The delicate lacquered shoes cut into her feet with every step. Penelope fingered the dance card hanging from her wrist, wincing as she supported herself on the beam behind her. She struggled to recall why she had decided to attend this evening, only to face humiliation once more. The ballroom exuded the same oppressive air of desperation as it had the previous year and the year before that, every dancer impeccably attired, each gown unblemished, and every curl precisely in place. Always adhering to the prescribed patterns and plans of the evening. It made her want to —
She started slightly as Colin appeared before her, his collar loosened in the increasingly stifling air. He leaned sideways, ostensibly examining the table for new desserts but whispered, "I will be escorting Franseca and my mother to their carriage. I should like to speak with you, if we may find a moment."
A sudden rush of wistful affection surged through her towards him. She pitied him that he took such care to be concerned with her still. But this was twice that she had faced humiliation when it came to Colin Bridgerton and within hours of this latest blow, she felt her chest crack a little, and her love for him slowly began to seep out of her. It would never happen as she dared to dream since childhood, a foolhardy daydream that she could only envision by the window in the drawing room that gazed onto the lovely Bridgerton home. She nodded, imperceptible to another's eye, but Colin noticed. He smiled and departed without another word.
She caught the sight of her reflection in the grand mirror across the room—grave and serious and subdued. A face where laughter had long been absent. The force of it struck her now more painfully than ever. No escape. No way out. She had loved, but never been loved, and now, could never be loved.
Her mouth tightened with quiet disdain at her own romanticism. Yet, in spite of herself and the unyielding pragmatism she had adopted, she found herself continuing to gaze into the mirror. She saw two topaz stones and a halo of bronze ringlets and —
"Good evening, Miss Featherington." A light, cultured voice, tinged with politeness.
Her lips froze around his name. "Lord Debling."
Penelope needed to crane her neck to see the top of him, a man whose assuredness too seemed larger than life. The sharp jaw, the elegant nose, pale gold hair elaborately gelled back. It was as her romance novels described "Nordic features." But it was his eyes that caught her and held her paralyzed—the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
The world receded and there was only him and him alone.
White silence.
She remembered his words, spoken so confidently, at the ball where they had first met. "And why do I have the feeling that you, in turn, know how to make one wither, if you so choose?" Penelope had tossed and turned in her soft bed since then, the words repeating themselves in mind as a heat lanced through her chest.
"Enjoying the party?" His dark gold lashes swept down, and she fancied she felt them against her cheek.
Penelope tried to speak. Her voice was frozen in her throat. Her mind caught in a blizzard. Then a heat bloomed in her cheeks. "Immensely. And yourself?"
"Rather." Lord Debling smiled slowly, leaning forward slightly towards her, a gleam of secret amusement in his eyes. "Besides the fact I am feeling a little like…prey."
"So you've come to my hiding place." She gestured to the space around her. "Welcome. Although, typically abject failures and social outcasts are allowed."
His elegant brows arched upward. Ice blue eyes held her frozen against the wall. "You'll not take pity on a hunted man?"
"Unfortunately, I require all pity for myself," she replied, her lips pulled into a thin smile. "But I can offer you social contagion in exchange."
"You must have done something truly heinous."
The silence between them was as taut as a wire. A magnetic force held her captivated, drawn and unwillingly bound to hear more from his amused lips. His curving, elusive smile was laden with meaning. Her breath was caught in her throat.
"You do not read Lady Whistledown?"
"I do not. Has she written about you?"
She nodded, watching him carefully. "She has."
"And of what did she write?
Penelope sought to remain calm and indifferent, concealing the fact that every nerve in her body was tense and thrumming. "That I enlisted an eligible male friend to help me find a husband."
"I say," he murmured. "Well done."
"For being a fool?" she scoffed.
"For stepping away from the herd, even at the peril of becoming a target. Much like him," he added, pointing to a large buck mounted on the wall near them, its beady button eyes glaring down at the two in disdain.
"He's dead."
"True. But at least he got to come to the party."
Penelope laughed, a sound that seemed almost unfamiliar now that she almost touched her lips in surprise. "A rather dull one if I'm to be honest." At Lord Debling's raised eyebrow, she hurriedly said, "Forgive me I shouldn't have said that."
"Do not apologize. In fact, I find your frankness immensely refreshing." He scanned the ballroom, attention captured by the small group of people surrounding the dancefloor. Penelope followed his gaze towards the couples grinning at one another, delicately twirling and finding themselves back in one another's arms.
"If you'll give me a moment, I shall return soon. Do you have a spot left on your dance card?"
"Many, in fact," she said, lifting her wrist to shake the card like a bell.
"In that case, may I have the honor of taking one of your spots?"
Penelope flushed and drew her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, extending her wrist. She started slightly when Lord Debling's large hand enveloped her own, sliding over her silk glove and nearly engulfing her entire hand within his palm as he inscribed his name on her card. As the pencil finished the tail of his last name, his hand lingered on hers, fingers curling gently, almost cradling hers. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment before they both quickly withdrew their hands.
Penelope let out a shaky breath as Lord Debling walked away, acutely aware of the rush of excitement she had experienced in the last few minutes. Briefly, she wondered how desperate she might appear to him to be so uninhibitedly pleased to have conversed with him. Prior to this encounter, her only true companion had been Eloise, who despised the very notion of courting and took delight only in criticizing the lives of women of the Ton. Occasionally, she would hear from Colin, tales of his adventures and joys, yet it was unusual that this was the first time anyone—much less a potential suitor—had offered such positive remarks on her character. Refreshing.
She was pulled from her thoughts when Colin reappeared, looking rather frazzled.
"Colin," she said with surprise. She had not expected him to return to her so quickly to talk. "Finally free from your admirers?" She did not need to glance at the rest of the party to know that there was a group of eligible women with their gazes pointed at them in envy. When Colin, his forehead damp with a sheen of perspiration, failed to respond with his usual jibe, she asked with concern, "Are you well?"
He opened his mouth once, as if considering his next words carefully. "There…there is a question I have been meaning to ask you." He swallowed and fixed her with a penetrating stare, his breaths shallow and for a fearful moment, Penelope thought he might collapse. His eyes flickered to her lips, and then Penelope thought she herself might faint.
"Colin," she breathed.
"Miss Featherington. I believe it is time for our dance."
Penelope gasped, her eyes darting between Colin and Lord Debling. Colin continued to look at her intensely but she could not fathom what he meant to say to her. Lord Debling's icy eyes settled on Colin in amusement, before he extended his hand towards Penelope.
"Of course, my lord," she replied, her voice steady.
It was only as the music began that Penelope realized that Lord Debling had selected to dance the waltz with her. She peered up at him with a mix of curiosity and surprise that he had chosen a dance that permitted a measure of intimacy, allowing them to converse without the intrusion of other dancers. His hand curved around her waist and the heat penetrated through the fabric of her dress and the corset tight around her torso. Her cheeks flushed as she placed a hand over his heart, his shoulder too tall for her to reach comfortably for the entirety of the waltz.
"My lord, I've heard whispers of your fondness for wildlife. Pray, what aspect of it do you find most captivating?"
"Whether it's an inclination toward wildlife, I cannot speak to," Lord Debling said with a pensive look. "However, it is my conviction that humanity bears solemn duty as stewards of nature." At Penelope's curious expression, he continued, "Consider this estate. Once, it thrived as a verdant expanse of oak forest, a haven teeming with biodiversity that sustained this land's vitality. Those oaks provided refuge and sustenance to a myriad of creatures through their fruits and seeds. In turn, these creatures facilitated seed dispersal and fertilized the soil with their droppings, which decomposed and enriched the soil with nutrients that promote plant growth. This interdependence maintains the balance and flow of energy and nutrients within the natural cycle. But here we are on herringbone floors and ensconced in stone and granite, amid a habitat ravaged by our avarice and—apologies Miss Featherington, I do not mean to weary you."
"You haven't!" she giggled. "Why, I hadn't thought of it that way before." She had enjoyed observing and frolicking through manicured gardens, the occasional flower arrangement, but never had considered herself a steward of one. This conversation marked the first occasion she had engaged a gentleman, aside from Colin, in such an animated discussion of his interests, and she resolved to offer him a compliment. "I've noticed you abstain from meat. How do you manage to keep yourself so strong?"
Lord Debling's smile conveyed his awareness of her intent, yet he chose to indulge her. "I eat what I personally hunt, ensuring it is only when balance is maintained with the woods of my estate." He then added, "Rest assured, I do not anticipate that my future wife would partake in such activities. She would be afforded every comfort with her accustomed diet."
"I suppose that would make her quite a fortunate woman. May I inquire what qualities you seek in a wife?"
"Someone kind, though I perceive from your expression that this is not a unique desire. Then, someone with intellect, well-read, possessing an eagerness to further her knowledge." Then, his eyebrows furrowed and he looked at her intentionally. "Above all, someone who understands me."
"What does it mean to understand you?"
Lord Debling regarded her meaningfully. "I suppose that is something one must discover in the course of time."
Penelope grinned. "You are quite fascinating. I find it curious that you do not speak more often of your interests."
"Should I speak frequently of my naturalist pursuits, I risk becoming an outcast in society. My life in the country, however, affords me the seclusion I desire to pursue my interests without judgment."
"It must be awfully lonely."
A spasm of something like pain crossed his face—startling, bleak, terrifying. "A torment," he whispered.
Penelope looked up, and a flash of affinity passed between them, strange and almost unsettling, and it shook her to the core. His compelling blue stare was unfathomable, yet searching for something unknowable in her own faltering gaze. He understands me , she realized. The heartbreaking isolation of responsibility and expectations, to be left abandoned.
She was relieved when he broke the warm, languid silence.
"I suppose you are not a lover of nature or wildlife?"
She desperately wanted to lie. To make herself interesting or compatible. But something in his kind gaze stopped her. "I must confess, I am not. I much prefer the company of a good book indoors." She glanced up at him through her eyelashes, her lower lip once again caught between her teeth. "Does that trouble you?"
"It's as if you ask whether I should be bothered if a tree or a bird should never take notice of me. I do not wish to court someone exactly like myself." His azure eyes burned into and through her. "I want to be with someone who knows who they are and embraces their own peculiarity. As I do. As I believe you do as well."
Penelope gazed up at the towering shelves of books in awe, marveling that one man could have read and collected so many within his lifetime. Her fingers lightly brushed over the beautiful leather-bound tomes until she gingerly pulled one out, its cream pages weathered by the years, and delighted at the title. Arctic Exploration and The Northwest Passage.
Though she had little desire to travel across the oceans in search of uncharted lands, her imagination soared at the idea. Even as she examined the imperfectly drawn maps and prologues of the fabled passage, she dreamed of a dashing sea captain with the beauty of Adonis, yet the brutality of a seafarer, irrevocably in love with a woman of society with tresses of bronze—
Suddenly the book was snatched from her hands, and her mother stood before her, disappointed as usual.
"Mama, we're in a library. For once, you must allow me to look at a book."
"We cannot have you growing distracted." Portia Featherington looked around the room once. "You must think only of Lord Debling today."
"This book is on voyages to the North, where Lord Debling intends to travel," Penelope explained, exasperated.
"Well, let him tell you about it. Men love to explain the world to us," Portia said, waving the book about as Penelope tensely watched the binding crease and wrinkle. Penelope gently reached out to take the book back, which Portia distractedly relinquished. "If we have already explained it to ourselves through reading, then they will feel superfluous and unmanned." She let out a weary sigh. "Truly, I hope his intentions are to ask for your hand. What have you said to him? He seeks you at every ball and fills his name on every line of you dance card if the opportunity arises—"
"Good afternoon, ladies," a deep, velvet voice said. Penelope brightened to see Lord Debling approach them with a friendly smile. She had spent so much time in his presence the last two weeks that every new encounter brought a wave of delighted anticipation. He noticed the book in her hands. "Miss Featherington, are you reading about the fabled Northwest Passage?"
"I was, I find it so—"
"Terribly confusing," Portia interjected. "We cannot make head nor tail of it. Would you be so kind as to explain?"
Lord Debling looked at both of them, ocean eyes glowing with amusement. As requested, he did his duty in explaining voyages to the North and once his eyes rested on Penelope's, they never strayed, even when Portia silently stepped away from the conversation. As soon as she was out of earshot, he said with mirth, "I have explained to you what you already know, haven't I?"
Penelope sighed, relieved she didn't have to feign new interest. "How can you tell?"
"It's evident in the way you smile politely, yet your eyes have thoroughly glazed over. Have you just been admiring me, then?"
"I should ask you the same, my lord. Your lecture sounds rather rehearsed," she chided, lower lip caught between her teeth before she matched Lord Debling's satisfied grin. "It seems you find great pleasure in traversing territories where no man has yet ventured."
"Yes, of course. The places I favor are so remote, there will be no prospect of returning by the same means. Sometimes no civilization whatsoever, really."
"Is there some reason you are trying to escape civilization, my lord?"
"Oh. The pursuit of natural beauty. Magnificent creatures." She saw the flex of muscles in his jaw as it tightened. He smiled grimly, bitterness tainting his voice. "A place where my family cannot possibly find me."
She turned to him fully now. As if she had been struck in the head, the sound of the party faded in a faint roar behind her ears. "Do you not get on with your family?"
Ice and fire struck her as he met her eyes and Penelope felt the air catch in her throat. "Trying to fit in with my family is like trying to force a camel through the eye of a needle. Rather than shrink my sides, I decided long ago to forge my own path, far away from them." He smiled now, the bitterness faded. "If that makes sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
Her gaze drifted across the room then where Colin stood amongst his friends. She had not found a moment alone with him since the night he had stood before her, speechless. She could not rid the way his eyes had settled on her lips. Had she bled from worrying them all night? Had he planned to propose to someone? She had spent many nights pondering a thousand different conversations, but always sat up in her bed restless, ending her late night by her favorite window and gazing at the Bridgerton house.
"Are you looking for someone, Miss Featherington?" Lord Debling asked, moving around in front of her.
"No. Only…" her eyes darted once more to Colin. "...taking in all the books."
"You mentioned that you enjoy a good book. What is it that you prefer to read?"
"I do not mind a stirring tale or a book of fact. But in truth, I find myself drawn back time and time again to stories of…love."
"And what is it about these stories that interests you?"
"They are histories of connection of hope for a better life." She laughed uncomfortably. "Does that make me sound terribly vapid?"
"Miss Featherington, I am happy to learn you have a passion. One that brings you such joy as my research brings me. We are alike in that way."
Lord Debling looked away from her, to the large shelves behind her, and she knew he had not meant for him to catch the desolate nature of his expression. His eyes swathed her, a kind of torture written in them. "Are there any novels in which the man goes traveling for a very long time, and his wife is happy to stay behind tending the estate?" At her hesitation, he added, "I suppose that would not be a book with much sentiment, would it?
"Not necessarily," she breathed out, unable to raise her voice in fear of him hearing her tremble. "But if the wife did have her own interests in life, then perhaps they could both be…." Happy? Automatically, she was best by thoughts of the future, and a particular melancholy took hold. Was it truly possible to find happiness when the man she might marry may leave for years on end to voyage across the distant seas? She had thought, perhaps naively, that they shared a common bond in their loneliness, that they understood each other in some way that the world around them could not.
Loneliness was a familiar companion to her, a quiet presence that shaped much of her life. In him, she thought she found someone who knew the same solitude, someone who, like her, sought connection amidst the vast emptiness of their lives. Their conversations, their shared silences, they seemed to whisper of an understanding that went beyond words. But how deep could that understanding truly be if he meant to leave her behind?
"A practical match…but a happy one? I like the sound of that."
Penelope couldn't respond so she only smiled sadly. "May I ask you a question, my lord?"
"Anything." His voice was a thick, velvet whisper that danced across her cheek and she fought to flutter her eyes closed.
"Considering how often you travel, it makes sense to me that you seek a practical match. But do you imagine that with time…" she swallowed hard, " love may one day grow?
For a moment, with his eyes deep as the stillness of a tranquil sea, deeper and more darkly blue than she had ever seen, she thought he would announce to her right then that he already loved her. "I do not know." She could not endure the intensity of his gaze. "But I am very glad that you are someone who seems to have such a full life."
"I see."
"And how, dare I ask, might this fictional gentleman ask for the young lady's hand? Especially if she has no male relative. If…if you were writing the book, that is."
Portia Featherington stood by the desserts, head peaking over Cressida Cowper's headdress. "Well, I suppose he would have to ask her mother."
"I see…And if the mother gave her blessing, do you think she would accept?"
Penelope searched his eyes. "I think you would have to read the book."
Portia Featherington had sighed with relief when Lord Debling entered the drawing room. One glance at her mother, Penelope could tell that Portia was hoping to tell the Ton of an engagement by the end of the day. But Lord Debling greeted Portia and then only had eyes for Penelope as he approached her with a soft, almost diffident smile, a small velvet box too large for a ring held carefully in his hands.
"We're so pleased to have you," Portia began eagerly. "So often, my Penelope is sitting at that window reading." She gestured to the grand windows overlooking the front of the house. "And now, here she is, in the room, and we have you to thank for that."
"Is that so?" asked Debling. "Is there a reason you like that window so much? Is the settee particularly comfortable?"
Penelope flushed, embarrassed to have both her mother and a suitor so close to the truth. "Not particularly. I suppose I mostly enjoy the view. But I've grown rather tired of it. And I am very glad to be here with you."
Penelope and Debling exchanged smiles, their eyes conveying an entire conversation in the silence that followed. Mrs. Featherington made a small sound of disappointment but discreetly withdrew to the other side of the room, affording them a measure of privacy.
"Miss Featherington," he began, his voice low and sincere, "I have something I wish to give you."
Penelope's heart quickened as she watched him open the box, revealing a delicate silver necklace, its pendant shimmering softly in the morning light. The intricate design caught her breath, and instinctively, she knew it was not new. The featherlight crack on the edge of the silver told a story of its own.
"It's lovely," she whispered, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of surprise and gratitude.
His expression softened. "I thought it might suit you," and although he said this casually, she noticed the slight tension in his posture, the quiet intensity of his gaze.
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the pendant. "It is beautiful," she murmured, then paused. "It feels as if it holds many memories."
Debling's smile wavered for a fraction of second before he regained his composure. "Indeed it does," he replied, his voice steady. "But I believe it will find new life and meaning with you." He lifted the necklace from the box. "May I?"
Penelope nodded and brushed her hair to one side of her neck, exposing the delicate curve of her skin. As Lord Debling stepped closer, she felt the warmth radiate off his body against her back. Cool and steady, his fingers brushed against her neck, sending an unexpected shock down her spine. His touch was both firm and gentle, sending goosebumps down her arms when his finger brushed down the smooth skin of her neck as het set the locked necklace down. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his touch electric, before he finally stepped back. The tingling sensation remained where their bodies had briefly met and the sensation was thrilling and foreign.
She turned back to face him and she nearly stopped breathing seeing him less than an inch away from her.
"Miss Featherington," Lord Debling began, low and earnest. "After our conversation in the library, after observing your reaction, I feel compelled to reiterate my intent to voyage."
Penelope's heart sank slightly. It was something that could not be avoided, this conversation. "And you would go alone, my lord? So far from civilization?"
He smiled, though it was touched with that familiar bitterness. "Yes, alone. It is not something my family understands well, but that's the beauty and allure of travel—one may escape the judgements and expectations of family."
The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. "It must be difficult to feel so out of place among those who should understand you best."
His gaze softened as he looked at her. "Indeed it is. But out there," he gestured vaguely, "I can forge my own path, unencumbered by narrow views and restless demands."
A silence settled over them, filled with unspoken understanding that they both sought something beyond the conventional. Penelope's hand instinctively moved to the pendant resting against her chest, a tangible connection to the man before her.
"I can understand the desire to find one's own way," she said softly.
Lord Debling's smile was genuine now, the bitterness melting away. "It is a relief to find someone who truly understands. Your insight, Miss Featherington, is a rare and cherished thing."
After a moment, a worrying thought entered her mind and she said, "Lord Debling, your voyage to the North—do you really mean the Northwest Passage?"
He nodded.
Her jaw dropped. "But that's absurd," she exclaimed. At his raised eyebrow, she cleared her throat. "Sorry, I mean…it's a concept. Only a theoretical possibility."
"Of all the good that we've learned over centuries have come from theoretical possibilities."
"But, forgive me for saying this," she said, flustered, "this fascination is a tragedy. A hubris, an all-too-human…ambition"-arrogance, she thought—"and pride that can only lead to misfortune. The notion of this passage has been entertained for two centuries. How many voyagers have returned unscathed?"
Yet, there was something else in his eyes, a fleeting shadow that Penelope couldn't quite decipher. It was as if he knew the dangers he faced and was almost resigned to them. A chill ran down her spine as she wondered if he truly intended to return from these perilous journeys. The possibility that he saw these voyages not just as an escape, but as a final departure, a journey from which he might never come back, hung in the air between them.
"Do you ever fear what lies ahead, in those uncharted territories?" she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Lord Debling's smile turned wistful, his eyes distant. "Fear, Miss Featherington, is but a fleeting shadow. What matters is the pursuit, the journey itself. Whatever may come, I have made my peace with it."