The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the polished mahogany of Penelope's writing desk as she settled into the quiet solitude of her bedchamber. The weight of the evening pressed against the window panes, casting elongated shadows upon the pale blue wallpaper.
Mrs. Varley had left a neat stack of correspondence upon her desk earlier that afternoon, and now, with her tea cooling beside her, Penelope sifted through the familiar handwriting of her solicitor, a warm note from Aunt Petunia, and a few other mundane inquiries. It was only when she reached the last missive, its seal bearing the modest crest of the orphanage, that her breath hitched.
She broke the wax with practiced ease, unfolding the parchment with delicate fingers. Her eyes skimmed the words, and almost immediately, she let out a quiet gasp.
Rae, who had been methodically folding freshly laundered linens near the hearth, glanced up at once. "Miss?" She inquired, her brow furrowed in mild concern. "Are you unwell?"
Penelope swallowed, her lips parting slightly as if to respond, yet words eluded her for a moment. She lowered the letter to her lap, fingers still gripping the parchment as though it might vanish if she released it.
"There is nothing to be alarmed about, Rae." She said, though her voice lacked its usual assuredness.
The lady's maid, who had attended to her since her first season, was not easily convinced. She set down the linens and approached, casting a wary glance at the letter. "Beggin' your pardon, miss, but it is a rare thing to see you so taken aback by a letter. What news does it bring?"
Penelope hesitated before exhaling softly. "It is from the orphanage."
Rae blinked in surprise. "The sisters? But you were only there the other day."
"Yes." Penelope murmured, her gaze returning to the neatly inked lines. "They wished to extend their gratitude."
"For what, miss?"
Penelope glanced up, still grappling with the weight of the revelation. "For a donation." She paused before adding. "A very large donation."
Rae's brows knit together in confusion, but when Penelope finally met her gaze, there was an understanding that passed between them. The lady's maid's eyes widened, realization dawning upon her. "Lord Bridgerton?" She asked, though the answer was already clear.
Penelope gave a slow nod. "Three thousand pounds."
Rae's hands flew to her mouth in astonishment. "Three thousand? Oh, miss, that is a fortune! The sisters and the little ones will do so well with that sum. They will not have to worry about food, nor repairs, nor the coming winter!" She laughed, almost giddy with the thought of it.
A warmth bloomed in Penelope's chest at the thought of how much the donation would aid the orphanage, but beneath it lay another, far more perplexing feeling – one that she could not quite name.
Rae, ever perceptive to her mistress, tilted her head with a knowing look. "I daresay, miss, his Lordship would not have made such a grand gesture were it not for you."
Penelope's fingers tightened around the letter. "You think so?"
The maid scoffed, returning to her duties with a light shake of her head. "Iknowso." She said airily, gathering the last of the linens. "It is clear as day to anyone with eyes that the Viscount is quite taken with you. A lady does not receive such devotion from a gentleman unless his heart is well and truly engaged."
Penelope's cheeks warmed at the suggestion, but she schooled her features into neutrality. "Lord Bridgerton is a man of means. A donation of such size is hardly a strain upon his purse."
Rae smirked, her arms full of folded sheets. "That may be true, but gentlemen of means do not go about tossing three thousand pounds at orphanages forjustanyone." She gave Penelope a pointed look before adding. "Mark my words, miss, the Viscount will be a fine husband to you."
With that, she bustled out of the room, leaving Penelope alone in the quiet glow of the candlelight.
Penelope remained seated, staring at the letter as her thoughts swirled like autumn leaves caught in the wind.
Did Anthony truly make such a gesture because of her?
Her mind warred with itself, torn between reason and an unfamiliar, fluttering warmth that threatened to take root in her heart.
She had always known Anthony to be a man of duty, bound by obligation and the expectation of his title. Their courtship, however unconventional, was one she had come to believe was more for the sake of propriety than for any true regard he might hold for her. Yet, his actions of late seemed to tell another story.
The way he looked at her – trulylookedat her, with something intense and unreadable in his dark eyes. The way his touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary when he offered his arm. The way he leaned in when she spoke, as if every word she uttered held weight.
And now this.
A sum so grand, gifted not for society's approval, not for recognition, but for a cause she alone held dear.
Penelope exhaled, pressing her palm lightly against her chest as if to steady the racing of her heart.
Could it be that Anthony Bridgerton was not simply performing the role of a besotted suitor, but rather…wasone?
And yet – she did not dislike it.
After a long moment, she reached for her quill, dipping it into the inkwell with steady fingers.
If Anthony Bridgerton had indeed gone to such lengths, then he would hear from her.
—-
Among the many discoveries Anthony Bridgerton had made during his courtship of Penelope Featherington, her profound love of literature stood foremost. While he had long known of her literary discussions with Eloise, it was only now he truly understood the depth of her passion for the written word. Indeed, whenever he called at the Featherington residence, Portia invariably had to summon her youngest daughter from the library.
On this particular afternoon, Anthony made an unprecedented request of Lady Featherington – to allow him to join Penelope in the library rather than having her called to the drawing room. Portia, ever eager to secure her daughter's marriage to the Viscount, readily agreed, though naturally insisting that Penelope's maid remain present as chaperone.
When Anthony entered the library, the sight before him quite stole his breath away. Penelope reclined upon her favorite chaise by the window, the afternoon light casting an ethereal glow about her person. Her auburn curls caught the sunlight like burnished copper, her cream-white skin seeming to glow with an inner radiance. But it was her eyes that held him transfixed – as blue and endless as the summer sky, currently lost in the pages before her.
The Featherington library was not grand like those of Bridgerton House or the palatial residences of Mayfair, but it was Penelope's sanctuary. The afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, casting golden rays upon the well-worn spines of her favorite novels. The scent of parchment, ink and polished mahogany lingered in the air, blending with the faint floral perfume that always seemed to cling to her.
She had been utterly engrossed in her reading, her mind traveling far beyond the confines of her home, when the soft rustling of fabric and the clearing of a throat pulled her from her reverie.
"Viscount Bridgerton, my lady." Rae announced dutifully.
Penelope blinked, momentarily startled to see Anthony standing before her instead of waiting in the drawing room as decorum dictated. The sight of him – tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably handsome in his finely tailored coat – was enough to momentarily still her thoughts. His dark eyes, usually so unreadable, held a warmth that sent an unfamiliar flutter through her chest.
Rae, ever the diligent chaperone, curtsied and stepped back, keeping the door slightly ajar.
Anthony inclined his head in greeting. "Penelope."
"Anthony." She returned, rising and offering him a polite curtsy.
"You look positively lovely today." He murmured, his voice laced with something softer than his usual jesting tone.
A warmth spread across her cheeks, the unexpected compliment catching her off guard. On any other occasion, she might have brushed it aside with a wry remark, but something in his expression – earnest, unwavering – made her simply respond. "Thank you, my lord."
Anthony's lips curved ever so slightly, as though pleased with her acceptance of his words. Then, as if recalling the purpose of his visit, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a neatly folded envelope, extending it toward her.
"Your earnings." He said simply.
Penelope took the envelope without hesitation, her fingers brushing against the fine parchment before she slipped it between the pages of her book, as though tucking away a secret. "I appreciate your trouble." She murmured.
A silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, yet weighted with something unspoken.
Penelope, never one to shy from addressing the unacknowledged, finally spoke. "Eloise came to see me."
Anthony exhaled a soft hum, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. "I suspected she might."
"I turned her away." She admitted, the words barely above a whisper.
Anthony's expression softened, though there was no reproach in his gaze. "That was your choice to make. You need not feel guilty for it."
She searched for his face for any trace of disappointment, but found none. He spoke with such quiet understanding that it unsettled her. Was it possible he truly held no resentment?
"I saw her that night." He continued. "Tried to dissuade her, but my sister is a Bridgerton through and through – headstrong, relentless, and entirely incapable of heeding sound advice."
A breath of laughter escaped Penelope before she could stop it. "A true Bridgerton trait, I see."
"Indeed." Anthony replied, his lips quirking into a smirk. "It is both our greatest flaw and our most admirable quality."
Penelope let the moment settle, before she folded her hands nearly in her lap and, after a pause, said softly. "Thank you."
Anthony's brow arched. "For what, precisely?"
She lifted her gaze to his, her expression unreadable. "The orphanage." She said simply.
A flicker of surprise crossed his features, his lips parting as though caught off guard.
"I know about the donation." She continued, her voice quiet but firm. "The sisters wrote to me."
Anthony did not speak at once. He had not intended for her to learn of his contribution – it was not done for accolades or recognition. It had been for her.
But before he could form a response, Penelope smiled – a rare, radiant smile so genuine it seemed to light the very room.
Something in Anthony's chest tightened.
It was the first time she had looked at him that way – without hesitation, without reservation – since Cornwall.
He could not stop himself.
Standing, he reached for her, extending a hand.
Penelope hesitated only briefly before placing her fingers in his palm, expecting perhaps that he meant to kiss her knuckles as was proper. Instead, in one swift motion, Anthony pulled her into his embrace.
A gasp left her lips, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest in protest, but his arms – strong, unyielding – held her firmly.
"Anthony –"
"Shhh." He whispered, his lips brushing against the crown of her curls.
Penelope stiffened, propriety warring with the undeniable warmth of his embrace. But as the seconds passed, and as she felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, something within her softened.
Anthony exhaled, his voice a low murmur against her temple. "I did not give the money for recognition, nor for charity's sake alone. I did it becauseyoucare for them. Because I knew that even with all your success, you could not openly give without drawing suspicion." he pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "I only wish to support you, Penelope. I will do everything I can to make you happy."
Her breath caught.
She had never doubted his sense of duty, nor his commitment to their courtship, but this – this was something else entirely.
She did not need to see his face to know he meant every word.
And so, for the first time since their courtship began, she did not pull away.
Instead, she let herself lean into his warmth, into the quiet comfort of his presence, and simply let herself feel.