Chapter 2
"You look very lovely, Penelope. So sweet, so neat, and most delightfully engaged," exclaimed Portia, brimming with pride. She then let out a peal of laughter, goading her daughters out of the carriage. Her sisters, paying her little heed, hastened to join their husbands in the next carriage, standing beside them impatiently.
"Not yet, Mama," Penelope mumbled.
Penelope's heart fluttered wildly at the thought of what the evening might bring. She had chosen her attire with utmost care—a gown of delicate pale blue, adorned with subtle embroidery beneath layers of diaphanous gossamer that floated with each movement. The bodice, elegantly fitted, was trimmed with fine lace, and the sleeves, gently puffed. Around her neck hung the silver necklace gifted by Lord Debling. Though the night called for celebration, Penelope found herself distracted, her fingernail tracing the faint crack in the pendant, a tiny imperfection that seemed to mirror the uncertainty in her heart.
"Put your hand down, Penn," fussed Portia, briskly setting Penelope's hands by her sides and smoothening her skirts. "Lord Debling intends to propose tonight and—heavens, child, stop your fidgeting! You have done exceedingly well. You know, I've heard that Lord Debling possesses one of the largest homes in Mayfair, 24 staff, a fleet of curricles, and he tells me he travels often, which means it will be up to you to manage the estate. Can you imagine what kind of influence it will give you…what kind of influence it will give us?" Portia's eyes gazed into the distance in awe, and had it not been for years of practiced composure, she might have been on the verge of tears.
Penelope managed a weak smile, though her mother's words blackened her mood. Though surrounded by family, Penelope felt utterly alone in her thoughts. It was a peculiar sensation, no longer the overlooked wallflower even within her own kin, now having them express any kind of reliance on her. After all, her mother had previously had little faith in her ability to find a suitable husband after she failed in her first season. Her mother's sudden interest in her marital prospect, after years of doubt, initially flattered Penelope. Yet, as Lord Debling's courting progressed, the weight of her family's hopes and expectations grew heavier, like a small coal crushed under the pressure of her mother's relentless ambitions.
She couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled upon her heart as she entered the halls of the Marchion Ball. Though surrounded by a splendor of silver and gold, ladies adorned in exquisite ball gowns and glittering jewels and gentlemen dressed in their finest suits, Penelope felt as though the hallway leading into the grand ballroom seemed like precarious balance, each step perilously close before the scales tipped forward to something irrevocable.
Since Lord Debling gifted her the necklace, its surface cracked and seeded with memories, she began to suspect an intention that unsettled her, and a poisonous theory grasped at her throat, clawing its way up. The problem hadn't been Lord Debling's inevitable voyage and it wasn't even about just being alone; it was about being trapped in a potentially loveless, lonely existence, tethered to the whims of a man whose absence would only solidify her isolation.
Then in the middle of the night, a realization struck her like a thunderbolt. Should he meet his demise on his voyage, she would be left stranded, unable to remarry or forge a life of her own until his body was discovered. And she had read the fables of the Northwest Passage before—many men who arrogantly claimed they would be the first to discover it, only to vanish without a trace. She would be condemned to an eternal limbo by his hand.
But there was more to Lord Debling's actions than met the eye. She knew it every time she caught his expression when he thought she wasn't looking; his eyes told a silent story of profound loneliness and deep-seated pain and dread, the kind that had etched itself into his very soul. She grappled with the unsettling possibility, pondering whether his voyage was a deliberate act, a calculated step towards his own demise. She had never known one to take his or her own life but had she not read enough fiction to understand how easily characters allowed darkness to engulf them entirely? Still, she could not understand what could darken his heart to life that he would abandon her, abandon a possibility of love and happiness, that he would consider such a drastic route.
She worried her lip as she watched the ballet of Eros and Psyche. Eros himself had whisked his love away to a magnificent palace hidden from mortal eyes and though Psyche had lived in luxury and splendor, she longed to see her husband, to know him—
"Miss Featherington. Lady Featherington," Lord Debling greeted as he approached them, bowing gracefully. "Good evening."
Portia fanned herself, attempting to conceal her gleeful smile behind its delicate folds. "Have you come to steal away my daughter for a dance, Lord Debling?" she inquired with a playful twinkle in her eye.
Penelope flushed, deeply mortified by her mother's flagrantly obvious conduct. .
"For many dances, I hope," he remarked, swiftly inscribing his name on the dance card adorning Penelope's outstretched wrist. "I'm glad to see you," he added sincerely, his gaze alight with a private smile meant only for her. In recent balls, they had danced multiple times together, a breach of etiquette that had sparked whispers of an imminent engagement. Yet, Lord Debling seemed unperturbed by such gossip, evidently pleased that, for once, such rumors would hold truth. Her heartbeat quickened, and she felt an immense relief wash over her to see him, to have him stand beside her, to hold her hand as he wrote his name even though it was unnecessary. For a moment, Penelope's worries dissolved—how could he even doubt this capacity to provide affection when the evidence stood before her?
As they waited for their first dance, Lord Debling inquired about a romance novel Penelope recently read. She eagerly launched into a spirited monologue about the prose, the intricacies of the relationships, the villainous nature of the male lead and his callous family —"After all, I cannot understand what the author intends for us to romanticize about if Mr. Cherryford behaves so dishonorably." She even ventured into her own imaginings of how she would alter the plot to suit her desires until she paused abruptly and met his gaze. "Have I bored you?"
"You could not bore me if you tried. I have never been able to enjoy stories of romances more than I have tonight. Come, it's time for us to dance," he said, already taking her small hand in his. She blushed shyly, having noticed his pattern of preference for selecting dances where he danced with her alone. They turned to face each other, clasping both hands. He smiled at her warmly. "Tell me another."
Penelope regarded this request carefully. The music swelled around them, and for a moment, the ballroom and its occupants faded, leaving only the two of them, trapped in ocean blues evermore. It was now or never. "Do you know the story of Penelope and Odysseus?"
"I know of it, but not well."
"Well, I shall educate you today, my lord," she said with a teasing smile. He gave her an amused grin, eyes twinkling with barely contained laughter. She bit her lip, suddenly nervous again. "Penelope's husband embarked on an arduous journey to the city of Troy, where he played a pivotal role in the Grecian efforts to besiege and ultimately conquer that illustrious city. After the victory was won, Odysseus was fated to endure a series of extraordinary trials that prolonged his return home to Ithaca for many long years. Of course, during this protracted absence, Penelope remained in Ithaca, bound by her unwavering fidelity to her husband. She found herself beset by numerous suitors, each one more persistent and presumptuous than the last, all vying for her hand in marriage under the assumption that Odysseus had perished in his travels."
Lord Debling's hands tensed in hers and his brows drew together in a contemplative frown. Around them, the strains of the lively waltz and the elegant figures of dancers swirling gracefully, their laughter and chatter suddenly discordant with the change in their demeanor.
"Though it is just a story, one must consider the fairness of Odysseus's expectation that Penelope remain faithful through such trials. It was not merely loyalty that was demanded of her, but an endurance of ceaseless hardship and unwarranted advances. While Odysseus roamed the seas, often of his own volition and dallied with other women, Penelope was left to fend off suitors and protect her household, all while maintaining the hope of her husband's unlikely return.
"Her faithfulness was rewarded, of course, as Odysseus did eventually return, but…one cannot ignore the selfishness of Odysseus's expectation that she endure such hardships. In fact, it stands as a poignant reminder of the often unequal burdens placed upon those who wait and hope, while others pursue their adventures far and wide."
Lord Debling momentarily looked troubled, but not of his own welfare. She glanced up, her heart quickening. "Does the story trouble you, my lord?" she asked gently, her voice barely audible above the melody. But he did not respond and they watched each other quietly, each willing the other to speak. Would he ignore her concerns and propose regardless? And would she accept, her concerns left unaddressed? The dance was nearing its end, and he must speak now before—
"Do you mind if I interrupt?" Colin asked, having suddenly appeared after deftly navigating through a cluster of other dancers who were already whispering. His appearance was striking—wild—as if he had run from the Bridgerton home to ask this question.
Penelope's eyes widened at his sudden intrusion. She glanced quickly at Lord Debling, whose expression had grown even more troubled. "Colin –"
"It should only take a moment," he addressed Lord Debling as he said this.
Debling, his eyes always finding its way back to Penelope, said, "It appears you two have something to resolve. I should leave you to it." He stepped away from her and his fingertips, which had been pressing almost sensually into her waist and hip, drew back reluctantly. Penelope acutely felt the loss of his touch, a sudden coldness where his warmth had been. He bowed stiffly to her and marched away without a backward glance.
A lump formed in Penelope's throat—why did his words have the tone of finality to them? Her eyes continued to follow him as he departed, the sense of impending loss already gnawing at her heart. She barely noticed Colin until he grasped both her hands and seamlessly picked up where the dance had been interrupted.
"Colin, you are going to ruin things between me and Debling," she hissed angrily. She watched Debling strode away from the dance floor until Cressida Cowper intercepted him with a brilliant smile, and suddenly his large hands were around her waist. The lump in her throat grew, a mixture of verdant green and disappointment swirling in the pit of her stomach. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath her, leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
"Perhaps that's for the best," Colin said confidently.
Her head snapped back to Colin. "What do you mean?"
"Penn…you cannot marry him," he insisted. "You hardly know him.
Penelope's jaw nearly dropped. "I know him better than you think."
"I hear he is leaving. For three years."
"I know that already, Colin. It takes a year alone to get where he is going." She stole one last glance at Lord Debling and quickly turned back for a second startled look. With their light blond hair and proportionally matching heights, moving together gracefully as they danced, they were a seemingly perfect match. Cresida leaned close and whispered something in his ear. "I've made my peace with what Lord Debling has to offer," she lied, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. "I am going to accept his proposal."
"I said I'd help you find a husband, but I cannot stand by and watch you make a mistake," Colin declared earnestly as the final notes of the music faded and the dancers began to part. Penelope felt a knot of apprehension in her chest as she turned to face him, uncertain of his intentions. Yet, before she could discern his next move, Lord Debling stormed past them without so much as a glance.
"The only mistake was me ever asking for your help in the first place," she whispered, turning and rushing after Lord Debling.
Penelope hurried after him, catching sight of him at the doors leading out. "Lord Debling!" she called out, urgently. "I am sorry we were interrupted. I know the ball is ending but…shall we return to our conversation?"
Ice blue eyes fixed upon her and she froze where she stood. "Miss Featherington, why is it you sit at your drawing-room window so often?"
"I—"
"All this time, I've watched you search for someone. I thought you might have had a falling out with Mr. Bridgerton. But now I suspect you may have been searching for him for a different reason." Something dark flashed across his stoic features. "For the same reason you prefer your drawing room window and the view it affords out towards the house across the square."
"I do not know of what you speak," she breathed.
"I am speaking of Mr. Bridgerton and the feelings between the two of you." He regarded her with no mercy.
Penelope laughed though there was no hint of mirth. "I can assure you. Colin Bridgerton would never ever have feelings for me. It's laughable to think as much" At his unconvinced stare, she insisted, "We are friends. Nothing more."
"Would you like it to be more?" he countered.
"That is not even…," she scoffed. "That is not a possibility."
"I did not ask if it was a possibility. I asked if you'd like it to be." He turned to face her fully. In that fleeting moment, Penelope caught a glimpse of his mask slip, his emotions and vulnerability laid bare. A bitter taste rose in her throat in alarm. "To think of Penelope's burden of fidelity—"
"My lord, that is not what I—"
"—Miss Featherington, with the amount of time I will be gone, it is essential I make a match with someone whose affections are not already engaged elsewhere. Whatever it is you are searching for, I do hope you find it." With one last look at her, something unknowable—unfathomable—in his expression, he bowed. "Good evening."
Penelope stood rooted to the spot, watching Lord Debling retreat with a sense of disbelief that gripped her very soul. His expression was imprinted in her mind for eternity. How had the night had twisted into this? Panic began to surge through her, a cold dread clutching at her heart with icy fingers. She desperately wanted to grip her bodice and gently slide down to the soft carpeted floor as overwhelming anguish threatened to engulf her. She couldn't breathe. No amount of desperate gasps filled her lungs with air. The possibility of love and companionship with someone she had felt was possibly a kindred spirit, which she had dared to hope for in the last few weeks, was slipping through her fingers like sand. The prospect of impending loneliness daunted her and her heart seized in protest.
Suddenly Portia was rushing towards her, eyes trailing after Lord Debling's retreating figure. "Where is he going? He hasn't proposed!" She laid her accusing eyes on Penelope. "What have you done?"
Penelope felt as though her mother had pierced her chest with a lance, so much so that her hand instinctively covered her heart in anticipation of blood. "That is your question? Not am I well?" Tears welled in her eyes. "Do I only matter to you if I have a lord's engagement ring on my finger?"
Her mother stared at her, speechless. "Penn…"
But Penelope, lip trembling, rushed out of the same doors as Lord Debling, unable to face anymore tonight. One hand against the wall, she made her way along the passage of the long hallway and into the open night air with slow reluctance, despising herself for the fevered beating of her heart, so fast she felt she would choke on the constricting spasms. Penelope had always dreaded that her courage would fail her, and that she would be proven a coward.
She fought the urge to scream as she entered her carriage. Would you like it to be more? Why couldn't she have just said no? Why had that been such an impossible task? Her throat constricted with something close to tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and she immediately saw dancing blue flames behind her eyelids. She would be loveless and alone—
"Wait!"
The carriage halted and suddenly the door was pulled open and Lord Debling stood there. Something haggard and stricken passed across his face. "Penelope."
Her heart thudded in her chest at the sound of her given name from his lips and she feared it would expose her. "I do not wish to speak with you."
"Penelope, please. Please. Let me in."
She studied his face carefully and there was a stark, clear expression of fear. She nodded and with a sigh he quickly stepped inside. "We will stop at Lord Debling's home as well," she called out to the coachmen. "Well, then, what is it you want, Lord Debling?" she asked rudely. "I thought you were concerned about my affections being engaged elsewhere."
"Is it?"
"What business is that of yours? If you are no longer courting me."
"I need to know. I must hear you say it. Deny any affection for the Bridgerton boy and I am yours!" His voice trembled, as though his heart hung on her next words.
"Was it your fear that if you would marry me, that my affections and attention would go elsewhere while you are on your expeditions? Is that what you think of me?" She stopped speaking when her voice began to tremble too much and looked out the window. "Now, will you please let us ride home in silence and leave me alone?"
"I cannot."
"Please!"
"I cannot!" To her astonishment, he knelt down in front of her. "I do not wish to lose you."
They stared at one another, their breaths coming out in quick pants. Then, his eyes landed on her pink lip, freed from between her teeth. His mouth parted in response, his eyes darting up to meet hers again, asking for permission.
Penelope didn't even feel her head move for the one single nod.
A hand gently curved around her waist, the loss of warmth she had felt when he had left the dance disappearing, and when she did not protest, he drew her fully to him. She could feel his warmth enveloping her, his breath mingling with hers, his pulse quickening against her skin. She was shaking. A rush of sensation flooded through her, sending a wave of heat and cold shivers down her spine. A buried part of her, suppressed and denied in the daylight hours, had awoken, emerging through the facade of propriety and restraint, from beneath the layers of lace and light perfume, she wanted, but had no words to express this need, new and burning, that until now had been trapped only in the confines of her dreams.
He lifted his gaze, and Penelope found herself ensnared in the depths of his diamond-blue eyes. His fingers traced into the hollow spaces of her ribs, stirring the realization of how empty she had been all these years. Her nerves ignited and she was falling through drowning waves of desires and longings.
This sensation was unlike the tentative flashes of childhood longing that the thought of Colin had always evoked, even after the lingering kiss outside her home, the innocent first love had been tempered by time and adorned with the soft note of nostalgia. But this…this stirred something with her, bright and blinding as a knife. It cut through the layers of her past, slicing through the veils of familiarity to reveal something raw and unbridled.
He captured a kiss from her parted lips, stealing it with a bruising intensity that left her stunned. Her blood pumped through her veins with newfound fervor, dizzying. She felt as though she were drowning, her senses overwhelmed by the force of his presence. HIs embrace held her upright, anchoring her amidst the tumult of emotions. She tried to draw a breath, but air seemed to elude her grasp. He had stolen her very essence, her heart, and he was pulling her deeper into the depths of azure gaze.
Was she truly doing this…she had never…. Everything seemed to be moving too fast, yet time itself seemed to stretch out, each moment drawn out, torturously slow.
Silk glided against her skin as he drew near, his warm weight pinning her against her seat in a delirious embrace. Thick silence laid through the carriage, his breath whispering over her cheek. All she could see was blue eyes amidst darkness. He was close, drowning out the world. His touch was like a flame, as delicate fabric slid from her bare shoulder. A gentle yet insistent hand ventured beneath her skirts, caressing her cool, soft skin, cupping the smooth skin of her calf. Her senses reeled.
With a fluid motion, his black jacket fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Leaning over her, his icy eyes bore into hers with an unwavering intent. She shuddered, feeling thrills of excitement and need coursing through her with equal intensity. It was everything she desired yet had denied herself. But she couldn't…no matter how much her heart clamored for it, her mind resisted.
With a supreme effort, Penelope straightened herself, attempting to summon the indignation she knew she should feel—not the taut thrum of desire, simmering low and steady in her veins. Tedious lectures on propriety danced at the edges of her clouded mind, seeking entrance. She clung to those prudish doctrines with a sense of relief, grateful for the distraction they provided. It was far simpler to feign offense, to uphold the facade of societal decorum, than to confront the undeniable truth that stirred within her—
No, he would never have her so easily. Not after what was said tonight.
"You must be mad if you think I would just—"
"My dear Penelope," Lord Debling murmured distractedly, his unyielding touch tracing up and along the curves of her hips and waist and ribs with deliberate slowness, as though committing them to memory. He never completed his thought, captivated by her.
A chill swept through her veins as if cold fire danced across her skin. Her display of resistance was more for propriety's sake than out of genuine conviction, a realization that should have bothered her. Yet, amidst the tumult of her thoughts, she remained strangely calm, as if resigned to the inevitable. But a montage of consequences flashed with fatal certainty. A shattered reputation, shock and scandal, a family disgraced, and a life laid bare to the merciless scrutiny of gossip and ridicule. She clung to these thoughts as a lifeline, desperate to maintain her grasp on sanity.
"My reputation will be ruined—"
He brushed a tight curl from her cheek, cool fingers tilting her jaw up to look intently into her face. "Do you really care for such things?"
"Of course I do. In fact—" she managed unsteadily, "I am far more traditional than you might think. No matter how far I stray from the herd."
She lay breathless, looking up at him with feverish eyes. An unbridgeable chasm seemed to stretch out between them, the door to escape feeling impossibly distant. Her heart pounded in her chest. She needed to move—her instinct urged her to run from the perilous brink upon which she teetered—
Then, his mouth descended upon hers, and the world around them blurred as she clung to him. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solidness of his chest beneath. Heat radiated from his skin, enveloping her in its warmth. His lips were both soft and firm against hers, igniting a flurry of sensations that overwhelmed her. Beneath the surface, she caught the heady scent of rich wine, mingled with the lingering aroma of incense and mint.
He nipped at the corner of her mouth, capturing her startled gasp…His lips brushed against the tender skin at the nape of her neck, teeth grazing slightly, sending shivers down her spine. She surrendered to his fervent touch, a warm heat pooling within her—
The carriage stopped abruptly and three loud knocks rapped against the carriage door. "Miss Featherington, we have arrived at your home."
Penelope retreated to the far end of the seat, her cheeks aflame, her sleeve hastily pulled back over her exposed shoulder. The air had evaporated from her lungs, leaving her disoriented. She dared not meet his gaze, knowing all too well the icy intensity of his blue eyes would surely pierce through her. She knew what she would see if she did.
With trembling limbs, Penelope rose unsteadily from her seat, finding unexpected support in the firm grip of the carriage driver's arm. She clung to him as if he were a lifeline, allowing him to guide her to the front door of the house, then blindly stumbled into the house to be alone.