Testing Audio -DK Principessa

by kibass91

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16. I’m glad I get Forever

Summary:

When Anthony Bridgerton declared himself an active participant in this season's marriage mart, he had not anticipated that he would find the crop of willing prospects thrusting themselves before him to be quite so unappealing, nor that he would instead end up spending the summer bestowing proposal after proposal upon Penelope Featherington.

Or, the five times Anthony asks Penelope to marry him, with increasing degrees of sincerity, and the one time she knows he really means it.

Chapter 1: Because she was convenient

Chapter Text

The vultures are circling. Hungry eyed and ravenous, their talons as sharp as their teeth, flashing dangerously under the ballroom's crystal chandeliers as they beam widely in Anthony's direction.

They are determined to box him in from all angles even as he searches valiantly for an escape route, cornering him off so succinctly that he must assume they had assembled to plan their attack in advance, working as a pack to stalk their prey.

Anthony bypasses several other eligible gentlemen closely, excusing himself through the middle of chatting lords in the hope that the band of overzealous Mama's on his tail might see fit to deem one of them as an adequate prize to feed their simpering daughters' appetites for toe crushing dances and mind numbing pleasantries.

No such luck occurs as Anthony glances over his shoulder to find the cluster of women still fast approaching, then forward again to realise that he has been inadvertently guiding himself into the path of another. Desperate eyes scan the room for his brothers, hoping one of them might be able to read his distress and offer a hasty rescue, but Colin is nowhere to be found and Benedict is watching on with unfiltered glee, clearly delighting in his elder brother's predicament. The useless git even goes so far as to raise his flask as if in toast, taking a long pull from it before disappearing in the direction of the card room, adding further insult to injury.

Just you wait, Benedict Bridgerton, Anthony thinks, battling to maintain at least a mild expression on his face. He must be failing as when he spots his Mother on the edge of the dance floor she is making an odd twisting motion with the index finger from each hand in front of her cheeks, the meaning of which Anthony is only able to ascertain when he makes out her mouthing the word 'smile' along with the action. Her efforts have the opposite of their intended effect, causing a scowl to finally form over the viscount's handsome features. From his Mother's side, Lady Danbury's laughter echoes all the way to his ears, punctuated by two joyous bangs of her cane against the wood floor.

Seeing no point in heading in their direction - especially as it has been the two scheming ladies' rather loud declarations regarding his intentions to find a wife which had found him scurrying around the dance floor in the first place - Anthony casts one final, desperate look around the room, clinging to his last shred of hope for salvation.

"Lord Bridgerton!" A horribly nasal voice calls out to him, far too close for his liking, and he knows that time is very much running out.

Then, suddenly, finally, his gaze catches on a promising flash of yellow tucked close to the wall behind the refreshments table and he bee lines straight for it before even realising what it is, cutting right through the array of dancing couples on the floor.

The sound of tutting and irritated whispers behind him only encourages him to plough forward until finally he is upon his target, pleased to note that he has put a good distance between himself and his pursuers, and that they are making the much longer, slower, proper route around the room. It seems even his incredibly brash display has not been enough to deter them, but only bought him a few minutes of respite in the shade of a particularly towering potted plant.

"Oh! Lord Bridgerton," The Yellow Thing - ah, Penelope Featherington, of course - squeaks, surprised to find the disgruntled viscount suddenly sharing in the space usually reserved for her and her alone, sequestered behind the table furthest away from the crowds. "Are you quite alright?"

"Miss Featherington. I am well, thank you," he replies without looking her way, though the grimace that passes over Anthony's features as he peers over at a spot to his left discredits his words entirely. "For now at least." He amends with a huff that she's not entirely sure was for her ears.

Following his gaze, Penelope sees the veritable droves of ladies heading in their direction and has to lift her gloved hand quickly to hide her indelicate snort.

"Do not worry, My Lord, for you should find yourself quite safe at my side." Registering her words, Anthony finally turns his head to face her, with brows furrowed. He tilts his head in question, prompting her to elaborate, "I am the Ton's most renowned social pariah - if you think you have seen skittering when Lady Danbury approaches then just wait and see how they react when they realise you are standing with me."

His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, belaying his shock at Penelope's sardonic tone, and she gasps under his scrutiny, realising too late just how inappropriate her bold statement had been, no matter the familiarity she has long shared with his siblings.

"Oh, forgive me, My Lord, I-" her hurried apology is cut off by the sound of polite applause as the quadrille comes to an end and the formerly dancing couples begin to disperse, except for one pair who stay out on the floor with their hands still joined in anticipation of the coming waltz.

Penelope is sure to get a good look at them, making mental note of their names so that she can properly report later on the unengaged couple's rather scandalous decision to embark on two dances together, and one right after the other, no less! She wonders if Mr Brookes had intentionally signed his name beside both tracks on Miss Lockwood's card in advance or if the pair had simply been so swept up in their first set that they could not bare to wait until the next ball to find themselves so close again.

"Oh, bugger," Anthony hisses beside her, pulling her attention back to him, only to be met with the sight of the back of his head. Leaning forward and craning her neck in the same direction so she can see past his broad frame, Penelope realises the viscount's gaze is set once again upon the various collections of women who are now taking advantage of the brief respite between songs to cut across the middle of the room, following the same path as Anthony had before, only far more politely.

Penelope, loathe as she often is to be on the receiving end of attention of any kind - particularly from the Ton's more brazenly cutting members - feels sympathetic to the Viscount's plight and casts her eyes about the room, hoping to help secure him a quick escape (even is it would leave her alone to fend against what would surely be a plethora of rather underhanded remarks from Cressida Cowper and her merry band of cronies, who are leading the charge in their direction).

Looking instead towards the small stage at the end of the room, she can see the string quartet are readying their instruments, signalling that the waltz is soon to begin, and people around them are moving to secure their partners and take to the floor, where they will spend the next half hour engaging in pleasant conversation and revelry if they are lucky (or leave with bleeding toes and tired ears, if not). Penelope lights up with an idea, nudging Anthony just enough with her elbow to draw his eyes back to her before she indicates towards the amassing throng of couples.

"You should dance," she tells him, then quickly tacks on a polite, "My Lord," tipping her head in the direction of the floor.

"I am not much one for dancing, Miss Featherington," he responds, though she can see he is weighing up the merit of her suggestion in the way his jittering seems to slow and his eyes flit towards the band.

"As we all know, My Lord," Penelope responds with an amused smile pulling at her lips, surprising Anthony once again with her apparent penchant for boldness, drawing his gaze back to hers, "otherwise you would not be cowering over here with me. However, I do not suppose you are much for waiting here to be preyed upon, either. What shall it be, Lord Bridgerton - spend the next half hour twirling about with one woman, and one of your own choosing, or be entrapped for the rest of your evening by the many?"

"It would be terribly improper - near irreputable, even - for anyone to interrupt me mid dance, and even more so a waltz…" Anthony muses, tilting his head to the side as he studies the fidgeting couples before them, all waiting anxiously for the set to begin. Each pairing stands at least two feet apart from the next, with some exchanging pleasantries and others awkward smiles, but all of them share in the fact that they are left completely undisturbed by any persons outside of their partner.

"And the floor looks rather full already; there will surely be quite the wave of people dispelling back out in all directions when the dance ends, giving you ample opportunity to slip amongst them towards the nearest terrace or smoking room, should you position yourself strategically" Penelope finishes helpfully.

"Oh, dear Viscount!" The shrill voice of Lady Cowper calls, and even Penelope winces at it's volume, willing said viscount to hurry up and move before she, too, is trampled in the oncoming crush.

Fortunately, he needs no further convincing.

"Right," Anthony nods, then shocks Penelope when he reaches down to clasp her hand and starts propelling them both forward, hasty as the first sounds of strings begin to echo through the room, "come along, then."

Penelope has to quicken her step to keep up with his long strides, lest she be dragged along behind him, and it's only a few blurred moments before she finds herself secured in his hold towards the centre of the floor. She thanks her small stature - as well as, she supposes, the imposing figure Anthony makes - as they cut easily through the crowds between the wall and the dancefloor without trodding on any toes or knocking into any shoulders.

If she had her wits about her, Penelope would likely be able to come up with a clever quip about the way the guests part in haste to clear the Viscount's determined path and the bewildered stares they grant her with when they spot her scurrying along at his heel, but she is feeling terribly frazzled by the sudden change to her usual ballroom routine. She can only hope that the words will come to her later tonight, for the spectacle they are creating will have to be addressed in tomorrow's issue of Whistledown.

Only the first few steps of the dance have been taken when Anthony finds them a suitable spot - not too close to the edge of the floor that they can be easily pounced upon, but neither are they so far into the middle that his later escape from the room will be impeded. For once, Penelope is grateful for her mother's militant insistence towards her daughters' proper education in all forms of dance, as it is only years of hard earned muscle memory that allows her to fall into the delicate choreography when she would much prefer to melt into the floor.

"My Lord," she hisses, when finally she has caught her breath enough to speak, "I did not mean you should dance with me!"

"I'd argue you were the only clear choice," he rebuts, effortlessly leading her into a twirl that mirrors the other couples, "not just for proximity's sake, but because the whole point of your suggestion was that I could avoid being stuck with some mindless debutante. Even if I had had time to select someone else, given that I have no earthly desire to share a waltz with either of my attending sisters, who else could I have possibly seen fit to partner myself with?"

His explanation renders Penelope without a clever retort for just long enough that she thinks he is likely beginning to worry that he has, in fact, trapped himself in lacklustre company, so she hastens to force her mouth into saying anything in response.

"You could just as well have grabbed the nearest potted plant and they likely would have mistaken it for me anyways" She quips, tilting her eyes down towards her bright floral gown, "at least then you'd be at no risk of having your toes stepped on."

"Miss Featherington, you do yourself a disservice to say such things," Anthony replies, a hint of chastisement in his tone, though she can see the amusement paired with it in the way his lips twitch at the corner, "we have been dancing together for at least five minutes already and you are yet to set a foot out of place. I'd argue it is your shoes which are in far more danger of being tarnished than mine, given how out of practice you all know I am."

Penelope feels her cheeks pink from both his praise and the recall of her earlier jibe, shaking her head slightly, "you are too kind, Lord Bridgerton, and charitably forgiving."

Much to her ongoing surprise, Anthony barks a loud laugh to her assessment, tilting his head back so he misses the way several fresh eyes turn to look in their direction. "Oh, if only my siblings were able to hear you - charitable, you say; would you mind terribly repeating that the next time you take tea with Eloise?"

It takes her briefly off guard to have him jest with her so freely, even though she has spent enough time in his home to know already that this more humorous side of him exists, even if she is usually only witness to it when he is trading barbs and sly remarks with his brothers. She ponders why he does not share it more often and more widely, for he somehow paints himself an even more handsome picture when he smiles.

The rest of their dance passes in similar ease, with nary a missed step or squashed toe between them, until soon the song's melody begins to stretch and slow, winding down towards the end of the dance. Recognising this, Anthony turns his head to begin plotting the route he will take away form the ballroom, only to discover that his dedicated hunters are lurking in their packs as close to the dance floor's edge as they can manage, batting their fans and fluttering their lashes shamelessly in his direction.

"Dear God, they are still circling," he says through gritted teeth, turning back to face his partner lest his gaze linger on any of the other women for too long that they get the wrong impression and think him interested in their attentions. "There is nothing else for it, I suppose; we must dance again," he tells Penelope, who seeks to comfort him but only disappoints when she squeezes her hand briefly around his tense shoulder whilst shaking her head with a sympathetic smile, withdrawing from his reach.

"Lord Bridgerton, as much as I would like to offer you my continued assistance, you know as well as I do the spectacle we would make of ourselves if we stayed on the floor for another song," she says gently, feeling somewhat as though she is talking to a young child and not a man who towers above her both in height and social standing, "sharing multiple dances is reserved only for married couples, or those who are engaged to be so. If you and I were to partner together for the next set, I imagine a select few of the Mamas would be positively rampant in their haste to insinuate a betrothal between us, if only to take humour in the utter ludicrousy of such a notion."

Her words, however, do not seem to have the intended effect on Anthony, who continues to lead their steps towards the end of the dance with that same determined look on his face.

"Perhaps the assumption would keep them at bay for a while," he says, though Penelope suspects he is speaking more to himself than to her, as his head tilts and his eyes seem fixed on a crystal chandelier, "though if I were to take that route and find it successful, perhaps a more permanent solution would be to simply take you as my bride and be done with them altogether," he adds, only this time he is definitely talking to her, and looking far too serious for the subject matter at hand. "What say you, Miss Featherington; will you marry me?"

"Lord Bridgerton!" She gasps, then quickly clears her throat as she realises the music has finally come to its conclusion and her voice has risen a step too high in the now distinctly quieter room. Quieter, she says, "you are fortunate that I know well enough to take your proposal for the jest that it is, My Lord, for a gentleman such as yourself could very quickly find himself trapped after saying such a thing to a young lady, especially after sharing a very public waltz with her."

To say Anthony looks dejected by her round-about refusal would be an overstatement, for it is not as though her quick refusal of his fleeting whim will cause him an ounce of heartbreak, but there is something annoyingly pitiful in his expression as he turns towards the approaching fleet, seeming to have succumbed to his fate, that obliges her to continue to play the part of his shield for a short while longer.

"However," she begins, hooking a gloved finger over her lips in an attempt to conceal the amused smile she can not suppress as the Viscount whips back around to face her, eyes wide and pleading. Looking at her as he is now, so uncharacteristically helpless and eager for rescue, she can almost picture a brown fur tail wagging behind him. She's fairly certain his ears actually prick up. "However," she starts again, "it would not be out of the bounds of propriety for you to escort me back to a safe spot along the wall; perhaps just over there, beside the door closest to the gentlemen's card room?"

The charming grin reappears on his face instantaneously and Anthony wastes no time in securing her hand in the crook of his elbow, then begins to guide the pair of them in the direction she had indicated. He is kind enough to stop and collect a lemonade for her as they pass the refreshments table, while he takes a flute of champagne for himself, and they sip their drinks slowly as they follow the path they have laid for themselves.

"I must apologise, Miss Featherington," he says, nodding his head politely to a group of lords who lift their drinks to him as they pass them by.

"Whatever for, My Lord?"

"For my abruptness, I suppose, but namely the way I hauled you onto the dance floor with little thought to propriety or good manners. I could at least have taken a moment to sign your dance card, even in my self absorbed haste."

Instead of the humble acceptance he is anticipating, Anthony receives only the tinkle of amused laughter, coupled with the sight of Penelope leaning further into his arm so she can press her own gloved hand over her lips to stifle the sound.

"My Lord, if it were a sin to leave my dance card unsigned then there would not be a gentleman in London without need for atonement, for it has remained decidedly blank at each and every ball I have attended since my debut," she giggles, draining the last of her lemonade as they cross paths with a butler so that she can seamlessly deposit the empty glass on his tray.

"That can not be true," Anthony responds, brows furrowed yet again as he looks down at her, "you have danced before, I have seen you. With one or the other of my own brothers once at almost every ball, at the very least."

"It must be another Bridgerton trait, then," Penelope says, waving her now free hand towards him, "you share the brown hair, the charm, and the habit of plucking unseemly dance partners from the wall, knowing there is no need to sign their cards."

She says it with an easy grin, as though she finds the truth in her words entirely amusing and does not view his brothers' thoughtless actions as a slight against her, however unintentional. Anthony is, for the first time this evening, inclined to disagree with her assessment.

"Let me be the first, then," he responds seriously, pulling them to an abrupt stop and reaching for the pencil at her wrist.

"Oh, Lord Bridgerton, I did not mean- you needn't bother with that. It is not as though you need to reserve a dance which has already ended."

"It is not a bother, Miss Featherington," he tsks, bending to sign his name and title beside the waltz, "I am rectifying my mistake of not having filled out your card properly before taking you to the floor, in hopes that you might forgive me for my more egregious misstep of having skipped over asking for the opportunity in the first place."

"There is nothing to forgive, My Lord," she responds softly, allowing a quietly pleased smile to overtake her lips as she fingers the parchment dangling once again from her wrist, "being allowed to engage in a ball's activities is recompense enough, especially with such a capable partner."

Anthony straightens to his full height, a proud smile stretching over his usually stern face, and her stomach flutters funnily. Perhaps I am in need of further refreshment, she thinks.

"Then I shall endeavour to sign your card again at the Weatherby's ball on Tuesday, if I should find you in attendance. And amenable," he pauses until she gives a quick nod of affirmation, then continues, "though next time I insist you choose our dance. Pick your favourite and I shall claim my spot in it's place."

"You really mustn't trouble yourself with humouring my fancies, Lord Bridgerton," she insists, though she feels a bubbling sort of anticipation at the thought of partnering with him again, "your mother will almost surely push one of your brothers to ask me, as she so often does, and I will have my customary dance with one of them."

"Well, clearly they have been failing in their duties as worthy partners to you if they have yet to sign your dance card - something I'm sure my Mother will give them quite the tongue lashing for when she hears it," Anthony tells her, allowing his smugness to leak into his expression as he pictures getting to be the one to relay said information to their dear Mama; how quickly her sights will turn away from him in order to dole out her admonishments. Have that, Benedict.

"Besides," he continues, "I must confess I make my offer with at least some selfish intent, for I find that I have discovered quite the surprising favour for dancing this evening - truly, you would be indulging me to accept my most humble request."

"In that case, how could I refuse?"

"Excellent," he nods, with a suspiciously mischievous twinkle in his eye. Penelope recognises it as the same one she has seen in Eloise many times and she wonders if Viscount Bridgerton has the same penchant for mischief as his sister - as all of his siblings - and whether she will be fortunate enough to see that side of him step out into the light. "Then you will have ample time to reconsider my other offer before then, as well. Perhaps then we could engage in two dances, maybe even a third."

Deploying the rest of his Bridgerton Charm, Anthony winks at her, then turns and hastens himself from the ballroom before she can respond, leaving a fiercely flushed and flustered Featherington in his wake.

Notes:

I wrote this fic in almost its entirety back in April whilst I was planning out a scene in my other ongoing work, with the intention of saving this until I'd completed TSYT, but it's been niggling at me so here's the start anyway! As I haven't touched it for so long, it needs a bit of refining, but I plan to post the rest at regular intervals until it's finished whilst I work on my wip.

Hope you enjoyed!

Feedback is super appreciated and I love to chat in the comments, but ill intended messages from outside the ship will be deleted! This is fanfiction, it's just a bit of fun

Chapter 2: To appease a ten year old

"Miss Penelope Featherington for Miss Eloise," the butler announces, though none of the present family seem to hear him.

Penelope has to blink several times to be sure she has not somehow taken a wrong turn on her way to the drawing room for it seems she has found herself just steps away from the front lines of a burgeoning war. On one side of the room, there is Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and his mother, the dowager Lady Bridgerton, both with red faces and varying degrees of annoyance written across their countenances as they stare down their shared opponent.

Penelope's eyes trail slowly from them towards the other half of the room, passing over an upturned chair and a scattered pile of what appear to be hairpins and variously sized combs marking no man's land in the middle, until her gaze lands in enemy territory, housing a most formidable foe.

Hyacinth Bridgerton.

The young girl is standing on top of a sofa with her arms crossed over her chest and what appears to be another comb sticking out from a white knuckled fist. She is clearly quite distressed, though pushing forward her irritation to mask it, and her cheeks are of a rosy hue bright enough to rival her mother and brother. Penelope can see how her chest heaves with tired breaths and wonders how long and arduous the events had been that have led her to her current position.

Anthony and Violet share a single look that seems to encompass an entire silent conversation between them before they both begin inching forward, separating as they round the fallen chair in hopes of cornering their target. Hyacinth looks around the room frantically, unwilling to surrender but recognising the need for a speedy retreat, and locks eyes on her salvation standing near the doorway.

"Penelope!" she cries, "you must tell them, please!"

Two more faces whip around in her direction and she offers a sheepish smile, feeling embarrassed to have been caught observing the heads of the house attempting to wrangle their youngest charge (and not doing very well at it). What, exactly, Hyacinth is hoping Penelope will be able to convey to the pair on her behalf is completely lost on her, so she waits for one of them to address her first whilst she attempts to piece together the situation.

"Oh, Penelope dear, I did not see you there. My goodness, what you must think to come across us in such a state." Lady Bridgerton seems ruffled in a way Penelope is not often witness to, even despite how increasingly frequent her visits to Bridgerton House are, and it sparks a new wave of affection in her for the older woman. It is nice to know that even the most composed of ladies and warmest of mothers are also just women, too - mere mortals, like the rest of them.

"Please forgive my intrusion, Lady Bridgerton, Lord Bridgeton" she says, offering a quick curtsey, "Eloise and I had agreed to meet at this time to head out for our walk together, but Humboldt informed me she is running late upstairs and insisted upon bringing me here to wait instead. I see, however, that that was a mistake and I shall leave a request on my way out that she come and find me in the square instead when she is ready. I will leave you to your peace."

She is half way to dipping into a second curtsey, if only so she can drop her head to hide the way she cringes at her own word choice, when Anthony's undignified snort-scoff combination stops her from carrying out her plans for a polite but quick exit. "I would hardly call anything about this peace, Miss Featherington," he huffs, tipping his head towards his sister, "this one is as determined as the rest of her siblings to ensure we never get to know the meaning of the word. You may as well stay and be entertained by her dramatics whilst you wait for my more level headed sister to arrive."

Level headed? She thinks, Eloise? Circumstances must be dire indeed to make such a comparison.

Penelope's hesitation costs her her chance at escape as Anthony's words seem to only reignite the youngest's flame rather than subdue it and the chaos begins anew, leaving her with little choice but to stay and bear witness.

"That's not fair!" Hyacinth exclaims, stamping her foot in the way that enraged ten year olds have mastered through the ages to display maximum output of their displeasure, though it is rather dampened by the plush cushioning of the settee - a fact that only seems to irritate her further.

"What is not fair, Hyacinth," Anthony hisses, "is you not appreciating Mother's efforts to remedy the mess your brother has made of your hair. Did you really need to leap away so suddenly that you sent the whole chair tumbling after you?"

That's one question answered, Penelope muses, but wisely remains quiet.

"Perhaps if Mama did not insist on yanking the brush so harshly then I would not have had to!" Hyacinth retorts, waving said brush around.

"Hyacinth," Violet sighs, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose, "we have been over this; the knot in your hair is simply too large for us to hope to remove it without pain. Would you rather we cut it out?"

Unfortunately, Lady Bridgerton's attempt to de-escalate the situation has the opposite effect, sending Hyacinth's already frenzied emotions into a crescendo of panicked fury.

"No!" She shrieks, "no, you can not cut my hair! Mama, you promised I could grow it long like Daphne's! You can not break a promise!"

"That is exactly what is going to happen if you do not get down and let Mother brush it!" Anthony bellows, the thread of his patience thoroughly worn through by his youngest sister's tantrum.

"If I may," Penelope steps forward, reminding the three Bridgerton's of their audience, "perhaps it is the comb itself which is the problem, as opposed to your mother's ministrations with it."

Hyacinth seems somewhat intrigued by her interruption - likely grateful for the reprieve from her mother and brother's admonishments - whilst Anthony and Violet do not seem unimpressed by her contribution, the former going only as far as to wave his hand in the general direction of the assortment of combs littering the floor. Clearly, they feel they have already exhausted every peaceful option - and themselves - and Penelope has to once again wonder how long this whole debacle has been taking place.

"I see you have tried a… selection of tools already," she adds, glancing again towards the pile of discarded paraphernalia, "but, if I might make a suggestion, I believe a softer brush would be better suited for the task. Some almond oil, too, to smooth the way."

Still, they stare at her in silence, though Lady Bridgerton seems to at least be considering her assessment. The viscount is unchanged.

"I am quite certain Daphne had some, perhaps there is still a bottle here," she prompts gently, feeling a tad uncomfortable under the quiet watch of the three. She would be quite happy for Lord or Lady Bridgerton to offer their polite refusals to her interference and send her on her way, if only to cease the feeling of a persistent downward pull that begs her to simply melt into a puddle at their feet and be scrubbed away by whichever unfortunate servant is tasked with restoring the drawing room.

Violet narrows her eyes for a moment, tilts her head to the side, and glances between her daughter and Penelope thoughtfully. The latter can only assume she is wondering why on earth a young debutante is attempting to give advice to a mother of eight on how to salvage one of her four daughters' hair.

Then, "Humboldt," Lady Bridgerton calls, summoning their butler from his customary spot just beyond the doorway, "have a maid locate-"

"Here we are, ma'am," he interjects, presenting a silver tray holding the two items she had been about to request - quite clearly having been a more than passive listener from the hallway - as well as a cup of what smells like herbal tea. She accepts the drink with pursed lips but a grateful nod, taking a long sip before setting it back down to retrieve the brush and oil.

"No!" Hyacinth barks, leaping forward to intercept the brush before her mother's fingertips can reach the handle.

Her mother sighs, more wearisome now than incensed, and holds her palm out towards her daughter. "Hyacinth, you can not expect to detangle your own hair. The knot is placed right at the back of your head, you will only cause yourself further strife to attempt it and then we will have no choice but the scissors. Hand me that brush."

"I want Penelope to do it," she demands, thrusting the tool out of sight and reach behind her own back before turning to their guest with wide, pleading eyes.

Penelope, for her part, does nought more than gawp for several seconds, having been quite sure that she would now slip back into the background - and from the room - without feeling any desire to involve herself further.

Only, as her gaze moves from the young girls hopeful stare to the older Bridgertons, she finds that they look equally as earnest in their desire for her to accept and bring an end to the proceedings, even if they attempt to mask it behind polite shaking of their heads and firm reminders to Hyacinth about manners and guests and respect.

She forgoes a verbal answer, and instead reaches out for the bottle of oil still sitting on the butler's tray, then towards Hyacinth for the brush, which she relinquishes quickly. With careful steps, Penelope picks her way across the littered floor to the nearest sofa, collecting an errant cushion from the floor on the way. She gives the seat a quick pat and lowers herself slowly to sit, wary of any potential booby traps hiding in the lining, then drops the cushion on the floor near her feet.

Hyacinth follows her path with a small, triumphant smile on her lips, glad to have gotten her own way. Her feeling of victory, however, is dashed when she turns to put her back to Penelope and finds her brother still standing in the same spot, arms crossed over his chest and keen eyes staring right back at her. Their mother lingers a step behind him, just as clearly observing her youngest daughter.

"You are not going to stand there and watch, are you Anthony?" Hyacinth whines, jutting out her bottom lip.

Heaving a sigh, the viscount tilts his head and levels his sister with a stern look. "If that is what it will take to ensure that you do, in fact, know how to behave properly for our incredibly patient and forgiving guest, then yes, I am."

Seeing how the younger girl's hackles begin to rise at his accusatory tone, Penelope interjects quickly before the situation can be allowed to escalate again, "perhaps your brother's chastisements could be put to better use in reprimanding Gregory for whatever part he played in your predicament whilst we work on these tangles, hmm? What do you think, Hyacinth?"

Her quick thinking is rewarded instantly as the youngest Bridgerton brightens. "I think that is a most excellent idea, Penelope!" she trills, happily dropping onto the cushion at Penelope's feet. She leans back so that her head rests on Penelope's knees, tilting her chin up so that when their eyes meet, they are both looking at one another upside down, "and maybe Mama should go along as well, just to make sure Anthony is not too hard on him… I suppose I did provoke Greg first, after all."

"How very magnanimous of you," Penelope praises with a serious nod before both girls descend into giggles.

"Well, dearest, I think we are both able to discern when our input is no longer needed," Violet says to Anthony, looping her arm through his to steer him towards the door, though her eyes remained fixed towards the sofa, where Hyacinth is allowing Penelope to work on the tangles in her hair with a content smile on her face.

"Perhaps we could linger a moment longer anyway," Anthony suggests quietly, halting their progress at the room's threshold, "just in case."

"As you say, dear," his mother replies with a soft smile, tightening her arm around his bicep and leaning comfortably against his side as they observe the pair. "Should we be taking notes, do you think?" she asks, stifling a laugh into his shoulder when Hyacinth begins a dramatic recount of the events that led to her current situation, forcing Penelope to make careful movements with the brush as the young girl's left over energy cannot quite be contained, her hands gesticulating wildly. "It seems Penelope has become rather adept at handling our little girl. I wonder if she has any ideas for rearing Gregory."

"I would sooner pick her brains on the matter of Eloise. Would you believe me if I were to tell you that I saw them having a two-sided conversation last week? And not a row or debate; Penelope had Eloise engaged in polite discourse in the library."

Violet swats his arm, shaking her head fondly as she laughs. "She will make an excellent mother some day," she sighs, then her voice turns soft and wistful, "if only she did not have her awful mother's voice in her ear, planting seeds that she is somehow doomed for spinsterhood already. What I would do to keep her here with us, to see her thrive until some clever Lord makes her lady of his household."

"I had not realised your affection for her burned quite so strongly, Mother," Anthony comments thoughtfully, tilting towards her whilst keeping his eyes on the scene in front of them, "though I can not help but agree with your assessment."

"It is unconventional, to be sure, but she has been around for so long," Violet sniffles against the fabric of his coat sleeve, "Penelope has been my daughter in every way that counts for a long time, even if not in blood."

"Nor by name," Anthony adds, knowing it is a flimsy thing to point out and unsure why he does. It seems to make his mother smile though, despite the suspicious moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes. She tilts her head up to him, all soft and hopeful and with that special touch of something that always makes him feel as though she is not looking at him but into him, seeing through his eyes to the very deepest recesses of his mind and down into the space behind his ribcage. She is looking up at him and yet he feels two feet tall.

"Well, that part is an easy enough fix," she says eventually, squeezing his arm, "I have always thought there was a chance…"

"Colin?" He prompts.

"Perhaps," her lips curl in as she smiles, "he was a strong contender in my mind for sure, sweet as he has always been to her, but he was never quite top of our list."

It seems his mother has been spending too much time with Lady Danbury, for she chooses to elaborate no further on her cryptic musings - though the way she squeezes his arm makes him think her meaning was intended to be entirely obvious - and turns finally to the door, giving a passing comment about going to root out her youngest son as she leaves.

The room falls quiet without her and Anthony wonders briefly if the two young ladies before him had overheard much of their discussion, but a brief assessment shows Hyacinth with her eyes closed and head tilted back into Penelope's hands, a serene smile on her lips whilst the latter is clearly focused only on twisting the smoothed strands of the young girl's hair into a neat braided crown.

He finds himself focussing on the way Penelope's fingers move, hypnotised by the rhythmic way she weaves such a uniform pattern without fault or pause. She reaches for something caught between her teeth - hairpins, he realises quickly - and takes extra care in securing her handiwork into place before finally releasing the hair all together.

"All done," she says, stretching her fingers before curling them over Hyacinth's shoulders, who blinks her eyes open happily to look up at her.

"Thank you, Penelope, I love it!"

"Perhaps you ought to go and have a look at it first," Penelope laughs, lifting one finger to gently tap the young girl on the nose. Hyacinth scoffs at the idea, however, content to whisper her hands over top of her hair and inspect the do by feel alone.

"I do not need to see it to be certain that it is splendid,' she states simply, "I know I love it because it was you that did it for me."

Pride swells in Anthony's chest, pleased to be reminded that whilst Hyacinth could behave in ways that pushed his patience to its very limits, she is still his sweet girl. Penelope, for her part, flushes a light pink, clearly not expecting such a sentiment, and diverts her eyes to the clock upon the mantle whilst clearing her throat.

"It seems I must assume that Eloise has forgotten our appointment," she sighs, prompting Anthony to look over and see that near three quarters of an hour have passed since she arrived. "No matter. If you are, indeed, pleased with your hair, Hyacinth, then I believe I must take my leave."

"You can't go yet," the younger replies quickly, leaping up to her feet so she can turn around and face Penelope straight on, towering over where she remains seated on the sofa. "Surely you and Eloise would have spent much longer than this together, so you must have time to spare!"

"Hyacinth," Anthony warns, not at all eager to see his sister renew her tantrum. His voice seems to startle Hyacinth who had clearly disregarded his presence to the point of forgetting it entirely, though Penelope does not react at all except to glance briefly his way.

"Whilst you are not incorrect, the circumstances are quite different; I have intruded here long enough."

"It is not an intrusion if you are invited," Hyacinth huffs, rolling her eyes, "and I am inviting you to stay."

Anthony opens his mouth to dissuade his sister, a sharp reminder about manners on the tip of his tongue, when he notices the small smile on her lips that is matched by Penelope's own and he decides that if their guest is not offended by Hyacinth's dramatics then there is no cause for him to step in and drag her mood down. He would also quite like to see how this plays out; is Miss Featherington truly a dab hand at wrangling his sister or was her earlier victory a simple fluke?

"And just how long will you be having me, Miss Bridgerton?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

"If it is up to my choosing then I should like to keep you here forever."

Anthony is equally amused and intrigued by the similarities between his sister's wishes to those of their mother. With that comparison made, he needs only a moment to leap into their conversation, finding himself quite eager to prolong the back and forth, and to re-elevate his own position in Hyacinth's esteem after the unpleasant exchanges they have shared today.

"Do not fret, Hyacinth," he proclaims loudly, coming forth to wrap a reassuring arm around his sister's shoulders, tucking her neatly into his side so they are both facing Penelope. "There is an easy enough fix. Miss Featherington and I will simply have to get married, then she can stay with us indefinitely."

"Oh! That is the most brilliant idea you have ever had!" Hyacinth cries, beaming, then removes herself from his hold to bounce excitedly on the balls of her feet unimpeded. Her glee at his suggestion seems short lived, however, as she is just as quickly dropping back onto her soles, frowning and narrowing her eyes at her eldest brother.

"Actually, that was quite rude of you to simply assume on Penelope's behalf," she says, arms crossed and all matter of fact, "you have to ask a lady properly, Anthony."

Eloise's influence to be sure, he thinks, rolling his eyes, though, admittedly, not an unfair reminder.

"Quite right, Hy," he replies, nodding to her seriously, then turns his gaze down to their guest, "Miss Featherington-"

"No, no, that is not romantic at all!" Hyacinth bemoans, shaking her head, "in my stories, the prince always uses the princess' christian name when he proposes!"

Penelope, already wide eyed and gaping openly at the two siblings, loses the last of her composure at the comparison, flushing a bright red. She busies her hands in the smoothing out and rearranging the skirts of her dress over her knees, glad for once for its over embellishments as the appliqué flowers and beads provide ample fiddling fodder for her twitching fingers.

"Oh, I'm sure your brother would prefer not-" she starts, at the same time as Anthony asks,

"What stories are you being read that include marriage proposals-"

"Anthony," his sister whines, without care for either of their discomfort, "please don't scare Penelope off before you have even asked the question!"

"I think if Miss Featherington were to have been scared off by anyone's behaviour here today, it would have been yours, sister," he jests with a laugh, though his comment makes Hyacinth's smile fall away quickly. The Head of the Family part of his brain tells him he should feel some satisfaction to see her feel a modicum of shame at last for her destructive tantrum, but the voice of Big Brother seems to be winning out as he hastens to correct his error.

"Perhaps you could make up for it by lending me a ring for the occasion," he suggests, tilting his head as though in serious consideration, "if I am to do your stories justice."

The effect is instantaneous and she's off, hurtling from the room with a cry over her shoulder instructing them to stay exactly where they are until she gets back. Both of the room's remaining occupants know better than to disobey, staying rooted to their spots while a somewhat awkward silence falls over them.

It's Anthony that breaks it, clearing his throat, though he waits until Penelope's eyes - which she seems to be using to count the tiny flecks of gold on one of his mothers ornate plant pots - sweep around to meet his before he begins to speak.

"Thank you," he says simply, then continues when her brows furrow, "my mother and I were in quite the predicament with Hyacinth for a good while before you arrived. It is very good of you to be so patient with her. With us."

"I think there is little patience required to be kind to someone you care for," she replies, "and I care for Hyacinth a great deal. For all of your family. It is I who should be grateful for the patience and good will you have all extended to me in allowing me to encroach on your time and space as often as I do."

He considers her words carefully, realising just how many of his memories, of his days spent with his family, seem to include her, sometimes in the background but more often towards the forefront. He sees her spread out over the last fifteen years or so since she moved in across the road; the little girl unwittingly knocking Colin from his horse, the adolescent hiding away with Eloise from their shared etiquette teacher, the young teen who'd looked at Anthony with such kind eyes when his father died.

She has always been there, taking up space in their lives, but he finds he does not think of it as an intrusion the way she implies he might. How could it be, when they have all so willingly carved out that space for her.

"It is as you say, Miss Featherington; there is little patience required."

Hyacinth makes her grand return then, hurrying into the room with a polished wooden box held tightly to her chest as she makes a show of taking the long way back to where they wait in the middle of the room with a hop, skip and a jump over and between abandoned cushions and combs.

"I brought my whole collection," she tells them proudly, extending the box towards her brother and lifting its lid to reveal a selection of sparkly costume jewellery. With a quick glance towards Penelope and a thoughtful twist of her lips, she angles herself so that the other can not see the contents, insisting that she should be surprised by whichever ring Anthony chooses for her.

He peruses the array of gaudy pieces for a long moment, gaze hovering over a sunshine yellow gem that matches the shade of her dress almost perfectly before he moves past it. He settles on something blue instead.

He shows it to Hyacinth who nods approvingly then moves to the sofa and pulls Penelope to her feet with both hands, manoeuvring her so she stands an arms length in front of Anthony. With one hand she reaches out to pat her brother's arm, letting him know he can begin, then takes a small step back to stand perpendicular to the pair whilst she watches.

"Miss Featherington-"

"You have to kneel, Anthony," Hyacinth whispers urgently, though why she bothers to speak as though she's trying to be subtle whilst simultaneously feeling all too happy to reach up and push insistently and obviously down on his shoulders is beyond him. Still, he acquiesces, lowering himself to one knee at Penelope's feet.

Deciding it best to go ahead and commit to the performance, he reaches out to her with one open hand whilst the other holds the ridiculously large stoned ring aloft, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He maintains his sense of propriety, however, and allows her the time to decide for herself that she will slide her bare hand into his hold, rather than boldly taking it himself as he is sure his sister would prefer him to do.

"Miss Fe- Miss Penelope," he begins again, casting a side long look at his sister, relieved when she nods her approval instead of offering any further corrections to the fresh spectacle that has sprung from his off handed comment, "will you marry me?"

Penelope opens her mouth but only the tinkle of soft giggles spills past her lips, forcing her to lift her free hand to stifle them lest she risk upsetting their fearsome director. Anthony smiles, sharing in her amusement, and squeezes her hand to help ground her back into their performance. She lowers her hand and smiles back.

"Say no, Penelope!" Hyacinth instructs suddenly, clapping her hands with glee.

Anthony has to do a double take of his sister, because, what?

"What?" He asks, feeling strangely perturbed by the sudden plot twist, "all this for a no? Surely this is not how your stories end?"

"Well, obviously, brother! The prince and the princess always end up married at the end; that's why they call it a 'happily ever after'."

"Then Penelope should not be saying no to my proposal!"

He feels for a moment as if he may have slipped too deeply into his role, that his reactions are bordering on the side of genuine offence, when he should most likely be taking the out and returning to the actual work he had put aside hours ago.

"Of course she should!" Hyacinth huffs, rolling her eyes and folding her arms, jutting out one hip in a pose she has definitely learnt from her elder sisters. "What kind of lady would accept an offer from a Lord who needs so much coaching from his littlest sister just to get the question out properly? Penelope could certainly do much better."

"But you…"

"Well, it seems you have your answer, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope says seriously, though he sees the way she bites her lip against her laughter when his sister isn't looking. "I simply could not accept a man who has yet to even slay a single dragon for me. I bid you a good day, sir."

Anthony, still kneeling, watches her leave, her steps dogged by his cackling sister, feeling nothing short of utter bewilderment.

Bewilderment with his mother and her sly smiles, with his sister's ability to slingshot straight from one emotion into the next, and, most of all, bewilderment with his own, confounding feelings; particularly the odd sense of disappointment he feels. As though he had been right on the cusp of finding something he'd been searching for, only to lose sight of it yet again.

No matter how vigorously Penelope waves her fan, she can not seem to generate enough of a breeze to offer any adequate cooling effect amidst the day's intense heat. Feeling the sweat begin to pool where the sun shines on her back, she wonders yet again why her mother had insisted that they promenade on a day like this, although part of her thinks the decision had been made simply because Penelope had argued so vehemently against it.

It's not even as though there is anyone out to see them, as the few other families who have braved the day have done so by setting up their tents close to the various

vendors taking advantage of the weather to sell cooling refreshments from their stands at marked up prices.

Her mother, however, had insisted that the only point of going out at all was to be seen by their peerage, and that bringing along their own tent would be redundant. This frame of mind has not stopped her from pilfering Penelope's parasol, however, and trading it for her own ridiculously impractical one, made of only sheer lace. Penelope fears she will have red blotches across her arms and neck in the shape of floral swirls for weeks to come.

"Pen!" A voice calls from behind her, causing Penelope to begrudgingly turn back towards the sun. She squints her eyes against its blinding rays, struggling to make out who is approaching until they are upon her. "Penelope! Thank goodness you are here!"

Eloise, she realises, of course - who else could be calling my name with such volume from across the green?

"I am glad that at least one of us is pleased by my presence here today," she tells her friend, adjusting her barely functional parasol into the other hand so she can interlock their arms "for I am decidedly not. You know, my mother has insisted that we come out today but she will spend the rest of the week lamenting the freckles on my skin or that the startling shade of red I am surely soon to turn will not fit with her chosen colour schemes."

"Ah yes, Lady Featherington's unfortunate reasoning skills fail to meet the mark once again," Eloise tuts sympathetically, "I do not know how you bear it, Penelope."

"With very little grace, I assure you."

Eloise laughs, waving her free hand in a dismissive gesture, "what use is grace when the people around us insist upon making foolish decisions on our behalf, regardless of the level of pomp and decorum we inject into our arguments."

The two girls bend their heads together as they giggle before Eloise launches into a heated discourse about the many more shortcomings she has recently discovered in their society, adding them to her ever growing list of disdain. Unfortunately, the volume of her ranting draws unwanted attention to the pair and Portia Featherington turns in their direction, eating up the short distance between her and them.

"Miss Bridgerton," she greets with her patented saccharine smile, waving her own fan in front of her chest, "how lovely to see you this afternoon. Are you promenading with your family? It has been so long since I was last able to properly catch up with Lady Bridgerton."

"Lady Featherington," Eloise responds, "we are residing mostly in our tent this afternoon, however I believe my mother has taken my youngest siblings for a stroll towards the lake - I'm sure she'd be delighted if you were to head in that direction to find her!" She points over Portia's shoulder in the general direction of the serpentine, keen to send Lady Featherington away with haste. Penelope subtly digs her elbow into her friend's ribs, all too aware that Violet Bridgerton will likely not be pleased to encounter her mother, especially on such an already stifling day.

Her mother, however, perks up at the information like a shark does to blood in the water.

"Excellent!" She claps, already turning her back on the pair, flapping her fan towards her eldest daughters, "Prudence, Phillipa, this way, girls! Come along, Penelope!"

The latter grinds her teeth against making a comment about how her mother calls for her as one might call the family pet.

"Actually," Eloise interjects, keeping her arm locked tightly around the red heads, "I was hoping you might permit Penelope to join me in my family's tent for a short respite - I find myself feeling faint in this heat and may require her assistance in returning there safely."

Portia narrows her eyes momentarily, however even she knows that there is little she can argue against the young girl's request without being openly callous. With a glance back to the lake, she seems to decide that pursuing the dowager viscountess is a more important use of her time and attention than continuing to drag her youngest along the winding paths, so she grants them a short nod.

"Very well, but do not dally for too long, Penelope. You take advantage of the Bridgertons' charitable nature far too much already, I would hate for you to overstay your welcome." Fortunately, she is gone before Eloise can deliver some rather scathing remarks of her own with regards to who exactly it is that continues to toe the line along the limits of her family's kindness.

"Pay her no mind, Pen," Eloise insists, turning them around with a huff, "you are always welcome. If I could sew you to my side from toe to shoulder then I would have at last found a worthy use for Mama's endless embroidery lectures."

"Quite the idea," Penelope laughs, happy to allow her friend to steer them both across the grass, "though, we would have to commission Madame Delacroix to create us a rather unique selection of clothing - wide gowns with two necks, spilt blue and yellow right down the middle."

"Then we shall have Mama set us an appointment at The Modiste the moment she returns from collecting lemonades with siblings F through H."

Penelope gasps then, pulling both girls to an abrupt stop. "Eloise! You just told my mother she was headed towards the lake!"

"Oh, did I? No matter, I shall call out to her at once and amend my mistake." Eloise turns around then, aiming herself towards where the vague shapes of Portia and her two eldest daughters are rapidly shrinking as they head further in the wrong direction. She clears her throat, cups her hands together around either side of her mouth and takes a deep breath, then - very, very quietly - calls, "Lady Featherington! Come back!"

She cups her hand around her ear, as though waiting to hear response that they both know is not coming, then turns back to the red head with a shrug. "Well, I tried my best, but there is nothing more we can do for them now. We can only hope that your mother will be able to retrace her steps along the river bank and eventually find her way back to civilization, lest the three of them be lost forever."

"Eloise," Penelope admonishes, though she can not conceal her amused giggle at her friend's antics.

The pair stroll along, still linked together at the elbow until they reach the Bridgertons' tent, set up strategically to be both nearest to the most shaded spot beneath the tall willow tree and the one furthest away from the noisy market refreshment stalls. When they reach the opening flap of the tent, they see its only three current occupants (brothers A through C) engaged in conversation together, seated in a half circle of chairs faced away from the entrance.

Delighted to see that her brothers appear not to have noticed their arrival - and always eager for any opportunity to catch them unawares - Eloise presses one finger to her lips in an indication for Penelope to stay quiet as she begins creeping closer to them, still towing the other along with her.

"Benedict, I'm afraid that all that time alone dedicated to your artistic pursuits and tea drinking has turned your brain to mush," Colin is saying loudly, patting his brother on the shoulder, "I have absolutely no desire to ever marry Penelope Featherington. Why ever would you suggest such a thing?"

Said woman pulls up short, causing Eloise to snap back towards her like rubber when she tries to carry on forward without the frozen friend still linked to her elbow. Penelope's eyes narrow, irked not by Colin's choice of words - for she has long outgrown any interest in marrying him either, thank you very much - but rather the tone with which he delivers them; almost veering on snide in a way she is far too used to hearing directed her way from her Mama and the Cressida Cowper's of the Ton, but never by her beloved Bridgertons. Lifting her chin, Penelope clears her throat, enjoying Eloise's snickering as the three brothers all leap to their feet and turn to face them in varying states of alarm.

"Why, indeed?" she asks, arching one unamused eyebrow.

"Pen! I-" Colin's eyes are blown comically wide and Penelope's mild annoyance is quickly washed away by the overwhelming urge to release a terribly unladylike snort.

"I like to think I would remember if you and I had been courting this season, Colin," she carries on, struggling to keep her lips set in a firm line as the third Bridgerton squirms under her gaze. "I would certainly know if you had proposed, if only because my mama's gleeful squawking would still be ringing in my ears. And speaking of rings," Penelope holds her left hand out in front of herself, inspecting her knuckles closely as if actually checking that there is no newly acquired jewellery resting there, then moves her fingers towards Eloise. "You do not see a ring, do you, El?"

"I most certainly do not, Pen." Her friend responds quickly, surprised by the turn of events but delighting nonetheless to offer her assistance in bringing her brother down a peg. (She loves him dearly, of course, but he is still a man.)

"That seems proof enough to me, but just to be certain - Colin, you have not proposed to me, have you?" Penelope asks, tilting her head minutely.

"What, no! No, I have not," he replies hurriedly, tugging at his ever tight cravat as a bead of sweat begins to travel from his hairline towards his jaw.

"Nor would I ever give him permission to," Anthony interjects, and a glance in his direction tells Penelope that he is finding just as much humour in Colin's discomfort as his sister, though there is a certain gleam in his eye when his gaze lands on her. It's all she can do not to return the grin he sends in her direction, determined to let Colin stew for just a few moments longer.

"Any why ever not, brother?" Benedict chips in, leaning heavily onto the eldest's shoulder, "Miss Penelope would make a fine wife for any gentleman fortunate enough to win her favour, and certainly a welcome addition to our family in particular."

"Correct of course, Ben, which is why if anyone is going to grant Penelope the family name, it will be me." Anthony says, completely deadpan in his delivery, and finally Penelope can do nothing else to withhold the flood of amused giggles.

Eloise, however, seems to go in the other direction entirely, trading out amusement for indignation, and she stomps her foot heavily into the ground. "Why are all of my brothers suddenly discussing marrying my Penelope? If she is to grow old with anyone then it shall be me, content in our long awaited spinsterhood together. I will not have any man - and especially not one of you three fools - getting in the way of our plans."

Colin throws his hands up defensively, leaning away from his sister's accusatory finger when it swings around in his direction. "Do not point that thing at me, I was declaring my lack of inclination towards wedding Pen! She is my friend!"

"And I have made no reference to marrying her at all! However…" Benedict drags his eyes slowly over Penelope's form, from top to toe and back again, whilst a lazy but charming grin stretches over his handsome features, "if ever there were going to be a woman who could convince me to settle down… ow!"

Benedict rubs at the back of his head, having expected the blow to come from his sister and not his decidedly more heavy handed older brother.

"Do not fret, Eloise, for despite their teasing, none of your brothers have yet to render me a proposal," Penelope assures her, pointedly ignoring Anthony's raised eyebrow at her comment, "our future in a country cottage is safe for the taking yet."

"Miss Penelope, have I not yet asked for your hand today?" The viscount asks her, laying on an affronted tone even as his signature smirk stays fixed upon his lips.

"You have not, Lord Bridgerton," she replies, fighting valiantly against the twitching at the corner of her mouth that begs her lips to curve into a smile, pleased as she is to once again encounter the side of the viscount that is all soft charm and sly smiles and good humour.

"Then please, allow me to rectify my grevious oversight immediately," Anthony clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, wiping away any trace of his amusement to be replaced by the serious expression most befitting of his title. He walks across the small distance between himself and the women, coming to stand a step in front of the pair with his eyes locked on the shorter. "Penelope Featherington, will you marry me?"

"Anthony!" Eloise shrieks, leaping in front of Penelope as though shielding her from an oncoming bullet, then begins to forcibly shove her older brother back towards a laughing Benedict and a surprised but equally amused Colin.

"No she will not!" she scoffs, giving him one last good shove before wiping the palms of her hands off on her skirts as if to rid herself of him completely. "Penelope, I never imagined I would have to say this, but I am beginning to think we would have been better off staying with your mother."

Wisely stifling her own giggles, Penelope steps forward to place a hand on each of Eloise's shoulders, pulling her back into her side and away from her ridiculous brothers. "Shall we go and see if your mama needs help carrying back her refreshments?" She asks, as if it is not a given that there will be at least one maid and likely a governess with Violet and her youngest children who will be more than capable of aiding their return.

"Anxious to find out whether our youngest brother is willing to throw his hat into the ring?" Benedict teases, hoping to draw out the exchange a little longer, especially as he can tell Penelope is trying to steer his sister away from it; he is rather enjoying this entertaining twist to what had been an otherwise dreadfully boring afternoon.

"Well, of course," Penelope replies, meeting his mischievous grin with a more demure one of her own as she continues to back away with Eloise, "he is the more pleasant of you Bridgerton boys after all, not to mention the most charming - did you know he escorted me from the front door right to the table the last time I accepted an invitation to dine with you all? It would certainly not be a terrible hardship to wait for someone as well mannered as Gregory to come of age."

Benedict's guffawing begins anew and he raises his hand towards his forehead and makes a funny sort of flipping motion, as if tipping a hat he is not wearing to her.

"Miss Penelope," Anthony interjects, watching her get further away with what could almost be mistaken for a pout on his lips (almost, because to confirm it would be to admit to a most uncharacteristic and likely unattractive display of petulance, and if Anthony Bridgerton has two things, they are character and attractiveness), "you are surely not implying that you would accept the proposal of my twelve year old brother over mine?"

Ignoring his question, and anxious to avoid the chance for Eloise's temper to rear its head again, Penelope quickly leads the pair of them back out of the tent, arms once again linked together between them as they disappear past the folds of pale blue fabric.

"Don't worry, Ant," Colin says, seeming to have finally shaken himself out of his stupor and keen to get in on the chance of ribbing his eldest sibling, "I'm certain Greg would be delighted to offer you some pointers in how to woo a woman."

Notes:

Whilst his proposal was still made in (mostly) jest, Anthony's disappointment each time he does not receive a 'yes' is becoming a little bit too real

Hope you enjoyed! I thought about waiting to post this one to keep updates spaced out, but I'm nothing if not inconsistent

Chapter 4: To vex her as she vexes him

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The wind whistles down the streets, slipping through keyholes, rattling shop signs and seeping into the very bones of the dreary alley's only two occupants.

They're as shielded from prying eyes as they can be in this corner of London, tucked away where even the nightly lamplighters rarely bother to tread and only the light of the moon chooses to glance upon the ground, leaving them cast in deep shadow.

Neither pays the darkness any mind, however; where the space is void of light, they fill it to the brim with stomps and barbs and huffs and sound.

Later, they will worry that they've been too loud, that they have forgotten themselves in the heat of their frustrations and lost sight of the world around them in more ways than one.

Now, they care little for the ears of the printer's staff working at their presses just around the corner, even less for the tuts and whispers of the rats scuttling by, and not an ounce for the impropriety written in every line of their encounter.

Now, Penelope Featherington is Lady Whistledown.

And Anthony Bridgerton is not handling the news with exactly the level of grace he believes is appropriate.

That being none whatsoever.

He had been on his way home from an evening of drinking and revelry with his brother in law, Simon, having managed to convince Daphne to let him borrow her husband for one night of their month's visit to the Duke's Mayfair residence. They had stays out a bit later than perhaps they ought to have, but evenings such as this become fewer and farther between as the couple, now parents, venture less into the heart of London and when they do most of their time is sucked up by Violet and Lady Danbury, eager to fulfil their roles as the doting and dutiful grandmother and Great Aunt.

Alas, Simon had eventually begged off, citing fatigue and a longing for his wife. Anthony had been all too happy to send him off on his way rather than hear any more comments of the like about his sister, but he hadn't been quite ready for the night to end and so, when he stepped out of Mondrich's bar, he had ignored the line of waiting carriages and instead turned left.

Moving without thought, his feet had carried him to a crescent of white houses and almost all the way to one door in particular, before he realised where he was - when he was. What his feet had forgotten, his brain quickly reminded him; that there was no longer a woman waiting (or willing) to see him behind any of these doors, nor was he still the type of man who desired to keep any of them as his mistress.

Scolding himself for overindulging and allowing his brain to become so addled with drink that it would bring him there, he carried on walking with no clear direction in his mind, only the desire to create distance between him and the bitter memories of a chapter in his life that had been long since closed.

And so, when he wandered into the streets of Bloomsbury, thinking he might be able to spend the night in his wayward brother's empty bachelor lodgings instead of returning home to the disapproving stare of his mother, Anthony was already in poor spirits.

The cherry on top of his misery pie came in the form of a passing hack, the wheels of which rolled carelessly through a deep puddle, causing a splash of muddied rainwater that coated the leg of his breeches from ankle to hip. Anthony's sorrows turned to irritation turned to anger. Anger in desperate need of an outlet.

As he turned his next corner, the universe decided to grant him exactly what he wanted - for he is a Bridgerton, after all.

Because there, outside the printers shop - the only building on the street with all of its lamps still lit and the door wide open - stood a young woman with a thick blue hooded cloak and a thicker Irish accent, bartering with the tall man standing inside the doorway. She was waving a collection of papers between them, keeping them just out of the printer's reach as she spoke, clearly not yet satisfied with whatever deal he was offering her.

Anthony had no intention of involving himself in their discussions, keen as he was to get to his destination and sink immediately into sleep if not drink himself further into it, and so he had not even glanced in their direction as he carried on his way. In fact, he had made it a whole ten paces past the shop before he was pulled up short by the sound of a yelp, clearly feminine and distressingly familiar.

Startled, he whipped around quickly, expecting to see some sort of tussle between the large gentleman and much smaller woman, only to have his view impeded by the light smack of a sheet of parchment landing perfectly across his face. Disgruntled, he grabbed the thing before it could flutter away, meaning to discard it beneath his boot when his eyes caught on his own family's name amongst the black ink scrawled over the sheet.

"Wait, don't read that!" A voice called - feminine, still, but different than it sounded when she'd spoken moments before - but he paid it no mind, scanning the contents of the document quickly.

'Dearest gentle reader'

'Prolific Bridgerton Family'

'The viscount himself'

'a Capital R Rake'

'Overripe citrus fruit"

'Penelope Featherington'

"Anthony, please."

Penelope Featherington.

He met her gaze head on, registering only subliminally the slam of the printer's door, though it still caused his blood to boil that little bit more to know the cad had abandoned his defenceless client on the street to face her fate alone.

She looked away first, stooping down to collect the rest of her drafts, clearly having been blown out of her hands amidst all of her gesticulations. Anthony stayed perfectly still as he watched her pick up each piece of parchment with shaking hands, clutching each one tightly to her heaving chest.

It's no wonder he had written her off so quickly as a maid - false accent aside - as her cloak had slipped open to reveal a pale blue dress befitting only a woman of a much lower station than she. The colour, he thought, was far more flattering than any of her other dresses, and the cut, too. In fact, from this angle…

His eyes shot up to her face, only to find her still refusing to meet his gaze, and the brief shot of arousal was quickly engulfed by the deep well of rage still simmering beneath his skin.

Taking advantage of Penelope's distraction, he marched along the cobbled streets, took her by the elbow and hauled her down the closest alleyway.

—

"You are being unreasonable!" Penelope screeches, wrenching her arm from Anthony's firm grasp and taking two steps backwards, though she knows there is no hope for escape now that she has been caught in the act.

"I am being unreasonable?" He parrots with a harsh scoff, "I might ask if you have lost your mind but I'm quite sure I already know the answer to that question, Lady Whistledown."

"No matter your opinion of my business ventures, there is no need to insult me, Lord Bridgerton."

"You insult yourself, Penelope! Wasting your wit and cunning scrawling crass jibes in a gossip rag. How little must you respect yourself to publish the things you do about your family, about your own person."

"And what good has respect ever done for me, Anthony?" She demands, breaths coming hot and heavy and fast through her nose, "respect does not keep my family clothed or fed or housed."

"The dangers you put yourself in," he steams on, as if Penelope has not spoken at all, "out here, alone in the dark, dressed as a maid. Do you even realise the risks you pose to yourself?"

"Do you think I would be better off making drop offs in my Sunday best and mothers jewels?" Penelope laughs bitterly, waving a hand up and down her own form.

"You would be better off at home, safe in your bed!" Anthony cries, leaping forward across the small space between them to seize her by the shoulders, shaking once for emphasis. Once he stops, however, his hands continue to tremor against the fabric of her not-nearly-thick-enough blue cloak.

"There is little safety to be had in a home that could be ripped from under your feet at any moment," she replies, forcing the bite into her words to conceal the choked sound of tears threatening to clog her throat and pushing her feet firmly into the ground so she doesn't do something silly like tip straight forward into his chest. "Not that I would expect you to understand that."

"Fine, you have your reasons for doing what you're doing, does that mean you do not care for the people you hurt along the way?" Anthony hisses, eyes blazing something fierce, "people like my sister, who you dragged through scandal. You nearly ruined her with your venom. The danger you would have left her reputation in had Simon not-"

How bloody dare he even suggest-

"You want to talk about scandal and ruin? About danger? You'd have had your sister - now a duchess - married to Nigel Berbrooke if not for the things I wrote about him! I assure you, under his care it would have been more than just her reputation in harm's way. Perhaps my methods are unorthodox, but I will not apologise for pushing Daphne towards a true love match just because your pride is hurt."

"Well, if you think you know so damn much about what is best for my family then perhaps we should skip all this pretence and you can take over the role officially!"

"Pardon?"

"Marry me."

"Pardon?!"

Anthony takes a step back and spreads his arms out wide. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes and there isn't a lick of warmth in it.

"It is simple, isn't it? You would have no further need to print your papers and you can take your meddling directly to the source, leaving me free to abstain from overseeing my sibling's through their seasons - a job you clearly think yourself far more capable of undertaking. So, marry me."

"You're insane," Penelope laughs incredulously, humourlessly, hysterically.

"Then we are well matched," Anthony spits.

Neither move or speak for several long moments, taking the opportunity to survey their surroundings. It is somehow even darker now, the black ink of the night's sky seeping into the streets, enveloping all trace of colour and light. The moon has passed behind a cloud, shying away from playing the observer to their row, and they are truly alone. Too alone.

"Where is your carriage?" Anthony asks, quiet but still firm.

"My hack will have left by now," Penelope sighs, casting a longing glance towards the empty spot where it would have still been waiting for her had she been able to simply make her drop off and head home as she usually does.

"I am going to pretend I didn't hear that," he says, turning his back to her to run his hands over his face and back through his hair, taking a deep breath as he does it. Still staring at the grimy brick wall, he continues, "because if you were to lead me to believe that you have travelled to this part of town, alone and dressed as you are, by hired hack- well, my status as a gentleman prevents me from speaking aloud what I might do."

Silence stretches between them again, with Anthony clearly waiting for some kind of response from her and Penelope completely unsure of what the right one could possibly be. She thinks they have likely reached an impasse, that this is when she'll watch his back as he disappears into the night, that the next time she crosses Grosvenor's Square she will find her long standing welcome at Bridgerton House has run its course.

She holds her breath, bracing herself.

Anthony turns to her at last.

"Right, then," he says, "show me where you hail your hacks from and I will return you to Mayfair."

Peeking over top of the day's newspaper, Anthony draws a deep breath in through his chest, relaxing further into his seat on the exhale as he enjoys the rare peace that has settled over the Bridgerton drawing room.

It has been quite the pleasant afternoon so far, with half of the home's current inhabitants gathered together in the drawing room, each engrossed in their own activities. Violet is stitching quietly in a plush armchair, glancing up occasionally to take in the sight of her surrounding loved ones with her ever present fond smile, content to simply exist in shared space with them.

Benedict is barely visible behind the tall easel he has propped up in the corner of the room closest to the windows, and, blessedly, barely audible as well, with only the sound of paint brushing over canvas coming from his direction.

Eloise is seated on the settee with Penelope at her side - which is more often the case than not, these days - both bent with their heads together over a book. They mutter quietly to one another, analysing each page carefully before moving onto the next, but even they are careful not to disturb the rare air of tranquillity filling the room.

Every now and then, Penelope will glance up in Anthony's direction, but her eyes dart away too quickly each time to notice the small smiles he attempts to greet her with. They have yet to speak since Anthony had uncovered her secret identity last week and he has begun to think that the avoidance has been very much by design on her part. Though it is not unusual for them to go any number of days without sharing conversation, it is perhaps worth mentioning how much he has missed her company in that short time. Enough so that the weight of his ire has lightened substantially in her physical absence (physical only, for she has been a near constant presence in his recent thoughts), making room for a well of curiosity and a healthy amount of admiration.

There's also the matter of the freshly sparked physical attraction he felt for her that night, when she'd been in her blue dress and cloak outside of the printers shop. Interestingly, he realises, when he looks at her now he finds her just as fetching in her usual bright frocks, much like the pink one she is wearing today.

It should also be said, Anthony has been drawn not only to her cherubic features and curvaceous form, but also to her person. Kind eyes have sucked him in, lulling him into a false sense of security until her sharp wit and clever tongue had been ready to spar with him. She is funny in a way he would have never expected of her in the past, possessing a charming if sometimes self deprecating sense of humour. It takes little wondering to figure out why she has encompassed so many of his recent thoughts, and no more so than in the days since they last spoke.

Anthony waits until he catches her eyes once again, no longer bothering with the pretence of reading his newspaper and instead leaving it to lay flat on the table in front of him, then opens his mouth to speak before she can break his gaze. The next sound that permeates the room, however, is an ear splitting wail from the doorway, as in walk the Duke and Duchess of Hastings with their two month old son, Augustus.

"Oh, Daphne!" Violet exclaims, abandoning her embroidery hoop in favour of rushing towards her daughter, "we were not expecting you back until dinner time!"

"Yes, well, unfortunately your grandson had other plans. We had to cut our visit to the Mondrichs' short as Augie simply refuses to settle," Daphne replies wearily, bouncing said baby in her arms to no avail.

"He has been like this for hours," Simon adds unhelpfully, shoulders tense and brows pinched where he hovers over his wife's shoulder, "but someone insisted that we make the trip without the nanny."

Daphne whips around to face the duke and Anthony winces in sympathy for the tongue lashing his friend and brother in law is surely about to receive when another sharp cry from baby Augie draws her attention back to the infant. As she looks down at her son, Daphne's firmly set lips begin to wobble and tears of her own spring to her eyes, chest heaving as she draws a shuddering breath.

"Oh goodness, please tell me you are not about to start crying as well," Eloise says in horror, earning her a glare from their mother and a sharp elbow to the ribs from Penelope.

Violet, who has been attempting to assist in soothing the baby with quiet shushing sounds and soft humming, runs her hand over her eldest daughter's arm. "Dearest, you must be exhausted from taking care of Augustus all on your own," - Simon opens his mouth as if to interject, but Benedict clears his throat pointedly to draw his attention then shakes his head quickly. The duke has enough of a self preservation to snap his jaw shut and adopt a sheepish expression instead - "and what need is there for a nanny when your mother is here to assist? Here, pass me my grandchild."

She holds her arms out expectantly, but Daphne makes no move to place her squirming babe into her mother's hold. "Mama, you have been embroidering, and clearly for quite some time. I know how quickly your wrists tire from it and I shan't have Augie causing further injury to you."

Violet tuts and waves her hands dismissively, but she can not hide how she reaches instinctively to rub at her tender joints. "Well, no matter, I am sure Simon can-" Daphne positively glowers at the suggestion, shaking her head vehemently - something to unpack later, "or one of your brothers must be eager for a cuddle with their dear nephew, yes?"

She turns and casts a bright smile over her two eldest sons, only for her lips to drop into a disappointed frown when she takes in their respective reactions. Anthony has slouched down significantly into his seat, newspaper picked up and arranged so that he is visible only from the waist down. Benedict is at least bold enough to meet his mothers gaze head on, but only so that he can offer her a lopsided smile and shrug as he holds up his paint covered hands for her to see.

Violet purses her lips and casts her attention instead towards the sofa, "your sister, then-"

"Ha!" Eloise laughs shortly, snapping the book in her hands shut and shaking her head, "certainly not!"

"Eloise," Violet hisses, widening her eyes meaningfully, "your nephew and your sister are clearly in distress - very loud distress and you-"

"And whilst I am an avid supporter of young people using their voices to express their displeasure, I also believe they should take the time to first learn to form proper reasoning and negotiation tactics - or, any words at all, really," Eloise huffs, wrinkling her nose when the baby's warbling somehow seems to get louder, as if taking personal offence to her words. "If I am to work my way into a university seat, then I will need to keep my hearing fully intact and untarnished by screaming infants so that I may enjoy each lecture to the fullest."

"Eloise!" Penelope admonishes, swatting her arm gently with their shared book before rising to her feet. "Your ears will not suffer any permanent damage from a few minutes spent cuddling with your dear nephew."

"Well, if you are so certain then you take him, but do not expect me to play scribe for you when your ears begin to ring."

"A marvellous idea, Eloise," Violet - having clearly decided to ignore the latter half of her daughter's statement and latch onto the former - claps her hands together once, smiling broadly. "Penelope, you will come and hold Augie for a few moments, won't you dear?"

Twelve eyes turn on her with startling synchronicity and Penelope freezes under their heavy gaze. Whilst Violet's stare pleads for her acceptance, Daphne looks fairly hesitant at the suggestion, eyeing Penelope up and down thoughtfully, though not at all impolitely.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure if…" Daphne begins, then winces as one of Augie's flailing hands takes hold of a loose curl and yanks. "It is not that I do not trust you Penelope, of course, however I know you are the youngest of your siblings and neither of your sisters have yet to bear children. Have you ever held a baby before?"

Penelope is not offended by the duchess' questioning, though she feels the weight of her scrutiny nonetheless. Fortunately, she is able to answer in the affirmative. "I have visited a few times with Ma- my cousin's children and have cradled and comforted them often during my stays," she says.

"Of course, how is Lady Crane faring in motherhood?" The duchess asks kindly, having often wondered how Miss Thompson's story had continued after the small part she herself had played in it.

"I believe she has found great fulfilment in the love and care she has for her twins. All three are healthy and comfortable in Lord Crane's country estate,' Penelope replies with a smile, pleased to be able to share the news as talk of her cousin is so often - and, she supposes, fairly - shut down by her own family and she would not normally dare to invoke her name amongst the Bridgertons, but she remembers the odd sort of kinship Daphne had felt for Marina towards the end of her time in Mayfair.

"Oh, twins, I - well, usually I would think the thought quite delightful, but in moments such as this…" Daphne trails off with a heavy, wet sigh, indicating to her still fussing child with a tilt of her head. "Do they cry like this too?" She asks, a self conscious wobble to her voice.

"Constantly," Penelope responds with a laugh, and by the way Daphne's shoulders sag she thinks the single word might have been just the reassurance the other woman has been longing to hear for a while. The duchess edges closer to Penelope slowly, still cradling her son closely, but her resolve is clearly being chipped away. "Though they are not without rest, of course, and nor are they any less a source of great joy. "

"And Marina? She is content to allow others to soothe her children when they are in distress and wanting for naught but their mother? It does not make her feel… unworthy of them?"

Penelope weighs Daphne's questions carefully, knowing her next answer will be an important one, whether or not it inclines her towards handing her son over for a brief respite.

"My cousin is as clever as she is loving of her children," she says carefully, playing the words over in her head to make sure they fit together right, "and she knows that the best version of herself that she can give to them is the one that takes her rests where she can and accepts the support of those few willing to give it - it takes a village, or so I hear."

Daphne nods slowly, chewing the inside of her lip. She turns teary eyes towards her husband, who dips his head to place a kiss upon her temple.

"It might be nice to have… a nap, perhaps, just a short one," behind the duchess, Simon and her mother share a look and both slide in close to Daphne's sides, resting a hand each by her elbows, "or if you would not mind to take him just for a moment whilst Simon and I freshen ourselves up a little."

"The nap, I think, would be an excellent idea!" Simon interjects hastily, casting meaningful eyes towards Penelope.

"There is little as restorative to a new mother as her sleep," Violet insists, nodding emphatically when her daughter looks to her searchingly, "after Anthony was born I was awake with him day and night, scarcely allowing anyone else to hold him, not even Edmund when he had been particularly irksome. But by the time Benedict arrived, I had certainly learnt my lesson."

"I shall be happy to take him for as long as you should like me to," Penelope says quietly, placatingly, easing her own hand into the mix of limbs to stroke gently over Daphne's forearm just below where she holds Augustus, though she is careful not to touch the baby without his mother's express permission.

"Just-" Daphne chews her lip, looking back and forth between the streaming eyes of her red faced child and the patient ones of her red headed acquaintance, "just for a moment then."

Neither Penelope nor Daphne notice the sighs of relief that echo around the room, both as focused as they are on transferring the still weeping Augie safely from one set of arms into another. Penelope is careful to support the baby's head with one hand as she tucks him into her elbow and begins to sway in a sort of figure eight motion, stroking the back of her finger repeatedly down a tiny, tear soaked nose.

For their part, Violet and Simon are quick to use their hold on Daphne's arms to pull her back a step, lest the anxious mother attempt to reclaim her child too quickly. Exhausted, the duchess collapses heavily into the cradle of their shoulders, allowing them (mostly her husband) to support her weight and keep her head above her aching feet.

Assured that his sister is being properly fussed over, Anthony's attentions stay fixed firmly on Penelope. She is still moving rhythmically and Anthony is certain he can make out soft humming mixed in with his nephew's continued wails. With warm eyes and a patient smile teasing her lips, Penelope looks every bit like a doting mother and Anthony is completely transfixed by the picture she makes.

He has known that she enjoys children, has watched her continue to humour Gregory and Hyacinths near constant clamouring for her time and attention, but to see her with a baby is something else entirely. With her womanly figure, it is not difficult to imagine what she would look like as an expectant mother - her belly rounded out and, God, her breasts somehow even more enlarged - and imagine her he does. She would be radiant, he knows for certain, glowing in that way they say all women do but it would be different because it would be Penelope. And if she were pregnant, if she was to bear his child, then he would not be able to keep his hands or eyes or lips off her for even a moment.

With Daphne distracted in her husband and mother's embraces and Anthony's head drifting further into the clouds, it leaves only Benedict still paying attention to his friend and nephew, and so it is him that notices the sudden change in the atmosphere first.

"Good God," he breathes, just loud enough for his family to hear him. They turn as one to watch as he steps out from behind his easel at last, an astonished look painted fresh over his face. "He has stopped."

The words take a second to register, then the room at large is whipping back around to stare at Penelope, where she continues to sway with the babe, the loudest sound he makes a long yawn.

Daphne shoots up straight, stepping forward and out from her mother and husband's holds to get a closer look as Penelope strokes her finger over Augustus' nose once, twice, three times more, and then, her son is asleep.

"How did you…" Daphne whispers, fresh tears springing to the corners of her eyes, "I have been trying for hours and you just-"

"Babies sense stress, your Grace," Penelope answers, soft and just as quietly, "Augie could not settle because he knew you were not settled; it is a sign of how much he loves you, and not an indication of any wrongdoing on your part. He just needed to see that you were being taken care of."

Despite Penelope's attempts at reassurance, Daphne is forced to slap a hand over her own mouth to stifle a sob as moisture trails down her cheeks in waves. She reaches her hands forward towards her son and Penelope moves to hand him over until Simon and Violet rush to intervene.

"No!" Simon cries, just loudly enough that they all share a wince and whip their gazes back to Augie. A collective sigh goes around the room when he does not wake. Simon clears his throat quietly, then continues at a whisper, "perhaps we should not disturb him, dear," he says to his wife, cuing his hand around her elbow to begin slowly turning her back in his direction, "he is finally asleep, after all."

"Simon is right, dearest," her mother adds, wrapping an arm around her back from the other side, "mother sleeps when baby sleeps, yes? Let's get you to bed."

Daphne nods, taking a step with them towards the door before she shakes her head and turns to look over her shoulder, unsure. "Oh, I couldn't possibly leave Penelope to-"

"You absolutely could," she cuts in quickly. "It won't be long until he is sleeping deeply enough that I can transfer him to the nursery, I am certain. And I'll send for you the second he becomes unsettled."

"You're a guest," Daphne insists, but she's still slowly trailing away with her mother and husband, and she speaks around a deep yawn, "you'll be dreadfully bored down here all on your own."

"How could I be bored when Eloise," she looks over her shoulder towards the sofa with a smile, only to find it empty. Disappointed but not a lick surprised, she rolls her eyes, but makes sure to keep the smile fixed on her face when she turns back to the Duchess. "…is gone. No matter, Augie here is fine enough company even when he is asleep."

"And in case he should not suffice, then I shall stay and keep our guest entertained," Anthony says, reminding the room of his presence. He hopes his sister is tired enough to miss the panicked look that overtakes Penelope's face.

"I am also still here," Benedict snorts, tucked back behind his canvas. Their mother and brother in law hiss at his volume, but he waves them away, only his hand visible as he makes a shooing motion towards the hallway.

Placated and outnumbered - and just about asleep on her feet - it takes only a little more cajoling from Simon and Violet to see Daphne ushered from the room at last, her husband all but carrying her up the stairs to their room.

Though they all breathe a sigh of relief as the weary mother finally departs, a new, thick tension settles over the room. Benedict's paintbrush scratching away at his canvas sounds much louder than it should, joined by the mechanical ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Anthony watches Penelope as she watches his nephew (Benedict peaks around his easel to watch them both, amused) until finally she turns and heads back towards the settee.

Her steps are light and she sways rhythmically as she walks, careful not to disturb her charge. Anthony can't help but follow the swing of her hips with his eyes, barely registering that his feet are following her path, too, until he is lowering himself to sit beside her.

Penelope very pointedly does not turn to look at him, his presence only acknowledged outwardly by the way her shoulders tense up towards her ears. Anthony sucks in a deep breath through his nose and opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it.

"If you are hoping to continue the discussion from our previous meeting then I would like to remind you that you ought not yell at me whilst I am holding your sleeping nephew," she says, staring straight ahead and clearly trying to keep the wobble out of her voice but he hears it anyway.

"I would never dare risk waking him now, lest I find myself on the receiving end of Simon's ire," he replies lightly, going for a tentative smile that she doesn't see.

"I believe you'd be wise to concern yourself more with the temper of the exhausted mother and her mean right hook than any punishment His Grace might bestow upon you."

Benedict snorts again, calling over a jolly, "quite right, Penelope!" that causes her grim facade to crack ever so slightly, her head ducking to smile demurely down at baby Augustus.

Anthony, however, glares at the easel, irritated as much by the timing of Benedict's interruption as his seemingly effortless ability to skate above the tension of any situation.

He leans back in his seat, looking first at the windows and then around the room as a whole. "Brother, the light in here is dwindling, is it not?" (it is not) "Perhaps you ought to go find somewhere else to continue your painting. I would so hate for you to strain your eyes."

Annoyingly, Benedict only laughs quietly, but so does Penelope - even if she still does not meet his eyes - so his ire is quite quick to melt.

"I am afraid this particular piece requires that I stay right here a while longer," he answers, peeking his head round to grin widely at the pair, "you may go on pretending I'm not here. Pay no attention to the man behind the easel."

Anthony huffs but Penelope giggles again and when he turns back to her, he is pleasantly surprised to meet her eyes straight on. She smiles, small and uncertain, but he must wait a beat too long to return it because her gaze returns to the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Lord Bridgerton, I-"

"Anthony," he replies.

"Anthony," she parrots, "I am certain you must have more questions for me since our… altercation last week, but I assume my continued welcome in your home means that you have chosen not to share your discovery with your family yet, and for that I must thank you."

"There is no need for-"

"However I understand that you can not continue to keep hold your silence, nor would I expect you to and I-"

"Penelope, I have no intention of telling anyone about-"

A gurgle startles them both, the minute tightening of Augie's hold around his uncle's finger, and they freeze, snapping their mouths closed and staring in horror down at the baby. He shifts, wiggling further into Penelope's hold and nuzzling his cheek against the shiny fabric of her dress, over her stomach.

He blinks his eyes open, takes a good look at them, then smacks his lips together and promptly falls back asleep.

"Perhaps a sign that we should table our conversation there for now," Penelope whispers, peering over at him through her lashes, with cheeks flushed a shade darker than her fuschia dress.

"No, no, I think Augie here was reminding me that I ought to get to the point," Anthony replies, just as quiet, "I did not corner you here without reason."

Sparing one last glance over at the easel to confirm his bothersome brother is occupied, Anthony shifts so his whole body is angled towards Penelope and his nephew. Slowly, so as not to spook either of them, he leans into their shared space, peering down at little Augie's peaceful face.

"You are very good with him," he says quietly, reaching forward to brush his knuckle over the baby's fist and delighting when, without waking, he uncurls his little fingers to grasp onto it. "You will make an excellent mother."

Close to her as he is, he hears her sharp intake of breath. Feels it on his cheek when she releases it past her lips.

"You've been avoiding me," he says, tilting his chin so he is can look up at her, still bending into her space.

"Can you blame me?" She laughs nervously, resituating Augie so that she can lift one arm to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear without jostling him.

Anthony catches her hand on its way back down and finally she looks at him, all watery blue eyes and bitten lips. He curls his fingers around the back of her hand, his thumb tucked into her palm, and pulls her knuckles towards his face as if he might kiss them, but changes course half way so that their joined hands sit snug against his chest.

"I don't blame you," he tells her softly, "not for anything. And I don't want you to be sorry for it, either."

The battle to keep her tears at bay is lost as Penelope finally allows them to come tumbling down her cheeks, one after another after another. She holds onto her composure enough that she doesn't shake or sob or sniff, if not for her own dignity's sake but for the sleeping baby in her arms. She wonders what Daphne might have to say if she were to walk in now.

Anthony, close as he still is, slowly works his finger free from his Nephew's fist, then sets his palm against Penelope's cheek and uses his thumb to sweep away her tears, not letting them pass the apple of her cheek. She leans into his touch, which is reassuring; proof that her reaction is not a sign that she is upset with him, or at least not to the point that she no longer trusts him, as he feared could be the case.

"Thank you," she breathes, her voice stuck beneath the lump in her throat but he hears her nonetheless, squeezing her hand and tucking that errant curl back behind her ear. "I have been so worried," she tells him, "about what you or your family might say, or even whether I would be allowed to speak to any of you again."

"I was harsh with you, I know, but I, we, would never abandon you, Penelope," Anthony says firmly, leaving no room in his voice for doubt, "my anger was born before our paths had crossed that night, and my fear for your safety fanned it's flames, because it is terrifying, Penelope. It scares me even now to know the risks you have taken, to wonder how often you have made that trip alone and unprotected. I can only assume as many journeys have been taken as there have been issues published?"

Penelope bobs her head in confirmation and Anthony nods once in return. He shifts back so his shoulders are straight, removing his hand from her cheek to join their connected ones, still pressed against the fabric of his shirt.

"Then I would like to reaffirm my offer," he says,

Her brows furrow together, head tilting to the side as she parses over his words. "Your… offer?"

"Of marriage."

Penelope blinks, several times, long and hard.

"You can not be serious," she balks, making a half hearted attempt to pull her arm away but Anthony holds fast, stroking his fingers over her knuckles in a soothing rhythm.

"But I am," he says, "very much so, and more with every passing thought of you. I am in want of a suitable wife and viscountess and you fit the bill to a tee, and assuming that role would bring your worries of financial security to an abrupt end. A union between us will benefit us both greatly."

"I do not wish to marry you because you think I need to, Anthony, or because it would be 'beneficial'," Penelope replies sternly, turning her face away.

Anthony's ears choose to hear her rebuttal selectively. "But you do wish to marry me?" he asks,

"It does not signify. You are a Bridgerton, you will marry for love."

"But you do?" He presses.

"I wish to marry someone who wishes to marry me," she answers to the space over his shoulder, feeling her cheeks flush hot all the way to her ears, "I do not need to be saved."

"Penelope, for as long as you have been a staple in this household, I cannot imagine that I have given you the impression that I am a man who goes after things he does not want," he responds easily, the hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth,"I am selfish, glad to leave the heroics to my brother. I am asking you to marry me because I want you to be my wife."

She considers his words for a moment, chewing on her lips in thought before finally tilting her head to face him again. "Well, you have not asked me yet," she says, then at his quirked brow she tacks on, "not today, at least."

"Penelope Featherington, will you marry me?"

Footsteps echo down the hallway, fast approaching the drawing room, and Anthony loses Penelope's attention as she swivels around to face the door in anticipation of whoever is coming to interrupt them.

"Oh, I am so pleased to see my grandson is still sleeping," Violet sighs, smiling broadly as she sweeps into the room, "however, Penelope, dear, you really needn't hold him the whole time. You will tire yourself."

"I do not mind, he is hardly a burden," she replies, glancing towards Anthony from the corner of her eye. She gives him a closed lip smile, lifting one shoulder in a shrug of an apology, and he nods, understanding that the moment has passed.

"Come dear," his mother continues, paying him no mind, "we will head up to the nursery and get him out down in the crib, then perhaps some tea?"

Anthony watches as Penelope is herded from the room, looking back at him over her shoulder several times. He smiles reassuringly at her and she returns it, but once she is out of sight he releases a heavy sigh, slumping back into his seat.

He gives himself only a moment to sit in his disappointment, reminding himself that Penelope had not outright denied his suit - in fact, he feels fairly assured that she was on the brink of accepting him, and perhaps now they would be basking in the glow of a fresh engagement had his mother not walked in when she did.

Knowing there is nought more to be done for now, he stands, brushing his hands down over his jacket and trousers too straighten himself out, then heads for his study.

On his way out of the door, Anthony is stopped abruptly by a hand shooting out from behind an easel, curling around his bicep to pull him from his path.

"Benedict," he says, clearing his throat to cover a startled yelp, "I must admit, I had quite forgotten you were here."

"Clearly," his brother smirks, raising an amused eyebrow. "Come, I want to show you what I'm working on."

Anthony sighs, not particularly in the mood to admire yet another painting of a fruit bowl, but even the prickliest version of him still wishes to be a supportive older brother (and knows he has little choice in the matter.

"Go on then," he huffs, letting Benedict manoeuvre him around to face the canvas, "let's see what you have been- oh."

He is not a connoisseur of art, has never cared much for the difference between a Rembrandt and any other piece hung in the London galleries, nor the ones lining the walls of his own home. Anthony has only ever really held particular fondness for a few landscapes, ones depicting his own ancestral homes and some of old school halls from his days spent at Eton and Cambridge, and portraits of his family. The one that hangs in this very room, of his mother and father together in the prime of their love and youth, has always been his favourite, but he does not pay mind to the colours or the brush strokes, only that it is of good likeness to his parents.

All of this to say, Anthony Bridgerton is in no position to claim the piece of art in front of him - especially in its unfinished state - as a masterpiece, and yet he is positive that it is fact. For how else could one describe a work with such vibrant colour, that enhances the glow of the room and turns auburn into strands of pure, vibrant gold. Porcelain that he feels he could reach through the canvas and touch, feel its soft smoothness under the pads of his fingers. Bright fuschia that does not detract from the otherwise pale blue scene, complementing it in a way that defies all better judgement.

"Benedict," he breathes, "this is…"

"Not quite finished," his brother supplies, but he smiles, easy and knowing and more than a touch smug, "though I feel I need your input to get it there."

"What could I possibly add to this?" Anthony asks, stopping himself just short of running his fingers over the wet canvas.

"You can tell me which ring you plan to use when you offer for her properly," Benedict replies, "i would like to paint it on her finger before I have this one framed and offer it as your engagement present."