The garden was a serene sanctuary, with wisteria draped elegantly over trellises and the gentle hum of butterflies flitting between the blooms. A light breeze carried the scent of fresh lavender, though it did little to quell the tension that now hung thick in the air between Anthony Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington.

Penelope turned to face him, her posture rigid, hands clasped before her as though bracing for battle. "Why have you come here, my lord?" She asked, her voice smooth yet devoid of warmth.

"Why have I –" Anthony's voice caught with disbelief. "Surely you jest, Miss Featherington. Or have you forgotten our arrangement with her Majesty?"

"There is nothing to forget." Penelope replied, her voice as brittle as frozen leaves. "I made no promises to return to London."

"We are to court and marry this season." Anthony's words carried the weight of his viscountcy. "The Queen herself decreed it."

"I decline."

The simple words hung in the air between them like frost. Anthony's patience, already worn thin by the long journey, began to fray. "You cannot simply decline a royal decree. The consequences –"

"The consequences?" Penelope's laugh held no warmth. "What consequences could be worse than what I already face in London?"

Suddenly, the truth of her intentions struck Anthony like a physical blow. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You mean to force the Queen's hand. You still seek death or exile."

Penelope's silence was answer enough.

"By God, you do." Anthony ran a hand through his hair, propriety momentarily forgotten. "And what of those you leave behind? What of your family? Have you given any thought to them?"

"I have thought of nothing else." She replied, her composure cracking slightly. "You were mistaken in believing I would honor whatever plans of marriage had been discussed before."

A muscle in Anthony's jaw twitched, his patience waning. "Mistaken?" He echoed, his voice edged with incredulity. "Are you telling me that you have never even given a thought to following the Queen's decree? That you meant to leave me to bear the weight of her displeasure alone?"

She turned her gaze to the hedgerow, eyes tracing the delicate petals of a nearby rose, as if the conversation did not hold the gravity it did. "You forget, my lord, that I had sought the Queen's judgment willingly." She said softly. "I was prepared for whatever worst punishment she deemed fit."

Anthony stilled, his heart clenching as the truth of her words settled over him. He still could not believe – Penelope had gone before the Queen not to seek absolution, but to request exile or death. How can a young lady like hers submit to that conclusion?

His voice, when he spoke, was quieter, more measured. "So it is true.." He murmured. "You would rather the scaffold or a life in banishment than a marriage to me."

At last, Penelope turned to face him fully, and the cold sorrow in her sky blue eyes made Anthony's breath catch. She did not speak, but her silence was more than answer enough.

Something in him cracked then. He had known resistance, had faced countless challenges, but never had he encountered a wall so impenetrable as the one Penelope Featherington had built around herself. Still, he was a Bridgerton, and he would not be dismissed so easily.

He straightened, his determination hardening. "Very well." He declared. "If you will not return to London, then I shall remain here in Cornwall until I convince you otherwise."

That startled her. "You cannot mean to stay." She said, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Anthony lifted his chin. "I mean precisely that."

Without waiting for further protest, he turned and strode back toward the house. Penelope, flustered and furious, followed him, her footsteps quick and light against the gravel path.

By the time they reached the drawing room, Petunia sat with a knowing look, a cup of tea in hand. She raised an expectant brow.

"My lady." Anthony began, inclining his head with the impeccable courtesy of a gentleman. "I would be most obliged if you would allow me to stay at your estate for the time being. I fear my business here is far from concluded."

Aunt Petunia studied him for a long moment before setting down her teacup with a deliberate motion. "A viscount in my home is not something I ever expected." She said dryly. "And I do believe my grandniece would prefer otherwise." She flicked her gaze toward Penelope, who stood tense and tight-lipped.

"Nevertheless." Petunia continued. "I have no grounds upon which to refuse you, my lord. You are welcome to stay."

Penelope exhaled sharply, and Anthony smirked ever so slightly at her vexation.

Petunia turned to her grandniece. "Penelope, do be a dear and show Lord Bridgerton to the purple room."

Penelope stiffened. "The purple room?" She echoed, aghast.

"Yes." Petunia said with a wave of her hand. "It is the most suitable for a gentleman of his standing. And as you well know, it is the chamber just beside yours. You will see to it that he is comfortable."

Anthony did not miss the way Penelope's fingers curled into fists at her sides. He nearly felt sorry for her predicament – nearly.

With great reluctance, Penelope turned and made for the stairs, her steps sharp and purposeful. Anthony followed, unable to suppress the satisfaction that came with each clipped tap of her heels against the wooden steps.

The corridor upstairs was dimly lit by the soft glow of candle sconces, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. As they reached the door to his assigned chamber, Anthony turned to her, his expression more solemn than before.

"Tell me something, Miss Featherington." He said quietly. "Do you truly wish for the worst to befall you?"

She blinked, taken aback. "What are you implying, my lord?"

Anthony's gaze bore into hers. "I know why you confessed to the Queen." He said. "I know you sought exile, or worse. Tell me –" His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "Do you find marriage to me so intolerable that you would rather face the gallows?"

Penelope inhaled sharply, her eyes flickering with something unreadable – pain, regret, something more. But she did not answer.

Anthony clenched his fists at his sides. He had always one to doubt himself, had been the first to second-guess his worth since he took up the mantle of the viscountcy. But standing before Penelope now, having rejected him so wholly and so utterly, he felt something close to defeat settle in his chest.

For a man who had once been so certain of his own path, it was a humbling thing to be turned away.

This was the third time a woman had refused to marry him.

Perhaps, this time, it should not sting quite so much. And yet, it did.

Penelope studied him for a long moment, as though she, too, could see the cracks forming in his carefully composed exterior.

But instead of answering his question, she simply lowered her gaze and stepped back. "You must be weary from your journey, my lord." She murmured. "I shall leave you to your rest."

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Anthony standing alone in the dim corridor, drowning in the silence she left behind.