, but Pen cut her off with a flick of her hand, dismissive as a queen. “Do not waste your breath. Whatever choices you claim were forced upon you, this one was not. This was cruelty, plain and deliberate.”
Anthony’s chest tightened as he watched her. This was Whistledown—the sharp pen made flesh. He could see it now: the ruthless clarity, the refusal to bow. And God help him, it was magnificent.
Perfect.
The word seared through him before he could stop it.
Perfect in her fury, perfect in the way she placed herself not behind him, but beside him, staring down Marina with the unflinching steel of a general. Perfect in her loyalty to his brother, even as Colin’s barbed words still hung between them.
He had not seen her. All these years, and he had not seen her.
Colin, stricken, turned wild eyes on Marina. “Tell me it is not true,” he begged. “Tell me, please—”
Marina broke then, her sobs tearing through the night. “It is true,” she whispered, voice cracked. “The child is not yours. But I had no choice—no one would have me, and I thought—”
Colin staggered back, anguish twisting his features. He turned away from her, from them all, shoulders hunched as though the weight of it might crush him.
Anthony laid a hand on his brother’s arm, firm. “Enough. No more words tonight.”
He turned to the driver, voice brisk. “There is an inn a mile back. We will go there.” His eyes cut to Marina, sharp and merciless. “You will be escorted to London come morning. Alone. A maid and horseman will see you safe, but you will not travel with us.”
Marina nodded miserably, too broken to protest.
“Colin stays with me.” Anthony’s tone brooked no argument. “I will not let him out of my sight again.”
The ride back to the inn was cloaked in silence. Colin sat slumped in the carriage, pale and hollow-eyed, refusing to look at anyone. Marina wept quietly beside him, her sobs muffled by her hands.
Anthony rode alongside, his mind not on them, but on Penelope—riding steady as ever, her face calm now, though he could still see the banked fire in her eyes.
When at last they reached the inn, Anthony saw to the arrangements with clipped efficiency. Marina was placed in a small chamber, locked and barred save for a maid who would watch her until dawn. Colin was lodged in another room adjoining his own; Anthony held the key himself.
It was done. They were safe, for now.
And yet, as he watched Penelope remove her cloak in the dim light of the inn’s parlor, smoothing her hair with hands that did not tremble, he felt the disquiet settle deeper.
She had revealed herself tonight—not just as Whistledown, not just as the shy girl he thought he knew, but as something more. A force. A woman of intelligence, fire, loyalty, and courage.
A woman he could not stop seeing.
Anthony turned away, gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened. Tomorrow they would ride for London. Tomorrow the weight of duty would return, pressing down until there was no room for thoughts like these.
But tonight, as the inn grew quiet around them, he allowed himself the dangerous truth.
He wanted her.
And he would not soon forget the sight of Penelope Featherington standing in the road, eyes alight, cutting down lies with the precision of a blade.
Penelope's POV
The inn smelled of damp wood and smoke, the air heavy with the faint tang of spilled ale. Pen sat at the window in the pale light of morning, cloak gathered around her shoulders, watching as Marina’s small bundle of belongings was lashed to a horse.
Anthony had been brisk, efficient. A maid had been hired, a horseman engaged to see Marina back to London. No fanfare, no second chances. The decision had been his, his tone brooking no argument. Marina had wept, pale and stricken, but she had gone without protest, led away with the maid at her side.
Pen had not spoken a word to her. Not last night, not this morning. There was nothing left to say.
Instead, she found herself standing beside Anthony in the courtyard as Marina’s horse disappeared down the road. His shoulders were set, unyielding, and though his expression was carved from stone, she sensed the coil of tension beneath. This was how he carried his family—like an armored shield, taking every blow himself.
She realized she admired him for it. Admired him far more than she should.
“Come,” he said at last, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “We ride.”
Colin was silent as they climbed into the carriage. He had not spoken to her since the road, since his cruel words had sliced through her. He sat stiffly across from them, arms folded, his gaze fixed out the window as if he could will the world away.
Pen felt the sting of it, the final blow that severed what little remained of her girlish devotion. But to her surprise, it did not hurt as it once might have. Whatever flame had flickered for Colin was long since extinguished, smothered by truth and disillusion. In its place…something else stirred.
Something that had sparked on the road, when Anthony stood before her like a shield. Something that kindled anew now, every time she caught his profile in the morning light, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp on the horizon.
The carriage rocked, silence thick as the wheels clattered over uneven stones. Colin sat opposite them, arms folded, his gaze fixed stubbornly out the window. His face was pale, drawn, and he had not spoken a single word since Marina’s departure.
Anthony leaned back against the seat, long legs stretched out, his hand drumming once on his knee before stilling. The air in the carriage was taut, suffocating.
At last, he turned his head toward Penelope. “What will you do when the Season ends?” he asked, his tone deliberately mild.
She blinked at him, surprised. “The Season?”
“Yes,” he said, voice clipped but steady. “Most scramble to secure their matches before the last ball. But I imagine you…” His eyes lingered on her a moment, thoughtful. “…you might plan differently.”
Pen hesitated, conscious of Colin across from them, but finally answered, “When the Season ends, I read. I sew a little. I try not to be underfoot. Perhaps Eloise will have me at Aubrey Hall, if she hasn’t decided to flee the country entirely.”
Anthony’s lips quirked faintly, the ghost of a smile. “She’s threatened it often enough.”
“She means it every time,” Pen said softly, and for the first time since dawn she felt her shoulders loosen, just a fraction. “And you? What will you do when the Season is finished?”
Anthony exhaled through his nose, as though the question was more complicated than it should have been. “See to the estate. Parliament. Endless duties. The same as always.” His jaw flexed. “There is no end to it for me.”
She studied him quietly, the weight in his tone making her chest ache. “That sounds lonely.”
His eyes flicked to hers, sharp, almost startled. For a moment, she thought he might rebuke her for the familiarity, but instead he only said, low, “It is.”
The carriage jolted over a rut, throwing them closer together. Pen steadied herself, heart racing, and turned her gaze to the window, but not before catching the edge of his profile—stern, yes, but softened in the morning light, the hard lines of duty shadowed by weariness.
She thought of Colin’s dismissive words the night before, the way he had looked at her with contempt rather than trust. The ache of it still lingered, but now…now it was dulled by something else.
The spark that lit whenever Anthony’s eyes found hers.
She had loved Colin once—at least, she had believed she had—but that flame had been a girl’s fragile hope, easily snuffed by truth. What she felt now was different. Dangerous. A warmth she could not name, that made her breath come faster when Anthony’s knee brushed hers with the sway of the carriage.
Her hand twisted in her skirts, trying to anchor herself. She didn’t know what would become of it. Whether it would end in heartbreak, as all her hopes seemed to. Whether London would swallow her whole again and leave her standing alone.
But she knew this much: Colin Bridgerton had never made her feel this alive.
Anthony's POV
By the time the carriage rattled into London, the sun had already begun its descent, casting the streets in a burnished glow. Anthony sat rigid in his seat, Colin beside him still pale and silent, Penelope opposite with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
He had expected the ride home to feel like victory—after all, they had stopped Colin from ruin. But the silence was heavy, the cost visible in his brother’s drawn face and Penelope’s furtive glances out the window.
Violet and Benedict had worked quickly, smoothing the scandal before it could spread. Their cover story—that Penelope had stayed at Bridgerton House to nurse Eloise through a sudden illness—was already circulating. London would chatter, as it always did, but they would chatter about the wrong things.
Anthony intended to keep it that way.
When they reached Bridgerton House, he disembarked first and offered Pen his hand. She took it hesitantly, her fingers small in his, her eyes flicking up to his as though searching for something unspoken. For a heartbeat, he almost forgot himself—then Colin shifted beside them, and the moment was gone.
“Come,” Anthony said shortly. “I will see you home.”
Penelope looked surprised but did not argue, following him once more.
The Featherington townhouse loomed, gaudy in its colors, its windows watching like eyes. Anthony’s jaw tightened as they ascended the steps. The door opened almost at once—Lady Featherington herself, cheeks flushed, her husband trailing nervously behind her.
“Penelope!” Portia Featherington’s voice rang shrill with false cheer. “Where have you been, you wicked girl? I have half the house turned upside—” Her gaze slid past her daughter to Anthony, and her expression faltered. “Lord Bridgerton.”
Anthony let the silence draw out, heavy and suffocating, before he spoke. His tone was iron. “Your daughter has been at Bridgerton House. With my family. Nursing my sister through illness. I trust you have heard the tale already.”
Portia’s eyes flickered, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Why—yes, of course. We were merely concerned—”
Anthony took a step forward, towering over her, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. “Concerned enough to whisper schemes to your husband in the dark? Concerned enough to gamble with my brother’s name?”
Portia blanched, her eyes darting to Penelope. “You—you told him?”
Before Penelope could so much as part her lips, Anthony’s voice cracked across the hall. “She told me nothing of your part in it. I know because I listen, Lady Featherington. And I will tell you this once: if you ever again attempt to ensnare a Bridgerton in one of your tawdry plots, you will find the entire weight of my family against you. Do you understand me?”
The silence rang, broken only by Lord Featherington’s nervous cough. Portia’s face went mottled red, her lips twitching as though she longed to unleash her fury on Penelope—but Anthony saw it, saw the way her eyes cut toward her daughter, already sharpening for attack.
He stepped neatly into the line of her gaze.
“Do not,” he said, low and lethal. “Do not think to punish her for your own disgrace. Penelope has been a guest in my house and under my protection. If you so much as raise your voice to her, I will hear of it—and you will regret it.”
Portia swallowed, her bravado crumbling under the force of his stare. “Of course, my lord. Naturally.”
Anthony inclined his head once, sharply, then turned. “Penelope.” He offered his arm, escorting her inside and only releasing her when she stood safely beyond her mother’s reach. His eyes met hers—wide, shining with something that looked like gratitude and something else, something that made his chest tighten.
“Good day, Miss Featherington,” he said formally, though his voice softened on her name. “Rest. You have earned it.”
She nodded, lips parted as though she wanted to say more, but no words came.
Anthony left before he could linger. The door shut behind him, and as he descended the steps, he realized his hands were still clenched, the echo of fury burning through him.
But beneath the anger was another fire entirely.
Penelope Featherington.
She was no longer just Eloise’s overlooked friend. She was no longer a quiet girl at the edge of the ballroom. She was steel and fire and loyalty—and he could not stop himself from thinking, with dangerous certainty:
She was his.
Chapter 2: You’re Not Alone
Summary:
Well, you asked — and here we are! What was meant to be a oneshot has officially escaped my control and turned into a full-length story. I’ve seen your comments and shameless demands for “just one more chapter,” and I can only hope I do this version of Pen and Anthony justice.
Thank you for cheering this AU into existence — your enthusiasm made it impossible not to keep going. Settle in, because things are about to get messy, heartfelt, and just a little bit scandalous.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Anthony’s POV
The ink on his desk had nearly dried by the time Anthony sat back and read the words again. He had started it formally—too formally, as though he were writing to a distant cousin rather than to her. But the stiffness hadn’t lasted long.
My Dear Miss Featherington,
I trust this letter finds you well and that the quieter days of the off Season are proving tolerable. Aubrey Hall has returned to its usual chaos, though without the excitement of London to distract them, my siblings have taken to plaguing me in new and inventive ways. I find myself thinking you would have quite the column to write, if you still had the inclination.
Colin has gone abroad. My mother insists the travel will cure him of his “broken heart,” though I have my doubts. I suspect only time and hard lessons will. You may rest assured, however, that he is in no danger of further elopements.
Do you recall our mad ride north? I confess, I find myself remembering it often. Not only the urgency of it, but the absurdity. The two of us, riding half the country down as though we were a pair of highwaymen. It still amazes me that you did not fall from the saddle even once. If you had, I suppose I would have been forced to turn back after all, though I told you I would not.
And then there is the memory of you storming into my bedchamber. A lady in my rooms, in the middle of the night, without even knocking—scandalous. I ought to still be outraged at the impropriety of it. Instead, I find myself smiling every time the image returns to me.
I hope you will forgive me for writing so plainly. I find I am curious to know how you are spending your days now. Have you found peace at home, or are your sisters tormenting you as usual? Perhaps, when time permits, you might write and tell me.
Yours in friendship (and mischief),
Anthony Bridgerton
Anthony’s lips quirked faintly as he set the quill down. “Yours in friendship (and mischief)”—it was laughably tame compared to the storm inside him, but he could hardly write Yours, devotedly, hopelessly, with a heart that will not leave you be.
Still, it was more than he had ever dared to say aloud.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the neat lines of his handwriting. A month ago, he would have thought it impossible—Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount, burdened with duty and honor, writing letters to Penelope Featherington. Seeking her company, even from miles away.
And yet here he was.
He remembered the sight of her in the saddle beside him, her voice sharp and steady as she faced Marina, the way her eyes had blazed in the firelight. He remembered her laughter—low, surprised, when he had teased her on the road—and the way his chest had tightened at the sound.
Anthony dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
He had never planned for this. He had always believed marriage would be a transaction, a duty—find a woman of good name, produce heirs, carry on the Bridgerton line. But now, when he thought of such things, he thought only of her.
Penelope.
The girl he had once dismissed as a shadow in Eloise’s wake, now the woman he could not stop thinking of.
He had not expected to want. Not like this. Not with such urgency, such certainty.
Anthony picked up the letter again, scanning the lines, then folded it carefully and pressed his seal into the wax. He could not yet write what burned at the edges of his heart. But the day would come.
He would bide his time, write to her, learn her every thought. And when the next Season began, he would be the first at her door.
Let the Ton say what they would. Let his family protest, if they dared.
Anthony Bridgerton knew what he wanted.
And for the first time in his life, it was not duty that drove him. It was desire.
Penelope’s POV
The Featherington garden was hardly a retreat. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and wilted roses, the hedges clipped unevenly, the bench in the far corner splintered from years of neglect. But it was the only place Penelope could be alone.
Here, with her book spread forgotten on her lap, she could pretend for an hour or two that she wasn’t invisible in her own home. Her sisters fluttered through parlors and bedchambers, shrieking with laughter or bickering in endless circles. Her mother stormed from room to room, tallying debts and whispering schemes. Penelope had become furniture — unseen, unacknowledged. It should have stung. Instead, it was almost a relief.
She was tracing a passage on the page, her eyes unfocused, when Rae appeared in the archway.
“Miss Penelope,” the maid said softly. “A letter. It arrived with this morning’s post.”
Pen blinked, startled. “For me?”
Rae smiled, the faintest tug at her lips, and held it out. The seal caught the light.
Anthony Bridgerton.
Her heart stuttered. She reached for it with hands that trembled more than she would like to admit.
When Rae disappeared back into the house, Penelope broke the seal with careful fingers.
The letter smelled faintly of ink and candle smoke, the edges crisp, the handwriting neat and unmistakably his. She read the opening line once, twice, then devoured the rest, her pulse quickening with every word.
His mention of Aubrey Hall, his siblings, Colin’s departure. The way he teased her about the ride north, about storming his bedchamber — she flushed scarlet at that line, covering her mouth with her hand even though no one could hear her. His words were not quite flirtation, not quite declaration, but something hovered between. A warmth. A reaching.
When she reached the closing line — Yours in friendship (and mischief) — her breath caught. She pressed the letter to her chest, as though it might steady her racing heart.
Anthony Bridgerton. Writing to her.
It was absurd. It was impossible. And yet here it was, his hand, his words, reaching across the miles to her.
She rushed inside, past her sisters who barely spared her a glance, and slipped into her room. The little desk by the window was already cluttered with scraps of paper and unused ink bottles, remnants of words she never dared send. For once, her quill did not hesitate.
My Dear Lord Bridgerton,
I was quite astonished to receive your letter, though I must confess it was the most delightful astonishment I have had in some time. I thank you sincerely for writing.
The off Season in London is…well, quieter than ever, though not in a way that provides much peace. My mother and sisters have apparently reached a decision to forget I exist. It is not a new condition, but I admit it has grown more pronounced of late. My father is scarce at home, as usual. You will laugh, but I nearly rejoice in being ignored—it leaves me free to spend hours in the garden with my books, without interruption.
You wrote of Colin. He sent me a letter as well. I have not answered. Once, I thought myself fortunate to call him a friend. But when he hurled his anger at me on that road, I realized friendship requires trust, and he showed me none. I wish him safe travels, but nothing more.
I have to ask after Eloise. How is she faring at Aubrey Hall? I imagine she is already hatching some new grand plan to “avoid the doom of matrimony” (her words, not mine). Do tell her she must write to me soon, if only to drag me into her conspiracy from afar.
As for your recollections of our…travels, I hardly know where to begin. I still cannot believe I dared burst into your rooms that night. I nearly died of mortification after. And yet, had I not done so, who knows what might have happened? I suppose it is true what they say: desperate times call for desperate acts. Please, do not remind me too often of my scandalous impropriety, or I may never lift my head in society again.
You asked how I spend my days. They are not half so interesting as yours, but if you truly wish to know, I will endeavor to write again soon.
Yours (still blushing),
Penelope Featherington
She set the quill down, cheeks hot, her lips curving despite herself. Blushing. She could not believe she had written that. She wanted to tear it up, to start again, to make it polished and proper. But something in her refused.
For once, she wanted him to hear her as she was.
Pen sanded the ink, folded the sheet, and sealed it carefully. When she passed it to Rae, her hands were steady, but her heart was still galloping.
As the door closed behind the maid, Pen leaned against her desk, staring at the window, the sunlight spilling in.
She had no illusions. Anthony Bridgerton was not hers. He was a viscount, head of one of the greatest families in England. She was a Featherington, invisible and overlooked, with no dowry worth naming.
And yet.
And yet.
His words lingered in her chest like an ember, warm enough to banish the shadows for a little while longer.
Anthony’s POV
The study at Aubrey Hall had become Anthony’s refuge. The rest of the house rang with laughter and chatter, the sounds of his siblings filling every corridor, but here—behind the heavy oak door—he could breathe.
The ledger before him lay open, but his quill had not moved in some time. His eyes kept drifting to the neat stack of letters at the edge of his desk.
Hers.
He had not meant for it to become a habit. At first, he had written her only once, out of courtesy, a strange impulse he could not quite name. Then her reply had come—lighthearted, sharp, unexpectedly honest—and he had written again.
Now, a month later, he had lost count. Each letter revealed a little more of her, each line slipping under his skin until he found himself waiting for her words the way a parched man waits for rain.
Normally her replies came within a week. Rae, her maid, was prompt with the post. But it had been nearly a fortnight since her last, and the absence gnawed at him.
Anthony set his quill down, rubbing at the tension in his brow. Perhaps she was merely busy. Perhaps her mother had whisked her into some mad scheme. Or perhaps—his jaw tightened—perhaps she had realized what he was doing.
Because he was doing it.
Every letter carried more than friendship, more than pleasantries. Small hints, veiled phrases, tiny glimpses of what he truly wanted. He had not said it outright, but the intention was there, plain as ink.
He wanted her.
Not as a passing fancy. Not as a mistress or diversion. But as his wife.
The thought would have astonished him once. But now, it felt inevitable. He could no more turn from her than he could turn from his own blood.
A knock on the study door broke his reverie. “Come,” he called, expecting Benedict or perhaps Gregory.
Instead, his mother entered.
The moment he saw her face—drawn, pale, her lips pressed tight—Anthony’s stomach turned to stone.
“Mother,” he said, rising at once. “What is it?”
She hesitated, her hands twisting in her skirts.
Anthony’s breath caught.
“It is Lord Featherington,” she said softly. “He is dead.”
The words slammed into him. For a moment he could only stare, unable to force his mind to move past them.
Dead.
He had not been fond of Archibald Featherington. The man had been ineffectual, more shadow than presence, swallowed by his wife’s ambition. But—Anthony’s chest clenched—Penelope’s father.
Her father.
God above.
He remembered his own father’s final breath, the sharp scent of bees and death, the way the world had splintered beneath him. The hollow ache that never truly left. And Penelope—quiet, steadfast Penelope—was living that very ache now.
Anthony sank back against the desk, his knuckles white on the polished edge. “When?”
“Four nights ago,” mother replied. “The news only just reached us.”
Four nights. Four nights she had borne it alone, waiting, aching, while he sat here cursing the lateness of her letter.
Of course there had been no letter.
“Penelope,” he breathed, her name raw in his throat.
Mother stepped closer, worry shadowing her eyes. “Anthony, you must understand—this is not a matter for us. She is not—”
“She is,” he cut in, his voice like iron. “Do not tell me she is not my concern.”
“Anthony—”
“She is alone, Mother.” His hands curled into fists. “That house, that family—they will not care for her grief. They will not comfort her. I know what it is to lose a father, and I will not let her suffer it as I did. Not if I can stop it.”
Violet’s lips pressed tighter, disapproval and worry warring in her eyes. “You would go to her? Alone? Think of what people would say.”
“Let them speak,” he snapped. “Let them choke on their gossip. I will not abandon her.”
“Anthony,” Violet tried again, softer now, pleading. “She is not yet—”
“She will be,” he said, the words torn from him before he could stop them. His chest heaved with the force of it, the truth he had not dared speak aloud until now. “She will be my wife. And I will be damned before I leave her to face this alone.”
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
Violet’s eyes widened, then softened with something he could not quite name—pity, perhaps, or reluctant understanding. But she said nothing more.
Anthony straightened, his decision hardening into resolve. He would ride at once. No carriage, no delay. He would reach her by nightfall, and he would not leave her side until he knew she was steady again.
His mind was already racing ahead—arrangements, routes, explanations—but his heart throbbed with a single, searing thought.
Penelope.
He had lost his father once. He would not let her lose hers alone.
Penelope’s POV
The world had gone gray.
Since the moment her mother delivered the news — blunt, her words laced more with panic over their finances than grief — Penelope had felt as though she were drifting through fog. Lord Featherington was dead. Her father was gone.
She had not wept. Not once.
She had eaten when Rae pressed food into her hands, chewed and swallowed without tasting. She had allowed her sisters to flutter about the drawing room, their eyes suspiciously dry, their whispers more about gowns and suitors than the absence upstairs. She had listened to her mother wail about money, about creditors, about how could he leave us like this, as though Archibald Featherington had chosen death out of spite.
But Penelope herself had been silent.
Her father had never been a great man. He had not been particularly kind, nor attentive. He had let her mother’s sharp words rule the household, had let his daughters scrape for scraps of affection. Yet he had never been cruel.
And that, for Penelope, had been enough.
She remembered the afternoons in the stables, when he would lift her onto a pony’s back and steady her reins, murmuring encouragement as she learned to ride. She remembered the smell of leather and hay, the warmth of his hand guiding hers. She remembered the one time she fell — hard, breath knocked from her lungs — and he had scooped her up before her mother could scold, holding her gently until the tears dried.
Small things. Quiet things. Things no one else seemed to remember.
Now he was gone.
Penelope sat in the back garden, her book abandoned beside her, her body stiff on the stone bench. The night was cool, damp with autumn mist. It must have been hours since she came out. The candles in the house had burned low, the windows glowed faintly, but no one had come to fetch her back inside.
She couldn’t move.
She stared at the withered roses across from her, their petals curling inward, and thought only: He is gone. He will never come back. And I am more alone than ever.
Her mother’s grief was for coin. Her sisters’ chatter had resumed as though nothing had happened. Even her father, for all his silence in life, had at least been a presence in the house. Now the walls seemed emptier, the halls echoing.
Penelope folded her arms tight around herself, but the cold seeped in.
She thought of writing. Of taking up her quill and pouring the ache into Whistledown’s sheets. But even that seemed pointless. No one would care. No one would read of Lord Featherington’s death and think of her.
She was invisible. Even in grief.
A noise broke the stillness. Faint, at first — the scuff of a boot against gravel, the creak of the garden gate. Penelope tensed, thinking it must be Rae, come to coax her inside again.
But then came a voice.
“Penelope?”
Her head snapped up.
Not Rae. Not a servant. A man’s voice, low, roughened by travel, carrying her name like it mattered.
And then she saw him.
Anthony Bridgerton.
He stood at the edge of the garden path, disheveled, his hair mussed, his coat rumpled from hard riding. His eyes, dark and intent, locked on hers.
For a moment, she could only stare, certain she was dreaming. “You’re here,” she whispered, the words breaking from her lips like a prayer.
He moved toward her, each step steady, deliberate, as though afraid she might vanish if he hurried. When he reached her, he knelt in front of the bench, close enough that she could see the faint smudges of dirt on his gloves, the weariness etched around his eyes.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said softly. “Penelope, I will not let you go through this alone.”
The fog inside her cracked.
Her chest seized, her throat tightened, and for the first time since the news had come, tears burned her eyes. She shook her head, trying to deny them, but they came anyway, hot and blinding.
A choked sob tore from her, and before she could stop herself, she slid from the bench onto her knees before him. Her hands grasped blindly at his coat, and she buried her face against his chest, the dam finally breaking.
Anthony’s arms came around her at once, strong and certain, holding her as though he had been waiting for this. His voice was low, steady, a litany of soothing words murmured against her hair. “It’s all right. Let it out. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
Penelope sobbed harder, clutching at him as though he were the only solid thing in a world turned to ash. The ache poured out of her — the loss, the loneliness, the years of invisibility, all of it spilling into his coat.
Still he held her. Still he murmured to her, his hand steady on her back, his presence anchoring her.
And through the storm of grief, one thought pulsed again and again, fierce and unshakable:
He came for me.
Not her mother. Not her sisters. Not even Eloise.
Anthony.
He had come.
Penelope’s sobs quieted at last, her body trembling with the force of them. She stayed against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
She could never repay him for this. For his kindness, his presence, his refusal to let her be alone.
All she could do was cling to him in the darkness, grateful beyond words that someone — he — had cared enough to come.
Anthony’s POV
Penelope’s sobs had quieted, though her body still trembled in his arms. Anthony held her steady, his chin resting lightly against her hair, the weight of her grief pressing into him until he could hardly breathe for the ache of it.
How many nights had he borne this same hollow pain, alone, after his father’s death? How many hours had he hidden the truth of it from his family, forced himself into the armor of the viscountcy before the boy in him had even ceased to weep? If someone—anyone—had held him as he held her now, perhaps the burden might have felt less crushing.
“Penelope,” he said softly, when her breathing began to even out.
She drew back just enough to lift her head, her eyes swollen and red, her cheeks blotched from tears. Even so, she had never looked more achingly dear to him.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The house is so quiet without him, but not a soul seems to care. My mother wails over the money, my sisters pretend nothing has changed. I—” Her lip trembled. “I feel as though he vanished, and already he is forgotten.”
Anthony’s chest tightened. “Not by you.”
Her gaze darted away, her hands fisting in his coat. “He was never…he was not a great man. But he was still my father. He was never cruel to me, not like the others. He taught me to ride. He told me once I was braver than I believed. And now—now there is no one left to say it.”
“There is me,” Anthony said, the words torn from him before he could stop them. He tipped her chin gently so her eyes met his again. “You are braver than you know, Penelope. I see it. I swear to you, I see it.”
A fresh tear slipped down her cheek, and he brushed it away with his thumb, the gesture so instinctive it startled even him.
They sat in silence for a time, the cool night air wrapping around them, until at last he asked, “Have you begun the arrangements for the funeral?”
She shook her head, her hair brushing against his chest. “No. Nothing. I don’t even know if my mother intends to. She hasn’t spoken of it. Only debts, money, creditors…” Her voice cracked again, thick with shame. “I don’t know what will happen.”
Anthony felt a surge of fury—not at her, never at her—but at the thought of Portia Featherington neglecting her own daughter’s grief.
“Then I will see to it,” he said firmly. “I will speak with your mother. I will provide whatever is needed. And I will make her believe it was her idea all along, so she cannot protest.”
Her eyes widened. “Anthony, you cannot—people will talk—”
“Let them,” he said fiercely. “I do not give a damn for scandal. You will not face this alone. I will not allow it.”
Her lips parted as though she might argue, but whatever words she meant to say died on her tongue. Instead, she leaned into him again, a small, exhausted sigh escaping her.
He felt it then—the shift of her weight, the slow slackening of her body against his. She was so tired, her grief having wrung every last drop of strength from her.
“You need rest,” he murmured, brushing a hand through her tangled hair. “Come. I’ll see you inside.”
She blinked up at him, heavy-lidded, and nodded.
Anthony rose, keeping one arm firmly around her as he guided her up from the damp grass. She swayed once, but he steadied her easily, his hand warm at her back. Together, they walked toward the house, her steps slow, her head tipping against his shoulder.
At the back door, Rae was waiting, her face drawn with worry. When she saw them, she pressed a hand to her chest in relief.
“My lady,” she whispered, hurrying forward.
Anthony hesitated, reluctant to let Pen go, but knew he must. Carefully, he eased her into Rae’s care. But not before he bent his head, his lips brushing Penelope’s forehead in a fleeting, reverent kiss.
“I will return tomorrow,” he whispered, low enough that only she could hear. “Rest easy. You are not alone.”
Her lashes fluttered, her mouth parting as though she might speak, but no words came. Instead, she let Rae guide her inside, her small figure swallowed by the shadows of the house.
Anthony stood a moment longer in the garden, his chest aching, before turning on his heel.
As he rode back toward Bridgerton House, his mind was already racing ahead. He would see to the funeral, ensure it was dignified. He would find a way to shield her from her mother’s barbs, to place a steady wall between Penelope and the cruelty of that household.
And all the while, the memory of her in his arms lingered—her tears soaking his coat, the fragile weight of her body leaning into his, the way her whisper of you’re here had unraveled something deep inside him.
This changed everything.
Anthony clenched the reins tighter, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.
She needed him. And God help him, he would do anything—anything—to be what she needed now.
Notes:
So…how are we feeling about that forehead kiss? Too much? Just right?
Chapter 3: Through Grief, a Promise
Summary:
Grief, family, friendship, and a certain Viscount refusing to let Penelope face any of it alone. 💔
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Anthony’s POV
Anthony had not slept much.
The dawn light had long since crept across his chamber, golden shafts piercing through the heavy curtains, but he had abandoned the bed hours before. His coat lay discarded over the back of a chair, his cravat tugged loose, but the fire in the hearth still burned strong. He had kept it stoked through the night, unwilling to surrender to darkness.
The papers strewn across his desk were already filled with notes in his hand. His solicitor had been woken before sunrise with instructions: arrangements must be set in motion at once. Black horses, proper carriages, the church, the notices. All of it needed handling, and delicately, so as not to appear as though the Bridgertons had swept in uninvited.
It was not uninvited. Not in his eyes.
He had drafted the line himself, his handwriting firm and final: The Bridgerton family, grateful for the years of friendship shared with Miss Penelope Featherington, and mindful of her long devotion to them, offers their humble support in this time of need.
It was enough. Respectable. Unassailable. A reason Portia Featherington could not easily refuse, no matter her pride or suspicion. It named Penelope without naming her, gave him a foothold to protect her without breathing a word of scandal.
He had also sent a rider to Aubrey Hall. Benedict and Eloise would come at once. Of all his siblings, they had been closest to Penelope — Eloise with her stubborn, fierce friendship, Benedict with his quiet humor and gentleness toward her. Penelope would need them. And though he did not say it outright, he knew Eloise especially would be a balm in a way he himself could not always be.
Anthony gathered the stack of correspondence into neat piles, tapping them against the desk to straighten the edges. His hand stilled for a moment, the memory of last night rising unbidden.
The garden. The darkness. The way she had looked when she lifted her face to him — pale, stricken, eyes raw with grief. The way she had broken in his arms, sobs racking her small frame, her body clinging to his as though he were the only solid ground left to her.
He had never seen her like that. He had never seen anyone like that.
It had undone him.
Her whisper still rang in his ears: You’re here. Two small words, so fragile, yet heavy with everything she had ever been denied. The loneliness of her life had been laid bare in that single moment, and the knowledge of it tore at him with a ferocity he had not expected.
Anthony tightened his jaw, pressing his hands flat on the desk. He would not allow her to feel that way again. Not if he could stop it.
Last night had shifted something irrevocably inside him. He had always imagined marriage as a matter of duty — a union for lineage, for stability, for society. Yet when he thought of Penelope now, there was no calculation. No cold logic. Only the sharp ache of need.
He wanted her.
Not simply as a wife, not as the mother of his children or the lady of Bridgerton House — though she would be all those things in time. He wanted her laughter, her fierce loyalty, her clever words that had once cut him in print and now cut through the armor he had built around himself. He wanted her eyes, soft with trust as they had been last night, to look at him that way forever.
He wanted to be the man she could lean on. The man who made her whisper You’re here not with surprise, but with certainty.
Anthony drew a long breath, steadying himself. There was no room for confession yet, no space for courtship in the shadow of mourning. But the moment he could make it official — the moment her black gowns gave way to color again — he would stand before her and ask for her hand.
Not out of duty. But out of love.
He gathered the papers, sliding them into a leather folio. The time for thinking was over; now was the time for action. As he stepped into the corridor, the household stirring around him, he promised himself one final thing:
Penelope Featherington would never be alone again. Not if Anthony Bridgerton still drew breath.
And with that vow burning in his chest, he set out for the Featherington house.
The Featherington townhouse loomed gray against the pale morning sky, its shutters drawn, its door draped in mourning crepe. The quiet of the street was broken only by the rattle of carriages passing distantly, the sound of hooves on stone.
Anthony mounted the steps with purpose. He had rehearsed every word on the walk over. Polite, unassailable, practical. His presence here must not look like an impropriety — not when Penelope’s reputation was at stake. Yet he had no intention of leaving without securing his hold on the situation.
The butler looked startled when he announced himself but admitted him at once. Anthony stepped into the hall, his eyes sweeping over the darkened drapery, the perfunctory black bunting. Grief did not linger here. Not true grief.
And then he saw her.
Penelope sat near the window, small and still, a book closed in her lap though her eyes were unfocused, red-rimmed from crying. The sight of her — so quiet, so diminished, her usual fire banked beneath sorrow — struck him harder than any blow. He wanted to cross the room, to kneel beside her again as he had in the garden, to take her hands and promise aloud what he had vowed in silence: you are not alone.
But Lady Featherington swept into the room before he could move, her black gown rustling like the wings of some officious crow. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp, calculating.
“My lord Bridgerton,” she exclaimed, dipping in a shallow curtsey as though she were the one to whom he had come to pay respects. “What a surprise. What an honor, that you would think of us in this…difficult time.”
Anthony wasted no time. “Lady Featherington,” he said, his voice firm, carrying just enough sympathy to mask the steel beneath, “your family has been close to mine for many years. Your Penelope has been a loyal companion to my sister. It is only right that we extend our aid to you now, in whatever way we may.”
Portia blinked, lips parting, perhaps expecting pleasantries first. Anthony pressed on, relentless.
“I have already spoken with my solicitors,” he continued. “Arrangements are being made for the funeral. The church will be secured, notices distributed, and the carriages ordered. My family is prepared to see to the details, discreetly, so that you and your daughters may grieve in peace.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “My lord, I hardly think—”
“I assure you,” Anthony cut in smoothly, “this is not charity. This is duty. The Bridgertons remember their friends. And after all Penelope has given to my family — her devotion, her companionship, her loyalty — it is no more than what is owed in return.”
He said her name deliberately, watching as Portia’s lips pressed thin. She could not reject him without insulting the connection between their households. Not without appearing ungrateful.
And still, out of the corner of his eye, Anthony saw Penelope’s face lift. Wide eyes, shining softly, fixed on him as though she could scarcely believe what he was doing. That look — that look of wonder, of fragile hope — seared through him. He wanted her to always look at him that way.
Lady Featherington faltered, her bluster robbed from her. “Well…of course. If you insist, my lord. Naturally, I would not stand in the way of such generosity.”
Anthony inclined his head, a model of grave courtesy. “It is settled, then.”
Her eldest daughters simpered nearby, whispering to each other in tones meant to be overheard, as though speculating that the Viscount himself had come for them. Anthony ignored them entirely. His gaze sought only Penelope.
He crossed the room slowly, measured, each step respectful under the weight of mourning. When he stopped before her, he bowed his head just enough, his voice soft but carrying.
“Miss Featherington,” he said, his tone rich with formality for the benefit of the room. “On behalf of my family, I offer our deepest condolences. You have ever been a friend to us, and you will find us your friends now. You need not bear this alone.”
Her breath caught, and he saw the flicker of tears in her eyes again, though she held herself steady.
He bent lower, as though to bow, and in that moment slipped a small folded note into her hands. His fingers brushed hers only briefly, the touch fleeting yet enough to send a jolt through him.
“I will return soon,” he murmured, pitched for her ears alone. “Eloise and Benedict are on their way, to stand by you as well.”
Her eyes widened, filling with that same fragile light, and she clutched the note to her skirts.
Anthony straightened, giving her a final, respectful bow. Then, with all the gravitas of a man who had simply come to see to duty, he turned and took his leave.
He did not allow himself to look back. But he felt her gaze on him all the way to the door.
Penelope’s POV
Her mother’s questions had begun the moment the door closed behind the Viscount.
“What did he say to you? What did he give you? Was it about Prudence? Philippa? You didn’t say something foolish, did you, Penelope?”
Pen answered only with silence, lowering her eyes, clutching the folded paper in her hand until the wax seal warmed against her palm. She murmured something about needing a moment alone and escaped up the narrow staircase, her skirts brushing against the faded wallpaper.
Only when her chamber door was firmly shut did she allow herself to breathe.
Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. The handwriting inside was firm, slanted with purpose. Anthony’s hand.
Miss Featherington,
Allow me first to extend, once again, my sincerest condolences for your loss. Words cannot fill such an absence, but I hope action may ease it.
The funeral arrangements are in motion. The church has been contacted, notices will be discreetly distributed, and the necessary carriages ordered. My family stands ready to support yours, not out of pity, but in gratitude for all the kindness and friendship you have given us through the years.
I do not ask for your thanks. I ask only that you lean upon us as you have so long supported us quietly.
You may expect Benedict and Eloise shortly. I know their presence will bring you some comfort.
As for myself—I will continue to see to matters until all is properly secured. Should you need me before then, you have only to send word, and I will come at once.
You are not alone, Penelope. Remember that.
Yours in steadfast friendship,
Anthony Bridgerton
Her throat closed.
The words blurred as tears welled, spilling hot down her cheeks before she could stop them. You are not alone.
She pressed the paper to her chest, gripping it as though it might anchor her in place. He had done it—everything he promised her in the garden, he had meant. She had half-believed she had dreamed him last night, conjured him from her grief, some merciful phantom to hold her when she thought she might break. But here was proof, ink and paper and action: he had come, and he would not abandon her.
Penelope sank down onto her narrow bed, clutching the note to her heart. For so long, she had lived in shadows, invisible in her own house, unloved, overlooked. And now—now there was someone who saw her. Someone who had ridden through the night for her, who had spoken in her defense, who had promised her she need not face this alone.
Her heart felt as though it might burst from her chest. She did not know what the future held—what scandal, what pain, what heartbreak might follow. But for the first time since the world had gone gray, she allowed herself to hope.
Anthony’s POV
The fire in his study had burned low, the flames licking lazily at the last of the logs, but Anthony had not stirred to tend it. He stood before it, one arm braced on the mantel, staring into the embers as though he might wrest answers from their glow.
The day had been long. Too long. The solicitor’s visits, the delicate conversations with churchmen, the endless correspondence—all of it necessary, all of it handled with ruthless precision. He had not allowed himself to falter, not once, for Penelope’s sake.
And yet when the house quieted at last, his thoughts returned to her.
To the way she had looked at him this morning, her eyes wide with a softness that made something twist painfully in his chest. To the way her fingers had lingered on the note he slipped into her hand. To the faint tremor in her shoulders that he wanted, with every fiber of his being, to shield her from forever.
The knock on the door was sharp, followed immediately by the sound of commotion in the hall—voices raised, familiar, insistent. Anthony straightened, turning just as the door burst open.
Eloise.
His sister flew into the room, her bonnet askew, her hair rebelliously tumbling free from its pins. “Anthony!” she exclaimed, eyes blazing. “Is it true? Is Pen—? How is she? Where is she?”
Behind her trailed Benedict, calmer but watchful, and—God help him—the rest of them as well: Hyacinth, Gregory, Francesca. Even his mother, issuing instructions to the staff in the hall as rooms were readied for the unexpected influx.
Anthony blinked. “What in God’s name—”
“You wrote,” Eloise said breathlessly, storming up to him. “You said Pen needed us. That her father is dead. That she’s—oh, Anthony, I must see her at once!”
Her urgency was so raw, so uncharacteristically frantic, that Anthony’s irritation softened into something else. He set his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.
“Not tonight,” he said firmly. “It is late. She is exhausted. You will see her tomorrow, Eloise, I promise you. But not now. What she needs tonight is rest.”
Eloise’s mouth opened, ready to argue, but something in his tone—unflinching, absolute—stilled her. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, and nodded.
Anthony smoothed her hair once, briefly, before letting her go. She stepped back, arms crossed tight around herself, eyes still shining with unshed tears.
Benedict lingered near the door, quiet, his gaze fixed on Anthony with an intensity that set him on edge.
The others chattered nervously, their youthful voices filling the study with restless energy until Anthony barked, “Enough. Upstairs, all of you. Mother is seeing to your rooms. Eloise—tomorrow, first thing, I will take you to her myself. That is my word.”
Reluctantly, they filed out. Francesca shepherded Hyacinth and Gregory, muttering soothing words. Eloise cast him one last burning look before allowing herself to be guided away.
At last, only Benedict remained.
Anthony arched a brow. “Well? Out with it.”
Benedict shut the door with deliberate care. The click of the latch was loud in the sudden quiet.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then: “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Anthony’s jaw tightened instantly, irritation flaring. “Ah. So you are here to take Mother’s side. Or Colin’s.”
“No,” Benedict said quickly, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving Anthony’s. “I am not. I never thought Colin was suited for Penelope. He’s too young. Too…careless.” His lips twisted wryly. “Even I could see that.”
Anthony frowned, caught off guard. “Then what is this about?”
Benedict took a step closer, his arms folded across his chest. “It’s about you. About what you want. Because if you are serious about Penelope—and by God, Anthony, I can see that you are—then you need to tell me why. I need to know this is not another matter of duty. Not another cage you are building around yourself. She deserves more than that.”
Anthony bristled, heat rising to his chest. “Do you think me so cold? That I would treat her like some business arrangement?”
Benedict’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm. “I think you are a man who has spent too long confusing love with responsibility. And Penelope deserves love. Nothing less.”
The words landed with a force that left Anthony silent.
He turned back to the fire, staring into the shifting glow, and for a long moment he said nothing. The weight of Benedict’s gaze pressed on him, unrelenting, until at last he spoke.
“She changed me,” he said quietly. “On that road to Gretna Green, when we rode to stop Colin. I saw her—not as I thought she was, some timid shadow in Eloise’s wake—but as she truly is. Fierce. Clever. Loyal beyond reason. And then last night…” His throat tightened. “Last night I saw her break. And all I could think was that I would give anything to keep her from ever feeling that alone again.”
He turned, meeting Benedict’s eyes, his voice firming. “We have exchanged letters since. Dozens. And with every one I am more certain. I want her. As my wife. Not out of duty. Not out of convenience. Because she makes me want a life I had long stopped believing in.”
Benedict’s brows rose, his mouth parting slightly. “You would marry her.”
Anthony’s jaw set. “I will marry her. When the new Season begins, I will make it official.”
Benedict studied him, long and searching, as though weighing his every word. At last, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And what of Colin?”
Anthony’s nostrils flared. “Colin had his chance. He threw it away with his carelessness, his cruelty. He will learn to live with it. And if he dares to resent her for it, then he will answer to me.”
“And Mother?” Benedict pressed. “You know she will meddle. She will have her notions of what is best for you, for the family. When she gets an idea in her head about a love match, she’s like a dog with a bone.”
Anthony’s lips twitched bitterly. “Let her meddle. I have weathered worse storms than mother’s matchmaking.”
Benedict stepped closer, his hand coming down firmly on Anthony’s shoulder. “If you are serious in this—and I believe you are—then you will have my support. As will she. Whatever comes, you will not face it alone.”
Relief washed through Anthony so swiftly it startled him. Benedict, his brother, his closest confidant, standing with him—it meant more than he cared to admit.
He covered Benedict’s hand briefly with his own, squeezing once. “Thank you.”
Benedict’s eyes softened. “Just don’t forget what I said. She deserves love. Give her nothing less.”
Anthony nodded, his throat tight. “I mean to give her everything.”
And as the fire crackled low, and the house settled into uneasy silence around them, Anthony knew with a clarity that left him breathless: he would keep that promise. Whatever battles lay ahead—Colin’s fury, his mother’s meddling, society’s whispers—none of it mattered.
He wanted Penelope.
And nothing would stop him from claiming the future he saw so clearly now: Pen, by his side. Forever.
Penelope’s POV
The morning pressed heavy against her windows, the pale light doing nothing to lift the shadows inside her room. Penelope sat on the edge of her bed, still in her nightdress, her hair loose down her back. She had not gone downstairs for breakfast. She had not answered when her sisters called once, perfunctorily, through the door.
What use was there in listening to them chatter about gowns and callers when her world had shifted so utterly?
Her hands twisted in her lap, fingers restless. She thought of her father again, of the way his voice had sounded when he guided her pony with those large, gentle hands, telling her to sit straight, to hold the reins as though they were part of her. He had not always been there. More often than not he had been silent, absent, drifting. And yet…he had never been cruel. That counted for more than she had realized until now.
And then, inevitably, her thoughts circled back to Anthony.
Anthony in the garden, disheveled and fierce, kneeling in front of her as though she were the only soul that mattered. Anthony yesterday morning, his voice strong and certain as he faced her mother, giving her back her dignity without ever once stepping beyond propriety. Anthony’s note, folded still beneath her pillow, inked with promises she could hardly believe were meant for her.
Everything was changing. She could feel it in her bones.
A sharp knock startled her. Pen straightened, her mouth opening automatically. “I am unwell, Mama,” she called, her voice low and brittle. “Please—”
The door creaked open.
It was not her mother.
Eloise stood in the doorway, her keen eyes wide and searching. For a heartbeat, they simply stared at one another, frozen in the space between shock and recognition.
And then Penelope’s composure shattered.
Her throat closed, her eyes blurred, and before she could stop herself, sobs tore free again, wracking her chest.
Eloise rushed forward at once, crossing the room in three strides and clambering onto the bed beside her. Without hesitation she wrapped her arms around Penelope, pulling her close, holding her tight.
“Oh, Pen,” Eloise whispered, her own voice thick. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”
Penelope clung to her, burying her face in her friend’s shoulder, letting the tears come as she had the night before with Anthony. But this was different. With Eloise, it was the bond of years, the easy, unconditional love of a friend who knew her better than anyone.
And in that moment, Pen felt something inside her begin to knit, the tiniest thread of strength returned to her.
Anthony had been right. Eloise was here, just as he said she would be.
Which meant…he was here too.
Downstairs, no doubt locked in battle with her mother, facing her barbs and her schemes with the same unflinching resolve he had shown the night before. He was keeping his word. He was shielding her even now.
Warmth bloomed through the ache in her chest, quiet but undeniable. Her dearest friend at her side, the man who had held her through the night standing guard below. For the first time since her father’s death, Penelope felt something other than grief.
She felt hope.
Notes:
Let me know your thoughts so far!
Chapter 4: Beneath the Stars
Summary:
This chapter is a turning point — grief, stars, and a Viscount finally laying his heart bare.
I also just want to say thank you. The support and love for this story has been incredible, and it honestly means the world. I never expected this “what if” AU to grow the way it has, but your comments and encouragement keep pushing me to make it bigger, deeper, and (hopefully) worthy of Pen and Anthony. 💛
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Penelope’s POV
The church bells tolled heavy and mournful, echoing through Penelope’s chest as though they were tolling for her, too.
She stood at the front with her mother and sisters, swathed in stiff black silk that scratched her skin. Portia dabbed her eyes theatrically with a handkerchief, loud sniffles breaking the silence between prayers. Prudence and Philippa mirrored her, their faces twisted in exaggerated grief they did not feel. They had not shed tears at home, Pen knew; she had heard them laughing the night before, whispering about gowns. This was a performance for the Ton, nothing more.
Penelope did not weep. She stood still, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes fixed on the simple coffin at the altar. The ache in her chest was real, raw, but private. She could not join their charade. She would not.
For all his failings, her father had been hers. And she would grieve him honestly.
The rustle of the congregation filled her ears — silks shifting, boots scraping against stone. She felt eyes on her from every pew, the weight of curiosity, of speculation. She felt unbearably small, alone even among her family.
And then—
A warmth spread across her back. A steady presence, close enough that she felt it even before she dared turn her head. A hand settled gently on her shoulder, firm but comforting, the thumb rubbing once against her through the fabric of her gown.
Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned just enough to see.
Anthony.
He stood behind her, tall and unyielding, his eyes on hers when she glanced up. They were warm, steady, filled with something that spoke without words: I am here. You are not alone.
Her lips parted, her throat tightening. She wanted to thank him, to lean back into that quiet strength, but her voice would not come. Instead she let herself hold his gaze for the briefest moment, and hoped he understood.
Before she could look away, another touch came — her hand, gently taken from behind. Smaller fingers slipped between hers and squeezed tight. Penelope looked down and saw Eloise, standing beside her brother, her expression fierce and uncharacteristically solemn.
Her friend’s grip was warm, anchoring.
Penelope swallowed hard, tears stinging her eyes at last. She looked from Eloise’s pale, determined face back up to Anthony’s steady gaze, then out across the church.
The Bridgertons were there. All of them. Francesca, Gregory, Hyacinth in their rows, Violet with her spine straight, Benedict watching her with quiet sympathy.
They had come for her.
Penelope’s chest swelled with a love so sharp it nearly hurt. Not for her own family, who stood beside her putting on a show, but for the one behind her, circling her, holding her up when she could not do it alone.
For Anthony. For Eloise. For them all.
And for the first time since her father’s death, Penelope felt something besides grief.
She felt held.
Anthony’s POV
The earth thudded softly as it fell onto the coffin, the final sound of farewell echoing across the small churchyard. Anthony stood among the cluster of mourners, his hands clasped behind his back, the weight of his family gathered beside and behind him.
The Ton had turned out in numbers, of course. Curiosity was stronger than compassion in their ranks. Their eyes slid not to the grave but to the Featherington women draped in black, their every sob and sniffle measured, cataloged, whispered about.
Anthony kept his gaze on Penelope.
She stood rigid at her mother’s side, her face pale against the dark veil. She was not weeping — not like Portia, who dabbed her eyes with ostentation, nor like her sisters, whose false wails were almost theatrical. Penelope was still, quiet, her grief honest but contained. And that stillness cut him deeper than any dramatics could.
She looked small. Too small, too alone, swallowed by a family who saw her as nothing more than background.
Every instinct in him screamed to go to her, to take her hand, to draw her against his chest and let the world see that she was not abandoned. But he could not. Not here. Not now. The eyes of the Ton were everywhere, sharp as knives, ready to cut her down if he gave them cause.
So he did the only thing he could: he stood close. Close enough that she could feel him there, his presence a silent vow.
He felt the questioning glances of his siblings — Francesca’s sharp eyes catching his lingering looks, Benedict’s steady regard, even Eloise’s stubborn insistence on pressing herself to Pen’s side. And beyond them, Violet. His mother’s gaze was cool, disapproving, though she said nothing.
He ignored them all.
When the final prayer was spoken and the mourners began to drift away, Anthony moved at once to ensure every detail was seen to. The carriages, the arrangements at the house, the refreshments afterward. He had promised Penelope she would not need to worry, and he would not break his word.
But later, when the house had quieted again, when his family had returned to Bridgerton House, he found he could not rest.
He sat in his own study, the fire crackling low, his cravat loosened, his shoulders aching from tension. He should sleep — God knew he had not in days — but every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. Standing so small beside her family. The tremor in her shoulders when Eloise held her hand. The way her gaze had found his, searching, as if anchoring herself to him amidst the sea of false mourners.
He wanted to gather her up, shield her from every sharp glance, every careless word. He wanted to carry her out of that house and place her among people who would cherish her as she deserved.
But the whole Ton was watching. She was in mourning. And his duty was to wait.
Patience had never come easily to Anthony, but he would master it now, for her. He would write to her, as he had before — more letters, steadier words, so that she never doubted he was still there for her. When the Season began, he would make his intentions clear, and she would never again stand alone at the edge of a room.
Still, he could not leave it like this. Not yet. They would soon return to Aubrey; duty to the estate and family demanded it. But before he went, he needed to see her one more time. Needed to look into her eyes without the whole of society peering over his shoulder. Needed to remind her that he meant every word he had spoken, every vow made in the shadows.
Anthony straightened, his decision made. The hour was late, the city quiet, but it did not matter. He would find her. He would sit beside her, even in silence, if that was what she needed.
For as long as it took, until she could breathe again, he would be there.
And God help anyone who tried to stand in his way.
Penelope’s POV
The house was silent at last.
Penelope had lain in bed for hours, eyes open in the dark, listening to the soft breathing of her sisters through the thin walls. But sleep would not come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father’s coffin lowered into the earth, the sound of the bells echoing, the feel of a hundred eyes pressing down on her.
So she had slipped from bed, pulled her shawl around her shoulders, and crept quietly through the house until the back door gave her escape.
The garden was cool, the damp night air brushing her cheeks, the scent of earth and fading roses thick around her. She lowered herself onto the grass beneath her favorite tree, the shawl trailing, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. Above her, the stars burned sharp and cold against the velvet sky.
They looked peaceful, she thought. Untroubled. Steady in a way her world had never been.
She lay back against the grass, her hair spilling around her, her eyes fixed on the sky. If she stared long enough, maybe she could forget the weight in her chest.
But the sound of footsteps on gravel broke the stillness.
Penelope sat up, her heart lurching. She expected Rae — the maid was forever checking on her these days, hovering with silent worry. “I’m fine, Rae,” she began, her voice weary. “Truly, you don’t need—”
But it was not Rae’s voice that answered.
“Penelope.”
Her head whipped around.
Anthony.
He stood at the edge of the garden path, his tall frame faintly silhouetted in the moonlight. His eyes were fixed on her, dark and intent, as though she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice breaking on the question.
He stepped closer, steady as ever. “Checking on you.”
And without waiting for invitation, he lowered himself onto the grass beside her, his presence solid and grounding. For a moment, neither spoke. They simply sat, side by side, looking up at the scatter of stars.
It was Anthony who broke the silence, his voice low, thoughtful. “When I was a boy, my father told me a story. He said when we lose someone we love, they don’t vanish. They transcend. They become stars, burning bright above us, so they can watch over us always.”
Penelope turned her head, blinking at him. “He told you that?”
Anthony nodded. “I remember it vividly. He said it the night my grandfather died. I sat with him on the lawn at Aubrey Hall, staring at the sky much as we are now. I asked him how we could know the stars were really them. He said, Because you can feel it. Here.” He pressed a hand briefly to his chest.
Her throat tightened. She looked back up at the glittering sky, the tears stinging her eyes again, but softer this time. “That’s…lovely. To think they’re still there. Watching.”
“They are,” Anthony said quietly. “I believe that. And your father—he is up there too.”
Her chest ached, but in a gentler way, the sharpness of grief dulled by the balm of his words.
Silence stretched between them again, but it was not uncomfortable. It was steady, like the stars above them.
After a while, Anthony sighed. “We’ll be leaving for Aubrey soon. The estate can’t be neglected forever, as much as I’d like to linger here for you.”
She turned to him, startled. “You’ve already done more than enough, Anthony. For me and for my family.”
He shook his head, and when his eyes met hers, they were burning. “No. I didn’t do any of it for them. I did it for you.”
The world seemed to still. Her lips parted, her breath caught, but no words came.
There was that look in his eyes again—the one she had noticed at the funeral, the one she had felt in the garden the night before. As if he were holding something back, something heavy and impossible and meant only for her.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
“I can never repay you,” she whispered. “For everything. I owe you so much.”
Anthony’s mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “You can repay me easily enough.”
She blinked. “How?”
“Answer my letters,” he said softly. “Every one. Don’t let me write into silence. That is all I ask.”
A laugh slipped from her, shaky but real. “That, I think, I can manage.”
“Good,” he murmured. Then, after a beat, his voice lowered further, intimate: “And prepare yourself, Penelope. When the new Season begins, you won’t be lingering at the edges of the ballroom anymore. You won’t have a moment’s peace from the dance floor.”
Her heart stuttered. “That’s absurd,” she said quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Nobody asks the wallflower to dance.”
He turned to her fully, his gaze unwavering, his voice steady as iron. “The wallflower is about to bloom. And I will make sure of it.”
The words struck deep, a promise too impossible to believe, and yet—when she looked into his eyes, she saw no jest there. Only certainty. Only intent.
Her breath came quick, her hands trembling in her lap. She had never been looked at like this. Never been spoken to like this.
And for the first time in her life, Penelope dared to hope it was real.
Anthony’s POV
The stars above were still, but inside Anthony everything roiled — fire and restraint, longing and patience warring within him. He had said more than he intended already: that he had done it all for her, that she would bloom this coming Season. And yet she had looked at him with those wide, luminous eyes as though she half-believed, half-feared he spoke nonsense.
He could not leave it at that.
For she deserved the truth.
Her voice broke the silence first, soft, trembling. “Why?”
He turned to her, brows furrowing slightly. “Why?”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She twisted her hands together in her lap, gaze flicking down before daring to meet his. “Why do you…care so much? About me. About all of this.” Her voice cracked. “You’re the Viscount Bridgerton. You could have left everything to my mother and been done with it. But you didn’t. You—” Her breath hitched. “You’ve been here. For me. And I don’t understand why.”
Anthony’s chest tightened, a sharp, aching pull that stole his breath.
For years he had carried his feelings like armor — desire buried beneath duty, love repressed beneath responsibility. But now, with her beside him, looking so uncertain, so desperately in need of someone who would tell her she was worthy…he could not lie. Not to her.
He drew a breath, steadying himself. And then, softly: “Because I cannot help it.”
Her eyes widened.
He went on, the words pouring from him, rare and unguarded. “When we rode after Colin and Marina, I saw you as I never had before. Brave. Fierce. Clever. You were not hiding in shadows. You were blazing, Penelope. And I…God, I could not look away.”
Her lips parted, her breath catching.
Anthony’s gaze held hers, unflinching. “And when you broke in my arms the other night, when you sobbed into my chest and whispered that I was there—Penelope, I have not known what it is to be needed like that since my father died. And I swear to you, I wanted nothing more than to keep you safe. To make sure you never felt that alone again.”
Her eyes shimmered, a tear slipping down her cheek.
He reached out before he could stop himself, brushing it away with the gentlest touch of his thumb. “I care for you because I cannot not care for you. Because when I look at you, I see the woman who has been overlooked, ignored, dismissed—and I see the truth. That you are remarkable. And I want…” His voice faltered, raw. “I want a future with you.”
The silence that followed was sharp, filled only with the night sounds of crickets and the distant rustle of leaves.
She shook her head slightly, her voice breaking. “But—I…Anthony, I—what about Colin?”
The name was a knife, but Anthony did not flinch. “Colin?” he repeated, his tone hardening. “Colin does not deserve you. He thoughtlessly threw away your trust. He has never seen you. Not truly. But I do now.” He softened then, his gaze burning into hers. “I know you are still untangling your heart from him, and I would not rush you. Take this time, take the off Season, take your mourning. Heal. But when the new Season begins, I will call on you. I will make my intentions clear. Make no mistake about that.”
She stared at him, shock written across her face, as though he had spoken something impossible.
He leaned closer, his voice lowering, intimate and certain. “I am serious about you, Penelope. I want you as my wife. Not out of duty. Not out of convenience. But because you are the only woman I can imagine by my side.”
Her breath came quick, her lips trembling. “But…what if someone else—better, prettier, more…appropriate—comes along? There are dozens of ladies in the Ton who—”
“No.” His answer was swift, sharp with conviction. “No one is better for me than you.” His hand closed over hers, firm, steady. “Do you hear me? No one.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes wide, her lips parted in disbelief.
Anthony softened, brushing his thumb over her knuckles, gentling the intensity of his tone. “I do not need your answer now. I do not expect it. All I ask is that you think of what I’ve said. And when I come for you after the first ball of the Season, be ready to let me prove it to you.”
She stared at him, stunned, as though trying to reconcile every word with the world she thought she knew. And he let her, his gaze steady, his hand warm around hers.
The stars burned bright above them, silent witnesses to his vow.
Anthony had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. But he had never felt so certain either.
Penelope Featherington was his future.
And he would wait for her, fight for her, and claim her—no matter what storms came.
Notes:
So…Sharmas. They’ll be appearing in this story, but not as rivals for Anthony’s heart. How would you like to see them fit in? Allies for Pen? Pawns of Violet’s matchmaking? Mischief-makers in their own right?
Chapter 5: The Bloom Before the Ball
Summary:
Between Anthony’s letters, Pen’s scheming, and Gen’s scandalous fashion lessons, this chapter is all about promises and preparation. Hope you enjoy the bloom before the ballroom!💛
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Penelope’s POV
The months since her father’s death had slipped past like a dream half-remembered. At first, everything was heavy, muffled. The house had been cloaked in black crepe and hushed tones, but grief had never lived there. Her mother’s mourning had been loud and false, all sighs and complaints about creditors. Her sisters’ tears dried within a day, their eyes bright again as soon as a new day came.
Penelope had carried her mourning quietly, honestly. For months, she had risen each day, eaten what was set before her, and retreated into the garden with her books. She became a shadow in her own home, her silence unnoticed, her absence unremarked. At first it stung, that loneliness. Then, strangely, it became a kind of relief.
What else was she to expect from a family who had never truly seen her?
But in that silence, something else came.
Letters.
Anthony’s letters.
It was no surprise when the first arrived — not really. He had promised her in the garden, that night after her father’s funeral, that he would not leave her to grieve alone. He had promised he would write. And Anthony Bridgerton was not a man who broke his word.
Still, when the seal met her eyes, her breath caught. A Viscount’s hand, addressed not to her mother, but to her. Always to her.
She had not needed to stare for hours in disbelief. She had known he would come through. Yet when she broke the seal and read the lines — steady, respectful, filled with a kind of gentleness she had never before been offered — her throat tightened all the same.
You are not forgotten. You are not alone. Remember that.
Tears had pricked her eyes then, not for the words alone, but for what they meant. That he had meant what he told her in the garden. That he was here still, even across the miles.
And they had not stopped.
Every week, without fail, sometimes twice, his letters came. Always on time, never hurried, never careless. Even if only a single line:
Thinking of you. I hope today was kind to you.
Or:
I t snowed at Aubrey this morning. I thought of how your cheeks would flush in the cold. I wish you had been here to see it.
Other times, longer missives, full of wit and warmth, sharing glimpses of his life at Aubrey Hall:
You may scold me, but I confess I miss our debates. I cannot seem to argue with Benedict without remembering how cleverly you dismantled me on the road north. Perhaps I am growing soft. Or perhaps you are simply unmatched.
And:
Francesca insists on tormenting me at cards. She won’t rest until she bests me properly. It occurs to me that you would likely side with her against me, and I wonder why I find that thought so amusing.
Penelope read each one until the paper softened from her fingers. She tucked them in a bundle tied with ribbon, hidden away in her drawer, safe as treasure. Sometimes she unfolded them late at night when the house was quiet, letting the words steady her when loneliness pressed in.
Eloise wrote often too, her letters irreverent, full of complaints about her family and the Season she dreaded, every line sharp enough to make Penelope smile through her tears. Pen adored her for it. But Anthony’s letters were different. They asked about her. They reached for her. They made her feel not invisible but seen — valued.
And slowly, imperceptibly, her heart began to shift.
She had moved on from Colin. The realization came quietly one morning, as she read yet another of Anthony’s letters. She thought back to her old girlish crush, to the way her heart had once tripped when Colin smiled at her. It seemed so small now, so shallow. She had clung to it because it was the only kindness offered to her, the only scrap she believed she might claim. But it had never been love. Not truly. It had been the desperate hope of a girl ignored, longing for something more.
Anthony was different.
What she felt now was warmer, deeper. Her chest tightened when she thought of him, not in the way of childish longing but with something steadier, richer. The look in his eyes that night in the garden haunted her — the fierce way he had said she was not alone, the quiet reverence in his voice when he spoke of the stars.
Even now, months later, she could hear him. No one is better for me than you.
Her cheeks heated at the memory, her heart fluttering wildly.
There were two more months left of the off Season. Then society would sweep them back into its unforgiving embrace. She dreaded it, in part — the eyes, the whispers, the same cruel reminders of her invisibility. But another part of her, a part that grew louder with every letter she read, longed for it.
If Anthony meant what he wrote — and oh, how she hoped he did — then the coming Season could change everything.
And she would not face it in the same lemon-yellow gowns and ill-fitted sleeves her mother chose for her. The very thought of standing beside Anthony in such garments made her cheeks burn with humiliation. To be seen — truly seen — by him, she would not allow herself to look like a child playing at society.
No. She would not.
She sat up straighter, resolve sparking through her. She would find a way to persuade her mother to leave her to her own choices. She would commission new gowns — colors that suited her, cuts that flattered her. Gen would help; Gen would delight in it.
She had been invisible for too long. This Season, she would not hide.
And when Anthony saw her…her lips curved in the faintest smile, her heart quickening…perhaps he would look at her the way he had in the garden. Perhaps he already did.
Anthony’s POV
The first buds of spring had begun to show themselves at Aubrey Hall, pale green against the bare hedgerows, when Anthony realized something strange: for the first time in his memory, he was looking forward to the Season.
Usually it was an obligation. A grind of endless balls, meaningless conversation, simpering mothers thrusting their daughters before him, and the cold reminder of duty pressing ever heavier on his shoulders. Every year he returned to London with dread, and every year his mother’s hopeful looks sharpened into disappointed sighs when he failed to choose.
But this year was different.
This year, Penelope Featherington was waiting for him.
He thought of her constantly. Of her face in the garden that night, pale with grief until she broke against him, her sobs soaking into his coat. Of her strength at the funeral, standing still and quiet while her family postured for society’s gaze, her hand slipping into Eloise’s, her eyes finding his as though drawing strength from him alone.
And then, the letters.
Her replies had been careful at first, shy — updates about the weather, her books, small observations of life in the Featherington household. But over the months they had grown bolder, warmer. She teased him in ink, challenged his musings, confided things she likely told no one else. Each letter felt like a door opening wider, letting him see more of her. And with every page, he wanted her more.
He would court her openly this Season. Properly. And by the end of it — sooner, if she allowed — he would marry her.
The thought brought a rare warmth to his chest, one that startled him with its intensity. To bring her into his home. To free her from Portia’s careless cruelty, to see her treated with the dignity she deserved. To hold her without fear of scandal, to give her the security she had never known.
To love her, as she deserved to be loved.
Yet even as he allowed himself the vision, the shadows pressed in. Violet’s voice haunted him more often these days, her pointed remarks sharp as thorns.
“What a sweet story it would be, if Colin and Penelope were to unite,” she had mused just days ago at breakfast, her tone so deliberate that even Gregory noticed. “Such a romance — lifelong friends turned into something more. Why, it reminds me of your father and me, Anthony. Friendship blossoming into love. Would it not be the happiest of endings?”
Anthony had barely contained his fury. He knew his mother was not cruel — she meant well, in her way. But her blindness cut him all the same. She saw Colin where she should see him. She thought of Pen as Eloise’s companion, a girl meant for another son, not the woman who consumed Anthony’s every thought.
It hurt more than he cared to admit, that she could not see how serious he was. That she disapproved without even realizing she disapproved.
He had swallowed it, as he always did. He was used to enduring. But the bitterness lingered.
Colin’s absence helped. The boy had thrown himself into travel after the debacle with Marina, chasing distant shores in a bid to mend his wounded pride. Anthony was grateful for it. He did not know what would happen when Colin returned, when he learned the truth of Anthony’s intentions. But he knew one thing with absolute clarity: Penelope was not Colin’s. She never had been.
Benedict had been his anchor in all this, steady and unflinching. After their conversation by the fire, Anthony no longer feared his brother’s judgment. Benedict understood. He had promised his support, and Anthony believed him.
He would need it.
Because mother would meddle. Of that, Anthony had no doubt. She would see Pen as unsuitable for him. She would thrust other ladies before him, parading them as better matches. And society itself would whisper. A Viscount and the wallflower? Unthinkable.
Anthony ground his teeth, leaning back in the leather chair of his study. Let them whisper. Let mother frown. He knew what he wanted. He knew what was right.
Still, he would need more than Benedict’s quiet support when the Season began. He would need an ally who knew Pen as well as he did now, who could shield her in ways he could not always manage.
He would need Eloise.
The thought made him smile faintly despite himself. His younger sister had never been one for society’s games. She loathed them as much as he did. But for Penelope, Eloise might make an exception. For Penelope, Eloise would stand her ground, as she always had.
And if he could bring her into his confidence before the Season began, then perhaps—just perhaps—they might outmaneuver mother and all the Ton’s schemes long enough for him to do what he had promised: court Penelope openly. Properly. Tenderly.
And make her his wife.
The fire was burning high in his study, crackling and spitting as though it sensed the tension in the air. Anthony stood by the mantel, a glass of brandy untouched in his hand, his eyes fixed on the door.
He had asked Benedict to bring Eloise to him after supper. Ben had raised his brows knowingly, then offered him one of those infuriatingly smug winks that said I know exactly what this is about. Anthony had scowled but said nothing.
He needed Eloise’s support. He knew it. But he was also aware that Eloise was not a woman easily won.
The door opened.
Benedict stepped in first, his grin broad. “Your condemned man awaits,” he announced, sweeping an arm dramatically as Eloise strode in behind him.
“Condemned man?” Anthony snapped. “I am not—”
“You sound very much like one,” Eloise interrupted crisply, her arms folded across her chest. Suspicion glimmered in her eyes. “Ben said you wished to speak with me privately, which can only mean one of two things: either you are about to dictate my entire life to me as though I were a wayward sheep, or…” Her eyes narrowed further. “This is about Penelope.”
Anthony inhaled sharply. “It is.”
Eloise’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She gaped at him, searching his face. “It is? Wait—you—you’re not about to tell me you’ve written something dreadful about her in the papers, are you? Because if so, I will set fire to this study.”
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake, Eloise, no. This is serious.”
“Ah, but it involves you,” Benedict said cheerfully, flopping into a chair by the fire and stretching his legs. “So of course it is serious.”
Anthony shot him a glare. “Must you?”
“Always,” Benedict said blandly, and reached for the brandy decanter.
Eloise turned back to Anthony, her eyes narrowing again. “Explain. And do not prevaricate, Anthony, I shall know if you do.”
Anthony set his glass aside, squared his shoulders, and forced the words out. “I intend to court Penelope.”
The silence that followed was so complete he could hear the tick of the mantel clock.
Then Eloise let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a squawk. “You—you what?”
“Court her,” Anthony repeated evenly. “Properly. Respectfully. With the aim of marriage.”
Her mouth opened and closed again. “You—you can’t—” She broke off, pressing a hand to her forehead. “You’re serious.”
“Yes,” Anthony said. “I am.”
Eloise blinked rapidly, then threw herself into the opposite chair with a dramatic huff. “Well. This explains…everything.”
“Everything?” Anthony demanded.
“The letters,” she said. “Pen has been positively glowing in hers of late, and I assumed it was simply her escaping my mother’s tyranny by pouring her thoughts onto paper. But no. It was you. Of course it was you.”
Benedict snorted into his glass. “Glowing, was she? Interesting choice of word.”
“Shut up, Ben,” Eloise said automatically, before turning back to Anthony with fresh suspicion. “When? How? Why?”
Anthony exhaled slowly. “When? Since Colin nearly ran off with Marina. Since Penelope came to me for help instead of anyone else. On that road, I began to see her differently. Truly see her. And then after her father’s passing…” His voice softened despite himself. “She broke in my arms. And I swore she would never be alone again. That was when I knew.”
Eloise’s eyes softened, though her brow remained furrowed. “And why?”
“Because she is remarkable,” Anthony said simply. “Fierce, clever, loyal. She has been overlooked her entire life, and I will not be another to ignore her. I want her, Eloise. As my wife. And I mean to have her.”
Eloise was silent for a long moment, studying him with an intensity that rivaled mother’s. Finally, she spoke. “You’re telling the truth. You mean this.”
“Yes.”
Her lips quirked. “Well. I suppose miracles do happen.”
Benedict choked on his drink, laughing. Anthony rolled his eyes heavenward.
“This is serious,” Anthony snapped.
“Yes, yes,” Benedict drawled, waving a hand. “So serious that you’ve dragged Eloise here to secure her blessing, as though she were the Queen.”
Eloise perked up. “Oh, I like that. I should demand curtsies.”
Anthony growled. “For once in your lives, could you both—”
But then Eloise leaned forward, her expression softening in a way that caught him off guard. “I will support you. But only on two conditions.”
Anthony stilled. “Name them.”
“One,” she said firmly, “you will never hurt her. If you do, I will never forgive you. I will never speak to you again.”
The seriousness in her tone stunned him into silence. But he nodded, solemn. “I would rather cut off my own arm than hurt her.”
Eloise studied him for a moment, then nodded back. “Good. Two…” Her mouth twisted. “You must help me keep Mother off my back. I am not ready to be paraded before half of London. I have no interest in these dances and matches. I am not Daphne, and I refuse to be measured against her like a prize horse.”
Anthony’s chest tightened. For the first time, he saw the rawness in Eloise’s eyes — the weight of expectations, the fear beneath her defiance. She was still so young.
He crossed the room, crouched before her, and took her hands gently in his. “You will present this Season, yes. But you will not be pressured into marrying anyone. You will not dance with anyone you do not wish. I promise you, Eloise. And if Mother presses too hard, I will stand between you.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, blinking rapidly. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “And besides, she’ll be too busy meddling in my affairs to notice yours.”
That drew a reluctant laugh from her, small but real. Benedict grinned from his chair.
“Ah,” Ben said, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “The great Viscount, tamer of mothers, champion of sisters, and suitor of wallflowers. Who could have imagined?”
Anthony shot him a dark look, but Eloise only squeezed his hands tighter.
“All right,” she said softly. “You have my support. But see that you keep your promises, Anthony. Penelope is worth it. And so am I.”
Anthony felt something ease in his chest, a relief so sharp it was almost painful. He glanced at Benedict, who raised his glass in silent confirmation.
For the first time in years, he felt as though his family truly stood with him.
And he would not waste it.
Penelope’s POV
The black dresses were gone. At least, they were for Penelope. Her mother had declared the mourning period officially over, her sigh of relief more about fabrics than feelings, and had immediately thrust her daughters back into gowns of clashing citrus shades. But Penelope had quietly made her own plans.
Which was why she stood outside Madame Delacroix’s modiste shop that morning, her heart thumping in her chest, a small purse of coins clutched in her gloved hand. She had convinced her mother that some of the money came from her father’s meager savings, tucked away in her name, and the rest had been “a kindness from the Bridgertons” — a gift Violet had supposedly pressed upon her after the funeral. Her mother, so pleased by the thought of appearing in debt to a Viscountess, had agreed readily, leaving Penelope free.
She stepped inside.
The familiar bell chimed above her, and the scent of silks and fresh dye met her nose. Genevieve appeared at once, her sharp eyes sweeping over Penelope before softening into a smile.
“Ah, ma chère,” she purred. “At last, you come to me. And not to trail after Eloise or pretend you are only here for ribbons.”
Penelope flushed. “I thought—well. I thought it might be time to…” Her voice faltered, embarrassed.
Genevieve arched a brow, then closed the door behind her with a decisive snap. “Good. We begin.” She clapped her hands, startling the apprentice seamstresses who scurried to clear bolts of fabric from the tables. “Out. All of you. The shop is closed for the day. This is important.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped. “Gen, you cannot—”
“I can and I will,” Genevieve said firmly, ushering Penelope toward the mirrors. “Now. We burn the lemons.”
Penelope’s laugh escaped before she could stop it, nervous and delighted at once.
Genevieve began pulling bolts of fabric from shelves, tossing them over chairs, draping them against Penelope’s shoulders. Rich jewel tones, soft pastels, fabrics that shimmered in the light.
“Blue,” she mused, holding a deep sapphire against Penelope’s cheek. “Yes, this brings out your eyes. And this—” She swapped for a bolt of emerald. “Ah, this is divine. Green is bold, yes? It says, look at me.”
Penelope ducked her head, her cheeks burning. “I am not sure I want everyone to look at me.”
Genevieve tutted. “Then what is the point of new gowns, hm? You wish to fade into wallpaper forever? Non. We make them look. And we make them rue the years they did not see you.”
Penelope smiled faintly, smoothing her hand over the emerald silk. “Do you really think I could?”
Genevieve caught her gaze in the mirror. “With the right gown, the right colors, the right cut? Oui. But more than that, with the right confidence. That, my dear, is what makes a woman shine.”
They moved through more fabrics — plum, lilac, icy blue, soft rose — until Penelope’s head spun. Each one seemed to reveal a version of herself she had never considered, a woman she might become.
And then Genevieve, sly as ever, leaned closer, her voice dropping. “And, of course, we must think of the male gaze.”
Penelope nearly choked. “The what?”
Genevieve smirked. “Do not play innocent. The way men look at a woman. The things they notice. The way they imagine…” She trailed off meaningfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Penelope’s ears flamed. “Gen!”
“Oh, hush,” Genevieve laughed. “It is important! You think I dress women only for the Ton’s whispers? No. I dress them for the eyes that linger when the room is crowded. For the way a man leans closer, wondering what it might be to untie the laces.”
Penelope covered her face with her hands. “You cannot say things like that.”
“I just did,” Genevieve said cheerfully, prying her hands away. “And I will say more. You wish the Viscount to notice you, do you not? Then you must give him something to notice.”
Penelope’s breath caught, scandalized. “I—I never said—”
“Pffft. You did not have to. The way your face lights when I mention his name says enough.” Genevieve plucked up a length of violet silk, draping it low across Penelope’s neckline. “Here. This will make him lose his fine Viscount composure. Show a hint of skin, not too much, just enough to make him imagine. Men are simple creatures.”
Penelope squeaked, her cheeks flaming scarlet. “Gen, please!”
Genevieve only laughed, her delight wicked. “Ah, ma pauvre chérie, you have so much to learn. Flirtation is an art. It is not about saying I want you. It is about suggesting, hinting, leaving them desperate for more.”
“I cannot,” Penelope muttered, horrified. “I would make a fool of myself.”
Genevieve tilted her head, suddenly softer. “No, Penelope. You will not. Because you already have what most women spend years faking.”
Penelope blinked. “What is that?”
“Heart,” Genevieve said simply. “You feel deeply. You care fiercely. That is what draws a man like Anthony Bridgerton. Not only the gowns, though I will make you shine. It is you. Always you.”
The words sank deep, and for a moment Penelope could only stare at herself in the mirror — the emerald silk draped across her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brighter than she remembered them being. For the first time, she could imagine walking into a ballroom and not being invisible.
Genevieve clapped her hands, breaking the spell. “Good. We make ten gowns. Darker blues, emeralds, violets, soft lilac. Cuts to flatter your curves — yes, stop blushing, you have them — and to show the world that Miss Featherington is no wallflower. By the Season’s end, he will be salivating.”
Penelope covered her face again with a groan, half-mortified, half-giddy. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you, ma chère, are about to be irresistible,” Genevieve said with a wink.
Penelope laughed, the sound bubbling out of her, bright and new. For the first time in months, she felt not just hope, but excitement.
When Anthony saw her again, she would not be the girl in lemon-yellow. She would be someone more. Someone worthy of the way he looked at her.
And the thought made her heart race.
Notes:
Violet will meddle (of course she will), but here’s my question for you: should Daphne side with her mother and play matchmaker against Pen and Anthony, or should she surprise us all by quietly joining Team Penthony?
Chapter 6: All Eyes Upon Them
Summary:
The Season has begun, the chandeliers are lit, and our Viscount is about to make a statement in the boldest way possible. ✨ Lilac silk, stolen glances, and a waltz that just might leave the entire Ton whispering — and two hearts wondering if they’ve already found what they were looking for.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Anthony’s POV
The clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the creak of trunks carried up staircases, the bustle of maids airing out rooms — all of it told Anthony Bridgerton one thing: they were home.
London.
After months at Aubrey Hall, he had returned to the city with a heart restless and intent. Not because of Parliament, or duty, or the endless social calls that would no doubt begin before he even had the chance to breathe. But because she was here.
Penelope.
The very thought of her name made his chest tighten, a warmth spreading through him that he could neither suppress nor fully understand. He had promised himself this Season would be different. He would not waste time as he had before. No more pretending indifference. No more letting Violet dictate or Colin’s ghost linger over them. This year, he would act.
He had felt it building over the months — through every letter exchanged, every line of her handwriting that revealed more of her wit, her sharpness, her heart. She had opened to him slowly, carefully, as though testing the waters, and then more freely, as though realizing he was not there to mock or dismiss her. Each reply had been a balm. She had shared pieces of herself he doubted she offered to anyone else: quiet complaints about her mother’s endless chatter, the little victories of a day spent reading in the garden, the rare but treasured moments when she allowed herself to dream.
And in turn, he had written with honesty. Not declarations — not yet — but truths all the same. He told her of his days at Aubrey, of his siblings’ antics, of the way the house felt emptier than usual. He had teased her, gently, about her sharp observations. And every word had been meant to remind her: she mattered. To him. Always.
Now, standing in his London office once more, the weight of the city pressing against the windows, he felt as though his entire body was wound tight. Every instinct in him screamed to cross the street, to knock upon the Featherington door, to demand to see her. To reassure himself that she was well, that her smile was still there, that she had not been hidden away again in those dreadful lemon gowns her mother adored.
But he did not. Not yet.
He had promised her time. Promised her a courtship that was proper, visible, undeniable. He meant to keep that promise, no matter how much it strained him now.
Still, his eyes drifted, inevitably, to the window.
From his study, he could see across the square to the Featherington house. The curtains were drawn against the early evening chill, but he knew she was there. Knew she was near. The knowledge steadied him and drove him mad in equal measure.
He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his reflection faint against the glass. He thought of how much had changed in a year. How much he had changed. He had been closed off once, buried in duty, drowning beneath the weight of his father’s legacy. Now…he had learned to laugh again with Benedict, to tease Gregory, to listen to Eloise. She had done that — Penelope. With her letters, with her courage, with her presence in his life.
This Season, he would not hide it. He would show her, and all of London, that she was the one he wanted. That she was the one who was best for him.
And no meddling from mother, no scandal whispered in corners, no shadow of Colin would change it.
Anthony’s jaw tightened with resolve as he turned back to his desk, but not before one last look out the window, toward the house opposite.
Toward her.
Penelope’s POV
The Featherington house was abuzz with the usual chaos before a ball — Portia barking orders at the maids, Prudence complaining of a pin pricking her side, Philippa insisting her sash was crooked. It was the same cacophony of nonsense Penelope had endured her whole life.
But tonight, she would not be part of it.
She had hidden herself away in her room, Rae standing guard against her mother’s inevitable fussing. By the time Portia realized she had not inspected her youngest daughter’s gown, it would be too late. Penelope would already be ready.
For once, she wanted to look in the mirror and not see the lemon-yellow shadow her mother insisted upon. For once, she wanted to see herself.
Genevieve had worked miracles, as she always did, her clever hands and sharper eye shaping silks into gowns that felt more like armor than fabric. Penelope’s favorite among them now hung against her shoulders: a soft lilac creation, flowing tulle that floated as she moved, delicate embroidery of blue blossoms across the bodice like a secret garden blooming at her heart. The neckline was gentle but grown-up, the sheer ruffle brushing her collarbone, hinting at something more without crossing the line.
Rae had tended to her hair with patient care, weaving curls down her back so they fell loose and soft, not bound up into childish ringlets. The braid crown was threaded with tiny lilac blossoms, delicate as dew, shimmering faintly under the candlelight.
When Penelope finally turned to face the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
The girl who stared back had color in her cheeks, a subtle tint on her lips, and eyes that seemed brighter for the gown that surrounded her. Her figure, long hidden beneath frills and poor cuts, was now framed properly, her curves embraced rather than mocked.
For the first time since she could remember, Penelope felt…beautiful.
Her heart clenched. Would Anthony think so?
The thought of him had crept into every quiet corner of her mind these past months, each letter another thread binding her heart to his. Colin’s name no longer sent a jolt through her — indeed, it barely stirred anything at all. But Anthony…Anthony made her chest warm, her breath catch, her pulse quicken.
She thought of his last letter, teasing her about burning all the lemon silks in a great bonfire. I hope to see you in colors that suit the woman you are, not the child your mother would dress you as, he had written. You deserve to be seen for all that you are.
Penelope’s lips curved into the faintest smile. Tonight, she would be.
She smoothed her hands down the lilac skirt, drawing a steadying breath.
“Do you think he’ll notice?” she whispered, not even realizing she had spoken aloud.
Rae, fussing with the last pin at the back of her braid, gave her a knowing smile in the mirror. “My lady, he won’t be able to look away.”
Penelope blushed scarlet, but hope fluttered all the same.
Tonight, she was not the overlooked Featherington daughter. Tonight, she was something new.
And she prayed Anthony would see it too.
Anthony’s POV
Lady Danbury’s ballroom glittered with candlelight, the chandeliers blazing above a sea of silks and jewels. The Season had begun.
Anthony stood near the entrance, his siblings arrayed around him like a flock of bright birds, their chatter buzzing in his ears. His jaw was tight, his patience already fraying.
Because his mother, predictably, had seized the moment.
“May I have everyone’s attention?” Violet’s clear voice carried above the hum of the crowd, her fan snapping open like a general unsheathing a sword. The guests stilled, turning their eyes upon her.
Anthony’s stomach sank. Not this.
“As you all know,” Violet continued, smiling serenely, “my eldest son, Viscount Bridgerton, has returned to London for the Season. And I am most pleased to announce that he is—” she paused for effect, her eyes twinkling, “—at last in earnest pursuit of a wife.”
The crowd rippled with delighted murmurs. Mothers leaned toward daughters, eyes bright with calculation. Anthony felt the weight of every gaze shift to him, assessing, appraising.
His teeth ground together. He could hear Benedict choking back laughter. Eloise muttered, “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” with all the scorn of a sister unimpressed.
Anthony inclined his head stiffly, schooling his features into polite indifference, but inside his irritation burned. His mother had promised nothing of this. He did not need her parading him like a prize bull. I will choose for myself. I already have.
Still, he endured, because endurance was what he had been trained to do since his father’s death. But his eyes…his eyes searched the room.
For her.
Penelope was nowhere in sight. His heart gave a sharp pang. Had she not come? Had Portia found some excuse to keep her at home, to hide her away and prevent her from stepping into her own light?
The music swelled, the crowd shifted, and he felt his pulse quicken with impatience.
And then—
A murmur rippled through the ballroom, soft at first, then growing. Heads turned toward the far doors, whispers skimming over the guests like a breeze over water. Anthony followed their gaze.
And his breath caught.
Penelope.
She stood in the doorway, framed by the glow of the chandeliers, and for a moment he could not move, could not think.
The gown was soft lilac, flowing and ethereal, embroidered blossoms blooming across the bodice. Her hair tumbled down her back in soft curls, woven with tiny flowers that glimmered like starlight. Her cheeks were faintly flushed, her lips tinted, her eyes wide with the same uncertainty he remembered from the garden—but beneath it, something new.
Confidence.
Radiance.
She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, though she had never believed it herself. But tonight she glowed, and he knew he was not the only one to see it.
Ben let out a low whistle behind him. “Well. Venus has descended.”
Eloise, beside him, whispered fiercely, “I’m so proud of her.”
Anthony’s heart swelled. He barely noticed Violet’s frown, the calculating looks of the Ton, the sudden stir among the men near the dance floor. All he saw was her.
And he could not let anyone else reach her first.
He moved. Determined, swift, cutting through the crowd with practiced grace. Guests tried to draw him aside, to catch his sleeve, but he ignored them all. His gaze never left hers.
Penelope’s eyes widened as he approached, and then—oh, blessed relief—her face lit. Her lips curved into the shyest of smiles, but her eyes shone, bright and warm, as if the very sight of him eased her nerves.
Anthony’s chest tightened. He reached her and bowed properly, as the Ton demanded, though his voice when he spoke was low and soft, meant for her alone.
“Miss Featherington.”
“Lord Bridgerton,” she returned, her voice steadier than he expected, though her cheeks colored prettily.
“May I?” He extended his hand for her dance card.
She hesitated only a moment before handing it over, her fingers brushing his. The card was still blank. His lips curved as he drew his pencil, and without hesitation, he wrote his name twice: once beside the Quadrille, once beside the Waltz.
When he handed it back, her eyes flew to his, wide with surprise. “Twice?” she whispered.
“Twice,” he confirmed, his gaze steady. “I will not share my intentions in whispers or shadows, Penelope. Let the whole room know them if they wish. I care not.”
Her lips parted, her breath catching, and for a moment he thought—hoped—she might say something. But then the music shifted, and the Quadrille was announced.
He offered his arm. She took it.
They moved to their places on the dance floor, and Anthony felt something strange: anticipation, yes, but also joy. For once, the prospect of a dance did not weigh like obligation. For once, he looked forward to it.
The figures of the Quadrille began, couples weaving in patterns across the floor. Anthony moved as the steps required, but his eyes never left hers. She laughed once, softly, when their hands met and parted, the sound so sweet it echoed in his chest.
He had danced countless times before, but never like this. Never with his heart alight, never with the sense that the entire room could fall away and he would not care, so long as she remained before him.
And when the set ended, when he bowed and she curtseyed, the applause polite around them, Anthony thought only of the waltz yet to come.
And of how very much he wanted the whole world to see what he already knew.
That Penelope Featherington was his.
Benedict’s POV
Benedict had always thought Anthony cut a fine figure on the dance floor. His brother was tall, graceful, bred for the sort of confidence that drew eyes even when he did nothing but stand. But tonight…tonight it was different.
Tonight, Anthony looked alive.
Benedict leaned against a marble pillar at the edge of Lady Danbury’s ballroom, his glass of champagne dangling from loose fingers, and studied the scene with an artist’s eye. Penelope Featherington — quiet, overlooked, often swallowed whole by the garish colors her mother thrust upon her — was radiant in lilac, the soft candlelight catching on her gown, her hair threaded with delicate blossoms. She moved through the Quadrille with an ease he had never seen from her before, her eyes never leaving Anthony’s.
And Anthony, God help him, was smiling. Not the tight, polite grimace he wore in company. Not the forced charm he used to disarm Violet’s most ambitious friends. A real smile — warm, unguarded, like the man Benedict had glimpsed on rare occasions, usually only when the weight of duty had momentarily slipped from his shoulders.
The two of them together…Benedict felt the itch in his fingers, the familiar hunger of inspiration. He wanted charcoal, canvas, paint. He wanted to capture the way she looked at Anthony, the way Anthony bent unconsciously toward her, as though every step of the dance was not dictated by music but by the pull between them.
He made a note to himself — he would paint it. Not now, of course, but later. Someday. Perhaps as a gift when the inevitable wedding came.
“You look like you’re about to compose an ode,” Eloise muttered at his side, startling him from his thoughts.
He glanced down to find his sister watching him, her eyes narrowed but her mouth twitching with amusement. “Not an ode,” Benedict said smoothly. “A painting, perhaps.”
Eloise arched a brow. “Of Pen?”
“Of them both,” Benedict corrected, nodding toward the couple as they spun past, Anthony’s eyes locked unerringly on Penelope’s. “Can you not see it? They fit. Like two pieces of a puzzle no one realized belonged together until they were placed side by side.”
Eloise followed his gaze. For once, she did not scoff. A small, proud smile touched her lips. “She looks happy.”
“She looks,” Benedict said softly, “like herself. At last.”
A sharp sniff interrupted them.
“Happy?” Violet’s voice cut in, cool and skeptical. Their mother had appeared beside them, her fan fluttering with deliberate grace. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the dance floor, her lips pressed thin.
Eloise tensed immediately. Benedict braced.
“This is not right,” Violet said firmly. “Anthony should not lead the poor girl on so cruelly. Penelope Featherington is Eloise’s dear friend, yes, but she is not—she is not for him.”
Benedict sighed, tipping back his glass before replying. “Mother, if you cannot see the truth before your eyes, then you are blind.”
Violet’s head snapped toward him, her fan pausing mid-flutter. “Excuse me?”
He gestured toward the dancers, unruffled. “Look at them. Anthony hasn’t smiled like that in years. And Penelope? She glows. Whatever you think of her family, whatever notions you’ve built about her belonging to Colin—”
“She does belong to Colin,” Violet interrupted hotly. “It would be a love story worthy of your father and me. Childhood friends—”
“Enough.” Benedict’s tone was sharper than he intended, but he held his mother’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Do not trap Anthony in your storybook when he has already written his own. And do not dismiss Penelope because you cannot imagine her as Viscountess. She is more than worthy.”
Violet’s lips parted, indignation flaring, but she said nothing. Her eyes flicked back to the floor, to Anthony and Penelope moving together in perfect synchrony, their gazes still tethered as though no one else existed.
Beside him, Eloise muttered under her breath, “For once, Benedict is right.”
He smirked faintly. “You might try saying it louder, Eloise. It could become a habit.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do not press your luck.”
Benedict chuckled, turning back to the dance floor just as the Quadrille ended, Anthony bowing low, Penelope curtseying, both of them reluctant to part.
Yes, he thought, watching his brother straighten with an expression of quiet awe. Yes, he would paint this someday.
Because this — this was the moment Anthony Bridgerton ceased to be only Viscount.
This was the moment he became a man in love.
Kate’s POV
Balls were not Kate Sharma’s preferred battlefield, though she had learned to fight them as fiercely as any duel. The swirl of gowns, the clamor of chatter, the endless parade of men with empty smiles — all of it bored her senseless. But Edwina was radiant tonight, and so Kate endured.
She kept her sharp eyes moving, as she always did. Men approached in a steady trickle, bowing and flattering, hoping to secure Edwina’s first dance. Kate dismissed most of them before they even spoke, their arrogance as transparent as their titles. Her sister deserved better.
It was Edwina’s soft intake of breath that drew Kate’s attention to the far side of the room.
“Who is that?” Edwina whispered, her eyes widening.
Kate followed her gaze — to a tall, broad-shouldered man striding through the crowd with unmistakable purpose.
Lady Danbury’s amused voice answered before Kate could. “That, my dear, is Viscount Bridgerton. London’s most eligible prize.”
Kate narrowed her eyes. “Eligible or not, he looks more like a man on the hunt.”
And he was. His steps were swift, cutting a straight line through the crush of guests. Kate, instinctively protective, assumed he must be headed toward Edwina. It would not be the first time a lord aimed too high and too fast.
But then he passed them without a glance.
His gaze was fixed elsewhere.
Kate turned, following the invisible line, and her breath caught.
A young woman stood just inside the ballroom doors, clad in soft lilac, her hair tumbling down in curls threaded with tiny flowers. She was not the most striking woman in the room — not at first glance. But there was something undeniable about her presence, a glow that drew the eye more surely than diamonds.
The Viscount reached her in moments. And as Kate watched, his entire face changed. The hard lines softened, his eyes warmed, and something tender — startlingly tender — settled over his features.
Kate blinked. Well. That was unexpected.
The room around them buzzed with whispers. Who was she? Why had the Viscount gone straight to her? But Kate barely heard them. She watched as he bowed low, took her dance card, and scrawled his name not once but twice. Bold. Reckless, even.
The young woman’s cheeks flushed, her eyes wide, but she smiled — shy and radiant — as he offered his arm. Together, they moved to the floor for the Quadrille.
And though it was a group dance, though others moved around them, it was clear to anyone with eyes: they only saw each other.
Beside her, Edwina sighed dreamily. “Oh, how lovely. I should like a gentleman to look at me like that someday.”
Kate glanced down at her sister, her lips quirking. “As should we all. But I think, dearest, this Viscount has already made his choice.”
Edwina nodded, her gaze still fixed on the pair, a small smile curving her lips. “Then I hope the young lady is strong enough to weather what society will say. He looks at her as though he would fight the world if he had to.”
Kate studied them a moment longer, then inclined her head. “And she looks at him as though she might fight alongside him. That, I think, is the better story.”
For the first time that night, Kate felt a spark of genuine interest. Not in the ball, not in the parade of shallow courtiers, but in this unexpected alliance between Viscount Bridgerton and the young lady in lilac.
Whoever she was, Kate hoped the Ton’s meddling would not crush her. And perhaps, if it tried, Kate would not mind lending her sword arm.
Combined POV
The Quadrille ended in a flurry of polite applause. Anthony bowed, Penelope curtseyed, but neither of them moved far. Their hands lingered a beat too long before slipping apart, their gazes still tethered.
And then the opening notes of the waltz began.
Penelope’s breath caught. A waltz was no small thing — it was intimate, scandalous even, for all that it had become fashionable. Every pair of eyes in the ballroom would turn toward those who stepped onto the floor. She felt her pulse quicken, her hands trembling faintly against her skirts.
Anthony’s hand appeared before her, steady, commanding, impossible to refuse. His eyes, dark and intent, never wavered.
“Dance with me,” he said softly. Not a question. A vow.
Her heart stuttered, but she placed her hand in his.
The world shifted.
Anthony led her to the center of the floor, ignoring the ripple of whispers, the calculating stares, the faintly scandalized expressions. Let them talk. Let them see. He wanted them to.
When he drew her into position, his palm pressed firmly against her waist, her gloved hand settling on his shoulder, he felt something inside him lock into place. She fit against him perfectly — as though the space had always been waiting for her.
The music swelled, and they began to move.
Penelope’s breath came shallow at first. She had danced before, of course, but never like this. Never with every nerve alive, every step charged, every inch of her body aware of the man guiding her so surely.
Anthony’s hand was warm through the thin layers of her gown, his touch steady as he led her across the floor. She dared to look up, and nearly stumbled when she found his gaze already on her. Not polite. Not perfunctory. But full — searching, reverent, almost disbelieving.
Her lips parted, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. “Everyone is staring,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“I know,” Anthony said, his mouth curving in the barest hint of a smile. His grip on her tightened, protective and claiming all at once. “Let them.”
The words stole her breath.
Around them, the room blurred. Anthony moved with purpose, each step precise, his focus absolute. He could feel her heartbeat through the closeness of their dance, could see the way her lashes fluttered when his hand pressed a fraction more firmly at her back. He had waltzed with countless partners before, but never had it felt like this — like every turn drew him deeper, every spin bound him closer.
Her lilac skirts flared, her hair brushed her shoulders, her eyes lifted to his, and the entire world seemed to narrow to the two of them.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her temple. “You are extraordinary,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
Penelope’s heart lurched. No one had ever said such words to her, not like this. Her chest tightened, her throat aching, but when she met his eyes, she saw only sincerity. Only him.
“Anthony…” she whispered, but no other words came.
The music swelled, the dance carried them through its final turn, and as the last note lingered, they stood still in the center of the floor — closer than propriety allowed, their gazes locked, the air between them charged with something that felt far more dangerous than scandal.
Applause broke around them, but neither moved. Neither looked away.
In that moment, Anthony thought only one thing: She is mine.
And Penelope thought, with her heart trembling in her chest: I hope he never lets me go.
Notes:
What do you think, dear readers — should their romance unfold with slow-burn propriety, or tip a little more toward scandal, with stolen kisses and near-ruins in shadowed corners?
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