Chapter Text
Penelope resisted the urge to tug at the scratchy fabric of her new yellow gown. It seemed her mother had managed to choose the cheapest material in the most offensive shade of lemon imaginable. Thankfully, she had only commissioned two gowns — one for Penelope and one for Prudence. She had been tight-lipped ever since Philippa’s wedding to Albion Finch last season.
It was common knowledge that Lord Featherington was a gambler who had nearly wagered away their dowries, before their Aunt Peggy intervened. Upon learning the state of the Featherington estate, her father’s formidable aunt refused to allow the family name to be disgraced. It was thanks to her that Philippa had been able to marry at all.
With one of her daughters wed in her very first season, Penelope had thought her mother might ease. She was, once again, proven wrong. If anything, the scrutiny only sharpened and grew more relentless.
At the very least, Penelope was not entirely alone this year. Eloise had debuted and made it abundantly clear she had no intention of being trussed up like a show pony for the men of the ton. Unfortunately, Lady Bridgerton was determined to parade Eloise before every eligible bachelor in London, and so Penelope found herself lingering at the outer edges, forgotten, again.
She stood at the side of the ballroom, unseen and painfully aware of it. She had no idea how one was meant to be enticing, how a gentleman was meant to look at her and wish for a dance, let alone a future.
Her gaze drifts, betraying her, to land upon Colin Bridgerton. The familiar echo of past affection stirs… and just as quickly curdles. The memory of last season etched in her mind when he courted her cousin with effortless charm, proving himself to be no different than the rest of the ton. A man fascinated by a pretty face and blind to anything deeper.
The music swelled, the chatter pressed in from every side and her nerves threatened rebellion. She needed a moment, just one breath beyond the press of expectation.
Quietly, she slipped away down an empty corridor and tucked herself into a dimly lit alcove, half concealed by a faded tapestry. The quiet a startling contrast from the ballroom, though the faint murmur of the ballroom reached her now, distant and muffled. Perhaps, given a moment, the frantic flutter in her chest would still and dread in her stomach would fade away.
Across the ballroom, Simon, the newly titled Duke of Hastings, endured conversation with his godmother, Lady Danbury, and Mary Sharma, while attempting to reacquaint himself with a society he had long avoided. His gaze skimmed over eager debutantes and their hopeful mothers, every look sharpened with calculated interest. Many, at least, were too intimidated by the formidable Countess to approach, for which he was profoundly grateful. He would not admit it aloud, but he had rather selfishly taken advantage of Lady Danbury’s protection… and of the Sharma’s presence at her side. Together, they formed a most convenient shield.
It seemed everywhere he turned, some young lady batted her lashes or a watchful mama tracked his every step. He did not missed this in the slightest. He desperately needed a reprieve, Simon offered a practiced, meaningless smile and excused himself from the throng. He moved swiftly through the crowd, sidestepping silk skirts and determined faces. When the attention shifted at the arrival of Anthony Bridgerton, he seized the opportunity and escaped down a quiet corridor in search of air.
He paused to catch his breath when a faint sound reached his ears. Thinking he was being followed, he continued moving, and in the same moment he stepped toward an alcove of refuge, he collided, gently, with another figure already hidden there.
For a breathless moment, neither of them moved.
His presence filled the narrow alcove — warmth, cologne, and an unmistakable certainty — and she had never been so acutely aware of another person in her life.
It was not empty.
He looked down to find a petite redhead with striking blue eyes in a gown the most unapologetic and unfortunate shade of yellow.
“Pardon me. I was unaware that this particular alcove was occupied,” Simon said.
“That was very much my intention, Your Grace,” she replied softly with a curtsy. “I had hoped to remain unnoticed, perhaps blend in with the wallpaper.”
Penelope watched as he glanced back toward the ballroom. “I feel it is safe to assume that, since we occupy the same hiding place, you, too are in retreat. Likely from the matchmaking mamas?”
He gave a quiet, humorless huff of breath. “Your perception is not lacking, Miss…”
“Featherington, Your Grace. Penelope Featherington,” she said. “Such a shade as this is the very reason I sought the darkness of this alcove in the first place.”
He inclined his head. “Then it seems we possess the same rather unsociable predisposition this evening.”
“And what would that predisposition be, Your Grace?” she asked.
A pause.
“Cowardice?” The word left her lips before she had quite decided upon it.
Simon looked taken aback and, judging from her own sudden rush of heat, she had surprised herself as well. She dipped her head quickly.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. That was most improper of me to say,” Penelope stammered out.
“It appears you possess more spirit that your demeanor would suggest.”
Penelope stood speechless at her own gall, and before she could respond, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Color drained from her face as she shrank farther into the darkness. This was not the manner in which she wished to begin the season. To be discovered in an alcove with a duke would invite the most dreadful scandal.
Simon moved swiftly away from the alcove to stand near a tapestry, adopting a posture of casual ease, as though he had been hiding in plain sight all along.
“Hastings,” Anthony greeted, friendly and familiar. “I had heard you had returned to society.”
His gaze shifted, a touch conspiratorial. “Not already wandering off with a young debutante, are we? It is quite early in the season.”
Simon chuckled lightly, acutely aware of the young debutante concealed in the shadows at his back.
Penelope stiffened slightly while holding her breath.
“Hardly,” Simon replied. “The entrance of the grand Bridgerton’s merely provided the distraction I required.”
Anthony chuckled. “Well, we are all here to support Eloise for her first ball, and to ensure she does not attempt to flee it. And as my mother so graciously announced, I have decided to seek a wife myself this season.” He glanced towards the ballroom and back at Simon. “Will you be attempting the same?”
Simon let out a quiet exhale, of course. “I am still finding my footing with a new title and new lands. I would rather not stretch myself too thin,” he said. “I suppose I cannot hide forever. And I am quite certain you were not discreet when you came to find me, so we should move before we are set upon by eager young ladies.” He finished with a faint laugh as he began the journey back toward the ballroom.
“I can be discreet if I want to.” Anthony quipped, falling into step beside him.
Their footsteps faded, and Penelope felt her heart begin to slow. That had been far too close for comfort. She lingered a considerable amount of time in the alcove, careful not to appear suspicious, before finally returning to the ballroom, as invisible as she had ever been.
From the edge of the room, Simon had already resumed his place among the shadows of the wider crowd. He affected a look of indifference as his gaze drifted across the dancers, yet it strayed, unbidden, toward the very corridor he had only just left.
At the same time, Penelope found her eyes drawn not to the couples upon the floor, nor to the debutants lining the walls, but instead to the dark silhouette of a tall gentleman standing apart from the revelry. She told herself it was coincidence that her gaze should settle upon him.
He did not know that she watched.
She did not know that he did the same.
A hush swept the room as Her Majesty raised her hand for silence.
“The season’s diamond,” the Queen declared, “Miss Edwina Sharma.”
The moment the words left Her Majesty’s lips, Simon knew precisely what would follow. An onslaught of admirers, of hopeful gentlemen eager to secure even the briefest dance. He had no interest in being swept into that chaos. With practiced ease, he turned on his heel and began a hasty retreat, vanishing down the very corridor he had only just abandoned.
Applause and excited whispers rippled through the ballroom at the Queen’s declaration.
Penelope found herself clapping along with the rest, her hands moving on instinct rather than feeling. When the sound finally faded, her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to Colin.
Penelope looked about the Featheringtons’ drawing room during calling hours — a space meant for bustle and admiration, now silent but for the ticking of the clock and her mother’s increasingly sharp sighs. Prudence sat opposite, listless and unimpressed, with her embroidery hanging limply from her hands while Lady Featherington watched the door as though willing it to open.
Garnering no hope that it would open, Penelope lowered her gaze to the book in her lap, feigning devotion to its pages before her eyes were drawn, as if by habit, to the front window and watched Colin emerge from Bridgerton House.
Once, that sight of him would have quickened her heart. She would have searched for a smile meant for her, some small acknowledgment that she had mattered at all. Instead, the memory that rose was a different one — the way his gaze had lit with unmistakable pleasure for Marina in a previous season, how easily she herself had been overlooked, invisible even as she stood in plain view.
The familiar ache came, but it did not settle as it once had. It passed through her, faint and distant, like an echo of another girl’s life. And before she had quite realized what she was doing, she turned away from the window.
She did not know yet what she wanted instead. Only that it was no longer this, longing for girlhood fantasy.
Simon had not intended to call at Lady Danbury’s residence at all.
Yet, upon glancing through the open doorway of her drawing room, he came to an immediate halt. Miss Edwina Sharma sat poised upon a settee, hands folded neatly within her lap, her expression composed and sweet as she entertained a cluster of callers. At her side sat her older sister, alert and watchful. Lady Danbury and Mrs. Sharma presided nearby like sentinels, engrossed in their own conversation but keeping a sharp eye.
Men filled the room, each taking his turn in polite, eager conversation with the young lady London had so quickly begun to adore.
Simon exhaled softly through his nose. He had no desire to add himself to that number. As he turned to retreat, another familiar presence entered behind him.
“Apparently I am late,” Anthony Bridgerton remarked, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his cuff.
Simon arched a brow. “You?” he said quietly, glancing back into the drawing room before returning his gaze to the viscount. “I would not have presumed Miss Sharma to be your particular... inclination.”
Anthony’s mouth curved with restrained amusement. “Nor would I, until Her Majesty named her the Diamond. One finds that even the most unassuming can hold a certain... spark.”
Simon gave a mild hum, unconvinced. “She is quiet,” he observed. “Demure. Most unlike your usual conquests.”
Anthony huffed a faint laugh. “Perhaps I am attempting reform.”
That earned him nothing more than a long, knowing look from Simon.
Before either of them could continue the conversation, Lady Danbury appeared behind them, her cane striking lightly upon the floor.
“Honestly, gentlemen, must you always gather like conspiring widows in the hall?” she scolded, though there was mirth in her eyes. “Lord Bridgerton, if you have come to call upon Miss Sharma, I suggest you do so before another five men beat you to it.”
Anthony bowed respectfully. “As always, Lady Danbury, your guidance is both gentle and terrifying.”
He stepped inside the drawing room, leaving Simon alone with her. Her gaze swept over the remaining visitors before settling upon him.
“And you, Your Grace?” she asked. “Have you come at last to subject yourself to the marriage mart?”
“I was merely passing,” he replied smoothly. “And now I am firmly persuaded to continue doing so.”
A satisfied, almost wicked smile touched her lips. “Come. Walk with me in the garden. I require fresh air, and a companion capable of appreciating superior wit.”
He offered his arm without comment, and she took it.
Outside, the hedges whispered in the breeze and the faint murmur of eager conversation floated through open windows.
“I see the Viscount is endeavoring to behave like a man seeking a wife,” Lady Danbury said lightly. “Miracles do occur.”
“He will discover,” Simon replied, “that marriage is not a campaign to be won.”
“Nor is it a duel to be avoided.” Her gaze slid toward him. “Do you intend to continue hiding behind the good graces of others forever, Simon?”
He said nothing.
“Between the Sharma’s, the Bridgerton’s, and my own formidable presence,” she continued dryly, “you have found yourself a most convenient shield.”
“A practical one,” he admitted quietly.
She gave a noncommittal hum. “Practicality is no substitute for living.”
He looked away, jaw tightening. And that was when the familiar weight returned, the memory of a promise made to a cruel, dying man. A line he had sworn would end with him. Simon had once vowed his father’s legacy would die at his hands. But in the silence of Lady Danbury’s garden, he wondered for the first time if that promise had been made out of strength or simply anger.
And whether, by keeping it, he was allowing his father to dictate his life still.