Chapter Text
The Bridgertons hadn’t been back to Summerfield Estate in five years.
Not since Edmund’s death.
But Violet had insisted—softly, which meant no one could argue without looking heartless. “Just one summer, together again. Before all my children go scattering like leaves in the wind.”
And so, they went.
Eight siblings, three suitcases each, four very overloaded cars, and enough suppressed grief to fill the lake that glimmered beside the grand old manor house.
The resort looked exactly as it always had—flower boxes under every window, clipped hedges, white parasols waiting by the tennis courts.
Anthony had barely stepped out of the car before Benedict inhaled dramatically and said, “God, the light is glorious here. I’m bringing my easel to breakfast.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Eloise muttered, swatting a mosquito. “They’ve got a talent show. A literal end-of-summer talent concert. Are we in hell?”
“I loved it last time,” Francesca said, staring with approval at the garden terrace strung with fairy lights. “I wonder if they still offer music lessons. I wouldn’t mind the cello again.”
Daphne was too busy smoothing her hair and pretending not to stare at the tall, handsome man speaking with the groundskeeper. He had the kind of posture that suggested he ran things—and the jawline of someone who had never once been told no.
“I’ll take a room with a view, thanks,” Colin said, grinning as he caught sight of a gorgeous waitress balancing a tray and her patience. “And by ‘view’ I mean that one.”
“Colin,” Violet warned, though her voice was more fond than sharp.
“Anthony,” she added, turning to her eldest. “Promise me you’ll rest. You’ve done more than enough since your father—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. Too fast. Too clipped. He was already rolling his shoulders like they itched in his skin.
He wasn’t fine. But that wasn’t new.
The resort manager appeared— Mr Cowper who handed out keys, and sorted out staff to get their trunks to their assigned cabin.
The family disappeared into the cabin in pairs, claiming rooms and bickering over who got the big bathtub.
Anthony needed air.
The sun was warm, the grass bright. He wandered down a shaded path near the edge of the property, toward a cluster of old stone outbuildings that once housed stables. One had been converted—windows open, soft music drifting out.
He paused, squinting.
Inside, a dance class was in session. A small group of older couples swayed to a familiar jazz tune, following the lead of a woman at the front.
Anthony watched without meaning to.
She was short. Curvy. Red-haired. Her body moved in smooth, practiced waves—not seductive exactly, but fluid. Confident. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She was just in it.
A swing of her hips, a flick of her fingers, a command called out to the class that made them all laugh.
He couldn’t hear her voice clearly. But he could see her mouth moving, lips red, expressive.
He should walk away.
Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, and kept watching.
The woman caught sight of him halfway through a turn. Her gaze slid over him, took him in, and didn’t flinch. No blushing, no simpering. Just a raised eyebrow and a ghost of a smirk.
Anthony blinked.
She turned back to the class and resumed counting out the steps. The record skipped slightly and she gave it a quick tap, never breaking rhythm. The couples shuffled and twirled, off-beat but beaming.
Anthony finally took a breath.
He’d forgotten to.
Chapter Text
The long tables gleamed under strings of lights and paper lanterns.
Summerfield spared no expense for its welcome dinner. Starched linens, chilled champagne, silver flatware heavy in the hand. A small band played something jazzy under the sycamores. Guests drifted in from their rooms in cocktail dresses and linen suits, perfume blending with the scent of honeysuckle and roast lamb.
The Bridgertons arrived slightly late—naturally.
Hyacinth and Gregory bolted ahead the moment they heard the words “bonfire” and “games.” Violet let them go with a sigh and a firm “stay together!” that neither of them heard.
Benedict turned in a slow circle once they reached the terrace. “The light. The hills. The texture of the stone against the lawn. I have to paint immediately.”
“You say that about tea cozies and sandwiches too,” Eloise muttered, rolling her eyes. “God help us when the talent concert poster goes up. Maybe you’ll choreograph a still life.”
“I quite liked the concert last time,” Francesca said, admiring the fairy lights.
Daphne’s attention, however, was firmly locked on the man from this morning — he speaking with one of the waiters. Tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome with an air of someone who ran things.
She was still staring when the resort manager appeared—same man they’d spoken with briefly during check-in, Mr Cowper.
“Lady Bridgerton, if I may,” he said his smile fixed in place. “We are honoured to host you and your family once again.”
Violet beamed. “The honour is ours. You’ve kept the place as charming as ever.”
“Thank you,” the Mr Cowper said, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”
Violet nodded in quiet thanks for his comment.
Mr Cowper stepped to one side, “May I introduce Mr. Simon Basset, the new owner.”
The tall man from the column approached with an easy smile. He was devastating up close—deep brown skin, high cheekbones, and a voice like velvet and brandy.
“Lady Bridgerton, I believe” Simon said, bowing slightly. “Welcome back.”
Daphne’s mouth parted slightly. Her hand hovered near her necklace.
“You run all this?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Own it,” he said, then smiled at her like she was the most fascinating person at the table. “But I do like getting involved too. Keeps me humble. It’s my first summer as the owner.””
Colin, meanwhile, was already halfway across the terrace, cornering a stunning waitress with expertly tousled hair.
“Marina, was it?” he asked with his most charming grin.
She didn’t miss a beat. “That’s Miss Thompson, sir.”
Anthony, still rubbing a knot in his neck, muttered, “He’s going to fall in love by the dessert course.”
“Quicker than you fall into a brooding silence,” Daphne shot back, snapping out of her trance.
Dinner was beautiful, elaborate, entirely too long. Anthony barely touched his food. He couldn’t stop glancing toward the garden path near the old converted stables—he knew the dance hut was just beyond.
And then—music.
The band shifted. Guests leaned forward. A hush passed through the terrace like a breeze.
The manager appeared on the stage and lifted a small mic.
“As is tradition here at Summerfield, we offer a brief performance from our dance staff to welcome the new season. Please enjoy a classic waltz—elegantly performed by two of our finest instructors — Theo and Penelope. Don’t forget to sign up for dance lessons.”
Applause rippled politely as two dancers stepped forward.
The man was tall and lean, dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up. Confident, composed, and focused.
The woman—
Anthony’s breath caught.
It was her.
The redhead from the dance hut.
She wore a sweeping black dress with a slit that promised scandal but delivered poise. Her curves were dressed to kill, but her presence was magnetic—serene, powerful, completely in control. Her eyes scanned the crowd lazily. Then they landed on him.
One eyebrow lifted. Barely.
The music began—slow, romantic, elegant. A piano waltz with a touch of jazz.
Penelope placed her hand in her partner’s—Theo, the manager had called him earlier—and they moved.
The dance was respectable, just as promised. Ballroom steps, soft dips, a perfect twirl. But something beneath it simmered. The way Theo’s fingers settled on her waist. The deliberate tilt of her head. The sly smile that curled when she spun out and returned.
And at the final turn, her body pressed against Theo’s chest—close enough to share breath, still enough to feel the tension—before she stepped back with a final sweep of her hand and a deep, flawless curtsey.
The music ended.
A heartbeat of silence followed. Then polite applause rose from the tables—smatterings at first, then stronger, as more guests realized the performance was over.
But Anthony hadn’t clapped.
He was still staring.
Penelope straightened from her curtsey and glanced toward the tables, offering the crowd a graceful nod. Her eyes flicked over the room—satisfied, professional.
Until they landed on him.
That same half-smile touched her lips again. A glint of something wicked—something that said: You’re not fooling anyone.
She knew he’d been watching.
Beside him, Benedict gave a low whistle. “Well. That wasn’t exactly what I expected from a waltz.”
Eloise fanned herself with her napkin. “He was… really good.”
Colin leaned over, eyes still wide. “I think I need to lie down. Or get a drink. Or—”
“Sit still,” Violet hissed under her breath. “You’re drooling.”
Anthony’s jaw flexed.
Because the dance had been restrained, technically. But the command Penelope had over her body, the confidence, the precision—it was more seductive than anything overt.
She moved like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And worse—she moved like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
His gaze didn’t break until she turned to walk off the platform, curls bouncing, heels silent on the wood. Theo followed her, quiet and collected.
The applause died down. The band resumed. Waitstaff emerged with coffee and miniature desserts.
But Anthony had no appetite for either.
He didn’t even realize his hand was still clenched around the stem of his wineglass until Benedict leaned in and said, almost too casually:
“Careful, brother. That look you’re wearing? It’s the kind that gets people in trouble.”
Anthony didn’t answer.
Because he was already imagining the next time she moved like that—and wondering what it would take for her to do it just for him.
Chapter Text
The lanterns were still glowing when the tables emptied and the night fell quiet.
Hyacinth had been the first to fall asleep—mid-sentence, mid-cookie—carried off to her room by Violet with Gregory trailing behind, still asking if he could climb the rocks in the morning.
Eloise had disappeared with Francesca, the two of them still bickering about whether one could be forced into fun. Daphne had disappeared with a dreamy look in her eyes. And Colin had been missing since dinner.
That left the older brothers.
Anthony and Benedict sat with their drinks, their chairs angled slightly away from the empty table, sleeves rolled up, jackets discarded, loosened ties hanging like they’d barely survived the evening.
The breeze was cooler now, and somewhere deeper on the property, a record player spun a scratchy version of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
“I think Colin’s already planning to propose,” Benedict said, sipping slowly.
“To the waitress?” Anthony asked.
“Hmmm, Marina I think — I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy watching you trying not combust during that waltz.”
Anthony gave him a look.
Benedict only smiled. “You have a tell, you know. Whenever you’re interested in someone, you sit up too straight and forget how to blink.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie. It’s boring.” He raised his glass. “To the redhead who made my brother inhale his wine and nearly crack his glass.”
Anthony clinked his glass out of habit, not agreement. “It was a performance. She’s a dancer. That’s what dancers do.”
“Mm,” Benedict said, drawing out the sound with knowing amusement. “Sure.”
They lapsed into silence again.
The resort was quieter now. The main band had packed up. Only distant laughter and the hum of insects filled the space between them.
Anthony leaned back, stretching slightly. “I need a walk.”
Benedict nodded. “Try not to find another woman to haunt your thoughts. Or do. Actually, do. I could use the entertainment.”
Anthony left him chuckling into his drink.
He didn’t mean to head toward the staff quarters.
Truly, he didn’t.
He meant to walk the main path, loop past the tennis courts, maybe breathe in enough cool air to justify going back to bed.
But a wrong turn—or a right one, fate would argue—led him to a tucked-away gravel path.
Lanterns were spaced far enough apart that it felt like slipping into the woods. And up ahead, nestled behind the laundry house, the glow of soft lights and the thrum of music.
Not the polite jazz from dinner. Something else. Something that pulsed.
He was halfway turned around when a voice called out.
“Hey, you!”
He stopped.
A woman was coming down the steps of a cabin, struggling with a crate. She was petite, sharply dressed even in rolled-up trousers, with perfect dark hair tied back in a red scarf. The crate shifted in her arms and she let out a very unladylike curse.
“Since you’re standing there looking tall and useless,” she said, not unkindly, “mind giving me a hand?”
Anthony blinked. “I—what?”
She smiled like she was used to getting her way. “Just up to the rec hall. It’s not far. And it’s peaches, not bodies.”
Before he could answer, she was speaking again.
“I’m Edwina. Children’s singalongs by day, staff parties by night, and occasional flirt if I’m in the mood. You?”
She lifted the crate into his arms. “I’m Anthony.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Are you new, where are you working?”
“I’m not. I’m a guest.”
The crate was heavy, but Anthony wasn’t going to let that show.
“Ah. Well.” She winked. “You’re about to see how the other half really dances.”
Edwina led the way, whistling, her hips swaying a little more than necessary.
But then he heard the music getting louder.
It pulsed through the trees. They approached a wide barn-style hall, windows thrown open, voices inside laughing, shouting, singing along.
The song was something wild and rhythmic—nothing he’d heard before.
Edwina turned at the door. “You can leave it just inside.”
He stepped over the threshold.
And froze.
The room was full of bodies—dancing, laughing, living.
Girls in halter tops and rolled denim, boys in suspenders and open shirts. Someone spun a partner low, hands far too low for polite company. Someone else was doing something entirely inappropriate against a support beam.
And at the center of it all—
Penelope.
She wasn’t in black gown anymore. She wore high-waisted shorts and a red crop top tied beneath her bust, curls loose and wild, skin dewy under the low lights. Her back arched in a way that made Anthony forget how to think.
She was dancing with Theo.
No—on Theo.
The moves weren’t vulgar. They were precise. Confident. So close their legs brushed. So fluid it was art.
Anthony stared.
Someone handed him a beer. He took it.
He just stood there in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes locked on her hips.
She didn’t see him. Yet.
And then she did.
Penelope turned in the middle of a spin, caught sight of him, and stopped just short of smiling.
She didn’t look surprised.
She looked amused.
Chapter Text
🎶 I’m a love man… call me the love man… 🎶
The beat vibrated through the floorboards. Bodies moved like they were born to it—sweaty, wild, skin on skin. Nothing like the gentle dinner waltz or the polite smiles of the main terrace. This was something else.
Anthony stood frozen in the doorway, unsure whether to run or combust.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Penelope.
Curls loose. Skin flushed. Red crop top tied beneath her breasts, high-waisted shorts hugging her hips like a promise. She moved like the music lived in her blood.
She broke away from Theo, winding through the crowd like a lit fuse. And then—she was standing in front of him.
Up close, she was worse. Better. Unbearable.
“Didn’t think you’d make it past ten o’clock,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He stared.
Then blurted, completely and humiliatingly:
“I carried the peaches.”
A pause.
Her mouth twitched.
“You carried the peaches,” she repeated, as if testing the weight of it. “Well. Aren’t you a hero.”
He grimaced, but she was already taking his hand.
“No turning back now,” she said.
“Wait, I—”
She pulled him into the heat, the movement, the press of bodies.
On the floor, the music swelled.
🎶 Six foot one… weigh two hundred and ten… 🎶
She turned to face him, still holding his hand.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
He didn’t respond.
“First rule of dancing,” she said. “Stop thinking.”
“I’m not—”
She stepped closer, pressed his hands to her waist.
“You are. I can feel it.”
Her hips began to roll. Smooth. Controlled. Lazy, almost—but devastating.
His jaw tensed.
“Now you,” she said, eyes on his.
He tried.
Stiff. Mechanical.
She made a face. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. You’re going to hurt someone.”
“I don’t know how to—”
“You don’t need to know,” she said. “You just need to listen.”
Her hands slid to his hips, guiding them in rhythm. “Like this.”
He let her move him.
Slowly, it started to click.
Then she turned—deliberately—and pressed her back into him. Full contact.
Anthony went still.
She ground back once, slowly. He gasped.
“Match me,” she said softly.
He did.
Eventually.
Their bodies moved together now, his hands just barely resting on her hips, her curves pressed into him with every beat.
He forgot the room. The people. His name.
And when the song ended, she peeled away, cool and unbothered.
“Not bad,” she said, already disappearing into the crowd.
He watched her go.
Still wrecked. Still holding her heat on his skin.
And still, pathetically, thinking—
I carried the peaches.
Chapter Text
Anthony had slept terribly.
He woke up tangled in too-warm sheets with the ghost of a rhythm still pounding behind his ribs. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her hips. Felt her body pressed into his. Heard her voice, low and amused: “Match me.”
He’d dreamed about her crop top.
And her mouth.
And the moment she walked away, leaving him hard, breathless, and muttering about carrying records like an imbecile.
He threw on a shirt, grabbed coffee from the breakfast veranda, and tried not to look like a man completely undone by a dance.
(He failed.)
He found her—without meaning to—down by the lakefront dance platform.
She was teaching a morning class. Mostly older women, a few ambitious teenagers. The music was gentle—something mid-tempo and upbeat—but she moved with the same ease as the night before, fluid and unapologetically sensual.
Anthony stood behind a hedge, watching like some sort of criminal.
She wore leggings. Tight. A fitted tank top knotted at her waist. Her curls were pinned up, and her bare arms caught the sunlight every time she lifted them.
Her voice rang out: “And hips—circle, two, three, four… yes! Don’t be shy, you’ve got them for a reason!”
A few women laughed. Penelope grinned.
Anthony, who was most definitely not supposed to be there, took a slow sip of his coffee and told himself he could leave at any time.
He didn’t.
“Ah,” Benedict said from behind him. “So this is what shame looks like.”
Anthony jumped, sloshing coffee onto his shirt. “Bloody hell, can you not sneak up on people?”
“I’m not sneaking. But you are lurking.”
Benedict stood by the hedge next to him, watching Penelope spin in time with the group.
“She’s good,” he said, casually. “Powerful. Lethal.”
Anthony scowled. “What do you want?”
“To inform you,” Benedict said brightly, “that you now have private dance lessons every morning for the next four days.”
Anthony blinked. “I—what?”
“I signed you up.”
“You what?”
Benedict grinned. “Well, I overheard Edwina saying they had a few morning slots open. And I thought—my poor stiff-hipped brother could use some loosening up.”
Anthony stared at him like he’d grown another head.
“Oh, come on,” Benedict added. “You looked like a man dying of pleasure just watching her last night. Might as well finish the job.”
“Private lessons with her?” Anthony hissed.
“Who else?” Benedict sipped his drink. “Theo?”
Anthony choked slightly.
“No,” Benedict said, laughing. “Theo’s already stolen Eloise’s soul. Did you see her yesterday? All I hate this resort one second and Hi, Theo, do you want a lemonade? the next?”
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose.
“And Daphne,” Benedict went on, undeterred, “keeps rearranging her seating to be wherever Simon Basset might notice her if he glances left.”
“I’m not hearing anything that’s my problem,” Anthony muttered.
“Oh, it is,” Benedict said cheerfully. “You’re the eldest. Which means you have to be the most graceful. Which means…” He pointed toward the platform.
Penelope’s class was ending. The women clapped for her. She bowed with a smile, sunlight catching on the sweat at her collarbone.
And then—she turned.
Her eyes landed on Anthony behind the hedge.
Her lips twitched.
Anthony sighed.
“Private lessons start tomorrow,” Benedict said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Try not to fall in love.”
Too late, Anthony thought grimly.
Chapter Text
Breakfast on the Summerfield terrace was a lesson in organized chaos.
Sunlight streamed across the table, glinting off jam jars and porcelain teacups. Birds chirped, bees hovered, and the Bridgertons—mostly—pretended to behave.
“Where is Colin?” Violet asked, glancing at the empty chair with a frown. “He’s usually here before the marmalade.”
“Probably halfway up someone’s skirt,” Benedict muttered, reaching for toast.
Violet luckily didn’t hear.
Eloise rolled her eyes. “I think he mentioned something about a walk. Or was it a Marina?”
Francesca, seated at the far end of the table, sipped her tea without comment.
“Well,” Violet said, straightening her napkin, “as long as you’re all making the most of the resort, I suppose I can’t complain. What are everyone’s plans today?”
“I’ve got another music lesson,” Francesca said. “The instructor is very good.”
“I’m painting,” Benedict announced dramatically. “The shadows near the lily pond are speaking to me.”
“Or hallucinating,” Eloise muttered.
“I have a dance lesson,” she added quietly.
That earned a round of raised eyebrows.
Violet blinked. “You’ve… volunteered for a lesson?”
“Theo is a good teacher,” Eloise said stiffly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Daphne, unusually quiet, looked up just in time to spot Simon Basset walking past.
She stood so quickly her chair scraped. “Simon—Mr. Basset! Would you like to join us for breakfast?”
He paused. Considered. Smiled. “Of course.”
He took the seat beside her. She immediately stopped breathing.
Then Benedict added, far too casually, “Oh—and Anthony’s got a dance lesson too. Private. With that redhead.”
Silence.
Anthony lowered his coffee.
Violet’s eyebrows lifted. “A lesson?”
“Several, actually,” Benedict said, all innocence. “I thought it might do wonders for his… stiffness.”
“I’m perfectly flexible,” Anthony muttered into his cup.
Later — The Dance Hut
The room was bright, windows open to the summer breeze. The polished floor gleamed. A metronome ticked faintly from a corner table.
Penelope stood waiting—hair pinned up, sleeveless blouse tucked neatly into tailored black trousers. Professional. Still.
No teasing. No smirking.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. “Shall we begin?”
Anthony nodded once, stepped into the space with a quiet exhale.
This was a lesson. That’s all it was.
She walked him through footwork first.
Basic box step. Three-quarter time. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
He followed, stiff but precise.
“Your left foot. Not your right,” she said calmly.
He adjusted.
She stepped into frame, one hand at his shoulder, one in his palm.
They moved.
His hand found the small of her back. Her skin, even beneath the fabric, was warm. He loosened his grip instinctively. She felt… close.
Too close.
“You’re still leading with your shoulder,” she murmured.
He glanced down at her.
Her eyes flicked up, unreadable. “Posture,” she said. “You’re collapsing again.”
They moved again. Her fingers pressed lightly into his shoulder. Her body moved in perfect time with his. It was effortless—for her. Agonizing, for him.
Not because it was hard.
Because being so close to her felt like temptation.
She corrected his hand. It lingered too long at her waist.
She stepped back. “Let’s try again.”
They danced. Every inch of contact sharpened the tension. Her fingers at his collarbone. His palm brushing her side. The sound of their breath louder than the music itself.
And still—her tone stayed cool. Controlled. Unflinching.
But her eyes…
Her eyes gave her away.
Chapter Text
Anthony dreamed in rhythm.
It wasn’t the waltz.
There was no structure. No counting. No polite distance between bodies.
It was heat and motion and the echo of music pulsing through his blood.
Penelope’s hands were on his hips again, guiding him—correcting him—but slower now. Her body pressed back into his, deliberate and unashamed. Her laugh brushed his ear. Her voice murmured match me like a command and a promise all at once.
His hands moved this time. Lower.
Her hips rolled.
The music throbbed.
And then—
He woke with a sharp breath, sheets twisted around his legs, heart hammering against his ribs.
Hard. Fully. Unmistakably.
Anthony stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, humiliated and restless all at once.
He arrived late to his lesson.
By ten minutes. Enough to make her raise an eyebrow when he stepped into the hut, already shrugging off his jacket, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp like he’d walked off some guilty thought.
“I don’t want to learn the waltz today,” he said.
Penelope blinked. “You’re late. And demanding.”
He stepped closer, not bothering with a greeting. “I want to learn the other kind of dancing.”
There was silence.
Only the ticking metronome filled the space between them.
She studied him. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes burned with something far less restrained than usual. He looked… restless. Like the waltz couldn’t touch whatever was actually running through his veins.
Penelope crossed her arms. “Define ‘other.’”
“You know what I mean,” he said.
She did.
He meant the dancing from the staff hall. The hips, the sweat, the hands-on-everything pulse of it. The part that wasn’t polite. The part that wasn’t for show.
She tilted her head. “That’s not part of your scheduled curriculum, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Anthony,” he said tightly.
Her voice softened, but only just. “I can’t teach you that kind of dancing here. It’s not… permitted.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is a professional space,” she said simply. “And I’m a professional. Teaching you to grind against me while someone’s child walks by the window tends to raise questions I don’t want to answer.”
A beat.
Then he said it:
“Then let’s go do it in the staff quarters.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
“I didn’t mean it like—”
“No, no.” She stepped toward him, smiling slowly. “You said it perfectly.”
He groaned softly under his breath. “That’s not what I—”
“‘Let’s go do it in the staff quarters,’” she repeated, savoring every word.
He shut his eyes.
She was enjoying this too much.
Penelope circled him once, slow, predatory. “That’s a bold proposition from a man who couldn’t move his hips last week.”
“I can now.”
She stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat rising off his skin. “Is that what you want, Bridgerton? The kind of dancing that doesn’t belong in brochures? That doesn’t stop at respectable?”
His throat bobbed.
“Yes.”
Her voice dipped low. “And if I say yes, are you ready for what comes next?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t press.
Instead, she smiled—sharp and knowing—and stepped back.
“Then meet me tonight,” she said. “Staff hall. Eleven.”
He looked stunned.
She opened the door. “And wear something you can sweat in.”
Chapter Text
Eleven came around slowly.
The staff hall seemed darker that night—only a few wall lights on, windows open to the humid summer air. The scent of sweat and wood and distant lake water hung low.
Anthony arrived first.
He stood in the center of the floor with his jacket already off, sleeves rolled up, pulse loud in his ears.
When the door creaked open behind him, he didn’t turn immediately.
He didn’t need to.
He felt her.
Penelope crossed the room without a word and set a record on the player.
🎶 When your baby… leaves you all alone… 🎶
Solomon Burke’s voice poured through the space—slow, aching, dangerous.
Anthony turned.
Penelope wasn’t dressed for teaching.
She wore fitted black shorts and a thin, loose tank that clung faintly with humidity. Her hair was down. Wild again.
“This isn’t a waltz,” she said.
“No,” he said quietly.
She met his gaze. “Then don’t dance like it is.”
She stepped into him.
Chest to chest. No polite distance. No demonstration from afar.
“Hands on my hips,” she said softly.
He obeyed.
She moved first.
Slow. Deep. Her hips began to roll in that same liquid rhythm she’d shown him before—but closer now. Intimate. Deliberate.
“Match me,” she murmured.
And then she spun fully, settling her backside deliberately against his hips.
Anthony’s reaction was instant.
His hands flew back to her hips by instinct, gripping hard as his body responded with nothing left restrained.
His breath shattered.
She moved slow. Steady. Devastating.
Grinding back into him in time with the beat, her hips rolling, dragging every inch of her body against his. He felt himself growing hard almost immediately, the undeniable press of his arousal against her as she kept moving.
He groaned quietly.
Her breath hitched.
She leaned back into him just slightly and guided one of his hands upward.
“Don’t let go,” she murmured.
She slid his palm from her waist… over the curve of her ribs… higher…
Until his hand closed fully over her breast through the thin fabric of her tank.
She rolled back into him again—slow, deep—making sure he felt exactly what that touch was doing to her.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Not like a guest. Like a man who can’t stop wanting.”
His fingers tightened against her breast, thumb dragging slowly over the responsive curve as his body surged harder against hers.
“Penelope—”
She pressed back again, grinding against him while her hand moved once—slow, devastating.
His control shattered.
Her breathing stuttered now too, her rhythm faltering as their bodies answered each other without restraint.
Then—too suddenly—
The final note of the song faded.
The record clicked softly at the end.
And she stopped.
His hand withdrew.
Her body separated from his.
She turned slowly back into his arms.
Flushed. Breathless. Eyes dark and shining.
For a moment they simply stood there—locked in the echo of what they had just done.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them moved.
The silence was louder than the music had been.
Chapter Text
The record ended, but the room was still thick with heat.
Penelope stood in his arms, chest rising and falling against his, lips parted. She didn’t step back.
Not yet.
Anthony’s one hand was still on her waist. The other hovering by her waist, fingers twitching from memory of her breast.
Her eyes flicked toward the record player.
She stepped back.
Without a word, she walked to the far side of the room and dragged a wooden chair into the open floor — the scrape loud, deliberate.
She set it facing her. Turned to him. Crooked a finger.
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
Heart hammering. Breath shallow. Hard again already.
Penelope turned back to the player and dropped the next needle.
🎶 You broke my heart… ‘cause I couldn’t dance… 🎶
A new rhythm flooded the space — loud, fast, electric. “Do You Love Me”.
She started slow.
Swaying her hips with the beat, arms loose, body loose — but eyes locked onto his.
This wasn’t a performance for the crowd.
This was for him.
Anthony sat frozen as she danced closer. Her curls bounced with every twist of her body. Her tank clung, her shorts rode higher. Her skin gleamed under the light.
She stepped between his knees.
Turned.
Rolled her hips right in front of his face.
Looked over her shoulder. Smirked.
🎶 Work work, well you’re driving me crazy 🎶
She dropped low — a deep, slow grind down between his legs — her ass brushing his inner thighs, then rising again just as slowly.
His hands gripped the chair.
She turned back, straddled one thigh—never sitting, just hovering.
Moving.
Grinding on his thigh while her hands slid up her own body, dragging her tank higher inch by inch, revealing bare skin, teasing the edge of her breasts.
He couldn’t breathe.
“You like me dancing like this?” she asked, breathless but steady, rolling down again—her body brushing over his cock through his trousers, slow enough to kill.
“Yes.”
It was more like a groan.
She stepped back, spun, and let her ass settle between his legs again, her hands behind her on his thighs as she rolled forward, pressing back into him hard, once, twice, until he gasped.
🎶 Do you love me… now that I can daaaaance… 🎶
He reached for her waist—couldn’t help it—but she caught his hands and pinned them to the arms of the chair.
“No touching.”
His jaw clenched.
“Not yet,” she added, voice a little breathier now. “Just feel.”
And oh, he felt.
Her body moved against him like a goddamn prayer — one that begged, teased, promised. Every twist of her hips, every drag of her ass against his aching cock sent heat spiraling through his blood.
She leaned back against his chest, grinding harder now, letting her head fall against his shoulder.
He broke.
His mouth was at her throat before he knew what he was doing, dragging in her skin like it might cool him down.
She didn’t stop him.
But she didn’t let him go further either.
The record hit its final chorus.
She rolled once more, slow and deliberate, pressing right where it hurt most.
And then the music faded.
Penelope straightened.
Stepped off him.
Left him gasping in the chair, hard and wrecked and utterly silent.
She turned at the door.
“That,” she said with a wicked little smile, “was extra.”
Then she disappeared into the night.
Chapter Text
It was early enough that the lawn was still silvered with dew.
Penelope and Theo had found a quiet stretch near the outer gazebo, where guests weren’t yet wandering — at least, not officially. They were rehearsing a transition, one they’d never quite nailed.
“I still think we should switch the lift to the turn,” Theo muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s cleaner.”
“And less impressive,” Penelope said, stretching her neck. “The crowd won’t gasp for a pivot.”
“They’ll gasp when I drop you.”
She grinned. “Don’t you dare.”
And they went again.
Step. Step. Spin. Leap—
Theo’s foot slipped.
His leg buckled. Penelope twisted in mid-air to avoid crushing him, but they both went down hard — not graceful, not practiced, not even funny.
“Shit—Theo!”
He was clutching his leg, face pale.
Behind them, a voice rang out:
“Are you insane?”
Anthony Bridgerton.
He was already jogging down the slope from the main path, Eloise trailing behind in her robe, hair barely combed.
“What are you doing out here?” Penelope hissed, kneeling beside Theo.
“What are you doing out here?” Eloise countered. “Are you even allowed to rehearse on the guest lawn?”
“Clearly not,” Theo groaned. “My shin hates me.”
Anthony had already crouched to the other side. “He needs ice and elevation.”
Penelope nodded tightly. “We can’t take him to the infirmary, they’ll ask questions. The staff hall—back door.”
“Come on then,” Anthony said, slinging Theo’s arm over his shoulder without hesitation.
Eloise flanked the other side. “One, two—lift.”
Between the three of them, they got him across the grounds without being spotted by management.
Penelope shoved the staff hall door open with her foot and directed them toward the back.
Theo collapsed onto a chair with a groan.
Penelope checked his leg again, biting her lip.
“It’s swelling, I hope it’s not broken,” she murmured. “Either way you need to rest it— no dancing on that for weeks.”
Theo let out a long breath. “Great. That’s just… great. No fundraiser.”
Eloise tilted her head. “Fundraising? Is that why you were out there? Rehearsing for a performance?”
“We weren’t just frolicking,” Penelope muttered.
Anthony stood back, arms crossed.
Theo sat up carefully. “Yeah. There’s a performance. Two weeks. Fundraiser across the river.”
“For Rosa,” Penelope added. “She used to dance here. Hurt her back last season. Needs surgery.”
“It’s not through Summerfield,” Theo explained. “We do it off-site, raise money. Quietly. So the resort doesn’t get in a twist about staff moonlighting.”
Eloise’s brow furrowed. “Can’t someone else step in for you?”
Penelope shook her head. “The other guys are covering our shifts already. That’s why we had to practice so early.”
A pause.
Then Eloise turned—bright-eyed—toward her brother.
Anthony, instantly wary, held up both hands. “Don’t even think about it.”
“You’re strong. You’ve been taking lessons.”
Anthony scoffed. “I’m not performance level, Eloise! I’ve had two lessons!”
Penelope raised a brow. “Your rhythm is coming along nicely.”
Theo blinked. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea.”
Anthony scowled.
“Pen said you’re a natural,” Theo offered. “I can help train you.”
“Don’t you want to help Rosa, brother?” Eloise asked
Penelope met Anthony’s eyes. Calm. Cool. Merciless.
“Unless,” she murmured, eyes locked on his, “you’re not up for it.”
Chapter Text
“Again!”
Theo’s voice rang across the dance studio, sharper than the snap of the record player as it reset to the top of the track.
Anthony grit his teeth and reached for Penelope’s waist. Her skin was slick with sweat beneath the hem of her blouse, but she moved with the same effortless control she always did—spinning back into him like a flame drawn to oxygen.
Step, roll, step.
He was getting better. He knew he was.
But not good enough for Theo.
“Closer, Bridgerton! Your hips still move like you’ve got a broomstick lodged somewhere sacred.”
Penelope bit her lip and didn’t laugh.
Anthony didn’t.
“This is closer,” he said, letting his hands slide—firmly—to her waist. She didn’t object. But her breath caught.
Theo caught it too. “Not that kind of closer. Jesus. This is a dance floor, not a brothel.”
Anthony muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “shut it.”
The track ended again.
Theo sighed and dropped back further into the armchair they’d shoved to the edge of the studio for him—leg still propped up, wrapped in ice, clipboard balanced across his lap like a war general directing chaos.
Anthony reached for a towel. “When do we get to the lift?”
Penelope blinked, startled.
Theo didn’t miss a beat. “We don’t.”
“What?”
Theo flipped a page. “You’re not ready.”
Anthony turned to Penelope. “You don’t think I can lift you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I think if you drop me in front of two hundred people, I’ll murder you.”
“That’s why we need to practice it.”
“You’ll try it when I say,” Theo called out, smirking. “Which is not today.”
The door creaked.
Eloise swept in, arms full—brown paper bags in one, a red tin in the other.
“God, it’s humid in here. You two look half-melted.” She shoved the tin into Penelope’s hands and dumped the bags on a bench. “I brought sandwiches. And lemonade. And sarcasm, in case Theo was running low.”
“Never,” Theo said. “It’s my love language.”
They all took a break—unwrapping sandwiches, wiping off sweat, claiming spots on the floor in the triangle of open windows.
Anthony sat against the wall, breathing hard.
Penelope stretched out nearby, sipping lemonade. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the collar, damp and clinging to her skin. He did not look. He absolutely did not look.
Eloise sat cross-legged beside her and opened the tin.
“They’re lemon shortbreads,” she said. “Stolen from the kitchen.”
Penelope smiled. “You’re a menace.”
“Thank you.”
For a few moments, it was quiet—just the sound of chewing and the scratchy hiss of the record still turning without music.
Then:
“What are you reading right now?” Eloise asked.
Penelope looked up.
“I noticed your book,” Eloise nodded to Penelope’s bag a book half dropping out, “you wrap your cover — that’s something I do too. Wrap my covers. People make stupid assumptions otherwise.”
A pause.
Then Penelope nodded, whispering the title to Eloise.
Eloise gasped. “That’s banned at half the girls’ schools in London.”
Penelope grinned. “That’s why I’m reading it.”
Eloise leaned closer. “Tell me everything.”
Anthony, across the room, blinked. When did that happen?
One minute they were strangers. Now they were sharing contraband books and lemon cookies.
Penelope glanced at him—just briefly—and smiled like she knew what he was thinking.
Then she turned back to Eloise and said, “I’ll lend it to you. You’ll love it.”
“You’ve got good taste,” Eloise said, tilting her head. “We should talk more.”
“I’d like that.”
Anthony looked between them and sighed into his lemonade.
“I’m surrounded,” he muttered.
“You are,” Theo agreed. “Now finish your sandwich and get back to it. No lift today. Maybe not tomorrow either.”
Anthony groaned.
Penelope just winked.
Chapter Text
It was just them.
The studio was quiet, windows cracked to let in a breath of late afternoon heat. Dust swirled in the light beams. The record spun low and lazy on the player — something bluesy and sultry that hung in the air like sweat.
Anthony was already warm when she stepped into him. Warmer still when she took his hands and lifted them up over their heads.
“Keep your arms loose,” Penelope said, fingers tangled lightly with his. Her tone was professional, but her breath hitched just a little when their bodies brushed.
She turned beneath their arms, pressing her back to his chest, hands still linked above their heads.
His pulse kicked.
“Now,” she said softly, “you’re going to let go. But only with one hand.”
He did.
“Good. Now—” Her voice dipped. “Slide your hand down my arm. Slowly.”
He obeyed.
His fingers skimmed down her raised arm — shoulder to elbow, then forearm, knuckles gliding along her skin. She gave a subtle shiver beneath his touch.
“Keep going,” she whispered.
His hand reached the bend of her elbow, then traced across her shoulder.
Then — God — the edge of his palm brushed the curve of her breast. Just barely. But barely was more than enough.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
So he didn’t stop.
His hand continued, slower now. Down over the swell of her chest. Along her side. Fingers catching for a moment beneath the outer curve of her breast before settling on the dip of her waist, just above her hip.
She exhaled — audibly.
His breath was warm against her neck.
“Now spin me out,” she said, a little breathless.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
The air between them felt thick. Heavy with something they hadn’t named.
Her back still pressed to his chest. His palm heavy on her waist. Her breast still tingling from the ghost of his touch.
Then slowly, very slowly, she turned her head to glance at him over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, the music might as well not have been playing at all.
Chapter Text
Breakfast at Summerfield was a loud affair.
Francesca had already been to her music lesson and back and was now humming scales into her toast. Hyacinth and Gregory were arguing about whether their new rock collection needed its own suitcase. Daphne was pouring syrup over pancakes like she hadn’t already spotted Simon out by the tennis courts.
Colin was, predictably, nowhere to be seen.
Anthony sat at the table, silent. His coffee was rapidly cooling beside a plate he hadn’t touched. He looked like a man who had woken up in a fever and hadn’t quite come down from it.
Eloise plopped into the seat beside him with a self-satisfied smile and a notebook full of annotations.
Benedict followed a moment later, holding two sketchbooks and a fresh smugness.
“Morning,” he said to the table at large. Then he turned to Anthony. “How are your hips feeling?”
Anthony looked up sharply.
Benedict smiled. “Bit sore? Or just perfectly trained for another session pressed against Miss Featherington?”
Anthony stared at him.
Benedict gave a little shrug and sat back. “Don’t blame me. Eloise told me everything.”
Eloise sipped her tea, unbothered. “I thought he deserved to know. After all, it’s not every day our eldest brother signs up for a fundraiser performance and starts training like he’s in the Royal Ballet.”
Anthony groaned. “Eloise.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not a secret. You’re literally rehearsing in the dance hut on the guest lawn.” She added casually, “With very interesting music choices.”
Benedict’s eyes glittered. “So just to clarify — you’re rehearsing for a real performance?”
Anthony gritted his teeth. “Theo is injured. They needed someone.”
Benedict grinned. “And you immediately volunteered your body.”
Anthony glared.
Eloise, ever helpful, added, “He’s actually rather good. And Penelope is… persuasive.”
“I’ll bet,” Benedict muttered, now looking far too pleased with himself. “But here’s the question that’s been keeping me up at night—”
Anthony didn’t respond.
Benedict leaned forward.
“If this whole thing is about raising money to help a fellow dancer. And let’s not pretend you don’t have more funds than God—why not just write the cheque?”
Anthony said nothing.
Eloise looked at him too, curious now. “That’s a fair point.”
“It is,” Benedict agreed. “Unless of course… you’re doing it for other reasons.”
Anthony picked up his coffee.
Eloise raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve saved yourself days of sore muscles and… proximity.”
But Anthony just took a sip and said calmly, “Practice is in an hour.”
Benedict burst out laughing. “That means he likes it.”
Eloise smirked. “It means he’s gone completely mad.”
Anthony stood. “It means I’m getting better.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Benedict called after him.
But Anthony didn’t turn around.
Because Eloise was right about one thing.
Penelope Featherington was very persuasive.
Chapter Text
The rehearsal had ended in raised voices and tight jaws.
Anthony had crossed his arms. “It’s not that I can’t lift you. It’s that you keep flinching like I’m going to drop you.”
Penelope stood barefoot on the wooden floor, arms crossed to match, damp curls frizzing around her face. “I flinch because you hesitate. And you hesitate because you think too much.”
“Because I’m trying to get it right—”
“It’s not about thinking, Bridgerton! It’s about feeling! You don’t feel anything—”
“Don’t I?” he shot back.
The silence that followed cracked like lightning between them.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
Penelope steeled herself. “Let’s go practice the lift.” And took his hand.
The storm was closing in when they slammed the car doors shut and jogged down the dirt path toward the water.
Anthony still didn’t know why he’d let her talk him into this.
Rain clung to the air, thick and silver. The lake shimmered like glass under the stormlight.
Penelope tossed her shoes aside without pause and waded in. The water lapped at her calves, then thighs. Her white tank top was already soaked through from the rain — translucent now, clinging to her breasts and waist like second skin. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care.
Anthony hesitated at the shoreline, breath stuck somewhere in his throat.
“Are you coming or not?” she called.
He stepped in.
The water was cold. Her eyes were warmer.
They moved without talking.
She positioned herself a few feet away, standing in chest-high water, arms poised. “Ready?”
He nodded.
She ran at him lightly, just a few steps. His hands caught her waist, and she rose—barely. He lost his footing, she slipped, and they both went under.
She surfaced first, gasping and laughing. “You hesitated!”
“I lost my footing!” he spluttered.
She splashed him full in the face.
“Again.”
They tried. Again. And again.
Her thighs brushed his shoulders. Her hands steadied at his neck. Once, she slid completely down his chest and ended up clinging to him in the water, both of them breathless, her body pressed full-length against his.
The rain started to slow.
Her curls were slicked to her face now, her tank top nearly transparent. Her shorts rode low on her hips, clinging in all the wrong—or right—places.
Anthony adjusted his stance. “One more time.”
She nodded, lips parted, rain glinting off her collarbones.
She ran. He caught her.
For a second, she lifted cleanly. Arms up, back arched, rain in her mouth as she laughed.
And then—
They lost it. Splash.
She came up, grinning.
“You’re getting there.”
He stared at her.
She blinked. “What?”
But he didn’t answer. He just looked.
Her flushed cheeks. Her soaked shirt. The way her chest rose and fell. The drops sliding down her throat.
He didn’t move when she waded past him toward the car, throwing him a glance over her shoulder like she already knew what came next.
And maybe she did.
Because when they reached the cabin, still drenched, skin electric and lungs tight—they didn’t speak.
They just shut the door.
And gave in.
Chapter Text
Penelope turned first—dripping, breathless, rain-slicked and flushed—and Anthony reached her in two strides.
Their mouths crashed together.
There was no hesitation. No softness. Just soaked fabric, hot mouths, and the groan he made when her fingers curled into his wet hair and tugged.
His hands slid down her waist, gripping her hips, grinding her against the front of him like they were still in the lake. She was soaked through. He could feel every curve, every inch of heat through her thin clothes. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest, her nipples sharp points of friction.
She moaned into his mouth when he backed her into the wall.
“I’ve wanted—” he growled against her neck, kissing and biting his way down. “God, Penelope, I’ve wanted—”
“Show me,” she gasped, tugging at his belt with shaking hands.
His trousers were soaked and heavy, but she got them open. He shoved them down, hissed when her palm found him through his briefs, already so hard he ached. Her hand curled. He bucked into her grip.
“Christ.”
She gasped when he pushed her tank top up over her breasts. He stared like he’d never seen anything more perfect—wet fabric bunched at her collarbones, her tits full and flushed, droplets sliding down them like a blessing.
He cupped her ass, leaned in, and sucked one nipple into his mouth, tongue circling lazily as she cried out, hand flying to his hair.
Her back hit the wall again as he licked and kissed, switching to the other breast, worshipping her like he’d starved for this.
Then—
“Bed,” she said, voice breaking.
He lifted her in one motion. Her legs locked around his waist, her wet shorts pressing against his cock as he carried her to the small bed in the corner.
They landed in a tangle, mouths back together, wet skin on wet skin.
She pushed her shorts down herself. He kicked his briefs away.
And when he hovered above her, one hand braced by her head, the other guiding himself to her—
“Are you sure?” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers.
Penelope reached between them, wrapped her fingers around him, and guided him in.
“Yes.”
He groaned into her mouth as he sank in—slow, thick, unbearably deep.
She arched, gasping, legs tightening around him.
“Fuck—Penelope—”
She was soaked, tight, gripping him like her body never wanted to let go.
He pulled out an inch, then thrust back in—slow at first, dragging every inch. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“God, you feel—” she whimpered.
He leaned down, kissed her jaw, her throat, her mouth, thrusting deeper now, harder.
The bed creaked. Their soaked skin slapped and slid. Her hands gripped his back, nails scoring down.
“I’m—Anthony, I’m gonna—”
He slammed into her and she broke—moaning his name, shaking, clutching him as her climax tore through her.
He followed seconds later, grinding into her as he came, long and hard, hips jerking, buried deep.
They stayed like that for a while. Breathing. Shaking. Damp.
Rain pattered the window.
He was still inside her.
Still hardening again.
She lifted her head. “Think you’ve got another in you, Viscount?”
His smirk was slow, wicked.
“Try me.”
Chapter Text
The sun rose hotter than usual, burning off the storm’s aftermath and steaming the resort lawns like some cruel joke.
Anthony had never felt more exposed.
He was shaved, pressed, and seated beside his mother at the shaded breakfast terrace, pretending he hadn’t spent half the night buried inside a dance instructor on a creaky cabin bed.
Pretending he didn’t know how her skin tasted.
Pretending he hadn’t come twice and still wanted more.
Across the lawn, a tray clattered. Penelope was walking briskly from the kitchen hut, curls pinned neatly, green sundress buttoned to the collarbone.
Professional. Composed. Untouched.
Anthony nearly choked on his coffee.
Benedict raised an eyebrow.
“Late night?” he asked under his breath.
“Didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m shocked. You look so… relaxed.”
Anthony shot him a glare just as Penelope stepped onto the terrace.
She moved between tables with practiced ease, greeting guests, correcting posture, laughing at someone’s bad pun. Her eyes scanned the rows of Bridgertons—
And skipped right over him.
Not a flicker. Not a pause. Not even a heartbeat’s hesitation.
He was a ghost.
It shouldn’t have stung.
“You’ve got a bit of colour,” Violet observed, slicing into her grapefruit. “Was the walk yesterday that long?”
Anthony grunted.
Down the row, Eloise perked up. “Penelope!” she called.
Penelope turned, smile sweet and radiant. “Miss Bridgerton.”
“Oh, please. It’s Eloise. Sit with us, if you’ve got a moment.”
She hesitated—just long enough to be polite—then crossed over.
Anthony sat straighter. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even think.
“Lovely morning,” Penelope said as she took the empty seat beside Francesca. Not beside him, of course. Naturally.
She didn’t even glance his way.
“Quite,” Violet said. “Though I heard the storm was dreadful. Did it disturb your night?”
Penelope smiled, calm as a Sunday service. “Not at all. I quite like the sound of thunder.”
Anthony nearly spat his coffee.
Benedict choked on toast.
Penelope didn’t blink.
Eloise launched into a question about music and whether Theo was back on his feet. Penelope answered smoothly, directing the conversation elsewhere.
Anthony watched her mouth as she spoke. Remembered it around him. Remembered the sound she made when he—
He shifted in his chair.
Their eyes met for the first time as she rose to leave.
It lasted less than a second.
But her lips twitched.
Just a little.
Just enough for him to know she was remembering too.
Chapter Text
The air inside the rec hall was thick with heat, wood polish, and tension.
Penelope stood barefoot on the scuffed floorboards, heart pounding hard enough to echo in her throat. She wore a black leotard and thin rehearsal shorts, her hair high and curled at the edges from sweat. She looked like fire.
Across from her, Anthony rolled his shoulders back and ran a hand through damp hair. His white shirt clung to him, open at the neck, sleeves shoved up, chest rising and falling. Focused. Ready.
Theo tapped his cane once against the stage floor. “We do this now or never,” he warned, seated at the edge of the room like a wounded general. “If you mess it up, we scrap it. You both land flat, and the performance tomorrow gets a new ending.”
Penelope licked her lips. “We won’t mess it up.”
Anthony met her gaze. “Come at me fast.”
She nodded, took three steps back, and the record clicked on.
The familiar swell of music flooded the room. No warm-up. No hesitation. Just the two of them locked in.
One beat. Two. Three.
Penelope sprinted toward him—and jumped.
Anthony caught her at the waist, lifted, and—
Up.
Her body flew. Arms high. Legs extended. The air held her like a secret. And for one glorious second, she was weightless.
Then he brought her down gently, steady hands guiding her back to earth, their bodies sliding against each other as her feet touched the floor.
Silence.
Theo exhaled. “Finally.”
Penelope laughed—bright, breathless, disbelieving.
Anthony was still holding her. His hands hadn’t moved. His forehead brushed hers.
“That,” she whispered, “was terrifying.”
“But you were brilliant,” he murmured.
Their eyes locked. For one second too long.
Theo clapped. “Again! While you’re hot.”
Penelope stepped back, flushed and smiling. Anthony ran a hand down his face, trying not to grin.
They were going to be ready.
Chapter Text
Outside Summerfield, the air felt different.
Sharper. Louder. Buzzing with an energy that didn’t exist back at the resort. The fundraiser venue sat tucked behind a little theatre in town, strung with lights and lined with eager guests dressed in their black-tie best. Nothing like the polite concerts and amateur theatricals at Summerfield. This was the real world. And it mattered.
Anthony adjusted his cuffs backstage.
The noise of the gathering crowd filtered through the walls. Penelope was across the room doing up the back of her costume—a deep blue halter-style dress with a skirt meant to swirl with every turn. Her hair was pinned up, curls brushing her neck. She looked calm. Radiant.
Anthony was not.
“You look like you’re about to propose to the king,” Theo said, sitting on a bench with one leg bandaged and propped up. He smirked. “It’s a dance, Bridgerton. Not a duel.”
Anthony exhaled slowly. “Easy for you to say. You’re not about to lift her over your head in front of a hundred people.”
“No,” Theo said, grimacing slightly as he shifted, “but I do have to watch someone else do my routine with my partner. So let’s both pretend not to be bitter.”
Eloise appeared beside him, handing him a lemonade.
“He’s only cranky because he can’t flirt while injured,” she said airily, then leaned down to check his bandage.
Theo watched her fuss, lips twitching. “Not true. I’m just limited to upper body gestures.
Backstage buzzed with performers checking makeup, warming up, rushing past with props.
Penelope crossed the space and stood in front of Anthony.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
He nodded. Then shook his head. “I—I just don’t want to mess this up for you. This was supposed to be Theo. You know what you’re doing. I’m just—”
“The man who showed up. Who learned every step. Who practiced until his legs shook and soaked his shirt through. You’re not going to mess anything up.”
He stared at her.
Penelope smiled faintly. “You’re going to dance with me. That’s all it is.”
Their number was called.
The lights were dazzling. Anthony felt the sweat bloom beneath his collar as they stepped into the center of the floor. Penelope gripped his hand, steady and sure, and gave him one last look.
“Ready?”
He managed a nod
The music began.
Their bodies moved in perfect time. The weeks of rehearsals melted into muscle memory. Spins, footwork, tension and release. The lift was coming—he felt the moment approaching like a heartbeat in his throat.
Penelope ran toward him, just like they’d practiced. He caught her.
Then froze.
His hands were in place. Her weight was light. But something in his chest squeezed tight—a voice in his head screamed not to drop her.
He didn’t lift.
Instead, he improvised.
Kept her twirling, used the momentum, transitioned into a slower, grounded dip.
It wasn’t the planned lift. But it worked.
The crowd cheered. The song ended. Penelope dipped into his arms, smiling breathless against his chest.
Backstage, she pulled him into the shadows, heart still racing.
“You panicked,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—I couldn’t do it.”
“Don’t be — we pulled it off.” She grinned up at him.
He blinked.
“You did the whole routine, Anthony. And it was good. That matters more.”
Then she kissed him. Not a chaste brush, but a kiss full of relief and pride and everything they hadn’t yet said.
A throat cleared behind them.
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Benedict drawled.
They broke apart.
Eloise looked far too pleased. “Excellent performance. Can we talk about how I’m clearly Theo’s muse?”
And then another voice:
“Is that my brother dancing with his hips?”
Colin, holding hands with Marina, appeared through the crowd with a grin. “This was brilliant. She dragged me out here saying it was for a good cause—but clearly, I was lured under false pretenses.”
Marina elbowed him, but she was smiling.
Theo grinned from his seat. “Well. If it means Rosa gets her surgery, I suppose it’s all worth it.”
Anthony glanced back at Penelope.
They hadn’t done the lift.
But somehow, he felt ten feet tall.
But just beyond the backstage curtain, near the open garden doors, someone else stood still.
Cressida Cowper.
Her face was unreadable as she turned on her heel and disappeared into the shadows.
Chapter Text
The buzz of applause still rang in their bones, their hands brushing now and then as they followed the quiet path to the staff quarters. Anthony didn’t ask if he was allowed to come to her room. Penelope didn’t tell him no.
They’d changed out of their performance clothes —her black slip dress exchanged for a soft linen blouse and shorts, his crisp suit replaced with slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled and throat open. But the electricity still clung to them, every step thick with the aftershocks of what they’d done on that stage.
Inside her cabin, the lights were low, the room smelling faintly of rose water and old wood. Penelope moved without speaking, stepping across the small space to the record player.
A scratch. A crackle. Then—
Solomon Burke’s “Cry to Me.”
Anthony’s breath caught.
She turned to face him, one eyebrow raised, lips parted, and began to sway.
He didn’t hesitate. Not tonight.
He stepped into her space and began to move with her—hips rolling just as she’d taught him, slow and deliberate, like sex set to rhythm. No ballroom technique, no counting steps. Just instinct. Just want.
Her breath hitched as he moved in sync with her. He didn’t even touch her at first. Let his hips do the talking. Let her feel the hunger in the way he danced, the way he tilted his pelvis, the slow roll of his body inviting hers to meet him.
She gave in.
One smooth shift forward and her backside pressed into him, just like the rehearsal, only hotter now—bare legs against slacks, soft cotton against his cock already hardening with every grind of her hips.
He groaned, low and rough, his hands finding her hips without thought. Gripping. Guiding.
She rolled back into him, head falling to the side, exposing the long line of her neck. He bent his head to her shoulder, lips brushing skin. One of his hands slid up her stomach slowly, deliberately—she grabbed his wrist, dragged it higher.
Pressed it to her breast.
He sucked in a breath. She arched back harder against him, eyes fluttering closed as he cupped her fully, thumb sweeping the peak through the thin fabric of her blouse.
That was all the permission he needed.
He turned her around, not fast—deliberate, still dancing, still with the music, but his mouth was on hers now. Hungry. Open. Tongue sliding deep. She gasped into it, fingers clutching his shirt like she couldn’t get close enough.
He walked her backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss.
She sank down first, pulling him with her, her thighs spreading easily beneath the press of his weight. He kissed down her throat as his hands worked her blouse open, fingers shaking now, unbuttoning one at a time until soft pale skin and lace spilled free.
She dragged his shirt off too, hands greedy, roaming over the planes of his chest and stomach.
He slid a hand into her shorts and groaned when he found her already wet—silky, soaked, ready. She gasped his name as his fingers dipped through her folds, stroking once, twice, before pushing inside. Slow. Deep. Curling perfectly until her hips lifted off the bed.
“Please,” she breathed.
He didn’t tease her. Not tonight.
He hooked his thumbs into her waistband and dragged her shorts and underwear down together, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, her hip bones, the inside of her thigh as he went. She moaned—desperate, writhing—and then he was back over her, kissing her deeply as he freed himself from his trousers.
Their eyes locked as he pressed in.
He sank into her slowly, inch by inch, groaning her name against her lips as she arched to take him fully. Her legs wrapped around him instantly, arms flung around his shoulders, nails digging into his back.
They moved like they’d been doing it forever. No fumbles. No nerves. Just the raw, perfect rhythm of hips, breath, pressure. He ground into her with every stroke, dragging moans from her lips as her body chased every thrust, meeting him again and again.
“God,” he choked out, voice hoarse, “Penelope—”
She only whimpered, “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Faster. Deeper. Harder.
Until the pleasure swelled to something dizzying and she clenched around him, crying out as she came, trembling beneath him.
He followed seconds later, spilling with a groan into the space between them, every muscle trembling, forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering through him.
They didn’t speak.
She tucked herself into his side, his arm curled under her head as her fingers traced lazy shapes over his chest. The record had long since ended, the room gone quiet save for their breathing and the whisper of wind through the window screen.
They talked for hours. But eventually, she kissed his collarbone and slipped out of bed.
He sat up, watching her.
She pulled a nightdress on —and ran her fingers through her curls as she stepped to the door. “You should go before the sun comes up and risk being seen.”
He stood slowly, dressing and coming to stand just behind her.
At the open door they kissed once more, slow, lingering, mouths swollen with sleep and memory.
“Later, Bridgerton,” she murmured.
“I’ll see you later, Penelope.”
He stepped into the morning and walked down the steps.
And across the courtyard, hidden just beyond a trellis of bougainvillea, Cressida Cowper watched everything.
She didn’t pay much attention to him.
But she saw Penelope. With a guest.
And that was enough.
Chapter Text
The sun had barely been up an hour before Penelope was summoned.
She’d barely had time to rinse her skin of the night before—Anthony’s mouth, his hands, the way he’d moved against her in time with the music still echoing through her body like a second heartbeat.
Mr Cowper’s office was colder than usual, even with the sunlight spilling through the windows.
He gestured for her to sit. She didn’t.
“I had a troubling report this morning,” he said, fingers steepled. “A guest saw one of our staff sneaking from the guest quarters before dawn. And then I received a separate complaint—well, comment—from an attendee of a private fundraiser last night. They recognised one of our dancers. A redhead.”
Penelope’s heart sank.
“I asked around,” Mr Cowper continued. “Seems one of our best performers was unwell last night, conveniently absent from the roster.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“Was that you, Miss Featherington?”
There was no point lying.
“Yes.”
He looked almost regretful. “And the guest?”
She said nothing.
His sigh was long. “You know the rules. It’s in your contract. Summerfield staff are not permitted to take outside engagements. Nor—obviously—are they allowed to fraternise with guests. I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.”
He stood.
“You’ll pack your things and leave the premises by noon.”
It was like falling. But she stayed standing.
And she didn’t beg.
Anthony wasn’t looking for anyone when he overheard it. He was just passing the second-floor terrace when he heard Mr Cowper’s voice drifting up from the lawn below.
“Shame, really,” the man was saying to another resort manager, loud and smug. “Had to let one of our dancers go this morning. Pretty girl. The best dancer. But she was caught—outside gig and sneaking around with a guest.”
Anthony froze mid-step.
Cowper went on, chuckling. “Didn’t even try to fight it. Just went to pack her bags.”
Anthony’s chest went tight.
He didn’t wait for the rest. He already knew.
He found Penelope in her cabin, suitcase on the bed, jaw tight with effort as she shoved her shoes inside one by one.
“You’re leaving?”
She didn’t look at him. “What does it look like?”
“You’re really being fired?”
“Yes.”
“For what—performing? Being seen with me?”
“All of the above,” she muttered, zipping the case. “I broke the rules. I knew what they were.”
He stepped toward her. “Then let me fix it.”
She barked a laugh. “Oh, sure. How would you like to do that, Lord Bridgerton? Write a cheque? Offer to marry me on the spot?”
“Don’t—”
“No,” she snapped, eyes burning. “You don’t get to stand there with your nice clothes and perfect family and tell me you’ll fix it. I needed this job. I needed this money. I don’t get to run back to a fancy London house or a caring family who’ll wrap me in cashmere and sympathy.”
She was trying to hurt him. Pushing every sore spot she could find. “Pen —“
“You’ll never know what it’s like to be this scared,” she spat. “To be one bad day away from everything falling apart.”
Anthony stepped back like she’d slapped him.
Then his voice came low and sharp.
“You think I don’t know fear?”
She didn’t answer.
“I wake up every day wondering if I’m enough,” he said. “For my family. For myself. I’ve built my life on pretending I’m not scared, but I am. I’m scared of not being good enough. Of getting it wrong. Of wanting the wrong thing so badly it wrecks me.”
She stilled.
“And most of all,” he said, quieter now.
”I’m scared of walking away from this room and never feeling the rest of my life the way I feel when I’m with you.”
Silence.
She closed her eyes.
But she still picked up her suitcase.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Then she walked out.
He didn’t stop her.
Chapter Text
“I have been thinking,” Simon said calmly, sitting behind the desk in Cowper’s office, “that perhaps it’s time to revise the rule about guests and staff.”
Cowper gave a humorless laugh. “With respect, sir, that rule has protected this establishment’s reputation for years.”
“It’s outdated,” Simon said. “And in some cases, harmful. We employ young people here, Cowper — people trying to support themselves. If a rule begins punishing them for personal connections, especially when no real harm was done—”
“Real harm?” Cowper interrupted. “One of our best dancers had a guest in her room. Not to mention the performance at an unauthorized event offsite. She broke her contract in two ways — and I acted accordingly.”
“You fired her,” Simon said quietly.
“I had no choice.”
Simon didn’t respond immediately. He opened a drawer, pulled out a slim file. “I asked for her employee records. There’s no permanent address listed. No emergency contact. No family information. Just a name. Featherington.”
Cowper shrugged. “She wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
“She was vulnerable,” Simon said. “And we may have just sent her packing with nowhere to go.”
Cowper looked away, but didn’t respond.
Then the door burst open.
Anthony Bridgerton stood in the threshold, face thunderous.
Simon raised a brow. “Lord Bridgerton—”
“The guest Penelope was seen with,” Anthony said, voice tight, “was me.”
Cowper turned pale.
“And she didn’t sneak off to make money on the side,” Anthony continued. “She performed at a fundraiser.”
Simon frowned. “What fundraiser?”
“For Rosa López,” Anthony said. “A dancer who worked here last summer — until she injured her spine while on shift. She was dismissed, quietly, with no support. Her family organized a fundraiser to help her afford surgery. That’s the performance Penelope was in. That’s what you fired her for.”
Simon sat back slowly. “She performed to raise money… for someone who got hurt working here?”
Anthony nodded. “She knew it could cost her. She did it anyway.”
Cowper stammered. “She still violated the contract—”
“She violated it because of me,” Anthony snapped. “Are you going to throw me out? Shall I pack my bags and go?”
Cowper was silent.
Simon looked at Anthony, then closed the file slowly. “Well. That changes everything.”
Anthony exhaled sharply.
Cowper still looked stunned. “Sir, surely we can’t just throw out the entire clause over—”
“We can,” Simon said. “We will. And perhaps you with it.”
Cowper’s jaw dropped. “You’re dismissing me?”
Simon rose. “It’s time I really took control of this place.”
Before Cowper could protest, Simon turned to Anthony. “Penelope didn’t list an address. We don’t know where she went.”
Anthony’s face fell.
Then the door creaked open again.
It was Daphne.
“Daphne,” Simone greeted. He quitely filled her in as Cowper slipped out of the room seething and Anthony slumped in a chair, defeated.
Daphne looked at Anthony. “She’s really gone?”
Anthony nodded. “I should have stopped her.”
“I’m sorry,” Daphne said gently.
Anthony said nothing.
“Well,” Daphne sighed. “At least Theo and Marina will be thrilled the rule’s gone.”
Simon smiled faintly. “It was time—what is it about you Bridgertons!”
But Anthony just sat there, staring at the floor.
Because Penelope was gone.
And he didn’t know if she’d even want him to try to find her.
Chapter Text
That evening the dinner table buzzed with unusual warmth.
Daphne was smiling at her wine glass, cheeks slightly pink. “Simon asked if I’d like to see his estate after the season. Just the two of us.”
Eloise raised an eyebrow. “Well. That doesn’t sound like anything scandalous at all.”
“I don’t need scandal,” Daphne said dreamily. “I just want him.”
“Scandal is vastly overrated anyway,” said Colin, grinning. “Marina and I spent half the afternoon in the laundry hut pretending to look for linens.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Benedict muttered, dramatically stabbing his potatoes. “Can we not go one dinner without hearing about someone’s lust in the linen closet?”
Francesca cleared her throat delicately. “Michael—my music instructor—said I had a beautiful ear for harmony.” She hesitated, then added, “I think I’m going to ask him out.”
Everyone actually paused at that.
Then:
“Hell yes, Francesca,” Eloise said, raising her glass.
“Careful,” Benedict said. “Next you’ll be making out behind the cellos.”
“Don’t be crass,” Violet scolded. “Though well done, dear.”
The door creaked open.
Anthony stepped in, looking like he’d walked through a thunderstorm in his mind. His sleeves were rolled. His brow was stormy.
He sat. “Everybody pack tonight. We’re leaving in the morning.”
Silence.
“What?” Colin blinked.
“No,” Francesca said. “You said we’d stay through the talent show.”
“I changed my mind.”
“I’m performing,” she said, voice rising. “You promised.”
“It’s one extra day,” Daphne said. “And Simon’s staying. You don’t want to see him sulk.”
“This is not about Simon,” Anthony muttered.
“I think someone is already sulking,” Benedict said, poking at him with his fork. “What happened? You get dumped?”
Anthony’s jaw flexed.
Francesca’s voice cracked. “I worked so hard. I have a whole piece.”
“You can perform another time—”
“It’s not the same,” Eloise snapped, defending her sister.
“Anthony.” Violet leaned forward, frowning. “Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer.
Daphne opened her mouth to speak, Anthony glared at her.
“Don’t.”
Benedict gave him a long, knowing look. “Is this about a redhead, by any chance?”
“Is this because you lost something you didn’t fight hard enough to keep, Brother?”
Anthony stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair loud in the room.
“Enough,” he said.
“No,” Violet said.
Everyone turned.
Violet set down her wineglass and gave her eldest son a look that could pierce granite.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said calmly. “And I won’t press. But I do know this: your siblings deserve to stay. Francesca deserves to perform. And whether you like it or not, we are not running away just because something—someone—scared you.”
Anthony didn’t speak.
Violet’s tone softened just a touch. “You can brood all you want. You can sit at the back and pretend not to care. But we are staying one more night. We will leave the morning after the talent show.”
He held her gaze for a long moment.
Then he sat back down.
Francesca exhaled. Daphne smiled gently at him. Eloise reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
Colin just grinned and said, “Well. I guess I’ll go tell Marina I’ve got another night in the laundry hut.”
“Colin.”