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Chapter Text

Colin began his first day back in Mayfair in high spirits. 

His family had been ecstatic to see him, as he had originally told them his boat would not dock until two days after Francesca’s presentation. There had been many hugs and cheers, and Colin had felt the lovely sense of warmth that always came over him upon returning home from his travels. Of course, because they had been about to depart, the greeting had been restricted to just the family. But that was alright.

Colin had felt absolutely marvelous, welcomed back by all after so long away. He had felt quite sharp in his green cravat, and the women of the ton did not disagree - he did not think he had ever enjoyed the attentions of many young ladies!

And yet.

And yet while Colin would not deny that he enjoyed the smiles of the debutantes - he had become quite accustomed to the act of charming on his travels, and he was finally living up to it, fulfilling the role that everyone had asked of him and doing it well - something about the afternoon did not feel right at all. Colin felt himself longing for the missing piece, eyes fluttering between the smiling faces of his admirers, searching for a glimpse of bright yellow.

He did not find it.

When he finally spotted Penelope, it was thanks to her fiery hair, which was pinned up quite nicely. The dress was a shade he had not seen on her before, a pale green, so unlike the garish colors her mother would often dress her in – although he thought they suited her well, they managed to match the brightness of her inner self – and as Colin drew closer, he noticed that it was fitted differently as well, drawing attention to her… assets. 

She looked quite altered. And, Colin could not deny, quite lovely.

She was also alone, which struck Colin as odd - Eloise was around here somewhere, certainly they would be huddled in a corner together discussing the absurdity of the presentation. Though Colin supposed, it was better for him to not have the ever-present barrier of his sister meddling in his reunion with Pen.

“Pen,” he called out as he approached. Up close, he noticed that the shade of her dress was not that dissimilar from his cravat. The thought pleased him. “It is good to see you.”

Yes, he confirmed. Quite lovely. Her hair was done up in a way that was new, but it framed her face nicely. And the dress fit so well, better than anything he had seen her wear previously. Colin considered, not for the first time, that Penelope was not just lovely, but in fact incredibly beautiful. Stunning, one could say.

“Is it?” She asked, removing Colin from his thoughts.

“Truly, it has felt like I have been absent years instead of months.”

Penelope nodded. “Much has certainly changed in that time.”

Colin felt himself blush, and was on the verge of telling Pen about how his new coat was all the rage in Paris – he was a man of the world, after all, but he would assure her that it was merely clothing – when their conversation was interrupted.

“Penny,” Colin heard, and turned to see a man he vaguely knew approaching. It took Colin a moment to place him – he had been abroad for several years studying, though their paths had rarely crossed – but then he remembered: Mr. Thomas Spencer. 

A fourth son, he had been famously avoiding London for many years, traipsing through Europe. Perhaps he had a reputation for being a bit of a rake, but Colin could not remember.

“Penny,” he said again, and Colin felt a strange feeling take over his chest at the utter bastardization of Pen’s Christian name. “I have been bereft of pleasant company all afternoon. Thank god I have found you.” Then, as if he had just noticed Colin. “Ah, Bridgerton. Good to see you have returned safely.”

Colin raised an eyebrow. Him and Spencer had known each other in passing, during off seasons, and once in France this past winter. He was a perfectly fine sort of fellow, congenial, though there was something about all of this that felt off .

“Mr. Spencer,” Pen said pointedly, and Colin would have been relieved for her reminder of propriety if she was not smiling as if it was a joke. “I was just telling Mr. Bridgerton how Mayfair has quite changed since his departure.”

Mr. Bridgerton.

Mr. Bridgerton.

Since when was he Mr. Bridgerton to Pen?

“Quite right,” Spencer agreed, smile on his face and not a care in the world. “But perhaps it is all for the better. I will remind you, I will be here for this upcoming season, so I rather think that will make it a much more enjoyable affair for all around.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, though Colin noticed she smiled throughout, almost as if with affection .

“How lucky we are,” she said. “To be blessed with your presence.”

He felt something cold settle in his stomach. He wondered, perhaps, if Spencer was courting her. That was possible, of course – Penelope was beautiful, and it should be no surprise that she, like every young lady of the ton , would hope to be settled with a husband. 

Suddenly, his stupid green cravat felt too tight.

“Well Penny, it is as I have told you so many times before: my presence is a present.”

Many times. Many times. What counted as many times?

And why – why was Penelope not scandalized? She seemed to find his comments silly, but otherwise appeared undisturbed. As though she had heard them many times before.

Good lord.

“Well, Bridgerton – as lovely as it has been to see you, I am quite parched. Penny, would you allow me to escort you to the drinks table for a glass of lemonade?”

“A lemonade sounds lovely, I must say.” Penelope smiled, and it was then that Colin noticed something he had not seen before, something that shook him rather deeply to his core. It was not affection, exactly, not what he would expect from a young lady being courted, but it was somehow so much worse.

It was familiarity.

A cold feeling settled deep within Colin’s stomach. Desperate for her to stay – they had barely spoken and he had been gone for months – Colin could not help but bring up his first thought, a plea for conversation.

“Am I – am I mistaken, or is Eloise walking arm-in-arm with Cressida Cowper?” He flashed her his most charming smile, and for a moment, he imagined things would be the same as they always were. She would sidle up to him and tell him some quip he never could have expected. Would make him feel seen in ways he could not imagine.

This did not happen. Instead, Penelope stared at him briefly, and there was something in this look he had not seen before. Or, more so, it was what was not there. No astonishment. No affection.

“As you said,” she replied, moving to take her leave of him. “Sometimes time moves rather quickly.”

And with that, she was gone, floating towards the drinks table with Spencer. Away from Colin.

He swallowed. Much had changed, indeed.

In the days that followed, Colin found himself returning to his interaction with Pen again and again. He thought of it when he slept and woke, as he proudly gifted his family with special toys. He thought of it as Eloise brushed him off when he asked about the nature of their apparent falling out (“We’ve simply grown apart” – what on earth did that mean?) and when his brothers congratulated him on his many new admirers.

He could not make heads or tails of it. This new man, appearing out of nowhere, with nicknames and jokes. Acting as though he knew Pen.

He did some inquiring into Spencer, asking about him at the clubs, though nothing came up that was particularly interesting. He had decided to spend the season in Mayfair for the first time, and while he apparently had told the men at White’s that he did not seek a wife, his new lodgings seemed to tell a different story. 

“It is not so odd,” Benedict had replied calmly when Colin had brought it up to him, a simple question. Pen has been talking to a Mr. Spencer. Have you noticed while I was gone? “He is probably just courting her.”

“They did not interact like they were engaging in a courtship,” Colin responded, trying to remember to keep the ease he had taken on during his travels. “It was…” Familiar. Friendly. Terrible. “Different.”

Benedict shrugged. “Then perhaps they are friends. Not unlike the two of you.”

This did not make Colin feel any better.

The thought had occurred to him, though somehow that felt just as uncomfortable. He did not want Spencer to be courting Pen, despite the fact that he seemed like a perfectly good sort of fellow, the kind that he would not mind courting his own sister – but he was clearly not right for Pen and that was that.

But friendship… that seemed improbable and strange. He was friends with Penelope. She was special to him, and what they had was unique. It was not something that could be replaced.

Or, well. He had thought as much.

He pondered on their familiarity throughout the week, up until Lady Danbury’s ball. He spent his night chatting with Fife and Cho, wowing them with tales of his travels while doing his best not to stare at Penelope. She had entered in a dramatic green dress, completely charming, and had spent a good portion of the evening either against the walls or talking with Spencer. 

Interestingly enough, Spencer had not taken Pen to the floor, though he had danced with several other eligible young ladies. At one point, whilst Spencer was on the dance floor clearly flirting with his debutante of choice, Colin looked back at Penelope, wondering if he would detect the tell-tell signs of jealousy on her face. But he had see no such thing, and instead found her happily engaged in conversation with Francesca, as though Spencer’s dance was of no concern to her.

Quite curious.

Colin, of course, would plan to ask her for a dance – she was always his favorite partner, and he would not give up the opportunity just because she maybe possibly probably did not have a new suitor. But the night had gone on, and he had lost track of Spencer. And then, quite suddenly, Penelope was rushing out of the ballroom. She did not look well.

The decision to follow her outside was simple. They had not had the opportunity to properly speak since his return, and in the midst of whatever was going on with Spencer, Colin still had much to talk with her about. She had not responded to a single one of his letters, and while he was sure there was a reasonable explanation, the unknown – combined with the way she had spoken to him at the presentation – had Colin rattled.

It is just as he had told her last season – Penelope was special to him. Whether she was being courted or not, he cared for her.

Only, as he stepped outside and felt the warm spring air, the sight he saw unnerved him. There was Penelope in her pretty green dress, and there… there was Spencer, having a smoke. Leaning against a pillar and smoking a cigarette. Handing Pen his cigarette.

Pen. Taking a drag.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

As he walked towards them, Colin told himself this was probably fine. He smoked ciggers himself from time to time, and he knew for a fact that Eloise had been sneaking them for years. It was not quite so odd, for a young lady to be caught in such an act. Not nearly scandalous enough to be reported in Whistledown, although doing so right outside the first ball of the season was decidedly unwise, something he knew Penelope not to be.

“Pen,” he called out as he approached, catching the attention of both Penelope and Spencer. While they had been speaking in hushed voices before, they quickly silenced themselves as Colin grew closer, which only managed to unnerve him more.

“Colin,” Penelope said simply when he arrived between them. They had each been standing against opposing pillars, passing the cigarette back and forth. “What are you doing here?” 

“I am just… getting some fresh air.”

Spencer snorted, and Colin immediately gave him a pointed look. No matter who this new man was in Penelope life’s, Colin had been her friend first. Spencer could, with all due respect, fuck off.

Thankfully, that is what he did. “I will go call the carriage,” he said simply, tossing the cigarette aside and crushing it with his foot before leaving them. Colin could not pretend he was not relieved to finally be alone, though he raised an eyebrow.

“A carriage, with Mr. Spencer,” he asked. “Do you not need a chaperone?”

“Spinsters do not need chaperones.”

Colin looked Penelope up and down. Her dress really was so charming, the color suited her quite well. He had been surprised that no one else had asked her for a dance. “You are not a spinster,” he said with a chuckle.

She did not find it funny. “I am in my third year on the marriage mart with no prospects to show for it. What would you call that?”

He could not help the way he blanched, so taken aback by her words. He had never heard Pen speak this way, so resolute. What was more, while the words sounded angry, that was not the tone Penelope had struck. She seemed… frustrated, yes, but even more than that: she seemed bored.

Colin attempted a different tactic. “Did something… did something happen inside?”

Penelope rolled her eyes, and it was so unlike her. “Cressida Cowper decided it would be a lark to ruin my dress. Not a particularly original idea, I might say, as she has done it before.”

Colin’s memory flashed back to a different ball, a younger Penelope: pretty in pink, flushing at his very presence. The way that he had come to her rescue, and how the good feelings it had created had stayed with him all evening. He wished he had been with her tonight, that he could have repeated the act.

“Cressida is a cow,” he said.

“Or perhaps a bitch,” Penelope offered, and Colin could not help the bark of laughter that escaped his lips at her crass words. He had never heard Pen speak in such a manner. 

She was really just… utterly lovely. Lively and funny and so beautiful. How lucky he was, to have a friend like her.

Only. “Well,” she said. “I must go find Mr. Spencer. I believe he has found us a carriage.”

Colin felt himself panic. This was the first moment where he had been alone with Pen all week, and he somehow knew – he could not let her go without asking the question that had been on mind since his return. While he was desperately curious as to what was going on with Spencer, another question had lingered more prominently, and Colin worried that if he did not ask it now, he would never again find the courage. 

“Is something wrong, Pen,” he found himself almost choking out. “Between us, I mean?”

Pen blinked at him. Colin barrelled on.

“I wrote to you, this summer, as I always do. And, well… you did not respond.” He felt like a child admitting it, setting free the feelings of insecurity that had plagued him throughout his travels. Penelope’s letters had been a great source of pleasure for him on his last tour, and their absence had been sorely felt. “Admittedly, very few did. But… if you are going to make me say it out loud… I miss you.”

It was a strange thing, Colin thought, to be so vulnerable. But of course, with Pen, it felt natural. He had missed her quite a lot on his travels – missed not just her questions and the way she lifted his spirits, or the news of Mayfair and his family, but how she would tell it. Penelope had a way with words that he could not deny, and now that he had spent a year without it, he could not pretend that their correspondence had not been a highlight of his first tour. And it felt good, to tell her of this. To be open with someone he trusted so dearly.

But Pen was not smiling. She was not staring at him in the way she had last year, when she had shared her dreams of a purpose at Anthony’s failed nuptials. Rather, she was looking at him in quite the same way she had since ever his return.

Unimpressed. Unbothered. Uninterested.

When she spoke, it was not to tell Colin that she had missed him as well. “You miss me?” she asked, and even as Colin nodded, he knew no good would come of it. “You miss me but you would never court me, is that correct?” she asked again, this time with a pointed eyebrow?

Colin felt his face fall. “Pen, I–” 

“I overheard you, at my Mama’s ball last season,” she explained clearly. “Telling everyone how you would never, ever court Penelope Featherington.”

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

Suddenly, the memories came back to him like in a nightmare, murky and grey. He remembered being in his cups, remembered how he had felt on a high. He had rescued good, precious, perfect Penelope from the clutches of Lord Featherington’s awful scheme. He remembered feeling like he could do anything, a lightness to his every move.

And Fife had caught on, the bastard, and had started pestering him, asking him if he was courting her. And well, he was not. He was not courting Penelope and he did not plan to, but their friendship – the special bond they shared, the way she was perhaps the best person he had ever met – it was not something the men would understand. At that point, Colin had not yet indulged in the brothels, but he knew how those men saw women: a bride or a whore, someone to marry and abandon or someone to fuck. 

Colin had not wanted Penelope’s name on their lips.

So he had deflected, made it clear that he was not courting Penelope and they should not either, the rakes. Penelope was sweet and innocent and so, so good. He did not want them even thinking of her.

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies.

Colin shook his head at the memory. It was badly done, he could admit. And as he stared into the eyes of an unimpressed Penelope, he knew she had felt it.

“Pen…”

Penelope put a hand up to stop him from speaking. “I do not recall I had ever asked you to court me, Mr. Bridgerton. And while your comments were not surprising – of course you, the most eligible bachelors in all of Mayfair, would never court the laughing stock of the ton – I must say I had never imagined that you of all people could be so cruel.”

At that, Penelope turned to leave, a casual huff in her step that Colin could swear had not been there last season. Colin began to feel his world collapse around him, her words reverberating in his head over and over. This was terrible, this was the absolute worst case scenario, this was– 

And she was leaving. With Spencer.

Instinctively, Colin found himself gripping her arm. The look she shot him was worse than anything she had given him while informing him of his past comments.

“I know you must be very angry with me– I am very angry with me, you must know. But I cannot… you cannot get into a carriage with an eligible bachelor without a chaperone. I cannot allow it.”

Penelope huffed, snatching her arm out of Colin’s grip. “I do not believe you have any say over what I do, Mr. Bridgerton. We would need to be friends for that to be the case.”

And with that, she was off, flurrying away from the ball into Spencer’s carriage. Colin wondered if, in the middle of it all, she had slapped him and he was still in shock. It felt like it could be the only explanation for the awful feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach.

They were no longer friends, she had said. He had betrayed her last season, and now they were no longer friends, and she was getting into carriages unchaperoned with strange (perfectly normal and eligible) men.

Had Colin stepped into an alternative world when he departed the ship? Was he living on a new planet, where up was down and right was left and Penelope Featherington was not his friend?

He heard their carriage start to depart, and when asked later, Colin did not think he would be able to explain his next move. Perhaps her words had sent him into temporary insanity. Perhaps Colin had always been insane, and this night had just brought it out.

Before he could think about it, Colin ran to the first carriage he could find, jumped in, and gave his directive to the driver.

“Follow that carriage.”

Perhaps, Colin thought as he slipped through the house, he had been drugged with more of the special tea.

It seemed like a reasonable explanation. Much more reasonable than Penelope getting in a carriage with Spencer, unchaperoned. More reasonable than said carriage not, as Colin had originally anticipated (and had considered as soon as he spoke the words to the driver, feeling like a madman), going to Featherington House, but insteading moving further, towards Bloomsbury. Being drugged would be infinitely more reasonable than the fact of Spencer and Penelope together, arm-in-arm, and discreetly, stepping out of the carriage and entering what he could only assume were Spencer’s lodgings through back.

This would explain why Colin was now sneaking through the servant’s entrance himself and covertly walking up the stairs.

He knew, deep within the recesses of his mind, that something was wrong. He must be drunk or high, or in the middle of a particularly awful nightmare. He should pinch himself or even return home: he was evidently too unwell to be fit for public eye.

But then, his mind would flash to Penelope. She had gotten in the carriage with Spencer, unchaperoned. She had entered the house. She was inside now, somewhere in this very building, and he must… he must protect her! He had promised, had he not, that he would always look after her? It did not matter that she was (rightfully) angry with him, that she clearly did not want much to do with him at the moment, and he could not blame her – his terrible words had kept flashing before his eyes on the carriage ride over, lodged deep in the pit of his stomach.

I must say I had never imagined that you of all people could be so cruel

He had hurt Pen dearly. He was the worst of men.

And yet, this did not mean he did not still care for her. He made a promise and he was a gentleman, was he not? And whatever was going on with Spencer was clearly wrong. He must investigate, his lack of lucidity be damned. He would do so much more, to protect her.

Spencer’s lodgings were plain, but not grand. Colin had ran into him in January in Paris, the longest they had ever spoken, and he had remembered the fellow saying he would likely be purchasing a home upon his return to Mayfair in a fortnight’s time. As Colin quietly slipped through, it was apparent that Spencer had not been here long, had not yet made himself comfortable. He was probably, Colin considered, waiting to take a wife so that he could select the decor to her tastes.

He imagined light pink wallpaper, adorned with little flowers like the ones Penelope would sometimes wear in her hair, and then had to shake his head furiously to remove the thought.

Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from down the hall. Stealthy, so as not to awake any possible staff, Colin moved closer. 

There was a strange… squeaking sound? Like a piece of furniture moving in rhythm. A sigh. Fabric shifting, rustling about. Colin was at the edge of the door.

And then a man, groaning.

Moaning.

Oh… god . Fuck.

Before he could think more, could wrap his head around any of it, Colin was throwing the door open and barging in. The many bright candles of the room were in stark contrast to the darkness of the hallway, and it took Colin half a second to adjust.

And then he saw what was perhaps the worst sight in the history of mankind.

Spencer, his shirt and breeches nowhere to be found, laying in the bed on top of Penelope. Fucking into Penelope.

Colin did not think he had ever reacted so quickly in his life.

An anger he was sure he was not capable of coursed throughout him, blinding. He threw himself at Spencer, grabbing him roughly by the hair and forcibly removing him from Penelope. He then decked him, hard, and Spencer hit the wall from the force of it.

“You fucking bastard,” he said as he moved towards him. 

He felt possessed, felt like he could kill a man. Felt like he would kill a man, this man, this man parading himself as a gentleman and then luring young ladies into this clutches, only to force himself on them like some sort of devil–

“Colin, fucking stop!”

Her cry – coming from her sweet lips, the lips that Spencer had been forcing his tongue between – broke Colin from his haze. When he turned to look at her, she was hastily wrapping a dressing gown around herself, and she looked terrified.

“Penelope, I am sorry– I am sorry that I did not stop you, did not insist that I escort you home, I am sorry–”

“Thomas,” she said quickly, ignoring Colin’s pleas. “Are you alright?”

Colin felt his eyes widen.

He had just happened upon this soulless creature praying upon Penelope. Defiling her in the worst of ways, stealing her virtue through violence. And Pen was… Pen was asking after him?

Oh god. What had he done to her?

Without a glance at Colin, she was moving towards Spencer, inspecting his face. There was a mark, but no blood, although Colin thought he would like to draw some – would like to beat his stupid face to a pulp. But she was beside him now, her hand in his hair.

What kind of madness had he encroached upon?

“I am so sorry,” she was saying to Spencer. Spencer! Her captor! How could she possibly be apologizing to him? As though Colin had done anything wrong. 

“What the fuck,” Colin found himself shouting, quite loudly. He was sure he must have woken up the staff, which was good. They must know. They must know that they cannot work for such a man, the kind of man who manipulates young ladies, who takes them back to his home only to have his wicked way with them.

Spencer and Penelope turned towards him, and then exchanged a look. Colin knew how he must have appeared to them – wide eyes, crazed, on the brink of madness. He felt mad.

It was Spencer who spoke first. “Mr. Brigerton,” he said calmly, acting as though he was still a gentleman when he clearly was not. “Allow me to explain–”

“I do not believe that an explanation is necessary.”

‘It is if you are going to insist on beating Thomas to his death,” Penelope bit out. She was standing beside Spencer with her hands on his hips, her hair fiery and unruly. He had never seen her look so unmade up, and if he wasn’t currently so filled with anger and confusion, he might think that she looked quite gorgeous.

Instead, he simmered with rage. “I do not know how you can expect me to do anything else! Not when I have caught this pathetic shell of a human being, this devil masquerading as a gentleman, ruining you in the worst way possible. Forcing himself upon you!”

He wanted to break something, desperately. Preferably Spencer, whose eyes were widening, who looked shell shocked. Saying the words aloud at all made him feel sick – made him forced to confront the awful situation he had happened upon, but he must, he must for Pen! She had be wronged and he would protect her, he was her protector above all else, he would–

“Thomas- Mr. Spencer has not… forced me at all,” she said, as though the idea was preposterous - no , offensive. The implication of it, of Penelope’s loyalty to this villain, made something dark curl inside Colin’s throat. 

“Your allegiance to a man who has harmed you worries me greatly.”

“Harm? Colin, he has never harmed me.” Penelope took a great breath, meeting Colin’s eyes as she spoke next. “He is my lover.”

Colin blinked.

No. That could not be right.

Lover. Lover. What?

He found himself in a kind of haze, an altered state. He noticed as Pen learned over towards Spencer’s ear, whispering, and then as the man in question left the room, leaving them be, but it was as though it happened outside himself. Like he was watching it in a play, like it wasn’t his real life.

There was no world in which this was his real life. This was a nightmare, just as he had earlier thought.

He pinched the inside of his hand. He did not awaken.

“I do not understand.”

He wondered if he had misheard. There was no possibility– he did not even know that Penelope knew that word. She was Penelope, a gently-bred lady. She was not… it did not make sense .

Penelope, for her part, was looking at him as though she was deeply unimpressed. It did not reassure him.

“We are lovers, Colin. I am sure that with your own wealth of experience, you can deduce what that means.”

God, what the fuck?  It was… it was true then. Not a slip of the tongue, not a miscommunication.

Penelope Featherington, the sweetest girl in all of Mayfair, had taken a lover. She had taken a lover in Thomas Spencer, of all fucking people.

Colin wondered where the closest chamber pot might be. He rather thought he was going to be ill.

He had known, of course, that something must be wrong with Pen. She had not responded to his letters and it had hurt - he could not deny the great pain it had brought him. He had thought that perhaps a relative had taken ill or that her mama had forced her to stop. She had told him earlier in the evening that it was because of his words last season, and he felt a shame he had never previously known in his entire three and twenty years. 

But things were worse than he had feared, worse than letters going unanswered. She had not simply been angry with him and decided to cut him out. She was clearly… not herself.

“This is… this is absolute lunacy, Pen! I cannot… I cannot fathom how this could possibly come to be, how you could have gotten caught up in a mess like this.”

“I do not see it as a mess,” she said simply, and Colin could tell her patience with him was growing quite thin, though he could not understand how she was so blasé. “I am a spinster, Colin – yes, I know you claim I am not, but you are wrong. It is not as though I need to save myself for a husband I will never have, and frankly, I do not want to. We are perfectly discreet and are taking the correct precautions so I do not become with child. It is all being handled appropriately.”

How could she be so… so flippant? Speaking of herself, as though her virtue did not matter. As though… as though just because she was in her third season without a prospect, her chances of marriage were done for. That it meant that she should just… take up with the first rake who had offered. It was baffling to Colin.

Her next words were spoken with much spirit. “We are not doing anything that I am certain you have not done with a whore.” Colin felt as though she had slapped him. “You are free to travel the world, lay with whoever you please. Sow your wild oats, I have heard it called. Whilst young ladies are forced to wait at home and be kept in the dark. It does not seem fair.”

At this, Colin groaned, not least because she was right . God, this was a nightmare. She was standing before him, explaining it all quite clearly. Making good points. Acting as though taking up a lover was simply the logistical next step for her life and not complete and utter insanity.

“I cannot believe Spencer,” he spoke, mostly to himself. “To compromise you, without even a proposal!”

“He did propose, Colin! I rejected him.”

Colin huffed, though he could not deny the small tingle of relief that rushed through him at the fact that they were not married. There was no way to explain it, but somehow the idea of it was worse: returning home from his travels to find Penelope married to a gentleman he barely knew. He shivered at the thought.

Except, just then, an even more vile thought moved to the front of mind: Spencer had touched Penelope!

Touched her as a husband would touch a wife, as a gentleman would touch a whore (oh god ). Perhaps had touched her in the way that he himself had touched the Contessa, and just the image made Colin feel sick. Sweet Penelope – the same Penelope who had spent years giggling with his sister, who had spoken of a purpose that would challenge her to be brave and witty and set her free. Who could discreetly throw around a barb like no other. Who had called Colin astonishing.

Spencer had defiled her.

Just the thought made his blood boil. 

Penelope said he had not forced her, and thank god for that, but that still did not excuse this abhorrent behavior. Taking advantage of an innocent and gently-bred young lady, one who likely had not known what any of it meant. Colin flashed back to years ago, when Eloise had not even known that a child could be conceived outside the bounds of marriage. He knew that Penelope and Eloise had shared everything and imagined them huddled together, trying to crack the code of babymaking. He very much doubted that Penelope would have known any further information.

Penelope, who was not even speaking with Eloise now. God, she was alone. Without their friendship, angry at Colin for his dastardly words. And Spencer had– Spencer had pounced, the fucking cad! He had found Penelope in a moment of vulnerability and had ruined her.

There was nothing for it. He must be destroyed.

“I will duel him,” Colin decided, suddenly quite determined. Penelope sputtered.

“What? On what grounds, Colin?”

“On your honor, Penelope,” Colin told her. “He has greatly mistreated you, and has not respected you as a gently bred lady. He must pay.”

Yes, Colin thought, this is what must be done. He would see to Spencer on the battlefield, ensure that he never laid a hand on Penelope again. Colin had never been a violent man, but he could not deny the satisfaction that rolled through his body at the thought. Benedict would be his second, of course, and Colin knew he would grumble but it would be worth it in the end, to stop Spencer, to make him pay–

“No!” Penelope shouted out, breaking Colin out of his thoughts. “You will do no such thing! You have no right.”

“No right?”

Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. “You are not my father. You are not my brother. You are not even a distant cousin. You have no right to get involved in my affairs, to challenge men to duels in the name of my honor.”

“I am your friend, Pen–”

“And as I told you, we are no longer friends!” Penelope huffed, and Colin felt a chill run through him. “Friends - honestly. You say we are friends, but you speak ill of me amongst other gentlemen, when you believe I will not hear. You enjoy having me as your friend when it is convenient, when you have tired of your pack of adoring ladies. As if our friendship isn’t entirely improper - as if your future wife would allow it.”

Colin felt frozen, though he wanted desperately to interrupt her. To tell her that he preferred her company above all others, that he would never marry someone who did not approve of his friendship with Penelope. But his tongue felt tied. 

“In the past, we have engaged in an inappropriate familiarity, I grant you, but it shall end now. Going forward, you ought to spend less time concerned with me and more with finding a perfect little wife to keep you happy. Or, perhaps just go back to your clubs and continue to fuck your whores,” she spat, and Colin flinched at such language coming from Penelope so naturally. “I do not care.”

Penelope moved to take her leave, and a sick kind of desperation started to overtake Colin, a feeling he found himself entirely unfamiliar with. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that she had spoken truthfully - he was not a relative, did not possess any kind of claim over her. Only that very notion itself tasted wrong in his mouth, and he needed to– he could not let her go. He had to ensure she saw reason before it is too late.

“Pen, you are not thinking clearly,” he said, doing his best to stay calm. “If Whistledown were to discover–”

And then, Penelope did the last thing Colin could have ever expected.

She laughed.

It was not a kind laugh, nothing like the sweet little giggles she used to throw his way like sweets, when he would tell a joke that would have the rest of his family grumbling and rolling their eyes. It had a mirth to it, an anger that Colin did not think he had ever seen Penelope use. Or perhaps, not before this season: it was not unlike the way she had laughed when he told her earlier that he had missed her on his travels.

She turned back to him fully, and the look she was giving him – half angry, half despondent – sent a chill down his spine.

“Colin,” she said. “I am Lady Whistledown.”

Chapter Text

Penelope did not think, pistol to her head, she would be able to explain how it happened. How she went from poor, pathetic, simpering wallflower Penelope Featherington – laughing stock of the ton, forever forgotten – to this:

Someone who did not care for the stuffy rules of the ton , so prudish and boring, and would not abide by them any longer. A girl who had had enough – with society, with the role she had been demanded to play without her permission. The kind of woman who carried on affairs whilst unmarried .

This was who Penelope was now.

It simply did not make sense. Even now that Penelope had become her, she could not actually believe it.

The off-season had been bad, worse than ever before. Prudence had managed to ensnare a Mr. Henry Dankworth into matrimony (who was exceptionally pretty and even more exceptionally dimwitted), which meant Mama spent all of winter planning the wedding, parading Prudence around happily and dragging Penelope with her every step of the way. Pru was as annoying and smug as ever, commenting again and again on how Penelope must stop eating, or else you will not be able to fit into your dress and embarrass me! It was dreadful.

It might not have been so terrible, if Penelope had had a friend, someone to confide in. But Eloise had been clear in her feelings, and Penelope did not dare cross them after their argument at the end of the previous season. They were no longer anything to each other. 

Pen sent her a single letter whilst Eloise was staying at Aubrey Hall in the country, apologizing again for her actions. The letter had, as expected, gone unanswered. 

Perhaps just as terrible was Colin, who despite his awful comments at the end of the summer, would not stop writing to her. Lengthy letters filled with tales of his adventures abroad, gallivanting across the continent without a care in the world. She could not understand it, how he could be so utterly cruel and yet imagine nothing had changed at all. 

The only conclusion Penelope could find was that for him, nothing had changed. He had always found her undesirable, something to be laughed at. He would belittle her behind her back – in her very own home – and then turn around and act the gentleman, letting her fawn all over him.

The thought somehow made her both furious and ashamed.

She wanted to wring her own neck, tell the Penelope of seasons past that he was not worth it! He was handsome and charming, but he did not care for her, not in the way he pretended to. He only paid attention to her out of a desire to boost his own ego. That was no friend.

He wrote to her for months, each letter filling her with utter rage. She knew what he expected to receive in return: pages congratulating him on his travels, telling him over and over again that he was astonishing , a grand man, traveling about like some aimless child. 

What was actually worse was that, embarrassingly, she so desperately wanted to tell him as such: when she read his first letter detailing his initial stop in Rome, she had been on the edge of her seat. She had been so impressed, so eager to know more, that she decided from that moment forward she would no longer read any of his correspondence. She could not risk the possibility (probability) of her wanting to reply. 

She let the pile of his letters grow higher and higher under her bed, waited as the time between letters grew longer, until he apparently realized he would not be receiving any response and then finally stopped. The day Penelope accepted that he would not be writing to her again, she wept in her bed for hours, until Mama yelled that she must come downstairs for her fitting. 

Eloise had discarded her and she had then discarded Colin. It was official: the Bridgertons would be in her life no longer.

That winter, the loneliness became unbearable, a constant ache she could not relieve. It was with her through Christmas and New Years, with her as she blankly clapped when Prudence became Mrs. Dankworth. She read books and got bored. She tried to focus on Whistledown and what she would write this upcoming season, but it could not be stopped. It was a hole in her very soul.

By March, she was worn down, a shell of her former self. When Genevieve, who had been gone for the last several months in Paris, saw her for their first meeting, she was taken aback.

“Penelope!” she had cooed, concerned. “You look terrible.”

She could only raise an eyebrow. “Thank you so much,” she deadpanned.

Gen ignored her snark. “I mean it, you look positively depressed. Not your looks , of course, but the off-season has not been kind to you. I dare say you have not been kind to yourself.”

Penelope had shrugged. She was not sure if she even deserved kindness after what she had written about Eloise, least of all from herself. “It has not been a particularly enjoyable couple months, no. My sister is a tyrant, my mother has given up any dream of me marrying, and I am destined to become a spinster. I have no more friends and no hope of ever escaping. I daresay I have a lot to be upset about.”

She knew she sounded petulant and bitter, but the winter had been long. And maybe this was who Penelope really was: a pathetic, bitter wallflower.

Gen looked skeptical. “So it is like I said: you are depressed.”

“Yes, Gen. I suppose I am depressed. With good reason, I might add.”

“Hmm,” was all Gen had hummed, as she took a pin to a mannequin. She looked at Penelope for a long moment, and even now, months later, Pen could not guess as to why she did it. How with just one encounter, Gen had known that this was what she needed – what she was ready for, what would set her free. With just a few words, Gen had opened up Penelope’s entire life.

“Miss Penelope,” she said casually. “Would you like to come to a party?”

It was not like any party Penelope had ever seen.

“You must tell no one you are a lady,” Gen had instructed her before, as they sat in the hired hack. Penelope was dressed in a simple blue dress that Gen had provided for her, hair down save for a few hastily added pins. She had met Gen by her shop before they made their escape, and as they rode out, Penelope could tell they were heading far from Mayfair.

“Where are we going?”

Gen had only smiled. “Somewhere wonderful.”

It was wonderful, like something out of a French novel. Like a ball without any of the rules, none of the frills. Like the kind of party gently-bred young ladies were not allowed to attend.

The music was loud, so much louder than she was used to. Men and women were dancing, but not in any way she had seen before. They were holding each other closely, occasionally exchanging kisses. There were drinks every which way – Penelope was handed a glass of champagne upon her entrance, and she quickly gathered that no one would stop her if she wanted more. This was not, she could tell quite quickly, the kind of party that any respectable member of the ton would ever be caught dead at. The thought excited her greatly. 

She finished her glass and then had another, and when she turned around, she noticed Gen had made her way to the corner, was kissing the most handsome man Penelope had ever laid eyes on (almost , she thought and then chided herself because she was done thinking of him), and it occurred to Penelope that beyond the glittering lights and drinks, there was a darkness to this kind of gathering. This was exactly the kind of place where she could make a very big mistake.

She took another large sip. She continued to wander. 

When she spotted him, it took Penelope a moment to recall where they had met. There were so many different faces, and she really was finishing her drink quite quickly (perhaps she should switch to bourbon next? She had never tried it, but didn't the gentleman drink it slower?), and she had only seen him once, at a dinner party not even a fortnight earlier. Mr. Thomas Spencer, the fourth son of the elderly Earl of Spencer. He had studied in France, if she remembered correctly, and then had travelled abroad just as Colin did. (Stop, Penelope - stop it stop it stop it! )

At the dinner, she had not found him to be particularly interesting – charming but boring. He had not conversed with her, of course, because she had been too busy being silent in the corner – but the young lady he had spoken with (Miss Malhotra? Or was it Miss Hallewell?) had seemed pleased with him, if not overly impressed. He was a handsome but unremarkable gentleman, in the way that there were many handsome but unremarkable gentlemen.

Only now…

She could not say what compelled her to go to him – except for the now three glasses of champagne she had finished, that actually explained it quite clearly – but the look he gave her when he spotted her, the girl he had met not a few weeks prior who he most certainly should remember the name of but clearly did not, was priceless. 

As was the way he choked on his drink.

“Oh my god,” he slipped out.

She smiled. Penelope did not think she had ever made a man look like a fool before. She rather enjoyed it. “Good evening, Mr. Spencer.”

“Good– good evening! It is a… a pleasure to see you again Miss…” His face made a panicked look then, and after a moment, Penelope took pity on him.

“Featherington,” she said, reaching for another glass on a nearby table. “Penelope, the sister of the girl who recently married Mr. Dankworth. I was the one in the atrocious yellow dress.”

His eyes went wide with recognition, as if he could not believe that of every woman in the ton , this was who he happened to see attending such a party. Penelope could not help the laugh that escaped her lips at his complete inability to conduct a normal conversation. She was on her fourth (was it fifth?) glass of champagne and she was doing spectacular, better than she ever had at some stuffy ball.

(Perhaps if they let young ladies drink more champagne, she would have a husband by now.)

At her giggle, Mr. Spencer crinkled his eyes, flashing her a smile. “I apologize for my nerves, Miss Featherington. I had not expected to see someone from society at a gathering such as this, and especially not a gently-bred lady like yourself. I am afraid it has thrown me off my horse, so to speak.”

“Do you attend these parties often?”

“I have abroad,” he admitted. “But this is my first time at Granville’s. I daresay it is a worthy competitor to even the most debaucherous soirées I have been fortunate enough to participate in.” At this, he flashed her a rather rakish grin, and Penelope realized – he was flirting with her. 

She did not know if she had ever been flirted with. Colin (stop!) had never flirted with her, had made it quite clear on a number of occasions that he would never consider such a thing, and she could not imagine who else would, as he was one of the only gentlemen who ever spoke with her. But this man – this Mr. Spencer – was looking her up and down, taking a sip of his drink and telling her about his history of attending events of revelry, events he likely presumed she had experience with as well, seeing as he was meeting her here.

Penelope was on her fourth (yes, fourth, that was right) glass of champagne and being flirted with by a charming gentleman. And she was rather enjoying herself.

And so she didn’t stop.

She did not stop when he continued to flirt, eyes openly staring at her bosom. When he spoke of his time in France, of the beautiful women he had seen (and how Penelope – Penelope! – reminded him of them). He was an excellent conversationalist – not as good as Colin (stop!), but a lovely time all the same. And it was fun , being flirted with and openly desired, sipping on champagne and seeing a side of London she had never expected. 

Girls like Penelope were not supposed to do these things, attend raucous parties and flirt with handsome strangers. Girls like Penelope were meant to remain innocent, in the shadows. Pine for charming boys who would never love them, who would leave them to have adventures of their own, attend their own parties of debauchery. These girls were meant to accept whatever they were given.

Well. Perhaps Penelope was a different kind of girl altogether.

She thought, maybe, she should have stopped when he kissed her chastely on the lips (her first kiss!), and then again, harder and more passionately. She should have not followed when he suggested that perhaps they explore the rest of the house, telling him instead that she must be getting home. Gen would be looking for her. That she had had a lovely time, but she didn’t do things like this. 

Penelope was sure, somewhere, that there was a universe where she did. Where she remembered her good breeding through the fog of champagne, where she considered for even one second what it meant, what she was doing. What risks she was taking.

But the winter had been long and so, so sad. She did not have Eloise and she would never have Colin ( stop stop stop! ) and this… this was not what she had dreamed of, but it was real and it was exciting and it made her feel alive. It made her feel like she was more than what society had always told her.

And really – what harm would it cause?

All in all, Thomas was not a poor lover. He was gentle as he squeezed her bosom and kissed her mouth, as his fingers found their way inside her. She would have assumed (as if she knew anything) that a man like him, one who attended such parties so frequently, would be more uninhibited, but he was also quite in his cups and maybe he wanted to be careful, maybe he knew that underneath it all she was a gently-bred lady, even if she had spent the evening convincing him she was not this kind of lady at all – the one who still had a virtue to compromise.

Amazing, really. How it only took a single moment for Penelope to become everything she had been bred to avoid. 

Afterwards, as they stared at the ceiling, his spend spilling on the sheet beside her (she had stared at it and she knew , knew that that was how she could come to be with child, knew that he spared her just as Marina had been ruined) and blood trickling down her thigh, she thought of Colin. Thought of the way she used to stay up at night, imagining such a coupling with him, even if she did not have a clue as to what it would entail. She thought of how he might have kissed her and held her, what words he might have whispered. Would he be as gentle as Thomas, would he have brought her such pleasure? Penelope was sure that the simple act of it being him would have been enough– 

No.

Stop. 

She would not let him have this. She knew he had not thought of her, whenever he first did the act (because Penelope did not know much but she knew enough, knew that gentlemen were allowed privileges that would have her ruined). She no longer belonged to him, and her heart was fickle but what had just occurred was good and it was hers. Not Colin’s, not Eloise’s. It was Penelope’s.

Thomas did not notice the blood until they were dressed, Penelope moments from leaving to find Gen when he made a strange sound. He was looking at the bed, where a small stain of red marred the perfectly white sheets. He looked like he might combust.

Clearly, he had not thought she still had a maidenhood.

She could see quite clearly that he was gobsmacked, and while Penelope sympathized, she did not particularly want to linger. It had been an eventful evening and she could feel herself starting to sober up, and frankly she had much to think about that did not concern Thomas, as kind he had been.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr. Spencer,” she said simply, before taking her leave of the room. Thomas, thank god, did her the courtesy of not following.

When she spotted Gen, she gave her the kind of grin that said she knew exactly how Penelope had spent her evening, and Pen could not help the warm feeling she felt all over her body. It lingered in the carriage ride home, as she snuck through the servant’s entrance to her room, as she lay in bed waiting for the sun to rise. 

She had done something no one had expected, something that the Cressida Cowper’s and even Eloise Bridgerton’s of the world certainly would never in their wildest fantasies have expected from her. She had sought her own pleasure, stepped away from the prying eye of the ton . She was not a simpering wallflower. She was the kind of woman who went to wild parties and drank champagne and took lovers.

And she had loved every moment of it.

The next morning, Penelope had been informed quite early that Mr. Thomas Spencer was there to call on her. Her mama had spent the night at Dankworth House, assisting Pru with her new role as a wife, and so Penelope only had to give Rae a single pointed look for her lady’s maid to discreetly leave the drawing room - and the two of them - alone.

As soon as the door was closed, Thomas had promptly dropped to his knees, ring in hand.

“Miss Featherington, I sincerely apologize for my actions yesterday evening and–”

“Oh my god, get the fuck up!” she snapped quickly, suddenly terrified (not least because of the ease with which the profanity had slipped from her tongue, her first time uttering such language.) “Anyone could walk in!”

Thomas stood, and Penelope noticed he was perspiring quite a lot on his forehead. He looked like he wished to be anywhere else.

“I compromised you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It is not fine , Miss Featherington! You are a gently bred lady and I am a gentleman. I acted abominably, and I must make it right!”

Penelope did her best to stay calm. She knew, rationally, that Thomas did have a point. In the eyes of the ton – in the eyes of anyone who mattered – he had ruined her completely, regulated her to a life as a social pariah that only a hasty marriage could render even slightly acceptable. If anyone were to ever discover their tryst, Penelope would not be able to walk the streets of Mayfair without a flurry of whispers, taunts calling her a harlot at best. Herself and her family would be destroyed.

But of course, they wouldn’t be discovered. The only person capable of uncovering such a secret was standing in that very drawing room.

She also knew enough to know she wouldn’t come to be with child as a result of their encounter, that there wasn’t a possibility of her ending up like poor Marina. And with both threats nullified, Penelope found it hard to be particularly pressed about what had occurred, except to consider that she had enjoyed it. Quite a lot, in fact.

They had been drunk, of course, and there were still parts she did not understand, but Penelope now understood quite clearly why young ladies were kept in the dark:

If she had known such pleasures were possible, she certainly never would have waited so long .

And Thomas Spencer, with his light blonde locks and easy demeanor, had been a quite sweet lover to assist with her introduction, she thought. He had been very kind and gentle, even through his drunken haze. He was not who she had imagined – but of course, who she had imagined would never see her in such a way. Thomas was a good and handsome man, and he was here and he had found the idea of desiring her to not be so strange. That was quite an improvement on her previous fantasies.

“Thomas,” she said patiently. “I quite appreciate the offer. But we were not seen, and I will not come to be with child. There is no need for a marriage.”

Thomas bit his lip, clearly conflicted. “I am a gentleman,” he repeated, almost as if trying to convince himself. 

“You are ,” she assured him. “But I simply cannot marry you.”

“Whyever not? I have compromised you, and it would be the right thing to do. What is your reluctance?” 

Penelope smiled. “You do not want to marry me.”

Thomas looked like he might have an aneurysm. “I have offered–”

“I do not mean to say you are not being quite kind to offer me,” she cut him off quickly. “But Thomas – you do not love me. I know you regard me in some esteem from our short time knowing each other, as I do with you. But you do not love me and do not wish to be married to me aside from a loyalty to your own honor. And the idea of trapping you – of forcing any man into a union they would not wholeheartedly desire… nothing could bring me greater distress.”

Penelope did her best to give him a reassuring smile, to make sure he knew she was not saying this just to placate him. The very thought of forcing him into any kind of a loveless marriage made her feel sick, made her want to retch into her chamber pot. She simply could not bear it.

Thomas stared at her for a long moment, making a face she could not understand. When he finally spoke, Penelope knew she had won. “I believe you would have made me an excellent wife.”

“Perhaps. But not the wife you want. I do not take offense to it – I simply believe you should be with someone who you sincerely want to be married to, rather than feel obligated to.”

He huffed, but smiled. Penelope could tell that behind his words, there was intense relief. While she could not deny that they would have quite possibly developed a fine companionship, it was clear a hasty proposal after a clandestine affair was not his idea of romance either. “You are a most incredible person, Miss Featherington.”

“Please, you must call me Penelope,” she told him through a laugh. “You were inside me not even a day ago, do you not remember?”

At this, Thomas snorted loudly, which he followed by a full-body laugh. “You truly are a minx, Penelope .”

Penelope could not help but giggle. Despite his clear nerves just a few moments earlier, she could not deny that he was really a very sweet companion. One day, he would make a glowing debutante a lovely husband. 

But... that day had not yet come.

She thought of his hands on her, his mouth. She thought of the pleasure he had shown her, pleasure that Penelope was quite sure she had only seen the surface of. She thought of the spring and summer ahead, once again being regulated to the shadows - moving further and further closer to spinsterhood with every breath she took.

Penelope did not think she would marry. Colin’s comments, while not printed on the pages of Whistledown (she could not bear to repeat them), had certainly made their way around the gentlemen's clubs. A third year on the marriage mart with no prospects, with the only man who had ever dared to dance with her recently declaring that the idea of courting her was laughable , did not bode well for the upcoming season - one where she would not even have Eloise to take comfort in. She knew what her future would entail: living with her mother and writing her column, taking her small pleasures wherever she could find them.

It was not a future she excited in. But, as she stared at Thomas, an idea formulated in her mind, one where she might be able to pass the season with, at the very least, a tad more fun than previously thought.

Her virtue was already torn up to pieces, just as her heart had been. She did not have much more to lose.

And, perhaps most importantly: she wanted to do it again .

As it turned out, when you were the greatest gossip monger in Mayfair, as well as in possession of the greatest secret, keeping an affair from the ton’s prying eyes was quite an easy endeavor.

Convincing Thomas had taken less effort than she expected. While he was a gentleman, he was also equally a rake, and evidently found it hard to deny a lady when she was requesting that he kiss her while lightly stroking her bosom. She supposed that as far as he saw it, the true crime of stealing her virtue had already happened; there was nowhere to go but forward.

Once she had informed him that their discovery was all but impossible, he had folded quite nicely.

(“Penelope,” he had said to her between kisses in her room, whilst she worked on loosening his cravat. “If Lady Whistledown were to discover us–” 

She pulled away to look up at him. He was tall, though not nearly as tall as Colin. “Thomas. I am Lady Whistledown.”

His eyes had bugged out for a moment, an expression of utter surprise clear on his face. “Oh,” he said, seemingly at a loss for words. Then he let out a long breath of relief. “Well that takes care of that problem.”

He really was a most amiable partner.)

Now in her third season writing Whistledown, Penelope was used to sneaking about and traveling to various parts of town without being noticed. Thomas, being the bachelor that he was, had acquired his own lodgings at the start of this last season, and as Penelope had already established a code of secrecy with many of the hired hacks (a code resting on her boosting of their pockets), it was not particularly hard to simply add an additional stop.

And despite his original concern at having stolen her virtue, Thomas took to their arrangement quite well, and was an excellent and eager lover. He was incredibly attentive of her needs, and took his role as tutor seriously (he even taught Penelope how to bring herself pleasure, which had her privately considering if she needed him at all, although she ultimately did enjoy his unique equipment). 

He was very gentle with her always, which Penelope chalked up to his own concerns about her being a gently-bred lady – she supposed these ideas had been beaten into him just as they had been with her. She did not always appreciate how he treated her as though she was something to break, exactly, but their encounters always left her pleased and sated.

Most importantly, Penelope found him to be remarkably amiable – but, crucially, not someone she would ever fall in love with. Kind, funny, but not quite right . She believed that they could have a perfectly happy marriage, were they ever to be discovered (he made her promise that if anyone ever found them out, she would allow him to marry her, and Penelope had rolled her eyes but allowed him this small concession). But he would never inspire butterflies, not the kind that she had tried so desperately (and failed ) to kill with Colin, whom she was thinking of less and less every day, an open wound slowly morphing to a bruise.

( Lies .)

Just as conveniently, Thomas did not seem like he was likely to fall in love with her, which Penelope was not at all surprised by. While he clearly enjoyed her company during their dalliances, and he was a fun companion to run into at a dinner party, their emotional chemistry clearly did not extend beyond friendship. And Penelope was well… Penelope. She would expect nothing less.

He asked her about it once, after they had made love at his lodgings. He was smoking a cigarette and sprawling in bed as she buttoned up her dress. The picture of a man satisfied.

(And she had done it! Penelope was the reason! The fact still gave her a little thrill.)

“Will you be seeking a husband this season,” he asked casually, taking a drag. 

Penelope paid him little mind as she looked for her shoes. “Why – are you jealous?”

He snorted. It was a testament to her comfortability in the nature of their arrangement that Penelope did not care, and Thomas knew she would not. “I am not, as you know. But I think it would be helpful for me to be aware, as your loverrrr ,” he dragged out the last word, faux seductive, and Penelope finally gave him a full throttled laugh. “I could help you search for potential suitors, field off anyone undeserving.” He seemed quite excited at the prospect, and Pen had to wonder if perhaps instead he was looking to find his bride.

Penelope laughed again. “I promise you will not need to.”

“Whyever not? You are quite the fetching young lady, especially in the new dresses Gen has made for you.” It was true – since beginning their liaisons, Penelope had decided it was time for a wardrobe update; she was tired of looking like a piece of fruit. Her new clothing made her feel beautiful and grown up, although she did not expect this to have much of an impact on her prospects.

“Thomas, you have not been in Mayfair for a season yet, but I assure you – I will not be acquiring a husband, this season or ever.”

“Are the gentlemen here really that blind?”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged, pulling her hair up. “But it is more than that. I am not – I have been out for two seasons already, with not a single prospect. I do not believe I am the sort of woman the men in Mayfair are interested in. 

She did not know how else to describe it – how to make it clear that, while at Granville’s parties and in his bed she was someone , Penelope knew quite well this would not be the same in the ton . She would always be the pitiful wallflower Penelope Featherington. Clinging to walls, tripping over her words. 

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies.

Penelope was not someone to be courted. She had made her peace with it.

And while she was quite aware that that was not how all (or even most) marriages in the ton worked – that often, men would select a bride they did not love, a duty to be fulfilled – the idea of being married to a gentleman who cared little for her existence, must less happiness, troubled her more. She would rather be alone and allowed her small freedoms, a lover until he too selected a wife, than be an obligation to anyone.

She was not pleased about it, obviously – for her Mama had been right, and spending her youth pouring over the pages of love stories had given her certain romantic notions – but her time with Thomas had given her a sense of proportion: there was still fun to be had, a life to live. It was better to accept it now, while she was young and still had time, than waste another season trying and failing to catch a husband.

Thomas stared at her for a good long while, taking another drag of his cigarette. “When I proposed to you, you said you would not marry me because it is not what I would want. I am realizing now I was a fool for not asking: what is it that you want?”

Like a vicious parasite, Penelope thought of Colin. Of the way he had saved her that night last year, his smile and his hair and how he had taught her what it was to want at all. She thought of what he must have been doing on his travels, the countless beautiful women he was sure to be charming, much in the way he used to charm her. Touching, in all the ways that Thomas touched her.

“I am not sure what it is I want,” she lied. “But I do know what I do not want - I do not think I could stand being married to someone who wished they were not, who did it out of a sense of duty or pity. I would hate to be with someone who desired for love and only got myself. I believe such a union would break my spirit. And I know… I know that any other kind of marriage would not be possible for me.”

Thomas furrowed a brow. “And why is that?”

Penelope did not look at Thomas as she said the next part. She did not want his pity, or a proposal. “I am not the kind of woman people fall in love with, Thomas.”

He was quiet for a long while, and Penelope continued to stare anywhere but his face. At some point, she heard him put out the cigarette, and then he placed a warm hand on her shoulder. She found it utterly remarkable, the affection she felt towards this man she had known for such a short amount of time. She did not love him and he did not love her, but there was a kind of love present – friendship, and not the kind of friendship she shared with Colin – and Penelope was truly grateful to have found it within the utter mess that was her life.

When he spoke, there was a sadness to it, though Penelope knew it was not pity. “I think, Miss Featherington, that you greatly underestimate yourself. I believe you will find a man you will love and be loved by in turn. I do not think you should count yourself out just yet.”

Penelope did not know how to respond. She did not have the words to tell him that she had already met the only man she would ever love. And that he would never love her back.

And so, they continued.

Penelope would meet him at his lodgings and they would have a romp, spending hours exploring each other in more ways than she could have ever imagined. They would visit Granville’s parties, sip champagne and try new substances (she had learned to smoke! And she had inhaled something that made her feel wonderful , though the smell was rather odd), made love in abandoned rooms. 

The start of the season was almost upon them, and despite everything that had happened with Eloise, Penelope was excited to get back to Whistledown. She enjoyed having a purpose, being at the center while also at the very edge. And Thomas – Thomas was so lovely, and while he denied it, she truly believed he might be seeking a wife this season. It excited her, the idea of assisting him in the selection of his bride. It sounded like great fun.

She had a lover and she had a business and she had an entirely new wardrobe. She was Penelope Featherington. She was not the girl she once was but she was better, stronger. She had gone through the worst winter of her life and she had made it to the other side, was all the more happy for it. She was a new Penelope. A Penelope who needed no one.

And then, of course, Colin Bridgerton had to come back and fuck it all to pieces.

Chapter Text

For the next fortnight, Colin did not sleep.

During the days, he would go through the motions of his life as if a dead man walking. He took meals with his family but he was never really with them, his head somewhere far away. He would feign illness to get out of attending a ball, and then do so again the next day when his mother suggested he come promenade. He made countless excuses to stay in his bedchamber, isolated, and then he would lay and stare at the ceiling, his mind whirling.

He was restless.

Penelope. His dearest friend, favorite correspondent. Good, kind, innocent Penelope.

Taking a lover. 

It was as though a limb had been ripped off his body, the blood spilling out. He did not know how to process it.

Her revelation about Whistledown, while jarring, did not keep him up past the first few evenings, though Colin knew that perhaps it should . He knew it was the more substantial scandal; a lover would ruin her, yes, but if it was discovered that Penelope operated the largest scandal sheet in all of Mayfair, she would likely be hanged. And he knew that, strictly speaking, this was the bigger betrayal. He thought about the words she had written of Marina and Eloise. Of himself . He knew now why her friendship with Eloise had been so fractured, and he knew within himself that, to most, her actions would be seen as unforgivable.

And yet, the anger did not stay with him. He spent an evening stewing, thinking over every interaction for clues – thinking of Marina, and the fool Penelope must have thought him – and then the following night angry over her own disregard for herself, the implications of her possible discovery consuming him. By the third day, Colin found himself concerned, yes, but not despondent. Penelope was Whistledown. It was shocking but a fact he must live with.

And, strangely, Colin found himself quite capable of doing so.

But Spencer…

Colin did not know such feelings of agony were even possible in himself.

Where Colin found Pen’s secret identity to be something he was able to accept and even move on from, her relationship with Spencer felt like the opposite.

He had known, deep in the recesses of his mind, that she would one day marry. She was far too sweet a young lady to not eventually catch the eye of an eligible gentleman, and while Colin remembered how Eloise had liked to go on about them growing old as spinsters together, Colin knew Pen better: she did her best to hide it, but she was a romantic. He saw it in the books she read and the way he would notice her eyes softening when she would watch a particularly besotted couple dancing. Penelope clearly wanted love , and one day, Colin knew that some lucky gentleman would get on his knees and ask her a very important question, and his sweet Pen would blush and flutter her eyelashes and say yes .

Now, as he lay in his bed unable to rest, he could admit that he had certainly not been excited for her to take a husband. The idea had disturbed him, Pen as a wife to another. Pen with a great love, Pen with a brood of children. It did not sit right with him, although he could not think as to why. Just that the very image of it made something disagreeable turn in his stomach.

So he had known she would probably marry, but had let himself believe it would not be for a good long time, that she would be his for another season, maybe even two. That, even when she married, their friendship would always remain just as it was. She would always be his Pen.

It would not be pleasant , of course, but it was an inevitability. Colin had prepared for it.

But this… Pen taking a lover , of all things. Letting herself be ruined by an absolute cad– it was not something he thought possible, not something that he had even considered. Pen was an innocent , to her very core. She was not without a little bite, he knew that (it was part of what endeared her to him, the barbs to be found behind her delicate temperament), and she was obviously quite intelligent. He knew that she was not just another debutante, that she was special . But still… she had always seemed so completely pure, wide-eyed and eager. Colin had not thought her capable of engaging in such depraved behavior. He had not thought she would even know how to.

What a fool he had been.

He could also admit, now that it was too late, that he had taken her for granted. She was one of his favorite people in the entire world – all sunshine and smiles, someone who never failed to lift his spirits and help him see the world in new ways – but she was also always there , without Colin having to look. Present and easy, in his home and with his family and everywhere he turned. He would request her to dance and she would say yes. He would write to her from across the world and she would respond, excited to hear from him and eager for more.

He had considered her feelings and thoughts often, of course, for she was his most treasured friend and her opinion mattered greatly to him. But the truth was, it had been incredibly jarring when she ceased her correspondence with him this past year, in part because, when it came to Penelope, Colin did not think she would ever surprise him. Perhaps a cutting remark here and there, an occasional raised eyebrow, but nothing more, nothing to this extent. He believed that he knew Penelope wholly, and that she was all he thought her to be. 

It was not that he did not believe that she had hidden depths – he just thought he knew them all.

It was not fair to her. Penelope was intelligent and funny and capable of so much, so much more than Colin ever gave her credit for. He had done her a great disservice in his assumptions, in thinking that he of all people could know the extent of her greatness. It was his own fault that, out of every woman in the ton , she was the last person he had ever expected to engage in such conduct. That the very image of it threw him for a loop, made him question nearly everything he knew.

The image of them together. Pen and Spencer. Spencer and Penelope.

Because it was just that… Well . That he could not stop picturing them together in his mind.

Spencer, leaning down to give Pen a sweet kiss, soft and chaste. Him pushing her against a wall, her arms going up easily to surrender herself to him. Slowly unlacing her stays, pulling down her dress. Removing her chemise. The two of them, on a bed, Pen spreading her legs – easily, happily – and begging him to make love to her. 

Spencer getting to taste her, getting to fuck her. Spencer getting to please her.

Colin did not think it was possible for a mere thought to make one sick. But, as he lifted his head from the bin, emptying his stomach of the contents of his lunch, he considered this just another fact that he was quickly learning he knew absolutely nothing of.

He could not reconcile it - his sweet, good-natured friend, speaking in such a way, engaging in such behavior. He thought back to the Penelope of last season, in her brightly colored dresses, always smiling at him with happy eyes and so much warmth, as if Colin of all people was the answer to every one of her problems.

And now… now she was Spencer’s mistress .

The worst part was, Colin thought he was above such prudent presumptions. He was a man of the world , had laid with women who had taken far more lovers than him. He knew that women were capable of great pleasure, and that while the bores of the ton would like to pretend otherwise, this did not exclude Mayfair’s gently bred ladies. Penelope had been right, when she said that it was quite unfair that he was free to travel the globe and seek his pleasure and young ladies like herself were not. Colin knew she was right, because he had thought the same many times prior, had found himself privately agreeing whenever Eloise went on one of her rants.

No, the more and more he considered it, the more Colin realized that it did not anger him that a young lady was giving her own fuck you to society, taking a lover, having fun. He could even, rationally, admit that he was proud of Penelope, who had so often been a running joke among so many, despite her being quite clearly the loveliest of them all.

A part of Colin did not begrudge Penelope.

But then he would picture them curled together, sweaty and bare, Penelope’s lovely locks furling across a white pillow with a satisfied smile on her face – a smile that Spencer would have caused – and he found himself reaching for the bin yet again.

It is Benedict who insists they go to the party.

“You must find a way out of your head, dear brother,” he had said cheerily, passing Colin the flask as they walked through the streets, far from Mayfair and anyone that could possibly know them. While Colin had obviously told no one of what he had recently discovered, his sour mood was starting to be quite evident to his family. “A night at one of Granville’s parties will lift your spirits, I am sure.” 

His family, he could tell, had become concerned at his new habits. He had returned from his travels a new man – confident, without a care – and then had immediately descended into a ghost, sulking about and refusing to leave his room. His family had all been tip-toeing around him (save for Eloise, who kept rolling her eyes and demanding that he “stop being so dramatic, brother, as if your life is so hard”) and Colin was quite certain that the idea for tonight’s excursion had not been Benedict’s alone, but a planned heist to improve his permanently gloomy mood.

Colin was skeptical. Since his revelation about Penelope, he had not ventured back to any of the brothels, the idea of seeking such revelry with a stranger suddenly making him feel cold, for reasons he did not want to consider. Suddenly, Colin felt as though he had been pretending since his return, parading around smugly like every other gentleman of the ton . The idea of going to such an establishment, of being just like the Fife’s and Cho’s of the world while Penelope was breaking every rule and clearly quite enjoying it… well, it did not appeal.

But Benedict was persistent, saying that this gathering would be different. Far away from the streets of Mayfair – from anyone even resembling the gentry – it was a collective really, of artists and merchants and performers. Free of judgement, it was the type of party where lovers were taken freely and the alcohol (and, he had said with a sly grin, other substances) would be flowing, but it was too low brow for any respectable member of the ton to have ever heard of it. It was, Benedict said again and again, exactly what Colin needed.

And, as Colin took a drag of his cigarette, packed to the brim with the delicious plant he had found on his travels that made him feel so lovely , he had to admit that he quite agreed.

It was nothing like the brothels of Mayfair, stuffed to the brim with disgusting men eager to prove themselves more deprived than the next, a routine rather than a passion. No, this party had life . Men and women dancing, drinks flowing. There were rooms with artists painting their subjects in the nude, rumpus music filling the quarters, and, most delightfully, great conversation amongst the debauchery, long discussions on politics and history and the meaning of life. It reminded Colin much of the lively parties he had encountered abroad, only this one happened to be in his very city.

There was also quite a lot of lovemaking. Men and women kissing, scurrying off to enclosed rooms to fuck, or occasionally doing so tucked in a corner, for everyone to see. Women kissing each other (which was itself not quite so rare in the brothels) as well as men. Colin lost Benedict early in the evening to a pair of lovers, his eyes racking over the gentleman just as much as the lady. And whilst Colin did not believe he shared that particular proclivity, he found such embracement of it to be quite beautiful.

It was all, of course, not enough to get him to stop thinking of Pen, who filled his thoughts over and over as he strolled the halls. She was a permanent fixture in his head these days, always in the back of his mind either smiling at him sweetly or spatting that she was Whistledown. The party could not remove her from his mind, but it was a lovely distraction, and Colin considered that he would need to come again. This place was magic.

And then, because Colin’s life was in fact a giant farce, he turned the corner and found Penelope herself locked tightly in an embrace with Spencer.

“Oh, what the fuck!” He shouted, the words leaving him without a thought (he really had drunk quite a lot, and the plant had made his inhibitions scarce). His exclamation jolted them out of their kiss, and they shot him equal looks of complete bewilderment.

“Colin! What are you doing here?”

Colin considered that he might be going mad. “What am I– what are you doing here, Pen?”

God, this was a mess. She was tucked right into a corner, backed into the wall alongside Spencer. Her hair was splayed out, long tendrils swooping across her chest. And her dress… it was unlike anything he had ever seen her in, even with the new wardrobe she had been donning this season. It was low cut and bright red and there were bits of lace just barely covering her bosom. It was lewd , and Colin did not think he had ever seen such an erotic sight.

Jesus Christ. What was becoming of him.

He attempted to steady himself as he asked his next question. “What–what are you doing, kissing in the hallway where anyone could see?”

This seemed to jolt her out of the shock of seeing him. “Anyone?” she huffed, unimpressed. “Who is anyone? There is no one here who would ever know who we are.”

Colin did his best not to growl that he knew who exactly they were. “You are wrong. Benedict attends these parties quite frequently.”

Pen let out a breath, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly. This was clearly news to her, and it satisfied Colin, to have finally been the one to surprise her . Beside Pen, Spencer gave her a nervous look and Colin wanted to kill him for the familiarity. 

It was all just so wrong. Penelope out at debaucherous parties, Penelope taking a lover. Penelope letting this– stranger into her life, into her bed. Every single bad feeling he’d had for the last fortnight came rushing back to his head, making Colin feel sick with anger and betrayal and jealousy and envy and–

Envy. 

Oh. Oh god.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck .

He was envious. The feelings that had plagued him in recent weeks were not that of a concerned friend, worried in much the same way he would be were Penelope’s his sister. He was jealous, angry that Spencer was the one getting to touch her, getting to know all of her body. He did not care that Penelope had taken a lover, that she was breaking every rule of society in order to chase her own pleasure. He cared that she had selected someone else to do the job.

Someone that it wasn’t him.

Good lord. He felt like he might faint from the revelation.

And Penelope– Penelope just stared at him, her eyes blue and lidded, clearly in her cups just as much as he was. She was so, so beautiful. 

Goddammit to hell.

“Mr. Spencer,” he said tightly, doing his best to sound calm when it was taking every ounce of self-restraint not to knock the man out cold. “Would you please give us a moment?”

Spencer looked concerned, and shot Penelope a look of worry – which just made Colin want to deck him more – but Pen, bless her, did not remove her eyes from Colin’s as she told him “It’s fine, Thomas. Go get a drink.” He eyed them both wearily, but after a moment, he left.

As soon as Spencer was gone, Colin snatched Penelope’s hand and hauled her into a nearby room with a door (really, what on earth was she thinking, kissing her lover where anyone could see?) and clicking the lock for good measure.

They were both quiet for a long moment, staring daggers at each other, and it took Colin everything in himself not to rake his eyes up and down her body - her perfect, full figured, luscious body. God, she was perfect. She was a goddess among men, the most gorgeous woman London had ever seen. Colin wanted to kill himself.

Finally, they spoke at the same time.

“You are acting reckless.”

“You are acting insane.”

Colin huffed. “I know, Pen. I am quite aware, but it does not negate that you are being completely and utterly reckless. What if it had been Benedict who came upon you two? What if it had been another member of the ton .”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Members of the ton do not attend these parties. They are not for gentlemen, Colin. They are for the lower classes and the outsiders, not men seeking a night of pleasure to pretend they are not all just like each other.”

It was madness, utter madness, the way she was speaking. It was not so long ago that he would have assumed she didn’t know those kind of establishments even existed. “How do you even– how are you even aware of such a gathering, Pen?”

“Did you forget that I am Lady Whistledown so soon?”

“Jesus fuck,” Colin grumbled. “No, I most certainly have not. But I do not see how your secret identity relates to the, once again, absolutely reckless behavior you are currently exhibiting.”

She slightly cocked an eyebrow, and Colin wondered if she was surprised at all by his blasé attitude towards Whistledown, but she did not mention it. Instead, she rather went for the jugular. “Ah yes, completely reckless of poor pathetic Penelope Featherington, taking a lover when she should be sitting at home and patiently waiting for a gentleman to take notice.”

“It is reckless, Pen,” he pleaded. “Taking a lover is one thing, but you are playing a dangerous game with a man you do not know .”

“I know him well enough. And I know exactly what I am doing, Colin.”

“I do not believe you,” he told her, though that wasn’t entirely true: it seemed to him that she had actually thought about this all quite a lot. “What happens if you are discovered? What happens if a member of the ton catches you, if for once in your life you are not the smartest person in the room.”

Pen started to go red at this, clashing terribly with her bright dress (only, god, it somehow only made her even more arousing). “That will never happen. And if – if Thomas and I were to ever find ourselves in a compromising position, he would of course do the honorable thing and marry me. We have discussed it.”

Colin wanted to punch the wall. “Absolutely not. You are not suited.”

“Not– not suited ? We get on perfectly fine, for your information. He is a good man who is kind to me.” Colin opened his mouth to argue – not kind enough to marry you once he had compromised you, an insane thing to say considering he did not want them to marry at all – but Pen cut him off. “And, I continue to fail to see why it is you care who I choose to take up with.”

“I care because I am your friend! 

“We have been over this. We are no longer friends.”

Blast it all to hell. “Fine! I care because it should be me.”

Colin shouted out the last sentence, and in the back of his mind, he considered how it was quite stupid of him to be speaking so loudly about Penelope being compromised when they were at a party with so many, but he can not help himself. He felt so overcome with emotion.

He should be Pen’s lover. He, who had known her for years, who had written to her and cared for her and pledged to always look after her. If Penelope Featherington was going to risk ruin to take a lover, there was no one more fit than Colin Bridgerton.

And he wanted it, so very much. 

“What?” she croaked.

“I… I should be your lover. Spencer is undeserving.”

“Colin I do not… I do not understand.”

He swallowed, and attempted to steady himself. “You were right, when you said it was unfair that young ladies do not get to take the same pleasures as gentlemen. It is wrong, and I do not – I cannot begrudge you for it. But Spencer… he is all wrong for you. He should not be the one caring for you in such a manner, should not be the one you risk being shackled to if someone were to discover. It should be me.”

Penelope shook her head, looking at him no longer. He moved closer, ever so slightly, and could see that she had started crying. When he went to lay a hand on his shoulder, she brushed him off.

“I do not want your pity.”

Colin sputtered. “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

“I do not want a man to make love to me out of pity,” she said, and he could hear anger then, lightly simmering over every syllable. “I am not interested in having a lover who does it because he believes it as an obligation, or as a kindness to spare me from someone else. If that was the case, I would just use my hand.”

Colin knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his eyes widened very much at that comment, and he did his best to push away the titillating image.

She looked up at him then for the first time since he made his plea, and Colin could instantly tell his words had not been received in the way he intended.

“I want a lover who wants me,” she said, the words dripping with a fury he did not know she was capable of, even after their more recent encounters. “I want a lover who wants to fuck me, Colin.”

And with that final declaration, she quit the room, unbolting the door and slamming it so hard that it reverberated throughout the entire space, leaving a shell-shocked Colin in her wake.

Pen wanted a lover who wanted to fuck her.

Fuck me, Colin.

He did not think he had ever wanted anything more.

Chapter Text

For the next week, Penelope found herself seething.

Colin Bridegerton. Colin fucking Bridgerton. 

To be so… cruel. To dismiss her desires, as though they were a problem to be dealt with. To suggest that making love to her – fucking her – was some kind of duty, something he ought to take up just to protect her from someone else. It would be one thing if Colin had offered because he actually desired her, because he found her alluring. That, while completely out of the realm of possibility, would at least be less disrespectful than this: insisting that he be her lover as if it were a favor. He did not want her, no, but he was such a good friend that he would grin and bear it so that she would not need to risk ruin – all the while continuing to ruin herself with him.

Disgusting. Pathetic and wretched, disrespectful and terrible and disgusting!

It was no matter, of course, that she would in fact prefer if it was Colin in her bed instead of Thomas. She had imagined it many times before when he was inside her, pumping long and leisurely, his face buried in her neck. He was not particularly loud during lovemaking, and it was often just so easy to imagine it was Colin in his place. She had wanted him since she was a young girl, since she believed that a woman could become with child from a simple kiss on the lips. (They really told young ladies nothing.) She did not think there was much harm in it, occasionally pretending, just inside her own mind.

It was an unimportant coincidence.

It was during this week that she felt, for the first time since the beginning of the season, a small kernel of gratitude that her friendship with Eloise had broken. There was nothing to drag her to Bridgerton House, no reasons for their paths to cross. She imagined Colin was likely avoiding her as well, after she had dismissed him so bluntly. Good , she told herself. He should be, for she did not want to see him! ( Lies , her treacherous mind kept reminding her.)

She spent the week huddled in her room, fuming and pacing, furiously writing the next issue of Whistledown (perhaps she should write of him, she considered, of the way he was pathetically stalking around Mayfair pretending to be just like every other rakish, unfeeling, boring gentleman – before she thought better of it; Colin would know it was her, and while she did not mind if he knew she thought such things about him, the idea of him knowing that she cared at all was even worse). She did send a letter to Thomas, saying that she was most apologetic for how their encounter had ended but that she was simply not up to seeing him again this week, she was sorry to tell him. Thomas responded that it was of no matter and that he hoped she was feeling better soon, calm and jovial and unbothered as always.

Like a gentleman should be.

In fact, she was spared Colin’s unwanted presence until the Bellington Ball, during which he spent the evening standing in the corner and shooting her perplexed looks, as though he did not know her anymore. It was like he was a child, being told St. Nicholas was a farce, only instead of the brave new world being presents gifted by one’s family instead of an old man, it was that his friend – whom he had mocked, had vowed never to court – would dare to step outside of the box that society had built for her.

Penelope, for her part, was not actually much better. She found herself hugging the wall (no surprise there) and frequently shooting him angry looks, upset to even be in the same room with him, petulant and bitter. When Thomas had sauntered over to her to ask after her evening, she had been grateful for a moment of reprieve until he started chuckling to himself.

“Your boy looks like he wants to have my neck,” he had said, tilting his head towards Colin, who had not moved from his spot but was now looking at them with a heaviness to his eyes that Penelope did not recognize. Thomas did not seem to care much — he was smiling wide, forever unfazed, and Penelope wished dearly that she could share his immunity to Colin’s stare.

What was more — because the universe was a cruel monster and her its favorite victim, Penelope then felt a heat start to course through her body at the intensity of his glare and had to turn away quickly, pressing her legs together to alleviate the warmth that was now growing there.

Colin fucking Bridgerton.

Perhaps the worst part of it all was that, throughout several points in the night, Penelope felt a familiar urge to go to him, to say hello and make a joke, bring a smile to his face. She had done her best since his return to deny her affection for him, but the cruel reality (one which she was trying very hard to push down) was that she missed him dearly , that his new absence in her life made Penelope sad in a way she did not want to think about. Seeing him so upset at the sight of her with Thomas, clearly on the verge of stomping over and separating them… it made her want him to just do it, even through her anger. 

It was most confusing and upsetting, to realize that she had done all she could to banish him from her heart and yet it still very much belonged to him.

Still, she could not have foreseen how the evening would progress.

It was a Whistledown delivery night, an easy routine by this point. She had decided not to visit Thomas – her mind was still a jumbled mess and she did not think being with him would quell her feelings of anxiety – so after the work was done, the men paid off and column safely ready to be printed for all of Mayfair to read, she retreated back to the hired hack she had come in, ready to return home.

Only, when she opened the door to step inside, she was met with… Colin .

Would her horrors never cease?

“Colin,” she gritted out, and she was certain her anger was seeping from her. She climbed into the carriage quickly, slamming the door in her haste. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He had the decency to look ashamed, but only a little. Not nearly as much as he should be, considering he had evidently followed her. Stalked her, more like it.

“This seemed like the best option.”

“Following me in secret as I conducted business affairs and then barging into my carriage seemed like the best course of action?” she asked him, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Have you lost your mind?”

“ Yes! ”

Good lord, this was all madness. She did not know what kind of mental breakdown Colin was currently suffering – from his behavior earlier this evening, she could deduce that he was not doing particularly well – but she could not be bothered. Or, rather, she wanted to be the type of person who would not be bothered. She didn’t want to care about him anymore, his opinions or his smile or the fact that he did not want her. She wanted to be impervious to it. 

She could not do so if he kept on stepping all over her brand new life. It made her heart confused and muddled, at once both angry for his presence and eager for him to remain.

Instead of responding, she crossed her arms over her chest. Looking out the window she saw that, rather than heading back to Mayfair, they were turning in another direction. She cocked an eyebrow.

He bit his lip, nervous. “I redirected the driver. To my lodgings in Bloomsbury.”

Penelope blinked. “You’re an idiot, Colin.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But we need a place to talk in private, and not in some carriage that will take us home in less than an hour.”

“I do not know what it is we have to talk about, Mr. Bridgerton .”

He huffed. “Yes you fucking do.”

Penelope could not help the slight shiver that went up her spine, and then cursed herself for it. Colin had not ever used such language in front of her, excluding when he had discovered her and Thomas at the Granville party. And he was looking at her as he had at the ball earlier, eyes dark and determined, making Penelope feel not unlike a puddle. It was most inconvenient.

Instead of responding, Penelope turned her head, opting to stare out the window rather than at his stupidly handsome face. There was no use in arguing with him, not when he clearly was currently unable to see reason. Perhaps if he was anyone else, she would be concerned – but unfortunately it was Colin, the only gentleman possibly in the entire world who could hijack Penelope’s carriage and still manage to make her feel safe. They rode to his lodgings in silence, and when they arrived several blocks away, Colin discreetly took her around the back, through the servant’s entrance so no one would see. 

His lodgings were plain, she noticed as Colin quickly led her upstairs. She had never previously even known he had his own, and she figured he must have acquired them recently, since their falling out. It did not appear as if he spent much time there.

When he escorted her to his bedchamber, Penelope let out a mean laugh. “Really, Colin? There is nowhere else we could speak?”

“The staff might awaken if we were in the library or my study. I do not want to risk your reputation, being discovered with a gentleman in his lodgings at this hour.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “How gallant.”

Colin ignored her. “You clearly have a great disregard for your own reputation, but I do not. I cannot allow you to take such a risk.”

“You speak as if I have a reputation at all, Colin. As if I am not the most forgettable lady in Mayfair, slipping into the walls with ease. How is it that you think I have managed to keep Whistledown a secret, all these years? It is because, even when others have looked for her , I have been of little consequence.”

“I believe you have kept Whistledown a secret because you are much smarter than the rest of the ton ,” he said, and Penelope did her best to ignore how much his praise pleased her. “But you are wrong if you think it would not be a scandal, if it was discovered that a gently-bred lady such as yourself was running all over town, to parties and printing shops, making love with strange gentlemen.”

Penelope huffed. “You act as though I am the first lady in the history of Mayfair to take a lover out of the confines of matrimony! I do not believe you are that naive, Colin. I know you are not.”

The memory of Marina flashed before her eyes, bitter and helpless and now sitting at Crane Estate. Since his discovery of her secret identity, Colin had not brought up the business with Marina, how she had so easily ruined a young lady’s life in order to save his. Penelope sincerely hoped they would continue not to speak of it.

“I am well aware people have lovers, Penelope,” he gritted out, and she could not tell if his tone was directed at the thought of Marina or Penelope’s jab about his naivety. “I was not born yesterday. But there is a recklessness in you that is new, and it is dangerous .”

Penelope rolled her eyes, even though a small part of her knew he was right , that it would lead to great scandal if her relationship with Thomas was revealed to the members of the ton . The difference was that Penelope no longer cared. “Please, spare me a speech about how I am so very bad for seeking the same pleasures that every man does without so much as a second thought. It is not a crime to wish not to remain a chaste, Colin.”

“That is not what I take issue with. I believe if what you seek is pleasure, Penelope, then you should have it.”

Penelope froze, surprised.

Well then.

She could not help the deep breath she took, the way she could feel her chest heaving in the simple dress she had changed into for her errands. He was saying the words quite easily, as though he had thought about it much before, and good lord, she wasn’t going to think about that. But she could not escape the strange shiver she felt through her body.

He continued. “What does worry me is the way you are handling this affair, with a man you hardly know. Spencer had lived abroad for many years, he might not understand the severity of what your dalliance means, the danger it could bring upon you.”

“He knows,” she said, though it did not come out as forcefully as she would have liked. “It is as I told you – he made me an offer of marriage after we were first intimate. I rejected him.”

Penelope half expected Colin to ask why, to insist that together they march right down to Thomas’ home and demand he take her to Gretna Green at once. Except that Colin was still looking at her quite intensely, the way he had in the ball this evening and in the carriage on the way here. The slight darkness in his eyes that Penelope had somehow been unable to escape from all night.

He would not tell her to marry Thomas, she realized.

“Pen… it should not be Spencer who you are laying with. He does not know you as I do, cannot protect you,” Colin said, and he stepped closer to her now, forcing Penelope to back up against the door. “Please… let me.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes once again. “Did you not listen at all when we last spoke? I told you, I do not want a lover who feels he is doing me a duty or a favor, who seeks to be intimate with me out of a brotherly desire to protect rather than lust–”

At this, Colin let out a frustrated groan. “Penelope, on this matter I must be very clear: I do not know what fantasy you have concocted in your head, that I am offering myself to you as some sort of… obligation or because I believe it to be the gentlemanly thing to do. Or because I see you as a sister , Jesus fucking Christ. But I must assure you, that is not the case.”

She stared up at him as Colin towered above her, somehow managing to make himself taller. She said nothing, and he continued.

“I do believe you would be safer with myself over Spencer, and it would bring me relief to know you were taking such risks with myself instead of him. But that is not the reason I offer.”

God, he really was disturbingly handsome. She could not blame her younger self for following him around like a pathetic dog with a bird. 

She jutted out her chin, daring him to go on.

He breathed out, as if contemplating his next words. “I am offering because I desire you, Pen. Very much.”

Penelope felt her heart drop.

No. That could not be right.

Colin did not desire her. He had said as much.

She knew her pupils were widening, knew she had stopped breathing for a moment. She steddied herself, did her best not to lose her footing, to lose her upper hand. “Please do not lie to me, Colin. You forget that I heard you last season. I know how you feel for me.”

He bristled, frustrated. “And as I have told you , you should pay no credence to the ridiculous things I said last season. I regret those words more than anything, and I did not mean them.”

Penelope let out a cruel laugh at the lie. “Do not insult my intelligence.” 

“I do no such thing. I am not that stupid.” He ran a hand through his hair, making his curls more prominent and crazed. Frankly, he looked a mess. “And anyways, even if I did mean them, I do not believe I said a word about desiring you.”

He had not, she had to concede. The words were burned into her memory, would likely be repeating themselves over and over for the rest of her miserable little life. He had said he would not court her – had laughed at the very thought – but he had said nothing about her looks. “It was implied,” she offered.

“It was absolutely not. I have always found you to be lovely.”

“Oh please, do not be so cruel. It is one thing to desire me now that I do not look like an overripe lemon, but to pretend that you enjoyed me before… that is not a seduction technique I would recommend.”

Colin smiled, just the smallest bit. “So you concede that I am trying to seduce you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not very well.”

Colin did not reply for a moment, and Penelope noticed that he was no longer looking at her face, but had instead dropped his gaze to where her bosom lay, pushed up thanks to the placement of her arms. When he met her eyes again, he looked as she had never seen him before. He coughed, the tips of his cheeks turning red.

“Then perhaps I should take a different approach.” He took another step closer. “I have always found you to be very beautiful – do not try to interrupt me Pen, I know my feelings better than you–” he said when she went to correct him “–but I will admit that our time apart, the new experiences we have both gained, has made me see that beauty in a new light, made things clearer. I used to see you as a lovely young lady, as sweetness itself. I liked your yellow dresses – they made you seem bright and like sunshine. And that is how I saw you: as the sun.”

Penelope swallowed, taking in his words. “And now?” 

He had her all the way against the door now and his scent filled her. She felt the need to bury her nose in his neck, just to get more of it, and had to avert her gaze to stop herself.

“Now… now I dream of you every evening. I dream of your hair and your lips, of your perfect little figure. I dream of how you might taste, on your lips and… elsewhere.” At this, Penelope had to resist a moan. “I have actually found myself preferring sleep, because that is where I might find you.”

Penelope felt her breath hitch, tried to keep herself steady. Tried to not be affected, to remind herself that she was a worldly woman - she was no virgin, she had been made love to many times, in many different ways. She was not the docile, innocent young lady she had been last season, the one who Colin thought was so lovely. She was a woman.

But then again, Colin was not speaking to her like a girl. He was addressing her as a woman. As a woman he wanted.

“Pen,” he let out, his breath reaching her lips. “I would very much like to fuck you.”

Penelope breathed out slowly, and could feel her resolve weakening by the second. She attempted to remember all the reasons she had told herself that this would not happen – she was angry at Colin for his cruel words, she was no longer the girl who cared for him – but none of it seemed to mean anything. He was looking at her, terrified and yet as though he had never wanted anything more. It was heady.

He swallowed, and his next words were barely a whisper, so silent as they were. “May I… May I kiss you, Pen?”

Oh god. 

She should not let him. She knew that no good would come of it, that there was not a world in which Colin Bridgerton kissed her and she was not left in pieces. She knew that it would be wiser to say no, to stomp out of his lodgings and return home, to reject his pleas. She wanted to be the kind of woman who did not care, who had moved on and was firm in her decisions.

But it was just… she had dreamed of this since she was a girl.

Childhood fantasies of him lightly pecking her hand or cheek, occasionally brushing her lips. Dreams filled with intense desires she did not understand, did not have the words to comprehend but felt so powerfully. She thought that if the Penelope of even just a year ago had seen the scene in front of her – Colin, asking for a kiss, Colin wanting her – she would have died of happiness on the spot.

She did not think she had it in herself to deny that younger Penelope what she had dreamed of for so long.

Ever so slowly, as if it might break her, Penelope nodded her head in ascent. Colin let out a breath – half shock, half relief, as though he himself could not believe she had finally said yes – and then he was leaning down just as slowly, his lips touching hers for the first time.

And Penelope felt her world shift, as she always knew it would.

He was chaste, to start, so incredibly delicate. Penelope let herself have a moment to adjust to the feeling of his lips, his body crowding her in. There was a softness, a feeling of skittishness. It was as though their years of friendship – the letters and the barbs, so many shared words of affirmation – were infused in the kiss. She did not ever think this would happen, and yet, as he tentatively brought a hand to her waist, she was overcome with a sense of inevitability. 

It just felt so very right, to be kissed by Colin.

And then, quite suddenly, it was as if they both remembered that they knew how to kiss. She was no innocent young lady, he was not a boy who had yet to wet his wick. With every piece of nerve that Penelope had in her, she opened her mouth to him, reaching out her tongue to touch his.

And then… then it was something entirely different. 

He surged forward, both his hands now coming up to grip her waist, hard and possessive. She moaned into his mouth at the feel of it, reached out to run her fingers through his hair. His glorious, perfect locks, the ones she had wanted to touch since she was ten and six years of age. It was silky and smooth, everything she had ever wished for. God, but he was magnificent. 

He was kissing her quite passionately, all feelings of nervousness clearly forgotten. He lodged a leg between hers – he really was huge, it was absurd, making her feel so small and dainty – and Penelope did not think of it as she began to grind herself on it, desperate to relieve the ache that was starting to mount between her legs.

“Pen,” he groaned, rather obscenely. He seemed quite desperate himself, as if he could not believe what was happening, eyes pooled. She had to remind herself that he was experienced – likely much more so than herself – because he was acting quite green, groping her like a man who had never known a woman’s touch. His hands worked quickly to pull her dress down as far as it would go, gripping her bosom over her stays and moaning into her mouth at the size of her breast. 

He was ravenous, she could tell, in a way that Thomas had not ever been, and she could not pretend that it was not the most aroused she had ever been in her life. He was kissing her like a starving man, eager to touch every part of her, as if to possess and mark her as his own, and Penelope… Penelope could not deny how very much it pleased her. How the idea of being marked by Colin Bridgerton made her needy in ways she could not express.

When he finally pulled away, he looked hungrier than Penelope had ever seen him. Like a man without manners, who wanted to throw her on the bed and have his way with her. He looked like he was trying to control himself, to be a gentleman despite their present situation. It was overwhelming to watch, his reckless, needy desperation mingled with such dark intensity. Penelope guessed that she looked about the same.

She could tell, somehow, that they wanted the same thing – that they both desired something they did not have the words for, the manifestation of his possessiveness and her desire to be possessed. She thought back to every time with Thomas, the way he was kind but so very gentle, never giving her exactly what she wanted. She had not minded, of course, for it had been comfortable and likely what she needed as she explored the initial bounds of her sexuality. And while Thomas was her friend, he was also in so many ways a stranger– it would have felt wrong to voice the intense desires that would occasionally possess her.

But Colin… Colin was someone she had known half her life, someone who had seen her though everything. In spite of their recent arguments, she trusted him deeply, felt a regard of safety with him that she doubted she would ever feel with another. She knew he would not embarrass her.

And even more than that: she could tell that he wanted it just as much as she did.

“Colin…” she said slowly, locking eyes with him. “Tell me what to do.”

As the words slipped out, Penelope considered that she had never felt so incredibly vulnerable, wide and open and gushing all out. Colin paused for a long moment, the shock of her request sinking in. She worried for just a second over whether she had miscalculated – perhaps he did not share her specific proclivities – but then his face grew hard, much in the same way it had when he watched her converse with Thomas earlier in the evening, and she somehow knew their desires were the same.

“Strip,” he ordered, and his voice trembled but he was firm in a way that made her want to melt. “And get on the bed for me.”

Penelope could not help the moan that escaped her lips at his words. She very much liked that.

She did not know how she managed to get out of her dress so quickly – unlacing her stays in a haste, throwing off her chemise. Colin was slower, taking his time as he took off his boots and casually removed his shirt, his eyes raking over her hungrily. By the time Penelope was fully naked before him and slowly making her way towards his bed, he had not yet undone his breeches. 

It was nerve-wracking, being bare for him, and yet it gave Penelope a certain thrill, made her cunt throb with wetness. As she laid back on the bed, showing off her bosom for him (she had not liked it, when she was younger, how fat and uncontrollable her breasts were; she did not mind now), she admired his form. He really was the most handsome person she had ever met, and she had to stop herself from gasping at it, this large, imposing man. As if sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Her most cherished friend and also a god.

“You are so… so beautiful, Pen,” he said in awe as he stared at her, and it made her heart rumble, the way she pleased him, that they both so desired each other so very much.

Unconsciously, Penelope found herself opening her legs easily, presenting her cunt to him, wanting him to see all of her. His mouth fell open then, and for a moment, his confidence disappeared, and he was again the boy who had once let her win at Pall Mall (despite his fierce competitive edge) after her sisters had mocked her dress, who had written to her excitedly about exploring the slopes of Mount Olympus. Excited and endearing. The boy she loved.

(No. No, stop that. That was not what this was. This was not the time to be caught in her love, in feelings he would never return.)

He recovered a moment later, moving down to the edge of the bed on his knees before reaching over to grasp her bottom in both his hands, easily hauling her towards him, until her cunt was right in his face.

“Perfect,” he whispered as he stared upon her most private area, as though the words were for her cunt only. The thought made shiver, and she felt herself grow even wetter at his words. “You are making quite a mess, Pen,” he said to her then, and Pen could not help her gasp at his crass words. “Dripping all over the bed.”

And then he leaned over and feasted on her.

She had never experienced anything like it. Thomas had performed the act on her before, of course – he was a generous and dedicated tutor – and it had always been quite lovely. But this was… this was incredible. Colin ate her like a man dying of hunger, one who had been deprived of the most delicious nectar his entire life. He was ravenous and rough with her, and Penelope did not know if she could take it, how good it felt to be worshiped by Colin Bridgerton’s tongue. Before long he was adding a finger, then another and Penelope just– sat there and took it.

His fingers, long and thick and stuffing her deliciously. His tongue, lapping up her juices, desperate for every last drop. 

It was fucking glorious. 

When she could feel her release coming, Colin moved his mouth away, inserting a third finger into her and pumping them furiously, his eyes never leaving hers. 

“Come for me, dearest Pen,” he said roughly. “Be a good girl and release.”

Good girl. As if her body was in tune to his every command, she did as she was told.

It was exquisite, a feeling of bliss so overpowering that she could only lay there as if like a doll, shocked by the force of it. This was heaven– fuck every sanctimonious chaste cunt in the ton who had ever acted otherwise, who dared to judge any young lady who sought such carnal pleasures. This was bliss. It was holy fucking communion. 

And then, as if an angel shining through the clouds, Colin slowly moved off her body and stood before her, unbuckling his belt and removing his breeches, presenting his manhood to her for the first time.

Penelope thought, quite absurdly, that she would gladly worship at the altar of Colin’s cock for the rest of her days. 

And then she also thought: ah, so that is why he used three fingers.

He was large, so very long and fat and hard, angry red at the tip. She had appreciated what Thomas’ manhood could do for her, and felt quite proud of herself for not being scandalized the first time they accidentally walked in on a nude man posing at one of Granville’s parties (her good breeding chucked out the window, gone forever, she had thought, so very pleased). But she had not ever looked upon a cock and thought it could be beautiful.

How very wrong she was. There was no greater beauty than Colin Bridgerton, bare and hard and towering over her.

He fisted himself a few times, taking a moment to look at her, still reeling from her release and gagging for more. It was then that Penelope noticed that she was actually drooling like a dog and promptly closed her mouth, letting out a nervous cough. Colin smirked.

Very slowly, without speaking, he began kneeing onto the bed, moving towards the headboard and arranging her to be sitting in front of him on her knees. His long legs bracketed her, and Penelope took the opportunity to stare at his manhood now that it was even closer (perfect perfect perfect) and Colin stroked her tendrils delicately.

She waited for him to tell her what they would do next. She wanted him to tell her what to do oh so much.

He did not deny her.

“I would like you to sit upon my cock, Penelope,” he said. “Can you do that for me? Can you be my good girl?”

Oh god. She wanted that so very much. She crawled up the bed, never taking her eyes off his. She could feel herself gushing at his words (“good girl good girl my good girl”) and thought of the three fingers, how she felt ever so loose but knew it would not be quite enough, he was so large, there was no way it could possibly fit but she wanted to try, so desperately. She wanted to be good for him. 

When she sat above him and began to take his length inside her, he started letting out little curses, telling her how tight she was over and over. He was massive, his cock a monster. She had not known it was possible for a person to be so full without combusting.

Once she was fully seated, breathing down hard on his shoulders, he moved slightly to give her better access to lean against him, and she winced. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice suddenly laced with concern. Her friend Colin, still there.

Penelope nodded, and shifted slightly as she adjusted. “Yes,” she breathed out, keeping her eyes closed tightly. “You are just– you are much larger than Thomas. I have not been stretched like this before.”

Colin was quiet for a moment. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Penelope admitted, but she knew she was smiling. “But it is good. I am so, so very full, Colin.” Full of Colin Bridgerton’s cock, she thought, and then clenched around him. “I like it.”

At her admission, Colin brought a hand down to grip her bottom hard, the sound of it echoing throughout the room. Colin opened his mouth wide, clearly surprised by his own actions, and Penelope could not help the squeal that escaped her lips, and the way she wantonly moaned when she saw the look of shock on Colin’s face – first at the fact that he had done it at all and then at the way she so clearly enjoyed it.

It all happened very quickly after that.

Penelope started moving, thrusting down on his cock over and over. It was slow at first as she found her rhythm, and then it was quite fast, Colin fucking into her as she rose and then fell down over and over, his hands gripping her arsecheeks. She would have bruises in the morning, she realized at the thought, fat dark handprints that she would feel for days, maybe. She could not help whining at the image, and Colin fucked her harder.

“Pen,” he kept gasping, over and over, his voice rough with want. Penelope had tried to say his name back, and then found that she was no longer able to form words, the force of her desire too strong.

By the time Colin reached for her pearl, she was already almost over the edge yet again, and it did not take him long to help her find release, harder than she ever had in the past. She pulsed around him, writhing, loud noises of pleasure falling from her lips.

It was only a moment after she had finished that he was pulling out of her, throwing her body across the bed and then towering over her on his knees, fisting his cock. When he reached his peak, it was all over her bosom, and the look on his face – blissful, debauched, completely aghast at what he had done to her – was one that Penelope would not soon forget.

As he stared down at her, catching his breath, Penelope could not help reaching towards her chest and curiously taking a dollop of his spend upon her finger, licking it clear before she could think better of it. She had tasted a man's release before, of course, but there was something different to it being his.

Despite having finished only a moment earlier, Colin whined. “Fuck me.”

Penelope snorted.

Slowly, evidently still coming back to himself, Colin dropped down on the bed beside her, lazily pulling Penelope’s back towards his front. He laid with her for a moment as they came down, wrapping himself around her and whispering sweet words of praise in her ear (“you were so good, Pen, so absolutely perfect”). It was interesting, for she had been intimate with another man many times, and he was always perfectly kind after. But being like this with Colin – basking in their afterglow, sitting in the warmth of their lovemaking for a little longer – was not something she had experienced.

Eventually he extricated himself to retrieve a wet cloth, which he used to wipe his spend from her chest, before returning to the bed to hold her more, Penelope’s head settling on his chest. He began slowly running his fingers up and down her spine.

“Was it alright for you,” he asked a bit later, and Penelope could tell he was nervous. She wanted to laugh - she had very clearly found it to be excellent, she was not aware it was possible to feel so much pleasure. But he seemed unsure.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It was good.” And then, because he was still looking at her with so much uncertainty as to be painful, she added: “it was very good. It was… perfect.”

He let out a breath she was not aware he was holding in. “Good, that’s good. I was worried I was perhaps… not as gentle as I should have been. I am not usually… I have never acted as such, when laying with a woman. I have never been a brute.”

At that, Penelope shivered. “No that was – I very much enjoyed that. I had not experienced it like that before.”

Colin raised a brow. “Spencer, he has not…?”

“No,” she said quickly, not wanting to speak of Thomas at that moment. “He has never handled me that way. I do not think I would want him to – he is my friend, of course, but well… I believe I would be uncomfortable if he acted in such a way. I do not trust him as I trust you.”

The hand that Colin had been leisurely stroking against her back spread out almost possessively. Penelope did her best to suppress another shiver. 

“I preferred it,” she said quietly into his chest, unable to meet his eyes. “I preferred it with you.”

It felt shameful, to admit so to Colin, like a dirty secret she should keep hidden away for the rest of her days. That she preferred the hardness, the way he had handled her, roughly and passionately and yet with so much care. She could not deny that, while the act had been quite enjoyable with Thomas, what she and Colin had shared this evening felt transcendent, something she did not have words to describe.

It was surrender, she knew, to tell him so, to reveal to him just how much power he still had over her. But Penelope was so tired of fighting, so tired of pretending that she did not want to fall into Colin’s bed.

Colin squeezed her arse then, and she could see the same dark look in his eyes she had spotted when he was inside her. It made her feel like she was his. 

“Don’t go back to him,” he asked her, voice barely above a whisper. “Let me be your lover.”

Penelope could not tell if he was asking or begging, except for the pleading look in his eyes, the one that said he was desperate for it. God, she could not think of a worse idea. This was bliss, sitting in his arms with his spend on her tongue and cunt loose from his cock, feeling like she belonged to him when she knew she did not and never would. This was too close to what she had always wanted, but it wasn’t it, not actually. It was just the scraps. He did not love her.

But, she found herself accepting in that moment, it didn’t matter. Penelope had wanted Colin for as long as she could remember, had dreamed of him day and night. He was, for better or worse, the only person she would ever want, and she knew that now that they had been intimate, she would not want to be with Thomas or anyone else. From the moment his lips touched hers, she was ruined – more so than Thomas had ever made her.

“Okay,” she told him, and did her best not to cry, not to let it show that her heart was breaking even as she accepted him. “I won’t go back to him. You’ll be my lover.”

Colin let out a sound of relief and gripped her closer, placing his giant hands on her thighs to pull her up for a long kiss. He was clearly so very pleased that she had finally said yes, and the knowledge of it made her insides twist up, messy and thrilled and terrified all at once.

Colin Bridgerton was to be her lover. Penelope had never been more fucked.

Chapter Text

“I need you to tell me if it’s too much.”

Colin was standing behind Penelope but looking her straight on, their eyes locked in the mirror. His features were rough, pupils dilated. He looked about as desperate as Penelope felt.

Penelope, who had already found her release twice already, first on his tongue and then again on her own fingers, shoved deep inside herself as Colin watched, hand fisting his manhood. He had spoken words of filth to her as she writhed on her digits, begging him to give her his cock, and he smiled wickedly, called her wanton, and said that if she was a good girl and came for him as she was, he would fuck her like she needed and make her watch.

She had finished quite quickly after that.

And now, here she was: sitting up on her hands and knees in front of the large, imposing full-length mirror at the place in Bloomsbury, somehow still just as wanting for him as ever, as if she had not already been brought to the highest of pleasures several times during that very evening (as if it would ever be enough). Colin, kneeling behind her and ready to take her from behind.

They had not tried this position yet. When he entered her cunt, it felt like the first time – Colin was huge inside her, stuffing her to the absolute brim. His hands were firm on her hips, bruising, and Penelope had ducked her head down, overwhelmed by it all. How full he made her. How right it was.

“Pen,” he croaked gently, as she breathed out slowly, still adjusting to his size. He knew by now that she liked it, liked the stretch and feeling as if he was everywhere. He was no longer quite as careful as he had been the first time, so quickly attuned to what she needed. 

It was not long before the slight sting had started to recede, and any pain that Penelope might have initially felt began to morph into pure pleasure. Ever so lightly, she pushed herself back upon his cock for friction, and she heard Colin chuckle.

“I thought I had made myself clear, Penelope,” he said, his voice low, the way it sometimes got when they were intimate in this way. She felt one of his hands begin to nestle in her hair, fingers spreading around her red locks.

Then, just as suddenly, he made a fist, bunching her curls together and pulling hard , bringing her head up so that she could see their faces side by side in the mirror once again. Without thinking, she moaned.

“Be a good girl, Pen,” he said, hard and velvety. “Watch yourself as I fuck you.”

And Penelope did as she was told. 

Thomas had, all things considered, taken the news of his being replaced quite well.

“Is it because I pulled your hair that one time?” he asked in jest when she told him. They were sitting in the back garden at Featherington House, Rae standing just far enough to not hear a word of their conversation.

Penelope snorted. “It was actually because you did not pull it enough,” she told him, and Thomas broke out into a wild laugh, remaining always in good spirits even as she was ending things.

He really was the most affable sort of fellow, endlessly easygoing. His education in France had made him different from the other men of Mayfair – whilst there were plenty a rake among them, those men were almost always much too proud of themselves, too stifled by the rules of society to see how joyous it might be to actually enjoy the company of the woman they were sleeping with. Thomas had their charm and lust for gratification, but he did not appear to view women as something to either be owned or used and then discarded. 

It had made him a fine lover, if more so in his congeniality than actual skill set: while he was quite talented at bringing her to her fulfillment, and she would be forever grateful for his teachings, her encounters with Colin had showcased certain sexual incompatibilities with Thomas that she had not previously noticed – nothing extreme, but a clear misalignment of interests and personal ticks.

Still, she knew his spirit would eventually make him a fine husband to a very lucky wife. She was glad for her original insistence that they not wed – they were clearly better suited as friends, and a happy thrill had shot through her at the image of Thomas one day finding the love he so clearly deserved.

“Will you be seeking a wife now?” she asked, and Thomas grinned.

“My god,” he laughed. “She finds a new man to tickle her fanny and cannot even wait two minutes before trying to foist me on the eager young ladies of the ton .”

“I am simply asking a question, Thomas. I have been to your lodgings many times, and you cannot deny that they need a woman’s touch.”

“Perhaps.” Thomas shrugged, as if it was no matter to him, though there was a certain twinkle in his eyes that told Penelope this was not entirely truthful. “Are you volunteering then, to help me find a wife?”

“I would be most pleased to assist.”

“Hmmm… will your Mr. Bridgerton not mind, then? He does seem like rather the jealous type.”

Penelope rolled her eyes and tried to hide the faint blush that spread across her cheeks. Colin was, she would admit, incredibly protective of her – no doubt a sign of their many years of friendship. He also had a possessive streak that would often emerge during their lovemaking – fierce and insistent and, quite frankly, delicious – although Penelope suspected it was more a byproduct of the spirit with which they coupled than a true reflection of his feelings for her. 

Yet, while she could not deny that a happy jolt would roll through her every time he acted in such a brutish manner, her friendship with Thomas was important to her and she would not let Colin interfere.

“Colin will accept it,” she said simply. “He is not my keeper, and our friendship is special to me.”

Thomas smiled. “I am glad, truly. Your friendship is important to me as well,” he told her. “Though I imagine Bridgerton will remain on edge, at least until he has a ring on your finger.”

Penelope blinked. What?

It took a moment for the meaning of Thomas’ words to register, and when they did, she felt a terrible sort of feeling settle in her stomach, as though she had drunk too much champagne or not eaten enough vegetables. The idea that Thomas could possibly believe that – no , absolutely not. She shook her head furiously and quickly made to correct him.

“Colin will not be– what on earth? Colin is not going to marry me . We are only lovers, just as you and I were.”

Thomas’ eyebrow shot up. “You’re joking.”

“I am not , I assure you.” The whole conversation was making her quite flustered, and her insides would not stop turning uncomfortably. “He and I are dear old friends, which I do believe aids us in our… couplings–” she would not be elaborating “–but I can assure you, he will not be proposing. He does not love me, not like that.”

It was something that was occasionally hard to remember, when she could still feel his bruises on the bottom of her thighs. When he would always insist on escorting her back to Featherington House after their rendezvous, always giving her a blistering kiss goodbye and asking when they could meet again. He was just so Colin about it all, treating her as something precious. It was impossible for her to not want more.

But– if this was going to work, if she was going to make it out without getting her heart completely trampled on ( inconceivable , a small voice in her head whispered), then she needed to keep her head clear. It would not do her well to live in a fantasy.

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies.

Thomas seemed utterly unconvinced. “Bridgerton went into hysterics when he found us together. I do not believe I have ever seen a man so jealous.”

Penelope shrugged. “He is protective over me, yes. It is merely due to our long and tender friendship.”

“That did not seem like friendship to me,” Thomas said wearily, and ugh , she was going to have to explain it to him. It felt impossible to speak of it, but she really needed Thomas to see reason so that they could move on.

“At the end of last season he… he made it quite clear, through comments to some of his gentlemen friends, that he was uninterested in me. As a wife.” She did not think she could actually repeat his words, even as they were so seared into her memory. “He laughed at it,” she finished, this time quieter.

Thomas looked at her for a long moment, and Penelope started to feel shame trickle into her head. Oh god, what he must think of her – a pathetic, desperate girl, letting Colin Bridgerton into her bed when he had spoken of her so poorly. Giving him her body when it was quite clear he was uninterested in her heart – and when she wanted his more than anything.

It was pitiful, she thought. Thomas should pity her.

But Thomas was a good man. And he was perceptive, in ways that most were not. “I take it he had atoned, then. Considering your new… relationship.”

Penelope could only nod. “Yes, he had apologized quite profusely. I think it unsettled him greatly, my anger at him.”

“I imagine it would.” He paused for a moment, taking a look around the garden. It really was a lovely day; in the distance, Penelope could hear birds chirping. “You know, gentlemen are not always honest when we are amongst each other. There is a certain… pressure, in such situations. I am not saying that Bridgerton’s words were acceptable or right, but if you have forgiven him… I do not believe you should put too much stock in them. From what I have observed during my short time in Mayfair, he seems quite devoted to you.”

Penelope smiled sadly, and did her best to stop her eyes from filling with tears. “You are a very good friend for saying so. I do so appreciate you. And I know Colin cares for me, of course, but you must understand that it is just his way. He cares for everyone , his family, the staff in Bridgerton House. He had a broken engagement once– my cousin had become with child by another and tried to trap him. And, although it took time, Colin eventually came to forgive her for her actions, to understand that she was young and scared.” Penelope shook her head, doing her best not to dwell on the situation too much, as well as her own role in it. “He is the best of men to all. I am of no particular significance.”

He had told her she was special once, but that was of no matter. He believed many to be special.

Thomas’ eyes grew wide with recognition. “You love him.”

She nodded, looking down. There was no use denying it, not when she could practically feel her own love rolling off her body. “Yes.”

“I do believe… you should tell him. I do not think he would respond in the way you are thinking.”

It was a pleasant thought, she would admit, but Penelope shook her head. Thomas did not know Colin as she did, had never seen him in love. The way he felt for her… Penelope knew it was not the same as how she felt for him.

“I assure you, he does not love me,” she told him. Loudly and fervently. Firmly.

Thomas, at last, seemed to recognize that he would not prevail in his arguments. Penelope was not interested in going back and forth on whether Colin had feelings for her (when he so obviously did not ). It would do her no good.

“He might still try to marry you, though,” he offered instead. “He is much more the gentleman than I am, and you had to practically beat my proposal away with a stick.”

Penelope shrugged, avoiding his eyes so as not to reveal that he was not wrong – Colin had in fact already attempted to ask for her hand on the night they first became intimate, which Penelope had swiftly rejected much in the same way she had done with Thomas. She had made him promise not to press her on it, and had even threatened to go back to Thomas if he pushed her too much. Evidently, this had been enough to make Colin relent, although the entire conversation had felt very different to when she had originally discussed the matter with Thomas.

But then again, she knew it would. 

(“Pen… I really do believe that it would be best if we–”

“ No ,” she had practically spat, refusing to look him in the eyes. “I will not have you marry me out of pity, Colin. We will either be lovers or nothing.”

And Colin had looked torn then, a glint in his eyes that Penelope could not read, before he had accepted her terms - was probably privately thanking her not forcing him into a union with her - and nodded resolutely.)

“He might, but I will reject him, as I rejected you,” she said instead, hoping her tone would hide how much this all was breaking her into little pieces. “It would be my greatest horror, to end up trapped in a marriage to a man I hold so dearly who did not love me.”

A horror show. A life of resentment, Colin growing colder as the years went by. Always, desperately, clinging to every kiss, every smile, even if they would slowly fade as he would become aware of what he had done, who he had tethered himself to. The moment when he would no longer seek his pleasures from her, once she had produced a son. When he would begin leaving at strange hours, returning home smelling of whores or, even worse, a mistress.

No. She would not do that to herself. She was perhaps a fool, letting him in her bed at all when she knew he could never love her as she loved him, but she would not be so cruel to her own heart as to allow her life to stew in such misery.

Beside her, Thomas gave her a strange look. He did not believe her fully, she knew, but it did not matter. When, years from now, Colin was married to a lovely young wife with a beautiful pack of brown-haired babies (not a lock of red in sight) – happier than either of them had ever seen him – then Thomas would understand. He would nod at Penelope ever so slightly, likely by the side of his own bride, recognition passing between them: you have done the right thing, letting him go. He is happier than he would ever have been with you.

He would see, one day. 

In 1815, he still did not.

“I understand that you no longer wish to discuss it, and as your friend, I will respect your wishes,” he said. “But I really must advise: I think it would do you well to speak with one another, honestly. I think there is much left unsaid between you two that would do well to be out in the open.”

Penelope chose not to listen.

There was, of course, a great risk in taking Colin as a lover. 

Pen had known this from the moment she let him slip his tongue inside her mouth, felt it every time he entered her. She had discounted, when she originally began sleeping with Thomas, how the lack of romantic feelings between them had contributed towards the ease of their relationship. With Thomas, the separation of feelings and the physical act of love making had been quite straightforward, effortless to compartmentalize.

With Colin, the situation could not be more different. If she was a smarter woman, she would have recognized this right away – would have stopped him in his tracks from the start or, at the very least, not allowed him to return to her bed once they had first been intimate. If she were wise, it would have been an easy decision.

But with Colin, things were never easy. And this line of thinking, while deeply rational, unfortunately left out one crucial element:

As a lover, Colin was outstanding .

Penelope had known, after they came together for the first time, that they were clearly compatible. She always enjoyed the act with Thomas, who was mindful and considerate, a worthy teacher. She had believed, after she had surrendered her virtue, that she knew what the world of pleasure had to offer. She had been quite content.

She had been a fool.

It was nothing like it had been with Spencer: Colin was incredibly attentive and caring towards her as well, but he was also rough in a way she craved, handled her not like a delicate debutante but as someone to be fucked . During the mornings following their encounters, which were becoming quite frequent, Penelope would always be able to feel a delicious soreness between her thighs, a reminder that she had been had .

It was the purest form of bliss, she thought.

Colin took her places she did not think it possible to go, made her feel hazy and completely outside of her body. Sometimes when their lovemaking was particularly fierce, Penelope would find herself floating in a kind of trance, distilled down to nothing but pleasure. When she would awake, it would always be to Colin holding her tightly, whispering words of praise in her ears over and over, making Penelope feel so beautiful and taken care of and loved . She sometimes found herself craving to be made undone just so that Colin could put her back together again, so that she could feel that she was his for just a moment.

It was a revelation. That Colin – the boy who had rescued her from bullying debutantes and scheming uncles, who had written to her passionately about the world. Who she had known through so many stages, had watched grow and emerge as a man – that he could be this for her as well. That he could see inside her to the depths of her most perverted desires, and that somehow, miraculously, he matched them. He drew them out, pulled them from her body, and did not shy away or judge. But stayed with her, nourished them. Gave her what she needed.

Craved the depravity as well.

Penelope knew, obviously, that she was ruined for anyone else. She had known it before they started, known it from the moment her bonnet had flown away and Colin had fallen off his horse. Well, that wasn't very well done of me , was it? he had said, and Penelope’s chances of ever loving another were shot. And then, the night they had first joined together, she had known it again: from the way he had kissed her, filled her completely. 

He obviously, patently, did not love her. It was something that Penelope had to remind herself of every day, a precaution to protect her heart. He did not love her and he would not love her and it would do her well not to forget it, not to let what they were doing distract her from the fact that one day, not too far from now, he would marry someone else.

But with every new act they tried – every step they took into the deviant, every way she let him corrupt her and she him – she knew she was done for. He had pried her open, seen every single sliver of her soul. She could not stop herself.

And just as firmly as she knew that he did not love her, she also was keenly aware that there was simply no universe in which he did not see the strength of her affections towards him: she was good at secret keeping, but she was not that good. And yet, he did not shame her for it. He gave her everything he could, matched her in whatever ways were possible. He did not love her, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved this , the way they were together. She had never been so close to having what she wanted. It was that fact alone that would keep her coming back, again and again, until he was done with her.

She just hoped he would be gentle when he decided it was time to leave.

“You look quite fetching this evening, Miss Featherington.” Penelope was standing on the edge of the ballroom when Colin found her, sipping her lemonade and covertly listening for gossip. “I do not believe I have seen you in that color.” 

She was wearing a gown of light purple, almost a pastel, and there were subtle little flowers sown about her skirt. Her hemline was, as with all her dresses this season, quite low.

Penelope had to fight a smile. Colin had a sparkle to his eyes, far too smug to mean anything good. He looked like he wanted to ravish her on the very spot, the rake, but he was so very handsome, and Penelope did not think she could blame herself for the tingle that went up her spine. She believed anyone would respond in this manner, on receiving such a look from Colin Bridgerton.

But she could not have Colin acting too obvious and spoiling their fun. It was of the utmost importance that they remain a secret, not be discovered and forced into an unhappy union. “I have not seen you dance with any young ladies tonight, Mr. Bridgerton,” she noted, giving him a pointed look. “Are you tired?”

“Not particularly,” he said, full of cheek. “You are correct that I have not yet danced. Dare say, would you do me the honor of joining me for the next waltz? You know I do so enjoy our dances.”

“I know you do,” she mumbled, bringing her glass to her lips. She eyed Colin’s whiskey. “But alas, for I am very tired and think it will be best if I remain off the floor for the rest of the evening.”

“Then I shall as well.”

“ Colin! ”

“What?” he asked, faux-innocence written across his face. “There is simply no one here who I would like to dance with but you. There is a rather large lack of coordination happening out there, and I would prefer to spare my feet. You are the only one I would trust to keep me safe.”

Penelope huffed, rolling her eyes even if his words did send a happy tingle through her body. She did so hate to see Colin dance with others. 

“To be quite honest,” he continued, leaning in just a bit closer and lowering his voice. He was careful to keep his eyes on the floor, and Penelope did not think anyone present would notice their new position. Still, it excited her greatly. “I do not want to dance at all. What I would like to do is take you to the very back gardens and have my way with you against the fig tree.”

Penelope breathed out slowly. This was dangerous, so very dangerous.

She felt herself grow warm beneath her undergarments.

“Would you like that, dear Pen? My manhood thrusting into you, pushing you against the hard bark? It would scratch your back and leave many marks. You might feel them for weeks .”

“ Colin .” 

She knew her whine was pathetic, far too needy for a refined ballroom. This was just what he did to her, made her insatiable, always hungry for more. 

She looked up into his eyes, pleading. He’d had a devilish spirit about him, but as their eyes locked, he softened. It somehow managed to make her feel just as profound. 

“I am sorry to rile you up, love”–god, she could not have him using that word–“you just tempt me so, standing in your pretty dress. It is heavenly .”

No, he was heavenly. Tall and overpowering, gentle until he was not. He had the eye of every woman in the ballroom, the envy of all his peers. And he was here with her, hugging the walls, practically begging her to let him have his way with her.

“Will you be in Bloomsbury this evening?” she asked, reaching for another sip of lemonade to help calm herself.

“If you would like me to be.”

“Yes, please.”

He smirked. He would be the death of her and she would enjoy every minute of it.

Penelope took a moment to gather herself, breathing in and out to push away the intense desire he had stirred in her. “Then you must take your leave of me, until then.”

Colin frowned.

“It will look suspicious if we are seen speaking alone for too long.” And then, because this answer clearly did not satisfy him, she added, “and I was listening for gossip before you so rudely interrupted me. I have a job to do, do I not?”

This at least seemed to quell his annoyance, and he smiled at her. They did not speak of Whistledown often, but he did not appear to want to interfere with her work.

“Very well, Miss Featherington,” he said, and Penelope could swear he almost reached for her hand as he bid her adieu. “I shall be eagerly awaiting our reunion.”

“Tell me of your travels,” she asked him later that same evening, as they were lounging in front of the fire at his lodgings, sweaty and sated. “Where did you enjoy the most?”

Penelope had her head laid atop Colin’s chest, breathing in his musky scent as he lazily ran his fingers up and down her back. At her question, he shrugged. “I cannot say. After a while, they all began to seem like more of the same.”

“You are such a man ,” Penelope grumbled, rolling her eyes. “You have the freedom to travel about the world, see the most amazing sights, and you tell me they are all the same ? If I could travel, I know I would treasure every moment.”

“I am sure that is true,” Colin laughed, and she could hear the smile on his face even if she could not see it. “I have no doubt that you would be an excellent travel partner.”

Penelope blushed. She did not think she could imagine anything as wonderful as the idea of traveling the world with Colin by her side.

“You are not wrong. How many cities did you say it was again, sixteen?”

“Seventeen, actually.”

“Exactly! Seventeen cities in four months is a great feat, Colin,” she said. “And I know how you so enjoyed Greece and Turkey the year before. I cannot believe you did not have a marvelous time this year as well.”

Colin was quiet for a moment at this, as if contemplating how best to phrase his next words. “If I must be honest Pen, the truth is that I did not enjoy my travels this year in the same way as I had before. The absence of your letters… it impacted me greatly.”

Penelope felt shocked – she had not considered this. 

Since beginning their arrangement, she had thought she might now return to the letters he had sent her when he was away, now that the betrayal she had felt when she originally received them had finally dissipated. She knew, of course, that she could always ask him of his time abroad, as she had tonight, but she did so miss his writing; he truly did write so well, had a way of putting words on the paper that made it seem effortless. While she would always prefer to have Colin close, where she could see and speak with him herself, she could not deny his letters would forever hold a special place within her heart.

But she had never thought that her letters to him, the banal updates she would share on Mayfair and his family and occasionally herself, would be of great consequence to him. He had told her at Lady Danbury’s ball that he had missed her, yes, but she had not thought that her absence would have affected him so.

“Not that I blame you, at all of course. You should not have replied, considering what a bastard I was.” He paused for a moment, as if contemplating just how much of a bastard he had been. “I really am so very sorry for my callous comments last year,” he said quietly. She looked up and was surprised to find his eyes vulnerable, a sincerity present that she had not expected. “You must know, not a day goes by that I do not regret them.”

The force of his attention made her uncomfortable. “It’s fine.”

“It is absolutely not ,” he retorted with feeling. “It was rude and disrespectful, not just to you but to our years of treasured friendship. I will admit that those men were speaking your name and I– I did not like it. I wanted to make them stop, and I was quite drunk, but that is absolutely no excuse–”

“Colin,” interrupted, breaking him out of his rant. “It is alright. I… I have forgiven you.” 

This did not seem to temper his fury at himself. “You should not forgive me,” he said with a huff. “ I do not forgive me.” 

Penelope hated herself a little at that moment – for how easy forgiveness had come. She had been so very angry with him – even still, remembering his words sent a certain heartache through her body. There had been a time when she thought her anger would burn forever, when he would forever be the boy who broke her heart.

But it was hard to hate him, when every day he made her feel beautiful, like a goddess. When he would smile just so, either from across the ballroom or Hyde Park or from between her legs, boyish and ever eager to please. He was always Colin; it had been a lovely to see him emerge from the shadows these last few weeks, stepping out of the strange armor he had been wearing since his return from his travels. A man who felt nothing and needed no one, when Colin was in fact the opposite: always passionate, excited and brimming with emotions, so very pleased to be with his family or his friends or her .

By god, did she love him. 

“Colin, if I have learned anything from my column, it is that I do not believe any person is without faults or things we desperately wish we could go back and change. I do not think you should punish yourself for what you said forever, especially if you feel it is what you owe me. I have told you that you have my forgiveness, I would like you to respect me enough to believe me.”

Her and Colin were children no longer. Their friendship would never be what it once was, Colin the fearless hero and Penelope his wide-eyed admirer. But, as she lay upon him, his hand still casually stroking down her back as his nerves began to calm, she thought perhaps what they had was better: something based in maturity, a knowledge that they were both flawed but always trying their best. It would never be an entirely honest friendship (as her forever beating heart kept reminding her), but it would be closer. Something that they could hold onto and treasure.

“You are not the only one of us who has made mistakes or has things to atone for,” she found herself saying, the meaning of her words hanging in the air. “We never spoke of it. My being Whistledown.”

Colin froze for a moment, looking at her with a quirked eyebrow. “I suppose we did not.” He then went back to his movements.

Penelope did not know why she was so interested in discussing it, for it clearly was not a great concern of Colin’s. And yet, like always with him, she could not help herself. “It surprised me greatly that you were not angrier about it,” she said. “I expected you to be angrier.”

On the floor, Colin shrugged once again. “It surprised me too, I suppose. I wonder if I had learned in another way, it might have upset me more. But I was so preoccupied with your having a lover that anything else seemed much less important.”

Despite herself, Penelope giggled. She was endlessly obsessed with it, his clear jealousy at Thomas. She knew it did not mean he loved her, per say, but the idea that he felt such a possessiveness over her body excited Penelope greatly. She felt a heat pool within her stomach, and thought that if she wanted, she could end the conversation there, climb him like a tree or inch down even lower, taking his giant cock in her mouth and–

She shook her head, surprised at her own ability to get distracted by this man so easily.

“I just… after Eloise… I did not think you would react so well, is all.” She did not like thinking of Eloise, even though her former friend floated into her mind often. It felt strange, that she had changed so much in the past year and Eloise had somehow not been present for any of it. She wondered how she would feel about her romp with Colin (she imagines there would be many faces of disgust) and desperately wanted to take her to a Granville party, to see her under the champagne lights. Most of all, she longed for their deep conversations, which she had managed to miss every day.

Colin frowned at her, clearly sensing her sadness. “I am so very sorry that you two have not made up yet. I am sure that, with time, you will come together again.”

Penelope could not help her snort. “Are we speaking of the same Eloise? The most stubborn woman in all of Mayfair?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “The same Eloise who has spent the season pretending to be someone she is not, who is quite clearly so sad without you . That Eloise.”

Penelope buried her head in Colin’s shoulder. The thought – that Eloise was heartbroken to have lost her as well, that there might be hope… it was too much to handle.

“But… you really don’t mind, about Whistledown,” she asked, changing the subject. “After everything with Marina?”

It felt sacrilegious to bring it up, to remind Colin in the middle of their afterglow that he had laid with the woman who had broken his engagement. Who had destroyed the life of a young, desperate girl – the only woman he had ever loved.

And yet, somehow, Colin was not running for the hills at the mere mention of her name. “I will admit that– I feel bad for Marina, for how you treated her. At the time I don’t think I would have, but in the years since, I have felt sorry for her, for the situation she had found herself in.”

Penelope agreed wholeheartedly. She had often contemplated, these past few months, how the only difference between the two women's situations was that Penelope had been lucky enough to lay with men who chose to spare her from motherhood. If not for this, she would have surely ended up with the same fate.

“But at the same time,” Colin continued, and he was going slowly, clearly selecting his words carefully. “While I do feel for Marina, I cannot say that I am angry at you for what you did. You saved me from a terrible life, a marriage devoid of love or trust. Selfish as it is, I think I will be forever grateful for it.”

“But– but it would not have been loveless? You loved Marina.”

At this, Colin actually laughed. “Oh I most certainly did not ,” he said emphatically. “I believed myself to be in love because I was young and foolish and quite desperate to prove myself. But I never loved her, not truly. And I know that once I discovered her secret, any affection I had would have disappeared quite quickly. It would have been a terrible situation for all parties.”

In the years since, Penelope had never thought of it like that . She had known that Marina did not love Colin, that she likely never would, but she had assumed– Colin had been so eager, so taken with her. After last season, when he had mentioned he visited her, Penelope had been sure that it meant the love had been true and still a bitter bruise.

It was strange to consider any alternative.

And then, looking down at her through the light of the fire, Colin suddenly smiled wickedly. “We’re quite lucky that you intervened, Pen,” he said. “What would have happened if I married your cousin and then realized the depth of my desire for you . Things could have gotten quite complicated.”

Penelope slapped him across the shoulder for his cheek, for his scandalous insinuation, but she was smiling through it, at the utter fantasy of him choosing her again and again.

They rustled lightly for a moment, before Colin placed both of his hands on his arsecheeks and rolled them over, bracing himself above her. He moved his fingers to her face then, kissing her gently. Reverently.

He was just so good at this, kissing her and making Penelope feel like it was more . Every time he kissed her, it was as though he could not believe it was happening, that he was so lucky. It was as heady as it was unnerving.

Despite the fact that they had only finished making love a little earlier, Penelope could feel a dampness begin to nestle between her legs. She reached up then, taking the hand that Colin had been stroking across her cheek and bringing it to her folds, letting him pet her. Her cunny was still quite tender from when he had taken her earlier, but she could not deny that she rather enjoyed the way it made her feel – used and sloppy. Colin continued to delicately move his finger up and down her sex, ever so gently. It was not enough.

Slowly, she opened her legs ever so slightly, enough to tell him to continue. Unsurprisingly, Colin gave her a little smirk before slipping a finger inside, and Penelope could not help the way she sighed, happy to be filled once more. 

“ Fuck ,” Colin choked out. “You are always so eager , dear Pen, always ready for me to take. Whenever I want.” Penelope could not help the noise that escaped her then, and Colin continued, clearly burgeoned by her response. “Would you like that, if I just used you whenever the idea struck me? Being my toy to fuck?”

Good fucking lord, but she did . Penelope could not help picturing the fantasy, one where they resided together and she would be Colin’s to use however he pleased. He would return from errands or drinking with his brothers, and without asking, would bend her over wherever the nearest surface was and take her, hard, pistoning in and out of her at his own leisure. Or perhaps he would prefer her mouth, would order that she drop to her knees (and she would ) and fuck her throat. Or – they had not done this act yet, but she had thought of it from time to time whilst playing with her pearl – he would lay her own on the floor and push her breasts together, fucking between them before spilling across her face.

God, for Penelope was truly a sick woman. She often surprised herself with how lewd her thought would become, the disgusting acts that she desperately wished for Colin to perform on her. She knew, with much certainty, that she would surely never see the pearly gates of heaven. 

But if this bliss was the prize for an eternity of damnation… well, she did not think it was so terrible a fate.

Above her, Colin inserted two more fingers, slowly despite her wetness. She truly was still a little sore from their earlier romp, wincing ever so slightly, and even through the fog of lust, Colin seemed to understand that he must still be delicate. 

“Darling girl,” he said sweetly. “So tender and yet so desperate. I fucked you so very hard earlier and you’re still feeling it, and yet all you seem to desire is to be filled up again.”

Penelope nodded. “Yes, please . Your cock…”

“ Pen ,” he breathed slowly, as though it pained him. “I want to give you my cock so very much. But I am afraid you will already be sore for days.”

She did not see why this mattered. Penelope liked being sore, liked feeling like he was with her even when they had to go several days without. He knew this as well, and would often make love to her passionately so as to leave marks. It was what he had already done earlier this evening, and she knew that even without another round, she would be happily tender all week.

Truly, she knew he would not deny her unless he felt they were on the edge of going too far, and in the back of her mind she could appreciate the care he was taking, the way his protection of her knew no bounds.

But – his cock . She so very badly wanted his cock.

She bit her lip, racking her brain for an alternative. She could offer her mouth, of course, or maybe even her arse – they had also not tried that yet, but the concept had intrigued her ever since she had discovered it was a possibility – but the truth was that in this particularly moment, it was her cunt that wanted him desperately, needed to be filled. She would not be satisfied if she did not take his cock again this evening.

“Perhaps… perhaps you could just enter my cunny and not move about so much?” she offered, unsure. She could not deny that she found the concept quite erotic – him buried inside her to the hilt and staying put , keeping her stuffed up. Maybe they would even fall asleep in such a position and then she would wake to the feeling of him still inside her. A wonderful thought.

But she did not know if Colin would get any enjoyment out of it. While she knew that bringing her pleasure seemed to please him greatly, she could not deny that his earlier rumblings of using her were still sitting happily in her gut, and she did not want them to embark on an act that would not relieve him as well.

“Would you… do you think you would enjoy that, Colin? I do not know if it would be as nice, not being able to fuck me properly, but perhaps it would not be so bad? I could keep your cock nice and warm.”

Colin let out a long breath, his eyes dark and surprised. Then he smiled, wide and bright, like she had just offered him her remaining biscuits. 

“Yes, Pen,” he said, sounding somehow both rough and giddy. “I think I would enjoy that very much.”

It took them a moment to arrange themselves – there was some conversation on whether she should sit upon him or him above her. Eventually, they settled on Colin taking her from behind, with Penelope’s back to his front and both their faces to the fire. Before he went to enter her, Colin (smart man that he was) grabbed a blanket and pillow for them both, ensuring they were quite cozy before they settled themselves for a bit longer.

Penelope sometimes thought he got quite a lot of fulfillment out of caring for others; even when he was at his roughest, he always took pains to hold her and ensure that she had drank enough water. She imagined he probably would not have engaged in this sort of behavior with a paid harlot, and she wondered if this part was new to them both. If, in addition to discovering their proclivity for the perverted, they had also together been introduced to a lovely sort of softness that could be found in such intimate acts.

He was very gentle as he laid down behind her, kissing her neck lightly before moving his hand back to its place between her folds. He played with her for a long while, ensuring that she was dripping over his fingers before he dared enter her. When he finally inserted his cock, he did so slowly, kissing her neck as she felt the light burn, the one that told her he was right not have have fucked her properly so soon.

And yet… she loved every moment of it. When he was all the way inside, the stretch of him aching and yet so very lovely , she could not help a happy little sigh.

Behind her, he chuckled. “You’re enjoying this, then?” he asked, just the lightest edge of worry to his voice. “It’s not too much?”

Penelope simply smiled, then answered once she remembered he was behind her. “No, it’s not too much. It’s so nice , Colin,” she told him. She knew she sounded slightly drunk, perhaps a little dazed, but she could not stop herself. It all felt wonderful – the warmth of the fire and the blanket atop them, the feeling of him behind her, big and imposing. His cock inside her felt perfect, thick and giant and molding her to its shape, and Colin had even taken one of his hands and laid it possessively upon her breast. She wondered, through her lust, if she had ever felt more content.

She hoped he enjoyed it half as much as she did. “Is this alright for you?”

Instead of answering, Colin squeezed her bosom and laid a kiss upon her neck. “I do not think I could imagine a better way to spend an evening if I tried,” he told her, echoing her own thoughts. “My perfect cockwarmer. My perfect girl.”

They stayed just like that – lounging by the fire, his cock buried deep within her, keeping her perfectly stuffed and content and happy – for a very long time.

Penelope’s commitment to help Thomas seek a wife had not been a lie, and in the weeks following her promise to aid him, she took to her set task with gusto, excited for the opportunity to help her new friend. She had felt a little poorly about how easily she had discarded him in favor of Colin (and for the fact that she was very, very happy in her decision), and while she did not think Thomas actually minded (he had jovially told her about a thrilling encounter at a brothel not two days later), she quite liked the idea of seeing him settled and happy.

She also was, thanks to her time as Whistledown, uniquely equipped to assist on such an assignment.

“Miss Kenworthy looks particularly fetching this evening, does she not?”

“She does. I believe it is because she is trying to catch the attention of Lord Cho. The two were spotted promenading just yesterday, and he called on her the day before.”

Thomas frowned, looking elsewhere. “Hmmm. And what of Miss Livingston, just over there. I quite daresay she looks like she could use a glass of lemonade.”

Penelope winced. “Probably, and I will not deny she is quite eligible. But she also is a bit of a bully; I heard her mocking Miss Stowell’s dress at the Four Seasons Ball.”

“Christ,” he grumbled. “Perhaps I shall remain a bachelor forever. What a pair of friends we shall be, Penny.” He took a long sip from his drink, scouring the room, and Penelope felt great sympathy for his troubles.

“I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she said, genuinely. “I am sure there is a young lady present who will catch your eye who will not have any skeletons in her closet. The season is still young.”

“The season is half over,” he reminded her, although he did not seem too put out. He could always find a wife next season, of course, because he was a gentleman. He did not have to primp and stress himself, worried that if he did not make a match this season, his prospects would dwindle and dwindle until they were all dried up. He had time . 

What a concept.

It was then that Colin sidled up to them, taking the spot beside Penelope with purpose. Since they had begun their affair, Colin has softened on Thomas slightly – evidently, he realized he did not have a very strong leg to stand on against the fellow, considering that he was now the one warming her bed – but he still had a strange tick about him whenever Thomas spoke with her, and if there was an opportunity for him to insert himself, he would.

(“I promise you, I truly do not mind your friendship at all,” he had said to her one evening, when she had brought it up.

“Good, because you do not have a say in it.”

“I know that ,” he grumbled, lightly flicking her bottom. “But I still cannot help… there is a feeling in my stomach, seeing you two together and knowing that you have been– intimate. I would never try to control you, Pen, but I cannot deny that it makes me uneasy.”

Penelope had rolled her eyes. “You sound as if you are jealous.” And Colin had been quiet for a long moment, clearly uncomfortable by her insinuation when he obviously was not , and then they had discussed it no longer.) 

“What are we speaking about?” he asked, and Penelope felt him graze the back of her dress as he reached over for a pastry. Subtle.

“Dear Penny here is trying to help me find a wife. She is quite the skilled matchmaker.”

Penelope snorted. “I just cautioned you against all of the ladies you suggested,” she said.

“Ah yes, because you are a good friend and do not wish to see me make a poor decision! While we have not been off to a particularly good start, I do firmly believe that, should I marry, it will be entirely thanks to your skilled aid, and that I will be singing your praises in my wedding speech for assisting me in discovering my true love.”

Colin raised his eyes, clearly amused despite his mixed feelings towards Thomas. Penelope then had a sick thought: what if, when it was time, Colin asked her to help him select his future bride? 

Quite suddenly, she did not want to be having this conversation any longer.

“I think I see my mama trying to catch my attention,” she muttered, setting her plate down. “I will go to her.”

“I shall escort you.”

“Colin, that is not–”

“Will the two of you be attending the Granville party this evening?”

Penelope and Colin exchanged a look. They had not attended one of those soirees since the night Colin had caught her with Thomas, despite the fact that it had now been well over a month since they began their rendezvous. It was as though they had been in a private bubble, too preoccupied with each other to venture outside. It had not, Penelope was realizing, even occurred to her.

But… it could be a good time, she considered. She had always enjoyed those parties, the smoke and the lights, the pure debauchery of it. They were where she had first gotten to know herself outside of what society expected her to be, where she had learned to be a whole new kind of Penelope Featherington. She could not deny it was exhilarating.

And to do so with Colin… to experience the joy of the party with him, her best friend always. She could not deny that the idea thrilled her slightly – it had been enjoyable enough attending them with Thomas, and she did not know him nearly as well as Colin. Perhaps, if they attended together, it could be a cause of great fun.

From the look on Colin’s face – intrigue and excitement, as well as the twinkle he sometimes got in his eyes right before he took her – he quite agreed.

A cause for a thrill indeed.

It was better than any Granville party before it.

Penelope had not thought it was possible to top her first night of decadence, when she had learned that so much more was possible, that she could be more than she ever thought. The night she had drank champagne until she was silly and met Thomas and discovered the kind of rapture they kept safely tucked away from young ladies. There had been a sparkle to that evening, a shine that could not be replicated. Penelope had assumed it would always be that way.

She had been wrong.

It was just – Colin would not stop touching her, all over, the entire night, in ways that would be considered scandalous among even the longest married couples of the ton . He was tame as they sat in the hired hack, even as they walked up to the front entrance. He did not go beyond the limits she had set for him, the rules he knew he must follow. But as soon as they were inside… the fucking damn broke. He could not seem to help himself.

He wrapped an arm around her waist proprietarily as she hung her coat. When he went to fetch them drinks, he dragged her along, clutching her hand tightly. As they sipped their cocktails and watched the other partygoers, he practically had her in his lap on one of the settees, constantly shifting to whisper observations and gossip in her ear. He was not unlike a slobbering dog, she considered, playing with its favorite toy. Penelope loved it.

When they were amongst society, he obviously could not act this way. Penelope had been clear from the start that they were not to raise eyebrows – it would do them no good having the rest of the ton assuming Colin was courting her. Whilst she occasionally suspected that Colin did not particularly enjoy these rules (for reasons she could not understand), he always respected them. 

But of course, this party was not for society. It did not matter, here, how a man and woman no one knew handled themselves.

It was slightly alarming though, as Colin had never acted in such a way in mixed company before, and it was only when they were joined by Thomas, who had been chatting up a pretty blonde opera singer, and Colin immediately slung an arm over her shoulder possessively that Penelope figured out what the meaning of it was.

Colin was claiming her. Marking her as his own.

Oh fuck . She fucking liked that. 

She noticed it then – the way he was staring daggers at any man who leered at her or spent too long looking at her bosom (it was slightly on display that evening – but of course, it always was for Granville’s parties). How he would not let her out of his sight, kept her close. The way he kept kissing her forehead, her neck. Her lips, as they swayed to the music.

Colin had always been a particularly possessive lover, and Penelope would not deny that this often excited her (she could even feel herself starting to become slightly damp just now), but she had assumed it was merely a sort of sexual game, playacting they did in between the sheets. They had never truly been together in public before, where others could observe them. 

And evidently, it was the looks of such observers that spurred Colin on so wonderfully.

Thomas, cheeky bastard that he was, offered them some sort of white power mixture later in the evening, saying it was supposed to be heavenly. After they had each snorted it through their noses, Penelope crushing the excess powder on her lips, Colin began mauling her neck incessantly right in the middle of the dining area.

“Colin, you’ll leave a mark” she attempted to chastise him, though she supposed the squeal she let out likely did not deter him. It just felt so lovely, his hands and his lips and the little, perfect jolt of pain she felt as he sucked a bruise on her collarbone. The powder was making Penelope feel  marvelous, like she was a divine entity and Colin her worshiper. She never wanted it to end.

When he pulled away, Colin flashed her the smuggest grin that Penelope had ever seen, boyish and rakish at once, clearly quite proud of his work. Behind them, Thomas snorted.

“Jesus fuck, Bridgerton. Why don’t you just piss on her and get it over with.”

“Fuck off, Spencer,” Colin said easily, without looking away from Penelope. She did not think she would like for him to do whatever it was Thomas had suggested (and god, she really was learning new depravity every day), but a memory of Colin spending across her bosom earlier that week flashed through her mind, and she wondered if he might consider doing it again this evening.

The rest of the party went by in a blur. Thomas’ white powder made Penelope feel lovely all over, a ball of energy and life and wantonness. Colin lasted no more than five minutes before he dragged her upstairs, to the very room he had caught her in with Thomas all those weeks ago, and he made passionate love to her, furiously pumping his cock in and out as he whispered absolute filth in her ear.

“My good fucking girl, so pretty on my cock,” he spat between thrusts. “They’ll all know when we leave this room, how desperate you are for me. I bet they’ve been able to smell it on you, like a bitch in heat.”

Penelope’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. God, she wanted that, she wanted every single partygoer to know that she was his . “Yes, please – Colin! ”

“They’ll know you’re mine ,” he panted, and it felt so fucking good , his cock and his words. “Wish I could spend inside you and show them , make them all see. You’d let me, wouldn’t you, Pen? You’d let me do whatever I wanted to you.”

“ Yes! ” She found herself clenching around him, her release coming swiftly at just how much she did in fact want that. To belong to Colin. “I want it, I’ll take anything from you.”

“Fuck– fuck! ” And then he was desperately pulling out of her, spilling down her thigh, and kissing her – kissing her cheeks and her neck and her lips so hard, like he wanted to crawl inside her, like he wanted their bodies to be one. Now and always.

When Penelope awakened in the morning, she felt sore between her legs, a pounding in her head, and a blissful feeling in her heart.

It does not last.

The previous evening came back to her in pieces: how she and Colin had behaved, the way he had not stopped touching her at any moment during the night. How he had marked her, with his mouth and then with his spend. He had fucked her mouth after her cunt, and there was probably still some of it in her hair, good god. She would need to make sure to cover up the many bruises on her neck. 

And Penelope– Penelope had loved every moment of it, desperately . Had wanted him to hold her, to claim her. Had adored it, belonging to Colin Bridgerton for the evening.

She loved being Colin Bridgerton’s. She loved Colin Bridgerton.

Shit.

It was not a surprise, of course. She knew this. She knew this . But she had been fooling herself, since April, that it was fine. That she could take whatever he would give her and be okay in the end. When Colin was married to a petite, beautiful wife with a brood of children and she was an aging spinster, alone with her books, she would have the memories to sustain her. That once, years before, for a short time – Penelope Featherington had known the touch of Colin Bridgerton.

Only, this was more dangerous. The way she had felt the evening prior, as he held her closely and fucked her like she was his everything, as he escorted her home and kissed her passionately by the back entrance… she knew she would not recover from it. That the memory of Colin, even for just a night, pretending that she was his , would haunt her forever. That the pain of losing him might break her.

She should end it now.

Of course, even as the thought came into her mind, Penelope knew she would not. At the beginning of the season she had believed herself to be strong, but all it took was a look from Colin and she crumbled. She could not say no to him, not when she had loved him for as long as she had known him. Not when every part of her soul was his.

She would belong to Colin for as long as he would let her. She would break into a million pieces when he told her it was no more. There was great pain in admitting defeat, but she knew she must accept it.

And she could do small things to protect her heart. She could create some boundaries, remind him of what they were to each other. He greatly enjoyed being with her, Penelope knew, but she could not let this behavior make her forget what their ending would be. That despite the way he held her and kissed her and fucked her, Colin did not love her. These acts were separate from love in his mind and they should be in hers as well.

She let the reality settle on her tongue: Colin would marry. Colin would marry someone who was not her, and Penelope would watch.

Penelope knew she was weak, but she was capable of protecting herself. She must.

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton had never thought of himself as a particularly smug man.

Yes, he could sometimes be a sore winner after a particularly rousing game of Pall Mall, or whenever he bested Anthony at fencing (it was just so hard not to, when Ant got so very frustrated). And, upon returning from his travels, he would admit that he had enjoyed having the attention of so many young ladies and the envy it inspired in men like Fife and Cho, proud to have finally managed to mold himself into what society expected him to be. (That was, of course, only until Pen had angrily informed them that she had heard his callous words the season before, at which point his newfound self-assurance immediately dried up). Colin would jest, of course – he was a younger brother, after all, and he had younger sisters, it was only right that he poke fun at them – b ut, deep in his soul, he knew he was insecure above anything else.

He was concerned about not being good enough, for society or his family, for Pen. He was unsure half the time, much more sensitive than either of his elder brothers. In years past, it was only during his travels, only when he was writing to Penelope, that he had felt his constant drip of inferiority start to slip away. Then, he would start to feel good about himself, feel like perhaps he was someone . 

But smugness itself had never come naturally to him.

Not until he started fucking Penelope Featherington.

It was crass, he knew, to refer to their relations in such a manner – but there really was no other way to put it considering the way they did it, rough and fast, Colin the brute and Pen his very willing prey.

It had not ever been like this, with women in the past. He was not like his brothers, had not spent years fucking his way through every brothel in Mayfair, but he was green no more, had dipped his toes into carnal pleasures during the last year and enjoyed himself. By the time he took up with Pen, he would have considered himself a reasonably experienced man, highly attuned to his own wants and needs.

He was quite wrong.

Somehow, with Penelope, every tryst was an adventure, a lesson in the depth of his own desires. Kissing every part of her body, even the most depraved. Making love to her from the side, then behind, then sitting on the bed and making her sink down upon him, her arse pointing towards his face as he gripped her thighs. There had been one evening where he sat her upon his manhood whilst he read the newest edition of Whistledown, forcing her to warm his cock and smacking her bottom anytime she moved. Or the time that he spilled across her back and then slowly, methodically, fed her his spend, not allowing her to move until she had licked up every drop.

She had let him sodomize her, for Christ’s sake, an act so utterly perverted that Colin had to finish two glasses of whiskey before he could bear to do it, Penelope grumbling impatiently on the bed for him to stop acting like a child and get on with it .

(He had eventually and it was incredible , the best his manhood had ever felt, an act so good that he did not understand why it had such a vile reputation– though of course, if all of society knew of its brilliance, he supposed nothing would ever get done. Pen had seemed just as taken with it as he had, releasing not once but twice with his cock buried in her pert little arse and fingers shoved in her perfect little cunny. He was even, devil that he had become, contemplating gifting her one of those little jeweled cockpieces that he had heard spoken of by some of the more deviant men of the ton . She would look divine, a little sparkle of Bridgerton blue tucked between her cheeks, just for him.)

And the most marvelous part of all – what had turned Colin into an absolute cocky monster, made him feel superior to every other person to walk across the earth – was that Pen enjoyed it all just as much as he did!

It was like she had been made for him, catered to his tastes and him to hers. He often saw her staring at his chest for long periods, biting her lip with need when he presented his cock for her. She was insatiable – a flick of his tongue or finger and she was done for (and he did so enjoy to taste her, she really was the most delicious nectar he had ever tried). And so, so responsive; moaning loudly when he would pull her hair or give her a particularly hard thrust, doing as he asked with needy, lidded eyes. She seemed to like everything he did to her, every way he wanted to have her. Colin did not think he had understood the meaning of the word wanton , before they became intimate. Now he couldn’t imagine lovemaking could look like anything else.

Colin knew that her and Thomas had not dabbled in such lewd acts. She had told him so, on their first night together, and they would often discuss their lovemaking after, in order to ensure that one of them had not done something the other did not like. Colin thought he might enjoy this part most of all – holding Penelope as she would come back down to earth (for she sometimes floated a bit, out of her head; it had worried him the first time, before she had insisted that she had very much enjoyed it), giving her sweet praise. They would tangle themselves completely together and sometimes whisper late into the night. 

There was something so special about it, the way that they were bearing themselves to each other in a way they had with no other. It was a kind of intimacy that felt to be entirely theirs, and Colin sometimes wondered if any two people had ever been as close as Penelope and himself…

Which was all to say that, in the time since he and Penelope had started up, Colin had become a very smug man indeed.

He really thought he ought to be commended for not being more smug, considering he was the luckiest man in all of Mayfair. 

London. 

Probably the world.

And it had not gone unnoticed.

“I do not know what has happened to make you so insufferable lately, but I am begging you: please stop,” Eloise had grumbled one morning as Colin entered the drawing room with a spring in his step, one which he’d had for the last month. “It is unnerving to see you acting in such a manner.”

Colin simply smiled, throwing himself onto the sofa next to Benedict. “I do not know what you could be referring to, dear sister. I am simply pleased by the lovely weather we are having.”

Outside, the sun was shining brightly, birds chirping happily. London was truly such a grand place, Colin was starting to wonder why he had previously been so intent on traveling abroad. He had not experienced anything superior in Italy or France or Greece than he had on the streets of Mayfair, for Penelope had never ventured to any of those places. And truly – nothing else could possibly compare to Penelope .

Beside him, Benedict raised his eyebrow with an amused smile. “Have you been drinking that strange tea you plied me with last year?”

Colin chuckled. He had not, but perhaps he should do so with Penelope. It could be great fun, experiencing such lovely awakenings with her. The white powder had been lovely, had made him even more ravenous for her than normal, but the tea had a way of opening the mind that Colin thought could perhaps be quite remarkable to go through with Penelope by his side…

His life was truly made of endless possibilities?

“I am simply in high spirits,” he told them, plucking a bonbon from Benedict’s hand and moving to take his leave of the room. Maybe he would write to one of his old travel companions to see if they could send him some tea – or just spend the rest of the day in bed, contemplating new ways to touch his Pen. “You should try it sometime.”

Colin, of course, felt his smuggest when he was around Spencer.

How could he not be, when Pen had been intimate with both and chosen Colin to please her? While beforehand, the sight of Spencer had made Colin annoyed at best and practically suicidal at worst, now it was a warm reminder of his superiority in the eyes of Penelope – which was, of course, the only opinion that mattered.

“Good evening Spencer,” he said jovially one evening when he found him at Mondrich’s, after a ball where he had spent almost the entire evening huddled in the corner with Penelope. She unfortunately could not sneak out to see him this evening, as she still needed to write this week’s column, but had decidedly not rejected it when he suggested perhaps climbing into her bedchamber for a romp after she had finished. “It is a splendid evening, is it not?”

Spencer snorted into his drink. “I would say it is quite remarkable,” he said, slyly. “As is your continued good mood for, what is it, these past four weeks? It is a curiosity amongst the men of the ton . They are all wondering what could have brought it on.”

Colin was sure his eyes sparkled with delight. “I think you are quite aware, Spencer,” he said, pettiness dripping from his voice. Spencer rolled his eyes and Colin smiled brightly.

He really wasn’t that terrible of a fellow, Spencer. Good for a laugh and a drink, quite fun at a party. He was a fucking cad, obviously, having taken a young lady’s maidenhood, yet while Colin would never forgive him of that, now that he was spending most of his time sinking into said maiden, he found it hard to stay angry. Between the two, she was unequivocally his . The very thought made his stomach purr.

In truth, he mostly just felt sorry for the old chap. To have experienced the pure bliss that was Penelope and have it taken away… Colin shivered at the thought. A fate worse than death, he reckoned. 

For Penelope was perfect, an absolute dream. He began to think again of her lovely, silky red hair and the curves of her body – of her pillowy breasts, and how much he loved to rest his head between them. It was still early, but perhaps she had finished her writing for the evening – or even maybe, she would let him sneak into her room and just watch, lounge on the bed and wait for her to complete her work. He would not mind, getting to lay and observe her, for she really was so clever and any man would be lucky to bask their eyes upon such a woman deep within her craft and–

“Bridgerton!” Spencer called, and his tone of voice suggested he had been trying to get Colin’s attention for a while now. He blinked out of his Penelope-induced haze. Spencer was laughing at him though, good-naturedly. “You are ridiculous.”

And Colin did not have the heart to be mad or slap him upside the head, which he certainly should have. For how could a gentleman be angry, when only in a few hours time, they would lay within Penelope Featherington’s soft cunt?

“What are you reading?” he asked Eloise, coming into the drawing room midway through the afternoon. 

Eloise only raised an eyebrow. “So kind of you as to finally emerge from your cave and grace us with your presence.” 

Colin smiled, sheepish. He had been up for more than half the night. Penelope had been in particularly good spirits, her mother having opted to stay the evening at Finch House, and she had allowed Colin to wear her out, having her again and again until light started to creep in through the curtains.

“I simply needed my beauty rest,” he told her as he sat beside her on the settee, dipping his head to see what she had been reading, if it was one of the romances she had spoken about at the beginning of the season. While he clearly saw the engraving of Pride and Prejudice on the spine, upon further inspection, he noticed that she had laid a pamphlet inside it, so as not to be discovered. Lady Whistledown.

He raised an eyebrow. 

Eloise huffed, clearly annoyed at being found out. “I do not wish for Hyacinth to see. She has become obsessed and will want to talk about it incessantly. I’m merely taking a glance.”

“A glance? You have hidden this week’s issue in your book so you can read more freely and call it a glance? I thought you had said you were done with Whistledown altogether.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes and Colin sighed. He had not spoken with Eloise much about her falling out with Pen since his return, although he had wanted to. He could see that it still upset Pen that they were no longer speaking, and while he understood his sister’s frustration – for Pen had written terrible things about her, even if Colin understood they had been done as an act of protection – he also knew that she missed Pen just as much. It was in the way her bite had slightly receded, in the strange looks she would occasionally make in ballrooms, as though not there at all. It was clear in the befuddling companionship she had taken up with Miss Cowper, which he did not understand in the slightest.

But Eloise was stubborn, perhaps even more so than Anthony (a feat). She did not like to admit defeat, admit when she had done wrong. He did not believe that she was solely responsible for the dissolution of their friendship (despite his deep devotion to Penelope), but he knew they were much better together than apart.

And she was here. Sitting in the drawing room. Reading Whistledown when she hoped no one else would notice.

“I must say, I have grown rather fond of Whistledown myself,” Colin told her, which was not a lie. Since his discovery of Penelope’s secret identity, he had begun reading it quite frequently – his Pen was so very clever. He had always been the most eager to receive her letters, and while he could now see that it was simply because they were from her (for Colin believed he would have enjoyed reading just about anything, if he had known that Pen had written it), he also could not deny that she was simply marvelous with a quill, a superb wordsmith. She wrote so beautifully, cunning and engaging, and Colin found he had trouble putting the pages down. He had even taken to reading old issues, sneaking about Hyacinth’s room where he knew she kept them stashed, just so he could read even more .

He was a tad obsessed. 

“ You? ” Eloise asked, aghast. “Fond of Whistledown? Are you joking? ”

“She is quite clever with her pen.”

Eloise stared at him in disbelief. “I would have thought you, of all people, would hate her more than anyone, considering what she has written of this family. Of the both of us.”

“I will concede that she has printed things I would have preferred she had not,” he conceded. “But… I do believe our family is all the better for it, are we not? Daphne was not forced to marry that scoundrel Berbrooke, and I did not marry Lady Crane.” While he did feel bad for Marina for the way things had been handled, as he knew Pen did, he could not deny how pleased he was to not have ended up her husband. “And you… I think perhaps Lady Whistledown was trying to do you good, as misguided as it would seem. Some might say she was evening attempting to protect–”

Eloise eyes widened, shocked, and Colin realized he had said too much.

“Oh my god, you know it’s her ,” she exclaimed, clearly furious. “Penelope told you , of all people!”

“I… found her. In the act.” Not that act, actually, but considering the look of anger Eloise was sporting, he did not think it wise to admit that technically Penelope had told him, even though under duress. “I happened upon her in April and have known ever since.”

“You know that it is Penelope,” she practically shouted, and Colin desperately wanted to move to close the door, but he was afraid she might attack him if he tried. “You know that it is Penelope and you– you do not care? ”

It was a strange question, for he did care, but not in the way Eloise referred to. He had thought much of Whistledown in the time since he had made his discovery, of what could have driven Penelope to start writing it. How alone she surely must have felt growing up, by herself in Featherington House with only her simpering mother and sisters for company. He knew they were most unkind to her, could see it not only in their subtle treatment within polite society (a flippant remark here, a cruel look there), but in the way Penelope sometimes treated herself: self-conscious and unsure despite being one of the most accomplished women in Mayfair.

When he thought about it, he could not recall her having danced with anyone during her first season aside from herself, and then he had gone and proposed to her cousin . She was lovely in every respect, exactly what a lady of the ton ought to be, and yet she had been ignored again and again by gentlemen who were not even half of what she deserved (himself included, he considered ruefully). Taunted not just by her family, but by her peers such as Miss Cowper.

He was starting to think more of the injustices women were forced to go through in their society (Eloise would be quite proud of him), how they were presented for men to pick from like animals up for auction. He could not imagine how frustrating that would be on its own, and then to add mistreatment by one’s own family and complete disregard by the rest of society?

Well, Colin sometimes marveled at how Penelope had not resorted to slaughtering every last member of the ton . It seemed like a perfectly reasonable reaction. A scandal sheet felt mild by comparison. 

“I am quite fond of Penelope–” and good lord , was that the understatement of the century “–and I have been spending more… time with her, as of late. I know she regrets some of her actions, and I sincerely do not believe anything written against our family was done with ill intent.”

Eloise huffed, sinking back down into the couch. Colin did not think that he alone was capable of repairing their friendship, but if he could help, if he could give them tiny crumbs that might lead them closer to what they once were (or, perhaps, a different sort of friendship, with even more depth), and bring his Pen just a little more happiness… well. The decision to intervene was easy.

He would do quite a lot to make Pen happy.

“I am not saying you must forgive her entirely, or burst through into Featherington House and declare your friendship repaired this instant,” he said, though the image of her possibly shocking Lady Featherington so much that she fell to the ground did make Colin smile on the inside. “I just believe… you were much happier before, when you had Pen in your life.”

Eloise took a moment to consider, but when she spoke again she did not sound as if she wanted to wring his neck, which seemed an improvement. “I will… consider it. Speaking with her again,” she said, although Colin knew that even that admission at all meant that she was already halfway there.

“Thank you.”

It was not a declaration of friendship, but it felt like baby steps, like a way for them to move forward. It made him so pleased to imagine his two favorite people finding their way back to each other again. 

It really was such a lovely day, the sun shining into the drawing room. He knew their Mother would enter shortly to request they promenade, and Colin rather liked the sound of that. Perhaps the Featherington’s would be in Hyde Park as well, and he could ask Pen–

“Wait,” Eloise said then, narrowing her eyes. “You said you had been spending more time with Penelope. Are you– are you courting her, Colin?”

Colin felt himself freeze, like all the air had been suddenly taken out of his lungs. “I am… I am not,” he said slowly, trying not to let his nerves show at her line of questioning.

The words tasted bitter and awful on his tongue.

(Two weeks later, at the Botanical Ball, Colin caught Eloise and Pen in conversation. It was stilted and awkward and did not last long, Eloise excusing herself after only a few minutes. When Colin approached Penelope, apprehensive, she was smiling so brightly, giddy and shocked, and Colin let himself feel quite proud for having been in a tiny bit of the reason for it.)

“You are an absolute menace,” Penelope murmured to him on the evening of the Trowbridge Ball, a happy smile upon her face . He was between her legs, having feasted on her cunny for quite some time after finding his release down her thighs. She was a pure vision – hair amess and sprawling, breasts out for him to admire. He had brought her to completion once already and she had that look about her that said she was close again, so very close.

They had to be quiet, of course, for they were in her home. Were they to be discovered, Colin knew that Lady Featherington would have their heads, likely before demanding they walk down the aisle. Colin did not so much mind the thought, but he knew that Penelope did not get on with her mother and did not want to cause her undue stress.

So they must be silent. Not an easy feat, considering that Colin loved no sound as much as the noises of Penelope’s pleasure. She would make the most wonderful little whines and moans, needy and overcome; Colin had thought, on several occasions, that he would like to hear a symphony of just Penelope writhing in ecstasy. It was painful, frankly, not being able to bathe in the sounds – it had become a kind of second nature for him, attempting to elicit them – and he knew they must be kept at bay this evening.

And Penelope – his sweet, perfect, needy Penelope – was doing a rather poor job of shutting up. 

“You are not being my good girl, Pen,” he whispered to her, removing his mouth from her wonderful juices to catch a glimpse of her face, replacing his tongue with two fingers. She was, quite evidently, done for. “Moaning up there like a paid harlot.”

At the name, Penelope had to immediately bite on her fist to cover up a frankly obscene whimper. She enjoyed it very much, when he referred to her in such a vile manner. The first time it had happened, the word slipping out, Colin had immediately gone into a panic for having disrespected her so, before he realized that Pen had spilled herself upon his hand, her juices flowing. He had not had the same reservations since then. 

“ Please… Co–Colin ,” she whined, and Colin could tell she was about to reach her peak, thanks to the combination of his ministrations and the name-calling. Oftentimes, before she finished, she would lose all powers of speech – as though she was no longer of this world, just a vehicle for pleasure.

Colin pumped his fingers inside her forcefully, moving up to bat away her fist and stick his other hand in her mouth. It did not take long, and a moment later she was writhing on the bed, the picture of complete and total fulfillment, Colin gazing upon her in rapture.

She was so beautiful, a perfect woman. As she came back to herself, Colin wrapped himself around her, staring at the look of satisfaction on her face. 

It was a few minutes more before her speech finally recovered. “I like it when you call me a harlot,” she shyly murmured, her cheeks turning a brilliant shade of red.

Colin smiled, cheeky. “I know.” He leaned down to kiss her, and was pleased to hear her happy sigh as she undoubtedly tasted herself on his lips. They laid there for several moments, blissful in their afterglow, before Penelope moved to fetch a sip of water from her bedside table.

“You truly are quite excellent at bringing me pleasure with your tongue,” she told him. “I am sure your future wife will appreciate it greatly.”

Colin bristled. Not this again.

In recent weeks, Penelope had been making such comments frequently, alluding to some imaginary wife he would one day take on, some dazzling debutante who Colin would wed and make with child and have some fantasy of a happily ever after with. She did not do the same for herself, had never dared to bring up a gentleman whom she could potentially see herself settling with, and Colin knew it was because she did not believe she would marry.

He hated it.

He hated the way she continued to put herself down, as though she would not find love, almost as much as he hated the presumption that he would, as if he was just having his fun with Pen until it was time to breed some perfectly boring gently-bred young lady. As if that was what he wanted.

Colin knew, as well as he knew every curve on her body, that he would not know such a life. For it was beginning to become clear, more and more every time they were together: Colin Bridgerton would marry no one but Penelope Featherington.

For Colin Bridgerton loved Penelope Featherington.

It felt like a relief to finally admit it.

It had come on slowly, the depth of his affection for her. He had always found Penelope to be sweetness itself and had cared for her for quite some time – a part of him wondered if perhaps he had always felt something for her, and had just been too foolish in his youth to realize it. He could be rather blind when it came to love and Penelope had previously been such a natural part of his life – her presence and warmth a lovely familiarity – that it had taken him far too long to notice the love he felt for her went beyond the bonds of friendship.

But as the events of the past several months had made clear, Colin was head over heels, completely infatuated in every way imaginable. It had not taken him long to realize that he had never known a love such as this – despite what he might have assumed in years past, he had clearly never been in love at all before Penelope. The way she made him feel every day, with her smiles and touches and words, with the way she would giggle girlishly after begging him to perform any number of deviant acts on her. He loved her body so , so much – he had always preferred women with full figures, but he really did think that she must be an angel, the most beautiful creature to ever step foot on earth. She was perfection itself. 

He had been despondent when she did not return his letters, had discovered a deep jealousy that he did not think was possible upon learning of her arrangement with Spencer. (And Colin did not get jealous! Even with Marina, when he had learned she had been with another, the force of his anger had been at her deception, not the knowledge of the act itself.) When they had become intimate for the first time, Colin had felt floored, for he did not know lovemaking could be so good, so all-consuming. It was as though he was discovering new parts of himself through Penelope, as though together they were becoming something new. Something wonderful.

He could not imagine a fate better than to be her husband.

He did not think that was something she was currently interested in, not from the way she so frequently attempted to set his sights in the direction of other ladies. Or perhaps, he sometimes told himself when he was particularly hopeful – perhaps it was possible she simply needed more time, was still reeling from his abysmal words last season. Maybe she just had to see how far his dedication went, to understand how utterly devoted to her he was. It was clear she did not want to marry now, that was certain from her decision to hold liaisons with Thomas and then himself instead of trapping either of them in a union like she could. But that did not necessarily mean she would never want to take a husband, for people changed their minds sometimes, did they not? There was once a time when Colin had thought he would never court Penelope, and now it was all he thought of.

Bringing her flowers and gifts and sitting together on the settee in Featherington House under her Mama’s watchful eye. Dancing with her at every ball, and whispering words of affection in her ear. Sometimes when they made love, he would think of it as he finished – fantasize about staking his claim, letting every other gentleman know that Penelope Featherington was off the market , as he had whispered to her at the Granville party. Would think of dropping to one knee as his cum coated her bosom.

His head was truly a minefield.

He was desperate to please her, desperate to have every single part of her. He loved to fuck her more than anything, had never felt so ravenous in his life. He could not believe how well suited they were, the way their desires and deviances fit so perfectly. But the hunger he felt when he imagined marrying her – standing in front of a room and declaring that they belonged to each other… it was blinding.

So he would be patient. He had more of her now than he ever thought he would get, and he was endlessly grateful for it. He would take his time, let the depth of his love for her begin to naturally show over the next several months. He would wait until she was ready, until he was sure that she was sure of his affections, and then he would ask her. He would not rush.

And if she never wanted to marry, never wanted the union he desired so desperately… then he would be happy with what the universe had blessed him with. There was no limit on how long lovers could take up, and if he never married and she never married, he saw no reason that they couldn’t continue like this for the rest of their lives. It was not what he wanted , of course (for he wanted to be her husband ), but if it was the closest he could get, Colin would take it. Colin would spend his life as a dog with a bird at her door, taking whatever scrap of affection she was willing to give.

And he would marry no other. Of that he was certain.

So that was his plan. He would wait for her to want him or he would accept what she was able to offer. He would spend his life orbiting Penelope Featherington and he would thank God every day for the opportunity to soak up even a little bit of her light.

It was all settled in his mind.

And then, because Colin’s life was truly a never ending horror, a third option emerged – one that he had not had the stomach to entertain:

Midway through the season, a Lord Alfred Debling began to court Penelope.

Chapter Text

For most of the 1815 season, Lord Alfred Debling had been on the sidelines.

He had come to Mayfair to seek a wife. He travelled far and often, but his father had recently passed, and he knew it was time to make a selection, to find a woman who could tend to the estate and give him an heir. He had spent so much of his life wandering, but he was a man of honor. Before he set sail again, he would do his duty.

He was not interested in a love match – he was a practical man, through and through, and it would do neither him nor his future bride any good to be caught up in grand notions of romance when they would likely spend more of their marriage apart than together. No, he wanted a steady hand, a woman with the same values as himself – those of a commitment to duty and upholding the Debling legacy. And, while he knew this was not every debutante’s dream, he was sure that there would be a lady among the ton who would appreciate him for his honesty, for what he had to offer: a grand estate to manage and children to care for. A husband who would keep her financially secure and allow her privacy.

He did not think it would be a tough sell.

And yet, the season had thus far greatly disappointed him. He had spoken and danced with many young ladies, and while he had found several of them charming, per say, none had seemed like the right fit. Too needy, too inclined towards fantasies of romance. There were some who he knew were desperate enough that they would accept anyone, but they did not appear to have the wits it would take to run Debling Estate on their own in his inevitable absence. His mother had done an exceptional job as lady of the house, and he simply could not disappoint her by selecting an unworthy successor.

A Miss Cressida Cowper had made her interest known, and he had debated courting her for a bit. But after consideration, he had decided against it: he was not looking for a woman to love, but he thought it best not to pick a debutante whom he occasionally found hard to stomach. That would not due for the mother of his heirs.

And so, by late June, Alfred was lost. He had felt so confident at the start of the season, but maybe he had aimed too high. He was scheduled to depart for his next trip at the end of the summer, and while he had truly wished to be married by the time he set foot on the ship, that possibility seemed to be getting slimmer by the day. He did not like to think of the estate not being properly managed while he was away, but it was beginning to appear that he had no other options. Perhaps he could try again when he returned from his travels. It would be several years from now and there would be a new crop of young debutantes to select from.

Not ideal, of course. But it was best that a gentleman of his caliber did not rush into a foolish match, and it was not as though he could find a wife at a later time.  

And then, just when Alfred had almost given up all hope, he saw her.

Miss Penelope Featherington. Third daughter of the late Baron Featherington. Out for her third season. Unmarried. Unattached.

He did not know how he had failed to notice her sooner. Perhaps it was because she was always hiding in the corners, hugging the walls. She did not make the same efforts as the other young ladies to catch his eye, and while Alfred liked to pretend he was above that kind of obvious flirting, he was a man after all: he liked the attention and found it hard to look past it. 

But he really had been quite blind. The first time he spoke with her, cornering her by the lemonade table at the Smithfield Ball, he had found her delightful. Surprised by the attention, but sweet and funny. He could tell there was a wit about her, one that only came from a keen mind. And, while he still was most uninterested in anything resembling a love match, her looks were quite to his tastes. He did not believe he would find the marital act to be a chore at all.

He would have liked to chat with her further, but just then Mr. Bridgerton had sauntered up to them, claiming a dance with Miss Featherington (curious, as Alfred had been eyeing her card and did not see a name on it). As Mr. Bridgerton led her away, Alfred recalled another reason he had likely not taken to Miss Featherington sooner: when she was on the floor (which was, he was realizing now, quite rare), she was nearly always on the arm of Mr. Bridgerton. He supposed that, having not paid close attention, he had presumed they were courting.

And so, Alfred made some quick inquiries. Asked the gentleman at White’s (where Mr. Bridgerton was absent from) that evening if there was any courtship to speak of, if there was an attachment he would need to overcome. Alfred was not above vying for Miss Featherington’s hand – he was a lord, and Brigderton only a third son, so he did not think it would be much of a challenge – but it might be a waste of his time if there was already an engagement between them. And, praise the lord, there was not! Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Featherington were simply old family friends, apparently, and he had even declared during the last season that he was uninterested in pursuing Miss Featherington. 

This was most splendid news.

And so, path clear, Alfred steamed ahead. He would have to be quick about it, of course – he had already wasted many months – but he saw no reason why he should not make Miss Featherington his wife by the season’s end. 

As he began to show an interest in her – engaging her in conversion, asking for dances – he found himself feeling more and more satisfied in his choice. She was just as intelligent as she had seemed upon their first encounter, perfect for running an estate, but she had a kindness to herself that he found most appealing. She would make an excellent mother. And, perhaps best of all, she clearly did not entertain fantasies of romance. When Alfred had mentioned, tactfully of course (for she was a gently-bred young lady and needed to be handled quite delicately), that he was in search of a practical marriage and likely to be gone for long stretches of time, she was not deterred. On the contrary, she had merely blinked at him for several seconds and then said that his idea sounded like the makings of a very content marriage.

Truly, most splendid!

Lord Debling’s interest was a surprise indeed.

Penelope had not thought anything of it, when he had come to speak with her at the lemonade table. They had not interacted much during the season, but he seemed like a kind enough fellow and was likely bored by a particularly uneventful ball (the Smithfield’s really did not know how to put on a party, bless their souls). And while the Penelope of years past might have stumbled at being addressed by an eligible gentleman, her adventures during this season had thankfully helped to alleviate her nerves. She was all but declared a spinster, after all, so there was no reason to be nervous.

Lord Debling had been perfectly kind in his conversation, if a little bland. They had only spoken for a few minutes before Colin had interrupted to claim a dance, and while Penelope was always cautious of how many times she took to the floor with Colin (so as not to cause rumors of courtship), his eyes had been rather eager and tone insistent, and Lord Debling unremarkable, so she allowed it.

As Colin glided her through their waltz a few moments later, he raised an eyebrow. “What were you speaking with Lord Debling about?”

It took Penelope a moment to remember; it had not been a particularly exciting conversation. “I believe he remarked on the lack of greens provided at the Samadani dinner last week. He apparently does not eat meat, you know.” Honestly, she had to admire his commitment to his principles, though Colin seemed unimpressed. “I think it likely that he was particularly bored and I was the nearest possible companion,” she told him honestly.

“Hmm,” was all Colin said, though his grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. Penelope learned into the touch. 

Later that evening, as Colin fucked her like a stallion and made her release five times (his and her personal best), Penelope did not think of Lord Debling once.

And yet, most curiously, he kept coming back.

At the Remington Ball a week later he spoke with her again, asking for a dance. Not three days after that he happened upon her at the races and the two conversed for some time. He danced with her again at the Cho Ball and then at the Balfour Ball the next week. It was not until he called upon her several days later, bringing white lilies, that Penelope realized what was happening.

“I am so very surprised, Penelope, and so proud of you,” her mother had gushed upon his departure. “You have a suitor! A lord!”

Oh. She had a suitor. 

Oh!

Though she felt absolutely foolish for not realizing it sooner, her mother was right. Lord Debling was, quite clearly, presenting himself as a suitor, as a potential match. Penelope had felt her eyes widen in confusion, complete surprise at how she had managed to walk into a courtship without evening realizing it.

This was… bad, she thought. Probably bad? She had spent so much of the season focusing on Colin, on how he would never want to marry her – on how she could not allow him to marry her when he did not love her, even if his honor demanded it – that she had not even considered for a moment that someone else might show an interest. She was… she was so obviously a spinster that it had not even crossed her mind. No one had ever shown an interest in Penelope. She was not the sort.

And yet, Lord Debling had. Oh god, she worried, was there a possibility that he loved her? That did not seem right, did not seem possible considering that he barely knew her at all. And of course, she would never love him – that was out of the question, since her treacherous heart could love no one but Colin. But this seemed like a mess either way. What on earth could he want with her, marrying a young lady who had been out for three seasons without a single prospect? It did not make sense.

And then, quite conveniently, he explained it. 

“I am passionate about my research, you know,” he had told her one day whilst they were promenading, and she could tell that he was just a bit nervous, unsure of how his words would be received. “This season I have been… well, I am eager to return to my travels, though they will take me from my estate for quite a long while. I am most interested in selecting a wife who would be happy to stay behind, to tend to the estate. Practicality, I believe, is the basis for the most successful marriages.”

Ah. There it was.

Lord Debling was, clearly, not in search of a love match at all. He had his research (which, though it was not of particular interest to Penelope, did seem to stir a passion in him that she admired) and he was seeking in a wife who would allow him to do it without having to worry much about how she was getting on back at home. An independent wife, one who could manage the estate and likely give him an heir. Nothing more.

The idea of it sent a cold shock through Penelope, a kind of pain she could not pinpoint. The idea of it, of spending her days in a marriage void of love, did not excite her. While she had long ago accepted that she would never marry – that no one would want to marry someone like herself – she knew she still held onto fantasies of grandeur, of making a home with love and affection and passion. Despite her wish to quell these desires, she could not be anyone but herself.

But then, she thought of Colin.

She had been doing her best in recent weeks to put up some distance between them, to remind both him and herself that their situation was temporary. She knew he did not particularly like it, but it would help them both in the long run, once he had discarded her for his real love, the woman he would claim not just in the shadows of his lodgings and the Granville parties, but in the eyes of the ton . The very thought of it (for she had imagined it so, so many times) made her want to jump out the window, but she knew it was an inevitability. Her future was not with Colin Bridgerton.

What her future was – it was fucking bleak.

Living in her home under the rule of whichever one of her sisters produced a son first. Being forced to tend to her mother, who no doubt would spend her days belittling Penelope for her books and her weight. She knew that Whistledown couldn’t go on forever, and while Gen and the parties on the outskirts of London would keep her occupied, she did not think she would ever be able to truly enjoy them again, now that they have been tinged with Colin.

Colin. Her future was Colin eventually being taken with a bright young lady, infinitely more beautiful and interesting than she was. Colin courting the debutante as a gently-bred lady ought to be (no more than a chaste kiss on the hand before there was a ring on her finger). Colin marrying the woman of his dreams. Colin being the perfect husband and father she knew he would be, all for someone else.

And Penelope watching it all.

She could not… she could not stomach it, could not imagine a fate more cruel. To love Colin as she did – as she always had, of course, but their recent time together had made it so much more (and she had been so stupid, absolutely foolish, to take up with him when she knew this was what it was all leading to) – and to lose him, be once again reduced to the sidelines of his happy life. And the thought that she would suffer her greatest heartbreak and would be alone, no purpose, forever stuck in Featherington House. Every potential respite destroyed by the taint of his memory.

Fuck.

It was one thing when she believed it was her only option, that spinsterhood was a foregone conclusion. But Lord Debling… Lord Debling was offering her a way out. Not love, of course – she did not want his love and he clearly was uninterested in giving it – but a life. A future that, while nothing compared to real happiness, would maybe bring her slightly more relief than she had previously ever thought possible.

Debling could give her children. She could be a mother. She had started to think that would never happen for her.

And so, she told him: “I think… any smart young lady could find herself quite content in such a match. A marriage of practicality.”

Debling had smiled. And Penelope felt a sense of control for the first time in months.

Chapter Text

Colin had not realized at first. What was happening.

He did not think he could be blamed, really. He was busy with important affairs. Kissing Pen. Fucking Pen. Eating Pen’s cunny for so long that she could barely breathe, that she whined and cried and begged for him to never stop.

He was busy being the happiest man in Mayfair, thank you very much.

Perhaps not the happiest a man could be, for he knew that being married to Pen would be an even greater thrill (and he would quite appreciate it if she would stop alluding to the ridiculous notion that he would ever be the husband another), but he believed it was a close second. They now met most nights (it was costing a fortune, really, all they were spending to pay off the hired hacks: it was entirely worth it), and Colin felt he was living his life in a continued state of bliss, his cock constantly at the ready for whenever Pen would need him next. He knew they were being reckless, but he failed to see how this could really be a problem when being with Pen felt so right. The rightest any man could possibly feel.

(Not any man, though. Colin.)

He had noticed, of course, the first time Debling spoke with Penelope. She so rarely conversed with gentlemen at balls that were not a Bridgerton, one of her brother-in-laws, or Spencer (and while Colin did not particularly enjoy when they chatted, he could not deny that they seemed to have a genuine friendship, and he knew he ought not be a sore winner). He would admit that it was a shock to turn around and see Pen talking with a man he did not know. It made his stomach turn uncomfortably. He did not like it at all.

But then, to his absolute relief, Pen had seemed utterly uninterested in the poor sod. She appeared to have trouble remembering what they had conversed about, and genuinely thought it was nothing. When Colin took her home that evening and fucked her quite possibly as roughly as he ever had, she had been absolutely gone , cockdrunk and satisfied and oh so happy in his arms. When they made love again not two nights later, she had eagerly used her mouth on him as a thank you.

So, all in all, Colin was not concerned.

And yet… Debling kept appearing. Asking her to dance. Monopolizing her conversation. Taking her away from Colin. He was clear, clear as the fucking sun shined in the sky, that he was courting her, that he had a great interest. And of course, why should he not? Penelope was, Colin believed firmly, the most eligible young lady the ton had ever seen. She was utterly brilliant and witty, more beautiful than any debutante could ever dream to be – Aphrodite-incarnate, really. She was, in a word, absolutely perfect, and the only thing that surprised Colin was that more gentlemen were not beating down the Featherington door.

Not that he wanted them to, of course.

Nor did he wish for Debling to court her either. But he knew that Pen was currently uninterested in finding a husband and settling down. He knew that while she might allow Debling to lead her to the dance floor or bring her flowers, it was merely out of politeness. That, despite Debling’s clear efforts, there was not a chance that Penelope would ever take him seriously. She had told Colin many times that she would not accept his suit, just as she had told with Spencer. She did not want to marry at this time, and while Colin very much clung to the hope that eventually she would alter her opinion on the matter, it would take a long while and much convincing. There was no possibility that a man like Debling, a man she had barely known for a fortnight, would change her mind.

Absolutely out of the question. Unheard of. Unfeasible.

And yet. He did not cease.

And Penelope did not ask him to.

He claimed her for more and more dances, sometimes two in one evening (the nerve!) and brought her more flowers, bigger and expensive. He brought her plants! He had evidently made his intentions known, and while Colin had not caught so much as the smallest hint of a sparkle in Pen’s eyes whilst conversing with him (because of course Colin always noticed and always watched, he simply could not stop himself), it was obvious that she had not dissuaded him either. 

It was a kind of madness, to watch it happen. Colin felt himself becoming more uneasy by the day, like he was being slowly closed in on but did not have a way to escape.

“Is it not strange,” he eventually brought up to Spencer at Mondrich’s – Spencer, of all fucking people, god was Colin desperate. “The way she acts around him. She does not seem to even like him.”

Spencer shrugged. “She does not seem to dislike him, and many marriages have been built on less.”

Marriage… Colin had not even let himself consider the idea of them being married. “You do not think… you do not think she would actually accept his suit? I mean, he is obviously entirely wrong for her.”

Colin did not like to admit it, but he had come to accept that Spencer knew Penelope quite well. Not as well as Colin, of course, that was simply unthinkable, but their friendship was sincere. She had spoken to Colin often about hoping that Spencer would find a lovely young lady to love, and Colin knew that Spencer felt the same about her. He would not want to see her unhappy.

And yet, with this decidedly unhappy possibility before them, he seemed unfazed. “He is perhaps a tad dull, I will grant you that. But Penny is a strong person and she would not let herself fall into a situation she did not want. If she believes that Debling could make her content, I will support her.”

Content? He did not want Penelope to be content.

He wanted her life to be filled with the greatest happiness known to man or woman, to be showered in joy for all of time. He wanted her to wake up every morning to a husband she absolutely adored (Colin Colin Colin), to have the freedom to fulfill her purpose, whatever that may be. He wanted her to travel – he had pictured it so many times, Penelope galloping around Italy or Spain or Paris. He wanted her to have everything she could ever want and then so, so much more.

He could not imagine anything less for her and would not ever want to. And Debling– he was sure Debling would not give it to her. Debling, a man who had made it clear since the start of the season that he was not seeking a love match. A man, Colin had heard (he had been making inquiries), who planned to leave for three years at the end of the season. A man who wanted a marriage of practically and nothing more.

No. No. He simply would not due. Not for Penelope.

Colin took another sip of his drink, a dangerous thought occurring. “So you think… you believe that she is serious about the match? That she would actually… marry him?”

Again Spencer shrugged, so blasé that Colin could have sworn it was an act. “It seems to me that she might,” he offered, like he was discussing the weather or a particularly good hunt and not Penelope marrying another. “But of course, you have known her much longer than I have.” And then he leaned in closer, close enough that no one else in the busy club would be able to hear. “And if I am correct in assuming that you two have not decided to call off your… arrangement, I imagine it would not be of any inconvenience to just ask her.”

Just ask her , Spencer had said. Colin could do that.

He was a Bridgerton, after all. He was brave and strong and cared for Penelope so. He could simply ask her what was going on with Lord Debling. He would.

It was only– Colin did now know if he wanted to hear the answer. He thought perhaps he already knew what it was (Spencer seemed to think he did), and he very much did not like it. The idea of Pen accepting another’s suit was, without a doubt, the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to him. Possibly to anyone who had ever lived. If she told him it was true – that if Debling got down on one knee she planned to say yes – Colin did not know what he would do with himself.

And so, like a fucking coward, he stalled.

He stalled when he spotted her at the Roses and Thorns Ball, shining in the prettiest pink dress he had ever seen. He stalled as he watched Debling take her to the dance floor for a waltz, Spencer raising his brow at him from across the hall. He stalled as he finally spoke to her afterwards, by the lemonade table, where they discreetly made plans for her to visit him later that evening.

He stalled as he brought her to his bedchamber, as he slammed the door shut and took her into his arms

“Colin,” she had squealed when he lifted her by the bottom, bunching up the skirt of her dress so that she could wrap her legs around him. She was so incredibly tiny – petite and easy to maneuver, yet still perfectly lush. She smiled easily into his mouth when he leaned to kiss her, and Colin wanted– he wanted to live in this moment always. He did not want to think of Spencer or Debling or the fact that she was very obviously being courted by another.

So he stalled some more, plopped her on the bed and went to work on unlacing her dress, loosening her stays. Once bare, she had easily gone to her hands and knees, presenting her rear to him. Penelope did so love when he fucked her from behind – would always make the most delicious little whimpers, beg for him to pull her hair. He considered, also, that she might even let him have her arse again this evening. He had done it twice more since their first venture, and each time she had been so eager for it. Colin quite liked the thought of it, claiming this part of her that he knew was just for him (he could not imagine ever sharing the experience with another, and he dearly hoped she felt the same).

But then the face of Debling flashed into his mind, him dancing with Pen this evening. The way she had taken his hand easily, had smiled demurely when he glided them to the floor.

No.

He would fuck her cunt tonight.

“Get on your back, Pen,” he ordered, roughly. Much rougher than he felt, when his heart was twisting so uncomfortably. She had looked so pretty this evening – was always stunning, always the only person he could notice in a ballroom. He marvelled ruefully at his younger self, how he had not spent his entire youth following her around like a drooling puppy. (Though of course he had, hadn’t he? He had not known how much he wanted her, the depth of his desire, but he had always known that being beside Pen felt right.) 

He knew what she wanted from Colin– wanted him to fuck her roughly, like a stallion. He would give her what she so desired without burdening her with his aching heart.

When he slipped a finger inside her, she was dripping – always so wet for him, so ready. He told her as much.

“You’ve ruined your undergarments, Pen,” he tsked, adding another and pumping leisurely. “Leaking all over yourself. Perhaps I should start plugging your cunny with a cockpiece before every ball, so that you no longer make such a mess.”

Penelope gasped, throwing her head back. She liked that very much. Colin moved another finger to her clit, massaging it roughly for several moments before he spoke again.

“Would you enjoy that, my pretty Pen? Stuffed full for me while amongst all of the ton , everyone we have ever known? You would feel it with every step you took. It would be as though I was fucking you always, fucking you for all of Mayfair to see.”

And then, just from his words and fingers, she spasmed.

The speed of her release surprised them both, the way she clenched on him and slammed a hand on the bed. So was so exquisite, coming for him easily – although really, she always came for him easily. He loved it, the way he could play her body like an instrument. Make this beautiful woman, the most brilliant person the world had ever seen, fall to pieces.

Colin had to have her.

He did not give her much time to recover before he was withdrawing his fingers and moving to replace them with his cock. They had discussed it from time to time, how much Penelope enjoyed the feeling of being used , almost as if a toy. It was the sort of concept that Colin would have bristled at before their arrangement started – he was a gentleman, and it was wrong to think of a young lady in such a way – but their time together had shown him that desires could be perverted and deviant and still, when performed with the right partner, rooted in love and affection. 

And, though it most certainly was not gentlemanly to think, Colin could not deny that the idea of Penelope wishing for him to take her in such a way was the most erotic thing he had ever imagined. Colin’s to use. Always.

When he slowly began to insert his cock inside her, inching in up to the hilt, she sighed, so happy and content in her post orgasm glow. She was his perfect match. No one had ever felt so wonderful around him, so tight. It was as though her cunt had been perfectly sculpted to fit the shape of him just so. As though the gods had created them to be each other’s ideal mate, their very souls intertwined.

They were perfect together, Colin thought as he began thrusting in and out, slow at first and then fast, faster, faster . They were the perfect lovers and friends and everything in between. He loved her. He loved her. He had known it for some time but the ferocity of it, the truth, felt so undeniable as he thrust into her again and again. His eyes locked with her and he pumped his cock and it was so clear in his head: there could be no one else, for either of them. There was no other option.

And yet, the voice kept ringing in his head: she is being courted by another. 

He could not forget it, even as his movements sped up, grew uncontrollable. Even as she released for a second time and he had to act quickly, so quickly, to remove himself so as not to spill inside her. Even as he tried to push it from his mind over and over, the last thing he ever wanted to think of.

Penelope Featherington was being courted by another. She could not marry him, Colin thought (she had said she would not marry ), but the fact remained the same, like a cloud over Colin’s head. 

Penelope and Debling. Penelope and Debling. Penelope and Debling!

As he looked down upon her satisfied body, he spend on her thigh (but never in her cunt – never where he so desperately wanted to put it), Colin thought she must have seen it in his face as he made love to her, his utter and complete devotion. He did not think it could have possibly been hard to catch.

And yet… he said nothing. He moved down to lay in bed and gaze upon her, this wonderful woman. He held her for some time, stroking her curls delicately. Eventually, he got up to fetch her water and helped her into her dress and avoided asking her the only thing that was on his mind.

So much a coward was Colin Bridgerton that he did not ask her until even after all that, not until they were preparing to take leave of his lodgings, Colin ready to escort her home (he did not need to, honestly , she always said, and then Colin would claim he preferred to sleep at Bridgerton House, which they both knew was a lie, and Penelope would let out an eyeroll and huff but would allow it, a tiny smile on her face. And then Colin would get to have her for a little while longer, like a dog desperate for its favorite toy).

He looked at her, smoothing over her dress, adjusting her hair in the mirror. He thought, absentmindedly: my wife . 

And then he realized he had waited far too long. 

“Lord Debling has shown an interest in you,” he found himself suddenly blundering out, like an idiot.

Penelope froze, and then turned to look up from the mirror. 

“Yes.” She spoke slowly, as though talking with a child or perhaps a particularly stupid person (affirmative), although her eyes betrayed her unease at his question. “He has been openly courting me for weeks. Have you just now noticed?”

“I… no.” Jesus, Colin had barely said anything at all and he was already fucking it up. “It is only that, well– you said you would not marry, so I am confused.”

Her response was swift. “I never said that.”

Colin blinked, slowly, and then wondered if perhaps he had been slapped and his body was still in shock. What?!

They had talked about it, had they not, that she did not plan to marry? That she believed she would be a spinster – a frankly ludicrous idea on all accounts, but one she maintained again and again. And she had rejected Spencer, had said she was not interested in marrying him. She had rejected Colin as well, made it abundantly clear that she did not plan to marry .

And yet, she was now standing in front of him now, saying the opposite.

“I did presume that I would remain a spinster, that is true,” she conceded, but her words did not bring him any relief. She almost sounded as though she was reading from a play, stilted and without emotion. “I am on my third year out and no gentleman had yet to show even the smallest of an interest–” Colin winced, ashamed with himself “–so it was reasonable for me to deduce that it would not happen. But Lord Debling has shown himself to be quite interested and would be an advantageous match for me. If he proposes, I will of course happily accept.”

I will of course happily accept

Happily accept. Accept.

What the fuck?

Colin considered whether Penelope had been taking more of the special white powder. “Happily accept– Debling? Surely you are joking, Pen?”

She furrowed her brow. “I most certainly am not. Debling is a lord, and he has a grand estate. He is a perfectly fine man and does not have skeletons in his closet – I would know. If I marry him, I will be secure for the rest of my life,” she said, and what the fuck was she talking about? Security? Colin could give her heaps of security, if she would only let him. 

None of this made any sense . He almost felt as he had on the night he discovered her with Spencer for the first time, except somehow more disoriented.

“He is boring , Pen,” Colin let out, and he knew he was sounding petulant but he was right . Colin had observed Debling on many occasions, and despite being a world traveler like himself, the man was undeniably dull, no color to him. Not at all right for Penelope – special, sparkling Pen. “I have heard him speak of his desires for a marriage of practicality and nothing more. And that he will be leaving soon, for three years!”

Penelope was unmoved. “I have made my peace with what Lord Debling has to offer. Should he propose, I will accept.”

This was… madness. Absolute insanity, the most absurd thing Colin had ever heard. Penelope Featherington, who as a child could not keep her nose out a book of romance. Who was dazzling, a fucking siren . A goddess among men. Who was goddamn Lady Whistledown , for Christ’s sake, the cleverest woman in all of Mayfair. That Pen could end up in a loveless marriage with the absolute bore of a man Debling… it was unthinkable.

Colin did not know what he was supposed to say, how she expected him to react to such a preposterous idea. How she was being so casual about her own future, about the prospect of ending up married to a man she so clearly felt no affection for.

Perhaps, it was this shock that explained what Colin said next:

“Penelope I… I must tell you, I cannot abide by you becoming engaged to that man. He is too particular and he will leave you and he is just… he is just not right for you, Pen,” Colin let out all at once, fiercely, like a man possessed. “And I also believe that… given our history, and considering the intimacies we have shared, it would only be right that you should marry me.”

It was perhaps not the romantic proposal he would have liked, not the kind of thing he had imagined over and over again in his head, but he did not know how to say anything else. He must– he must marry her, there was no other option, really. He could not allow her to marry someone else.

Only, Penelope was not looking at him. 

She was staring at the floor, hands on her hips, clearly trying to calm herself. And she was shaking her head.

“Colin,” she said simply, and the tone of her voice, the determined lilt, scared him half to death. “I cannot marry you.”

“I have compromised you!”

“Thomas compromised me first,” she countered. “If we are returning to conversations of my ruined virtue , then perhaps I should marry him instead.”

No . Colin felt a darkness start to take over, a kind of genuine primal urge he had not felt since he and Penelope had first began their affair. (God, for he hated that word. Hated referring to what they shared as though it was sordid.) He was not jealous of Spencer any longer, truly, but the idea of him marrying Pen… he could not think of it without wanting to deck the fellow. “You two did not share intimacies in the way that we have.”

“That is true. Thomas is the one who actually relieved me of my virtue, after all.”

“That is not what I mean you know it, Penelope!” Colin roared. Oh, he was truly angry now, furious at the way the entire conversation had somehow escaped him entirely, how he was utterly mucking it all up. He tried to steady himself, tried to calm his nerves. “What we have shared, it is– special. It is different from what you shared with Spencer. I know it is.”

He loved her, Colin wanted to say. He had never made love before Penelope, had never shared with anyone else what they had experienced with each other. And it was not because of their history, because of their years of friendship or sexual chemistry or anything of the sort. It was because he was in love with her.

He was in love with her. Utterly, madly, and completely in love with her. Ruined for anyone else.

“Please… Pen,” he croaked out. “Please let me marry you.”

He needed to marry her. He needed to be her husband, to hold her and care for her. He was undeserving, he knew, she was so much better than him in every single way. But it was all he could breathe for, the only thing in the entire world that made sense. 

Colin Bridgerton wanted, desperately, to marry Penelope Featherington.

But, he was starting to realize, his heart stopping – she did not want to marry him.

She was still not looking at him as she shook her head. She was standing in front of him, frown on her face – rejecting his proposal, just as she had before.

She must know, he thought as he stared at her. She was biting her lip and he could tell there were tears in her eyes even if he could not see them, that the conversation was upsetting her greatly. She was crying and it was because– it must be that she knew he loved her. There was no way she could not, what with the way he had been begging for every scrap of her affection for months. Colin was well aware he had never been the sort to be subtle, knew he could not hide his feelings even when he was desperate for it.

And Penelope – sweet, perfect Penelope… she was trying to let him down easy. She was a good person, a gentle person. It clearly saddened her to hurt him so, for her kind nature was not capable of anything else. She would not be cruel in her rejection, but she would not marry him, not when it was so obvious that his love for her was never ending, while hers was nonexistent.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. She still had not looked at him, still had not let their eyes meet even as he could see small specks of water begin to fall down her cheeks. He was grateful for it, in a way, to not have to look at her directly now. It would make it all so much easier. For even in breaking his heart, she was showing him kindness.

She was exquisite. He was an undeserving coward.

“It is ungentlemanly of me to act in such a manner. I am sorry for troubling you so, Pen,” he continued, praying that she did not catch the way his voice broke on uttering her name. “I do not know what I was thinking.”

And then, in his final cowardly moment of the evening, he quit the room.

Chapter Text

It was Spencer who found him, drinking his sorrows at Mondrich’s.

“Alright there, Bridgerton,” he had asked, jovial. Colin did not respond. 

He could not help imagining their conversation over and over again in his head, even though it had only happened several hours before. He had stayed home long enough to watch Penelope get into a carriage to return to Featherington House (watching over her like a stalker, good lord ) before he had immediately made his way to the club. His embarrassment had been like no other he had experienced in his life, the shame unimaginable. He wanted to drink so much he would forget.

Only, it was not so easy. He sat at the bar, ordering a bourbon, but he could not seem to drown it all the way down. He wanted to be numb so, so desperately, but it was as though doing anything – eating, drinking, breathing – was too much, an impossible task. He did not know what the point was of anything, if he did not have her.

Besides him, Spencer sat down. He ordered a drink and turned to Colin, as though it was just another evening. “Hmmm, I see we are not in high spirits tonight, sir,” he said, taking a sip. “I take it you spoke with Penelope?”

Colin grunted in reply. He did not want to speak about it, especially with Spencer of all people. He wanted to crawl into a hole and never return. 

“I see. It did not go well, then?” he asked, and while Spencer was usually a smug bastard, there was a slight kindness to his voice that Colin could not bear.

Thomas fucking Spencer, pitying Colin. For so long now, Colin had felt a superiority to Spencer that he could not deny, for given the option, Pen had chosen Colin . She might not have wanted to marry him, but in her choice of a lover, Colin had won. He could bring her pleasure that Spencer could not, could see pieces of her that no one else had. 

I preferred it with you .

That very fact – that Colin could give her things no other person had managed to, could provide for her, made Colin feel invincible, as though he could walk through a wall or run across the ocean. Penelope Featherington had chosen Colin Bridgerton.

And now…

Now, Colin felt the fool. Here was Spencer, easygoing and kind. And here was Colin, heartbroken and destroyed for all women. Destroyed for anything but loving her.

He started to feel his eyes water. Jesus fuck.

“She does not – want me,” Colin said, trying his best to hold back tears. “I have made my feelings known and it did not… it did not signify.”

Beside him at the bar, Spencer gave Colin a strange look. “You’ve proposed, then? And she rejected you?”

Colin took another weepy sip of his bourbon. “I tried. I told her that Debling was all wrong for her. He is strange and he is going to leave her. And I said that, considering our intimate history, it was really only right that–”

“So you believe you should marry out of obligation, because you have compromised her?”

Colin’s head snapped. He felt his blood boil. “That is not it at all! I should marry her considering all the things we have done, but that is not why I wish to marry her. I love her!”

Spencer nodded, as if none of this surprised him in the least, which just upset Colin more . “I figured as much. And I am curious, Mr. Bridgerton: have you told her this?”

Colin slumped back into his chair. “Not in so many words. But I have not needed to – I know I have made myself abundantly clear, over and over, following her around like a lost puppy.” He thought of the Granville party, how he had not been able to stop touching her, like a green schoolboy who had not learned to control himself in the presence of a beautiful woman. “There is no way she does not know how I feel for her.”

He had not been subtle in his affections. He did not think he would be able to, what with how he found himself mesmerized by every step she took. He thought back to how open he had been with Marina, and while the stab of embarrassment was still there, he knew it was nothing compared to how he was with Penelope. The way he was constantly eager for her – not just her body, but her mind and her heart. He wished that they did not ever need to part, that they could simply spend all their days together, talking and making love. He wished he could put a baby in her – god, the image made his mouth water, Penelope pregnant with his child. Round and rosy-cheeked and undeniably his .

Colin knew he was the type of man to wear his heart on his sleeve. It was why he had wanted to harden himself abroad, why he had exchanged history lessons and hikes in the mountains for brothels and clubs. Penelope – Pen had always made him feel special for the strength of his heart, but when she had not replied to his correspondence, he had no longer seen the point. If Penelope did not think he was special as he was, then something must be altered.

He knew now that, while he had not been aware of it at the time, he was trying to change himself into a man she would want, that she would deem worthy of love and affection. He thought back to their first meeting of the season, Colin so excited to show off his green cravat to her. To prove that he was right for her.

God, it was pathetic, the worst part being that he knew that Pen must have known. She was much smarter than him, always had been, and he could not imagine that she would not have caught on to exactly what he was doing, before he even did. Colin was an idiot and Penelope was a goddess , a genius. Fooling all of Mayfair so well, always a step ahead. She had shown him a kindness, letting him have this one piece of her for as long as she had, but Colin had been a fool to ever think he could be worthy. 

And then, because his life was a true tragedy, Colin did actually start to cry.

Besides him, Spencer groaned.

“Good lord,” he mumbled, downing his drink. “I cannot believe it is up to me to sort you both right. It is really most unfair, considering the way you have treated me.”

“There is–” Colin had to stop himself, to make sure he didn’t choke on his words through his tears “–there is nothing to be sorted. She does not love me. She never could.”

“That is funny,” Spencer said, although he did not sound to be in humorous spirits at all. “Because she once told me that you could never love her .”

Colin sniffled, wiping his eyes. He did not understand what Spencer was saying. “What do you mean?”

“She told me that she was not the sort of young lady that gentlemen fell in love with. That she was destined to be a spinster, because no one would ever love her.” At this, Spencer rolled his eyes. “And then she went on about how her greatest fear was to be an obligation for someone, to end up shackled to a man who desired a love match but felt duty-bound to marry her instead.”

Colin felt the room start to spin. It did not– it did not make any sense. How could Pen ever think such a thing, when she was so fundamentally and utterly  lovable. The very fact that every man in Mayfair wasn’t in love with her was ludicrous to him, for how could one ever not love her? Sweet, darling Pen. Funny and strong and brilliant and gorgeous and–

“But– but Debling?” Colin asked. “You say that she does not think she will be loved, that she would not want to be an obligation, but she is considering his suit, even when he will leave her.”

“Lord Debling has made it very clear that he is not in the market for a love match, has he not Colin? He will not love her, but he will give her a home and her freedom, which we both know she treasures. Even without love, I do not think Penny wishes to be a spinster.” He took another sip of his drink, and the look he was giving Colin now was filled with a kind of rueful pity. If they were speaking of any other subject, Colin would hit him. “A far cry from the Bridgertons, I daresay. From what I hear, your family is famous for love matches.”

They were, of course. It was hard not to be, when one saw the shining example of the love of their parents. When Colin returned from his trips and saw Daphne with Simon, and now Anthony with Kate. The Bridgertons were not the sort to marry without love.

And Colin knew he was no exception. He thought of the swarm of eligible debutantes of the ton , always fluttering and fawning over him. He was sure that many of them were intelligent and beautiful, that any of them could make a good companion for him. But he knew, in his heart, that he had been correct when he declared he would marry no woman but Penelope. He would love no one but her, and without love, what was the point?

His tears, which had started to subside, returned. Beside him, Spencer grumbled. He grabbed Colin by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“Alright, Bridgerton. I can see that your heart is a mess and that you are not understanding my words, and normally I would take great pleasure in your confusion, but this concerns dear Penny and I do not think I would be a proper friend to her if I did not set you straight.” Colin attempted to interrupt – he hated when Spencer called her Penny , that was not her name – but Spencer barreled on. “She loves you. She loves you more than I would say any member of the ton has ever loved another, except perhaps for you in regards to her.”

Colin slowly took in Spencer’s words, sniffling slightly. He stared at him, skeptical. “She loves me… how do you – how do you know ?”

“Because I have eyes, Bridgerton. Penelope Featherington loves you with everything in her entire being. And it is because of that love that she feels she cannot marry you. Because she does not think you love her and she does not wish to shackle you to a loveless marriage.”

Colin blinked. And then he blinked again.

… What?

What?!

What… the fuck!?!?

That could not… that could not be right. That Penelope could love him – him , who had insulted her and not seen her. Who was aimless and chaotic and had kept following her around and begging until she agreed to let him kiss her. Who was a third son, the worst son. Talentless, dimwitted. Unworthy in every single way…

And yet, he had to concede, he did not feel like that when he was with her . With Penelope, Colin felt brave. He felt like he could do anything, be anyone. She made him see the world – and himself – in ways he could not have imagined. Colin knew he was the best version of himself when he was with Penelope.

The idea that she could ever believe he did not love her was ridiculous, of course. But… she was stronger than he was, Colin knew. She was willing to make sacrifices that he was not capable of. Colin had told himself that he would make Penelope his mistress before he married another . He had not been able to think of a world in which they would not be together, where she could possibly prefer another. 

But she… she was better than him. She looked at Colin, and wanted him to find love. (As if he could ever love anyone but her! Prosperous!) She was willing to accept the suit of a man she held no affection for just so that Colin would have a chance at happiness.

Good fucking lord.

Beside him, Spencer smiled smugly, which Colin thought was rich because he still wasn’t fully convinced. The idea that Pen would love him of all people was absurd. Absolutely, positively mad.

But… not impossible .

“What… the fuck?”

Spencer snorted. “Not exactly the response I had expected, but I am glad you clearly seem to be catching on.” He flagged down the bartender, ordering another two drinks and asking for them to be put on Colin’s tab (bastard). “I think, Mr. Bridgerton, that you and Penny both care for each other very deeply and both happen to be quite terrible at communicating it.”

Colin glared at him, but his mind was spinning. Penelope might love him. Penelope might try to be saving him because she did not believe he loved her (insanity). Penelope might accept Debling’s suit.

No.

No, that would be unacceptable.

Not without Colin telling her first, at least. That he loved her and cherished her and wished, more than anything, to make her his wife.

She might reject him. She probably would reject him, what with her being the most eligible debutante in all of Mayfair and Colin just being… Colin.

But… if there was even a chance. Even the smallest possibility, that against all odds, Penelope Featherington loved Colin Bridgerton…

Well. 

Penelope was always the brave one, between the two of them. It was Colin’s turn.

Penelope did not think she had ever known such pain.

She had thought she had last season, when she heard Colin’s words of rejection. Or perhaps the year before, when he had announced his engagement to Marina. She had cried in her room for hours, desolate, convinced that no human dead or alive had ever experienced such utter heartache, such cruelty.

God, she wished that had been the case.

The scene kept repeating again and again in her head. Colin confronting her about her courtship with Debling, casual yet clearly peeved. Colin telling her that it was not right for her to marry Debling, considering their intimate history. Colin being the gentleman he always was, asking her to marry him

And then, clear as the moment it happened: Colin realizing his efforts were futile.

Colin leaving.

She could not think of his retreating figure without crying. It had been hard, so very hard to let him walk away. She had nearly called out to him, begged for him to return and ask her again, but the words had stayed caught in her mouth. It was simply not possible– he could never want her, never love her. He had said so before and she could not – would not – let their recent intimacy fool her, trick her into believing that he could have changed his mind.

He was asking her because he was a gentleman, she kept reminding herself. He was a man of honor and this was his commitment to his duty speaking, not his heart. If she would have said yes, let him put a ring on her finger, theirs would not be a marriage of mutual love. Temporary physical passion, perhaps, and friendship. She would love Colin with all her heart and he would care for her as a friend, nothing more. And to be married to Colin Bridgerton, so in love with him as she was, without that love ever truly being returned? She could not imagine a worse fate.

Only…

Only now she knew she had been wrong. As she awoke the morning after their argument, to a brave new world where Colin had begged her to marry him and she had in turn rejected him, she felt a sadness settle over her that felt like death.

What on earth had she been thinking?

This was worse than her depression of last winter; then, she had felt utterly alone, but she had not known how good it could be. To be held and kissed and made love to by Colin fucking Bridgerton . Penelope of last winter had known nothing at all, actually. Penelope of right now felt equal parts pity and envy for her.

She had flown too close to the sun and now she had burned.

She could not marry Debling, she had decided on the carriage ride back (the ride where she had cried the whole way home and then had not stopped until sleep overtook her in bed later on). He had no expectations of love, of course, but after her conversation with Colin, it had been clear: she could marry no man but him. It had been silly for her to pretend otherwise. While she knew that such a marriage would never come to be, she did not think she would be able to bear walking down the aisle and promising herself to another.

And so, Penelope thought as she dressed (tried not to cry) and took her breakfast (tried not to cry) and made her way to the drawing room to do some reading (worked very hard not to cry so as to not stain the pages), this was to be her life. She would reject Debling’s suit and she would remain under the watchful eye of her mama for the rest of her days. She would not speak with Colin any longer (for she could not imagine he would wish to continue their friendship after the trouble she had caused him), and one day in the not-so-distant future, she would spot him escorting a beautiful young lady to the dance floor and she would know her fate was officially sealed.

It was not a happy life, but perhaps it would get better with time. The scar would never heal, her love would never go away, but Penelope would get used to it. Eventually, she might even be numb to her pain.

God willing.

Her mama was not in this morning, had opted once more to spend the night at Prudence’s apartment (now that she was with child, she had become so needy ), so Penelope would not have had an audience if she decided to openly weep, but she did her best not to – she had sobbed so much yesterday evening, and she worried that if she started again, she would be unable to ever stop, a forever fountain of heartbreak. Penelope sat and read the same page over and over again, unable to focus on anything but her own sadness, until Varley announced they had a caller.

Oh god , Penelope winced. It must have been Debling. He had told her he would plan to call on her sometime this week, that he had some book on rare Persian plants he hoped to discuss with her. At the time, she had smiled politely and told him he was most welcome, but now the idea of seeing anyone at all felt much too hard. She steeled herself as she stood, ready to feign an illness or perhaps even an injury. ( Did a broken heart count , she thought to herself – har har – and then immediately shook her head at the fact that, oh god, for her it very much did.)

Only it was not Lord Debling who had come to call.

Instead, when the twin doors were opened, Colin Bridgerton stepped into the drawing room. 

And Penelope immediately burst into tears.

(Good. Fucking. Lord .)

It was not a graceful breakdown. There were novels which spoke of delicate young ladies coating their faces in a light sprinkle of wetness, tragically beautiful. Delicate and demure, even in sadness. 

This was not that. This was loud, obnoxious wheezing, snot everywhere. Penelope thought it was not similar to the screams of an infant, and that just made her cry more.

Pathetic, sad Penelope Featherington. She had spent the entire year being so brave, proving to herself that she was more than what she had been brought up to be. And one look from Colin Bridgerton and she was in pieces

“Pen!” Colin exclaimed, evidently shocked by her reaction to his presence. Penelope thought perhaps the force of it would make him leave, that he would take one look at her and see all this was simply not worth whatever reason he could possibly have for calling on her after their dastardly conversation yesterday evening. He would leave, glad to be rid of her, and she would be all alone again.

She did not know what would be worse: a lifetime of loneliness or Colin staying to watch.

He did not leave, however, and in a moment he was beside her, holding her tightly and stroking a comforting hand up her back. She could not stop herself from leaning into his touch, her traitorous heart never ceasing, and buried her face in his chest.  

God, but she hated the way she was acting. She wanted to slap herself, wanted to remind herself that she was Penelope fucking Featherington . She indulged in illicit substances and took (multiple!) lovers and ran the biggest scandal sheet ever known to Mayfair. She wanted to be the type of woman who did not care, who no man could ever reduce to tears. She knew in her heart that she had strength and talent, that she wasn’t some little girl but a woman, and a tough one at that.

It was humiliating, that his presence was impacting her so. That he was seeing it, bearing witness to the power he held over her. 

And yet… the tears did not cease. It was as if now that the floodgates had been opened, they could never close again.

“Pen, I’m– I’m so sorry, I do not mean to upset you” he was saying, clearly at a loss for how to respond when his presence caused a young lady to cry so passionately. God, he really was the best of men. So gentle and careful, always sensitive to others. She did not deserve his kindness or his friendship.

“I’m”–sniffle–“sorry”–sniffle–“Colin”–sniffle with an obscene amount of snot training from her nose.

“I am so very sorry that my being here makes you sad, Pen,” he was saying to her, and if she had not been crying so forcefully, she might have noticed the desperate, nervous tick to his voice, as if he was the one on the verge of tears. “It pains me greatly to have upset you so, nothing in the world makes me as unhappy as to see you cry. You are so beautiful and lovely and you should never, ever be sad. I wish I could take all your sadness and give it to myself, for I love you so and–”

And then he stopped talking, quite suddenly, as if he had said too much. 

…

What?

What?

“What?” she croaked, finally looking up at him from where she was still buried in his chest. It had become quite damp, she noticed.

Colin took a deep breath, and it was obvious then how very out of sort he was: breathing heavily, pupils dilated. He looked, frankly, terrified , as though nothing in the world had ever scared him quite as much as this very conversation, talking with Penelope of all people in the Featherington drawing room.

And yet, still, he barreled on.

“I love you, Pen,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. His eyes were so wide and burning into hers deeply. “I am very much in love with you. I have been for a while, and I thought, well– I thought I should tell you.”

Penelope blinked up at him several times. 

Colin loved her. He loved her. Colin Bridgerton loved… he loved Penelope Featherington?

That that could not be right. Colin had never… he had said it before, hadn’t he? That he did not love her, that she did not count. She was not a woman to him, except for the ways in which she very much was, but that was not the same, was it? There was simply not a universe in which Colin Bridgerton – endless charmer, world traveler, the sweetest boy she had ever known – loved her .

No. That was… that was simply impossible. She had spent years of her life – countless months and weeks and days and hours – accepting the fact that Colin Bridgerton would never love her. It had been difficult, of course, for she adored him so, but she knew what their relationship was: friendship, and occasional sexual passion, but nothing more. Penelope knew how the story of her life went, knew that she existed in one sphere and Colin within another. She had constructed her entire life around this fact for years . 

He did not love her. He could not love her.

And yet.

And yet.

And yet he had spent season after season finding her in every ballroom, seeking her out at every opportunity. And yet he had been her lover for months now, engaging in the most intimate of acts with her night after night. And yet he had asked her to marry him several times – no, not asked, begged , a pleading look in his eyes that she had never quite been able to reconcile with his obvious feelings of friendship for her.

And yet he was standing in the drawing room looking nervous and desperate. Like a man very much in love.

She slowly felt her world turning on its axis, everything she had ever known evaporating into thin air.

“You love me,” she said, dumbly.

Colin nodded slowly, as though terrified he might spook her with the acknowledgement of it. He took a particularly large swallow, steadied on. “Very much. I thought… I believed you already knew, and that you did not… but, well.” He took a breath then, almost as if he was holding back tears, and it occurred to her that he thought she did not love him . “It seemed important that I make it quite clear, in case there was any confusion. I love you.”

Penelope did not know how to respond. The very idea, that he loved her – that he loved her and he thought she knew – was pure insanity. She had spent years loving him, months doing everything in her power to not let him see it, and all this time: he loved her as well.

It could not be real. She could not find words.

Thankfully, ever her savior, he continued. “When I asked you yesterday evening… when I said we should marry, I believed that you were aware of my affections, that I had made myself clear in my love for you. But then it was brought to my attention that perhaps you were not. And so before– before you accepted Lord Debling’s suit, I thought it best to tell you. Just… just so you knew.”

Penelope felt as though she had been struck dumb by his confession. When she spoke, it was with a hallowed voice, one she barely recognized. “I was… not. Aware, that is.”

Colin smiled ruefully. He was looking down at her so gently, with so much care. Love , her mind whispered to her. He was looking at her with love.

“May I ask, then… is it possible? Do you have any affection… towards me?”

Despite the gravity with which he was asking, Penelope had to resist a bark of laughter. How could he possibly not know?  

She had spent years doing everything in her power not to let him see her, not to make it obvious that he was her entire world, the center of her universe in every way. And yet with a single world, she laid herself bare for him.

“Yes,” she said simply.

It was much easier than she had ever anticipated.

“Oh,” he breathed out. “That is very good. I did not know.”

There was a strange look upon his face then, as though her answer relieved him greatly. As though he had spent quite some time agonizing over that very fact – whether or not Penelope Featherington had any affection for Colin Bridgerton. It felt absolutely preposterous to imagine, counter to everything she had believed for so long. And yet she could not deny it, the ease with which he was now breathing. The way it appeared as though a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

It was then that Penelope began to feel the reality set upon his skin: Colin Bridgerton loved Penelope Featherington. He had loved her for quite some time, she was starting to realize, pieces suddenly clicking together in her head as if a puzzle. He loved her. He loved her .

Penelope had truly been blind.

And then, just as suddenly as her entire world had completely changed, a thought occurred to her, one so shocking and life-altering that she had to press her hands upon his chest to steady herself. “So then…” she asked slowly, afraid to even speak it. She could feel more tears welling up in her eyes. “Your proposal… it was in earnest?”

Colin nodded fast. “Very much so.”

“But you said– you said you would never court me,” she croaked out, barely above a whisper. She could not stop herself as the tears returned, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the conversation – the way it was shattering every cruel fact she had held onto so dearly all season long – and Colin moved to gently wipe the wetness from her face, taking her hands in his.

“I was wrong,” he said, and oh god , he was now crying as well. “I have been so wrong about so many things, Pen. I was wrong when I said those terrible things last season and I was wrong about Marina and I was so, so wrong when I kept leaving, when I have never known happiness the way I do in Mayfair, standing on the edge of every ballroom with you .” He took a deep breath then, clearly trying to calm himself. He was not successful. “For heaven's sake! I have been making love to you for months now when all I have wanted to do was drop to one knee and tell you how deeply and fervently I love you, how much I would like to be your husband. My darling Pen… I am starting to think I am quite stupid.”

And god help her, Penelope could help the laugh that escaped from her lips then, loud and obnoxious and just for him. He had been stupid, but so had she, doing everything in her power to try and push him away, martyring herself over and over again. Believing for even half a second that she did not belong to him and him to her.

She would not make the same mistake again.

Slowly, tentatively, she found herself smiling up at him. She heard a faint voice in her head, one that sounded mysteriously like the Penelope of six and ten, echoing over and over: Colin Bridgerton loved her. Colin Bridgerton loved her and he had proposed, had pleaded with her to marry him. Colin Bridgerton loved her and was standing in her drawing room, on the verge of tears, a man desperate.

Ridiculous. Ludacris. The most outlandish thing Mayfair had ever seen.

And yet, it was real.

They were truly both complete and utter idiots, perhaps the biggest the world has ever seen. It was only right that they be together, to spare the rest of London from their lunacy.

The thought made her giddy.

“Penelope Anne Featherington,” he started again, and oh god this was it. This was what she had dreamed of and cried over and told herself again and again that it would never happen. “I have loved you longer than I have known. I would like nothing more than to wed you and fill you with babies and make a home with you, a home that shines just as brightly as you do. I want to spend the rest of my life gossiping with you and making love to you in every which way, scandalizing our family until we are old and grey. There is not another woman I could ever want to - ever will marry. Please, my dearest Penelope - do not let me be a bachelor for life. Accept my suit?”

She had pictured it a thousand times in her head in a thousand different ways: Colin confessing his love for her, Colin asking to marry her. There had been dreams of innocent love and passionate declarations and somehow this – Colin, her lover, her favorite dance partner, her best friend – somehow this was even better. She does not think she could write a better ending if she tried.

And then, because she could feel her heart exploding, Penelope smiled – she could not help herself. “Not yet.”

Colin froze, raised an eyebrow. “Yet?” He let out a loud breath, clutched her closer to him despite his clear anxiety. “Have we not waited long enough?”

“ I have waited longer than you,” she reminded him, but there was no malice in it. She could not possibly sound upset when her heart had never been so full. “I am a young lady, Colin. It would be absolutely scandalous for me to accept your proposal without a proper courtship, especially when I do currently have another suitor.” She arched her brow.

The smile that Colin gave her then – so wide and hopeful and pure , made just for her; she had seen him smirk in victory and grin in blissed out pleasure, every one of his smiles making him look more handsome than the last. She loved this one above the rest.

“I will court you then.”

“Yes, I believe that would be a wise idea.”

“And then I will propose.”

“That is typically how courtships go, I am told.”

“And then you… you will accept?”

Yes , she thought. She would accept him with open arms and warmth in her heart. 

Instead of answering, she kissed him deeply, so at odds with the innocent courtship they were speaking of (although, she supposed, innocent was not a word that could be applied to them ever again). 

“I think perhaps I will,” she told him, cheeky. “There is no other man I believe I will ever marry, either. And you do not wish for me to end up a spinster, do you Mr. Bridgerton?”

Colin smiled his brilliant smile again, dipped his head as he held her tighter and kissed her like he had a thousand times before, like he planned to do so for the rest of his life. Which he did.

Perhaps, Penelope Featherington was more than the girl in the shadows, forever a wallflower. Perhaps she was more than the woman who attended Granville parties and made love with strangers, wild and adventurous. Perhaps she was even more than Lady Whistledown.

Maybe, just maybe, she would be a new kind of woman: the kind who was all of those things and none of them, someone who was brave and witty and married to the love of her life. Someone who had known heartache but also knew love, passionate and quiet and all the things in between. Perhaps she would be a million different Penelopes, every one of them growing and changing, orbiting around an endless array of Colins doing the same. Moving in tandem, learning from each other, becoming themselves more and more every day.

Perhaps her and Colin would make their own way. Together.

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton courted Penelope Featherington for four weeks.

Four weeks of calls on Featherington House, with flowers and chocolates and books for them to discuss. Of promenades in Hyde Park, Penelope lightly grasping Colin’s arm like a young lady should. Of balls, Colin always claiming as many dances as was proper (and occasionally more, just because she always looked so lovely and he could not resist). Four weeks of Colin Bridgerton making his intentions clear for the entire ton to see.

Lord Debling, for his part, made a valiant effort in his suit. But after the third ball where he took Miss Featherington away from Colin for a dance, only to have her immediately return to him for the rest of the evening once they had finished, Alfred could see that the battle had been won and not by himself, that attempting to break them would be a wasted effort indeed. And while Alfred did not shy away from a fight when he thought victory was possible, something about the way Colin would often look his way – sharp, yet with a knowing tilt of victory – told Alfred that he would not be so easy to defeat.

So Debling retreated and Colin stepped up even more, playing the perfect gentleman. He did not kiss her hand without a glove. He did not call on her without a chaperone (what would they get up to?), did not stray from the rules that propriety dictated. His Penelope deserved to be woo’d, deserved someone to shout their love for her - assuredly, fervently, loudly. Colin soon learned he had never found a task more exciting. He did not stray.

Well. Almost.

“Colin,” Penelope whined in the carriage, practically sitting in his lap. She was returning to Mayfair after handling some Whistledown business, and Colin, well– Colin was a gentleman, after all. He could not in good conscience allow a young lady – whom he was courting, no less! – to put herself in such grave danger without accompanying her. 

And the kissing could not be helped.

“Shhh, my love,” he whispered, and Penelope moaned into his mouth, grinding herself onto the leg Colin had lodged between her thighs. Since his courtship began, Colin had refrained entirely from making love to her – he wanted to do things right this time, make sure she knew just how much he cherished her, how deeply he wished for Penelope to be his wife before anything else. At first, she had found this romantic. 

But, four weeks later, her patience was growing thin.

“Please,” she begged again, as Colin went in for another kiss. “It’s been so long, Colin. I miss you.”

Colin smiled at her neediness, as if he himself had not been desperately taking himself in hand every night (truly, maintaining so much honor was no easy feat). His perfect, wanton wife. “Penelope, you know I cannot,” he told her, even as he kissed her once more and pushed his leg up just so, feeling her rut onto it again. “I am a gentleman.”

At this, Penelope snorted, and looked down to where Colin was currently palming her breast through her dress. “Such a gentleman.”

Colin blushed but shrugged, conceding her point but not removing his hand. He was only a man, after all.

“Perhaps,” she started to say, clearly casting around for potential ideas. “Perhaps I could just… sit upon your cock for a while.” Colin could not help the long breath he sucked in, and Penelope moved her mouth closer to his ear, spurred by his reaction. “We would not need to move, our honor intact, but it would feel so nice, would it not my dear? The feeling of my sweet cunny warming your cock, the lovely little movements of the carriage…”

Jesus fuck, for she was a siren. A perfect, insatiable siren. Colin marvelled at whatever grand deed he must have done in a previous life, to be blessed with her as his beloved.

He gripped her derriere tightly, trying his best to get a handle on his own desire. Be a gentleman, he attempted to remind himself. “I’ve told you this, my sweet. We will make love once we are man and wife.” Another kiss, slow and leisurely, as though it alone would be enough to satiate them. “The next time I make love to you, I plan to fill up your cunt to the brim with my child. Would you like that?”

Penelope groaned. “You know I would.” She looked up at him through her beautiful, long lashes. “So get on with it, Colin,” she told him, and her tone was not unlike the way she had spoken when she told him to bugger her for the first time. It sent happy chills down his spine. “My cunny misses you so very much.”

Colin visited with Lady Featherington to get permission to propose the very next day.

The day Colin Bridgerton asked Penelope Featherington to be his wife, it was pouring rain through the streets of Mayfair.

It had been an unusually dry season, really, a rarity in London. Many nights spent dripping in sweat, ladies tying up their hair and waving their fans most quickly. With everything that had gone on during the last several months, Colin had somehow failed to notice (he was a tad preoccupied, thank you very much), but as he looked out the window of Bridgerton House towards that of his beloved, furiously pacing the drawing room, he felt the newness of it settle into his skin.

“It is not stopping,” he moaned.

Eloise looked up from the book she had been reading and Benedict took a bite of his biscuit.

“Very astute, brother,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Have you also noticed that the sun is not shining and that the sky is rather dark?” 

Colin shot her an angry look. “Why is it not stopping?”

“I do not control the weather, unfortunately, so I cannot say. Perhaps if you ask it very, very nicely, it will finally cease.”

“Ughhhhh,” Colin grumbled, not least because he had in fact already tried that (had spent several moments praying to whatever kind of gods existed to please, please grant him this small favor).

Yesterday (when the weather had been perfect, mind you), Colin had been granted the blessing to propose to Penelope from Lady Featherington, who had widened her eyes in surprise and sputtered for several moments before saying anything at all. He had wanted, of course, to march right up to Pen’s room at that very moment and ask for her hand then and there, but the ring he had selected from his mother’s collection was not to be completed until later that evening and he had not wanted to show up empty-handed for such an important moment. So he grinned bashfully when Penelope came downstairs to greet him and had politely asked if he may call on her the following morning. She had been all smiles as she said yes.

A grand plan, if he said so himself. A grand fucking plan.

He had barely slept a wink, of course, for how was a man to rest when they knew they were to become engaged to the most wonderful lady in all of Mayfair the very next day? He lay awake in bed for hours, sitting up frequently to make sure the ring he had collected that evening was still where he had left it, safe on his desk (as if some ghost would sneak into his room to steal it). He was nervous, of course, as he believed any man worth their teeth should be the night prior to asking for the hand of such an incredible woman (and he knew there were some men who would not be, who would be confident and self-assured and positive in their acceptance – men like Fife and Cho, even men like his brothers from time to time – but Colin was not one of them and he was glad for it, for he did not believe Penelope would wish to marry a man with such an ego). But mostly he was just excited. Excited to get down on one knee, to tell Penelope how deeply he felt for her (again). Excited to start the rest of his life.

Only, when he awoke, rather than being met with the sun shining bright as it had nearly every morning during their courtship, he had heard the tell-tell signs of droplets raining down upon the house. He thought, as he rolled out of bed to stare out the window, that perhaps it was only a sprinkle. That by the time the hour was up, the rain would have ceased.

It had not.

It had not stopped and, in the hours since, only seemed to be coming down harder, the sort of rain that would last all day. It was now a quarter to eleven and Colin was going out of his mind. His other siblings and mother had retreated to their rooms slowly, one by one becoming increasingly wary of his frustration, his mother giving him a kind look as she left to read in the library. 

Benedict and Eloise had stayed, evidently to torture him.

“May I ask, dear brother, why the rain even matters,” Ben asked between bites of his biscuit, wiping crumbs away from his mouth. Colin had not yet eaten, the stress of the day ruining any appetite he might have. “Is there some rule saying that all proposals must take place in the glistening sunshine?”

“It matters because it must be perfect!” He wondered how it was not obvious, that his Pen deserved the picture-perfect proposal of her fantasies. He knew that she had loved him for much longer than he had known of his own feelings; they had shared much during their courtship, whispering their deepest secrets as they pretended to be discussing trivial topics like the weather for the rest of the ton . A part of Colin hated himself, of course, for how blind he had been, and he knew that he would spend the rest of his life begging for her forgiveness for not seeing her sooner. He knew that she had dreamed of today ever since they had first met, had fantasized on what it might be like if Colin Bridgerton were to ever propose to her.

He did not imagine, in those dreams, that it was raining.

Good god, what if it never stopped? What if, in exchange for their summer of sun, the rest of the year would be plagued by incessant rain, the streets filled with water until Christmas? What if there was never a sunny day again, Mayfair being reduced to the land of storms for the rest of eternity? Colin could not recall an instance of this happening before in history, but what did he know? He was just a man, he did not understand science or the weather, but it seemed like a likely probability. It would never stop raining and he would never be able to give Penelope the proposal she deserved and then he would live out the rest of his days as the saddest man who had ever lived and–

“Colin!” He broke from his spiraling and turned to see Eloise glaring at him, her tone giving him the distinct impression that she had been trying to catch his attention for several moments. “What is wrong with you?”

Colin deflated. “So much.”

“Clearly,” she huffed. “Colin, I know that Penelope and I have been at odds this season, and that there are things we may not entirely understand about each other. But from what I have observed during your courtship – aside from the fact that it is quite disgusting and that it is chief among those very things I will never comprehend in regards to herself – is that there is simply not a universe where you would propose to Penelope and it would not be perfect. I believe that, for her, the simple act of it being you doing the asking will be enough to make it everything she has ever dreamed of.”

Colin felt himself blush at Eloise’s words, at the reminder of Pen’s love for him. It pleased him greatly that his Pen and Eloise had been slowly working on repairing their friendship, to see these two important women in his life find their way back to each other. Even more so, it made him ecstatic to know that they had Eloise’s blessing, that even she – who railed against marriage at every chance, who he believed would gladly walk into spinsterhood with gusto – could see the strength of their affection for one another.

And he could not help but bask in her words, at the reminder of the magnitude of Pen’s love for him. Colin had to admit that it often made him feel heady, that this incredible woman – smart and fierce  and funny and brave and gorgeous – apparently loved him, of all people. Had loved him for quite some time, in fact, had spent years wanting him from afar and believing it an impossibility. It was hard to comprehend at times, when Colin himself felt so unworthy of her affection.

But, he was starting to discover, both he and Pen suffered from great insecurity when it came to the other, were plagued by feelings of inadequacy. It was something he knew would take them time to fully overcome – her in accepting that the depth of his affection was real and forever, him in moving on from his shame at ever having made her think that he did not adore her – but there were moments when Colin would feel their walls coming down. When Penelope would stare up at him with so much sincerity and love in her eyes, so much trust, and Colin would know in his heart that he looked the same, that the breath of his affection for her would be written on his face. And he would think to himself: perhaps we are the same. Perhaps we are equal in our love.

God, what was he doing? Petulantly moping around the house like a schoolboy, crying just because of a little rain, when Penelope was across the street and waiting for him?

“I will… I will go to her now,” he declared suddenly, bravery beginning to course through his veins. “She deserves to wait no longer.” Eloise and Benedict shot each other a look, one filled with amusement and affection, the kind that told him that they would be teasing him mercilessly about this entire scene for the rest of his days. 

It did not matter. Colin quickly left the room, grabbed his coat and the ring, and began marching through the rain towards Featherington House.

It really was coming down quite hard, and by the time he was across the street, Colin was soaked to the bone, his jacket ruined and hair a mess.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Varley remarked upon his entrance. He was dripping water all over the front parlor, and his boots had traipsed quite a bit of mud inside. “Would you like to take a moment to collect yourself before you move further inside the house?”

“No,” Colin told her bluntly. “I would like to call on Penelope. Right now.”

Varley looked like she would have very much liked to have objected, but at Colin’s determined stare (or perhaps he looked like a maniac, someone who would not take no for an answer; Colin found he did not care, for that was correct), she allowed him through, announcing him into the drawing room.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Featherington exclaimed as Colin barged in, drenched to the bone and frankly ruining the rug, at the same time that Penelope jumped up from where she had been sitting and shouted, “Colin!”

She was a vision in blue (and Bridgerton blue at that – she really did look most fetching in the color), red curls half-pinned up, necklace hanging low. She looked so pleased to see him despite his dramatic entrance, her eyes lighting up like little diamonds. She was the most spectacular thing Colin had ever seen.

Colin immediately, unceremoniously, dropped to his knees.

“Oh my god,” Lady Featherington gasped.

“Penelope Anne Featherington,” Colin started to say, and a part of him was nervous, so very nervous, but Penelope was staring at him with eyes of encouragement, and she looked like she might cry from joy and this was all he had ever wanted. “I have loved none other than you. You are witty and brave and the most desirable creature I have ever laid my eyes upon.” Lady Featherington let out another noise of surprise at that, which Colin ignored. “You are my best friend and my favorite person and I can think of no greater honor than getting to marry you. Would you please, please, please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

And Penelope was smiling and crying, and then she was nodding her head so quickly Colin thought she might hurt herself. And she was getting on her knees as well, moving towards him and letting his drenched clothing soak her as well – pulling his mouth towards hers and kissing him passionately, enough that he was quite sure Lady Featherington would be absolutely scandalized and might even demand they marry at once, which was really quite alright with Colin and–

“ Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, soft and gentle and just for him. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Colin kissed her again, relief and happiness washing over him like waves, like a rainstorm that could not be stopped. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and breathed in her delicious scent and marveled at how, even on the gloomiest of days, love could shine so brightly.

And they stayed there, on the floor and intertwined, for a very long time.

Most couples of the ton had one engagement party. Colin and Penelope got two.

There was the party for society, a well-attended affair that was the talk of Mayfair. (“Have you heard? Colin Bridgerton is engaged to Penelope Featherington, of all people!”) There were long waltzes and sickly sweet speeches from family members, and both their mothers cried several times (Colin even caught Benedict blinking rapidly to stop tears at one point, and looked forward to holding it over his head). It was, all and all, a lovely time, a perfectly appropriate gathering to honor the union of a gentleman and a gently-bred young lady. Exactly what an engagement celebration of high society should be.

Their other party was a different situation entirely. 

It was Thomas who suggested that they hold a celebration at Granville’s residence – it had, after all, been so vital in the formation of their union; it was where Colin first realized just how much he could want Penelope, and where Pen herself discovered she could be so much more than she had ever thought. Celebrating there would serve as a reminder for the both of them: they were more than just stuffy members of the ton, following the same rulebook as everyone before them. They were Colin and Penelope, and they would live their lives however the fuck they wanted. Sod the rest.

And it was marvelous.

Drinks flew freely, champagne and whiskey and every other sort of cocktail one could imagine (and even some more of the lovely cannabis cigarettes, which Colin and Penelope lazily traded back and forth between kisses whilst slumped on a settee). There were speeches at this gathering as well: Benedict ribbing Colin good naturedly and calling Pen an angel before finally bursting into tears of happiness, Spencer blabbering on for half an hour (and continuously downing glasses of bubbly before demanding more, to ranchous applause) about his crucial role in their match (which made both Colin and Penelope roll their eyes affectionately, Colin’s arm firmly clasped around Pen’s waist). Madam Delacroix, who Pen had grown quite close with through Whistledown, had spoken for only a moment, but had managed to make his darling girl smile so brightly that she had to tuck her head under his arm to control herself.

And then there was Eloise. Pen had begged Colin for several days to allow Eloise to attend. It was obviously risky, considering the absolute conniption Anthony would have if he ever discovered that Eloise had been escorted by her brothers to such an affair, but in the end, Colin found that his newfound forward thinking beliefs on the plight of society women extended to his sister. Who was Colin to try and begrudge her an opportunity to explore what the world had to offer, especially when she so clearly loathed the stuffy life they had been born into? Once Colin relented, they needed to convince Benedict, who as the second oldest had been a tougher sell (or perhaps Colin was an easy one), but had eventually agreed once Colin discreetly mentioned that this might help to repair the rift between the two girls.

And Colin was so glad he had, for at Granville’s Eloise lit up in a way he had not seen, finally set free from the constraints of society that she hated so dearly. Upon entering, she immediately began sipping a whiskey and engaging in spirited arguments with different guests about various opinions on the rights of women. Before he knew it, he turned to find her holding court with several men and women who seemed to be, quite frankly, besotted, and Colin knew that she would be back many times.

They made merry well into the early hours of the morning, enjoying endless dances and drinks and substances. At one point, he turned to find Spencer engaged in a passionate discussion with a pretty young opera singer, his eyes lighting up, and Colin considered that perhaps Spencer would be joining him as a married man sooner than expected. Across the room, he spotted Penelope and Eloise huddled in the corner, speaking fast and giggling, both clearly drunk on alcohol and also recklessness, and he knew that, despite the trials their friendship had suffered during the past year, they would be okay.

He chose not to interrupt them. Pen was his love, of course, but she was also someone outside of him. Colin did not need to barge into every relationship she had, try to control someone who so clearly was meant to sore. Colin thought that if his one purpose in life was to love a woman as great as Penelope – to support her, to hold her up, to serve as her partner and friend and lover – then he would be a very fulfilled man indeed.

She found him later, smoking with Benedict and some of the other men by the piano. She was wearing the most lovely dress – a tiny white thing sprinkled with lace, not at all appropriate for a party of the ton but just right for the debauchery of Granville’s. Upon their arrival, a crown of flowers had been placed on her head by one of the other female guests, delicate little daffodils tied together. He had always loved his Pen in yellow. He was happy to see she was starting to agree. 

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. Colin still had to pinch himself to believe that she was his.

Pen quirked her eyebrow, sly and giddy. He did not think he had seen her stop smiling since they arrived, and that sight made him so happy he could burst. With a salute to his brother, Colin passed the cigarette to one of the men and went to her, his bride to be, slipping his hand in hers and leading them to the dance floor.

He had kept true to his commitment not to make love to her again until they were husband and wife, and while both their frustration had become great (oh how he wished to escort her to a private room and not leave for several hours, especially considering the increasingly lower hemlines she had been sporting since their engagement), it has also meant every touch was heightened, charged. He would kiss her hand as he bid her farewell or hold her arm during a promenade, and it would feel as though he was once again a green lad who had never known a woman’s touch. Never known Penelope’s touch, this grand force that had forever changed every part of his being. 

As they settled on the floor, his hands wrapped tightly around her waist and her front pushed right up against his (it would scandalize any respectable member of the ton and Colin relished it, although at Granville’s it was rather tame), Colin felt giddy all over. Pen made him feel loved and brave and handsome and naughty all at the same time. They swayed to the music, trading kisses leisurely, not a care in the world except for each other, except for the brightness of the moment and every moment that was to come after it.

“I cannot wait to be your wife,” she said into his mouth. They were both still reeling from the cannabis cigarette they had smoked earlier in the evening, and it made Colin feel hazy with love and want. “To lay by your side and make love with you and have your babies. To be Mrs. Bridgerton .” She let out a brilliant little giggle at the last part, and Colin kissed her again for good measure.

“I must admit, I cannot stop imagining you pregnant with my children. It is a sight that I believe I will enjoy greatly.” 

She snorted. “Just as you will enjoy the task of making me with child, I presume.”

Colin could not help his wicked smile. “Perhaps,” he said, and he bit her lip lightly, eliciting a perfect little whine. “Minx.”

Oh how he could not wait to belong to her officially, and to show her the world. They were to set sail for their honeymoon some weeks after the wedding, several months spent exploring France. Spencer was planning to be there early in the autumn this year, with Gen joining shortly after, and he was eager for them to explore the most scandalous parties in Paris. Eager to show Pen off, his beautiful and smart and cunning wife, all his and no one else’s. 

“You are such a devil,” she told him, but she was smiling. “You know how much I want you, and yet you will not have me. It is most frustrating.”

“Only a little while longer, my wife,” he told her. He had found himself in the habit recently, calling her his wife. They would not be married for another fortnight, of course, but the bands had been read and his ring sat prettily upon her finger. She would be his for the rest of her life, as he would be hers, so Colin did not think there was any harm in referring to her by her soon-to-be title a few weeks early.

And then of course there was the look she would flash him every time he spoke it, besotted and as fresh as the flowers that lay upon her head, as though being his wife was the greatest honor. 

She kissed him once more and tasted like everything he ever wanted. “It is as I said before,” she told his mouth. “I cannot wait to be your wife –” and then, as if she could not help herself –“and to take your cock over and over again.”

Colin smiled, for he had thought the same thing several times over their recent weeks of celibacy. He would lay in bed at night and ponder all the ways they would make love once they were man and wife, all the different methods by which he would defile her and she him. The possibilities felt endless, the depth of their want an limitless reserve. Waking her up every morning with her cock. Pumping her cunny with his spend, breeding her with his child. Making a mess of her. Colin blushed then, remembering the special gift he had recently procured to present her with on their wedding night, the perfect little jeweled cockpiece that he had been thinking of for so long. He had felt vaguely like a degenerate when he’d gone to make the purchase, but had been spurred on when he thought back to the look of desire in Penelope’s eyes when he had informed her that such an object existed. He desperately hoped she would wear it for him often.

Heaven's sake, for he really was one of the most perverted bastards who had ever lived. Perhaps second only to Penelope.

Colin pulled her closer. “Honestly, it is quite convenient that we managed to find each other, considering how insatiable we both are,” he mused then, and he knew he must look smug, cheeky and impossible and so very happy. But he could not help himself. He belonged to a woman as great as Penelope Featherington – soon to be Bridgerton. “I dare say any other potential matches would run for the hills if they had any notion of how absolutely demented we both are.”

“Let them run,” she declared, shrugging easily at the thought. “I do not need anyone else, Colin. Only you.”

Only Colin and Penelope. Forevermore.

epilogue

The day that Penelope Featherington became Penelope Bridgerton, the sky was shining brightly throughout all of Mayfair.

“Mother nature used up all the rain on the day Mr. Bridgerton proposed, I see,” Mama remarked as Rae fixed her hair, the tiniest bit of resentment present in her voice (Varley had been unable to get the stain of mud out of the rug, but as it was an atrocious old thing, the most horrible shade of yellow, Penelope could not feel too bad). Indeed, there was not a cloud in the sky, nothing but chirping birds and warm sunshine and an occasional lovely breeze.

A perfect day for a perfect wedding.

It was, admittedly, a slightly grander affair than either Colin or Penelope had felt they needed, much more to their mother’s tastes than their own. Despite her grumbling, Mama could not contain her excitement at Penelope managing to marry into one of the most eligible families in all of London (her sisters had rudely asked how she managed to ensnare him, and Penelope had let the pettiness drip from her voice as she had simply told them he fell in love with me), and Lady Bridgerton – Violet, as she had insisted that Penelope call her now – had not yet had the pleasure of getting to plan a society wedding for any of her children that wasn’t marred in scandal. (As if Colin, who was marrying a woman who had been his lover for several months and also happened to be Lady Whistledown, was not in fact the most scandalous of the bunch.) So, while neither Colin or Penelope would have opposed a small affair, perhaps one that would have gotten them to the altar a few weeks prior, they had allowed their mothers this small moment of peace.

For the result was the same. Penelope, in a dress of satin white, walking towards the love of her life – quite literally the man of her dreams in every way imaginable. Seeing the smiles of her friends and family (Eloise hurriedly wiping away tears of joy, Thomas shooting her a playful wink), passing the bouquet to her Mama and stepping up to take Colin’s hands (“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered to her in wonder). Declaring the breath of their love for one another, and knowing within their hearts that this love was so much more than either of them had ever thought they would get.

With this ring, I thee wed, he said, earnesty clear upon his face. She had never felt such devotion from another.

With my body, I thee worship, she said, her lips turning upwards in a subtle smirk. He had to turn his head away to hide his blush.

To have and to hold, they both said, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Publicly proclaimed, silently promised.

For the entire day, Penelope felt as if she were on a cloud, gliding happily through each moment in a continued state of bliss, impossible to rattle. She conversed more easily with members of the ton than she ever had, did not mind her Mama’s slightly ostentatious decorations or when they ran out of her favorite pastry early (she had to physically hold Colin back from going to the kitchens to request more). She was Penelope fucking Bridgerton. She took her husband to the dance floor with confidence, had him spin her around and hold her tightly for all to see. Together, they could be whoever they wanted to be.

And they would be. Sod what anyone else told them.

When, much later in the evening, Colin finally released inside her for the first time, Penelope felt herself relishing it. Not just the wonderful feeling of his spend (for it felt so lovely, the knowledge of what it meant enough to make her eager for more) but the fact that, for the first time ever, their love making did not come with a caveat. They were simply a husband and wife.

Penelope found herself pinching the inside of her hand often, unable to believe that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate fantasy. In the days following their wedding, they rarely left their new bedchamber, spending hours upon hours wrapped up in each other, exploring every inch of their bodies with absolute reverence. While Penelope had spent their courtship attempting to convince Colin to forgo his sweet-but-frustrating turn towards proprietary (it was very romantic and also impossibly annoying), she would admit now that their wait had made it better, had served to only heightened the depth of their lust once their vows were made.

“My sweet little harlot of a wife,” he would tell her as they twisted in the sheets, his hands lightly grazing her bottom, where the delicious object he had gifted her with on their wedding night sat snugly between her cheeks. She knew the sight of it drove him completely wild, despite his composure, but it also made Penelope feel wonderful, so perfectly full of him. “It’s as though this is all you think of.”

Penelope nodded her head. “Yes,” she breathed out. “This is all I think about.” She could already feel herself falling under, going to the special place that made her feel gooey and special and so, so safe. She had not found her release yet this evening, a rarity with Colin – he always liked to bring her over the edge several times before he found his release, even during the moments when he would act as though he was only using her for his own pleasure. They had already experimented with the new toy once since he had presented it to her, and during their previous try, he had brought her pleasure many times over before inserting it.

This night was different, though. Instead of giving her a swift release, Colin had brought her to the edge of pleasure over and over before pulling back. By the time the object was firmly inside her, Penelope felt like a desperate puddle, as though she would do anything to have Colin’s cock.

“Please, Colin,” she whined, letting out a particularly loud moan when he moved to lightly twist the toy inside her.

“Please what, Penelope?” he asked, and even in her haze she could see his smugness, clearly quite chuffed at so easily having her in absolute pieces for him. Perhaps, if she had not been currently on the edge of such complete satisfaction, she would have reprimanded him for such behavior.

But unfortunately, she was not currently in a position to argue.

“Please give me your cock,” she begged. “I’m so– I’m so empty.”

“Empty?” he mock asked, but he was moving now, positioning himself between her legs. For all his talk, Penelope knew that the sight of his little wife decorated so prettily for him made Colin ravenous. “Darling, I do believe your wonderful little arsehole is stuffed full. And you tell me you are empty? ”

“My– my cunt, Colin! My cunny is so wet, Colin, and it’s so empty and it needs you, it needs your cock and–”

“My god,” he said, and he entered her then, swiftly slipping his cock into her cunt up to the hilt. “For my wife is such a whore, is she not? So desperate to have all her holes filled up.”

Penelope could not help but moan wantonly. It was exquisite, being so deliciously stuffed, surrounded by Colin entirely. It made her feel as though no part of her body was left untouched by him, as though their very souls were intertwined in every way. 

As always, he was slow at first, giving Penelope a moment to adjust to the feeling. It had felt slightly strange the first time he filled her so - when he buggered her and stuck his fingers in her cunny. Strange and wonderful. Now, many months later, it only made her feel delight.

It did not take long for her to begin shifting, fucking herself onto his cock. With a grunt, he started to move. Slow at first and then faster. “But only by me,” he grunted out, a possessive edge curling through his voice that made Penelope want to melt. “I’m the only one who gets to fuck your holes. They belong to me.” He slowly grazed the back of her thighs with his hands, lifting one leg above his shoulder so that he could go deeper. 

“Yes. Only–only you,” she agreed heartily. “Only you, only ever you.”

He began to fuck her hard, an edge of roughness emerging. Penelope always loved this part, when Colin’s bravado would start to slip away and his own desperation for her would slowly emerge. His thrusts were fast and brutal, and it was all so very much – the fast pumps of his cock, the feeling of the toy still happily nestled inside her most private area.

“ Co-Colinnnn,” she let out, her ability to speak slowly receding as she tottled closer to the edge. She was so perfectly full and he was so huge, her beautiful, giant husband. He was so kind to her always, tenderly caring for her and whispering her sweet nothings and giving her exactly what she needed, pounding her cunt how she liked. He was fucking her faster, faster, his cock hitting that perfect spot over and over; she slipped a hand then to her clit and began stroking, and it was all so much, too much. And then he started saying it.

“I love you. I love you, fuck, Pen, I love you so much.” He was saying it like a prayer, like she was his deity. “I love being married to you, you're perfect, you feel so good. You’re my fucking wife and I love you and–”

And, really. Penelope could only take so much.

She came with a yelp, loud and guaranteed to wake the servants (whom she was sure were counting down the days until Penelope and Colin departed to Paris for their honeymoon). The pleasure was overwhelming, managing to take Penelope completely away from all her senses for several moments. Absently, she felt him release inside her himself, a happy feeling of contentment coiling through her at the knowledge that he had given her his spend, but her mind was not wholly there. She wasn’t floating entirely, but she was drifting, basking in the glow of his love.

She could not have said how long they stayed like that. Ever so slowly, she came back to herself, felt the warmth of his arms around her, his words of affection coating her senses. He took such very good care of her, made her feel special and beautiful and brave and loved. She was a most lucky woman indeed.

“Thank you,” she told Colin as he lightly stroked her cheek, staring at her with a rather besotted look upon his face. “That was wonderful, Colin.”

He blushed, shy. “I’m glad.” When they took part in their games, Penelope nearly always played the part of the needy wanton, with Colin as the steady, confident hand. It was pure loveliness every time, to see him shed his role and emerge once again as her tender husband, strong and yet sweet. “It was quite naughty, wasn’t it?”

Penelope giggled. “The most naughty,” she agreed, leaning up for a kiss and moaning slightly when his hand came down to gently squeeze her bottom. He had slipped out of her cunt sometime when she had been fuzzy, but the toy was still inside her. She’d ask him to remove it in a little while, but for now as she came down from her high, it was like a nice little reminder of their tryst. “My husband really is an absolute whore ,” she told him, and Colin barked out a laugh.

“Only for my wife."

The first time Penelope Featherington set foot outside London, she was no longer Penelope Featherington.

The goodbyes had been long and drawn out, promises to write every day and come back quickly. Eloise had threatened several times to stowaway in their trunk, which Penelope did not think she would mind so much until Colin pointed out that then they would have to bring her back. (He had made it up to his sister by striking a deal with Benedict to escort her to a Granville party once a fortnight, which Eloise had conceded was a decent concession though not good enough, brother.) They would spend most of their time in Paris, Colin eager to show Penelope everything the city had to offer, and Penelope could not imagine anything better, learning a new city on the arm of the love of her life. 

It had felt like a heavy feat of course, dragging themselves away from their cocoon of their marital bed in order to make the journey to Paris, but Colin had assured her again and again: the city would be worth it.

And he was oh so right.

It was absolutely stunning, everything she had been made to believe and somehow more. Music in the streets and sophisticated cafes and bookshops one could get lost in (and which Penelope did, on several occasions, hiding herself away within the shelves and wasting wonderful hours turning pages), nights spent at the opera or fancy clubs, meeting characters of every kind. Colin always by her side, her very favorite companion.

Colin took her everywhere, to strolls along the Grand Boulevards and performances at the Théâtre les Italiens, to feasts of the most delectable suppers Penelope had ever tasted. He relished it, he told her several times, getting to experience the city with her. While he had enjoyed it the previous year, that trip had been marred by the absence of her letters, by his own confusion and insecurity and, he heartily admitted now, heartbreak. By contrast, Penelope did not think she had seen a frown fall upon his face since they had arrived in the city at the end of August, and it warmed her deeply, that her simple presence brought him so much joy.

During the start of their stay, Thomas had been passing through (although he had cut his trip mysteriously short, and both Penelope and Colin were convinced it had much to do with a London opera singer they had noticed him cheerily speaking with at several Granville parties), and Penelope had recently confirmed with Gen that she planned to be with them shortly. The company had been lovely, for she had decided there was nothing better than exploring a beautiful city with good friends, though she did not so much mind that for the next little while they would get to just be Colin and Penelope all on their own.

“My wife,” Penelope heard now from outside the window of their temporary lodgings, and she could not help the giggle that escaped her lips. 

It was nearly the afternoon, Penelope having slept late after yet another evening sampling one of the more rancheros soirees Paris had to offer (for Thomas had been correct in his assessment that they were even better than Granville’s bashes). During their stay in Paris thus far, this had become a lovely habit: evenings spent exploring the nightlife, parties and theater and the sorts of events that would surely make Mama faint. Sometimes they were Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton, sweet and proper London newlyweds eager to see Paris on their honeymoon.

But on other nights, like the one yesterday, they were no one. A man and a woman of no real importance or concern. Perhaps an artist and his muse or a successful actress and her lover. They would slip through the parties, drink bubbles and kiss through cigarette smoke and meet interesting strangers, actual artists and actresses and everything in between. And when someone would ask for their names, curious to know more of the elusive couple they had encountered that evening, Penelope would gaze up at Colin as he would reply:

“This is Aphrodite, and I am her husband.”

It had now been nearly two months since their wedding, since Colin and Penelope had stood at the altar of the church and made vows they would take to their graves (and good heavens, she could only imagine how the lord had been shaking his head at them for the nerve, after all the ways they had defiled each other outside of the bounds of marriage – but she simply could not care), and yet it still gave Penelope a great thrill.

Colin Bridgerton was her husband. She did not think she would ever tire of being reminded.

Even now, as said husband stood outside their window shouting at her as though he were Romeo and she Juliet, as though he could not take but a few steps and be with her. As he did most days after their more extravagant escapades, actually: she would often awaken early, to the sounds of Colin doing up his breeches and kissing her forehead and telling her to go back to sleep, for he was off to fetch them a bite to eat, and then much later, to him calling to her (or, once, performing a particularly terrible serenade that nearly had them kicked out of the inn they had been staying in) from outside, basket of fruit and bread in one hand, afternoon champagne in the other.

He was truly so very ridiculous, her husband. She loved him madly.

Slowly, Penelope rose from the bed to meet him at the window, wrapping a sheet around herself so as not to scandalize the Parisians as they strolled the streets (she could not recall the last time they slept in actual night clothing, for it really was a most unnecessary barrier) to peek out at Colin. Sure enough, he was standing outside with the makings of a lovely little lunch for them.

“Husband,” she called out, arching an eyebrow at the wicked look upon his face, the one that said he was quite pleased to see her bare shoulders shining at him through the sunlight. “Have you brought me a feast to replenish us after last night’s festivities?”

“Something like that,” he said, holding up the champagne. “You are aware of how very much I enjoy taking care of my wife.”

And Penelope could not help the cheeky smile that shone then on her face, for Colin did such a very good job caring for her, whether it was bringing her food or keeping her safe during their more risky Parisian adventures or holding her so very affectionately as she came down from the highest of pleasures. Colin cared for her in so many ways every single day, just as she did for him (and it was so lovely, getting to love and care for Colin so openly after dreaming of it for years). They were equal in their desire to tend for each other and be tended to, always.

Before her, Penelope could see the rest of the day unfolding. Colin would join her upstairs, where they would pick over his wonderful basket and each partake in a glass of champagne and, before they knew it, find themselves tumbling upon the sheets once more, groping and rutting and Colin eventually spilling inside her cunny, just as he had nearly every day since they became husband and wife. (At the rate they had been going, Penelope did not think it would be long before her courses began to cease and their days of partying were replaced by something rather more gentle, more domestic, but even more wonderful.) Then they would lounge in bed for hours and hours, sharing kisses and releases and probably another few glasses of champagne, before Colin would methodically dress her and then himself and whisk them away for a stroll, to explore the city once more.

It was the kind of day they had experienced many times since they arrived in Paris, the kind of day that would have once felt like an impossible dream. She thought back to the Penelope of a year ago, so lonely and desolate and convinced she would never know love. A part of her could not recognize that girl, the person who had not yet discovered so much about herself – her own resilience and power, the strength of her passion and bravery – and yet she loved her dearly, could not wait for that younger Penelope to meet herself and unearth what lay inside her very soul. She so very desperately wanted to take her by the hands and tell her:

Before long, all your days will look like your wildest fantasies.

Penelope smiled down at her husband. Today would not be a fantasy. 

Today was real.

fin.