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Colin cannot believe that it’s his wedding night and this is what it has come to. All six foot two of him is squished onto the sofa and he’s forced to fuck his fist like a callow youth.
His bride is alone in their marital bed. He groans at the thought of her spread out in one of those skimpy silky things he’s overheard Daphne saying she’d ordered Penelope from Paris. He should be between Penelope’s thighs by now, hell, even her smaller, softer hand would feel like heaven- with its writing callous and his ring wrapped around her fourth finger. Colin curses under his breath and only just manages to avoid spilling himself on the upholstery.
He can feel his willpower fading, and he desperately needs to get it together, remind himself why he can’t go into the bedchamber and make love to his new wife the way he wants to, the way he’s been fantasising about for weeks. Colin tucks himself away and storms over to the unpacked trunks in the corner of the room, rummaging through them until he finds the papers he’s looking for.
Lady Whistledown’s pamphlets are well thumbed- the whole family, and he suspects the servants, dip in and out of them when they want to recall a partially interesting anecdote- but tonight Colin tears through them, combing for anything to justify his anger towards their author.
His search gets increasingly frantic, because there are many occasions on which Whistledown pokes fun at him and his foibles, but it’s not enough. He tries widening his search from himself to his family, but it is likewise fruitless. Whistledown is witty and irreverent, yes, but not cruel. Worse still, looking back at old articles Colin he can’t help noticing that what she had to say was inevitably proven true, even if he and the rest of the Ton weren’t ready to process it at the time.
Even the pamphlet in which Whistledown exposes Marina’s pregnancy fails to stoke Colin’s ire, as he can’t suppress a shudder at the thought of what his life would have been like had the author not saved him from an unhappy marriage.
It isn’t until he re-reads what Whistledown has to say about a certain redhead that Colin feels validated in his righteous indignation, because what she has to say about her is vile.
𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓟𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓹𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝓷𝓸 𝓷𝓸 𝔀𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓱 𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓼.
𝓡𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷 𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓮 𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓾𝓲𝓽, 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓼, 𝓵𝓮𝓯𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓯.
𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓟𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓹𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓷.
Colin feels his blood pressure rise at such insults directed against his wife, and then climb to new heights as he reminds himself that his new wife is the one who wrote those things about his new wife.
The bedroom door seems to open of of its own accord and Colin barges in. Penelope squeaks and pulls the covers up over herself at his sudden intrusion.
“How could you?” He manages, without preamble, thrusting the pages under her nose, finger stabbing at the offending passages.
She blinks at him, her nose scrunching in confusion in a way that would be endearing in different circumstances, and then sits up, training her eye on the sentences he’s pointing at. After a cursory look she tosses the pages dismissively to the side in a way that makes him see scarlet.
“I am a journalist of sorts, Colin. You may not appreciate it, but Whistledown reports the truth”.
“The tru- Penelope, none of this-“ he waves the pages around wildly- “is true”.
Penelope crosses her arms like he’s the one insulting her and not her alter ego. The gesture pushes up her full breasts and Colin averts his gaze before his dick can sidetrack him.
“It is true” she insists. “You just wish it weren’t so because I’m a Bridgerton now. The first Bridgerton to be two stone heavier than she ought to be”.
Colin can’t control himself. He balls up the pages and throws them into the fire.
“What do you mean ought to be?” He says, trying to keep his voice even.
“You’re spending our wedding night on the sofa”, she says bitterly. “You can’t even look at me Colin. Not just because of Whistledown-because I don’t look like the wife you imagined”.
“You don’t look like the wife I imagined” he croaks, all the fight gone out of him. “I never imagined someone so perfect agreeing to marry me… and I suppose I can’t handle the fact that my wife can’t see her own perfection… and that I can’t convince her of it”.
He reaches for the anchor of her hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the gold band he’s relived she hasn’t removed. “Can I show you though? That might work”.
Penelope gives the slightest dip of her chin in response, and Colin lifts her and divests her of the blankets in one move before she can change her mind.
He sits on the side of the bed, lowering her onto his lap, in view of the dressing mirror across from them.
To his delight, despite everything, she’s wearing Daphne’s wedding present, and is resplendent in revealing soft peach silk.
The sight and feel of her has him hard anew, and he deliberately presses himself against her warm yielding flesh. “Feel that?” He asks her reflection. “That’s what I feel when I look at my wife”.
He watches for her reaction. Her cheeks have pinkened, but her eyes still have vestiges of doubt in them, and Colin can’t have that.
“What was it Whistledown said?” He pretends to ponder, shooting Penelope a look when her mouth opens to automatically recall her writing.
“Well you do have a plump little backside”, he drawls, pausing to kiss her shoulder where the silk has slipped down. “It makes me want to pound into you”.
He’s rewarded by a gasp, but he doesn’t stop, he hasn’t said his piece yet.
“Citrus fruit doesn’t taste the same in England, but I’ll take you to Spain on our honeymoon. The best oranges grow there, you know?” He tilts her head to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Exquisitely sweet and sharp, just like my Penelope”.
“And then after our honeymoon-“ he kisses the side of her neck, and traces a circle over her soft tummy. “I hope you grow all round and ripe with our baby. Let’s start trying now”.