Chapter Text
One must admire conviction, or perhaps not. Mr. Colin Bridgerton was overheard proclaiming, and quite publicly, before a collection of eligible gentlemen that he would never court Miss Penelope Featherington, “Not in your wildest fantasies.” One imagines the dreams in question were far kinder than the words expressed.
-Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers
Penelope sat alone in the drawing room, staring out at the empty street without truly seeing it. The Featherington household bustled around her in a frenzy as preparations continued for yet another wedding breakfast—this one celebrating Prudence’s hasty nuptials to Mr. Dankworth by special license. Her mother and sister were currently at Madame Delacroix’s, tending to last-minute alterations to a wedding dress and a trousseau thrown together in barely a day.
Just a month ago, everything had been different. But that illusion had shattered at her mother’s ball—when Cousin Jack’s scheme was exposed, when Eloise discovered her identity as Lady Whistledown, and when she overheard Colin Bridgerton proclaim that he would never dream of courting her. Not in your wildest fantasies.
Her heart had splintered beneath the weight of those words, leaving her alone in every facet of her life, struggling simply to move through each day.
She and Eloise had exchanged terrible things, words that could never be taken back. Even so, Penelope had dared to believe that, with enough time, they might find their way back to one another. That fragile hope crumbled two days ago when she entered the village bookshop and spotted Eloise inside. Penelope had offered a tentative smile only to be met with a steely, unblinking glare before Eloise turned away and quit the shop entirely.
Penelope had felt her composure crack, a prickle of tears gathering behind her eyes, but refusing to fall. The moment replayed itself whenever she blinked, sharp and unwelcome, as if her heart had taken to bruising at the slightest touch.
Perhaps the countryside would do them all good. Colin had departed on his grand tour, and the rest of the Bridgertons had soon after retreated to their estate in Kent once Lord Bridgerton departed for his honeymoon with his new bride. They silently slipped away from London and from her life with far more ease than she could manage.
And in only a few days’ time the Featheringtons would follow leaving behind a city filled with fractured friendships, whispered gossip, and memories Penelope was desperate to outrun.
She sat lost in thought, idly worrying a loose thread on her gown, when Rae entered and announced she had a caller.
Penelope blinked. “A caller?” Her brow furrowed; she could not imagine who might seek her out.
Rae stepped forward and handed her a calling card.
Lord Reginald Fife
Penelope stared at the name, stunned into stillness, before jolting back to herself. “Tea service, please,” she murmured, rising and moving toward the settee.
Moments later, Lord Fife was shown in and at the sight of her he offered a respectful bow before stepping forward—only for Rae to reappear with the tray, forcing a brief, awkward pause. Penelope gestured for him to sit. She prepared a cup of tea to his specifications with steady hands and passed it to him.
“Forgive me for calling without notice,” he said settling into the chair opposite her. “I have wanted to speak with you since your family’s ball, but understood you were… understandably occupied with your sisters’ weddings and the fallout from Lord Featherington. So”—he offered a small, almost sheepish smile—“I thought I should simply call anyway before you also left London.”
Penelope frowned. “May I ask… why?”
He cleared his throat. “I wished to apologize. For the words you heard from Mr. Bridgerton and for their unfortunate echo in Lady Whistledown’s column.”
Penelope opened her mouth to brush it aside, but he lifted a hand gently.
“I saw your face after he said it,” he continued softly, “and it has weighed on me ever since. You did not deserve his easy dismissal, Miss Featherington. And knowing I played even the smallest role in prompting him—well, it has sat poorly with me.”
“You only asked a question,” Penelope protested. “You cannot take responsibility for another man’s… opinion.”
“Well… yes,” he said, lifting his shoulders slightly. “But the truth is I’ve noticed you for longer than I probably should admit. You say little, but when you do, it’s sharp in the best possible way. It stays with a man.” His tone softened. “I stayed away because of Mr. Bridgerton, we all thought the two of you would end up courting. And that night, I asked because I assumed he’d finally made his intentions known, but…”
He trailed off, the unspoken truth hanging between them.
Penelope finally found her voice. “That time has not—nor will it ever—come to pass. I no longer consider Mr. Bridgerton a dear friend. Friends do not disparage one another behind their backs.”
The declaration hung in the air, more bitter than she meant, more revealing than she liked. Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, wishing she had kept the words to herself.
Lord Fife leaned back slightly, studying her with unexpected intensity.
“With all due respect, Miss Featherington,” he said quietly, “you deserve better friends.” His mouth quirked. “And, if you will permit the attempt… I should like to be one of them.”
Penelope stared at him, incredulous. “You wish to be my friend?”
His mouth tugged into a smirk, but his voice softened. “Truthfully? I would much rather ask to court you.”
Penelope’s breath caught, and he lifted a hand as if to steady the air between them.
“But I suspect you would not believe me if I said so. Not yet. So,” his smile gentled, “perhaps we might simply get better acquainted in the meantime.”
“I hope you understand my hesitation, Lord Fife—”
“Reginald,” he offered immediately.
“Lord Fife,” she repeated, firmer this time. “I cannot promise friendship. Not after,” she waves her hand absently, “everything, but I will not rule it out entirely.”
His expression softened into something warm and unmistakably pleased. “Of course. Then I shall simply have to earn the honor.” A glimmer of playful confidence sparked in his eyes. “And I imagine I will have ample opportunity in the off-season.”
Penelope blinked. “Pardon?”
Fife cleared his throat, attempting a look of innocence that fooled no one. “Oh. Did I forget to mention? My aunt, Lady Eleanor Devlin, is your neighbor in Andover. She has invited me to stay with her for several months.” His smile widened, all charm and far too much self-assurance.
“She tells me she is a frequent guest of your mother’s. So I expect our paths will cross quite regularly.”
Penelope could only stare, too stunned even to muster a polite response.
Fife looked delighted by her speechlessness. “Well, Miss Featherington,” he said, rising to his feet, “I must be off, business in Bloomsbury waits for no man.”
Then, as though unable to help himself, his voice gentled. “Thank you for granting me your time. I hope this will not be our last conversation.”
He bowed.
Penelope stood and curtsied. “Lord Fife.”
He straightened, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, and offered her a quick, devastating wink before allowing himself to be shown out.
Penelope remained where she was, hands clasped before her, heart unsteady.
Undone.
She remained standing long after he’d gone with the silence settling around her like a weight she couldn’t quite name.
And what unsettled her most was the realization that Lord Fife had looked at her, truly looked, and found someone worth seeing.