The grand expanse of Green Park was alive with a spectacle the likes of which the ton had never before witnessed. The air was thick with the scent of sugared almonds and freshly baked tarts as vendors called out their wares, children tugged excitedly at their mothers' skirts, and ladies in their finest muslins clutched their parasols, their eyes alight with eager anticipation. Towering over them all, in the center of the fair, stood the monstrous air balloon, its silken exterior rippling slightly in the afternoon breeze. It was a sight that had drawn even her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, to witness the so-called miracle of flight, and where the Queen went, so too did the entirety of the ton.
Amongst the sea of spectators, Penelope Featherington made her arrival, as was customary, in the company of her family. Lady Portia Featherington led the way with her usual peacock-like strut on full display, with Prudence preening beside her in a rather unfortunate shade of yellow. Behind them, Philippa, clinging to the arm of Mister Albion Finch, giggled at something her husband whispered in her ear, oblivious to the world around them.
Penelope, though accustomed to her family's antics, felt the familiar stirrings of discomfort as they entered the crowd. The Featherington name had long been synonymous with scandal, and while her own recent transformation had forced the ton to re-evaluate their perception of her, she knew all too well how fickle their admiration could be. A single misstep, and she would once again be the subject of their ridicule.
It was in the midst of these thoughts that she heard her name being called.
"Miss Featherington!"
Penelope turned in time to see Violet Bridgerton making her way toward her, a warm smile gracing her features.
"Lady Bridgerton." Penelope greeted with a polite curtsy, only to stiffen slightly when she noticed another figure following in the Dowager Viscountess' wake.
Anthony.
He moved through the crowd with effortless grace, his long strides purposeful, his presence commanding. And though Penelope had spent far too much time in his company of late, she still felt her breath hitch when he reached them.
"My lady." Anthony greeted Portia with all the courtesy his rank demanded, before shifting his attention to Penelope. With a confidence that sent a thrill of unease through her, he took her gloved hand and, without hesitation, pressed a kiss upon it.
It was a fleeting touch, a mere brush of lips against silk, yet the implication was undeniable.
Penelope could hear her mother's suppressed squeal of delight as Portia fanned herself dramatically. "Oh, my! How very devoted you are, my lord."
Anthony did not so much acknowledge her words, his attention solely on Penelope. "May I have the honor of escorting you on a stroll, Miss Featherington?"
Though the words were spoken as a question, it was evident that Anthony fully expected her acquiescence.
Ever the opportunist, Portia beamed and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course, of course! Do take her along, my lord. And, naturally, one of your dear sisters will serve as chaperone, will they not?"
Anthony inclined his head, turning slightly. "Francesca?"
But before Francesca could so much as part her lips, another voice cut in.
"I shall go."
Anthony's brows shot up as he turned toward Eloise, who had stepped forward with uncharacteristic haste.
He regarded his sister warily, then flicked a glance at Penelope, whose expression remained perfectly composed. Though the faintest tension flickered in her features, she gave a near-imperceptible nod.
Anthony exhaled through his nose. "Very well."
With that, he placed Penelope's hand in the crook of his arm, his grip steady, warm, unyielding.
And so, with Eloise trailing behind, the Viscount and his intended set off through the fair, their path winding through the lively stalls, the murmurs of the ton following in their wake.
Though Eloise clearly wished to speak, Anthony ensured she was granted no such opportunity.
He kept Penelope engaged in private conversation, his voice pitched low, his focus entirely on her. He asked whether she had seen the plans for his recent renovations at Bridgerton House, whether she had read the novel he had recommended last week, whether she thought the silk gloves on display at the milliner's tent were of sufficient quality. It was all so utterly mundane, yet there was an intimacy to it – a quiet, deliberate attention that spoke of his growing regard.
It was only when they reached the confectionary tent that they were interrupted.
"Bridgerton! I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned the gentlemen's clubs altogether."
Anthony's expression darkened the moment he laid eyes on the speaker.
Lord Fife.
A man whose penchant for drink and loose women was matched only by his ability to irritate Anthony beyond reason.
Fife smirked as he rocked back on his heels, his gaze flickering to Penelope with something resembling amusement. "And here I see the reason for your absence. I must say, Bridgerton, it is quite the sight – our most esteemed Viscount, utterly besotted."
Anthony's grip on Penelope's hand tightened fractionally.
Fife, emboldened by the lack of immediate retaliation, pressed on. "I had thought your standards somewhat higher. But I suppose even the finest lords have their moments of weakness." He gestured lazily towards Penelope, his tone mocking. "A Featherington, of all things. And the smallest and roundest of the lot, no less."
The words hit their mark.
Though she had long since steeled herself against such comments, Penelope still felt the familiar sting. She kept her chin high, her lips pressed together, refusing to give Fife the satisfaction of a reaction.
But Anthony – Anthony reacted.
With measured precision, he stepped in front of her, his stance protective, his gaze filled with unmistakable warning.
"I advise you, Fife, to tread very carefully." He said, his voice deceptively calm. "For if you utter one more disparaging word about Miss Featherington, I will have no choice but to call you out."
Fife blinked. "You – what?"
Anthony did not waver. "You heard me. A duel, my lord. Pistols at dawn. Though given your appalling lack of honor, I daresay you would not even make it to the field."
A hush fell over the surrounding crowd.
Anthony's voice, firm and unwavering, rang through the air. "Let it be known, here and now, that Miss Featherington is the perfect woman to be my Viscountess. And I count myself immeasurably fortunate that she has accepted my suit."
Penelope's breath caught.
Anthony turned his gaze upon her, his expression softening ever so slightly. "If that means I must forgo the clubs, so be it. For there is no greater pleasure than being in Miss Featherington's company." He returned his attention to Fife, his jaw tightening once more. "If the rest of you were not so blind, you would see that no woman in this room – no woman in all of London – can compare to her wit, her intelligence, and her grace."
A murmur rippled through the gathered onlookers.
Anthony, seemingly unfazed, turned his back on Fife entirely and offered Penelope his arm once more. "Shall we continue our stroll, my lady?"
Heart pounding, Penelope placed her hand in his without hesitation.
As they walked away, Eloise – who had remained utterly silent throughout the exchange – stared at her brother as though she had never truly seen him before.
For the first time in her life, she had no words.
—-
The Bridgerton estate lay cloaked in the quiet hush of midnight, its grand facade bathed in silvery moonlight. The hour was late – too late for any respectable young lady to be traipsing about unattended. But respectability had never been Eloise Bridgerton's foremost concern.
Clutching her shawl tightly about her shoulders, she tiptoed across the marble floors of Aubrey Hall, her slippered feet making no sound as she slipped through the side door and into the night. The cool air nipped at her skin, but she paid it no mind, her heart hammering with singular purpose.
She had to see Penelope.
She had spent the entire evening restless, thoughts of their fractured friendship gnawing at her, refusing to be ignored. And if she could not get a moment with Penelope at the fair, then she would simply seek her out in the only way she knew how.
With the Featheringtons' garden just beyond the hedgerow, Eloise made her way toward the narrow path she had traversed countless times before. She had nearly reached the edge of the estate grounds when —
"Well, well."
The deep, unmistakable voice sent a shock of alarm through her.
Anthony.
Eloise froze, turning to see her brother emerging from the very path she had been about to take. His stance was relaxed, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting on the top button of his waistcoat as though he had all the time in the world. A single brow arched in silent inquiry.
Eloise swallowed. "What – what are you doing here?" She demanded, trying to mask her guilt with indignation.
Anthony's lips curled into something wry and knowing. "I might ask you the same thing, dear sister. What possible business does an unmarried debutant have sneaking about at such an ungodly hour?" He made a show of glancing behind her. "Without a chaperone. And without our dear mother's knowledge, I presume?"
Eloise fidgeted, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "I merely wished for a breath of fresh air."
Anthony let out a low chuckle. "Is that so? And tell me, Eloise, does fresh air only exist in the precise direction of the Featherington estate?"
Eloise opened her mouth, then closed it, her face tightening. There was no point in lying – Anthony, blast him, already knew the truth.
Still, she lifted her chin defiantly. "I do not owe you an explanation."
Anthony exhaled through his nose, his amusement fading into something steadier, sterner. "No, perhaps not. But I will give you an answer to the question you are too stubborn to ask." He took a deliberate step forward. "Penelope will not see you, Eloise."
The words struck like a blow.
Eloise's lips parted, but whatever she had been about to say faltered and died on her tongue.
She tried again. "I was not –"
Anthony cut her off, his tone gentler, though no less firm. "Yes, you were." He studied her, his dark eyes betraying neither satisfaction nor cruelty, only truth. "She has made her choice. She has decided to remove herself from your life, and she will not go back on that decision."
Eloise's jaw tightened as she struggled to maintain her composure. "And who are you to decide that for her?"
"I am not deciding anything." Anthony replied evenly. "I am merely the messenger."
Eloise inhaled sharply through her nose, feeling a bitter sting behind her eyes. She blinked it away, willing herself not to give in to the wave of emotion rising within her.
Anthony, perhaps sensing her distress, sighed. "I know this pains you." He said, not unkindly. "But Penelope has determined her course. She has no wish to engage with you, Eloise. Not now. Not even after she marries me."
A fresh jolt of hurt sliced through her.
She had known, of course. She had felt Penelope's avoidance, had seen the way her former friend turned away when their paths crossed. But to hear it spoken so plainly…
Eloise clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. "That is not fair." She murmured.
Anthony was silent for a long moment before he inclined his head. "Perhaps not. But it is what she wishes."
With that, he straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. 'Now, unless the night air has given you sufficient clarity, I suggest you return inside before you do something truly reckless."
His meaning was clear.
With a final glance at her, Anthony turned on his heel and strode back toward the house, his figure disappearing into the shadows.
Eloise remained rooted to the spot, her breath uneven.
And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she turned and made her way toward the Featherington gardens.
The house stood dark and quiet, save for the single flickering candlelight coming from Penelope's chamber.
Eloise exhaled, a glimmer of hope unfurling within her. Pen was still awake.
Gathering a small stone, she tossed it toward the window – just enough force to garner attention, not enough to break the glass.
She waited.
Nothing.
The light remained steady, the curtains unmoved.
Eloise bit her lip, then bent down to pick up another stone. This time, she threw it with more force, the small clack of impact sounding through the night.
Still, no response.
Instead, the flickering light within the chamber dimmed — then vanished entirely.
A moment later, the curtains were drawn closed.
Eloise stared, the full weight of realization settling over her like a leaden shroud.
Anthony had been right.
Penelope would not see her.
She had truly, irrevocably, shut Eloise out.
The lump in Eloise's throat grew unbearable, but she refused to let it break free. Instead, she turned stiffly on her heel and walked away, her shoulders squared, her pace unhurried.
But inside, she felt as though a door had closed forever.