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The glow of the candles flickers warm and yellow from under the white bedsheets; it's a comforting, familiar glow that reminds Colin of childhood. He thinks of the times spent hiding under sheets in the darkness of eve, reading books tucked under his shirt, snuck from the library at Aubrey Hall during his recesses from Eton. It's not very bright, but it is warm enough to cast a glow for seeing, yet soft enough not to disturb the peace of darkness.
Together with his wife—wife!—in their marital bed, the sheet billows over the two of them as a makeshift fort. He adjusts his eyes to the soft glow of lit darkness to make out the shape of his Aphrodite to his side.
His eyes wander up her delicate feet, up the swell of her thighs, fixing on the bruises left by his own fingertips.
It was interesting, he thought, the feral need to claim Penelope's body and mark her as his own. Maybe it's due to the baseless nature of manhood, something Colin never felt a calling to, never thought that it appealed to his sense of self. But there is something about it, purpling marks done by his own hand in a fit of passion, that compels him to linger on them, to desire leaving more.
His eyes travel to the apex of her thighs, smirking. Only he had the key to unlock her most private of places, and she opened her gates to him willingly. Honestly, the key was mostly decorative since she kept the door unlocked for him anyway.
Then there is the curve from her rounded hips into the dip of her waist, the swell of her lower belly in a slope, curved perfectly for his hand to hold.
And her breasts.
He is a gentleman, but none of his thoughts about Penelope's breasts were—nor have they ever been—gentlemanly.
He loves all that surrounds her breasts, too. How soft her arms are, in stark contrast to the sharpness of her clavicle.
The short line of her neck, the softness of her chin, the fullness of her face, and the blue of her eyes.
It's funny; he's never seen himself more clearly than when he saw himself in her eyes. She sees his failures, and she sees his strengths. But most importantly, she sees him in his entirety, a feat that so few have.
Her blues meet his own, two shores coming to tide, and he realizes Penelope has been taking stock of him as well.
Reflexively, he flexes. He knows Penelope loves him, loves his form, but still, thoughts linger in the back of his mind of times when he was called 'too soft' and 'jollocks'. The sting of those cuts bit long after the wound healed.
"When did you get this?" Penelope whispers, tracing the raised skin on his left shoulder.
He reaches for her hand, pressing it gently against his scarred skin and holding it there.
"When I was a boy, perhaps eight or nine, I was desperate to be part of Anthony and Benedict's boys' club."
Penelope nods, squeezing his fingers before guiding his hand from his shoulder to her lips.
"But I did not wish to be included merely for the sake of inclusion, you know? I wanted them to desire my company. So I did everything in my power to make them see me as one of them. I practised my advance and retreat footwork with a stick for a foil. I read books far beyond my capabilities, simply because I heard my brothers speak of them. And this"—Colin's hand drifts to his scar—"this was the result of my attempt to discover the best place from which to leap into the pond at Aubrey Hall. I was foolish, very foolish—"
"So nothing has changed," Penelope giggles.
"Hush, you. I was very foolish. I ran ahead of my brothers, giving no thought to the dip in the ground or the overgrown roots. I tripped—over my own feet or the roots, I cannot say—and landed hard upon my back, directly on a sharp, jagged stone that drove itself into my skin."
Penelope gasps. "Colin," she murmurs, her tone full of sympathy.
Taking her hand again, he presses a kiss to the tips of her fingers. "I appreciate the care, love, but I am well."
"I do understand that desire," Penelope said, shifting upon the pillows until she lay partly on her side, facing him. "To wish to break into the tight little bond of elder siblings." A wistful sigh escaped her. "I so desperately wanted my sisters to invite me into their private world, and it stung when they turned about and made jokes at my expense."
"They ought never to have treated you so." Colin's brow folds into a frown.
Penelope lifts her hand and smooths the lines from his forehead with the pad of her thumb, as though she might press the displeasure away. "They ought not," she agrees softly. "But I cannot claim I do not understand. I am five years younger than Prudence, and her presentation was delayed three times, merely so I might be of a suitable age for my parents to present the three of us together. It was to save money, which we certainly lacked, and I can comprehend her resentment now. Would I have preferred not to stand at the receiving end of it? Of course. But with age, one's view alters. And the three of us are in a far better place now, despite everything."
"Good things come with age, do they?" Colin murmurs, his tone lightly teasing as his hand travels idly along the curve of her waist. He seems to delight in the small way she arches into the faint scrape of his nails.
"I suppose," she snorts. "Though my mama made me fear age for quite some time."
His hand stills. "What do you mean?"
"She told us that with age, our future husbands might seek out…pleasures…elsewhere, to make up for what we lack. That it was our responsibility to remain desirable, to ensure they stayed sufficiently committed long enough to secure our place as mistress of the home."
Colin blanches. "That's horrible."
She lifts one shoulder, letting it fall again as her fingers trace a languid path down the planes of his torso. "Perhaps. But I understand what she attempted to do—she wished us to temper our expectations, to guard our feelings against disappointment."
"For my part," Colin pulls back slightly to look fully into her face, "You must know that I shall never seek out another woman. I hold no favor for anyone who is not you."
She gives him a look—a pitying smile, eyes squinting as if she already knows otherwise. "I would not blame you if you—"
"No, Penelope." He takes her hand and presses it to his chest so she can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. So she knows it beats for her and her alone. "No one else."
Her smile trembles. "Even when I am old and grey, when my skin sags and I am heavier and wider than I am now?"
"Especially then." His hand slips to the soft plane of her lower stomach. "Because I will know your body has been resilient. That the lines came from time and experience—from the babies we will make and the moments we will share. I shall love them because they are ours. I shall love them because you are mine."
A tear escapes, trickling down her cheek like a sliver of glass catching the light. "Are you quite sure?"
Colin inclines his head. "So as long as you will still love me when I grow soft in places that are now hard, grey where I am now brown, and lined where I am now smooth."
"I have loved every shape of you so far, and I see no world where I would ever stop."
Colin gathers her closer, drawing her fully into his side beneath their shared sheet—a small, secret refuge for just the two of them, a corner of the world untouched by the pains that come with existence. Lying on her side, one of Penelope's legs slots between his; her head rests on his chest, his arm banded warmly around her waist.
A comfortable hush descends, the sort of silence that seems to converse on their behalf in the faint space between their bodies and the sheet above.
"Do you ever wonder if we are the worst traits of our own parents?" Penelope whispers, her breath feathering against his skin.
"Yes," he answers without hesitation. "But I choose to believe we carry those traits rather differently than they do."
"How do you mean?"
"I feel, in so many ways, as though I am my mother's son," he says slowly. "I posses her sensitivity, her softness. A quality that may be revered in a lady which"—he worries his lower lip, the metallic tang of bitten skin on his tongue—"is not considered a desirable trait in a son."
"Colin, that is complete rot," she protests, lips curving into a pout.
He gives her a wry, knowing look. "Penelope, be honest."
"I am!" she huffs. "Your sensitivity is a tool of empathy. You employ pathos at every turn in ways that men of your station are incapable of. It is what makes you a writer."
"I have not yet published anything—"
"You, Colin Bridgerton," she says, punctuating each word with a firm prod to his chest, "are a stubborn man." She sighs. "But regardless, you are a talented writer."
"If you say so."
"I know so, love," she returns, and he can feel himself melting into her quiet certainty.
He presses a kiss to her forehead, to the tip of her nose, then to her lips, letting the last one linger.
She withdraws a fraction. "I am conniving like my mother."
"I know."
"And you are not ashamed of me?" She avoids his eyes, teeth worrying her thumbnail.
"Penelope," Colin says gently, tilting her chin until her eyes meet his, "I have never been and never will be ashamed of you. All I ask is that you are honest with me."
"…And make sure to include me in any schemes," he adds with a laugh.
Penelope sniffs, a sob-laced laugh spilling from her lips. "Of course. You are my husband."
"Say that again."
"You." She leans in and kisses him. "Are." He nudges her onto her back. "My." He follows her down, his mouth chasing hers when she tries to draw away, playful and insistent. "Husband."
Colin smiles into the kiss, parting her legs with his hand and making himself at home between them. Their hands travel in different directions. Whereas her hands slide down the trail of hair on his abdomen, grabbing at him, warm and heavy, his hand moves upwards, eager to hold the plush fullness of her bosom, to travel his mouth down her jaw, to her collarbone, and over the pink, pebbling nipples calling him back.
Her hand continues to work him up and down, and the hand unoccupied with her breasts searches for the sacred place between her legs, moving in tight tapping circles, the pressure of his fingers on her pearl moving in tandem with the movement of her hands.
They meet each other's eyes, but they say nothing. Words do not convey what their bodies need to say, pressing himself into her as she takes over for his hand.
The pace is leisurely, unhurried, and filled with easy desire. Colin's constant want for Penelope hums at a high level; it does not take much for him to get to where she wants to go.
Sweaty bodies against sweaty bodies, with a healthy musk intermingling as thunder cracks and each of their lines is crossed.
He rolls to his side, conscious enough not to crush her.
They breathe heavy and in tandem, easy and complete, still underneath the white bedsheet. Together, they are a mess, but a mess that can only exist together. She is a wonder. She is a miracle. She is his.
In this world of just the two of them, they are safe to be one. Even as the sun rises, even as the light of day fills the room, illuminating their world better than the candles that were dwindling as time went on.
"I love you," he says, as easy as he breathes.
"I love you too."