The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Featherington drawing room, casting delicate golden beams across the carpeted floor. Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of his illustrious family, found himself standing in its midst, bouquet in one hand and a neatly wrapped box of fine confections in the other. Though he was no stranger to formal calls, there was something peculiarly different about this visit – something that set his heart to an unfamiliar rhythm.
Briarly, the Featherington butler, led him inside with his usual measured grace, but the older man's lips twitched ever so slightly when his gaze flickered towards the young lady by the window.
Penelope Featherington sat with perfect poise, utterly absorbed in her book, seemingly unaware of the world around her. The sunlight framed her in an almost ethereal glow, catching in her auburn curls and illuminating the soft ivory of her complexion. Anthony, for a moment, was struck silent. She was breathtaking in the simplest of ways, unaware of her own allure – an aspect that made her all the more compelling.
Briarly, ever discreet, coughed lightly to draw attention to his guest.
"The Viscount Bridgerton for Miss Penelope." He announced smoothly.
At once, dowager baroness Portia Featherington and her eldest daughter, Prudence, who had been engaged in some idle gossip at the opposite end of the room, rose with an eagerness that barely masked their surprise.
"Lord Bridgerton!" Portia exclaimed, her voice lilting with the unmistakable thrill of seeing a titled gentleman taking an interest in her daughter. She smoothed her skirts and beamed at him. "What an unexpected delight this morning brings."
Prudence followed suit with a curtsy and a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Penelope, however, remained where she was, lifting her head ever so slowly, as if torn from a particularly engaging passage. She blinked at Anthony with an unreadable expression before closing her book with deliberate care and setting it aside. Rising to her feet, she executed a perfect curtsy, her voice soft but measured.
"My lord."
Anthony inclined his head in greeting, but did not miss the way her gaze, though polite, lacked any particular warmth. He had expected this. He had, after all, thrown her world into chaos with his sudden declaration of intent.
"Penelope." He said, stepping forward and extending the flowers and sweets. "A small token for the morning."
Penelope hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting them, her fingers brushing his ever so briefly. She glanced down at the fresh blooms, their vibrant hues stark against the cream of her gown, and then at the confectionary box tied with a silk ribbon.
"They are lovely." She murmured, studying them with the kind of detachment one might offer an interesting but irrelevant piece of art. Without much further ado, she turned and handed them off to Mrs. Varley, the housekeeper. "Please have these taken to my chambers."
Anthony watched the exchange, noting how little attachment she displayed to his offering. It amused him, in a way – she was resisting. But resistance had never been something to dissuade him; rather, it was a challenge to overcome.
"Shall we sit?" He prompted, gesturing toward the settee by the window.
Penelope nodded once and took her seat gracefully. Anthony settled beside her, while Portia Featherington perched nearby, her presence an obvious declaration of propriety and oversight.
Ever a dutiful suitor, Anthony began. "I trust you have had a restful night following our journey?"
Penelope folded her hands neatly in her lap, offering a placid nod. "I have had sufficient rest, my lord."
"My lord?" He asks, subtly reminding her of their agreement to forgo formalities when speaking with each other.
"A-Anthony.."
"Good." He said, studying her. "My mother was quite pleased to learn of your return to London. She has insisted that you call upon her for tea tomorrow."
At this, Penelope's lips pressed together in what Anthony recognised as the careful calculation of an answer. Her mother, however, left no room for refusal.
"What a splendid idea!" Portia interjected. "I am certain Penelope would be delighted."
Penelope smiled, though Anthony noted it was a shade too composed. "Indeed." She agreed. "I shall be there."
Satisfied, Anthony withdrew a small slip of paper and placed it before her. "I have taken the liberty of outlining our promenades for the coming weeks. We will be seen together frequently, which should allow ample opportunity to acclimate to the nature of our courtship."
Penelope's fingers brushed over the parchment, eyes scanning the carefully curated schedule. To an outsider, she appeared appropriately pleased, but Anthony knew better. He could see the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet restraint in her expression. She was playing the part expected of her.
"That is... very thorough of you." She remarked at last.
Anthony smirked slightly. "I do not believe in half-measures."
Portia clapped her hands together. "How wonderful! You shall be the most admired couple in London."
"Indeed." Anthony agreed, his voice laced with certainty. "Speaking of which, I shall serve as your escort for this evening's ball. It will be the perfect opportunity to formally introduce our courtship to the ton."
Penelope's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. "That will hardly be necessary." She murmured, though not so softly that Portia could not hear.
"Nonsense!" Portia declared. "Youmustattend. The ton will be abuzz with speculation; it is best you put all uncertainty to rest."
Penelope, caught between her mother's eager anticipation and Anthony's unwavering gaze, had little choice but to concede.
"As you say." She relented.
Anthony's smirk deepened at her reluctant agreement. "Excellent. And what color shall you be wearing tonight?"
Penelope frowned slightly, clearly puzzled by the inquiry. "Madame Delacroix has prepared a new gown for my return." She answered. "Mint green."
Anthony hummed in thought, storing the information away. He imagined she would look exquisite in such a shade.
Realizing he had exhausted his allotted time for a proper morning call, he rose to his feet. "Then I shall take my leave for now." He inclined his head toward Portia. "My lady."
Portia, positively glowing with satisfaction, curtsied. "We shall eagerly await this evening, my lord."
Penelope followed suit, though her gaze held an unreadable quality. "Good day, Anthony."
Anthony took his hat from Briarly, casting one last glance toward Penelope before making his departure.
Tonight, all of London would know she was his.
As the grand door of their drawing room had barely shut behind Viscount Bridgerton, Portia Featherington wasted no time in sweeping onto the settee beside her youngest daughter, eyes alight with triumph.
"Well, my dear Penelope." She began, voice laced with unmistakable excitement. "I must admit, I had not thought you capable of suchstrategy– to have ensnared a viscount, no less!"
Penelope, who had only just exhaled the breath she had been holding since Anthony's departure, felt the familiar weight of her mother's scrutiny settle upon her. With practiced patience, she folded her hands in her lap, willing herself to remain composed.
"I have done no ensnaring, mama." She replied evenly. "Lord Bridgerton and I have known one another for many years. We became better acquainted through a few exchanged letters during the off-season. It is merely that familiarity which has –"
"- led him to consider you as a wife?" Portia finished for her, grasping Penelope's hands and squeezing them with unrestrained delight. "Oh, my dear girl, what amiracle! A viscount! I daresay your sisters could never have aspired to such a match."
Across the room, Prudence huffed but said nothing, too absorbed in studying her reflection in a nearby looking glass.
Portia, meanwhile, prattled on, her mind already running ahead to wedding plans, grand dowries, and the prestige of a Bridgerton connection. Penelope merely sat there, offering small smiles and nods where appropriate, though inside, she could feel the walls closing in. The constant questioning, the scrutiny of her every word and movement – it was all beginning to suffocate her.
The Hawthorne Ball
The chandeliers in the grand ballroom of the Hawthorne estate shimmered with a thousand candlelit flames, casting golden reflections across polished floors and silk-clad guests. It was one of the anticipated events of the season, and the ton had arrived in full force, eager to observe, gossip, and of course, dance.
When Penelope Featherington arrived in the company of her mother and eldest sister, the air in the room shifted ever so slightly.
It was not merely her entrance, buthowshe entered.
She was adorned in a gown of the softest mint green, a shade that highlighted the delicate fairness of her complexion and the deep auburn of her curls. The cut of the dress, elegant yet subtly daring, flattered her figure in a way that left many blinking in astonishment.
Gone was the garish yellow that had plagued her for seasons past. In its place stood a lady who – if not yet fully confident – was beginning to step into her own.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, a susurration of curiosity and admiration. For the first time in a long while, Penelope Featherington felt trulyseen.
Ang yet, the weight of their collective attention made her stomach tighten with unease.
Then, as she descended the grand staircase, she saw him.
Anthony Bridgerton stood at the base of the stairs, dressed in impeccable evening attire. But what caught her attention was not merely his presence – it was his choice of dress.
His vest and cravat, typically the deep Bridgerton blue, were instead a shade of muted mint green.
Hershade.
Penelope's breath hitched, a warmth blooming in her chest. Whether deliberate or incidental, the effect was undeniable – they matched.
Anthony's gaze locked onto hers, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable yet reassuring. As she reached the final step, he stepped forward, offering his hand.
"Miss Featherington." He greeted smoothly, his fingers curling around hers before he brought them to his lips, pressing a gentlemanly kiss to the lace-covered knuckles. "You look exquisite this evening."
Portia, nearly beside herself with glee, curtsied deeply, as did Prudence, though her expression carried less enthusiasm.
"My lord." Portia tittered. "You are too kind."
Anthony smiled politely at her before turning his full attention back to Penelope. He slid her hand through the crook of his arm.
"Shall we take a turn about the ballroom?"
Penelope could only nod, still reeling from the fact that – of all things – Anthony Bridgerton had coordinated his attire to hers.
As they strolled along the periphery of the vast room, the whispers only grew.
"Lord Bridgerton, with Miss Featherington?"
"Are they courting?"
"I have never seen her look quite so... refined."
Penelope tensed slightly, but Anthony's voice, low and reassuring, broke through her thoughts.
"Pay them no mind." He murmured, his lips barely moving. "They are merely envious that I have the pleasure of your company."
She turned to him in surprise, only to find the corners of his lips lifted in faintest smirk.
"You carry yourself beautifully." Anthony observed quietly as they walked, his steady presence helping to calm her nerves despite the numerous eyes following their progress. "The entire room cannot help but notice your grace."
"I daresay you exaggerate." She replied, though his words had done their work – her nerves had begun to settle.
Anthony hummed in response, but said nothing further as they neared the section of the ballroom occupied by his family.
Upon seeing her, Violet Bridgerton's face lit with unmistakable joy.
"Oh, my dear girl!" She exclaimed, rising to her feet and enveloping Penelope in a warm embrace. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you returned to us. I have missed you terribly."
Penelope, though momentarily taken aback, felt herself relax into the maternal warmth of Lady Bridgerton's embrace.
"Thank you, Lady Bridgerton." She said softly.
"Violet." The elder woman corrected with a knowing smile. "You shall be family soon enough, my dear, as I told you in my letter."
Penelope flushed, though she managed a nod.
Benedict, seated beside his mother, chuckled as he regarded his elder brother.
"So it is true then?" He mused. "Anthony, youarecourting Miss Featherington?"
Anthony, ever composed, merely inclined his head.
Benedict let out a whistle. "Well, I must say, I did not expect this turn of events – but Iampleased by it." He turned to Penelope with a grin. "Welcome, then, to the madness that is the Bridgerton family. London has been terribly dull without you."
Penelope let out a small laugh, though her amusement was short-lived as Benedict's eyes flickered over his brother's attire.
"Good God!" He exclaimed, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Tell me Anthony – was it a deliberate choice to wear the precise shade of Miss Featherington's gown, or have you and the tailor become sentimental about color schemes?"
Penelope's cheeks colored as she realized their coordinated appearance, while Violet beamed with maternal approval. Eloise remained conspicuously silent, though her rigid posture spoke volumes.
Anthony merely raised a brow, unconcerned.
Penelope, however, glanced down at his vest and cravat, her breath catching as she once again took in the matching hue.
Heat crept up her neck.
Anthony, catching her reaction, leaned in slightly and murmured. "I take it you approve?"
She bit her lip before whispering back. "I shall reserve my opinion until after the ball ends."
As the orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz, Anthony turned to Penelope with an outstretched hand. "Might I have the honor of this dance?"
Penelope's surprise was genuine – the Viscount was notorious for avoiding the dance floor – but she placed her hand in his, understanding that their courtship required such public displays. As he led her to the center of the ballroom, she could feel the collective gaze of the ton following their every move, marking this moment as the official beginning of their carefully orchestrated performance.
And for the first time in her life, Penelope was not merely a wallflower.
She wasseen.
And she was dancing withhim.