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In the centuries since the first soulmarks had appeared upon human skin, delicate symbols blooming into being at birth or arriving unbidden during childhood, their meaning had been debated, dissected, and ultimately relegated to polite irrelevance by society.
They were said to indicate one’s other half, a singular soul destined to recognize and complete another. Some claimed the marks burned when soulmates were near; others insisted they changed with time, or vanished altogether if the bond were denied. There were treatises written by philosophers, sermons preached by clergymen, and breathless pamphlets sold on street corners promising to explain the phenomenon in full.
None ever did.
What was certain was this: not everyone bore a mark. In fact, most did not.
Among the ton, soulmarks were spoken of with the same mild curiosity reserved for comets or foreign customs: interesting, faintly romantic, but impractical. Marriages were forged for alliances, fortunes, and titles. Love, when it appeared at all, was considered a fortunate byproduct rather than a prerequisite. A soulmark might make a charming anecdote at a ball, but it did not alter contracts, dowries, or expectations.
If anything, to place too much importance upon such a thing was considered faintly embarrassing.
And yet.
There were families, old, storied families who bore soulmarks generation after generation, as though destiny itself had taken a particular interest in them. The Bridgertons were one such family.
It was whispered, though never proven, that every Bridgerton child had been born with a soulmark. Some bore symbols small and discreet: a single star, a line of script too faint to read. Others had more vivid markings, their presence impossible to ignore. Violet Bridgerton, née Ledger, had once confessed quietly, to a friend that she had known Edmund was her soulmate the moment she first saw him, long before he had even glanced her way.
She had loved him deeply, fiercely, and without regret.
And when he died, the loss had nearly broken her.
Perhaps that was why she believed so strongly still.
Perhaps that was why she refused to let her eldest son dismiss destiny so easily.
Anthony Bridgerton’s soulmark was among the most recognizable of all: a small bumblebee, inked just above his heart, its wings delicately outstretched as if caught forever in mid-flight. It was not visible unless one knew precisely where to look, hidden as it was beneath waistcoat and linen, close to the very center of his chest.
The ton, for the most part, did not know of it.
Penelope Featherington did.
She had not meant to see it.
At sixteen years of age, Penelope was accustomed to being invisible, an unremarkable girl with unruly curls, an unfortunate fondness for books, and a habit of slipping quietly into corners where she was neither missed nor sought. On the afternoon it happened, she had been nothing more than that: a girl wandering the halls of Bridgerton House while her mother conversed loudly in the drawing room below.
Anthony Bridgerton had been sparring with one of his brothers in the back garden, his coat discarded in the heat of exertion. Penelope, passing by with a book clutched to her chest, had paused only because she had heard laughter, bright and unguarded in a way that rarely accompanied the Viscount these days.
The patio door had been ajar.
A movement, a step too close, a breath caught at the wrong moment, and there it was.
The bumblebee.
Small. Perfect. Undeniable.
She had known, with a certainty that frightened her, exactly what it meant.
He was hers.
And she was his.
Anthony Bridgerton never knew.
She never told him.
And so the years passed, and Penelope carried the knowledge alone, quietly, like a pressed flower hidden between the pages of a book no one else would ever read.
Until the day she overheard him say that it meant nothing at all.
Penelope had not been eavesdropping.
At least, not intentionally.
She had been making her way through Bridgerton House in search of Eloise, who had disappeared earlier with the vague promise of showing Penelope a new pamphlet she had acquired, something political, no doubt, and therefore scandalous. Penelope had checked the library, the back garden, even the small sitting room near the stairs, but Eloise was nowhere to be found.
It was only as Penelope passed the closed door of Violet Bridgerton’s private drawing room that she heard voices raised within.
She slowed.
She should not have stopped. She knew that. The Bridgertons were generous, welcoming, nearly family, at times, but there were still boundaries. Privacy. Propriety.
Yet the words that reached her were not easily ignored.
“I will not pretend this is something it is not,” Anthony was saying, his voice tight, controlled in the way that suggested effort rather than calm. “I am the Viscount. My duty is to this family, not to some fanciful notion of fate.”
Violet’s voice followed, sharp with emotion. “Fanciful? Anthony, you bear a soulmark. Do not speak of it as though it were a childish indulgence.”
Penelope’s breath caught.
Her hand, which had been resting lightly on the banister, tightened without her conscious awareness.
Soulmark.
Anthony.
Her heart began to pound, loud enough that she was certain it must be heard within the room.
“I bear a mark,” Anthony replied, “nothing more. It does not dictate my choices.”
“It is not meant to dictate,” Violet said, her voice softening, but only slightly. “It is meant to guide. Edmund’s mark guided him to me, and it guided me to him. You know that.”
A pause.
Penelope imagined Anthony standing before the fireplace, shoulders rigid, jaw set in that familiar way she had seen so many times from afar.
“And look where that led,” he said finally.
The words landed like a blow.
Violet inhaled sharply. “That is not fair.”
“No,” Anthony said, the restraint in his voice cracking just enough to reveal the strain beneath. “But it is true. I will not base my future on the promise of happiness that may be taken away without warning.”
Penelope felt suddenly, painfully cold.
Violet did not speak immediately. When she did, her voice trembled. “You believe loving deeply was a mistake?”
“I believe,” Anthony replied, “that loving deeply leaves too much to chance.”
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with things unsaid.
Penelope should have left then.
She did not.
“I will marry,” Anthony continued, “as I must. I will choose a suitable woman, one who understands duty, who will be a capable Viscountess. I will be kind. I will provide. But I will not…” He broke off, exhaling sharply. “I will not chase after a soulmate simply because a mark suggests one exists.”
Violet’s voice rose, edged with frustration and grief. “You speak as though love is a weakness.”
“I speak as though love is a liability.”
Penelope’s vision blurred.
The words echoed in her mind, each one striking deeper than the last. Liability. Fanciful. Nothing more.
All these years, she had carried the certainty of the bumblebee like a secret truth, a quiet promise whispered by the universe itself. She had told herself, on the nights when her heart ached most, that perhaps he did not yet know, that perhaps fate was simply waiting.
That one day, he would see her.
That one day, it would matter.
“I will not raise my sons to believe that destiny owes them happiness,” Anthony went on. “If my soulmate exists, she will live her life without me, and I will live mine without her. That is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”
Penelope’s breath hitched.
She felt something inside her fracture, not shatter dramatically, but crack in a way that would never quite mend. A small, careful break, the kind one did not notice until one leaned upon it and found it could no longer bear weight.
Violet spoke again, quieter now. “You sound as though you have already decided this.”
“I have.”
“And nothing I say will sway you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Then,” Violet said slowly, “I pray that your soulmate is stronger than you are.”
The door creaked softly as Violet moved, perhaps turning away, perhaps wiping her eyes. Penelope did not wait to hear more.
She stepped back, as silently as she could, retreating down the corridor before her presence could be detected. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, her body moving on instinct rather than intention.
By the time she reached the small alcove near the window at the end of the hall, her chest ached as though she had been running.
Anthony did not care.
Not for soulmarks. Not for destiny.
Not for her.
She pressed her forehead gently against the cool glass, staring out at the gardens below without truly seeing them. She had always known that loving Anthony Bridgerton would be a lonely thing. She had never expected it to be so deliberately hopeless.
A practical marriage.
A suitable woman.
A capable Viscountess.
Penelope swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to compose her expression before anyone might see her. She had survived disappointment before. This would be no different. She would carry this knowledge as she carried everything else, quietly, without burdening anyone with it.
Anthony Bridgerton would never know that when he spoke of sacrificing his soulmate, he was speaking of her.
And perhaps that was for the best.
Because loving him, she realized now, was not fate’s promise.
It was her choice.
And choices, unlike destiny, could be endured.
Night settled gently over Featherington House, bringing with it a hush that felt almost reverent in its stillness. Penelope sat alone in her bedchamber, the curtains drawn close against the moonlight, a single candle burning low on the small escritoire near the window. The rest of the house slept, or pretended to, while Penelope remained awake, suspended in that quiet, aching hour when thoughts grew too loud to be ignored.
She had dismissed her maid early, claiming a headache, and now sat perched on the edge of her bed, her dressing gown pooled around her ankles. The fire in the grate had long since faded to embers, leaving the room cool, but Penelope scarcely noticed. All of her awareness had narrowed to a single point.
Her hand rested upon her left thigh.
With slow, deliberate care, she lifted the hem of her night rail.
The bumblebee lay in the middle of her inner thigh, delicate and unmistakable, its wings etched in soft lines as though captured mid-hover. The mark had revealed itself to her on the morning of her sixteenth birthday, no flash of pain, no dramatic awakening, merely the sudden certainty of something new and irrevocable upon her skin.
She traced it now with trembling fingers.
“So foolish,” she whispered, though there was no heat in the rebuke. Only exhaustion.
She had spent years convincing herself that hope was a manageable thing, that she could hold it quietly, modestly, without allowing it to overtake her. She had believed that loving Anthony Bridgerton from a distance was safe precisely because it was impossible.
Yet impossibility, she was learning, did not make longing any less real.
The image rose unbidden in her mind: Anthony standing in the Bridgerton drawing room earlier that afternoon, tall and composed, listening intently as a hopeful debutante answered his questions. His expression had been polite, attentive, practiced. He had nodded at the appropriate moments, offered a faint smile, thanked her for her time.
Interviewing them over tea.
As though selecting a horse or assessing a tenant.
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut.
She had known this day would come. Had told herself she was prepared. After all, Anthony had been perfectly clear in his intentions, a practical marriage. A suitable Viscountess. No room for sentiment, least of all destiny.
And yet.
Against all reason.
Against everything he had said.
She had still hoped.
The hope broke over her then, sudden and overwhelming, as though a dam she had carefully reinforced for years had finally given way. Tears spilled freely, slipping down her cheeks and onto her night rail, her shoulders shaking as she pressed her hand flat against her thigh, as if grounding herself in the truth of the mark might steady her heart.
“I know,” she whispered into the quiet room. “I know.”
The bee did not disappear.
It never would.
Time passed, how much, she could not say, until the ache dulled from sharp pain to a low, constant throb. Penelope drew a slow, steadying breath and let the tears fall where they would, no longer fighting them.
Then, gradually, something else took shape beneath the sorrow.
Resolve.
She rose from the bed and crossed the room, her bare feet silent against the rug. At the escritoire, she hesitated, candlelight flickering across the smooth surface of the paper waiting there. Her reflection stared back at her faintly from the polished wood, eyes red, curls loose, expression solemn.
This would be madness.
It would change nothing.
And yet, the words pressed so insistently against her chest that she feared she might suffocate if she did not release them.
She seated herself, reached for the pen, and dipped it carefully into the ink.
For a long moment, she did not write.
Then, slowly, she began.
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
The formality felt absurdly inadequate, but she clung to it all the same, allowing the familiar structure to steady her hand.
You do not know me, and yet I know you. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I have known of you, in the quiet way one knows of the stars, always present, always beyond reach.
I had not intended to write to you. Indeed, I have spent many years convincing myself that silence was the only proper course. But silence, I have learned, is not always born of strength. Sometimes it is simply fear in a more polite guise.
I have watched you prepare for this moment, your decision to marry, with a composure that has been widely admired. You have been praised for your sense of duty, for your clarity of purpose, for the admirable restraint with which you approach so serious an undertaking. All of this is true. And yet, knowing it has not made the knowledge easier to bear.
Against all hope and reason, I believed, foolishly, perhaps that you might one day find your way to me. Not through grand gestures or sudden revelations, but quietly, as one finds something long misplaced and realizes it has been close at hand all along.
I told myself that patience was a virtue, that if destiny truly had meaning, it would not be undone by time. I told myself many things.
But now you stand before others, listening as they present themselves to you, and I understand at last that whatever I believed was never yours to share.
I imagine, because I cannot help myself that if you were to interview me, you would ask the same questions you ask them. Whether I enjoy the country or the city. Whether I possess accomplishments suitable to a Viscountess. Whether I understand the responsibilities that accompany such a title.
I would answer carefully. I would say that I prefer the quiet comforts of home, though I can appreciate the beauty of a crowded ballroom from the edges. I would confess that my accomplishments are modest: music played more for pleasure than perfection, languages read more fluently than spoken, but that I learn quickly, and observe even faster. I would tell you that I understand responsibility better than most, for I have lived my life shaped by it, though seldom acknowledged for it.
I would not tell you that I love you.
I would not speak of soulmarks, or bees, or fate. I would not ask whether you believe in such things, because I already know the answer. I would smile politely and thank you for your time, and you would thank me for mine, and that would be the end of it.
I do not write to ask anything of you. I would not presume to disrupt your plans or burden you with knowledge you have made clear you do not wish to carry. If you have chosen a practical path, then I accept it. Truly, I do.
I write only to say this: that once, long ago, I hoped. That hope was not born of vanity or expectation, but of something quieter and more enduring. And though I now release it, I cannot regret having felt it at all...
You owe me nothing. You never have. I will not trouble you again, nor seek to place myself in your path. I will wish you well, sincerely, and hope that the life you choose brings you the peace you desire.
The candle flickered, casting long shadows across the room.
Penelope stared at the page, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.
There was one thing left to write.
She dipped the pen once more.
Your soulmate
She set the pen down.
For a long moment, she simply sat there, staring at the letter as though it were something fragile and newly born. It felt impossibly intimate, this piece of herself laid bare in ink, even without her name attached.
Slowly, carefully, she folded the paper and sealed it.
When she finally rose from the desk, she felt lighter, and emptier than she had in years.
The bumblebee on her thigh remained.
But for the first time since she had seen Anthony Bridgerton’s mark all those years ago, Penelope allowed herself to believe that destiny, like love, could be honored even when it was not fulfilled.
And so she extinguished the candle, slipped the letter into the drawer to be delivered by anonymous means in the morning, and returned to her bed.
Sleep came slowly.
But when it did, it carried no dreams of hope.
Only acceptance.
Anthony Bridgerton discovered the letter on an otherwise unremarkable morning.
It lay centered upon his desk, precisely aligned with the blotter, as though whoever had placed it there understood him well enough to know that disorder would not do. The paper was unadorned, the seal plain. No crest. No name.
For several minutes, he regarded it without touching it.
Anthony had spent the past days in a state of deliberate efficiency: rising early, receiving callers, conducting interviews with young women whose names and faces blurred together despite his efforts to attend to them properly. He told himself that this was progress. That clarity was preferable to uncertainty. That decisiveness was mercy.
And yet.
The sight of the letter unsettled him in a way he could not immediately name.
At last, with a faint frown, he broke the seal.
The paper was folded carefully, the creases precise. He unfolded it once, then again, smoothing it instinctively before beginning to read.
By the second line, he had gone still.
You do not know me, and yet I know you.
Anthony’s breath caught, shallow and sharp.
He read on.
With each paragraph, something within him tightened, an unfamiliar pressure, as though a hand were closing slowly around his heart. The voice of the letter was restrained, measured, painfully polite. No accusations. No demands. Only quiet truths laid bare with devastating clarity.
Against all hope and reason, I believed…
His jaw clenched.
Anthony’s gaze dropped briefly from the page, his fingers curling into the edge of the desk. He forced himself to continue.
The imagined interview struck him hardest.
The careful answers. The humility. The way the writer had already anticipated his judgment, his criteria, his silence. She knew him. Not as the Viscount, not as the eldest Bridgerton, but as the man who asked questions without offering himself in return.
“I would not tell you that I love you.”
Anthony exhaled slowly, his chest tight.
He read that line again.
And again.
By the time he reached the end, his hands were no longer steady.
Your soulmate.
The word sat upon the page like an accusation and a confession all at once.
Anthony stared at it, his vision blurring at the edges.
Soulmate.
He let the letter fall to the desk.
For a long moment, he did nothing at all.
Then, abruptly, he rose and crossed the room, one hand braced against the wall as though the ground beneath him had shifted without warning. He dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming faster now, uneven.
This was not abstraction.
This was not philosophy or maternal sentiment or the distant echo of his father’s happiness wielded against him like a standard he had no wish to meet.
This was a woman.
A real woman.
One who lived in the same world he did. Who moved through the same ballrooms, breathed the same air, heard the same rumors. One who had watched him stand before others and weigh their worth with polite detachment.
One who had hoped.
The realization struck him with physical force.
He pressed his palm flat against his chest.
The bumblebee lay there, silent as it always had been. For years, it had been nothing more than a mark, curious, faintly irritating in its implication, easy enough to ignore beneath layers of linen and resolve.
Now it burned.
Not with heat, but with weight.
Anthony closed his eyes.
He saw her suddenly, not clearly, not yet, but in impressions. A figure lingering at the edge of rooms. A voice unraised. A presence that observed rather than demanded. Someone who knew what it was to be overlooked and had chosen, nevertheless, to love.
Love him.
And he had wounded her without ever knowing her name.
Guilt settled deep and immediate, heavy as stone.
He had spoken of sacrifice so glibly, as though it were a theoretical virtue rather than a blade that cut both ways. He had declared himself willing to live without his soulmate, never pausing to consider what that choice demanded of her.
If my soulmate exists, she will live her life without me.
The arrogance of it made him flinch.
He had assumed that fate would simply… acquiesce. That destiny, denied, would retreat quietly, leaving him to his orderly plans.
Instead, destiny had written to him.
Anthony returned to the desk and picked the letter up again, rereading it from the beginning. This time, he noticed things he had missed before, the careful restraint, the way the writer apologized without quite doing so, the absence of bitterness that might have justified his dismissal.
She had asked for nothing.
Not acknowledgment. Not intervention.
Only to be heard.
And now that he had heard her, the silence he had chosen felt impossible.
“Damn it,” he murmured, the word torn from him.
He pressed his thumb against the final line, Your soulmate as though the ink itself might yield answers.
Who was she?
Someone he knew. Someone in the ton. Someone close enough to have observed him over time, to have seen his mark, or known of it, and recognized it for what it was.
Someone he had hurt.
The thought hollowed him.
Anthony sank into the chair, letter clutched loosely in his hand. His mind raced, replaying recent weeks, recent years, every interaction reframed through this new, terrible clarity. How many times had he dismissed a quiet presence? How often had he overlooked a gaze that lingered just a moment too long?
He had believed himself cautious.
He had been careless.
For the first time since his father’s death, Anthony felt the full, crushing reality of connection, not as a promise of happiness, but as a responsibility. Love was not merely something one felt or avoided; it was something one could damage through neglect alone.
His throat tightened.
“I never meant to…” He broke off, the words useless in an empty room.
He did not know how to find her. Did not know how to undo what he had done. But one thing was suddenly, terrifyingly clear:
He could no longer pretend that the choice was his alone.
His soulmate was not an idea.
She was a woman who bled quietly onto paper and asked for nothing but permission to let go.
Anthony lowered his head, the letter still open before him, and for the first time in his life, the Viscount of Bridgerton allowed himself to feel the full weight of destiny pressing back.
Not as fate.
But as consequence.
Penelope had known Eloise Bridgerton long enough to recognize when her friend was attempting subtlety, and failing.
They sat together in the Bridgerton library, ostensibly engaged in companionable silence. Eloise had a book open in her lap, but she had not turned a page in several minutes. Instead, she paced her fingers along the margin, stopped, sighed, and shifted in her chair for what must have been the fifth time since Penelope’s arrival.
Penelope pretended not to notice.
It was Eloise who finally broke.
“Pen,” she said, not looking up, “may I ask you something?”
Penelope glanced at her, surprised by the hesitation in her voice. “Of course.”
Eloise closed the book with a soft thud and set it aside. “You are very good at noticing things.”
Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are,” Eloise insisted. “You always have been. You see when people are unhappy long before they admit it to themselves. You always know when I am lying about enjoying a ball. Or when Colin is pretending not to be wounded by something ridiculous.”
Penelope’s lips curved faintly. “That is hardly a rare talent.”
“It is when one bothers to care,” Eloise said quietly.
She hesitated, then drew her knees up onto the chair, tucking herself inward in an uncharacteristically small posture.
“I am worried about Anthony.”
Penelope’s breath stilled.
She kept her expression carefully neutral. “In what way?”
“I do not know precisely,” Eloise admitted, frustration threading her words. “That is the problem. He has always brooded, it is practically his favorite pastime, but this is different. He is… distracted. Quieter. As though something has lodged beneath his skin and refuses to dislodge.”
Penelope lowered her gaze to her folded hands.
“He has stopped the interviews,” Eloise continued. “Entirely. One day he was dutifully parading hopeful debutantes through the drawing room, and the next he dismissed them all without explanation. Mother is attempting not to panic, but she is failing admirably.”
A pause.
“And he stares at nothing,” Eloise added. “At walls. At windows. At people who are not speaking to him. I caught him holding the same letter for ten minutes yesterday without turning the page.”
Penelope’s heart began to ache anew.
“I thought perhaps,” Eloise said slowly, “that something had happened. Something recent. But no one will tell me anything, and Anthony only says that he is tired.”
She looked at Penelope then, her sharp gaze softened by worry. “You are very dear to this family. If you have noticed something, anything, I would like to know.”
Penelope swallowed.
She wanted, desperately, to tell Eloise everything and nothing all at once. To confess the impossible truth. To admit that the cause of Anthony’s turmoil might well be her own foolish heart, committed to ink and paper in a moment of weakness.
Instead, she shook her head gently.
“I have noticed only that he carries much,” she said carefully. “More than he allows anyone to see.”
Eloise sighed. “That is precisely what frightens me.”
Penelope reached for her hand. “He loves you all very much,” she said softly. “Even when he does not show it well.”
Eloise squeezed her fingers. “I know. I only wish he would allow himself a moment’s peace.”
Penelope forced a small smile. “So do I.”
The ball that evening was held at Lady Danbury’s, as balls so often were when one wished to gather the ton without pretending that it was anything but deliberate. The rooms were bright with candlelight, the air warm with music and murmured conversation.
Penelope stood near the edge of the ballroom, as she always did.
From there, she saw him.
Anthony was near the far wall, impeccably dressed, every inch the Viscount Bridgerton, and yet utterly unlike himself. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable. He did not laugh easily, did not engage readily. He declined dance suggestions he would once have accepted out of courtesy alone.
Once, she saw him begin to approach a group, only to stop short, as though some unseen barrier had risen before him.
His hand drifted, unconsciously, to his chest.
Penelope’s fingers curled around her fan.
Guilt washed over her, sharp and unwelcome.
She had never intended this.
She had not written to wound him, to unsettle the careful order of his world. She had written because the words had been too heavy to carry alone. Because she had believed, selfishly, perhaps that releasing them would free him as well as herself.
Instead, she had only added to his burden.
Her chest tightened.
That night, long after the last carriage had departed and Featherington House had settled into uneasy sleep, Penelope returned once more to her escritoire.
The candlelight felt harsher this time, less forgiving.
She did not hesitate as long before picking up the pen.
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
I had not intended to write again. Indeed, I fear that by doing so I risk imposing upon a silence you did not ask to have broken twice. But I would rather risk impropriety than allow you to believe what is not true.
If my previous letter has caused you agitation or distress, I offer my sincerest apology. That was never my intention. I would not wish to trouble you in any way, least of all when you already bear so much responsibility.
I wrote because I believed honesty, even when unacknowledged, was preferable to silence born of fear. But honesty should never be a burden, and if I have made it so, then the fault is entirely my own.
Please know this: I do not regret loving you, but I regret any pain my love may have caused. That was never my wish.
I truly want what is best for you. Whatever path you choose, whatever life brings you peace and purpose, I hope it brings you happiness as well. You deserve that, even if it is not something you seek for yourself.
I ask nothing of you. I expect nothing. I will not trouble your path or seek to make myself known. If loving you means doing so quietly, from afar, then I am content with that.
Love does not always require reciprocity to be sincere. Sometimes it is enough simply to wish well.
Please do not feel obliged to think of me at all. Live as you see fit, free of concern. That is all I have ever wanted for you.
Your soulmate
Penelope set the pen down and leaned back in her chair, exhaustion washing over her in waves.
She had stepped back now.
Whatever happened next would no longer be her doing.
And if Anthony Bridgerton ever thought of his soulmate again, she hoped, quietly, fervently that it would not be with pain.
But with peace.
Anthony Bridgerton found the second letter the following morning.
This time, he recognized it instantly.
The same unadorned paper. The same careful placement at the center of his desk, aligned with almost painful precision. Where the first letter had unsettled him, this one ignited something far more dangerous.
Hope.
He did not hesitate. He broke the seal at once, unfolding the paper with a speed that betrayed him.
By the end of the first paragraph, his chest hurt.
By the middle, he had gone utterly still.
And by the end, Anthony Bridgerton felt something inside him give way entirely.
If the first letter had forced him to confront the existence of his soulmate, the second revealed her character with devastating clarity. There was no reproach in her apology, no bitterness lurking beneath her restraint. Only concern. Only care. Only the quiet insistence that his happiness mattered more than her own longing.
If loving you means doing so quietly, from afar, then I am content with that.
Anthony pressed the letter flat against the desk with a trembling hand.
“No,” he whispered. “No.”
The word came out rough, torn from somewhere deep and unguarded.
This was what he had done.
He had not merely wounded her with his dismissal of fate; he had taught her to believe that her love was an inconvenience. That her presence would only burden him. That the best thing she could do for him was to disappear.
The thought made him physically ill.
Anthony rose abruptly and began to pace the room, letter clenched in his hand, his steps sharp and restless. He dragged a hand through his hair, then pressed his fingers hard against his eyes as though he might scrub the image of those words from his mind.
She wanted nothing.
Not acknowledgment. Not reassurance.
Only his peace.
And he wanted, God help him, was her.
The realization was sudden and undeniable.
He wanted to know her voice, her face, the way her expression changed when she thought no one was watching. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that love was not a burden, that she had never been one. He wanted to undo the harm he had inflicted with his certainty and his fear.
He wanted to find her.
The bumblebee over his heart felt heavier than ever now, no longer a symbol he could ignore, but a constant reminder of what he had almost lost without ever knowing its name.
“She is out there,” he murmured to the empty room. “And I am standing still.”
By midday, his agitation had become impossible to contain.
It was Benedict who found him later that afternoon, standing near the window in the small sitting room, staring out at the gardens with an expression so distant it startled him.
“Anthony?” Benedict said carefully. “Are you planning to jump, or are you merely contemplating existence again?”
Anthony did not turn.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that I have made a catastrophic error.”
Benedict blinked. “You will need to be more specific. You have made several.”
Anthony exhaled a humorless breath. “This one may be irreversible.”
That did it. Benedict crossed the room at once, all levity gone. “What happened?”
Anthony hesitated.
He had never spoken of this to anyone. Not to Violet. Not to Colin. Certainly not to Benedict. But the words were clawing their way up his throat, demanding release.
“I received a letter,” he said finally.
Benedict’s brows rose. “That alone does not…”
“From my soulmate.”
The silence that followed was immediate and profound.
Benedict’s expression shifted, curiosity giving way to something sharper. “Anthony…”
“I know,” Anthony cut in, turning at last. His face was pale, his eyes dark with something dangerously close to desperation. “I know what I have said in the past. I know how I have dismissed the very notion. And yet here I am.”
He held the letter out, then drew it back, as though the idea of anyone else touching it was unbearable.
“She is real,” he said, his voice rough. “She is kind. She is thoughtful. She apologized to me for causing distress I brought upon myself.”
Benedict said nothing.
“I have hurt her,” Anthony continued. “Not intentionally, but intention does not undo the harm. She has loved me quietly, without expectation, and I have… trampled over that love without ever knowing it existed.”
He swallowed hard.
“I want to find her,” he said. “God help me, Benedict, I want to find her so badly it frightens me.”
Benedict studied his brother for a long moment. “Then find her.”
Anthony laughed bitterly. “If only it were so simple. She has not given her name. She does not wish to be known. She believes…” His voice broke, just slightly. “She believes that I would be happier never knowing who she is.”
Benedict felt something twist in his chest.
“You must have given her reason to think that.”
Anthony nodded once. “Yes.”
Behind the partially open door at the far end of the corridor, Penelope Featherington stood utterly still.
She had not meant to overhear them.
She had been looking for Eloise, had paused only because she recognized Anthony’s voice, strained, unguarded in a way she had never heard before. And then she had heard her own heart laid bare in his words.
I want to find her.
Penelope’s breath shook.
So badly it frightens me.
For a brief, traitorous moment, hope surged so fiercely within her that she had to press a hand against the wall to steady herself. The idea of him searching, of him wanting, felt like sunlight breaking through cloud.
Then reality returned, sharp and unyielding.
He wanted his soulmate.
Not her.
Not Penelope Featherington, with her soft curves and quiet ways and tendency to fade into the background. Not a woman who would never be called a great beauty, who had never once been the object of a man’s pursuit.
He wanted an idea, a possibility unburdened by disappointment.
And if he found out the truth?
If he looked at her and saw only what the ton always saw?
The thought made her chest ache unbearably.
No.
She would not do that to him.
That night, Penelope returned once more to her desk.
The candlelight flickered, familiar now in its witness to her heart’s undoing. She did not cry this time. There was a strange calm in her movements, a quiet certainty that settled over her like acceptance.
She picked up the pen.
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
I had hoped my previous letter would be the last, and I fear I test your patience by writing again. But having learned, indirectly that you are unsettled by these words, I cannot in good conscience remain silent.
You seek me. That knowledge weighs upon me more heavily than you might imagine. And so I must speak plainly, though I would prefer not to.
You would not be happy to discover who I am. I say this not from false modesty, but from clarity. I am no great beauty. I do not turn heads when I enter a room, nor do I meet the standards one might reasonably expect of a Viscount’s wife, or even his interest.
I am quiet. I am easily overlooked. I have spent much of my life on the periphery of things, observing rather than participating. If you were to know me by name and face, I fear the reality would only disappoint you, and I could not bear to be the cause of such disillusionment.
It is kinder for both of us if I remain unknown.
That said, I understand now that silence may feel like abandonment rather than mercy. And so, if you wish, only if you wish I would offer something else instead.
If correspondence would ease your mind, I am willing. Words, after all, are safer than faces. If you would like to write, you may leave a reply with the errand boy who waits by the iron gates of Hyde Park at half past ten in the morning, three days hence. He will know to deliver it.
There will be no obligation, no expectation. Should you choose not to respond, I will understand entirely and trouble you no further.
Your soulmate
Penelope set the pen down, her chest tight but steady.
She had given him a choice now.
Not her.
But something gentler. Something safer.
And if loving Anthony Bridgerton meant protecting him even from the truth of her, then she would do so, quietly, faithfully, and from afar.
As she sealed the letter, she did not know whether she had just drawn him closer…
Or pushed him away forever.
Anthony did not notice the passage of time when the third letter arrived.
He had been standing at his desk, staring unseeingly at a stack of correspondence he had no intention of answering, when the familiar, precisely placed envelope caught his attention. His heart gave a violent lurch, so sharp it nearly stole his breath.
Her.
He took it up at once, breaking the seal with hands that betrayed him utterly.
As he read, something inside him tightened, not with confusion, nor even sorrow, but with a sudden, incandescent fury that startled him with its force.
You would not be happy to discover who I am.
Anthony’s jaw clenched.
I am no great beauty.
His hand curled around the page.
Easily overlooked.
He read the letter through once.
Then again.
By the third reading, he was no longer breathing evenly.
“No,” he said aloud, the word sharp in the quiet room. “No.”
This was the true injury.
Not that she loved him quietly. Not that she had stepped back. But that she had so thoroughly accepted the lie that her worth was measured by his expectations, by the ton’s cruel arithmetic of beauty and brilliance and noise.
That she believed she could disappoint him simply by existing.
Anthony pushed back from the desk abruptly and began to pace, the letter trembling slightly in his grip. He dragged a hand through his hair, anger coiling tight and restless in his chest, not at her, never at her, but at the world that had taught her to think this way. At himself, for having reinforced it with his careless certainty.
“I am not so shallow,” he muttered fiercely. “And you are not so small.”
The idea that she had loved him long enough to know his habits, his questions, his silences, and still believed she would fall short of his regard, made his chest ache with something dangerously close to grief.
And yet.
Beneath the fury, something else stirred.
Correspondence.
Words.
She was offering him the very thing that had already undone him.
Anthony returned to the desk slowly and lowered himself into the chair. He smoothed the paper instinctively, though it did not need it, then reached for a fresh sheet.
He dipped the pen.
And froze.
For the first time in years, perhaps in his life, Anthony Bridgerton did not know how to begin.
He stared at the blank page, his mind crowded with too much: apology, reassurance, longing, urgency. None of it seemed adequate. None of it felt precise enough for what he needed to say.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, forcing himself to still.
Then, finally, he wrote.
My dearest
No.
He struck the word through at once, heart pounding.
Too familiar. Too much.
He tried again.
My
Again, no.
Anthony closed his eyes briefly, then began anew.
My soulmate,
I have read your letters more times than I care to admit, and I find myself compelled to respond at once, not because you have obliged me to do so, but because silence would be an unpardonable cruelty.
I must begin with an apology. Not the polite sort, nor the perfunctory acknowledgment one offers when cornered by propriety, but a sincere one, offered freely and without defense.
I am sorry for the pain I caused you. I am sorry for every careless word I have ever spoken about fate, about soulmarks, about love treated as an abstraction rather than a living thing. I did not know you then, but ignorance does not absolve harm.
You say you fear disappointing me. I cannot adequately express how deeply that notion wounds me. Not because it offends, but because it tells me how little kindness the world has shown you in this regard.
You could not disappoint me. Not with your face, nor your manner, nor your quietness. I do not seek perfection, nor spectacle, nor some ideal shaped by the expectations of others. I seek truth. And you, by your words alone, have already given me more of that than anyone has in years.
If you are more comfortable with words, then let us have words. Gladly. Eagerly. I would count it a privilege to know your thoughts, your observations, the things you notice when others do not.
But I will confess this also, honestly and without demand: I hope that one day, when you are ready, we might meet face to face. Not because words are insufficient, but because I believe the woman who writes to me deserves to be seen.
Until then, I will wait. And I will write.
Anthony
The name felt like an offering.
Anthony sealed the letter with hands far steadier than when he had begun, though his heart still raced. When he rose from the desk, it was with a sense not of resolution, but of beginning.
He delivered the letter himself, walking farther than necessary, waiting longer than patience would normally allow, until the errand boy appeared at the appointed hour. Anthony placed the envelope into his hand with a gravity that surprised them both.
“Take care,” he said quietly.
When he returned home, something in him had shifted.
The days that followed were unlike any Anthony had known.
Her reply came swiftly.
Not long. Not ornate.
But observant.
She wrote of small things at first: a remark overheard at a musicale, a book she had read and half-disagreed with, the peculiar comfort of routine. And yet each word felt chosen with care, weighted with meaning.
Anthony read her letters with an intensity that startled him.
He found himself smiling at unexpected moments, pausing mid-step as a turn of phrase lodged itself pleasantly in his mind. She noticed contradictions. She questioned assumptions. She possessed a wit so subtle it revealed itself only upon reflection, and once seen, could not be unseen.
He wrote back eagerly.
He wrote of responsibility, of the fear of failing those who depended upon him. He confessed, haltingly at first to how lonely leadership could be, how isolating certainty became when it allowed no room for softness.
She did not dismiss him.
She did not flatter him.
She understood.
With each exchange, the world sharpened.
Anthony began to anticipate the arrival of her letters with an impatience he did not bother to disguise. He reread passages until the paper softened at the folds. He imagined the tilt of her head as she considered a thought, the quiet smile that might accompany a particularly dry observation.
He fell for her mind first.
For her gentleness.
For the way she loved without asking to be loved in return.
And as the correspondence deepened, one truth became unavoidable, pressing insistently against his chest like the beat of wings:
He did not merely want to meet his soulmate.
He needed to.
And when that day came, whenever she allowed it, Anthony Bridgerton intended to look at her not with expectation or judgment, but with reverence.
Because whatever the world had told her, she was already extraordinary.
Their correspondence began cautiously.
Anthony’s first reply had been earnest, deliberate, weighed down by apology and intention. Penelope read it three times before she trusted herself to believe it was real. The fourth time, she pressed it briefly to her chest, as though the paper itself carried warmth.
Her reply was careful.
She thanked him, for his honesty, for his patience, for the gentleness of his words. She did not contradict him directly when he spoke of meeting one day, but neither did she encourage the notion. Instead, she wrote of books she loved and passages that lingered with her long after she closed the covers. She asked him what he read when he allowed himself the indulgence.
Anthony answered the very next day.
He confessed, somewhat sheepishly, to preferring histories and ledgers, but admitted that he had once loved poetry before responsibility had taught him to value efficiency over beauty. He asked her which poets she favored.
Penelope replied with a list, and commentary.
She gently mocked his taste. He defended himself. She countered with wit so dry he laughed aloud when he read it, startling his mother in the next room.
That was how it began.
Not with declarations.
But with laughter.
Soon, their letters lengthened.
Penelope wrote of small observations she had once believed unworthy of note: how people revealed themselves most honestly when they thought no one was listening; how kindness often hid in ordinary gestures rather than grand acts. Anthony found himself waiting for these insights with a hunger that unsettled him.
He began to write differently, too.
Less like a Viscount issuing reports to the world. More like a man speaking to someone who saw him.
He told her of the pressure of leadership, not as duty, but as isolation. Of how every decision echoed, how certainty left little room for doubt, and doubt even less room for rest. He admitted that sometimes he envied his brothers their freedom to fail privately.
Penelope did not rush to reassure him.
Instead, she wrote: Perhaps leadership feels heavy because you carry it alone.
Anthony stared at that sentence for a long time.
Then he wrote back something he had never written to anyone.
I think you may be right.
Trust followed quietly, almost without notice.
They began to reference past letters, small things at first. A phrase she had used. A joke he had made in passing. Soon, entire exchanges hinged upon shared context no one else possessed.
She teased him gently about his fondness for order.
He teased her, carefully, fondly about her habit of apologizing for her thoughts before expressing them.
Once, she wrote: You must think me terribly impertinent.
Anthony replied: On the contrary. I find I am most unsettled when you are not.
The letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Penelope read that line five times, her cheeks warming despite herself.
The tone shifted after that.
Not abruptly.
But unmistakably.
Their words grew softer. More personal. He began to address her less formally, my dear soulmate at first, then simply my dear. She noticed. She did not object.
She told him, one night, that she sometimes felt as though she lived half her life in observation and half in imagination, and that correspondence felt like the rare place where the two met.
Anthony replied the next morning:
If that is so, then I am honored to exist in the space where you feel most yourself.
That letter left her breathless.
The flirtation crept in sideways.
In implication.
In awareness.
She described the comfort of sitting by a window late at night, candle burning low, wrapped in quiet. Anthony, uncharacteristically bold, wrote back:
I find myself imagining that scene more vividly than is strictly proper.
Penelope laughed aloud when she read it, and then, emboldened, wrote:
Imagination, I have found, is only dangerous when one refuses to acknowledge it.
His reply came quickly.
Then perhaps we are both already in peril.
From then on, the restraint became charged rather than distant.
Anthony confessed that he read her letters alone, late at night, when the house was quiet and he could allow himself to linger over her words. Penelope admitted, after several drafts, that she sometimes rewrote her letters twice, not to improve them, but to delay sending them.
He wrote once:
I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to hear your voice read these words aloud.
She took three days to answer.
I suspect you would find it softer than you expect, she wrote. And steadier.
His response was immediate.
I think I would like it very much.
After that, the longing grew bolder.
Still never explicit.
But unmistakable.
Anthony wrote of noticing the press of his coat over his heart when he thought of her, of how the bee seemed heavier now, not a burden, but a reminder. Penelope, daring herself, confessed that she sometimes pressed her fingers to her soulmark when she read his letters, as though the distance between them might thin.
Anthony’s hand shook as he wrote back.
You must not think yourself small, he wrote fiercely. Not when you have become so large a presence in my days.
By then, he was no longer pretending neutrality.
He wrote of wanting to know how she smiled. How she looked when she was amused rather than polite. Whether she gestured with her hands when she spoke passionately.
Penelope answered some questions.
She deflected others.
But she did not pull away.
Instead, she asked him things no one ever had: what frightened him most now that he allowed himself to hope; whether he believed people could change without breaking first; what kind of life he might have chosen had he been free to choose recklessly.
Anthony’s reply was the most vulnerable yet.
I believe I am changing now, he wrote. And I do not think I am broken. I think I am finally listening.
That was when Penelope understood, truly understood that this correspondence was no longer a substitute.
It was a courtship.
One built not on appearances or expectations, but on intimacy earned word by word, letter by letter.
And though she still told herself he would not be happy to know her face…
She could no longer pretend he did not already love her mind.
Anthony had not intended for the conversation to last more than ten minutes.
Eloise sat opposite him in his study, hands folded with conspicuous politeness, her expression carefully arranged into something resembling contrition. It did not deceive him for a moment.
“Do you have any idea,” Anthony said, steepling his fingers atop the desk, “how much trouble these pamphlets could cause?”
Eloise nodded readily. “Yes.”
“You distributed them under the name of a fictitious society.”
“Yes.”
“You criticized Parliament.”
“Yes.”
“You implied that the institution of marriage was…” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “a mechanism of social control.”
Eloise brightened. “That part was particularly well argued, I thought.”
“Eloise.”
She sighed. “I am sorry, Anthony. Truly. I did not intend to cause difficulty for you or Mother. I only wished…”
“To upend the world?” he supplied dryly.
She smiled faintly. “Eventually.”
Anthony exhaled, the edge of his frustration dulled by weary affection. “You must be more careful. The ton is not kind to women who think too loudly.”
“I know,” Eloise said quietly. “But thank you for the reminder.”
She rose, smoothing her skirts, clearly relieved that the lecture had not extended into confiscation or exile.
As she turned toward the door, her gaze drifted idly, without intent back to his desk.
And stopped.
Anthony noticed the change immediately.
Eloise froze mid-step, her eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned closer, head tilting.
“Anthony,” she said slowly, “why do you have a letter from Penelope on your desk?”
The world went silent.
Anthony looked at her blankly. “What?”
Eloise gestured toward the open letter resting beside his blotter, the most recent one, folded open, edges softened by repeated handling.
“That,” she said. “That is Pen’s handwriting.”
Anthony followed her gaze.
The paper.
The ink.
The slanted, careful script.
His breath left him all at once.
“That’s not…” he began automatically. “It’s anonymous.”
Eloise gave him a look of withering disbelief. “Anthony, I have read Penelope Featherington’s handwriting since I was eleven years old. That is hers.”
The room tilted.
“No,” he said, more to himself than to her. “That… she wouldn’t…”
Eloise stepped closer now, peering at the page. “She always indents slightly more than necessary. And see how the letters lean? As though they are apologizing for existing.” Her voice softened. “She cannot help herself.”
Anthony felt something inside him tear open.
The words from every letter he had received surged back at once, quiet observations, careful self-effacement, gentleness edged with wit, the relentless insistence that she was lesser than she was.
Penelope.
Of course it was Penelope.
The girl who lingered at the edges of rooms.
The woman who saw everything and demanded nothing.
The friend who apologized for taking up space.
The girl who had once seen his soulmark and learned, silently, to love him alone.
Oh God.
He pressed a hand to the desk as the full weight of it crashed over him.
Her reluctance.
Her fear.
Her insistence that she would disappoint him.
Her belief that it would be kinder never to be known.
It was all suddenly, painfully clear.
“She heard me,” he whispered.
Eloise looked at him sharply. “Heard you?”
Anthony barely registered her presence now. “I said… I said I did not care for my soulmate. That I would choose practicality over fate. She must have heard me.”
His chest tightened unbearably.
“And she believed me.”
Eloise sank into the nearest chair. “Anthony… Pen would take that to heart. She would assume…”
“That she was unworthy,” he finished hoarsely. “That loving me was a burden. That I would regret knowing her.”
His hands shook.
He thought of every letter, every time she stepped back when he leaned forward, every time she offered him distance when he sought closeness, every time she made herself smaller even as she gave him everything.
“She was protecting me,” he said. “From herself.”
Eloise’s eyes filled. “She’s been doing that her entire life.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
He saw her now, not as an abstraction, not as a voice on paper, but as Penelope Featherington: curled into herself on the edge of a sofa, watching rather than joining, loving fiercely and quietly and without hope of return.
And he had fallen in love with her anyway.
Not despite who she was.
Because of it.
“I have been courting her,” he said faintly.
Eloise let out a broken laugh. “Of course you have.”
Anthony opened his eyes, resolve blazing through the shock and guilt and awe.
“No more,” he said.
Eloise straightened. “No more… letters?”
“No more hiding,” he corrected. “No more letting her believe she must remain unseen to be loved.”
He looked at the letter again, her letter, and this time it did not feel fragile.
It felt precious.
“I am going to her,” he said.
Eloise rose at once. “Now?”
“Yes.”
She smiled through her tears. “Good. I should like to see the look on her face.”
Anthony paused, something softer threading through his urgency.
“She loved me when I gave her no reason to,” he said quietly. “I will spend the rest of my life proving her wrong about herself.”
Eloise reached for the doorknob, then glanced back.
“You know,” she said lightly, “I always thought you needed someone who could see past your title.”
Anthony smiled, truly smiled for the first time in weeks.
“It seems,” he said, “that I already found her.”
Anthony Bridgerton did not bother with propriety.
He did not announce himself. He did not pause to consider how it might appear for a Viscount to stride across Featherington House grounds with barely restrained urgency in every step. He walked as though something vital were pulling him forward, something he had nearly lost and could not bear to misplace again.
He found her in the garden.
Penelope stood near the far hedge, half-hidden by late summer blooms, her back turned as she examined a rose that had bent too low beneath its own weight. She was alone. Unguarded. Just Penelope, as she always was when she believed herself unseen.
Anthony stopped.
For one suspended heartbeat, he simply looked at her.
The curve of her shoulders. The familiar fall of her hair. The quiet way she held herself, as though she had learned long ago not to ask too much of the world.
And he loved her.
Not as revelation.
Not as fate.
But as truth.
Something in her must have sensed him then, for she turned.
The moment her eyes met his, her face went utterly still.
Understanding dawned instantly, swift and devastating. She did not ask how. She did not pretend. Her lips parted, her breath catching sharply as color drained from her face.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Anthony took one step closer.
Penelope’s eyes filled with tears at once.
“I am so sorry,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out as though she had been holding them back for years. “I never meant for you to know… I only wanted… please believe me, I never wished to deceive you, or to cause you distress…”
“Penelope.”
She shook her head, tears slipping free now. “I know I should not have written, and I know it was selfish, and if I have embarrassed you or burdened you in any way I will…”
“Penelope,” he said again, more firmly.
She did not stop.
“I never expected anything, truly, and I swear I would have gone on loving you quietly forever if that is what you wished…”
Anthony crossed the remaining distance between them and caught her hands in his.
“Enough.”
The word was not harsh.
It was reverent.
Penelope froze, her fingers trembling in his grasp.
“Do not apologize,” he said, his voice low and unwavering. “Not now. Not ever. Not for loving me. Not for writing. Not for being who you are.”
Her breath hitched.
“You have spent years,” he continued, “making yourself smaller so that others might be comfortable. You will not do that with me.”
She shook her head faintly. “You do not understand…”
“I understand everything,” he said fiercely. “I understand that you heard me speak foolishly and believed me. I understand that you carried that wound alone. I understand that you loved me when I had done nothing to deserve it.”
His grip softened, thumbs brushing over her knuckles.
“And I understand,” he said more quietly, “that your words saved me.”
Penelope stared at him, tears clinging to her lashes.
“My letters,” she whispered. “They were only words.”
“They were everything,” Anthony said without hesitation. “They gave me clarity when I was lost. They gave me gentleness when I had armored myself against it. They reminded me that love is not a liability.”
He lifted one hand, hesitating only a moment before brushing his thumb along her cheek, wiping away a tear.
“You are beautiful,” he said, each word deliberate. “Not despite your quiet. Because of it. Because you see. Because you feel. Because you love with a depth that humbles me.”
She shook her head again, a broken sound escaping her. “You say that now, but when you look at me, truly look at me, you will see that I am not what you imagined.”
Anthony’s expression softened into something achingly tender.
“I imagined a woman who could undo me with ink and paper alone,” he said. “I imagined someone kind, and clever, and brave enough to love without certainty. And now that I see you, now that I know, I cannot fathom how you ever believed I might be disappointed.”
He leaned closer, resting his forehead briefly against hers.
“I love you, Penelope Featherington,” he said. “I have loved you for weeks without knowing your name. I will love you for the rest of my life knowing it.”
Her breath left her in a shudder.
“I…” She swallowed. “I want to believe you.”
“Then let me show you.”
He did not give her time to doubt herself again.
Anthony kissed her.
Not carefully.
Not tentatively.
But with all the restraint he had exercised for years finally abandoned. His hand curved at the back of her head, drawing her closer as though the space between them had always been a mistake. The kiss was deep, sure, and unmistakably full of love, of relief, of recognition, of longing finally answered.
Penelope gasped softly against his lips.
Then she melted into him.
Her hands clutched at his coat as though she feared he might disappear, and when he deepened the kiss, slowly, reverently, as though memorizing her, something inside her finally gave way.
This was not pity.
This was not obligation.
This was love.
When they parted, her forehead rested against his chest, her breath uneven.
“I believe you,” she whispered.
Anthony smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I intend to spend the rest of my days proving it.”
Anthony Bridgerton proposed as though it were the most natural conclusion in the world.
They had taken precisely one public promenade together, one careful circuit of Hyde Park, his arm offered and accepted, their steps measured and decorous. The ton noticed immediately, of course. They always did. Whispers followed them like silk hems brushing gravel.
Penelope felt them keenly.
Anthony did not seem to notice at all.
He spoke to her of inconsequential things, the weather, a new horse Benedict insisted upon purchasing, Eloise’s latest intellectual crusade, but his attention never wavered. Every so often his fingers tightened just slightly at her gloved hand, as though reassuring himself that she was real.
When the promenade concluded, he escorted her to the edge of the path, turned to her fully, and said, quite simply, “I should like to marry you.”
Penelope blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I love you,” he continued, entirely unperturbed. “We have been courting for months in all but name. We know one another’s minds, tempers, and hopes. We are soulmates.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “It would be exceedingly foolish to delay.”
Her breath caught.
Anthony seemed to realize, belatedly that most proposals did not unfold in this manner.
“I can kneel,” he added thoughtfully. “If you wish.”
She laughed then, a soft, startled sound that seemed to surprise them both. “Anthony…”
“Say yes,” he said gently, not as command but as a plea. “Let us stop pretending this is anything but inevitable.”
She did.
The engagement was announced within the week.
If Penelope had once loved Anthony quietly and from afar, she loved him now in a thousand small, astonishing moments.
In the way he sought her out in crowded rooms.
In the way he listened, truly listened when she spoke.
In the way he never allowed her to retreat into the shadows, but neither did he force her into light she was not ready to occupy.
Their bond deepened quickly, as though it had been waiting for permission.
They spoke often of their letters, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with reverence. Anthony confessed that he still kept them all, tied neatly with ribbon, and Penelope admitted, blushing furiously that she could recite entire passages from memory.
“You are dangerous with a pen,” he told her once, voice low and warm. “I should have been warned.”
“You were,” she replied. “You simply did not listen.”
He laughed, then leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers in a manner that made her heart stutter. “I am listening now.”
But there was one thing, one small, tantalizing truth that hovered unspoken between them.
Anthony had always known where his soulmark lay: the small bumblebee over his heart, inked into his skin as though it had always belonged there. Penelope had seen it years ago, by accident, and the knowledge had altered the course of her life.
He had not known until recently that she bore one too.
The Featherington garden was quiet in the late afternoon, the sort of quiet that felt earned rather than empty. Bees drifted lazily among the flowers, the hedges standing tall and conspiratorial around the secluded bench tucked well away from the house.
Anthony had backed Penelope against it without quite meaning to.
Or perhaps he had meant to all along.
Her hands were curled into the lapels of his coat, her mouth warm and familiar beneath his, the kiss unhurried but deep, every bit the kiss of a man who had waited far too long and no longer wished to pretend otherwise. When they parted, it was only to breathe, foreheads resting together, both smiling faintly.
“You are enjoying yourself,” Penelope murmured.
Anthony brushed his nose against hers. “Immensely.”
She laughed softly, and he stole another kiss, shorter this time, teasing.
“May I ask you something?” he said, his voice low, lips grazing her cheek.
She hummed, already distracted. “You may.”
His hand slid to her waist, fingers firm, possessive in a way that made her pulse flutter. “Where is your mark?”
She stilled, just for a heartbeat then smiled.
“Oh,” she said lightly. “That.”
His eyes sharpened. “That.”
She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I am not certain I should say.”
Anthony leaned back slightly, just enough to look at her properly. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” she echoed.
A slow, dangerous grin curved his mouth. “I see. Very well.” He traced a lazy line along her arm. “Allow me to guess.”
Her brows lifted. “You may try.”
“Somewhere inconvenient,” he said thoughtfully. “Somewhere you have been forced to keep hidden all these years.”
Her breath hitched despite herself.
“Somewhere,” he continued, voice dropping, “I would very much like to kiss.”
She swallowed. “Anthony.”
“Yes?”
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Inner left thigh.”
Anthony went utterly still.
If she had not been holding him, she suspected he might have staggered.
He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for the briefest moment as though steadying himself against the knowledge. When he opened them again, they were dark with unmistakable want.
“Penelope,” he said hoarsely, “you cannot possibly expect me to remain composed after saying such a thing.”
She smiled, shy but bold all at once. “I did not expect it.”
His hand tightened at her waist. “You are aware,” he said carefully, “that this information is tormenting.”
“Is it?” she asked innocently.
“Yes,” he replied at once. “Exquisitely so.”
She laughed, and he kissed her again, slower now, deeper, as though pouring everything he could not yet do into the press of his mouth against hers. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“May I see it?” he asked softly.
Her heart leapt. “Anthony…”
“I am not asking for anything improper,” he said, though the glint in his eye suggested he was thinking several things entirely improper. “Merely confirmation. A glimpse. I should like to know the shape of my fate.”
She hesitated, then nodded once.
His breath left him in a rush.
She turned slightly, lifting the hem of her gown just enough for him to get a glimpse. Nothing more. Nothing scandalous.
But it was enough.
Anthony’s world narrowed to that single, intimate truth, the small bumblebee, inked into her skin, real and perfect and his.
He did not touch.
He simply looked.
When she lowered her skirt again, he was still staring at her as though she had undone him completely.
“Well,” she said softly, attempting levity. “You have seen it.”
“Yes,” he said reverently. “And I shall never be the same.”
She laughed, and he pulled her back into his arms at once, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then deliberately restrained, her lips.
“You are a menace,” he murmured against her mouth.
She smiled. “You adore me.”
“With alarming intensity,” he agreed.
And as they kissed again beneath the quiet hum of the garden, both of them knew:
Fate had always known exactly what it was doing.