Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton was, paradoxically, both an impatient and a patient man. He was known to speak his mind, particularly when it came to matters of the heart—often in the most chaotic and impassioned manner. Yet he was not without self-awareness. From the earliest days of their marriage, he had acknowledged his many shortcomings, and after the momentous reveal of Lady Whistledown's true identity—followed by that heartfelt conversation with Penelope at the Flinch-Dankworth Ball—he had resolved to amend every foolish word and action he had once inflicted upon her.

Never again would he be the cause of her sorrow. He had made a solemn vow: that the only tears she would henceforth shed would be those born of happiness, and that he would stand steadfastly by her side, shielding her from every cruel whisper and lurking shadow.

And so now, as he gazed upon her—barely veiled by the tangled sheets, her skin aglow with the morning light, a vision of contentment and intimacy left in the wake of last night’s shared tenderness—Colin could not help but murmur under his breath, “Oh, Colin Bridgerton, you lucky bastard.” A boyish grin curved his lips.

He remembered his plan to surprise her that morning. Moving with great care so as not to wake her, he slipped from the bed, dressed with quiet efficiency, and before departing the room, leaned over to kiss her cheek and whisper, “I love you, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”

He had gone to great lengths to arrange a grand breakfast—having spoken to the cook in advance to ensure all of Penelope’s favorite dishes would be prepared—but he wished to personally oversee the final presentation. However, as he stepped into their drawing room, he was stopped dead in his tracks.

Flowers. An abundance of them. Bouquets upon bouquets filled every available surface, and even more were being carried in by bewildered footmen.

“Rae! Please, I need you here,” Colin called sharply, eyes scanning the room in disbelief.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I—I do apologise,” Rae stammered as she approached.

“May I know why, precisely, our drawing room now resembles Covent Garden?” Colin asked, arching a brow.

“Yes, well… they are for my lady, Mrs. Bridgerton,” Rae replied, carefully.

“For Penelope?” Colin repeated. “Are they from family?”

“No, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said with a hesitant glance. “They are from… callers. Each bouquet bears a card, should you wish to inspect the names. There are also boxes of chocolates… and a few pieces of jewelry.”

“They what?” Colin's voice rose. “Are they unaware that my wife is, in fact, my wife? Surely they are not all living under rocks?”

“I believe they know quite well,” Rae said delicately, “but they cannot seem to help themselves. Her charms, sir, are not easily ignored.”

Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, God. Thank you, Rae. Kindly ensure no further deliveries are allowed through the door. I’d prefer not to drown in a sea of unsolicited affection.”

“Very good, Mr. Bridgerton. Also,” she added, holding out a folded letter, “a missive arrived—one from your mother, and another from the Viscount.”

Colin unfolded the first letter with idle curiosity, only to find his expression darkening with each word he read. By the time he reached the final line, his jaw was clenched and his brow furrowed in barely restrained fury.

Dearest Colin,

Apologies for the sudden missive. It is just that it has now been a week since Penelope revealed herself to be Lady Whistledown, and since then, the gentlemen of the ton have not ceased in their relentless admiration. They have taken to sending flowers—by the dozen—to our house, under the mistaken assumption that the two of you are staying with us. The butlers and footmen are quite exhausted from turning away callers every day. Some even shout Penelope’s name from the street in hopes of glimpsing her. One particularly persistent gentleman stood outside this morning and began reciting poetry, much to the amusement of Hyacinth and the dismay of your brother.

I have always known how lovely your wife is—from the very first day I met her—but I daresay this attention is getting rather out of hand. I do hope you both are well and happy.

Sincerely,

Your mother

Colin blinked at the letter, then read it again, as though his eyes had betrayed him the first time.

“What the devil are these gentlemen thinking?” he muttered, his voice a growl. “Standing outside like troubadours? Shouting? Poetry?”

He tore open the second letter, one penned in the familiar, infuriatingly amused hand of his eldest brother.

Dear Brother,

Firstly, allow me to say how pleased I am that all is now well between you and your wife. While I am still recovering from the shock of discovering that Penelope is Lady Whistledown, I am also immensely proud. She is a remarkable woman—Kate would say so too—and it appears we are not alone in that sentiment.

Since her reveal, an extraordinary number of floral arrangements, boxes of confections, and even a few pieces of rather expensive-looking jewelry have arrived at our home, all addressed to your dear wife. In fact, I daresay she has received more tokens of admiration than Daphne did during her debut season.

Just yesterday, a bouquet so large it required two footmen to carry it arrived at our doorstep. Kate laughed so hard I thought she might cry. I, however, thought of you—and I imagine you are currently seething with jealousy. Should you wish to mount a campaign against these so-called admirers, do not hesitate to call upon me. I shall gladly assist in scaring off half the bachelors in London.

Yours sincerely,

Anthony

Colin stared at the page, utterly aghast. He could hear Anthony's smug voice in every line, especially the part about him "seething with jealousy"—an observation that was, unfortunately, entirely accurate.

He tossed the letter onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “This is madness. Absolutely—bloody—madness.”

The very idea that men were lining up, sending poems, and quite literally fighting to get a glimpse of his wife had him seeing red. Yes, he had always known she was brilliant, beautiful, and wholly captivating—but that knowledge had been his to cherish. He had not anticipated having to fight off half the eligible men in the city after putting a ring on her finger.

And Penelope… she was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the war being waged in flower petals and rhymed verse outside their home.

One by one, Colin began to pluck the cards nestled among the many bouquets, his eyes narrowing with each name he read. A viscount. A marquess. A duke, for heaven’s sake. And no fewer than three barons. His blood began to simmer.

Not only were these men sending tokens of admiration to his wife—but they were paying extra for them to be delivered all the way to Bloomsbury. The sheer audacity of it sent him perilously close to the edge. With a most ungraceful sound of exasperation, he stomped his foot upon the carpet like a sulky child denied his sweets.

What he failed to notice, in his spiral of jealousy, was the presence of his wife—now very much awake and standing against the door, her hair tousled from slumber and her brow quirked in amusement.

“Is everything quite all right?” she asked, suppressing a yawn. “Why are there so many flowers? Are we to host an event?”

“No,” Colin said tersely. “They are—from your callers.”

“Callers?” Penelope repeated, her tone suddenly alert. “As in callers?”

“Yes. And you should read the letters sent by my mother and Anthony. It appears your admirers are attempting to see you at the Bridgerton house as well.”

Penelope walked closer to him and took the letters from his hand, reading them with growing amusement. A moment later, a laugh—clear and melodic—escaped her lips.

Colin turned to her, eyes narrowed. “Truly, you are laughing at this, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

“It is just—well,” she began, still chuckling. “I had expected a rather different outcome after the reveal. I thought I should be cast out of society.”

“Well, it is quite the opposite,” Colin grumbled, crossing his arms in a most displeased fashion.

Penelope tilted her head, eyes dancing. “Wait… Colin, are you jealous?”

“I am,” he said with the utmost seriousness. “I am so jealous. What if—what if this changes your mind? What if you leave me for one of them?”

“Oh, Colin,” she said, stepping closer to place a gentle hand upon his chest. “No one—no one—could ever change my mind. I was born to be yours. Only yours.”

“Only mine?” he repeated, eyes softening.

“Yours,” she whispered again.

“Good,” Colin said, tightening his hold around her waist. “It is time these people learn that you are well and truly mine.”

Later that day, Penelope stepped outside only to find a large piece of cardboard propped against the front gate. Painted across it, in bold letters, was the declaration:

“PENELOPE BRIDGERTON IS MINE. THOSE WHO WISH TO TRY SHALL BE MET WITH A PISTOL AT DAWN.”

She merely shook her head and walked past it with the same graceful dignity with which she endured society’s every whim—though the smile tugging at her lips suggested she was not entirely displeased.

Chapter Text

After the madness of the previous week—marked by an absurd influx of flower deliveries, love notes, and near-suitors calling upon Mrs. Bridgerton—Penelope and Colin were now en route to what promised to be yet another overwhelming event: Her Majesty’s End-of-the-Season Ball.

Though Penelope had received a personal invitation from the Queen herself, Colin had not been entirely pleased. The thought of parading his radiant wife before yet another crowd of wide-eyed gentlemen stirred a rather unpleasant sensation in his chest. Alas, royal summons were not to be refused, and so they found themselves seated side by side in the carriage, London’s evening lights flickering just beyond the windowpanes.

Colin, however, was not admiring the scenery. He was too busy gazing at Penelope with a furrowed brow and an expression that suggested he was deep in thought—or sulking, depending on the observer.

“Colin,” Penelope said gently, her voice soft with amusement, “is something the matter, love?”

“What? No,” Colin replied, a little too quickly. “Nothing at all.”

She gave him a pointed look. “I know you. Something is on your mind.”

With a dramatic sigh, he leaned back against the velvet seat. “It’s just... last week. All those blasted flowers. The callers. The chaos. And I just remembered—one of the men who sent flowers was your former betrothed. He had the nerve”

Penelope blinked. “My former betrothed?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Pen! You know—the penguin man! The one obsessed with birds!”

A laugh escaped her lips despite her best efforts. “Ah, you mean Lord Debling.”

“Shhh!” Colin hissed, glancing around as though the man might materialise beside them. “Do not speak his name, you might summon him. He should be voyaging the Antarctic by now—and never return because he will mysteriously disappear”

“Colin,” she said, fighting back another giggle, “do not be ridiculous. And to correct you, he is not a former betrothed. A former suitor, yes—but he never proposed. You interrupted the dance, remember?”

Colin gave a smug little smile. “Yes. Best decision I ever made.”

Penelope sighed, her expression soft with affection as she turned toward her husband. “Oh, Colin Bridgerton... what am I to do with you?”

Colin leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Mmm,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “continue loving me? Perhaps extend a little more patience for my dramatics? Let me love you, worship you—and quite possibly a great deal more, if time permits.”

Penelope opened her mouth, a witty retort dancing on the tip of her tongue, but the carriage came to a gentle halt, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel. The footman appeared outside their window, poised to open the door.

They had arrived at the palace.

Colin offered her his arm with a boyish grin. “Shall we, my lady?”

With a sparkle in her eye, Penelope took his arm and said, “Let’s go show them why Mrs. Bridgerton needs no suitors.”

But any confidence Colin might have held in their entrance died a swift death the moment their names were announced.

The lively hum of the ballroom stilled at once. A hush fell over the crowd, and every eye turned—no, not to them. To her.

Penelope.

Colin could feel it, the way the air shifted, how the gaze of every eligible (and even not-so-eligible) gentleman fastened on his wife with unabashed admiration. And he—he stood beside her, suddenly questioning all his life choices, most especially the one that urged him to encourage Penelope to wear the midnight blue gown that clung to her figure with maddening precision.

Why, oh why, had he done that?

She looked utterly divine. The soft sheen of the silk, the way it hugged her waist and flared just so at her hips, the gentle sparkle at her décolletage—it was a vision conjured by heaven itself. And every blasted man in the ballroom had noticed.

As they made their way toward the Queen, Colin noted that every gentleman along their path seemed incapable of decorum. Several bowed with more flourish than necessary. One dared to wink.

He glared openly, letting no ogler go unpunished by his stare. At one particularly bold marquess who did not avert his gaze quickly enough, Colin even let out a low, unmistakable growl.

Penelope, still smiling gracefully at the onlookers, leaned ever so slightly toward him and whispered through a clenched smile, “Colin!”

“What?” he muttered, eyes narrowing at a young duke who had the audacity to smile at Penelope like a besotted pup.

“You are snarling at people.”

“And they are looking at my wife as if they’ve never seen a woman before. I am merely warning them off.”

“By snarling?”

“I find it most effective.”

Penelope barely managed to contain her laughter as they ascended the dais to greet the Queen, but she squeezed his arm, both amused and quietly flattered. And though Colin continued to scowl at anyone who dared gaze too long, he stood a little taller—because she was his.

And he’d make sure every last one of them knew it.

The Queen, ever poised and regal in her towering wig and gleaming jewels, regarded them both with an arched brow and an inscrutable expression. Her gaze landed on Penelope first, then flicked toward Colin, who appeared moments away from breathing fire should another man so much as blink in his wife’s direction.

“Ah, Lady Whistledown,” the Queen said with a slow, deliberate smile. “Or rather, Mrs. Bridgerton, now. How… deliciously ironic. The greatest secret in the ton, now the most admired lady of the season.”

Penelope curtsied gracefully, murmuring, “Your Majesty, you are most generous.”

The Queen waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, do not be modest, my dear. You have turned this end of season on its head. Never have I seen so many gentlemen turned fools over a single woman since a lot of debuts—and I daresay not even the diamond receives quite so many floral offerings.”

Colin cleared his throat sharply, to which the Queen smirked, clearly enjoying herself.

“In fact,” she continued, turning her gaze fully on him now, “I believe one of my distant nephews—a Fitzwilliam of some sort, utterly useless but blessed with cheekbones—sent a rather extravagant bouquet last week. You wouldn’t happen to know what became of it, would you, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Colin, jaw tight, replied, “I made certain it found its way directly to the fire, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent.” The Queen’s grin widened. “That boy needed humbling.”

Penelope’s eyes widened slightly, but she bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Colin, however, looked as if he had just received a commendation from a commanding officer.

“I do hope,” the Queen said, her tone suddenly softer, “that the attention has not unsettled you. The ton is rarely kind to a woman who dares possess both beauty and brains.”

“I am quite used to being misunderstood, Your Majesty,” Penelope replied, serene and poised. “But it helps immensely to have a husband who ensures no bouquet makes it past our doorstep.”

The Queen chuckled, then reached out and lightly tapped Colin’s arm with her fan. “Yes, well. Do try not to challenge half the peerage to duels this evening, Mr. Bridgerton. The palace carpets are frightfully difficult to clean.”

And with that, she turned to greet the next guests, leaving Colin sputtering and Penelope positively glowing.

Penelope had barely taken three steps away from the Queen’s side when yet another gentleman approached her. He bowed low—far too low, if Colin had a say in it—and with a syrupy smile said, “Mrs. Bridgerton, might I say, you look like a vision made flesh.”

Colin was two seconds from growling.

Before Penelope could even respond with a polite dismissal, another gentleman materialized from her left. “Your column last year about the marriage mart was life-changing. I read it to my sister. Twice.”

“Oh, for heaven’s—” Colin hissed under his breath, placing a possessive hand at the small of her back.

“Colin,” Penelope whispered warningly, offering the two gentlemen a graceful nod. “Thank you, sirs. My husband and I were just about to take to the floor.”

“Yes,” Colin said with a sharp smile that held no warmth. “My wife will be dancing with her husband. Not with Lord Birdwatcher or Mr. Two Readings.”

“Colin!” Penelope gave a scandalized giggle, but he was already steering her away.

He could feel their eyes. The entire ballroom still watching, still wanting, as if she was theirs to claim. She wasn’t.

She was his.

As they moved in time to the waltz, he pulled her closer than was strictly appropriate, pressing her hand to his heart.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against her ear.

Penelope laughed softly. “Of course I am, my love.”

But Colin was beyond reason now. The jealousy had boiled over, spilling into reckless possession. He stopped mid-spin and brought her flush against him.

“Colin?” Penelope gasped.

And then, in full view of the entire ballroom, he kissed her.

It wasn’t a quick peck. No. Colin kissed her like he was claiming her—like the very idea of another man looking at her ignited something primal in him. The orchestra faltered. Gasps echoed. Lady Danbury dropped her cane.

And just when everyone thought it was over—Colin dipped his head… and kissed her neck which made Penelope moan.

Bit her, some would whisper later.

Just enough to leave a mark.

A clear, unmistakable, absolutely scandalous mark.

“COLIN BRIDGERTON!” roared Anthony from across the room.

The music had stopped entirely.

Benedict and Eloise visibly recoiled. Daphne shielded her eyes. Francesca walked straight into a column.

Lady Bridgerton whispered, “We are never recovering from this.”

The Queen, fanning herself slowly, muttered, “Well… this will be most amusing for next week’s issue.”

Penelope, dazed and breathless, blinked up at her husband.

“You absolute madman,” she whispered, pink-cheeked and flustered.

Colin only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“I told them you were mine.”

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton was a loving son, and a far more doting brother—of that, there could be no dispute. He had never once missed an important occasion in his siblings’ lives. He was the first to send congratulatory missives, the first to offer comfort when needed, and the first to arrive bearing gifts from his travels—some thoughtful, others terribly impractical, but all sent with genuine affection. Even when their responses to his letters dwindled to near nothing, there were always those written by Penelope—so filled with wit and warmth that they alone sustained him through the most tiresome of voyages.

It had not been long since he and Penelope returned to London from their sojourn in Greece. The season had ended, and they had intended to remain abroad for some time, basking in the sun, strolling through ancient ruins, and indulging in every delicious pleasure marriage afforded. Yet all plans were swiftly upended when a physician in Athens confirmed what Penelope had quietly suspected—she was with child. Their child.

The joy that overtook Colin upon hearing the news was such that he nearly wept then and there in the middle of a marble-floored clinic. From that moment on, he refused to let her be too far from London, from their family, and from the comforts of home. With great haste—and far too many trunks—they returned to the city, arriving just as the Bridgertons were preparing to depart for Aubrey Hall for their mother’s famed off-season masquerade ball.

So truly, Colin Bridgerton adored his family—he really did—but even a man of such enduring patience had his limits. And today, well… today was undeniably one of those days.

He had woken with a rare burst of inspiration. A new passage for his travel journal—his soon-to-be-published masterpiece—had taken root in his mind, and he had to write it before it fled. The only trouble? They were at Aubrey Hall, not Bloomsbury, and his writing desk (and preferred quills, and preferred parchment, and preferred ink) were all miles away.

Gregory was the unfortunate soul he chose to bother. Naturally, his youngest brother—half-dressed and still yawning—told him to just go into his room and take some from the top drawer. "Just don't go reading my poetry or love letters," Gregory mumbled, already on his way to join the family in the garden.

Colin chuckled to himself as he entered the room, grateful for the sunlight spilling through the windows. He found the drawer easily enough and retrieved a few sheets of parchment. But as he moved to close it, something caught his eye.

A name. Written in ink on the topmost page of a bundle of loose parchments.

Penelope.

His wife’s name.

Now, Colin was not one to invade the privacy of others. He had principles. Standards. Etiquette.

But he was also a man. A man with frayed nerves, a jealous streak a mile wide, and a memory still haunted by the parade of suitors and flower deliveries just months ago.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out the bundle of parchments. No cover. No seal. Barely held together by a fraying ribbon.

He told himself he would only read the first line. Just to confirm it wasn’t what it looked like.

And then he read the second line. And the third. And the entire page.

By the time he realized what he was doing, Colin was seated in Gregory’s armchair, gripping the parchment like it might burst into flames, his jaw slack in horror and disbelief.

Because it was, in fact, a diary. And not just any diary—a diary in which the main subject was his wife. Written by his brother.

Gregory Bridgerton.

The child Colin once taught how to fish at the lake. The one he carried on his shoulders through muddy fields. The same boy who used to weep whenever Eloise pranked him with a frog. That boy had apparently spent the better part of his formative years pining—secretly, tenderly, hopelessly—for Penelope Featherington.

His Penelope.

Colin very nearly combusted on the spot.

His eyes roamed over the ink, each word further fueling the firestorm in his chest.

“I am but a youth, yet I cannot help but observe the remarkable vision Miss Featherington made this afternoon. Clad in a gown of pale white and gold, adorned with that singular feather atop her coiffure, she appeared as though she had wandered out of some charming novel. There is a shyness to her that draws the eye more than any bold display ever could. Were I of sufficient age and standing, I daresay I would petition for the honour of her hand myself.”

Colin gritted his teeth. ADORABLE? That blasted brothe of him? Gregory thought Penelope was adorable? Well he is correct but he had no right. 

He flipped to the next page.

“Today, I beheld Miss Featherington in the gardens. She wore a day dress of the softest green, and her laughter, carried on the breeze, struck me like poetry. She ran across the lawn with such joy, her curls tumbling behind her like ribbons in the wind. It seemed the earth itself stilled to look upon her.”

Running on the grass? Colin could see it, too vividly. He pressed his hand to his temple, trying to breathe, but he was already turning the page.

“From the window of the west wing, I espied Miss Featherington entering her carriage. She wore an emerald gown that clung to her form like ivy on an ancient tree, her beauty rendered almost mythical beneath the soft golden light of the evening. She looked—nay, she was—a woodland nymph, plucked from the pages of a fable. And I could not help but think: what a fortunate man he shall be, the one to win her heart.”

That was the season he proposed. The dress Penelope had worn the night he decided he could no longer live without her and without her letters.

Colin shot to his feet so fast the armchair teetered backward and nearly fell. He caught it just in time, only to throw the diary back into the drawer with a vengeance, slamming it shut.

And then, hands braced on either side of the desk, he said aloud—voice low and brimming with possessive rage—

“A nymph in the forest? He is a child”

There was only one logical course of action. Gregory had to be questioned. Thoroughly. Interrogated, even. Possibly flogged. And Penelope—oh, sweet Penelope—she had no idea she had a silent admirer under the same roof for years. It was practically a scandal.

Colin stormed out of Gregory’s chambers, clutching not a pen, nor paper, nor even reason—but the bow and arrow he had gifted his youngest brother the previous season. Rage blazed in his eyes, his steps swift and determined as he made his way to the garden where, as fate would have it, the entire Bridgerton family had assembled. All save for Lady Bridgerton, thankfully.

His wife was already seated, radiating in the soft light of the sun, one hand resting atop the gentle swell of her belly. She looked up, beaming at him—until she saw the arrow aimed squarely at Gregory’s chest.

"How dare you admire my wife and commit it to parchment?” Colin thundered.

Penelope gasped, rising slowly with her delicate waddle, “Colin, dearest, do put that down,” she said sweetly, her voice trying—and failing—to distract him with her adorable concern.

“No, no, not yet, my love. This is a matter of honor,” Colin growled, eyes still locked on Gregory. “I am giving you the opportunity to deny what I read in your… diary.”

“I—I cannot,” Gregory stammered, pale. “Colin, those were but youthful musings, harmless admiration! You are already wed to her, for goodness’ sake!”

Colin was prepared to fire off another tirade when his mother arrived.

“What in heaven’s name is happening here?” Violet demanded. “Colin, why are you threatening your brother with a weapon in the rose garden?”

“This son of yours has been filling pages of his diary with lines about Penelope! He wrote of her debut gown, the feather in her hair—how he wished to court her!”

“Oh Colin, please,” Violet waved him off, utterly unbothered. “Penelope has long been admired in this household. She is a most beautiful and accomplished young lady. Why, I’ve noticed Benedict often finds himself sketching whenever she’s near. Inspiration strikes, I suppose.”

“Mama, I beg you—please stop talking,” Benedict groaned.

Colin whirled and pointed the arrow at him. “You—have you been sketching my wife? And you best not lie, Benedict Bridgerton!”

“I—it’s nothing untoward, I swear! How many ladies in Mayfair possess such vivid red hair? It's an artist’s instinct, not desire, I promise you.”

“Colin, please,” Kate interjected calmly. “Put the arrow down.”

At her request, Colin slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered his arm.

“Thank you. No one is going to steal your wife, Colin. Though—well, I do recall Edwina asking me, upon first meeting Penelope, why Anthony chose her, when a shy and stunning lady was already so well-loved by the family. I remember her exact words: ‘Kate, she may be quiet, but she is bright—and would make a perfect viscountess.’”

“Wife, you are not helping,” Anthony muttered.

Colin narrowed his eyes. “Anthony… have you ever considered Penelope a prospect?”

Anthony blinked. “What? No! Absolutely not! I’ve always seen her as a sister.”

Colin tilted his head. “So, if she weren’t a family friend, you might have considered her?”

“I—well, if you phrase it in such a way—”

Colin raised the bow once more. “You hesitated. Traitor. This household is riddled with traitors.”

Before anyone could respond, Penelope waddled over and wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her chin gently on his shoulder. “Colin, please. Enough dramatics. Our small bean and I are hungry.”

That, of course, did it.

His entire body softened. “Oh—of course, my love. We shall eat at once.” He turned to the rest of the family, now frozen in varying states of horror, amusement, and sheer disbelief.

But before he allowed himself to be tugged away, Colin raised the arrow one final time, gesturing in turn at Gregory, Benedict, and Anthony.

“You. You. And you. Sleep with one eye open tonight as you may not see the sunlight tomorrow.” 

The Bridgerton dining table had seen its fair share of scandal, but this—this dinner after the chaotic morning in the garden would go down in the annals of family legend.

Colin entered the room like a man on a mission. His expression wild with indignation, and his arm was firmly, possessively, hooked around Penelope’s waist.

Penelope, radiant and very pregnant, whispered something soothing to him, but it was clear: nothing could stop him now.

He turned dramatically to face the room.

“I would like to make an announcement,” he declared, tapping a fork against his goblet with all the pomp of a royal herald. “Since it appears every Bridgerton male present has, at one point, fantasized about my wife, allow me to remove all doubts as to whom she belongs.”

Gregory coughed on his soup.

Benedict slowly set down his sketchpad, trying not to make eye contact.

Anthony muttered, “Here we go again.”

“I, Colin Bridgerton,” he continued, louder now, “claim Penelope Bridgerton—née Featherington, my wife, mother of my child, and source of inspiration, affection, and all male jealousy in this household—as my own.”

He then proceeded to dip Penelope into a scandalously deep kiss right in front of the roasted duck.

“Oh my God, Colin,” Eloise said, horrified. “There are vegetables on the table.”

“That’s right!” Colin declared, lips still shining. “Let it be known: I am the one who gets to kiss her! I am the one who gets to hold her hand, rub her feet, and—”

“Enough!” Penelope yelped, covering his mouth. “For the love of decency, you are not listing things!”

He licked her palm.

She shrieked.

Gregory made a gagging sound.

“And now,” Colin continued with deranged calm as he pulled out a small parchment from his coat pocket, “for the matter of revenge.”

“Oh no,” Benedict muttered.

“Oh yes,” Colin said, eyes gleaming with delight.

“As a final act of repentance,” Colin added, pacing like a general planning war, “you must each knit a gift for the baby.”

“Colin!” Benedict yelped. “I don’t even know how to thread a needle!”

“That is not my concern,” Colin replied calmly. “You admired the mother, now honor the child.”

“You’re mad,” Anthony muttered.

“I’m in love,” Colin corrected.

Gregory whispered, “Can I just help Eloise with Whistledown articles instead?”

“No,” Colin snapped. “You shall knit booties and you shall like it.”

And with that, Colin assisted Penelope in her seat, arm slung triumphantly around her shoulders, muttering something about how excited he is to see his brothers needle work.

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton had been raised with the utmost respect for every soul who contributed to the running of their household—whether lady’s maid, housekeeper, butler, footman, or coachman. It was a lesson instilled early and often by both his parents. Despite their elevated station as sons and daughters of a Viscount, Edmund and Violet Bridgerton had been resolute: wealth did not excuse incivility.

And Colin had taken it to heart.

Some members of the staff had even grown quite close to him over the years, particularly those nearer to his own age. One of them, William, had begun his service at Aubrey Hall at the tender age of sixteen and had remained ever since. He was diligent, composed, and discreet—everything one might hope for in a butler.

Colin had never taken issue with him.

Until now.

They had been staying at Aubrey Hall for nearly a month following the family masquerade, and the incident began—innocently enough—with tea.

More precisely: Penelope’s tea.

The delicate orange blossom blend she so adored—floral, citrusy, soft—prepared just so. And, evidently, only William knew how to prepare it perfectly. Colin might never have noticed had Penelope not mentioned it over breakfast one morning, voice light and cheerful as she reached for the fine china cup.

“Oh, Mr. William always remembers how I like it,” she said warmly.

Colin blinked once. “Always?” he inquired, tone deceptively mild.

She nodded, wholly unaware of the storm she had summoned. “Yes! Even before we were married. He’s very kind. I remember once I was crying under the arbor and he brought me lemon cakes and my tea without me even asking.”

Colin dropped his toast.

That evening, he sat in the study, his expression dark and unreadable as the candlelight flickered across the room. Brooding. Plotting. Seething. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked ominously.

The next morning at breakfast, Violet was mid-conversation regarding the virtues of early-blooming gardenias. Penelope sat glowing, one hand resting delicately atop her round belly. All was serene.

Then, Mr. William entered the room, silent and stately, carrying a silver tray.

“Your favorite, Mrs. Penelope,” he said with a faint smile. “Orange blossom, precisely as you like it.”

“Thank you, William, you’re an angel as always—”

Colin’s hand appeared from nowhere and gently pushed the cup away.

“Actually,” he said, rising slowly, “I’ve made her tea.”

The room went still.

A few Bridgerton forks hovered midair. Violet’s mouth froze mid-word. Gregory blinked.

Colin produced a teacup. The liquid within was slightly off in hue—darker, perhaps a touch too steeped. Penelope regarded it warily, glancing between her husband and the cup.

“William has been making my tea for years—” she began, bewildered.

“And now her husband will be doing so,” Colin replied with a smile far too wide to be innocent, his gaze never once straying from William.

If one listened closely, one might have heard the teacup tremble against the saucer.

“I shall just take it, William—I have been craving that tea for some time now,” Kate declared breezily, reaching for the cup meant for Penelope.

“You don’t even like orange blossom— ouch!” Anthony exclaimed, wincing as he attempted to stretch his leg under the table. Kate, eyes narrowed and innocent as a snake in the grass, had clearly stepped on his foot. With deliberate intent.

William bowed slightly, unaware of the silent battle, and departed the room with his usual quiet dignity.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Benedict leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Really, Colin? Jealousy over William?” he asked, barely containing a laugh.

Colin turned toward him, spine straight, expression deadly serious. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that, brother?” His voice was calm, but his eyes were gleaming with menace. “Wife— from this moment forward, I shall be the one to prepare your tea. Regardless of the hour. Whether it be dawn, dusk, or the wretched depths of night.”

“I do not believe William bears any ill intent, dear,” Violet offered kindly, though her brow was lifted in faint exasperation.

Colin, undeterred and clearly spiraling: “No, I believe he admires my wife. And is attempting to seduce her. With tea. And sweets.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Colin,” Penelope sighed, pressing a hand to her temple. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“What if he simply likes serving tea?” Gregory chimed in, chewing on a piece of toast.

“Then he should join a monastery,” Colin shot back without hesitation.

A collective groan swept across the table.

Kate snorted into her napkin. Eloise rolled her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared. Even Hyacinth looked half in love with the sheer madness of it all.

And Penelope? Penelope reached for her husband’s hand beneath the table, squeezed it once, and murmured, “I adore you. But if you ever ruin my tea again, I will write about it in Whistledown.”

Colin, now smiling with smug triumph: “As long as I’m mentioned as the jealous, tea-wielding husband, I shall die content.”

Following the rather eventful breakfast—which included, among other things, accusations of butler-led seduction and a spontaneous vow to personally oversee all tea preparation henceforth—Colin Bridgerton found himself pacing the length of his bedchamber like a man haunted.

Haunted, of course, by the ghost of a very real butler named William who clearly had designs on his wife, disguised as courteous service and lemon cakes.

Whilst the rest of the household sensibly partook in their afternoon repose, Colin slipped away with the stealth of a man on a mission… a deeply unhinged, utterly deranged, tea-related mission.

He made for the kitchens.

The cook, Mrs. Wilson, raised a brow when he entered, but said nothing. After all, he was a Bridgerton, and the family had always been a bit…

With a determined gleam in his eye, Colin approached the shelves where the tea was kept. He pulled open the small labeled tins, one by one, working with quiet precision.

By the end of his efforts, the transformation was complete.

The delicate tin that once read “Orange Blossom” now bore a new label, written in an unmistakably bold scrawl:

“It’s Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”

The Earl Grey?

“Back Off, She’s Taken.”

The sugar tin—innocent, once plain—now bore the inscription:

“My Sweet. My Wife. Mine.”

He stepped back to admire his handiwork with the satisfaction of a man who had single-handedly waged war against the entire tea service.

And won.

When Mrs. Wilson reentered the room and saw the relabeling, she blinked. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said slowly, “might I inquire as to the reason the kitchen now appears to be... courting Mrs. Bridgerton?”

Colin turned with all the dignity of a knight defending his queen. “Mrs. Wilson, there is only one man in this house who should be associated with sweetness and tea where my wife is concerned. And it is not William.”

Mrs. Wilson, wisely, said nothing further.

It was well past luncheon when William, as he had done a thousand times before, entered the kitchen to prepare the evening tea service. He moved with practiced precision, reaching for the familiar orange blossom tin that Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton so adored.

He paused.

Then squinted.

The label had changed.

“It’s Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”

William, ever the composed professional, blinked once. Slowly. Perhaps he was imagining things.

He reached for the Earl Grey.

“Back Off, She’s Taken.”

His brow twitched.

Sugar tin.

“My Sweet. My Wife. Mine.”

William sighed. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that only a man who had seen too much could truly manage.

He did not speak a word. He merely lifted the tins with the reverence of a priest handling holy relics and carried them into the drawing room, where several members of the Bridgerton family were gathered, alongside Lady Danbury, who had a penchant for loitering where drama was imminent.

William entered in silence.

Colin, who was seated with a book he clearly had no intention of reading, glanced up and froze.

William, with the grace of a man deeply weary of Bridgerton theatrics, set the tins on the table.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” he said, voice as flat and emotionless as a polished silver tray, “I believe these are yours.”

The room stilled.

Colin coughed. “Yes. Indeed. I was… updating the labels. For accuracy.”

Lady Danbury leaned forward. “You renamed the tea ‘My Sweet. My Wife. Mine’?”

“Precisely,” Colin replied, with the poise of someone who had completely lost his mind but refused to admit it. “And I stand by it.”

Penelope, sitting beside him, tilted her head. “Colin… did you really relabel all the tins?”

“Not all,” Colin said. “Just the threatening ones.”

 “You think tea is threatening now?” Anthony said arching his brows

 “No. I think William is.” Colin replied glaringly

William gave a small, courteous bow. “My apologies if I have... brewed too affectionately, my lord.”

Colin’s eye twitched. “You knew the temperature. Exactly.”

“I have a very good memory,” William replied smoothly. “It is part of the profession.”

“Too good,” Colin muttered.

Lady Danbury bit into her biscuit and announced to no one in particular, “This is far better than opera.”

William turned to Penelope. “Mrs. Bridgerton, shall I revert the labels?”

Before she could answer, Colin shot to his feet.

“No. You shall not.”

Everyone turned.

Colin cleared his throat and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a new label—handwritten, gold-trimmed, sealed with a wax “C.”

He affixed it grandly to the center of the tray.

“Handled With Utmost Devotion: Property of Colin Bridgerton.”

William exhaled.

“I shall… take this under advisement,” he said, and exited the room without another word.

Gregory leaned over to inspect the tray. “Honestly, this is getting out of hand.”

“Out of hand?” Benedict echoed. “It’s a domestic tea war.”

“And I am winning,” Colin declared, pouring Penelope a cup with the triumph of a general conquering a continent.

Penelope sipped it cautiously.

“…You forgot the sugar.”

Colin collapsed back in his chair, utterly defeated. “Damn you, William.”

Chapter Text

It began, as most great dramas in Colin Bridgerton’s life inevitably did, with Penelope.

Her Majesty the Queen—regal, discerning, and never one to bestow favour lightly—had extended a most singular invitation to Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton. She was to join the Queen’s inner court: a select assemblage of women not merely fashionable, but formidable. These were ladies whose wit, intellect, and poise shaped the very tone of the ton and, on occasion, the whisperings of power itself.

Penelope, with her formidable understanding of political nuance, her deft pen (though used to be hidden under a pseudonym), and her ever-gracious comportment, had long captured the Queen’s favour. Yet only now—now that their darling son was nearing his first birthday, his curls a shade of gold reminiscent of both mother and father—had Penelope agreed to accept the position.

Colin, however, harboured hesitation.

He knew well the nature of men in power. Too many lords were unkind, their arrogance masking fragile egos. And though his beloved wife was the brilliant mind behind Whistledown, society would not easily forgive a woman for speaking truth, much less doing so with grace and authority.

One evening, pacing near the fire while Penelope quietly rocked their son in the nursery, Colin had voiced his doubts to his elder brother.

“I do not question her capability, Anthony. I never have,” Colin said, hands clenched behind his back. “But Parliament is no salon. There are men in those chambers who scoff at the very idea of a lady possessing a mind of her own, let alone sharing it. And Penelope—God help me—is more brilliant than any of them.”

Anthony, always calm with a brandy in hand, regarded his brother with a wry smile. “I understand your concern, Colin. Truly. But this is not an opportunity to be dismissed lightly.”

Colin frowned. “She will be placed directly into the view of those who would dismiss her, if not worse.”

Anthony leaned forward. “And let them try. Do not forget—I sit in the House of Lords. And should one of them dare to offer her insult, know this, both Simon and I would, without a moment’s hesitation, brawl with the lot of them.”

Colin blinked. “You would brawl? In the chamber?”

Anthony smirked. “I said what I said.”

A pause, then a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“And it bodes well for the future Lord Featherington, does it not? That his mother is respected not only in society, but by Parliament itself. You ought to take pride in it, brother. The Bridgerton name shall endure in more than just ballrooms.”

Colin’s lips curved, despite himself.

“Yes, well. I suppose if Penelope must dazzle the political elite, at least she shall do so dressed in our colors.”

Anthony laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Penelope’s first official address to the Lords came on a rain-drenched Tuesday morning. Her Majesty had personally requested she present her analysis of a pending education reform bill, and while it was not typical for women—no matter how well-born—to speak directly before Parliament, exceptions were known to be made when the Queen was involved.

Anthony Bridgerton and Simon, the Duke of Hastings, were both in attendance, seated in their usual positions among the House of Lords, expressions neutral as Penelope entered the chamber, escorted by Lady Danbury herself.

Anthony leaned over to Simon. “Colin’s going to faint when he hears about this.”

Simon grinned. “Only if he survives hearing how many of them were looking at her like she’d descended from Mount Olympus.”

Anthony chuckled. “The poor man will spontaneously combust.”

And then Penelope began to speak.

With measured poise and unshakable confidence, she laid out her argument. She cited case studies, referenced current and past reforms, even quoted statistics—though she did so with such clarity that not a single lord dared interrupt. Her gown was modest yet elegant, her manner dignified yet warm, and her eyes—bright and brilliant—never wavered as she spoke.

By the end, even the staunchest of traditionalists were shifting in their seats, their expressions grudgingly impressed.

Lord Beaumont muttered, “A sharper mind than half the council.”

Lord Faversham leaned toward Simon. “Who taught her economics? Pitt himself?”

Simon, with a faint smile, replied, “She reads. Extensively.”

And Lord Carlyle, a notoriously pompous man who rarely listened to anyone without a title beginning in "Duke," stood to declare, “Mrs. Bridgerton, your insight is nothing short of remarkable. Were you born a man, I daresay we’d have already offered you a seat in this chamber.”

Anthony, eyes narrowing, said flatly, “Good thing she’s not. She already runs her household, this city, and apparently now you lot, quite handily.”

After the session, both Simon and Anthony sent word to Colin, requesting an urgent meeting at White’s.

When Colin arrived, slightly winded and brushing raindrops from his coat, he found them waiting by the fire, sipping brandy and wearing matching looks of restrained amusement.

“Well?” he asked, seating himself. “How did she fare?”

Simon leaned back. “Oh, she only left half the chamber speechless and the other half in awe.”

Anthony nodded. “Lord Carlyle suggested she ought to be in Parliament.”

Colin blinked. “Carlyle? The one who refers to his own wife as ‘the quiet one’?”

“The very same,” Simon said with a grin. “He applauded.”

Colin sat straighter. “Applauded?”

Anthony sipped his drink. “Lord Faversham asked her how she knew so much about financial policy. She responded with, ‘Because I pay attention, my lord. You should try it sometime.’”

Simon laughed. “You should’ve seen his face.”

Colin buried his face in his hands, groaning. “I was gone for two hours.”

Simon clapped him on the shoulder. “In that time, your wife conquered Parliament.”

Anthony smirked. “You really ought to stop leaving her alone in public. She keeps making the rest of us look slow.”

Colin looked up, pride burning in his chest… and something else, something more volatile.

“Did any of them… compliment her? Outside of the speech?”

Simon and Anthony exchanged glances.

“Well,” Anthony began, “Lord Redgrave called her 'bewitching in intellect.'”

“And Lord Pritchard,” Simon added, “asked for her opinion on his agricultural investments.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Pritchard is sixty-five.”

“Still a man with eyes,” Anthony said with a shrug.

“And poor impulse control,” Simon muttered.

Colin stood abruptly, coat swishing. “Right. I’m going to Parliament.”

Simon raised a brow. “To do what?”

“To pick up my wife. In front of every last one of those bewitched, investment-hungry, commentary-offering peers.”

Anthony grinned behind his glass. “He is a Bridgerton.”

Simon nodded. “And a husband in love.”

It began innocently enough.

Or so Penelope thought.

Following her address in Parliament, which was still being whispered about in gentlemen’s clubs and drawing rooms alike, a curious trend began to form. Invitations—not of the social variety, but of a rather more political nature—began arriving at the Bridgerton townhouse addressed specifically to Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.

Barons. Viscounts. Even a few particularly daring MPs. All requesting the honour of her presence, under the pretense of seeking her insights on matters ranging from economic trade routes to social reform to—one rather bold letter stated—“the management of difficult wives.”

At first, Penelope, ever gracious and unassuming, thought little of it.

“Oh, Colin,” she said one morning, holding out an ivory envelope, “Lord Wales wishes me to take tea at his townhouse. He’s been struggling with the proposed tariffs on imported grains.”

Colin, fork halfway to his mouth, froze.

“Tea?”

“With Lord Wales,” she added cheerily. “He says I am the only person who made sense on the matter.”

Colin placed his fork down slowly. “Does Wales not employ secretaries? Or economists? Or, I don’t know, his own brain?”

Penelope blinked. “Darling, he was merely being polite.”

But it did not end with Lord Wales.

Lord Archmere requested a private consultation in his library regarding poor relief measures. Sir Cedric Frampton—who had never once spoken to Penelope during the entire duration of her Season—sent her a long note seeking her views on educational reform and, suspiciously, offered to send a carriage.

Colin’s eye twitched when he read that one.

And then, the final straw came with Lord Wexley. He arrived personally, unannounced, in his polished boots and powdered cravat, stating he would “greatly value Mrs. Bridgerton’s company for supper—strictly to discuss the maritime fund, of course.”

Colin met him at the door.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Bridgerton is otherwise engaged,” Colin said, smiling with all the civility of a lion guarding his den.

Lord Wexley blinked. “Indeed? I was under the impression she had not yet accepted any other invitations this evening.”

“She has,” Colin replied smoothly. “Mine.”

And with that, he closed the door—not slammed, but with just enough force to rattle the stained glass panels.

That evening, he paced their sitting room while Penelope calmly sipped her tea.

“I truly do not see the harm, Colin. They are interested in my mind.”

“Oh, are they?” he muttered, throwing himself dramatically into a chair. “And they require tea and private meetings and candlelit parlours to access it?”

She arched a brow. “You were the one who said I ought to be taken seriously.”

“Yes,” he groaned, “taken seriously—not taken!”

She hid a smile behind her teacup.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“I think I’m being appropriately reactive to a horde of wrinkled lords trying to seduce my wife with policy talk and scones.”

“You do realize most of them are old enough to be my father.”

“That has never stopped an old fool from making a mistake.”

She finally laughed, setting her cup aside and rising to sit beside him. “Dearest, if I’d wanted any of them, I would’ve accepted Lord Wexley’s invitation and not married the most handsome, most ridiculous man in all of Mayfair.”

His scowl softened at that. “Truly the most handsome?”

“Oh yes. Maddeningly so.”

He pulled her into his lap. “Then perhaps I shall start writing policy papers myself.”

She grinned. “You may begin by helping me with my rebuttal to Lord Archmere’s latest draft.”

“Happy to assist,” he murmured, kissing her temple, “so long as I’m the only one who gets to call on you uninvited.”

It was meant to be a rather dignified affair.

Penelope Bridgerton—already known for her eloquence and sharp intellect—had been invited once more to address the Lords on matters of educational reform. Queen Charlotte herself would be present, having taken a keen interest in Penelope’s ideas. The chamber was packed, every seat filled by peers and Parliamentarians, with whispers echoing across the walls before the meeting had even begun.

But it was the unexpected presence of Mr. Colin Bridgerton that drew a distinct murmur from the gallery.

He did not usually attend such meetings.

And he certainly did not usually walk in alongside Her Majesty, his jaw tight and expression unreadable.

Anthony and Simon exchanged a look from their usual seats, both silently mouthing, “Oh no.”

Penelope, calm as ever, stood to begin her remarks. Her voice, steady and graceful, wove through the chamber with quiet command. She was eloquent, poised, and—Colin noted with no small amount of pride—utterly captivating.

Too captivating, it seemed, for the men in the room.

He could see it. The way Lord Farnsworth leaned forward with entirely too much interest. The way Sir Cedric Frampton scribbled notes as if her every word were gospel—and his gaze wandered far below her neckline. The way Lord Wexley’s lips curved at the ends when she smiled.

Colin’s knuckles whitened.

When Penelope concluded, the room erupted in murmured applause—refined, measured, and utterly full of admiration. A few of the lords even began standing.

Colin stood too.

But not for applause.

The Queen, sensing something delicious about to unfold, raised her brows and whispered to her companion, “Oh, this shall be amusing.”

Clearing his throat, Colin stepped forward into the center of the chamber.

“Gentlemen,” he began, voice polite and clipped, “I feel compelled to express my gratitude for the warm reception you have shown my wife.”

There was a ripple of murmurs.

Penelope looked over, slightly confused, her cheeks faintly pink.

“I am especially grateful,” Colin continued, “to those of you who have expressed your admiration for her brilliance, her wit, and, apparently, her opinions on grain tariffs over multiple private invitations to tea.”

Several lords shifted uncomfortably.

“In fact,” he added, turning to face them directly, “I would like to make something perfectly clear.”

He paused.

“My wife is indeed brilliant. She is worthy of every admiration and seat at any table she chooses. But if any among you”—his voice sharpened now, that signature Bridgerton bite glinting beneath his smile—“think for even a moment that her intelligence entitles you to her time, her company, or her affection—think again.”

Silence.

“I am not in the habit of interfering with my wife’s work,” he said, glancing at Penelope fondly, “but I am very much in the habit of protecting her from the attentions of men who mistake admiration for invitation.”

The Queen, now openly smirking, tapped her fan lightly against her chin. “Carry on, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Colin bowed slightly to Her Majesty, then turned back.

“So let me be unequivocal,” he finished. “If any among you find yourselves tempted to call on Mrs. Bridgerton for anything other than strictly professional consultation—do ensure that the next tea you sip does not contain your own teeth.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Simon let out a low whistle. Anthony coughed violently to mask a laugh.

Penelope blinked. “Colin…”

“Yes, dearest?”

“You’re quite mad.”

“I know,” he said proudly, “and I plan to remain so for the rest of our lives.”

She shook her head and tried to hide her smile.

The Queen stood, entirely delighted. “Well, now that is what I call a Parliament session worth attending.”

A Fortnight After the Parliamentary Incident. The Bridgerton townhouse had become a haven of letters. Each morning, the butler arrived with arms overflowing—parchment sealed with wax, tied with silk ribbons, and addressed with a flourish of nervous ink.

“More correspondence, ma’am,” the footman announced, depositing the bundle upon the breakfast table.

Penelope glanced over her teacup, raising a brow. “From Parliament again?”

Colin, already lounging with a plate of toast and orange marmalade, reached for the topmost envelope. His eyes scanned the script. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“‘To Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton and Mr. Colin Bridgerton,’” he read aloud, amusement lacing every word. “That’s the fifth one addressed that way this week.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “They act as though you shall leap through the parchment and challenge them to a duel if they so much as forget to mention your name.”

“Well,” Colin said nonchalantly, buttering a second slice, “I rather like it. Shows they’re learning.”

She reached for another letter, reading the careful script:

My most esteemed Mrs. Bridgerton, and her gallant and honorable husband, Mr. Colin Bridgerton…

“Oh good heavens,” she muttered, cheeks flushing. “They’ve started apologizing in the salutations.”

Colin grinned. “As they should.”

Anthony entered the breakfast room just in time to hear him. “Have they begun groveling yet?”

Colin handed him one:

I write with great respect to seek the opinion of Mrs. Bridgerton, whose insights have, under the attentive supervision of her most devoted husband, proven invaluable to the House...

Anthony let out a laugh. “Attentive supervision, is it? You’re being credited for hovering.”

“I like to think of it as vigilant support,” Colin said, entirely unrepentant.

Simon appeared next, tossing his gloves aside as he poured himself tea. “The Queen is still amused, by the way. She said next time you decide to storm a political floor, she would like advance notice for better seating.”

Penelope buried her face in her hands. “I shall never be taken seriously again.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Colin said, leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re the most brilliant woman in England. They’ll still hang onto your every word—only now, they’ll do so with a little more respect for your husband’s fist.”

Penelope snorted. “I preferred my pen.”

“Ah,” he said, smug, “but now they fear my presence.”

Another footman entered. “Lady Danbury to call, ma’am.”

Penelope sighed and rose, smoothing her skirts. “No doubt she’s heard of this foolishness.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Colin said cheerfully. “I’m rather proud of it.”

As Penelope swept from the room, letters in hand and sarcasm in her smile, Colin leaned back and folded his hands behind his head.

“She loves it,” he murmured.

Anthony shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, positively beaming.

Chapter Text

After weeks of Penelope dazzling London—and certain lords attempting to dazzle her in return—Colin suggests they take a short trip to Scotland, ostensibly to visit Francesca and John… but really so Colin can have his wife to himself for a little while.

Colin, muttering while packing “No letters. No meetings. No lords quoting Cicero.”

Francesca and John welcome them warmly to their estate nestled among the green hills and heathered fields. The cool air does wonders for Penelope’s spirits, and the slower pace is a relief. They stroll by the loch, take tea near ancient stone walls, and even attend a local ceilidh.

And of course—because drama follows Penelope—there is…Jealous Colin

It began, as many things in Colin Bridgerton’s life lately did, with a ball.

The invitation had arrived tied with blue ribbon and the crest of Clan MacTavish. A country affair hosted by none other than Lachlan MacTavish, Earl of Glenfinnan — a long-standing friend of John Stirling’s family, and a name Colin had never thought twice about.

Until now.

They arrived at the estate as the sun dipped behind the misty hills, painting the skies in gold and violet. Francesca, radiant in sapphire silk, leaned into John as they greeted their host at the top of the grand staircase.

“MacTavish,” John said warmly, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you for the invitation. May I present my wife, Francesca Bridgerton, and her brother Colin Bridgerton, along with his wife, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”

Lachlan MacTavish turned—and smiled.

He was, objectively speaking, a handsome man. Tall, broad of shoulder, with windswept dark hair and a manner that suggested both command and charm. But it was not his smile that made Colin stiffen. It was the way his gaze landed—and lingered—on Penelope.

“Oh, wow,” Lachlan said with a low chuckle, ignoring Colin entirely. “You are beautiful. Had I known such lovely creatures roamed the streets of London, John, I might’ve begged you to drag me back with you years ago.”

Penelope laughed softly, the same laugh she gave to old ladies and friendly shopkeepers. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“Kind, no,” Lachlan said, eyes still fixed. “Merely honest.”

Colin, standing precisely one step behind his wife, clenched his jaw.

Francesca, sensing something, casually threaded her arm through her brother’s. “Shall we find our seats?”

“Yes,” Colin said briskly, placing a hand on the small of Penelope’s back a touch too possessively. “Before Lord MacTavish says something else that requires me to duel him with a bread knife.”

Penelope shot him a look.

“Colin.”

He leaned close to her ear. “Do not ‘Colin’ me. That man’s eyes were halfway to composing sonnets.”

The MacTavish country ball was in full swing. Fiddles sang through the air, candles flickered in the sconces, and the scent of pine and honeyed whisky warmed the great hall. Guests moved gracefully across the floor in sets of reels and quadrilles, laughter bubbling like champagne from the crowd.

Colin stood near the refreshment table, holding two glasses of punch and watching his wife from across the room like a hawk in tailored wool.

Penelope was radiant in a soft lavender gown, her curls pinned up with little silver stars. She was laughing with Francesca and a few ladies from the countryside when he appeared again.

Lachlan MacTavish. With the confidence of a man who’d probably won many a heart by simply existing near a fireplace.

He bowed low before Penelope and extended a hand.

“May I request this dance, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

Penelope hesitated just a moment too long.

Colin’s glass nearly shattered in his grip.

From beside him, John murmured, “Steady on, Bridgerton. You’re gripping that glass like you mean to challenge it to pistols at dawn.”

“She’s married,” Colin hissed under his breath.

Francesca sipped her wine, ever amused. “So she is. But it’s a country ball, not a courtship. You’ve danced with a fair few women in London, I recall.”

“Yes, but I did not look at them like I wanted to paint them in the nude and frame them over the fireplace,” Colin muttered.

On the dance floor, Penelope accepted the offer graciously. Lachlan led her into the reel with practiced ease.

John tilted his head. “Good form, MacTavish.”

Colin’s eye twitched. “I will strangle him with his tartan.”

Francesca sighed, clearly not for the first time. “You are being ridiculous.”

“He is holding her hand.”

“It’s a dance, Colin.”

“He is smiling at her like she is made of moonlight and forbidden poems.”

Francesca patted his arm. “Well, to be fair, Penelope does look like moonlight tonight.”

“Stop encouraging him,” John said flatly.

Colin crossed his arms tightly, muttering, “If he tries to spin her even one second longer than the required eight counts, I will intervene.”

The dance ended. Penelope curtsied. Lachlan bowed. And then—then the earl kissed her hand.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Colin barked, storming toward the floor.

Francesca, dryly: “And there he goes.”

John sighed, waving his glass. “Should we place bets on whether Colin challenges him to a duel or declares Penelope the property of the Crown?”

“Ten pounds on both.”

Colin stormed across the ballroom like a man on a mission from God—or at least, from jealousy. The hem of his coat flared behind him, and several heads turned at his purposeful gait.

Penelope had just begun thanking Lachlan for the dance when Colin swooped in like a hawk defending its mate.

“Thank you, Lord MacTavish,” Colin said, voice clipped and polite enough to make the threat even more terrifying. “But I believe my wife promised me the next.”

Penelope blinked up at him. “Did I?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “For the rest of the evening, actually.”

Before she could reply—or anyone could protest—Colin took her hand, far less delicately than Lachlan had, and swept her into the next waltz with the kind of theatrical possessiveness that only a Bridgerton could pull off without being removed by the host.

“Colin,” Penelope hissed as they spun onto the dance floor, “you’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he asked, a bit breathless. “Because he kissed your hand like he wanted to devour it.”

“It’s a common gesture.”

“In France, maybe. We are in Scotland, and I am two seconds away from tossing him into a loch.”

Penelope tried very hard not to laugh.

Colin twirled her tightly, bringing her close, his voice a velvet growl in her ear. “You are mine. I will always remind them.”

Penelope smiled sweetly. “Then behave like it, my love. Next time a man dances with me, you may calmly wait your turn like a gentleman.”

“I am a gentleman.”

“You are currently dancing like you plan to leave burn marks on the floor.”

He dipped her low, almost scandalously so. A few guests gasped. Penelope’s hand gripped his shoulder with a warning squeeze.

“Colin,” she said, eyes narrowed but fond, “I love you dearly, but if you ever embarrass me again like this in a foreign country, I will write about you in Whistledown and compare your behavior to that of an overcooked potato.”

Colin froze mid-spin.

“You wouldn’t.”

Penelope raised one brow. “I might.”

He sighed dramatically, then spun her once more—slower, softer, a proper waltz this time. “You’re the love of my life.”

“I know. And you’re lucky I find jealous husbands charming.”

He beamed.

From the sidelines, Francesca sipped her wine and said to John, “It’s honestly remarkable they haven’t been banned from every ball in the kingdom.”

John replied, “Give it time.”

Later that evening, after the music had faded and the guests were gathered in smaller clusters for supper and spirits, Lachlan MacTavish—tall, composed, and entirely unaware of the storm he was about to walk into—spotted Penelope across the room, laughing softly beside Francesca.

He made his way over, a glass of wine in hand, preparing a polite apology for his earlier over-familiarity. It had only been a compliment, after all. But before he could even draw breath—

“Ah. Lord MacTavish.”

Colin appeared like a ghost from behind a marble column, leaning against it with the lazy elegance of a man who has planned this encounter in detail. In one hand, he held a glass of whiskey. In the other—Penelope’s shawl, draped over his forearm like a knight with a gauntlet.

Lachlan blinked. “Mr. Bridgerton. I was just about to—”

“Apologize?” Colin sipped his whiskey slowly, deliberately. “Yes, I thought you might. Do continue.”

There was a long pause.

Lachlan cleared his throat. “I meant no offense earlier. Your wife is—well, she’s clearly beloved and lovely, and I merely meant to—”

“To praise her beauty. Her charm. Her wit.” Colin offered a hollow smile. “Yes, I heard it all. Loudly.”

“I truly did not mean to overstep.”

“Oh, but you did,” Colin said smoothly. “And allow me to be clear, Lord MacTavish. This is not London, and I may not have the social reach here that I do at home—but make no mistake, if I hear one more overzealous compliment pass your lips in my wife's direction, I shall personally challenge you to a duel in the Highlands. Shirtless. At dawn. With bagpipes blaring behind me.”

Lachlan looked—understandably—horrified. “Surely, Mr. Bridgerton, you jest.”

“I do not. I am descended from a long line of overly dramatic men with far too many siblings and very little impulse control. Do not test the family tradition.”

Just then, Penelope arrived, expression equal parts amused and tired.

“Colin. What are you doing?”

“Defending your honor.”

“Against a man holding a plate of oatcakes?”

“I’ve faced worse odds,” Colin muttered, downing the last of his whiskey.

Lachlan, now looking like he’d very much like to leave the premises, bowed quickly. “Mrs. Bridgerton. A pleasure.” He nodded to Colin, “Sir,” then turned and vanished into the crowd.

Penelope turned to her husband with arms crossed.

“Colin Bridgerton.”

“Yes, my dearest?”

“Did you really threaten a shirtless duel?”

“I left out the part about the war paint and the flaming torches.”

She sighed. “You are utterly impossible.”

“And yet, somehow, you love me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. “That’s the only kind of love worth having.”

When they retired to their bedchamber that evening, the candlelight flickering low against the walls, Penelope knew a conversation long overdue awaited them. She adored her husband’s protective streak—indeed, it made her feel wanted in a way she had not known she craved. But beneath Colin’s jealousy lay something deeper, and she could feel it pulsing beneath every cutting glare and overly possessive gesture.

After settling their son in his cradle, she moved quietly through the door of their room. Colin sat at the foot of the bed, his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire with a pensive expression that unraveled her heart.

“Colin,” she said softly.

He hummed in acknowledgment but extended a hand toward her, guiding her wordlessly to sit upon his lap. She did so gently, curling into him, her fingers threading into his curls as she combed them back with soft affection.

“I think we ought to talk about this jealousy of yours,” she said quietly. “I do not fault you for it. In truth, I feel... seen. Desired. Not every husband wishes for his wife as you do for me. But I know you, Colin. There’s more behind this, and I wish you’d share it with me.”

At that, Colin’s arms tightened around her, pulling her into a near-desperate embrace, burying his face in the curve of her neck. His voice, when it came, was muffled and thick.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I’ve been overbearing. I don’t mean to be. I just—God, Pen, I’m afraid. At night, when you’re asleep beside me, I watch you and think... what if I had been too late?”

Penelope stilled, listening as he poured out what he had long kept locked within.

“What if, during those months I was away, some man had swooped in? What if I had returned only to watch you marry someone else, watch you from afar for the rest of my life? And each time some gentleman dares look at you for too long, it all comes back. The fear. The sickening thought that you might one day realize you could have had better—a titled lord, a man of stature. A viscount, an earl. And here you are, with me. A third son with no estate, no great legacy, just... just Colin, the man who went gallivanting across continents in search of meaning while you built a life worth a dozen titles. You are Whistledown, Penelope. Brilliant. Fearless. And I—I am just me.”

And then she felt it. A warm, wet patch against her shoulder. Colin Bridgerton, the man who met life with wit and charm, who so rarely let the world see his vulnerability, was crying.

She cupped his cheek and tilted his face up toward hers. “Colin, love. Husband. Look at me.”

He did, eyes red, lashes damp.

“I do not give a fig about titles,” she said, steady and sincere. “I have loved you from the moment my bonnet flew off. Even when you were courting another, I loved you. Even when another man courted me—whose name, I believe, we’ve agreed shall never be spoken—I loved only you.”

Her voice softened, full of trembling truth. “That night, when I thought I was going to be proposed to, I wished—prayed—you would come and stop it. And when you did, when you stopped my carriage, I knew. I have always known. Even when we fought about Whistledown, I loved you. I chose you, Colin Bridgerton. As my husband, my partner, the father of my children, my other half for the rest of my life.”

She gently took his hand and pressed it to her abdomen.

Colin blinked. “Chil—children?”

“Yes,” she whispered, a smile trembling at her lips. “I am expecting.”

Colin’s breath hitched audibly, and then he wept—not from fear, but from joy.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” he said, voice breaking as he cupped her face. “But thank you, Pen. Thank you for choosing me. For loving me. I vow to spend every day of my life loving you, cherishing you, protecting you and our family. I love you. I love you. I love you, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”

And in that quiet moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, the fears fell away. They were simply Colin and Penelope—two hearts, wholly intertwined, forever choosing one another.

Chapter Text

It began, as most family chaos often did, with an innocent conversation. With Daphne and Simon having returned to Mayfair, and Benedict now recently wed to Sophie, it seemed the perfect time for the Bridgertons to gather once more under one roof. And with Penelope heavy with their second child, Colin insisted she rest in the comfort of family while they all caught up.

It was during one such restful afternoon, over tea and an alarming amount of pastries, that a particular conversation unearthed a revelation Colin had not been prepared for.

They had been reminiscing about memorable first dances—an entirely harmless topic, until it wasn’t.

“So, as I was saying,” Anthony began, chuckling, “if it weren’t for you sneaking into my mother’s ball, Sophie, this brother of mine would still be raking through Mayfair like a lost soul.”

“Well,” Benedict said with a grin, “what can I say? Balls and dances are quite magical. Ours simply happened to be more memorable.” He winked at Sophie, who smiled, slightly pink.

“My first dance with Anthony was memorable too,” Kate added with amusement. “Mostly because he was still courting my sister at the time.”

“Stop, wife,” Anthony groaned. “I still can’t believe I was that blind.”

Simon, notably quiet until now, was suddenly addressed.

“Simon,” Benedict drawled, “you’re unusually silent. Lost in the memory of your first dance with my sister?”

“Our first proper dance was at Vauxhall, if I recall,” Simon said, nodding toward Daphne. “After we began our little... arrangement. But if we are speaking of true first dances—well, no offense, dearest—but that actually occurred at my godmother’s ball. Lady Danbury hosted it shortly after I returned to London.”

“You didn’t dance with Daphne then?” Anthony asked, mildly curious.

“No,” Simon replied. “We hadn’t even been formally introduced at that point. My first dance that evening was actually with Penelope.”

A silence fell.

Every eye turned to Penelope, who blinked. Then to Colin—who had frozen mid-air, an éclair suspended between hand and mouth.

“With Penelope,” Colin repeated slowly, placing the éclair gently on his plate.

“Yes,” Simon continued, entirely oblivious to the change in atmosphere. “Lady Featherington had only introduced two of her daughters, but I noticed Penelope behind them, trying very hard not to be seen. She was quite shy then. Still cannot fathom that she was Lady Whistledown all along. But she wasn’t like the others—there was something... refreshingly disinterested about her.”

“That is so sweet of you, my husband,” Daphne said, genuinely touched.

Meanwhile, the Bridgerton siblings exchanged wary glances.

Simon still did not notice.

“She wasn’t timid once we started speaking,” he added. “Witty, in fact. Not desperate to secure a dance, and certainly not falling over herself to please. I remember being struck by that.”

“I didn’t know,” Colin said, voice light but eyes not. “I didn’t know you danced with my wife.”

“She wasn’t your wife yet, at the time,” Simon replied, tone playful.

“And did you find her beautiful?” Colin asked, smile slightly too sharp.

“I mean—of course,” Simon said, attempting diplomacy. “It would be a lie to say otherwise. Despite... the unfortunate gowns her mother made her wear.”

“And did you find her suitable for marriage?” Colin pressed.

“That time?” Simon hesitated. “Well, no. I wasn’t looking to marry anyone. But if circumstances had been different—”

“Wrong answer, Hastings,” Anthony muttered, already rubbing his forehead.

“Oh no,” Hyacinth whispered dramatically.

“What? What did I say?” Simon asked. “Saying Penelope is not beautiful would be offensive and entirely untrue.”

“I am offended,” Colin declared, rising slightly from his chair, “that once upon a time in the entire history of Mayfair, you considered my wife—my wife—marriageable!”

“Colin, truly, this isn’t something to be jealous about,” Simon said, finally catching on. “It was years ago. You’re married. I’m married. To your sister, no less.”

“I don’t care if it was during the reign of King Arthur,” Colin snapped. “You looked at my wife. I should’ve let Anthony duel you that dawn!”

“Seriously?” Simon said, exasperated.

“You know what?” Colin said, grabbing a nearby bread knife. “I’ll duel you now. Come on.”

“Colin!” Penelope gasped. “Put the bread knife down.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be so quick to stop me if this one had courted you then!” Colin said dramatically.

“Oh, goodness,” Penelope sighed, rubbing her temples.

“Colin, stop. You are completely unhinged,” Anthony groaned.

“Fine,” Colin said, sheathing the bread knife back into the butter. “But for penance—my son gets a pony.”

“A pony?” Simon blinked.

“Just say yes,” Benedict advised. “Trust me, you do not want to find yourself knitting booties under duress.”

“Pony,” Colin repeated firmly. “Or I swear you’ll be sewing for both my children.”

“Simon,” Anthony said wearily, “make it two ponies. Save yourself.”

“Fine,” Simon muttered. “Two ponies.”

Colin finally relaxed, sitting back. “See? I’m not difficult. But do sleep with one eye open tonight, Hastings.”

Chapter Text

It began at the Featherington house, where Penelope had personally invited Madame Delacroix for a gown fitting in preparation for the upcoming season's opening ball—and, naturally, for a bit of catching up. As fortune would have it, Sophie and Benedict were also paying a visit, and Penelope, ever gracious, insisted Sophie join in for her own fitting.

That left Colin and Benedict to retire to the garden, where they observed their children—Colin and Penelope’s three, and Benedict and Sophie’s two—making a delightful mess of the flowerbeds.

Colin, arms crossed and gaze narrowed, said suddenly, “It’s rather a wonder that Sophie seems so at ease with Madame Delacroix. Or… does she not know?”

Benedict, picking a blade of grass, looked up. “Does she not know what?”

“That Madame Delacroix is an old paramour of yours,” Colin said, voice casual but eyes keen.

“Oh, that. Of course she knows. Sophie knows everything. She trusts me—and truthfully, she’s never been bothered about my past.”

“Well, yes,” Colin said, still watching the children as if they might offer insight, “but I was talking to Eloise recently, and she mentioned in passing there was a time when she felt quite put out over the friendship between Penelope and Genevieve. Especially when she and Pen were at odds. Apparently it was Genevieve who helped her continue Whistledown, after all.”

“Genevieve’s a great friend to both of us,” Benedict replied. “Even after our flirtation ended, she remained in my circle. We move in similar orbits—artists, poets, those who feel a little too much. And we share… other things. We both happen to be attracted to men and women.”

Colin blinked. “You… you both fancy men and women?”

Benedict nodded, serene. “Indeed. I do hope that’s not an issue, brother.”

“No, no—no judgment at all,” Colin said quickly, placing a reassuring hand on Benedict’s shoulder. “I accept and love you for who you are. But…” He paused, and then his eyes widened. “Did you just say Genevieve fancies women?”

“Yes. And?” Benedict said with a slow grin.

Colin sputtered, “Well—well! That’s news to me! She’s been dressing my wife for years, Benedict. Years. She calls her ma chère, touches her waist, sends her letters from Paris like some romantic heroine... Do you think—do you think she ever fancied Penelope?”

Benedict barely stifled a laugh. “Brother, must I remind you, your wife is Penelope Bridgerton. Of course someone fancied her. At least one French modiste, apparently.”

Colin groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Colin, it was just a jest,” Benedict said, barely containing his laughter. “Yes, Genevieve fancies both men and women, but surely she and Penelope are simply friends. She admires your wife’s wit and independence—nothing more.”

Colin, however, was already spiraling, hands flailing in theatrical distress. “No, no! You may have unwittingly unveiled a great conspiracy, Benedict.”

“Oh dear,” Benedict muttered, now clearly entertained.

Colin pressed on, pacing like a man unraveling a great political scandal. “I remember it now—there was a fitting, one of Penelope’s many fittings for the Queen’s garden party last season. Genevieve was fussing over the bodice, and then—then, Benedict—she tucked a loose strand of Penelope’s hair behind her ear.”

He paused, eyes wide with revelation. “Behind her ear, Benedict. That is not a platonic tuck. That is a gesture fraught with intent.”

Benedict arched a brow. “Are we truly giving hair-tucking symbolic meaning now?”

“Back then, I thought nothing of it,” Colin said, utterly ignoring the sarcasm. “But now? Now I see it clearly. I have let a scandalous Parisian seductress into my home. She’s been stealing my wife—my wife, Benedict—right under my very nose!”

“You do realize,” Benedict said, voice deadpan, “that you sound unhinged?”

“I am unhinged! She sends letters, compliments her complexion, says things like ‘ma douce étoile’—what is that, Benedict? My sweet star! You don’t say that to a friend unless you are planning to elope with her in a stolen carriage!”

“Oh heavens,” Benedict muttered, barely stifling his grin. “Perhaps I ought to fetch Mother. She’ll know how to properly stage an intervention.”

Colin sank onto a garden bench, burying his face in his hands. “First Simon, now Genevieve. Is there anyone not secretly in love with my wife?”

“Well,” Benedict said thoughtfully, “there was that duke from Scotland who called her a ‘vision in gold’—”

“Stop. Talking.”

Colin was pacing. Furiously. Like a storm bottled in breeches and boots. One hand was raking through his hair while the other gestured wildly to no one but the geraniums near the garden path.

“She tucked her hair, Benedict! Tucked it!” he muttered, voice rising with each word. “And no one is concerned? No one sees the slow seduction happening right beneath our noses?”

Benedict, who had wisely chosen to sit down and sip his tea, merely watched his brother with the calm detachment of someone who had once seen Colin mistake a wax statue for a person at a museum and argue with it for ten minutes.

“And now they’re alone, in the drawing room, with all those silks and laces, and mirrors—oh god, mirrors. You know what mirrors do to people in close proximity!”

“I truly don’t,” Benedict said, entirely unhelpful.

“No, this is it. I’m going in.” Colin turned on his heel with dramatic flair, like a general marching into battle. “She has overstepped. Tucking her hair is one thing, but whispering French sweet nothings while measuring my wife’s hips? I shall not stand for it.”

“Do send word if you plan to duel with fabric shears,” Benedict called after him.

Colin strode through the house like a man possessed, ignoring the startled footman and nearly trampling the cat. His pulse pounded in his ears, and when he reached the doorway of the drawing room, he didn’t knock—he flung it open like the jealous hero of a rather scandalous novel.

And there it was.

His worst fear.

Penelope stood before the mirror, wrapped in a half-pinned golden gown that shimmered like starlight. Genevieve was behind her, one arm at her waist, the other holding the fabric in place as she leaned in—far too close—and murmured something low and sinfully accented into Penelope’s ear.

Penelope smiled. Smiled.

Colin saw red.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, storming into the room like a cavalry charge. “Step away from my wife, Mademoiselle Delacroix, or so help me I will tear every silk ribbon in this establishment and bury your boning scissors in the garden!”

“Colin!” Penelope turned, wide-eyed. “What on earth—?”

“You think I do not see what you’re doing?” Colin said, finger pointed dramatically at Genevieve, who had calmly released the waistline of Penelope’s gown and now arched a very unimpressed brow. “Whispering in her ear, holding her so intimately! I saw it! Waist-clasping! You are seducing my wife with your... your French and fabric!”

Genevieve blinked. “Monsieur Bridgerton, I was adjusting the hem.”

“Don’t you ‘hem’ me, Delacroix! You tucked her hair once. I remember. That was not a hair tuck, that was the first volley in a campaign of seduction!”

Penelope, now holding the gown to her chest with one hand and pinching the bridge of her nose with the other, muttered, “Dear Lord, not again.”

“I didn’t say anything when you sent her scented letters or called her ma douce étoile. I let it go when you embroidered her name in gold on her gloves. But this? This is war!”

Genevieve stared at him. “You think I am in love with your wife?”

“Aren’t you?!”

She shrugged. “Perhaps a little. Who isn’t?”

Colin looked like he might combust on the spot.

“Colin, please,” Penelope said, trying not to laugh, “this is absurd. She’s my friend. She’s helped me with Whistledown, she’s dressed me for years, she—”

“She touched your waist, Penelope. I have very clear boundaries about waist touching.”

Genevieve smirked and reached—reached—to adjust another fold of fabric.

Colin grabbed a mannequin and held it between them like a shield. “Back! You temptress of tulle!”

Penelope collapsed into laughter.

Sophie, who had been quietly admiring the handiwork from a corner chaise, paused mid-sip of her tea when the door burst open.

Her eyes widened as Colin stormed in like a tempest in tailored trousers, yelling about seduction, fabric, and waistlines.

“Oh dear,” she whispered behind the rim of her teacup, utterly unbothered. “He’s gone full ‘jealous husband’ again.”

Penelope shot her a helpless look as she clutched her half-fitted gown. “I swear, I was just getting fitted.”

“You were just getting held, if we’re being honest,” Colin snapped, still circling the room like a lion guarding its mate. “And whispering! Genevieve was whispering!”

Benedict strolled in a beat later, entirely too casual for someone entering an active battlefield. “Oh good, has he made it to the part where he declares war on haute couture?”

“Darling, he brought a mannequin into the fight,” Sophie murmured, not bothering to hide her grin. “I think we’ve passed diplomacy.”

Benedict leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Colin with the amusement of an older brother watching his sibling attempt to fight his own imagination.

“I must say,” he added, “Genevieve, if you were trying to steal Penelope, I commend your subtlety. The slow-burn approach, the lingering gazes, the strategic use of silk... masterful.”

“Merci,” Genevieve said dryly, smoothing her skirts. “But I think your brother’s imagination is more dangerous than I could ever hope to be.”

Colin spun around. “She admitted it! She commended you!”

“I was being sarcastic,” Benedict offered helpfully.

“You were being encouraging!”

“I like to nurture the arts,” Benedict said with a dramatic bow.

“You are not helping!” Colin thundered.

“Colin, for heaven’s sake,” Sophie said, standing now and patting his arm like one might do to a barking terrier, “Genevieve isn’t trying to steal your wife. If she were, she would have done it years ago when you were off gallivanting and being clueless.”

Genevieve gave a little nod of agreement.

Colin narrowed his eyes. “That’s not comforting, Sophie.”

Penelope, who had finally recovered from her laughing fit, walked over, still holding the gown in place and gave him the Look—the one that said, my love, you’re being ridiculous but I adore you anyway.

“Colin Bridgerton,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, “if you keep accusing my seamstress of attempted seduction, you will be the one wearing corsets next season.”

“…Would they be green?” he asked cautiously.

“Only if you want them tight.”

Colin sulked but surrendered the mannequin with dignity. “I suppose... I suppose I may have overreacted.”

“You suppose?” Benedict laughed. “You staged a one-man inquisition with a bread knife last time and now you’re storming dress fittings with mannequins as shields. What’s next? Duel in the modiste?”

“I would win,” Colin muttered.

Genevieve chuckled as she resumed adjusting Penelope’s gown. “Your husband, Madame Bridgerton, is either deeply in love or completely mad.”

Penelope smiled as she reached for Colin’s hand. “Both. But fortunately for me, he’s mine.”

“And no one’s stealing her,” Colin added, squeezing her hand. “Not even you, Delacroix. I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Oh mon dieu,” Genevieve muttered. “You and everyone else.”

Later that evening, with the house quiet and Penelope finally asleep beside him, Colin sat at his writing desk, quill in hand, candle flickering dramatically like the tormented hero he imagined himself to be.

He dipped the pen in ink with the same seriousness a man might use to sign a treaty... or prepare a vendetta.

With a deep breath, he began to write.

To Madame Genevieve Delacroix,

It has come to my attention that you have, whether intentionally or not, crossed a most sacred line — the invisible but very real boundary of what is considered "acceptable proximity" to another man's wife, particularly whilst whispering French compliments and holding her by the waist.

Do not mistake my pleasant demeanor earlier today as forgiveness. That was politeness. This is war.

Henceforth, I must impose certain rules should you wish to continue your business with the Bridgerton household (namely: my wife). They are as follows:

1. All gown fittings must occur under my supervision or with at least one Bridgerton brother (not Benedict) as chaperone.
2. You are to address my wife as "Mrs. Bridgerton" only. Ma chère is banned, outlawed, and punishable by duel (bread knives optional).
3. No tucking of stray hairs. I shall personally provide pins.
4. Should you require to touch her waist again — for any reason, fitting-related or otherwise — you must first submit a written request, to be reviewed and approved by me, with at least 72 hours' notice.
5. Furthermore, as recompense for the emotional trauma endured today, I require the following:
• One gown for my wife that reads "property of Colin Bridgerton" in fine embroidery (discreet but visible).
• A matching cravat and swaddle set for our unborn child, who, I presume, you also plan to charm with your Gallic wit and tailoring skills.

Failure to comply will result in you being removed from all family invitations, as well as potential nightly vigils outside your shop window — just me. Watching. Judging.

With reluctant civility,

Mr. Colin Bridgerton (Jealous Husband, Full-Time Vigilante)

He folded the letter with solemn ceremony, sealed it with wax, and placed it on the tray for morning post.

Then, with a final look toward his sleeping wife, he muttered, “Let that be a lesson in waist etiquette,” and crawled into bed, entirely pleased with himself.

Chapter Text

To cool down after the Madame Delacroix Incident — which still had Colin irrationally eyeing every modiste within ten miles — he reluctantly agreed to Anthony’s invitation for a family gathering. With his birthday fast approaching and the ton speculating over whether the Viscount would throw a ball, Anthony had declared he required the family’s “honest counsel.”

Naturally, everyone was in attendance, including Eloise, who had recently married Sir Philip Crane — the very same Philip who had once been married to Marina Crane. (Colin had chosen not to revisit that memory too closely.)

Upon arriving, Penelope and Eloise were instantly swept up in their own little world, much as they had been in their girlhood — all whispers, laughter, and shared glances that excluded everyone else, including their husbands.

Colin, meanwhile, found himself reacquainted with his brothers and brothers-in-law over port and conversation.

“So,” Colin said with a smirk, “how are you holding up, Philip? I trust Eloise hasn’t driven you mad just yet?”

Philip gave a dry chuckle. “Not at all. She’s been nothing but lovely. Especially with the children — Amanda and Oliver adore her. Though,” he added thoughtfully, “she does seem particularly excited to see everyone again. Or, well... mostly Penelope.”

“Of course it’s Penelope,” Benedict said. “They’ve been joined at the hip since they were twelve. I daresay if Penelope ever took ill, Eloise would come down with symptoms just out of loyalty.”

Simon raised his glass. “I’m quite certain Eloise is Penelope’s favorite Bridgerton.”

“Excuse me?” Colin interjected, eyes narrowing. “I am also her best friend. I married her. I gave her children. I love her. I cherish her. I worship her. I undress her every night and make sure to kiss every—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, stop right there,” Anthony groaned, raising a hand as if to physically block the mental image. “We do not need a visual, Colin.”

The brothers all shuddered simultaneously.

Philip, however, pressed on. “Well, I was telling Penelope earlier—we’re talking of starting a family of our own. Amanda and Oliver are already insistent they want a younger sibling. And Eloise... well, she’s already chosen a name for the firstborn.”

“Oh?” Benedict asked. “Do tell.”

“If it’s a girl,” Philip said, pausing for effect, “she’s to be named Penelope.”

Colin dropped his glass.

“You agreed to that?” Benedict said, eyes wide.

Philip gave him a look of quiet resignation. “No one argues with Eloise.”

A beat of silence.

“Agreed,” all the men said in unison.

With the entire household otherwise preoccupied—Lady Danbury and Violet having most nobly appointed themselves as guardians of the youngest Bridgertons—Penelope and Eloise retreated to the quiet sanctuary of the library.

It was, as always, their favourite place to escape the chaos, and today it served as the perfect setting for nostalgia. Strewn before them were bundles of old letters: Colin’s rambling, romantic dispatches from abroad, and Philip’s more concise, botanically-inclined declarations to Eloise. They read them aloud with great theatrical flair, laughing until tears pricked their eyes.

“Oh, listen to this one,” Eloise cried, waving a parchment. “Colin writing from Greece about how he was ‘terribly sunburnt and entirely ruined for society.’ Honestly, Pen, did you fall in love with a man or a lobster?”

Penelope giggled. “I fell in love with the man who sent me three pages describing the baklava,” she replied dreamily.

Eventually, Penelope’s laughter slowed and her eyelids drooped. With the contented sigh of a woman who had both eaten cake and read romantic correspondence, she slumped slightly. Eloise, without hesitation, lifted her skirts, tucked her legs beneath her, and patted her lap.

“Come here, you goose,” she said fondly. “Rest your head for a bit.”

Without protest, Penelope nestled herself down, her head pillowed comfortably on Eloise’s lap. Eloise absently stroked her hair, still thumbing through the old letters with her free hand, their giggles softening into little hums of contentment.

It was precisely this scene—unusual, intimate, and entirely too peaceful—that greeted Colin and Philip as they stepped into the library.

Colin stopped. Blinked. Stared.

Eloise, serene as a marble statue, reclined with Penelope’s head on her lap like some Grecian muse, her fingers gliding gently through Penelope’s copper curls as though composing sonnets with every stroke. The letters were scattered like love confessions at a duel site. Penelope herself looked positively angelic, her cheeks pink with laughter, her smile lazy and blissful.

Colin’s jaw ticked.

Philip, to his credit, took one look and wisely said nothing.

Colin, on the other hand, spoke. Loudly.

“Is there a particular reason my wife is reclining like a bloody nymph in the lap of my sister?”

Eloise looked up, perfectly unbothered. “Good heavens, Colin, must you enter every room like a tempest?”

“I enter rooms like a man who finds his wife nestled in the arms of another!” Colin declared, storming forward with enough indignation to power a small carriage.

“She’s not in my arms, she’s on my lap,” Eloise corrected dryly, lifting a brow.

“That makes it worse!” he shot back.

Penelope, who hadn’t moved, cracked one eye open. “Darling, do calm down. You look as though you’re about to challenge someone to a duel.”

“I should challenge someone! I have half a mind to send for pistols. Or a second. Or both!”

Philip coughed into his fist, wisely backing out of the room with a muttered, “I shall...leave you to it.”

“Oh come now,” Eloise rolled her eyes. “If you’d seen the way she was snoring during the last paragraph you wouldn’t be so dramatic.”

“I do not snore,” Penelope mumbled from Eloise’s lap.

“You do, but adorably,” Eloise replied, twirling a lock of her hair.

Colin all but combusted. “Right. That’s it. No more lap lounging. No more hair stroking. No more...whatever this is. She is my wife, Eloise!”

“Yes,” Eloise said cheerfully. “And she is my best friend. Perhaps you should learn to share.”

“Share?” Colin sputtered. “She is not a plate of biscuits!”

Penelope sat up at last, rubbing her eyes with a sleepy smile. “You’re very loud when you’re jealous, dear.”

“Jealous? Of my own sister?” Colin balked. Then paused. Then narrowed his eyes at Eloise. “Wait. Should I be jealous? Have you been writing her letters too?”

Eloise gave him a wicked grin. “You’ll never know.”

He groaned into his hands. “I’m surrounded by lunatics.”

“Welcome to the family,” Eloise and Penelope said in unison, both looking terribly pleased with themselves.

Colin had not moved from the center of the library. His arms were crossed. His expression—stormy. His cravat—slightly askew from all his chest-heaving outrage.

Penelope had risen from the couch, blinking sleep from her eyes, while Eloise remained perched, smug and serene, entirely too pleased with herself as she fluffed a cushion like a cat satisfied with its mischief.

But Colin… Colin was spiraling.

“No,” he said, pacing now, fingers raking through his hair. “No, something isn’t right. You’re too comfortable. Too practiced.”

“Practiced?” Penelope asked, frowning.

“Yes!” he whirled toward her. “The way you lay on her lap. The hair stroking. The giggling. The—intimacy! I’ve never even seen you rest your head on my lap like that!”

Eloise scoffed. “That’s because your lap is always bouncing with nervous energy. No woman wants to rest on a trampoline of insecurity.”

“That’s rich, coming from you!” Colin jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’ve seen the way you dote on her. The whispers. The letters. The secret glances at balls when you thought no one was watching!”

Penelope blinked. “What glances?”

“You know the ones!” Colin exclaimed, pointing wildly between them. “The longing! The shared smiles! I thought you were just friends, but now I see it—clear as day! You kissed each other first, didn’t you?!”

“What?” Penelope gasped, half-laughing, half-mortified.

“We did not kiss,” Eloise said flatly, though her grin was widening in an infuriatingly smug way.

“Admit it!” Colin accused, now pacing again like a man rehearsing lines for a courtroom drama. “One of you leaned in first—probably you, Eloise, because you’ve always had a rebellious streak—and the other didn’t pull away! That’s why you’ve always been so close!”

“Colin, this is madness,” Penelope groaned, rubbing her temples.

“I knew there was something more behind the way she calls you ‘darling’ in that sickeningly fond tone! And the time she told you, ‘You’re the only person who truly understands me’? Who says that to a best friend? That’s a love confession!”

“It was during childbirth, Colin,” Penelope snapped.

“Exactly! The most vulnerable moment of your life and it was her you wanted beside you, not me!”

“You fainted.”

“I had low blood sugar!”

Eloise stood, entirely too calm. “Colin, you are being—”

“Unhinged? Yes, thank you, Eloise, I am! Because I am only just now realizing I’ve been in a throuple this entire time and no one thought to tell me!”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Penelope exclaimed.

Eloise, looking unbothered, walked past Colin and gave his shoulder a casual pat. “I assure you, brother dearest, if I had kissed your wife, I’d be wearing a smugder smile, and she’d still be on my lap.”

Colin let out a strangled noise.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Eloise continued, “I need a glass of wine and perhaps a journal in which to record this utterly unhinged display. Good day.” She swept out of the room like a woman who’d just bested a duel.

Penelope stared after her, then turned slowly to her husband, who was now dramatically collapsed onto the fainting couch.

“You need to lie down,” she said gently.

“I am lying down. Emotionally,” he muttered.

“Should I summon your brothers?”

“God, no. Benedict would laugh. Anthony would stage an intervention. Simon would start talking about ponies again.”

Penelope sat beside him, amused and exasperated. “There is no one I love more than you.”

“No one? Not even Eloise?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

She kissed his cheek. “She may have had my lap once. But you have all of me.”

“Hmm.” He still looked skeptical.

Penelope smirked. “Would a kiss convince you?”

“Only if it comes with the promise that you’ve never kissed Eloise.”

“I swear.”

“Not even a peck?”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Good night, Colin.”

The next morning during breakfast, the Bridgerton breakfast table was its usual chaos: children darting underfoot, toast being buttered aggressively, and Anthony muttering something about the price of oranges while Hyacinth tried to convince Gregory to eat jam with a fork.

But none of this registered to Colin. He entered like a man marching into battle—cravat perfectly tied, brow furrowed, a stack of paper clutched to his chest.

He approached Eloise slowly, deliberately, as if she were a duel opponent and he, the injured party with a vendetta to settle.

“Good morning,” Eloise greeted him without looking up from her tea. “You seem—tense. Do sit. Or hover and glower, whatever pleases you.”

Colin ignored the jab. “We need to talk.”

“Oh no,” Benedict whispered, sliding his plate away from the line of fire. “He’s doing the thing again.”

Colin slammed down the papers. “I challenge you.”

Eloise raised an eyebrow. “To a duel? How passé. I’m not putting on trousers before ten.”

“No. A duel of poetry.”

The entire table went still.

Simon paused mid-sip of his coffee. “Poetry?”

“Yes,” Colin declared. “A Penelope Poem-Off. You and I shall each write a poem—ode, sonnet, limerick, your choice—and recite it before the family. The superior poem wins.”

“Wins what, exactly?” Eloise asked dryly.

“The right to be called Penelope’s true soulmate,” Colin said with a dramatic flourish.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Penelope muttered from beside him, already rubbing her temples.

“You think you can just… lay your lap down and win her heart?” Colin went on. “Think again, Eloise Bridgerton-Crance. She is my wife. The mother of my children. My muse. My passion. My personal sun, moon, and sweet plum tart.”

Anthony choked on his tea. Daphne turned her face to hide a laugh.

Eloise finally looked up. “Fine. I accept. But only because I’ve been writing verses in my head since last night, and I do believe I rhymed Penelope with antelope.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Colin muttered.

“Neither does your jealousy,” she retorted, standing.

Eloise rolled her eyes and stepped forward.

“Swear it,” Colin said, narrowing his eyes.

“Fine. I vow—upon my honor as a Bridgerton, a wife, and a poet—that I shall never again let Penelope’s head rest upon my lap, nor shall I stroke her hair in a way that may cause her husband to spiral into another poetic breakdown.”

Colin nodded solemnly.

“Thank you. I accept your terms. And now—would someone please pass the jam?”

Chapter Text

Number Five wasn’t nearly as grand as the Bridgerton house in Grosvenor Square, but no one seemed to care. Violet had made it her haven, and despite being slightly cramped when all her children and their sprawling families descended upon it, everyone loved gathering under her roof. On this particular afternoon, the garden was bursting—roses in bloom, tea flowing, children squealing and darting through hedges like little cherubs on too much sugar. The adults lounged beneath parasols and trees, sipping tea and watching the chaos with fond exasperation.

Colin, however, was growing restless.

“Mother,” he called out, looking up from where he reclined next to Penelope, “would you happen to remember that necklace I used to wear when I was still at Eton?”

Penelope blinked at him, mid-sip. “Darling, must this be the moment? You’re holding cake in one hand and a child’s toy sword in the other.”

“I’ve suddenly remembered it quite vividly,” Colin said, ignoring the toy sword that poked into his ribs. “It might be perfect inspiration for the character in our novel.”

“Our what?” Violet asked, leaning forward with interest.

“Pen and I are co-writing a novel,” Colin announced, in the proud manner of someone who had only written two pages but had already picked out the cover design. “The male protagonist is loosely—very loosely—based on me, and I thought the necklace might add a bit of flair. A symbol. Perhaps a metaphor.”

“A prop,” Penelope muttered, not looking up from her embroidery.

“It was a gift from your father,” Violet said fondly. “He had one made for each of you boys when you were born. I believe I still have yours.”

“See, love? I told you I didn’t lose it on my travels.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Penelope said dryly. “You swore I packed it into one of your trunks, then proceeded to blame me for it being lost in Corfu.”

“I said it might have been Corfu.”

Violet waved them off. “It should be in the cabinet beside my bed. Bottom drawer. Shall I fetch it?”

“No need, Mama. Stay here and enjoy your tea. I’ll retrieve it.”

And with that, Colin stood up like a man on a noble quest.

He made his way inside, still muttering something about “brooding necklace symbolism,” until he reached Violet’s room. The bottom drawer took some effort—he had to remove lace handkerchiefs and at least one sachet that smelled violently of lilacs—but finally, nestled right at the back, the chain glinted at him.

Victory.

But something else caught his eye. Folded parchment, three of them, stacked neatly beneath the necklace. That in itself wasn’t suspicious—Violet always had a habit of tucking little keepsakes into drawers—but then he saw the titles:

Colin. Anthony. Benedict.

Each was followed by a short list. Names. Women’s names.

And above them, in his mother’s elegant hand, the words:

Potential Brides.

He blinked. He opened his own first. All Penelope. Every single entry. And every single one of them violently struck through. At the bottom, in increasingly frantic ink: Marina Thompson? followed by several question marks and—dear God—a tiny sad face.

He let out a laugh. A slightly unhinged one.

Then he looked at Anthony’s list.

Colin froze.

There. Third from the bottom. Penelope Featherington.

“No,” he whispered.

He scrambled to Benedict’s.

Penelope Featherington. Again. Twice. Once with a question mark, and once underlined.

He was scandalized. Offended. Betrayed.

By his mother. By his brothers.

By lists.

And the doodles. The doodles were personal.

Fists tightening around the parchment, Colin marched down the hallway like a man headed into battle. He burst through the garden doors, drawing the attention of everyone like a thunderclap.

“Mama!” he barked. “We need to talk.”

Heads turned.

“You’ve found the necklace, then?” Violet said, pleased.

“Oh, I found it,” Colin said, voice rising. “Along with the Receipts of Betrayal!”

He held up the folded lists like damning evidence.

Penelope squinted. “Are those... papers?”

Benedict raised a brow. “What on earth is that?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know!” Colin snapped. “Because clearly I was the last to know!” He brandished one of the slips. “Potential brides?”

Anthony leaned back in his chair. “Are you having a stroke?”

“You—” Colin pointed at him like an accuser in a courtroom. “You had Penelope on your list! You!”

Anthony blinked. “What list?”

“This list!” He waved it again. “Mother made a matchmaking cheat sheet, and my wife is on everyone’s!”

Benedict, curious now, rose and took the paper from him. He scanned it, then let out a low whistle. “Well. This is—thorough.”

“I was the original!” Colin cried. “Every entry on my list was Penelope, and even those were crossed out! With a sad face!”

Penelope took the paper, examined it, and let out a small giggle. “Oh dear, she really tried to let go of the idea, didn’t she?”

“Don’t laugh! This is collusion! This is list-based treason!”

“I can’t believe I didn’t know about this,” Benedict murmured.

“I can’t believe you two were contenders!” Colin jabbed a finger toward his brothers. “What if you’d married her?!”

Penelope raised a brow. “Well, I didn’t.”

“But you could have!” Colin whirled back to Violet. “Mother! Explain yourself!”

Violet, without looking up from her embroidery, said calmly, “You took so long, dear. I had to prepare alternate routes.”

“Alternate routes? Alternate suitors?!”

“I have always considered Penelope to be a daughter,” Violet said, her voice soft but firm as she sipped her tea. “And quite honestly, my darling Penelope, you do not know how painful it was for me to watch you with Lord Debling. The sheer panic I felt when your mother declared he intended to propose—why, I nearly fainted into my embroidery.”

“Mama, ssssh,” Colin hissed, looking around as though Debling might spring from behind a rose bush. “Don’t say his name aloud! He might appear like a ghost summoned by gossip and polite intentions.”

Violet simply lifted a brow. “I am merely being honest. You must understand, Colin. I had to seek… alternative routes. I feared you’d dawdle your way into bachelorhood while Penelope was whisked away by a man with a well-stocked pantry and good posture.”

“So you what?” Colin huffed. “You started matchmaking her with my brothers?! My brothers, Mama!”

“I was trying to make her a Bridgerton, one way or another,” Violet replied with a smile that was far too serene for Colin’s liking. “I was working with the materials available.”

Colin narrowed his eyes. “You should have shown me the list the moment I got engaged. Perhaps then I would’ve come to my senses sooner.”

“Oh, I was far too hopeless by then. You were gallivanting about, romantic as a footstool and twice as stubborn.”

“I still cannot believe I was betrayed by my own mother.” Colin pressed a hand to his chest, wounded in the most theatrical way possible.

“You were not betrayed,” Violet said with a fond sigh. “You were nudged, like a stubborn sheep toward the correct gate.”

“You nudged me straight into existential crisis,” Colin muttered.

“Be grateful I didn’t marry her off to Benedict when I had the chance,” Violet said, smiling sweetly.

“I would have fought him.”

“Benedict?” Penelope asked, amused.

“No—Mama!”

“You remember, Ben,” Hyacinth said, her voice far too innocent for anyone to trust. “That time we were playing cards and I suggested you court Penelope, since she was looking for a husband that season?”

Benedict gave a sheepish smile. “Yes… and I’m very glad I didn’t follow through, seeing as I’m happily married to my darling Sophie now.”

“Of course, of course,” Hyacinth waved her hand. “But would you care to share what you said to me that day?”

Benedict visibly winced. “That, um… it wasn’t a terrible idea? That Mother would be delighted?”

“Exactly!” Hyacinth said with smug triumph. “See? I was right. I am always right.”

“Hyacinth!” Colin gasped, scandalized. “How could you?! Me! Your favorite brother! The one who gives you absurdly expensive gifts and lets you win at charades!”

“Oh, you’re still my favorite,” she said sweetly. “But I also love Mama. And making Mama happy. And, well… I may have known about the list for quite some time.”

Colin looked as though someone had stabbed him in the cravat. “You knew?”

Colin looked like he might faint. “You’re all in on this. This is a conspiracy. A grand, familial conspiracy to rob me of my agency and toss my beloved wife like a party favor between siblings!”

“Oh please,” Hyacinth said, rolling her eyes. “You act like we handed her over to Gregory.”

A collective gasp rippled through the group.

“Do not speak such horrors into existence,” Penelope said, clutching her pearls.

“So I do hope you understand, my dear,” Violet said gently, hands folded over her lap, “it was never my intention to give Penelope away. You should have seen the little sad faces I drew on the paper when I thought all was lost. Truly pitiful.”

“Oh, I saw them,” Colin said, clutching the infamous list like it personally insulted him. “And while I can appreciate the artistry—really, the frown on mine was quite expressive—it does not erase the fact that you considered Penelope. My Penelope. For my brothers.”

He gave an anguished sigh worthy of the theatre.

“For that,” he continued, narrowing his eyes, “I shall be in pain. Deep, brotherly betrayal pain. And to punish you, Mother—”

“Punish me?” Violet arched an eyebrow, amused but cautious.

“Yes. As is only just,” Colin said dramatically. “For the crime of nearly distributing my wife amongst my brothers like a scone at tea, I hereby ban you from your daily visits to her for a full fortnight.”

The garden fell silent. Even the birds seemed to pause in stunned disbelief.

Violet blinked. “You would ban me… from Penelope?”

“Yes. I need time,” Colin said, placing a hand on his chest. “Time to recover. Time to heal. Time to reclaim exclusive rights to my wife’s affections. Do not worry, I shall pass along messages if she wishes to say hello.”

“She lives in your house,” Violet pointed out.

“And yet still you find a way to monopolize her before I even finish breakfast,” Colin said with a sniff. “No more surprise teas. No more ‘accidental’ garden strolls. No more slipping her lemon biscuits from your secret tin. For two weeks, you are banned.”

Penelope, stifling a laugh, leaned toward Violet and whispered, “Perhaps we can smuggle letters through Hyacinth.”

Violet smiled knowingly. “Or bribe Gregory.”

Colin narrowed his eyes. “I heard that.”

Despite the terms of her temporary banishment, Violet Bridgerton received a letter, discreetly slipped into her embroidery basket by a mysteriously giggling Hyacinth.

The envelope was familiar — Penelope’s handwriting delicate, with the faint scent of lavender and ink.

My dearest Mama Violet,

I must begin this letter with a confession: I miss you.

It has only been two days, and already the mornings feel strangely quiet without your gentle knock at the study door or the conspiratorial whisper of a new gossip morsel as we pour our tea.

Colin has declared himself the Warden of My Time, and while I adore him (as I always have), I find myself a little rebellious in spirit. And so, I write to you in defiance — a rebellion made of ink and affection.

I didn’t know… truly, I didn’t know how hard it was for you to watch me with Lord Debling. I didn’t know it pained you to see me walk toward another future that didn’t include your son — or you.

I suppose I had always assumed, foolishly, that my heartbreak was mine alone. But now I realize how much you cared, how deeply you loved me even before I could dare hope to belong to this family. And I cannot express what it means to me — to be your daughter now, not only by marriage, but by heart.

Thank you for always wanting me. For seeing me. Even when others didn’t.

With all my love (and a very carefully baked lemon biscuit, which I hope Hyacinth didn’t eat),

Penelope Bridgerton