Testing Audio -DK Principessa

by kibass91

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5. Unspooled

Chapter 1: Diamond in the Rough

Chapter Text

Benedict was covering for Anthony's horseshit.

Again.

Lord knows how many times he made excuses for his elder brother when the Viscount had decided to miss the opera or a family meal in favor of his mistress. But Daphne's presentation day? This was a new low.

As Benedict slid on his black riding gloves, adjusting them on his large hands, his mother marched up to him, full of anxious energy that no one outside his brood of siblings would notice. He knew before she even opened her mouth what she would ask, and he had to swallow to prevent the taste of bile hitting his tongue.

"Any sign of him?"

Benedict shook his head, not looking at her as he answered in the negative.

"Should your brother wish to be obeyed as Lord Bridgerton, he must act as Lord Bridgerton. Where is he, Benedict?"

Benedict looked down from his perch into his mother's face, utterly calm in its hidden fury, and he fought the natural urge to gulp.

"I do not know," he lied, trying to offer one of his winning smiles. He was a charmer and he knew it, but that very same charm never fooled his mother. She was much too clever for that. "But we must hurry, Mother. We cannot afford for dear Daphne to be late."

Violet huffed, crossing her arms for all of a second before remembering that Lady Featherington was watching like a hawk from across the street.

"I know," Violet said before sighing, rubbing her temple. "Benedict, if Anthony does not show–"

"Then I will gladly escort you and Daphne in," Benedict soothed, while inside his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Benedict loved his mother and Daphne dearly. He would always act in their best interest, but Benedict had never desired to be a paragon of respectability (not that Anthony was), but even presenting the facade of responsibility made Benedict want to shiver in disgust.

Thank God he was a second son. Though, he thought with a grimace as he moved the horses and carriage that held his family into action, sometimes he wished he had been born even further down the line. As the third or fourth son, he'd truly have no responsibility then.

Anthony may be in charge of their financial well-being – which he was wonderful at – and their reputations – fine, except when it came to his own – but Benedict spent much of his time keeping Anthony's affairs quiet. As a result of Anthony's lordly responsibilities, Benedict had been active as the unofficial wrangler of children in the family. Since their father's death, Anthony had taken on the role of Viscount and father, though the man proved he could be inept at balancing the two roles at times. Benedict, however, whenever he was home, was, well… sort of like a mother. When Violet had been so trapped within her grief she could barely stand to look at Hyacinth, it was Benedict and Daphne who split the duties as nurse and caretaker. When Violet couldn't get out of bed or when Anthony was drowning in paperwork it was Benedict who ensured his siblings were up, dressed, and attending their lessons or eating their meals. Whenever Benedict was off at Cambridge, a reprieve from family life he felt guilty for enjoying, he knew it was Daphne who mothered their siblings to the best of her ability. It was a responsibility she should not have had to bear, making Benedict work twice as hard and be twice as pliable when he returned.

Even when Violet did emerge from her cocoon of sorrow, she unwittingly asked Benedict to perform many daily tasks that, he assumed from conversation with many of his peers, most young men in titled households were never asked to do.

"Benedict, could you check on Anthony for me? He has been avoiding me all day."

"Ben, dearest, stop Gregory from pulling Hyacinth's hair."

"Oh, Benedict, Eloise had a spat with Francesca. Will you see what is wrong?"

It had gotten to the point where Violet didn't even have to utter a word, Benedict could tell by the way she cradled her head or stared vaguely at a piece of paper that she simply wasn't up to the task. Benedict would swoop in to make sure Colin wasn't playing too rough with Gregory, to complement Daphne's playing on the pianoforte or to usher the young ones out of a room when Anthony was about to explode.

It had always been Benedict and, to be honest, he had grown very tired of it.

When they finally arrived at St. James' Palace, and Anthony joined them out of breath, Violet was staring him down. Benedict snickered with Colin. But as Daphne fussed over her feathers and the Bridgertons ushered themselves into the palace, Benedict hoped, maybe a little selfishly, that this season he could do something for himself. And only himself.

Of course, he had no way to predict how the universe would interpret his wish.

It struck Penelope that, somehow, she was nervous and bored all at once. How strange , she pondered, to be both completely indifferent to the farce she was about to participate in, and so full of nerves she might just be sick. It was not that the presentation to the Queen was nothing, or that it was unamusing. Penelope quite enjoyed looking around at all of the men and women in their finery just for a second or two of possible glory in front of the tempestuous woman they called Queen. Penelope liked observing the extravagance, hearing the various murmurs and whispers, the opulence of it all. The foppery of the gentlemen and tittering of the women fascinated Penelope like how some people became entranced when looking at the animals in Queen Charlotte's menagerie.

No, the real farce was the fact that her mother, Lady Portia Featherington, had decided to debut all three of her daughters at once- well before at least two out of the three were ready. The humiliation of it was already weighing on Penelope's shoulders, the only comfort being that she had gotten her first Lady Whistledown issue published in a hurry that very morning. In fact, it was the only solace she could have, in a dress that hugged her in all the wrong places, and her hair curled so tight she could've been mistaken for an oddly colored poodle. As her tyrant of a mother had prepared her and her sisters for their debut for three months before the day, the pit full of her insecurities widened, filling to the brim with only the very worst things to say about herself: Her figure, her complexion, her bookishness, her inability to speak up… It had all tipped over the boiling point when Cressida Cowper had, in the modiste only three weeks before their debut, commented on Penelope looking very much like an overripe orange in one of the dresses Portia had foisted upon her youngest. The modiste, Genevieve Delacroix, had given Penelope a pitying look but even Penelope couldn't deny that Cressida was a tiny bit right.

So she had gone home, forcing her tears to stay in her eyes until she was alone in her room. In her embarrassment and fury she had angrily penned words to a page, in a voice so far from her own it was almost freeing. She imagined herself an older titled lady, one who could get away with doing or saying anything, like Lady Agatha Danbury or Queen Charlotte. Her words were arrows launched by the feathered bow of her quill and it was so incredibly thrilling, such a practice in release of her frustration that, when she was done, she had sat back, hawk feather tapping her lower lip, and for the first time had felt proud about something she had done.

So she continued the practice for her own amusement. It had only been last week that her father's solicitor, a man not lacking in patience for having to deal with her curmudgeon of a father, had found a collection she had left on the side table next to her when she had been writing in the drawing room. She was not used to people intentionally touching her things. If anything, her family was quite determined to avoid anything that concerned Penelope at all. It was with shock and delight that he, Mister Sotheby, had informed her he knew a printers shop he could connect her with to publish them.

Publish them?

Mister Sotheby was kind, but realistic. He knew how Portia and Archibald Featherington treated their daughters, and probably knew a fair bit more besides. So when he suggested Penelope publish, maybe make money for herself, a nest egg to sit on for her own security well… How could she say no?

The first pamphlet published had been free, of course, to tempt society for more. She was quite proud of her opening lines:

According to the much heralded poet Lord Byron: Of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine.

But now she was here, waiting for what would certainly be a quick dismissal by the Queen as her mother herded them like cattle to the door as their names were announced.

There was no dignity in this, Penelope thought as she kept her head down towards the scarlet rug, walking towards the Queen. Not for her, at least. At least Whistledown had been published, maybe she could glean whether people liked it when this was over…

She didn't know why but she felt a set of burning eyes upon her and when she peered up, she saw Eloise Bridgerton, clutching her hands, watching Penelope as if it was Eloise herself who was about to be sick all over the expensive carpet. No, Penelope corrected herself. She had two comforts today. Her column, yes, but also her dearest friend in the world. At least she had Eloise. It was also with some satisfaction that she noticed, briefly, that Eloise had a scrap of parchment in her hands. In fact, it looked like–

Yes, her column.

Oh, to have her best friend read her words! In that moment, nothing was more thrilling.

If only she could enjoy it.

She had predicted much of the outcome of that day's events in general terms, so that the column could be published in haste that day. It had been easy to slander herself and her sisters, she'd known they would most likely be the laughingstock of the event. But more than that, what Penelope had been sure of, was that Daphne Bridgerton would outshine them all.

Attention torn back to reality, Penelope looked back to the floor as they approached the Queen, already looking quite irritated with the day's proceedings. The large white plumage on Penelope's head felt heavier with each step she took until, finally, they were before Her Majesty. Penelope looked up briefly but was distracted by the scene around her, grand and intimidating in all respects. That is until her mother elbowed her hard in the ribs. Penelope winced, her face flushed, and she just knew she was turning the most unbecoming shade of tomato red. It was all made so much worse as Portia helped Prudence curtsy and Penelope knew Queen Charlotte was about to say something except–

The Queen looked at her.

In that fleeting moment, Penelope was confident that the Queen could see the thick cloak of mortification swallowing her whole and took pity. The Queen merely waved them away, and Penelope would have gladly taken the signal to go–

If Prudence hadn't promptly fainted onto the floor.

Shocked gasps, whispers, people turning away from secondhand embarrassment, it was all too much. As her mother and sister scrambled to pull Prudence up, she took a quick look at Eloise. It was only then that Penelope noticed the whole Bridgerton brood, sans Daphne who was still waiting in the wings. All of them winced in various degrees of sympathy, though Hyacinth appeared to be scolded by Francesca for giggling. Out of all of them, it was Colin's face she noticed, pinched with sympathy and, possibly, disdain.

God, Penelope wished, wished with all of her might, that she could separate herself from her family, from the constant shame that plagued them. If only she could become the best version of herself, for herself. If only her new weapon of choice could get her that far.

For I have at my disposal a most powerful weapon that even the Queen lacks. My pen. A weapon this author will wield most keenly. No matter who you are. Or what your name might be...

Believe it or not, the universe did hear her.

The only good thing about Lady Danbury's Ball were the sights, sounds, and morsels of gossip Penelope overheard. Just as she had predicted, and helped happen, Daphne Bridgerton was named the season's diamond. And why wouldn't she be? Graceful, beautiful, and everyone's friend, Daphne was the epitome of loveliness. Daphne had always been kind to Penelope whenever the young Featherington visited to play with Eloise growing up, and Penelope in turn looked up to Daphne, simultaneously in awe and jealousy. Penelope, many times, had wished she'd been born a Bridgerton, at times simply because she was never made to be seen as pretty in her own household. But more than that, because Penelope desired so much to be loved.

Then again, as Penelope watched Colin prance around the dance floor with yet another beautiful young lady, slim and doelike in appearance, Penelope simply wished she was the type of woman who would catch Colin's eye. But she never would. At least, not compared to demure women like Miss Howe, or even vile creatures like Cressida who, what she lacked in manners she made up for her in golden hair and a lithe figure. Penelope guessed she should be at least grateful that she was mostly ignored rather than derided to her face.

In the dim, candlelit room she stepped away from her sisters, still studiously studying miniatures of the available bachelors while anxiously waiting to be asked to dance. She slipped away to mingle in the background, sighing over the reality of another birthday of hers uncelebrated. Eloise had taken her out to Gunter's earlier that day for ice cream, which had been a balm upon her soul. But her own family said nothing, focused on readying themselves for Lady Danbury's opening ball. She was everyone's shadow, forever attached and forever unnoticed, disappearing as soon as the time was right. Penelope would attempt to sneak away from the ball to deliver a fresh column that night for the first time. Penelope may not be noticed by her family, but she was lucky enough that the servants they possessed knew and liked her as the polite bookworm of the family. So when she had asked Mister Harold Evans, one of their drivers, to stealthily bring along a second family carriage to bring her somewhere during the ball he had blinked.

"May I ask, Miss Featherington, what ya' need it fer?"

Penelope had bit her lip, unsure, pondering her answer.

"Would it be too bold to say I'm planning a little rebellion that does not, in any way, compromise me?"

The lines at the corners of Evans' weathered face crinkled as he tried not to laugh.

"If anyone deserves a tad o' rebellion, it'd be you, Miss Featherington."

So Penelope listened and observed, watching as Viscount Bridgerton made finding a suitor that much more difficult for Daphne, her shine diminished by his cold, dour glares at every man that passed by. The entrance of Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, with his regal looks, powerful stance, and obvious annoyance with every society mama shoving their fresh debutant his way proved amusing. She of course watched Colin, she couldn't help it, charm his way around the room. Lord Fife and Lord Cho played their odds, and Lord Ambrose attempted again to talk to Daphne. She listened from the wall as servants gossiped about which women were lightskirts who had simply not been caught, who had, and which rakes had already sequestered women into closets. Admittedly, there were intricacies about these affairs Penelope did not understand. Besides kissing, what could be so interesting that a woman would willingly lock herself in a broom cupboard with a man for?

But that was a mystery for another time.

After an hour of this, invisible and no dance in sight, Penelope felt she had collected what she needed for her next scandal sheet. As she approached the garden door so she could slip out and make her way around and out to the coaches, she made the grave mistake, one she had been certain she wouldn't make, to be blocked by a small crowd of ladies beside a refreshments table. Instead of veering left to go around the back of the white-clothed table laden with lemonade, champagne, and canapes, she went to the right–

And landed in the direct eyeline of Lady Danbury and Mister Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict pitied Daphne greatly.

Benedict was having a swell enough time at Lady Danbury's Ball. Balls could be boring, tedious things, but Lady Danbury spared no expense, and she at least could be counted on for entertainment. Although, his respect and awe of her was tied up quite well with how terrified he was of the grand dragon. When he had first graduated Cambridge and had been set up in society by his mother, he had developed quite the tendre for the much older woman. While, of course, it amounted to nothing more than embarrassing memories of how he used to follow her around like a puppy, only to be snapped at and retreat with his tail between his legs, he still admired the woman greatly. Therefore, he would never miss one of her events.

But poor Daphne, who should've been having a good time dancing with gentlemen, was being stifled by their pigheaded older brother.

Benedict was protective too, as he once thought all older brothers were. (He'd learned rather rudely at White's once with Anthony that not all men held their sisters in high regard. The two brothers had gotten matching black eyes in their efforts to show Mister Pickwick and Lord Cho how younger sisters should be treated). The undeniable responsibility it was to protect his little sisters from the men of the world, especially men like themselves, was powerful. If Benedict had been unfortunate enough to be the oldest, he had no doubt he'd act similarly to Anthony. But it was her first ball, for Heaven's sake. She should be allowed some fun.

"We should really save Daph," Colin said beside him, also watching the dreadful scene unfold before them. "It really is like observing a wolf viciously guarding the youngest of the pack."

"That's putting it nicely," Benedict replied, frowning as Anthony chased away yet another potential dance partner for their sister with a look of pure, wintry disdain. "He's more like a mother hen, pecking and squawking as he herds his chick about the farm."

Colin guffawed, loudly. Yet, somehow, it was never rude when his brother laughed. That was Colin's charm. The young man could commit murder and Benedict knew his mother, his siblings, Hell, the bloody magistrate, would take his side in the matter. Even if the young fool was holding the bloodstained knife.

"We really should help her," Colin reiterated, peering around the space. "Is Mother nearby?"

"No, thank God, making this the perfect opportunity." With that Benedict cupped one hand around the side of his mouth and called, "Anthony! Daph!"

As one, Benedict and Colin moved up to their siblings in the grand room, the lit chandeliers making everything gold and false glitter in the light. Benedict pondered for a moment whether his sister, any of his sisters, were not too honest for society. Oh, they knew how to play the game within their own household, but they had no experience of the world.

Although, he thought, he knew it'd be best not to say that around Eloise. She would have quite the rant for him…

Benedict tuned back in to his siblings conversation as Colin was excitedly relaying to Daphne that he'd start in Greece on his Grand Tour, but before Daphne could finish her reply, Anthony muttered, urgently,

"On guard!"

Properly signaled, the brothers in well-trained step formation spun on their heels to run away, Daphne bewildered, but they were out of luck.

"Too late. I already noted you."

Whirling back around with his biggest smile plastered in place, Benedict bowed as he addressed Lady Danbury. Powerful, fierce, and resplendent as always she studied them with the keen eye of a feline studying its next meal. Draped in bright, creamy white gown, tiara settled upon her head, leaning on her heavy cane, she was a force to be reckoned with. Really, how could Benedict not have so fervently admired her in his youth? He was getting quite tired of Anthony and Colin always poking him about it. It's Daphne's empty dance card she spotted, making the sharp comment about Daphne being unable to even attempt to find a suitor with Anthony hovering. Of course, the lady was more subtle about the insult. She wasn't always. But Benedict had to fight a grimace.

Poor Daphne.

Yet Colin distracted him, as his tall younger brother leaned into him, mesmerized by whatever he was drawn to.

"Who is that?"

Benedict peered up to see a lovely young girl, around Daphne's age. She had dark brown hair in tight curls that were barely tamed by her hairstyle, but all the more lovely for it. Her brown skin and dark eyes were complimented by her light dress. An alluring woman to be sure, and it was quite clear that Colin was most… allured, but Benedict shrugged internally. Colin could be a flighty thing when it came to beauty.

"I am sure I have never seen her." Benedict elbowed Colin gently in the ribs. "Go ask for a dance if you are so interested. Ask which family she belongs to. She certainly was not at the presentation."

Colin just nodded dumbly, entranced. As the third Bridgerton child practically floated off in a haze, Benedict chuckled, raising his gloved hands to his lips to stifle the sound. But it died as soon as he caught the look on the youngest Featherington girl's face. She stood in a corner of the room, dressed in a horrible lemon yellow dress that made her look paler than she already was. Her curls were too tight on her head and, to be frank, she appeared miserable. The poor girl watched, servants and rich alike passing her by unknowingly, as Colin couldn't take his eyes off the new young lady.

Benedict pitied the redheaded girl, truly he did, for Eloise adored her above all else. Penelope Featherington had been Eloise's best friend for as long as Eloise, or any Bridgerton for that matter, could remember. And Penelope had held a flame for Colin for as long as Benedict could remember, not that Colin noticed. While Benedict did not often pay attention to Penelope, she was quite forgettable in a crowd and he had always assumed she had liked it that way. In that moment he felt a pang in his heart for her. It had been insanity for her mother to foist all three Featherington girls out into society at once. None of the girls had much chance, it was a shame to say but it was true. It was well known that the Featheringtons were ostentatious, vain, and vapid. All but Penelope, but no one but the Bridgertons knew that.

"Mister Bridgerton."

Benedict turned and grinned down at Lady Danbury. Assessing him with her eyes she appeared to reach some sort of conclusion before holding her arm out for Benedict to take.

"Escort me to the refreshments table, lad? Or are you still sore that I quite soundly kicked your enamored countenance to the curb eight years ago?"

Benedict felt a blush rise to his cheeks and burn the tips of his ears, but his smile did not lessen. If anything it only grew broader, making the corners of his eyes crinkle pleasantly.

"I would be honored, Lady Danbury. Truth be told, I am still quite enamored of you, do you not know? My proposal still stands."

Lady Danbury's cackle, he was sure, could only emanate the power of women like Hecate and Circe. Benedict didn't mind. All the Bridgerton men had a healthy fear of women, but it was Benedict who, maybe a tad strangely, delighted in it. Clever women were the most beguiling but, unfortunately, Benedict had not met many of them amongst the women of the ton. Shame, really. With five intelligent women in his own household, and Lady Danbury counted as a friend among them, he had no idea why the rest of society's females were so… airy.

But, Benedict considered as he let Lady Danbury lead him to a long table filled to the brim with drinks and canapes, that was being unfair. Eloise often told him that society was what men made of it. Who was to say that men had not created the haut ton's definition of well-bred women?

"What do you make of your sister's first ball out in society, Mister Bridgerton?" Lady Danbury asked, settling her weight on her cane as Benedict scooped up two glasses of champagne.

"Do you want my honest commentary, or a polite redirection?" Benedict sipped his champagne, handing the other crystal flute to his hostess. He scanned the room for his sister but did not see her or Anthony. Hopefully she had been able to find a reprieve.

"The truth, of course, Mister Bridgerton. I deserve nothing less, especially if it will force you to talk ill of your churlish brother."

Benedict snorted into his drink, bubbles tickling his nose as he coughed. He hit his chest with a fist once, twice, before dislodging the remaining liquid from his lungs.

"So I do not have to say anything, you have already guessed at my worries!" Benedict swallowed a few times before daring to take another careful sip, Lady Danbury clearly amused. "But yes, I do fear my sister's prospects will not be nearly so good if Anthony keeps scaring off every man within ten steps of her."

Lady Danbury nodded, sipping her own drink as she once again studied the floor.

"And no little bird has caught your eye then, Mister Bridgerton?"

Benedict shrugged, glancing over all of the young women in their white and pastel frocks, dazzling tiaras, and beastly mamas. No, none spoke to his soul or his desires. That much was certain.

"Alas, Lady Danbury, no woman of the ton has captured my attention since you," he said, dramatically clutching his heart. "I fear none ever shall!"

"Oh, you think you are so clever, Mister Bridgerton," Lady Danbury said, dark eyes gleaming in the light of hundreds of flickering candles. "You are just like your maternal grandfather, I guarantee. No woman of the ton? So, that means plenty of women outside this gilded cage have obtained your interest, is that not so?"

Benedict felt his mouth dry up, caught in a trap of his own making. He quickly gulped the rest of his champagne as he tried to think of an answer but either fortune smiled on him or had a vendetta against redheads, because none other than Penelope Featherington stumbled in front of them.

"Ah, Miss Featherington," Lady Danbury said, and Penelope froze like a gazelle being stared down by a lioness. "Now, remind me, which one are you? Your mother made the unfortunate mistake of giving you all similar names."

Penelope's face lit up like the sudden blaze of a bonfire and Benedict felt the need to step in. Even he was cringing for the poor girl.

"This is Penelope Featherington, Lady Danbury. The youngest. She is the closest of friends with my younger sister, Eloise."

Penelope shot him such a look of shock and gratitude he felt that familiar ache in his chest, the one he felt when one of his siblings scraped their knee or when finding a baby chick that had fallen from its nest. She shouldn't be grateful that he had simply remembered her name but, he supposed with a mother like Portia Featherington…

"All of your sisters are younger," Penelope squeaked, much to Benedict and Lady Danbury's astonishment. Penelope quickly placed her satin gloved hands over her mouth, if anything looking akin to the color of a strawberry wrapped in a lemon peel. "My apologies, I– I think I'm just so nervous. I have not been myself all day."

Benedict smiled kindly but it was Lady Danbury who spoke, her head moving up and down as she studied Penelope keenly.

"Better out than in, most of the time," Lady Danbury said, offering a smile that was as close to gentle as a baby crocodile's. "No woman gets much farther than the marriage bed in life by staying silent. Oh, you do not have to be loud. Simply cunning. That's how our voices are heard."

Penelope actually offered a genuine, close-lipped smile at that. Benedict thought it was a shame how Lady Featherington seemed determined to downplay Penelope. Her little smile, warm and thoughtful, was quite cute. With more attention and confidence, Penelope could eventually find her footing in society.

"I cannot agree more, Lady Danbury," Penelope said, bright blue eyes actually shining for the first time that night. She curtsied, nodding to both of them before excusing herself.

Lady Danbury watched her go, and it was only because the austere woman kept the girl in her line of sight that Benedict did as well. No one else appeared to see Penelope slip out of the back door into the garden. Alone. Unchaperoned.

Oh no.

"Mister Bridgerton," Lady Danbury said, standing to her full height, setting her flute down just to pluck Benedict's from his hold. "Follow that Featherington."

"What?" Benedict gasped, gaping at Lady Danbury like she had grown two, no, three heads. "You cannot be serious! She just left out the back way, unchaperoned . If I was caught with her, I'd be forced to–"

Benedict stopped himself and looked at his toes, ashamed. Penelope was a good person, he knew that in the depths of his soul. Eloise, as rash as she could be, would never retain a friendship with someone she found lacking in character. But he did not want to end up in a situation where he would have to marry her. He didn't want to marry anyone. Not now.

"Then do not get caught," Lady Danbury stated, as if it was the simplest solution in the world. "You are a rake, are you not? I am sure you are quite acquainted with doing dirty deeds in the shadows."

Benedict scowled. He had to make a decision now, while he still had time to catch up. Zounds, he was helpless. The more he thought on it, the more he knew what his choice would be. Benedict could never face his mother or sisters again with any dignity if he did not go to help a woman who, quite possibly, was about to ruin her reputation. Worse, Eloise would most certainly murder him if she found out he had not lifted a single toe to aid her best friend.

And Benedict did like Penelope. She was good . It was that simple.

"Fine," he sighed. "But not a word of this to my family, or Miss Featherington's for that matter. Who knows what Lady Featherington would devise."

Lady Danbury mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key, but Benedict caught her smirk as he dashed off to follow Penelope.

Whatever Benedict had been expecting, it had not been this. With his very own eyes he watched as Penelope Featherington entered Lady Danbury's garden, rounded a corner and dug through a bush until she pulled out a carefully placed hooded cloak, the kind made for servants. Throwing it around her shoulders and pulling the hood to cover her tell-tale fiery curls, she dashed to the back servant's entrance that led to the street. Benedict followed her, trying to be light on his feet in the grass. This was not good. Penelope, disguising herself? What tomfoolery was the girl up to?

When she reached the gravel street, Benedict lurking around the servant's entrance (no actual servant was in sight, all far too busy with the ball), Penelope entered a family carriage. Benedict thought the driver looked vaguely familiar, but he wasn't wearing the Featherington family livery. Benedict cursed as the coach was set into motion. Luckily, the horses of many of the gentlemen in attendance were tethered in the back. Benedict spotted his, a gentle Welsh Cob named Rapscallion. While Anthony quite enjoyed riding thoroughbreds and racing, Benedict had no interest in the sport himself. So while Rapscallion, with his chestnut coat and large brown eyes, wasn't considered a gentleman's first choice, Benedict loved him all the same.

Benedict quickly untethered and mounted his beloved steed, urging the careful beast into a trot to catch up with the carriage. With any luck he could keep them in his vision as the streets grew dark, the only light emitted from the oil street lamps. Dim and flickering, the echo of the horses hooves on the ground mingled with the sound of growing nighttime revelry as they drew closer to the streets of Bloomsbury. The brothels were being filled, the alehouses and pubs bursted with riotous singing and drinking, and Benedict had no doubt the underground boxing rings and animal fights were just beginning. Penelope had no business being out here, especially alone. What the hell was she thinking? What could she be doing that she was brought out from the safety and comfort of Lady Danbury's abode?

Benedict kept behind, watching as the carriage stopped and parked itself on the street. The hooded figure of Penelope jumped out, her hooded face looking around before dashing down the street. Benedict cursed, prompting Rapscallion to walk at a pace just a few feet behind. It was then he saw Penelope enter the back of a printers shop. Benedict dismounted, tying Rapscallion off to the nearest post before scurrying to the back door himself. What could Penelope want here? Could she be meeting a common born lover? Benedict dismissed the idea as soon as it came. Penelope was too young, too innocent for that. Just a month ago she had been over at their house and had joined in a game of hoops with Eloise! No, not a lover. But what else could bring her to this part of town?

It was as Benedict inched closer to the rickety wooden door, opened ajar, that he heard voices.

"My mistresses' first issue di' well, di' it not? So she will pay the current price for printin', but she wants twenty-five percent of the profit."

Was that– Penelope's voice? It sounded like her but… not. It was an Irish accent, unmistakable in lilt. Yet that was a woman's voice, and a woman could only enter a print shop on business, rather than work there.

"Beggin' your mistress's pardon, while I ran out of all those issues, there is still no guarantee they'll sell for such a price!"

"It's a gamble my mistress is willin' to take, so ya' best get printin'. For I'm sure this will make us all a tidy sum."

A clink on a hard surface, the jangle of coins.

"Here's extra for yer faith and discretion. She wants it distributed by midday tomorrow. Good evenin' to ya."

It was then that Benedict only had enough time to step back before the door creaked open. Penelope stepped out, and when she closed the door she gave an audible sigh of relief. That is, until she looked up into the wide, ocean eyes of Benedict Bridgerton.

Penelope had truly mucked up.

That was all she could think of when Benedict had all but dragged her to the opposite side street, grabbing his horse along the way. He'd looked around furtively before hurrying her into the alley, blocking them from notice with the use of his rather large , rather wide horse. The creature was docile, huffing with what Penelope could almost swear was amusement as Benedict cornered her, hands on hips as if she was one of his younger sisters in need of scolding.

"What in the name of all that is good and holy are you doing in Bloomsbury? In a printers shop? With no chaperone? And pretending to be an Irish lady's maid?"

"I do not think you are one to talk about good and holy ," Penelope blurted before clasping her hands to her mouth. She'd spoken out of turn for the second time that night in front of Benedict Bridgerton. What was wrong with her?

Benedict's jaw looked as if it had come unhinged from its sockets. He stared at her, mouth agape, looking like he was torn between laughing and throwing her across his knee for punishment. He settled for, it seemed, what came most natural to him; a smile. It was a genial smile, one meant to convey that he could and would keep a secret. Penelope had seen it often enough at Bridgerton House when he was trying to wriggle information out of his siblings. To her knowledge, he had always kept the knowledge imparted to him close to his chest.

"I–" Penelope started, mind darting frantically about, looking for an excuse. "You see–"

"Please do not lie to me, Miss Featherington. I have seven brothers and sisters. I have learned to tell when someone is lying."

"Why is it any of your business, anyway?" Penelope whined, and oh she hated how childish she sounded. But she couldn't help it. He could spoil everything before anything had begun!

Benedict blinked at her.

"Why? Because you are a young lady of the ton. Merely being out here alone could ruin your reputation. Something could have happened to you, there are no shortages of wastrels and cads about. And, most importantly, Eloise and Mother would flay me alive if I did not seek to protect you. So, quite frankly, it is very much my business what you are up to." Benedict bent down, their noses almost tip to tip as he leveled her not with scorn, but that same kind smile he had bestowed upon her earlier that evening. "So, I will ask you again: What are you doing here? I promise to keep this between ourselves."

Penelope bit her thumbnail, chewing pensively as she studied his face. It was open and honest, much like Colin's or Eloise's. Penelope had learned over the years that she was hopeless around the Bridgertons, so desperate for affection that any they gave her rendered her wet clay in their hands. She had not decided whether that was a character flaw just yet.

"You swear to keep it secret? On your life?" she asked, holding a tiny hand out for him to shake. Flummoxed for a moment he stared down at it, her tiny, little hand that could be broken so easily. Inhaling deeply he reached out and took it with his own, giving a firm shake.

"I swear on my life and the lives of my siblings I will take your secret to the grave, so long as it does not endanger your life."

Penelope grunted at the addendum but took it with all the seriousness she could muster. When they released one another, Penelope stepped back, took a large breath, and said,

"I am Lady Whistledown. The author behind the scandal sheet that was published."

Benedict stood there, completely frozen for a moment. But then he grinned, a sly, disbelieving grin.

"You are having me on," he said. "Come on, Penelope. Really, you? Sweet, little Penelope Featherington throwing barbs around like alms for the poor?"

Penelope bristled at that. In fact she was quite sure if she had been a dog her hackles would be raised. How dare he insinuate she wouldn't, couldn't be the writer of a scandal sheet? How would it be so insane if she was the writer rather than Lady Danbury, or one of his sisters? Was he saying she wasn't intelligent enough? Not brave enough?

Benedict seemed to realize he had misstepped badly as he, involuntarily, took a step back. The cool spring air no longer made Penelope shiver as she, boldly, removed a handwritten copy of what she had turned in that night from her bosom. Menacingly, she descended upon him, poking her parchment into his broad chest.

"How dare you? Just because I am a girl, green and new to society, you think me incapable? Unable to think of a possible enterprise for myself? Something that could both be profitable for me, but also keep me sane when all anyone ever does is ignore me? Who are you, to say I could not? And who are you, Mister Bridgerton, to deny me the right to something for myself, no matter how underhanded? I may be a mere girl to you, you absolute cad , but I see things. I know things. No one but a wallflower like myself could know what I know."

Benedict, stunned, remained silent. Seconds, maybe minutes, passed as Penelope felt her heartbeat gallop in her chest, waiting with bated breath. The longer he remained quiet the more Penelope's ire slowly faded, transformed into uneasiness. Realizing her pointed finger was still dug into his chest she withdrew, but not before he grasped the papers in her hand. With a yelp from her he took them perusing the words as he did. She jumped but he was too tall, keeping her work just out of reach.

"Oh, what is this here," Benedict said playfully. "Calling out my brother, are we? And… mentioning a Miss Marina Thompson? Was that the new girl who was not at the presentation? And… oh! Well, I am not surprised that Lord Fife would do that. And–" Benedict's amusement turned sour, a frown marring his handsome features. "Berbrooke approached my sister? That man is a toad!"

"D-Does that mean you believe me?" Penelope stammered, cursing the retreat of her earlier bravado.

Benedict handed the paper back to her, cocking his head. He ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair, making it stick at odd angles.

"You have provided evidence, and you do not lack passion on the subject. I have no choice but to believe you, Miss Featherington." Benedict rubbed his chest where she'd poked him, tapping one foot to the mud and gravel. "Very passionate, indeed. I must admit, there is much more to you than I originally thought."

Penelope was not sure if Benedict realized how much of a backhanded compliment that was. Probably not. The Bridgertons led what could only be called a charmed life. They were very rarely subjected to insults or ignored, by account of their wealth, good looks, and vibrant personalities. She pursed her lips.

"So, you will keep my secret? You promised!"

Benedict tapped his chin, as if debating on whether he would keep his vow. But that lasted a mere second before he reached forward and, boldly, tweaked her nose.

"I will keep my promise, but you should stop publishing after this issue. It is dangerous for you. This endeavor requires sneaking around in parts of town that many of our set would find unsavory."

"Does that include you?" she asked, raising one delicate eyebrow.

"No," Benedict admitted. He crouched down, picking up a smooth, black rock from the gravel and pocketing it before continuing. "But the rest of the ton is not me, I fear. So stop this, Penelope. If I could find you out, others might."

Penelope did not answer, but she let him escort her back to her carriage so she could return to the ball with no one the wiser. She let Benedict take that as a sign of victory. She had learned long ago with her father that men, for some odd reason, often took silence as an indication that they had somehow won the battle.

It was a good thing men had not discovered that it simply meant they were about to lose the war.

Benedict could not exactly pinpoint the feeling bubbling in his chest when he caught Penelope a few days later in Bloomsbury buying ink and quills. She was disguised once again in her lady's maid cloak and, to a mix of pride and horror, unchaperoned.

He had decided, after using up all of his charcoal making sketches he then promptly threw away, to go fetch new supplies himself. It gave him an excuse to get out of the house and not witness yet another day where dear Daphne was subjected to the wiles of Anthony's overbearing judgment, and the rapidly dwindling amount of suitors willing to put up with the Viscount's nonsense.

He snuck up behind her, his brown paper bag of supplies tucked under one arm, placing his other hand on his hip. Eloise mocked him for it relentlessly, saying that he simply was not good at staying mad for long. That much was true. Benedict was better at defusing conflict rather than bearing a grudge. That was Anthony's department. So he hunkered down, his mouth by the side of her hood, his breath a whisper in her ear,

"Alright, Lady Whistledown , you're less demure than I thought. I should have known."

Penelope jumped, Benedict moving away just in time so she didn't smash her head into his chin. He couldn't help the chuckle that burst forth from his chest, and she turned what was supposed to be a fury laden glare at him. She would have to work on that.

"So, you are beyond reason?" Benedict asked, leaning forward to push a stray ember strand of hair back into her hood. Damn the beacon of fire that was the Featherington hair. "You will not give up this venture as London's current, most torrid gossip columnist?"

The young girl set her chin stubbornly and, he daresay, crossed her arms a tad petulantly. He knew it was supposed to be a show of defiance, but really she just looked like an adorably irate woodland creature. He bit his cheek to keep from laughing again.

"You may not see the endeavors of a woman, no less one writing a scandal sheet, anything worthy. But it is lucrative, clever, and mine. Lord knows, nothing else in my life is! So, no, Mister Bridgerton, I will not be giving up my enterprise!"

Benedict was suddenly startled. While the young Featherington may not look intimidating, the ferocity of her claim was compelling, dignified even. From how she endeavored to set back her shoulders, and tilted back her chin to meet his eyes— he admired it, truly. Benedict was finally starting to see what Eloíse so valued in her friend. He made a show of heaving a large sigh, before quickly giving up on the charade and grinned madly.

"Well, Miss Featherington, I did always enjoy watching things burn."

It was Penelope's turn to appear confounded by his statement, so he took advantage of her stillness to deposit coins in the merchant's hands, collect her items, and whisk her away down the street.

"I will help keep your secret. The column you published this week was quite brilliant, although I don't know how I feel about you remarking on my sister's sudden lack of luster."

Penelope chewed her bottom lip and peered up at him, her blue eyes, Benedict noticed, the color of a fine sky. It changed and wavered depending on her moods, just as the weather affected the airy domain above them. How curious.

"You must know I hold your family in the highest regard," Penelope said hurriedly, trying to smooth any ruffled feathers. "But the biggest gossip is about… well, the Viscount sabotaging her prospects. I cannot claim to be completely altruistic in my observation, but I do hope the Viscount just might take note and back off?"

Benedict rolled his eyes, but the wicked grin remained on his face.

"At least you are honest. But I must query, before I allow you any further, would you publish any scandal that would ruin my family? Or any other esteemed members of the ton?"

"Never your family!" Penelope exclaimed before pursing her lips in a thin, white line, looking around again like a cornered animal. "Never you family, Mister Bridgerton. Eloise means the world to me, and I have always adored–" Penelope swallowed, slowing for a moment. Benedict did not let her stop, urging her forward down the street, deeper into the depths of the neighborhood where it was less likely members of polite society would see them. "Your family."

Benedict had a sneaking suspicion that is not what, rather who, she meant.

"And what of others, Miss Featherington?" Benedict patted her forearm, and it would've been patronizing if Benedict hadn't brought up a fair point. "You will surely uncover… misdeeds. What will you do if the scandals you find do not just entertain the ton for a week or two? But bring down ruin upon a whole family?"

Penelope sat with the question and Benedict let her, their footsteps echoing across the cobbled streets. The early spring air was still cool, blowing a breeze through the alley, kicking up the smell of muck, refuse, smoke, and produce in various stages of rot. It wasn't pleasant but it was grounding. Benedict watched her tap the dimple in her chin, and was glad that she was taking the question seriously.

"I hope," Penelope settled, nodding resolutely. "That I would have the wisdom to shelter those I could and expose those who truly deserve it." She turned to him again, meeting his gaze, almost pleading. "And I hope to have someone who will help me, when I do not know the right course to take."

Damn it all.

How in the nine circles of Hell was he supposed to refuse that?

"Gah, fine! I shall help you! Be your confidant, but there will be rules, Miss Featherington!" Benedict shook a forefinger at her, although the way the corners of his eyes crinkled betrayed his good humor. "I insist you employ me when you must deliver a column. No, no objections!" Benedict said as Penelope opened her mouth to object. "We must protect you, both bodily and in the eyes of the fickle ton! Or else you will become the definitive subject of your column. Speaking of–" He tweaked her nose again, and he wondered if this was to become a habit. "You must stop writing so horribly of yourself. You have only published twice and yet you have derided yourself and your family in abundance!"

Penelope, more daring now, stuck her tongue out at him, much to his glee.

"I begrudgingly agree to the first condition until I can think of an alternative," Penelope said, raising her pert nose up as haughtily as she could. The effect was ruined when her hood slid down. He hastily fixed it for her, letting her scowl all the while. "But I cannot afford to do the second. I must divert all suspicion away from myself."

It was Benedict's turn to glower but he nodded in agreement, conceding to her logic.

"I have one more condition," Benedict said, stopping them in the middle of the street, pressing them to a shop window as a horse and cart passed by. "You must tell Eloise."

Penelope whipped her head up, jaw tight, eyes wide.

"But-" Penelope gulped. "I– If she were to know –"

Benedict could see she was struggling, and he wondered what her reasoning for not telling her dearest friend in all the world was. It only occurred to Benedict that maybe, just maybe, it was similar to his own desire to separate from his siblings. Just a bit, a toe over an invisible line. For he wanted something, anything, that was all his .

Did he just destroy that chance for Penelope?

"Miss Featherington." He adopted the tone he often used when comforting one of his younger siblings, especially when one was crying. He prayed she did not think it demeaning, for that was not the way he intended it. It's just all he knew. Plus, he had a very high success rate, especially amongst the females of his family. "Take it from me, it is better not to keep secrets from friends. Rather, we should keep secrets with them. I have very few precious friendships, and the reason for much of that is because I didn't share what mattered to me with them. And because I could not share my sorrows, or my joys, those friendships fell away. Do you really want that to happen with Eloise?"

Penelope's face fell and he knew he had won. Through underhanded, possibly despicable means, but he had tasted victory this day. If Penelope showed more of the mettle she had displayed today and during their last encounter, he had no idea how long this winning streak would last.

"Fine," she grumbled, digging her nails into the black cloth of his jacket. "I shall inform her at the next available opportunity."

"Which will be tea at my mother's this Friday!" Benedict proclaimed, exuding that annoying air of excitement he used to bother his siblings and friends. "I shall ensure you receive an invitation this afternoon!"

Penelope groaned, slumping into his side, and Benedict found he didn't mind.

Penelope walked into the Bridgerton drawing room for tea promptly at eleven o'clock on Friday. Before she had left Benedict's company two days ago, he had thoroughly scolded her for taking a paid hackney to Bloomsbury by herself. Was that what it was like to have older brothers? They were always in one's business, constantly lecturing? Penelope was suddenly very thankful that she only had sisters who readily ignored her.

Eloise glanced up from where she sat on the sofa, beaming the moment she saw her friend. Penelope noticed that Eloise had been reading the Lady Whistledown that had been published earlier that week. Benedict was slouched in the chair opposite Eloise, seated so that his long legs dangled off the wooden arm. He bobbed his head briefly in greeting, not bothering to stand as he absently sketched, charcoal staining his fingers.

Penelope swiveled her head around as she approached a bouncing Eloise, settling herself besides her excited friend.

"Where is everyone?" Penelope asked.

"Off on a promenade," Eloise answered, waving the fact away as if it was of little consequence. "After Lady Whistledown's latest, Mama thought it prudent for Daphne to mingle with bachelors in the fresh air. Of course, I think she was also trying to avoid Anthony."

"Unfortunately for her," Benedict chimed in, rubbing his chin as he studied his work, smearing charcoal across his cleft. "Anthony has been waking unusually early in order to chaperone Daphne. So Mother dragged Colin and the young ones along to try and mitigate any disasters."

"Yet, neither of you are with them," Penelope noted, trying to send a discreet glare Benedict's way. He merely smirked.

"Mama knew you were coming for tea with me, and Benedict volunteered to stay to make sure we did not burn the house down." Eloise rolled her eyes. "I think Benedict just wants to avoid the inevitable mood Mama will be in when she realizes Anthony will not be deterred by a mere promenade."

"I think your brother is just excited to see what sort of havoc he can wreak here," Penelope muttered. Belatedly realizing what had slipped from her mouth she inwardly cursed, as both Bridgerton siblings burst into raucous laughter. They had heard her quite clearly. Penelope buried her face in her hands for a moment, bemoaning her situation. After only two true encounters, she was becoming entirely too comfortable around Benedict Bridgerton. In fact, he was having much the same, liberating effect on her tongue that Eloise possessed. Both a blessing and a curse.

"Oh, Pen, I'm so happy you are here," Eloise exclaimed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye. "I wanted to discuss this Lady Whistledown! How intelligent, how powerful must this woman be to be so bold in her writing? Listing her subjects by name! It must be a pseudonym. Maybe we can discover who she is together!"

Eloise clapped her hands enthusiastically and Penelope heard a pause in the scratching of Benedict's drawing. Once again she found herself chewing her bottom lip. Really, it was a wonder there was any flesh left.

"Actually, El, I wanted to talk about that too."

"Oh, really? Do you have any theories? I was thinking it could be someone like Lady Danbury, she's rich and a widow–"

"El–"

"Or the Queen herself, but when would she have time for that? Maybe another recent widow, like Lady Trowbridge–"

"El–"

"But then I was thinking–"

"Eloise Bridgerton." It was Benedict who finally managed to get Eloise to quiet, leveling her with a look that Penelope was now convinced only older brothers could master. "Miss Featherington is trying to tell you something, you must actually let her get a word in edgewise."

Eloise did actually look a little shamefaced at the admonishment.

"Sorry, Pen. It has just… lit a fire under me. If a woman can do something like this all on her own, despite what society says, maybe I–"

Eloise pursed her lips, and Penelope recognized the expression on her friend's face; she was trying to tamp down her emotions. Specifically, anything close to sentimentality. Eloise had no problem exhibiting outrage or giddiness, but any emotion resembling maudlin was simply not allowed.

"Oh, El." Penelope grasped Eloise's hand in her own, glancing at the wrinkled pamphlet on the sofa between them before looking to Benedict. Benedict nodded, his ocean irises unwavering. "Eloise, I–" Penelope gulped. "It is me. I am Lady Whistledown."

It was so silent Penelope could have sworn they would have heard a mere piece of parchment fall to the floor as if someone was smashing a vase. Every possible reaction flashed across Eloise's face rapidly; shock, grief, indignation, and then…

What was that on Eloise's face?

Eloise's expression settled suddenly, cocking her head to the side, her hand never leaving Penelope's grip. Benedict watched her closely too, and Penelope could've sworn he recognized whatever had just transpired because he had relaxed into the chair again, letting his arm hang lazily to the side.

"Of course it is you," Eloise breathed, and Penelope felt tears sting her eyes, because she finally realized what it was.

Pride.

Eloise was proud of her.

"Do not misunderstand me, I wish you had included me from the beginning!" Eloise said, turning her nose up but unable to hold the charade for more than a second. "But you are including me now! Oh, Pen, this is remarkable! All under the ton's nose! How do you publish? Do you sneak–"

Eloise froze, whipping her head toward Benedict who merely stretched like a cat in the sun.

"We are going to have to work on your secret-keeping, dear Sister," Benedict said, winking. "But you have nothing to fear. I already know. In fact, I caught Miss Featherington performing her business in Bloomsbury– twice!"

Eloise gasped, finally releasing Penelope to reach over and smack her brother on the shoulder.

"And you did not tell me?"

"Ow! Eloise, it was Penelope's story to tell!"

Penelope noticed how Benedict had decided to omit that it had been him that had given her the ultimatum that she had to tell Eloise, or he would not let her pursue her enterprise. He was allowing her to take the credit. Penelope decided then that Benedict realized the benefit of secrets after all. They just had to be the right ones.

"Fair enough," Eloise grumbled, crossing her arms as she attempted to blow a stray lock of chocolate brown hair that had come loose from her ribbon. "Pen, I have so many questions. But the first, of course, must be–"

"Why?" Penelope finished for her, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Eloise inclined her head, and Penelope noticed that Benedict had spun around, sitting in the chair. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, cradling his chin in his palms.

"I would like to know as well."

Eloise and Penelope both spun their heads so fast their hair nearly flew out of their bows.

"I told you, Miss Featherington," Benedict said, pointing meaningfully at her. "In order to continue your business, I will be escorting you when you make deliveries in Bloomsbury. We will have to come up with some sort of system. Either way, it would be nice to know why I am assisting."

"Besides your inherent stubbornness and your desire to watch society burn around you?" Penelope snapped and she would have slapped herself. By God, she was becoming way too brash around the man. He was just so– so–

Oh, what was the word?

Eloise flared up, cheeks flushed angrily.

"How dare you say that Penelope cannot make deliveries alone just because she is a woman? Why do men get to go wherever they want unchaperoned, but we cannot?"

"Eloise, I'm not saying it is fair." Benedict sat up, palms up placatingly. Penelope noticed he had stained the sleeves of his shirt and jacket with charcoal, along with the flesh of his hands and chin. "But if I could find out Miss Featherington, someone who does not care for her could as well. Because she is a woman, her reputation is at much greater risk than mine. Plus, she is unprotected. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to her."

Penelope's stomach did a little flip. Small, but secretly delighted that in some small way, the man cared for her.

Then Benedict's grin became coy, shifting on his face so he resembled something more lupine than human.

"Besides, whatever is the point of blackmail if I cannot gain some enjoyment out of it?"

Insufferable. That was the word she had been looking for. Insufferable.

"Oh, you complete rake!" Penelope spat, and Eloise giggled.

"Oh, Pen. I should have warned you that Benedict can be so incredibly incorrigible in his natural state, he practically evokes one's ire by walking!"

Penelope rubbed her temples forlornly, before taking another steadying breath. She had been doing that quite a lot recently.

"I do owe you both an explanation, I suppose." Penelope admitted. Settling further into the sofa, she began to pick at her cuticles. Penelope had developed anxious habits at an early age; picking her nails, biting her lip, chewing her cheek. She never knew what else to do with the nerves that would beset her, especially in times of uncertainty.

"I have always been a wallflower, you know this El. Someone derided, unnoticed. To be honest I'm used to it. Papa ignores me, Mama thinks I do not try as hard as Philippa or Prudence. My sisters… you have heard them. If it is not my figure they tease, then they will always pick apart at something. When Mama decided to introduce all of us to society at once, my Papa displayed more emotion on his face than I think I have witnessed in my entire lifetime. Well, except when he is betting on horses. He asked, 'Even Penelope?' And my Mama sighed – you should have seen her. She admitted I was hopeless, but it was better I learned that early on before I was relegated to being a spinster forever. That hurt, but again, I was used to it."

Penelope shrugged, daring to glance up. Benedict's eyes widened in horror, while Eloise's mouth was set in a grim, white line.

"But if I'm honest… And you have asked for honesty, so I am trying to be honest. I think it was about a month ago, I came to visit you, Eloise. And remember, Gregory and Hyacinth invited us to play hoops in the garden? You started saying we were too old for such childish games, and Gregory started to argue. That you were his sister, not a woman. I told Gregory that I was a woman, about to debut in society. And he just said–" Penelope hesitated, resisting the urge to bite her thumbnail. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles, fidgeting. "He said, 'But Penelope, you do not count.'"

Penelope closed her eyes, fighting back the biting, salty sting of tears. She felt Eloise wince beside her before putting an arm around her shoulders. Benedict hissed through his teeth.

"Miss Featherington–"

"I know Gregory did not mean it like it sounded to me," Penelope rushed to add, tearing one of the ridiculous floral appliques on her tangerine dress. "But it made me realize how I have just accepted what my family have said, what people like Cressida Cowper have said about me as fact. All of my life. And I knew this season would be a disaster for me, that I will have no prospects, no suitors. So I just… wanted something that was mine. Something I could be proud of. That people would read and, even if it was inadvertently, they would respect me, revere me, maybe even fear me. Just a little. And that would be enough victory for me."

Eloise laid her cheek on Penelope's shoulder, and Penelope laid her own on Eloise's head. Benedict crossed his legs, sitting back as he ruminated on her words. Penelope didn't know if she had just lost him, if he believed this was all the venture of a silly little girl who wanted attention. But it was Benedict who leaned on his knuckles, offering her that kind smile again. Soft, warm, and comforting.

"Well, I cannot fault you for wanting something that is yours. Something that is, for you, positive. But I wonder, is that enough? Will it be enough in the end?"

Penelope sniffed, burrowing further into Eloise's side.

"I cannot lie, with how well the last issue performed, a seed of ambition has been planted."

"Oh?" Benedict wiggled his eyebrows. "And how lucrative has the venture been so far?"

When Penelope recited the sum of her earnings, Benedict's face paled and his jaw dropped. Eloise sat up, knocking Penelope straight in the chin, and whooped.

"You certainly must continue, then!" Eloise was practically vibrating, squealing in delight. "Oh, come now! The three of us must plan how you deliver your columns safely, how you gather your news. If you were to build a big enough pile of money, Pen, you could use it to retire comfortably as a spinster. Oh! We could be spinsters together!"

Penelope's heart warmed at Eloise's words, even though she knew deep within her heart that being a spinster, even with Eloise, was not her dream. She still cherished the golden image of a marriage with Colin. A life where he finally saw her worth and swept her off her feet into a lifetime of wedded bliss. But she would hold onto the little dream for now, keep it close to her breast.

One look at Benedict also told her that he doubted, very much like Penelope, that Violet Bridgerton would let Eloise get away with being a spinster. But neither said anything. Why burst Eloise's bubble now?

"Yes," Penelope said instead, giving a small, but happy, smile. "That would be lovely."

The unlikely trio began to plot. There was much to work out. And although a part of Penelope's mind thought this was much more work with three people involved, she could not help the tiny bloom of joy blossoming in her chest.

They had agreed on a simple signal. Since Penelope's bedroom faced Bridgerton House across the street, whenever she would need an article published within the next forty-eight hours, she would put up a bouquet of flowers in her window on the right side of the windowsill. If Penelope needed to see Benedict immediately, she would place the bouquet on the left side, and the two would meet in the Bridgerton's back garden. Penelope had snuck in often enough to see Eloise. Every time she placed a bouquet out would be at eight o'clock in the morning, so any emergency rendezvous would occur by nine o'clock in the morning. The cluster of flowers themselves would be made of aster, azalea, and heather. Benedict had raised a curious eyebrow at the specificity.

"I'm afraid I'm not much attuned with the language of flowers like many young misses and many courting gentlemen. Does it have a meaning?"

Penelope blushed a little, running tiny fingers from the tight curls her mother made her wear.

"On their own, aster means daintiness, azalea signifies fragility, while heather relates to luck or protection. Together, it means being taken care of in a time of need."

Penelope had refused to meet his eyes, but she could feel the strange tenderness in his voice when he had said, "I see."

Though he promptly ruined the moment by throwing a piece of charcoal at her and Eloise, prompting mighty yelps of outrage.

It was an simple enough signal, one Benedict could keep an easy lookout for. He had bachelor's lodgings in Piccadilly, but was rarely there as Violet Bridgerton had wanted her brood under her roof for Daphne's first season. If, by some chance, Benedict did not see the bouquet she would wear a small part of the bouquet somewhere on her person for the next social event, one he could spot.

Eloise, at first, had wanted so badly to help with spying and snooping, but Penelope rightly pointed out how, since Eloise was not out in society, she could not come to nearly as many social events. Eloise pouted at first, but Penelope promised to run her columns by her to help edit for grammar, tone, and seek her opinion. Eloise was more than appeased by this, even a little smug as she stuck up her chin at her brother, as if to say, "Aha! I have a more important job than you!"

And so it began, a whirlwind of snooping, writing, flowers, and daring escapes. The next two weeks they put the system into practice, and it appeared to work fairly well. Benedict saw the flowers the day she placed them on her windowsill and was prepared to help her sneak away at whatever social event they had to attend the next evening. Benedict wasn't sure about the family coach driver, Harold Evans, but Penelope assured him the elder man could be trusted. To be on the safe side, Benedict tossed a few coins the driver's way. It couldn't hurt.

Benedict was scanning Penelope's final draft after they had snuck out the side door of the Drury Lane Theatre, the coach rattling as it pulled them over the uneven streets. Penelope had donned her disguise again, watching him a little apprehensively as he read.

" 'And an even rarer jewel -- of only the most remarkable brilliance, fire and luster -has been unearthed. Her name, unknown to most, yet soon known to all, is Miss Marina Thompson .'" Benedict's eyebrows furrowed as he read the last few lines aloud. "' This author is left to wonder whether Her Majesty might reconsider the high praise she once afforded Miss Bridgerton .'"

Benedict frowned, handing the parchment back to Penelope as he thought over the words.

"Are you not being just a little harsh on my sister? You seem to be inviting pushback from the Queen as well. The bit about the Queen possibly being wrong at the end? A dangerous game! Maybe you should leave the part about His Majesty out, though?"

Penelope fanned herself with the paper, suddenly hot. It had been one thing to write it, and when she had shown it to Eloise her friend had seemed rather pleased with it. Now that Penelope thought about it, Eloise seemed to wish– not that Daphne would fail, but that her older sister merely wouldn't be so perfect. Penelope suspected that Eloise thought if Daphne could fail, just once, then it would not be so awful when Eloise was not up to par when she debuted. Not that Eloise could be anything less than wonderful. She was a Bridgerton. Pretty Bridgertons would always do well.

And as much as she loved them, there was a dark part of Penelope's heart that held resentment for that.

"It is not so much you sister I'm trying to ridicule," Penelope hedged, analyzing Benedict's movements carefully. "Merely that the Queen acted swiftly, unable to account for the thorn in Daphne's side that is Anthony. Also, Miss Marina really did surprise us all."

Benedict steepled his fingers together, assessing.

"Yes, Colin has told me how full the calling hour is at Featherington House for Miss Thompson."

Penelope stiffened, thinking to only just two days ago when Penelope had watched, unable to tear her eyes away, as Colin conversed with Marina warmly while Penelope played with the toy dog gifted by another suitor. It had been painful, disconcerting even. But Penelope shook it off. Colin was a charmer, everyone knew that. He would talk and dance with every pretty woman in the ton each season before moving on. It was just his way. But he wasn't serious about her.

Was he?

Penelope pushed the thought away viciously.

"Do you wish me to amend the line about Daphne? Maybe be more explicit about it being the Viscount's behavior that is deterring suitors, not Daphne herself?"

Benedict grinned, crossing his arms behind his head to lean against the back of the coach.

"Now, Miss Featherington, I would owe you a great favor if you did. I would owe you TWO favors, if it made Anthony's face turn more than two shades of red in fury. Oh! And cut out the bit about His Majesty, I mean it. That's just playing with fire."

Penelope rolled her eyes heavenward but giggled before pulling out the carriage writing desk, whipping out a quill and small travel bottle of ink to make her amendment.

"Deal!"

This author is left to wonder whether Her Majesty might reconsider the high praise she once afforded Miss Bridgerton, not because Miss Bridgerton is unworthy. Merely for the fact that no one took into account the dark, brooding lump of coal that is the Viscount Bridgerton – hurling himself into the path of any incoming suitor seeking treasure in the Bridgerton mines.

Benedict smirked as his brother's face turned pink, cherry red, then, of all colors, a horrendous puce at the dining table as they broke fast, reading Lady Whistledown. The man hadn't even noticed he'd sat his elbow in the butter dish in his outrage.

Oh, he would owe Penelope three favors for this.

All the while Eloise cackled madly by his side, and Benedict had to obey his mother's glare to get Eloise to calm down before Anthony decided to unleash his wrath on the whole table.

"Hush, you!" Benedict whispered, pinching Eloise's thigh.

Benedict reached for the platter of fruit and caught Daphne's eye across from him. She too had a copy of Whistledown in front of her, and she looked torn between resignation and amusement.

Maybe, just maybe, this would make Anthony ease up his apelike behavior. Daphne really did deserve the best chance at finding happiness.

Unfortunately, according to Eloise, it did not solve Viscount Bridgerton's idiotic behavior. In fact, after the column, the only person willing to dare enter the Bridgerton drawing room was the odious Lord Nigel Berbrooke. Eloise related all of this to Penelope in whispers as they watched the spectacle of the many suitors attempting to dazzle Marina. At this moment, it was an increasingly painful poetry recitation from a Mister Harper.

"Although Daph and I do not often get along, I believe being merely in Lord Berbrooke's presence is a fate worse than death. Anthony still has not changed his strategy, much to Daph's dismay."

Penelope sighed, wincing again at a particularly horrible line of poetry.

"I am sorry, El. I do not mean to make things harder for your sister."

Eloise snorted.

"Daphne will persevere. She is perfect." A moment of silence as Eloise shifted, and Penelope felt it wise to let her stew and think. That was the way with Eloise, often. One had to give her the space to think and digest, or else she'd panic like a fawn approached too quickly. "I do think my sister will find a way out of this mess. As much as I hate to admit it, she is rather clever."

Penelope nodded, petting the little toy dog in her lap. She dared to glance over at Colin, mingling with the other suitors. His stare never left Marina, and although Penelope did not know what lust or love looked like (her parents were not exactly a good example), she did not think either of those emotions crossed his face. He was intrigued, yes, that was it. Surely. It gave her a modicum of comfort.

Besides, Penelope had to admit, Marina was beautiful, graceful and yet she had an inner fire that Penelope was beginning to admire. So far, Marina had never joined Penelope's sisters in taunting her. Instead, Marina had actually spoken to her, asking about her likes and dislikes and had listened in interest. Penelope liked her.

Besides, Marina had a plethora of suitors to choose from. Surely she would not choose Colin, a third son, when she had lords vying for her attention. Colin was a flirt, it was natural.

It was fine.

"I will try to help in my next column. Hopefully the next ball will allow for some scandal or morsel of gossip to overshadow what is happening." Penelope clapped weakly along with the rest of the room as Mister Harper finished with a flourish.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Gentlemen, thank you for your calls. Do not forget to bid Prudence, Philippa, or even Penelope farewell as you go…" Lady Featherington said faintly, and Penelope felt Eloise stiffen by her side. No matter how many times Eloise heard Penelope's mother disparage her, she never got used to it. Penelope was unphased because a dark part of her heart agreed with her mama. Her mama had raised her, after all. That treatment, those words, were all she ever heard.

She was thrust from her thoughts when Colin walked by to greet them farewell. His bright eyes twinkled and his chestnut hair was perfectly styled. To Penelope, everything about him exuded sunshine, a perfect summer afternoon embodied in a person.

"A most wretched sonnet indeed," he confided, leaning close to share, a smile playing upon his face.

"Lord Byron he is not," Penelope quipped and she couldn't help but be proud of herself. Often, she could not always find the words around Colin. He had a habit of taking all breath and coherent thought away from her. But there were times like this where she could play off him, however small, and it gladdened her heart for days afterwards.

"I do not believe so. Good day, Pen."

Colin departed, leaving behind a jittering, excited sort of energy buzzing across Penelope's skin.

"Now that all of the lackwits have departed," Eloise drawled, eagerly leaning in towards Penelope's still grinning face. "What shall Lady Whistledown do?"

"I was thinking of turning an eye on the Duke of Hastings. He has stayed longer than anyone expected."

Eloise opened her mouth to reply before Marina unexpectedly joined them. She collapsed onto the sofa, sighing, slumping in her seat. Her dress rode up indecorously, but she didn't seem to care, and Penelope couldn't help but admire her for that.

"I'm so glad that is over," Marina said, closing her eyes briefly. "How tedious."

"But surely you have noticed a suitor to catch your eye," Penelope ventured, petting the little dog a tad vigorously. "Someone like Colin?"

Eloise eyed Penelope as if she had suggested Marina liking a cow, but Marina simply raised an eyebrow.

"Which one was he? I honestly cannot keep any of the men straight, they all appear the same."

Penelope's shoulders sagged in relief while Eloise snorted.

"I may not be out, but that certainly seems to be the case. You do not want to entangle yourself with my brother anyway. Every single one of them are fools."

Marina actually laughed boisterously, and both Penelope and Eloise shared a knowing smile.

"Noted, Miss Bridgerton. May I call you Eloise?" Marina asked, sitting up a little straighter to better look at the pair.

"Certainly!" Eloise beamed. "What do you think of all of this, Marina?"

"Quite honestly, it is silly. I did not want to leave home, but my father says the farm is in dire straits and an advantageous match would help. But it bewilders me. We are literally at war, and all any member of fine society in London can talk about is the marriage mart, the latest in fashion, or the next horse race."

Penelope could see Eloise light up considerably and even Penelope was intrigued. She read about the war when she could sneak one of her father's broadsheets when he left them around the house. The war with Napoleon was still raging on the continent, and there appeared no sign of the stubborn Frenchman giving up.

"If we were men we could go to sea, explore." Penelope sighed at the thought. There were times like this, where she did envy the prospects a man had. To explore without restrictions. Hell, if she were a man she could write more freely, without a pseudonym or fear of a tarnished reputation ruining her whole life.

"With nothing but King and Country to worry about!" Eloise exclaimed, clasping her hands under her chin as she imagined it, letting the fantasy play in front of her eyes.

Marina leaned closer, her tight curls piled atop of her head swaying, the perfect image of friendly mischief.

"And men, especially soldiers, can do things that are much more fun."

"Like what?" Eloise asked, tilting her head. Penelope also peered at Marina, the little dog shuffling in her lap. She felt as if something, a secret, a truth she was supposed to know, hung in the air. Marina was implying something, but for some reason it was completely lost to her.

Marina clasped the edge of the sofa and leaned back, the light through the windows brightening her whole countenance.

"Maybe I will tell you one day," Marina said, before hopping up and suggesting a walk in the garden.

But Colin kept coming. Kept visiting Marina. And Marina would giggle in all of the right places as Colin told his jokes and his many stories about his siblings. Penelope watched from the floor, playing with the puppy, as she tried to fight the rising jealousy within her.

Penelope knew, deep inside, that Marina was doing what she was expected to do: A performance. No matter the suitor, one was expected to laugh in all of the proper pauses, fan one's bosom at the right time, nod and say "Of course," in all the right places. Penelope's mama had reiterated this many times to her own daughters.

But it was Colin's attention that stirred her, poked at her, needled her for hours. Colin was a flirt, charming beyond all belief. She knew this. He was supposed to embark on his Grand Tour at the end of the season. Surely he wouldn't abandon it?

She couldn't deny the bitterness and resentment that flowed through her like tainted blood when she wrote her next column. It was foul tasting, even to her, and she tried to swallow it back, bite her metaphorical tongue. But as she looked at what she wrote, a thousand times over, she could not discern what was valid and what was foul.

She needed another set of eyes.

That evening she set about putting together a fresh bouquet, ignoring her sisters' remarks about buying herself her own flowers because no man would ever bring her any. Penelope felt a pang of guilt when Marina quickly, vehemently, came to her defense, shutting up Prudence and Philippa quite effectively. Dutifully she put it out at eight o'clock in the morning on her windowsill the next day… on the left side.

Penelope had no cause to use the left side signal before, so when she snuck away fairly easily into the Bridgerton back garden at nine o'clock, she half-expected no one to be there.

But there, standing before her dutifully, beautifully, were Benedict and Eloise.

A flood of warmth, slow but sweet, like honey languidly spreading across hot bread, flowed through her veins. Penelope never knew such a feeling could, honestly, exist. At least, for her. She so rarely felt… whatever this was, in her own home.

She explained her predicament, showing them the original draft of her column. She left out her jealousy of Marina, how she fervently wished for Colin to not take interest in her gorgeous cousin. Instead, she framed it as if it was the only gossip she'd seen of late that was of any notice.

"I think I may be… too harsh? And I have no idea whether mentioning Daphne will help or hinder her more," Penelope babbled as the Bridgerton siblings bent their heads together to read. Benedict and Eloise were settled on the swings, as Penelope nestled herself in the soft grass in front of them. The smell of the damp grass, the hyacinths planted across the garden, calmed her rapid pulse.

Ambitious mamas, rejoice! For the new Duke of Hastings continues to grace our fair city with his presence. And oh, what an impressive presence it is. It should be noted that the Duke has been overheard announcing to mamas everywhere that he has no plans of EVER marrying. This Author wonders which brazen matchmaker shall rise to such a challenge? For this competition is certainly well underway.

It has reached my ears that the betting books at White's propose the most fascinating of pairings this season. If one is to trust these accounts, despite the fact they are all written by men, then Mister Colin Bridgerton shall be awarded the year's grand prize when he sweeps Miss Thompson from her pretty, little slippered feet.

In other news, a most peculiar suitor for Miss Daphne Bridgerton has emerged. Though this miss cannot possibly believe that the town idiot will be able to reverse her rather dire circumstances, can she?

"I don't think the bit about the Duke is too much," Benedict said slowly, brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead creased. Eloise swung slowly beside him, digging under a rock to secure a hidden stash of tobacco. Both Penelope and Benedict chided her, though Benedict was very half-hearted, taking some from her with a grin. "It is entertaining, no real harm. Oh, he will be quite annoyed, but nothing he does not deserve."

"And the part about Marina and Colin is not untrue," Eloise added, the smell of tobacco mixing with the grass. "If you are really lacking this week, I do not see how that will do much harm."

Benedict looked at the parchment oddly, glancing up at Penelope every once in a while, pursing his lips. But he said nothing.

"The bit about Daph is not untrue either," Eloise said, shrugging. Benedict, however, interceded,

"It will depress our sister, though. She is feeling rather hopeless. It is quite irritating that Anthony is not interceding when it comes to Berbrooke, and the man is rather... Frog like. I did not realize her suitors had dwindled to this extreme."

"I thought you lived here for the season?" Penelope asked.

Benedict shifted uncomfortably.

"Most of the time, but I am often occupied."

"Men," Eloise scowled, crossing her arms. "They can go to clubs we cannot. Can go to galleries we cannot. Go to schools we cannot. Countries we cannot. How is this fair?"

"I never said it was fair," Benedict insisted, pushing Eloise's swing with his own, the two now swaying side to side like a pendulum. "Listen, I think you need to make it more clear that Berbrooke is the insipid one here, and it is not because of Daphne that he is suddenly her only suitor."

"He did rather swoop in once all of the other suitors had vanished," Eloise commented, gently tapping Penelope's skirt-covered knee with her slippered foot. "Like he was lying in wait. Like a snake in the grass, waiting to strike!"

Benedict grimaced.

"I do not like that image in relation to our dear sister."

"Most men are snakes, Brother. Surely you know that."

Benedict shifted on the swing, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Do either of you have a quill and ink handy?" Penelope queried, snatching the parchment back, scanning the paragraph she planned to edit.

"I have graphite," Benedict said, digging in his coat pocket to pull out twine wrapped graphite, sharpened to a point. He handed it to her, and she swiftly began crossing out lines and scribbling new ones. She stuck her tongue out in concentration, a light breeze ruffling the tight curls atop her head. The graphite point punctured the parchment a few times across her lap, but she continued. She could and would target Berbrooke more pointedly. Yes, that is what she had been missing. No one liked Berbrooke, although no scandal she knew of existed concerning him– well, except for his mere person. His grating personality rubbed everyone the wrong way, except for his mother. Surely there was something more to that…

After a few moments she held the new column out in triumph, handing it back to the siblings.

"There! How about this?"

In other news, a most peculiar suitor for Miss Daphne Bridgerton has emerged. Though this miss cannot possibly believe that the town idiot will be able to reverse her rather dire circumstances, can she?

No, Dear Reader. For Bridgertons not only have looks, they do have brains. And their clever, loving and ambitious Mama would never teach her daughters wrong when it comes to who a proper suitor could be. So, how could this come to pass?

It is quite clear that the fault, as usual, lies with the men. This comes in the forms of Lord Nigel Berbrooke and Viscount Bridgerton.

First, one must notice how Lord Berbrooke only swooped in like a cuckoo bird to claim a nest as his own. In this case, the Viscount Bridgerton had already pushed the other viable eggs out of the nest, leaving Lord Berbrook to put in his own and take his place. What could have prompted him to wait until all other competition was gone? He seems to consider himself ineligible, and only worthy of Miss Daphne Bridgerton's attention when there is no one else in sight.

The second, is that even Viscount Bridgerton must admit he has scared every other potential match for his sister off like a wolf amongst sheep. Yet, he does not seem concerned with Lord Berbrooke, though I daresay it is more of an insult than a compliment. Might not the Viscount consider that he's let the wrong sheep in the pen with his lambs? That the sheep may in fact be a fellow wolf in disguise?

I promise, Dear Reader, I intend to find out!

"Now that is brilliant." Benedict's eyes crinkled at the corners, one line going all the way back to his hairline, and something about it made Penelope trust his words. She preened. "That casts much more suspicion on Lord Berbrooke, and I do not mind criticizing Anthony. He is being a bloody prick."

Benedict clamped his mouth shut, eyes widening a fraction as both Eloise and Penelope burst into unrestrained giggles.

"Oh, Mother will kill me. I should not have said that in front of young ladies."

"But I am your sister!" Eloise reminded him, pushing his shoulder playfully.

"I am most certainly not his sister," Penelope pointed out to Eloise, pointing at her very ginger hair, blazing in the sun. "No one could mistake me for one!"

"But you are his friend! You are our friend, so it is surely fine."

Penelope blushed, though she had no idea why a sudden shyness overcame her. She swiveled her head towards Benedict, who appeared to be studying the new addition again, swinging gently from side to side.

"Are we friends, Mister Bridgerton?"

Benedict's ocean blue-green irises met her sky blue ones, and there it was again – that crinkle. The crow's feet were prominent, pleasant, taking over his face until it was all she could see.

"Miss Featherington, I would not do this for someone who was not my friend."

Benedict resolved after the publication of the column to keep an ear closer to the ground about Lord Berbrooke. He had, quite possibly, not been as involved in Daphne's debut as he should have been. To be honest, he had been desperately hoping that Daphne's debut could symbol a sort of break for him – one where he could finally focus on himself. Gregory and Hyacinth were no longer in leading strings, and while his mother did often ask him to keep an eye on them or settle disputes, it was not nearly as often as it once had been. Francesca was soon going to Bath to practice pianoforte with Aunt Winnie, Eloise was often reading or visiting with Penelope, and Colin was old enough to begin his own pursuits.

In short, Benedict had been able to finally shed a sort of surrogate motherhood he had adopted when his father had died. Oh, Anthony was certainly the father figure, the lord in charge. But Benedict had carried a sort of emotional weight that many men, including his peers at Cambridge, would call womanly. So with Daphne's debut, though he loved his sister dearly, he had desired a separation of sorts. Anthony was in charge of their siblings as adults, securing their futures and settling them financially. Benedict, happily, had no part in that.

But he would do his sister this kindness. He would keep his eyes and ears open in the club and elsewhere about Lord Berbrooke and report back to Anthony. Eloise had made a very good point; it was incredibly peculiar how the toad of a man appeared just as all of the other suitors had slunk away.

Benedict witnessed a sort of melancholy fire light within Daphne after the article was published. She was not hopeless, but she was angry. And maybe, just maybe, it would prove to be useful. Daphne had always been, since their father's death, the perfect child, who did things perfectly. It was devastating, actually, the more Benedict thought on it. She had trained her whole life for this moment, and right now everything was cracking, but not because of her.

He saw Daphne go riding with Anthony one day only for Daphne to come back perfectly poised, ready to play pianoforte until supper while Anthony looked… shaken. Contemplative. Maybe Daphne had finally allowed herself to use that imperfect emotion – upset, disappointment – to fuel some carefully placed words against their eldest brother. It was similar after a trip to the opera house, although he glimpsed a similar determination in his own mother's gaze.

And oh, Benedict had thought, taking a rather large gulp of brandy. That was absolutely terrifying.

He was proven right, of course. Because the next thing he knew, Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, had been invited over to dinner.

And had been sat right next to Daphne.

Benedict may have looked after the children growing up, but that had never diminished his respect and fear for his mother. Whatever she lacked, she made up for in ambition and cunning. The strange thing was, she did not desire for her children to conquer kingdoms, marry princes or princesses, or acquire riches. No, they were quite secure, at least financially. Violet Bridgerton sought a more fantastical prize; for all of her children to find true love, get married, and give her an army of grandchildren.

One would think that all mothers were the same, but many could not afford to be so. Some mothers would lie, cheat and steal for their daughters to marry into a better title or more wealth. Many would murder for their sons to climb the ranks of the army, become Archbishop, or have just an heir and a spare to secure a family line.

But Violet broke the mold. And she would pull every trick in the book to achieve her aim.

Benedict stuffed another bread roll into his mouth as he laughed at a joke Colin had said, one eye darting towards his mother as she chatted with the Duke. It was not hard to see what his mother was doing, but Benedict knew that Simon Basset was the absolute last person Anthony would see with his sister. Mostly because, everyone knew that Simon was a rake that rivaled Anthony in every way. Benedict tried to think about Simon courting Daphne and he felt his stomach turn, because all he could imagine was Simon in a dark corner, leaning towards his sister's mouth and he shuddered. Nope. Nope. Not happening.

Besides, he thought, as a conversation on Lady Whistledown pricked his ears, the Duke may be a rake but he was honorable. He would never try and seduce or disgrace a lady of the ton. It was too dangerous a game to play.

"For all we know, Whistledown may be some interloper living in Bloomsbury of all places."

Benedict couldn't help but grin to himself. Penelope was certainly not living in Bloomsbury, but she frequented it often enough, with him in fact. Penelope was good at blending in though, talking to the delivery boys amicably, checking in on their pay and welfare. He had no doubt that if Penelope suddenly had to live in Bloomsbury, she'd acclimate to the people quite easily.

"What should be so terrible about Bloomsbury? Is it because people there actually work for a living?" Benedict took a sip of wine, daring his brother to disagree. He loved Anthony dearly, but the man was a superior arse of a man at times.

"She does seem to be someone with access," Daphne observed, cutting her piece of beef with all of the refinement of a princess.

"Who knows if Whistledown is even a she?" Colin queried, and Benedict raised his eyebrows. It was a line of thinking Benedict should encourage. He hadn't thought much before, how he and Eloise should maybe work to divert all possible suspicion away from Penelope when they talked of Whistledown to others.

"Fair point," Anthony admitted.

"Oh, because she is simply too good to be anyone but a man?" Eloise said, furiously stabbing a piece of boiled potato. Benedict could have kicked her if she was close enough, but he settled for a glare, moving his head like a cobra readying to strike to get her to notice him. Let people believe such lies!

He sighed, sitting back. Eloise was only, in her own way, trying to protect her – their – friend's dignity. Penelope was incredibly smart, smarter than Benedict had ever given her credit for in the past. He could see how Eloise would always attempt to defend her, even if no one knew it.

"I think it rather obvious that the writer is Lady Danbury," Francesca added primly, the perfect copy of Eloise in looks, but of Daphne in mannerisms. Benedict had a feeling she would be well sought after when she finally debuted.

"Lady Danbury enjoys sharing her insults with society directly. She would never bother herself writing them all down," Daphne said, and Benedict saw Simon smile. Benedict had to agree. Lady Danbury, that wonderful dragon of a woman, was far too proud and assured of her observations to keep quiet on them. And, well, she was usually right.

"Could it be Lady Featherington?" Hyacinth asked innocently.

The whole table of siblings burst out with a loud, "No!" The laughter that filled the room was bountiful, and Benedict had to admit he enjoyed nights like this. All of them around the table just being themselves. What was the point in having so many siblings if you couldn't enjoy them? Laugh with them? Remind yourself why you would gladly sacrifice anything and everything to ensure their safety and happiness?

Benedict became lost in his thoughts for a bit, internally chuckling at Hyacinth's question. To know that it was Lady Featherington's youngest daughter, alight and vibrant with her altar ego while hiding under the wallflower exterior. Lady Featherington didn't even know how clever of an enterprising daughter she had, and a part of him wilted at the thought. Since getting to know Penelope, it was clear to him that she was not allowed to flourish or grow within the confines of her own home. He pondered, rather sadly, whether she was eating with her own family now, quiet and alone in a house that didn't pay her any mind.

Maybe not completely alone. Eloise had said that Marina seemed to have taken a liking to Penelope.

He heard, vaguely, Eloise commenting to Hyacinth how Lady Whistledown writes of the Featheringtons themselves. Benedict gripped his fork a little tightly, his knuckles white, before setting it down and taking another gulp of wine. He hadn't discouraged Penelope writing so horribly about herself and her family, blindly accepting her reasoning that it cast suspicion off of her. But he had a nagging feeling, wriggling in the back of his mind, that maybe Penelope actually believed the horrid things she wrote of herself.

That was a disturbing idea.

Benedict let himself be engaged in conversation with Colin about a spar with Mister Jackson. Soon Benedict forgot, for a few moments at least, his worries. His siblings had that effect on him, especially Colin. Colin, a man unburdened with responsibility of any kind. It was freeing, in a way, to look through his eyes.

Well, it was. Until Anthony shot the two of them a very pointed look. Benedict and Colin clocked it immediately and when Anhony jerked his head in the direction of the Duke and Daphne, they both swept their gazes over to the pair immediately. Benedict knew his cue, and while he may be attempting to be more hands off then in the past, his sister and her honor mattered to him. He and Colin both noticed the smile, wicked and lazy, form on the Duke's face as he said something to Daphne. But Benedict also saw how his mother smiled and Anthony looked about ready to burst.

Benedict sat back, popping the last bit of the beef course into his mouth while Gregory surreptitiously tossed another pea onto Hyacinth's plate.

Benedict knew one thing; he was certainly not getting in the middle of a fight between his mother and Anthony. Oh no.

He already knew who would win, anyway.

Tonight, a privileged selection of only the most fashionable guests will descend upon the most scandal prone grounds in all of London: Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Its shaded garden walls, such as those of the Dark Walk, have covered for the most notorious of trysts. This Author wonders which persons of quality shall be discovered there tonight.

Or better yet, how many?

Benedict perused the column again in the carriage to Bloomsbury, letting his forefinger trace every word of the paragraph he perused. They were delivering it to the printer to be distributed by noon tomorrow, timely for the ball being held at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens that night. There was a question percolating in the recesses of his brain, he knew there was. But for some reason he was unable to pinpoint it. Something about this paragraph, an implication. Did Penelope–

"Mister Bridegerton."

Benedict turned his attention to the young girl in front of him. She had already donned her lady's maid cloak, the hood covering the tight, blaze of curls on top of her head. He could see one of her cheeks hollowing, and he suspected she was chewing it with nerves. Her tiny fingers were interwoven in her lap, twisting and fidgeting.

"Miss Featherington?"

Penelope inhaled deeply, appearing determined to get the words out before she could bite her tongue.

"What, exactly, happens during a tryst?"

Oh fuck.

That had been the question, he realized with a jolt. She had written of the Dark Walk, a path that Benedict himself had utilized a couple of times to enjoy certain… pleasures in the shadows. He had wondered whether she knew what was truly going on.

She had written as if she knew.

But her innocence, her naiveté, was on full display. Benedict could not help but squirm under her questioning stare, light blue eyes quizzical. This was not his domain. In fact, he was very well aware that answering this sort of question, defiling the purity of a young debutante's mind, could land him a one way ticket down the aisle with Penelope. And, as much as he admired her, considered her a friend, neither of them wanted that.

Benedict did not want to marry.

And Penelope was in love with Colin.

He couldn't do that to either of them.

"I cannot reveal that information," Benedict said, awkwardly looking out the carriage window, as if someone could have their ear pressed against the glass of the moving vehicle. "It is not an appropriate topic for a lady."

Penelope's expression changed. All at once she shifted from wide-eyed girl to, dare he say, a woman scorned. She crossed her arms, huffed, her cheeks growing ruddy with frustration.

"Oh, it is not an appropriate topic to discuss with young ladies, but it is perfectly acceptable to drag any young lady a man may please onto the Dark Walk for whatever–" Penelope waved her hand in the air, searching for the right words. "Sordid deeds they desire? What right do you have, Mister Bridgerton, to tell me what I can and cannot know? Especially when it could affect me, or your sisters! How am I supposed to know what to do, if something were to happen? Not that any man would deign to drag me down the Dark Walk."

Penelope scoffed and something strange happened then. A simmering, slow boil bubbled in his veins. It took him a minute to realize it was anger. He so rarely felt it, he hadn't recognized it at first. It took him another minute to discover it was not Penelope the emotion was aimed at, but her idea of self-worth, and the thought of any man trying to take Penelope down the Dark Walk, or his sisters for that matter.

She was his friend, and he realized it would gut him for any man to use her so basely. Just like it would break him if that were to befall any of his sisters. Shame filled him, too. How his sisters, how Penelope, knew so little. How society was designed to keep them blind, deaf, and mute.

What was he to do?

"First, I would never desire for you or my sisters to be dragged down the Dark Walk," Benedict grunted, looking back at her, not cowing to her indignation. "Secondly… I see your point."

Penelope looked nothing short of astounded at his admission, and he chuckled.

"If I am to tell you… some of what happens, and not explicitly mind you, you must tell no one," Benedict hurried, leaning forward, realizing that he still clutched her article in his hands. The carriage ran over an uneven patch of street and they both rocked in their seats. "It will also be considered one of the three favors I owe you."

Penelope grinned, slow and sly. Benedict had to admit, she looked much more of a woman when she smiled like that.

"I thought I only had two?"

"You are lucky. Anthony put his elbow in a butter dish reading your article. I figured I owed you an extra boon."

Penelope's smile grew wide, her teeth finally showing, and it was something he had so rarely seen. Oh, in Eloise's presence she was all giddiness. But Benedict realized it was a rarer occurrence than he first thought.

"Carry on, then. What happens during a tryst? I am sure you know. You and your brother are considered rakes, after all."

Benedict actually blushed, running his long fingers through his dark, thick hair. He would have to edit his answer. Thoroughly.

"When… a man and a woman sneak off for a tryst," he started, his throat growing tight, tongue suddenly dry. "And – well – they may start k-kissing."

Oh lawks, had he just stuttered?

Benedict tried to center himself. Penelope was his friend, she was Eloise's best friend. He could tell her the truth while… editing, a tad.

"There's a lot of touching and kissing involved. You must understand, Miss Featherington, the amount of… touching, where it happens is greatly improper. Places one does not normally… display to the public."

Penelope tilted her head, her cloak following her movements. The light blue of the cloak matched her eyes, the gray light filtered through the coach window somehow emphasizing her, and he was all too aware that it was taking her a moment to process his words.

"Not normally displayed? We all wear clothes, though. What–"

Benedict had to resist the physical urge to bury his face in his palms.

"Places that always must remain chaste for young ladies, Miss Featherington. Places we use for what we deem unsavory activities. Lower extremities."

Penelope frowned, the cogs clearly turning in her head.

"Lower extremities used–"

Penelope's eyes widened. She blinked once. Twice. Benedict saw the moment it clicked into place.

"Oh!" she gasped, covering her mouth with her delicate hands. He saw her legs cross under the movement of her skirts.

"Miss Featherington, you must never allow a man to take you on this walk, no matter what. Being seen even near the Dark Walk means being ruined. The things that happen there are not the chaste pecks of highly publicized novels, nor the gentle touches and innocent hand holding of great romances. It is the bawdy, lewd references in Shakespeare, the kind of desires that the debauched novel Fanny Hill –"

"Yes, Mama would not let me purchase it."

Benedict just about choked on his own spit imagining little Penelope reading Fanny Hill .

"The point is, Miss Featherington," Benedict bent forward and carefully, daringly, took Penelope's hands in his own. He needed to make this clear, make sure she understood. For if he could keep Penelope safe, maybe she in turn could pass it along to other young ladies. Knowledge really was power. "Do not let any man take advantage of you, try to drag you there. If someone even tries, scream and I will come running. You should never have to do anything you do not want to, and I would not see your reputation besmirched."

Penelope gifted him with a look of such tender, deprecating forlornness that Benedict felt a piece of him tear at the corner. He knew that look, it came with the blessing and curse that was having four sisters. Sad eyes, downturned face, an indulgent smile, as if the person in front of them was spouting the kind of white lies that were uttered out of kindness but hurt worst of all.

"No one would ever try to drag me down the Dark Walk for any of those sorts of activities," Penelope said softly, squeezing his hands. "You have no need to worry. I do not possess a figure or beauty to be coveted by men."

She slowly withdrew her hands from his, picking up the parchment that, at some point, had fluttered to the floor forgotten. It was as they stopped and Benedict escorted her to the print shop's back doors, her false Irish accent carrying across the room, that he decided he would attend the event at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens after all.

Penelope stood at the edges of the dance floor, watching the dancers take the floor for a reel with something akin to longing. Penelope had not been asked to dance once this season, and while not unexpected, it still stung. Penelope actually quite excelled at dancing when her parents had hired an instructor. The man had actually complimented her several times on her timing and lightness of feet, and Penelope had been able to ignore Prudence's venomous remark about nothing Penelope doing being light.

So she watched and attempted to listen for gossip as servants passed with drinks and canapes, and she remained invisible. Ignored.

That was normal.

"Pen!"

She startled, turning to see Colin approach her, Benedict staying a couple of strides behind him. Colin, bright and effortless. Colin, forever shining like a beacon, or a young Apollo. It was terrifying, how he was so perfect to her every time she saw him.

Penelope attempted to steady her rapidly beating heart, taking a few quick breaths before she said, voice higher than usual, "Colin. I did not know you would be here!" Benedict from behind Colin raised one eyebrow so high it nearly receded into his hairline. "A-and you, Mister Bridgerton. How delightful you could both make it!"

Benedict nodded while Colin gave her one of his bright, effortless smiles.

"Sorry to disappoint," Colin said. "Have you seen Miss Thompson?"

Penelope felt her heart sink, dangerously close to the acid in her stomach. It hopped and lurched, and suddenly Penelope didn't know what to feel. Jealousy, undoubtedly. But she liked Marina and now, knowing Marina's particular… predicament, she did not think Colin was any real candidate for her hand in marriage any longer. But now this secret knocked away at her brain. Colin was her friend. Benedict and Eloise too, for that matter. Keeping this secret was agonizing.

But it would not do for Marina's condition to be revealed.

"She is... ill. My mama stayed home with her. Papa had to chaperone." She indicated her father, standing a few yards away with a group of other older men, chortling about something or other. The brothers looked as well, and while Colin nodded politely, she noticed Benedict's brow crease. "I am quite enjoying the fact he is here. Mama would never allow me to wear a dress like this. Not yellow enough, I think."

Colin's eyes were kind, but it was Benedict who spoke.

"I like your hair as well, Miss Featherington. These looser curls frame your face well. They suit you."

"I quite agree with my brother," Colin said jovially. "Truly it suits you."

Benedict nodded at his brother, as if approving his statement.

"O-oh," Penelope floundered for an answer. "Thank you. I will be sure to tell my Mama. Maybe she will let me wear it like this mo–"

But Penelope was interrupted by the snide, overly ecstatic voice of Cressida Cowper, followed by her usual cronies.

"Mister Bridgerton, and Mister Bridgerton. How wonderful to see you both," Cressida said, simpering and fluttering her eyelashes. She carried a glass of punch, held daintily in her hand. "Mister Colin Bridgerton, I believe you owe me a dance this evening. And I have only one more space remaining on my card. At present."

"How convenient," Penelope murmured. She couldn't help it, the sour remark just slipped out. Cressida had a way of getting under her skin like no one else did. The constant thorn in her side that dug deeper and deeper with each encounter. Benedict seemed to be the only one that truly heard her, for he discreetly, carefully, pressed his hand to the small of her back before releasing her.

As Cressida leaned forward to present her dance card she spilled her punch… all over Penelope's dress. It was utterly ruined, the patterned pink silk quickly absorbing the dark liquid, wet and obvious. Penelope turned away, frustrated near tears. Benedict put his hands out, hovering near her elbows, as if to steady her. Colin gaped at the scene.

"Penelope! I did not see you there!" Cressida exclaimed, her tone so patently false it was a wonder how anyone saw her as anything but the petty bully she was.

Penelope stepped away, turning out of Benedict's hold, prepared to run away.

"Miss Featherington–" Benedict began, but Colin interrupted him.

"I am afraid I cannot offer you that dance, Miss Cowper. I am to escort Miss Featherington to the floor. At present, I think."

Penelope's heart stopped in complete disbelief as Colin gently grabbed her arm and escorted her out to the dance floor. Penelope only had time to see Cressida's shocked face and Benedict, face unreadable, turned towards Cressida and mouth open as if to say something. But then Penelope was on the dance floor, under the open night sky in the light filled gardens. It was a dream, a fantasy, something that Penelope felt she could have only wished for up until now. They entered a lively jig, and Penelope could not help the smile and laughter that escaped as she finally got to dance. And with the man she was secretly in love with? Oh, she would cherish that forever. Colin was her knight in shining armor. She was sure of it.

Benedict watched Colin escort Penelope to the dance floor, leading them into a jig. A sense of pride briefly filled his chest, along with an odd, bittersweet feeling. His brother did the right thing, snubbing Cressida and taking Penelope out to dance. Penelope could enjoy herself and forget about the absolute – He stopped his train of thought, but the incident made his hair stand on end and his temples ache in frustration.

He turned to Cressida who now seemed to be aware she had come under his attention, and not for good.

"Miss Cowper," he said coldly, calmly. He decided his best option was to imitate his mother's icy anger, for that always succeeded in making anyone cower. "Your faux pas was not unnoticed by myself. I daresay it was very much contrived. If you do not leave my sight, and leave Miss Featherington alone, I will ensure your dance card remains completely empty for the rest of the season. Do I make myself clear?"

Incredulous, Cressida bent her head, nodded, before scurrying away with her pack of bitches. Benedict fought the very Anthony urge to snarl. If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was a bully.

He turned back to watch Penelope and Colin dance, comforted that Penelope was now laughing joyously as she spun and leaped. She was certainly a talented dancer, light on her feet across the floor. He could tell that even Colin was surprised and delighted by this fact. But the feeling returned, bittersweet and ominous. For all Colin's kindness, Benedict did not think his brother carried any sort of romantic affection for Penelope. Not yet. He was too young, his eyes flitting about and wandering from pretty thing to pretty thing. Benedict knew, because he had once been the same.

Colin cared for Penelope. There was genuine friendship and affection there. Penelope could at times act a bit more restrained around Colin, but there was no denying that Colin brought out a sense of elation in her, something jubilant that allowed her to float on air. That was what that first, powerful tendre was, after all. The feeling that the person in front of you was the reason for everything.

But he feared the possibility that, one day, Colin would turn around and break her heart. Now that Benedict considered himself her friend, he did not wish that hurt upon her. For it would be savage, devastating in its wake. The girl had such a low opinion of herself to begin with. Colin's rejection, should his brother never develop feelings, would surely break her.

When the dance ended and the master of ceremonies announced a spectacle to behold, Benedict sidled up to his brother and little friend. He knocked his elbow into Penelope's side, offering his arm.

"May I have the honor of escorting you to the event, Miss Feathrington?"

Penelope and Colin both looked at him. Colin a tad confused, but too good-natured to ponder too much on it. Penelope, effervescent with her newfound experience, merrily took his arm.

"The honor is all mine, Mister Bridgerton!"

"Oi! What of my honor?" Colin asked, clasping his chest dramatically.

"You have none, Col," Benedict grinned and they all laughed as they floated along the walk to whatever fantastic display awaited them.

Penelope stared in awe with everyone else as the fuse was lit and the little glass bulbs above their heads became filled with light. How marvelous! The ways of the future, ever expanding and epic in scope, never ceased to amaze her. It may not be gossip, but she would certainly write about the spectacle in her next column! As she gazed at the lights, sandwiched between Colin and Benedict's warm sides, Benedict was jostled by a man next to him, pushing Penelope slightly and shifting her focus to–

Was that Daphne Bridgerton, storming away from a troubled Anthony Bridgerton?

And was she headed to the Dark Walk?

Penelope gaped as Daphne's figure grew smaller the further she walked away from the light, and she bit her lip. She should tell Colin and Benedict beside her. Their sister was headed to a dangerous place.

But…

It couldn't hurt to follow, to see… If anything untoward were to happen, Penelope would scream. Benedict promised he would come running if she screamed. Yes, that would do. But she was curious, she had to look, had to know–

"I am just going to check on Papa," she said faintly, slipping away as Benedict and Colin were still mesmerized by the lights. Benedict talked about how the light refractions would be an interesting challenge to paint and she used the opportunity to lift her skirts and scurry after Daphne, into the darkness.

Daphne's legs were much longer than hers. Every one stride of the willowy woman was about two for Penelope, but she managed to catch up, slowing her pace as she followed Daphne's figure into the darkness. The rows of hedges were so tall that it blocked all possible light but the moon and stars. Penelope stayed a calculated distance behind, ducking behind bushes and hedges as she went. Her dress snagged once or twice on a twig or a rock, but she ignored it. It was already ruined by Cressida's punch anyway.

Along the way she heard sounds here and there, strange moans and gasps. She wondered, her face heating up as she did, whether these were due to the acts that Benedict spoke of. No one sounded… in pain. Maybe, hopefully, both parties had chosen to perform the act consensually. Penelope fanned herself, convinced it must be her dashing after Daphne causing this bout of sweat. Yes, that was it.

Penelope watched from behind great towering plant life as Daphne paced back and forth in the small garden space. While no light entered the Dark Walk, the sounds of the ball could still be heard distantly. Music and laughter in abundance drifted over their heads. But it was like all of the sound faded when Lord Berbrooke entered the scene.

Penelope could not hear the full conversation, just snippets and words said in ascending frustration and dismay.

"...as your husband–"

"...never marry you – mistake –"

"... better than me–"

And suddenly Lord Berbrooke had advanced upon Daphne, grabbing her arm. Daphne exclaimed, "Let go of me!" Penelope froze in fear. But she remembered Benedict's face, pleading and desperate, and she could not let him down. Could not let this happen to an innocent woman, especially not Daphne. So Penelope took a big intake of breath, preparing to scream–

When suddenly two things happened.

The Duke of Hastings, dashing and gallant, rushed onto the scene from the opposite end of the garden, but not before Daphne punched Lord Berbrooke– square in the face.

Penelope gasped and no one looked as surprised as Daphne herself, staring down at Lord Berbrooke and her fist as if it had acted of its own accord. The Duke skidded to a halt by Daphne, looking thoroughly impressed. They began to talk in low voices that Penelope had no chance of hearing. A wave of relief washed over Penelope at that moment. Daphne was alright, she would be safe in the Duke's hands. There was a palpable feeling, one in which she realized she would not have to disappoint Benedict. In the end, she had not had to scream. And, in the end, she did not feel it right to tell Benedict what she saw. For if she told Benedict, he would tell Anthony, and of course Colin would soon become involved.

And if word got out that Daphne had to punch Lord Berbrooke, it would be asked where and how it took place. Benedict had told her that a woman merely being on the Dark Walk could tear apart their reputation, and no matter how good Viscount Bridgerton's intentions may be to protect Daphne's honor, neither option would end well; a duel or marriage to the lout.

Penelope could not doom Daphne to be bound to Lord Berbrooke in any way. Especially after what she had witnessed.

So she snuck away, a mere whisper of wind amongst the foliage as she made her way back to the ball. She heard the sounds again, deep and guttural but she focused on the music ahead as she picked up her pace. She had to re-enter unseen which, luckily, was a talent of hers.

Which was why she didn't expect Benedict Bridgerton to catch her arm a mere five paces out of the Dark Walk.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he hissed, pulling her along until they were near enough to the edge of the dance floor to be proper, but far enough not to be overheard. "You are lucky it was I that noticed you were gone, and I that saw you come out of the Dark Walk! I told you to stay away from there!"

His eyes were wide and panicked, his tone wavering as his pupils darted about, inspecting her as if she would have somehow gotten hurt. Was he… worried about her?

Something physically rooted itself in her chest, stretching and making itself at home. It was a physical, tangible feeling she could not put a name to.

"I am unharmed," Penelope tried to sooth, placing a hand on the one that gripped her arm.

"You could have been ruined, could have been r–" Benedict stopped himself, clenching his jaw so tight Penelope swore she could hear his teeth grind.

She put on her best look of contriteness, and it wasn't entirely false. She did feel awful for making him worry.

"I apologize. I let my curiosity get the best of me. I relied quite heavily on my talent for being invisible, and I was! I wanted to see if I could sniff out a scandal, a bit too ambitious. I am sorry, truly."

She peered up at him through her lashes, but his tension didn't ease.

"You – you didn't – see anything did you?"

"Oh no," Penelope said quickly, seizing the opportunity. "But I did hear some interesting sounds. They sounded like–"

"No, no. No, no, no, Miss Featherington. You have clearly heard enough! Let us go find you a lemonade. Join Mother, Anthony, and Colin, how about that? Although Anthony and Mother appear to be having quite the conversation… You know, do you want an eclair? Eloise says they are your favorite–"

Benedict continued to babble and Penelope could not help but smirk to herself. Distraction successful.

Fireworks boomed overhead, reflecting in the nearby lake. Spectacular and bright as they lit the night sky. As they joined Lady Bridgerton, the Viscount, and Colin, Benedict hustled Colin to go fetch Penelope an eclair, Penelope pondered a further question. Did she tell Eloise what she just witnessed?

Yes, Penelope decided, Anthony and Lady Bridgerton talking in hushed whispers beside her. She would tell Eloise. Women could understand the need to handle these matters themselves. Eloise would understand the need to keep quiet on the matter. Besides, she did not think it prudent to keep much from Eloise. She could only imagine Eloise's resentment if she had gone with her original plan and had told no one about Lady Whistledown.

Penelope heard murmurs around them and she glanced up to see Daphne Bridgerton on the arm of the Duke of Hastings as he escorted her to the floor. Penelope cursed not having heard them in the Dark Walk, but she was intrigued all the same. What had happened when Penelope left that the two were now dancing, staring at each other like they were the last two remaining people on earth? Oh, now this was a story.

A column was already writing itself in her head, and although she would not reveal the altercation with Lord Berbrooke, she pledged to investigate. No man of such ill character, who could attack a woman thus, was scandal free. She would ruin him. He deserved it.

Anthony and Lady Bridgerton stared at the Duke and Daphne in each other's arms, Violet beaming as her eldest son glared in disbelief. Colin appeared behind her, munching on the eclair he'd gone to fetch, watching the scene play out in front of him. Benedict pinched the bridge of his nose before he slapped the back of Colin's head.

But Penelope watched, entranced as the Duke and Daphne danced. Graceful, enchanting even, as she saw their lips move as they talked. They only had eyes for each other, and she wondered what it was like to live in a moment like that, where it is only you and one other person.

She felt rather than saw Benedict bend down, his breath ghosted across her ear,

"Do you know anything about this development?"

Penelope granted him that smile, sly and slow.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

For those not in attendance at the Vauxhall celebration, you missed the most remarkable coup of the season. It appears Miss Daphne Bridgerton has captured the interest of the newly returned Duke of Hastings. Perhaps she is the season's most precious gem -- incomparable and unbreakable -- after all. Of course, how Miss Bridgerton secured her newfound suitor is yet to be determined.

Yet if anyone shall reveal the circumstances of this match, Dear Reader, it is I.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown.

Chapter 2: Bewildered and Intrigued

Summary:

Penelope uncovers a truth that only brings about more questions. Questions that only a rake can answer.

Notes:

Thank you so much for the lovely responses I got on the first chapter! It means so very much to me!

Thank you again to itakethewords for being an awesome beta and even better friend and soundboard!

As usual, I try to link words or historical references one might not know in the chapter. There's some flashbacks in here, and a combination of scenes from the show, original scenes, and scenes that have changed. You'll notice the main difference is, of course, more interaction between Benedict and Penelope which changes certain courses of action. It's fascinating, getting to sit down and think how these supposedly small differences really can change the story! It's fanfiction, so I get that special privilege to imagine and write!

Chapter Text

Benedict had been ten and seven when Hyacinth, barely a few months old, wouldn't stop wailing.

She'd been crying for two hours now, and Benedict had thought she would have at least tired herself out. But no, Hyacinth fussed, screaming and wriggling in his arms as he rocked her in the nursery. He had attempted to hand her off to the wet nurse, surely she'd been hungry. But after twenty minutes of waiting outside, the nurse maid came out, shaking her head apologetically. Hyacinth refused to latch onto her breast, crying until her face was near purple. Benedict checked if she needed changing, but she was completely clean. He checked for a fever, feeling her forehead and cheeks, but besides the irritation she was putting herself in, she wasn't overly warm.

For all intents and purposes, she was screaming bloody murder for no reason.

But there had to be a reason, there just had to! It made no sense. The entire house could hear her wails, every sibling coming in to check on Benedict's non-existent progress. Daphne even stayed, the ten year old girl hovering near his side, anxious to help but unsure of what to do.

Violet was nowhere in sight.

Benedict, by the end of hour two, wanted to scream himself. His temples were throbbing, his eardrums aching, and his own mother could not seem to bother to get out of her bed just three doors down the hall. He knew she must hear her daughter's pitiful cries, but the matriarch of the family did not stir.

It was one of those days. One of those weeks.

There were some days where Violet forced herself out of bed, bathed, dressed in mourning black, and dutifully checked on Hyacinth and the children before retiring to her private quarters to blindly embroider or stare out the window. She never joined them for meals.

Then there were days like this, where nothing, not even God himself, could stir her from bed.

Nothing would, unless his father magically rose from the dead.

So he tried to rock Hyacinth, removing her little bonnet as she thrashed in his embrace. Daphne was tripping over her skirts around him, her arms outstretched helplessly, and it was all too much, he was going to explode–

A tiny whimper from the nursery entrance, and he turned. There was Eloise, covered in dirt and muck, hair tangled in twigs and leaves, sniffling, tiny fists balled up, trying to rub away the tears. Her skirts were torn, her right knee had a vicious looking scrape…

And he could do nothing, because Hyacinth was still crying.

Before he knew it tears were flooding his own eyes, desperate to run freely in rivulets down his face. God, his head was pounding, his breathing labored, why was this all happening at once?

Daphne, good, sweet Daphne who tried so hard to be perfect, tugged his jacket, saw his frustration, and said, "Brother, I will take care of El. I know where Governess keeps the bandages, I shall do it. Do not worry, Ben, please."

Daphne dashed forward to sweep Eloise in her arms, a child holding a child. Benedict thought on how Daphne sang to Eloise the night of Hyacinth's tumultuous birth, singing Lavender's Blue over and over again to block out the sounds of their mother screaming–

Daphne was gone, having ushered Eloise from the room. And Benedict was alone with a weeping, wailing Hyacinth and he couldn't stop his furious sobs from escaping him.

So he and his baby sister cried together, neither knowing why the other was filled with such sorrow.

"Mister Bridgerton? Mister Bridgerton!"

Benedict was startled out of his memory, and he looked down at the insistent tug on his arm. Penelope Featherington was peering up at him through her blue lady's maid cloak, eyes wide with concern as they stood, frozen, at the back of the printer's shop. She moved her tiny, glove-free hand to the arm that held hers, squeezing it. "Mister Bridgerton, are you alright? Are you concerned about the column? It is all in praise of your sister, but I assure you, I can edit it if you so wish–"

"No, Miss Featherington," Benedict said, trying to give her a comforting smile, though he knew by the way his cheeks ached it was quite strained. "It is not that. I just became…lost in thought."

Penelope nodded slowly, still not taking her worried sky blues off of him. They were quite penetrating, the more he saw them; intuitive, sharp, even calculating. He never would've thought such a thing a mere month or so ago. Yet now, he was well aware of the rampant thoughts and decisions that happened under that blazing red hair.

"Your hair," he said awkwardly, pointing at the ginger tresses under the hood of the cloak. "The curls are much more relaxed now. I gather your mama finally listened."

"It helped that you, at my request, very loudly proclaimed how much better my hair looked this way in front of my sisters at Vauxhall." She patted his arm again before retrieving the column reporting said event from the valley between her breasts. Benedict pointedly did not look as she did this. He should probably say something about propriety, Penelope had become quite lax around him when it was just them or even with Eloise. But a small part of him decided against it. He did not wish to embarrass her or make her uncomfortable. No, it was best if she was as relaxed around him as possible. It would not do for her to close up, not when there was so much at stake for a girl of ten and seven, putting the whole of polite society in their place.

"So, you will not tell me what was on your mind?" Penelope queried one last time.

Benedict looked at her again, sharply. She really was more astute than people thought. The air was still and stank of manure, waste, and the hot ink of the printers. The clattering of the print shop could be heard inside, yet for a moment all he could hear was Hyacinth's screams.

"Not today," he said gently, and this time it was her hand he took in his own, giving it an apologetic squeeze. "But one day, when I am ready, I will. Promise."

Penelope tilted her head up at him, patient and steady before turning back to the printer's shop door and opening it.

There will forever be just two words that come to This Author's mind the morning after any good party, "shock" and "delight."

Well, Dear Reader, the scandalous accounts from last night's soiree at Vauxhall are quite shocking and delightful indeed. Emerging, phoenix-like from the ashes of irrelevance, is one Miss Daphne Bridgerton. The illustrious debutante was seen dancing not once, but twice with the season's most eligible and most uncatchable rake, the Duke of Hastings.

Benedict couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him as he read the paragraph mentioning his sister in the latest Lady Whistledown issue. Penelope had been quite proud of the phoenix reference and, Benedict had to admit, he was intrigued by his sister's sudden attachment to the Duke. Simon seemed like a pleasant enough fellow, but Anthony had been insistent that his best friend was determined not to marry. Benedict was not exactly comfortable with the idea of Daphne courting a well-known rake, but he had told himself to step back. Both for Daphne and himself. Anthony had both Benedict and Colin covered with his overbearing protectiveness anyway.

But he had resolved to keep his ear to the ground about Berbrooke. Eloise and Penelope had a point, the timing of Berbrooke's suit was oddly fortuitous for the toad. So Benedict sipped his scotch, eyeing the crowd at White's that afternoon. He sat in the corner by the bookcases, back to a wall of dead philosophers as he analyzed the various deeds and misdeeds of the gentlemen in the room. A room full of idle men with nothing to do, avoiding their wives, gambling their fortunes, and just…existing.

For Benedict wasn't sure if one could call this living. At least, not for himself. He came often for drinks and conversation, but he'd been contemplating, lately, if this was indeed the life for him. He wasn't a typical second son. He'd not elected to become a clergyman nor join the army. Neither appealed to him, and his parents had always been indulgent enough to let him get away with it. His mother, in particular, let him do very much as he pleased, which meant Anthony had to loosen the reins upon him. That wasn't hard, he was Anthony's favorite brother (Benedict would almost venture to say favorite sibling, but Daphne took that title some days), and his best friend long before Simon Basset came along.

Benedict wanted to be an artist. It was one of the few things he consistently loved and stuck to. He remembered, from the time he was a little boy, doodling on his rolls of parchment where his notes and equations were supposed to go, or sketching trees and bits of wildlife in the margins of Greek tragedies and treatises on advanced mathematics (he'd got several canings for that at Eton). But it stuck, even after Cambridge he would buy sketchbooks, go to art galleries, try to memorize every aspect of a painting he particularly enjoyed, then attempt to recreate it. He was not one who saw the world through harrowing scripture, conquests of land and sea, or sums of what was bought, sold, and leased.

To Benedict, everything had line, texture, color, form, and light. The marvels of the world around him could be interpreted through a medium where just the slightest change in light source or if one chose oils or watercolors made vast amounts of difference. It rendered the scenery and the people around him anew. He wanted nothing more than to be a part of that.

But Benedict these days never liked anything he sketched. He'd sit and attempt to draw one thing for hours; a hand, an apple, Eloise's face in side profile. But sooner rather than later, he'd rip the page out in frustration, crumple it up, and throw it in the bin.

He wondered, vaguely, if Penelope ever did that. If she at times couldn't find the right words, the right synonym or adjective to describe and just tossed it all aside in a fit of vexation.

The difference was, of course, at least Penelope was actually publishing. Even if it was under a false name, a girl ten years his junior and with significantly less freedom than himself, was at least doing something .

Benedict shook his head, attempting to shake off the sudden swell of bitterness as he attempted to re-focus. Now wasn't the time. He could not blame Penelope for his own floundering and indecision just because she had decided to take a leap while he was still scared, looking over the edge.

He took another sip of scotch and spotted Lord Berbrooke settling onto the leather sofa in the middle of the room, broadsheet in hand and ready for perusing. Now this was a fine opportunity. Gossip amongst his fellow gentlemen was always best when the subject of recent events had walked into a room. Benedict stood, drained his drink, and made as if to go get another one, sauntering over as slowly as possible. As he thought, his fellow gentlemen were murmuring to each other, taking surreptitious glances at Berbrooke reading on the sofa.

"Got ousted by Hastings, did he not?"

"Can you blame the chit? Hastings is far more handsome, and he is a Duke–"

"A rake though–"

"...help her prospects–"

"Berbrooke must be down on his luck–"

"Financial troubles–"

"...why else would he wait until–"

On and on it went as Benedict made his way to order another scotch. It didn't surprise him that much of the mutterings died when he approached, not wanting to offend him. It was well-known that the Bridgerton brothers were quite protective of their sisters, and any ill-talk of them would result in a thorough beating. Mister Hendricks had realized that last year when he had made an unwise comment about how potentially prolific any of the Bridgerton sisters would be if their mother was anything to go on.

It hadn't been pretty. Anthony, Benedict, and Colin had been there, and Hendricks was not seen at the club for at least three months after that.

But what Benedict had been able to hear was telling. No one appeared to think very highly of Lord Berbrooke. He didn't seem to have any real friends, and if even the likes of Lord Fife and Lord Cho were talking poorly of him, whispering of possible financial problems, that was a bad sign. But he had nothing concrete to give Anthony. Not yet. And Anthony could be quite stubborn if someone chose to contradict him. Anthony appeared to think, judging by how the imbecile got away unscathed for the past few weeks courting Daphne, that there was nothing amiss about the frog-like man. Benedict would need to listen more closely.

As he made to return to his seat, he heard some shouting from the adjacent card room. Looking over he frowned to see Lord Featherington losing at the cards table, and quite badly. It appeared the detestable man, for Benedict had never liked him, was losing money left and right. Yet he still agreed, begged for another round.

It had never occurred to him that Lord Featherington's gambling addiction could be negative, especially when it served him and his brothers so well for winning. But now all he could think about was Penelope and how this could affect her. He did not imagine her and her sisters finding anyone willing to marry them this season (Prudence was vile, Philippa was vapid, and Penelope was not yet a woman grown) but that was not the point. How their father presented himself and his dealings could hurt their futures.

Benedict sank into his seat again, staring at the amber liquid in the crystal-cut glass. He had much to ruminate over.

"Because her condition is catching."

Penelope's mother's words rang in her ears as she walked down the street with Eloise, side by side as her best friend ranted about Daphne's supposed courtship with the Duke. Penelope was glad to see Eloise, although she was not fond of their lady's maids following them around. They were far back enough that conversation between them could go on unheard, but Penelope was sure that Eloise's own maid would be more suspicious if Eloise wasn't loud.

"So, Daphne may be in love. Does she think it an accomplishment? What exactly has she accomplished, then? She certainly did not build that man or bake him. He simply showed up. Now he straggles about. He likes her face, probably. Perhaps her hair. Having a nice face and pleasant hair is not an accomplishment. Do you know what is an accomplishment? Attending university! If I were a man, I could do that, you know. Instead, I shall have to stand by and watch dear Mama appear proud because some man should like to admire my sister's face and hair and fill her up with babies!" Eloise finally looked up from her tirade and Penelope was, a little ashamed to say, while she had technically heard Eloise, she was not exactly listening. " Oh, Penelope, you are not listening to a word I say."

Caught. It was time to admit the whole truth.

Penelope quickly pulled Eloise close to her, arm-in-arm, and Eloise startled with a great big, "Oh!" and widening eyes. Knowing something was about to be revealed, she leaned in a bit closer as Penelope talked, as quiet as she could without alarming their maids.

"Eloise, I must tell you of two things. First in regards to your sister–" Eloise bent down so her ear was closer to Penelope's frantic words. "And Eloise, you must swear to not tell Benedict or your other siblings of this knowledge."

Eloise whipped her head towards her, her loose brown locks hitting Penelope's cheek.

"What? Pen, I cannot promise that entirely. Benedict is my favorite brother… Well, my favorite sibling, actually. It used to be Colin, but then–"

"El! Focus!" Penelope hissed, and Eloise, with difficulty, clamped her mouth shut. "I swear once you hear what I have to say, you will know why you cannot tell your family. Especially your brothers."

Eloise sighed but nodded, and the only sound for a moment as Penelope gathered her courage was their slippered feet on the paved sidewalk, weaving past other gentlemen and ladies about their day.

"Eloise, your sister went on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall," Penelope said, looking around to ensure no one else was listening. Eloise gasped and Penelope pushed on before she could be interrupted. "And Lord Berbrooke followed her, and he tried to–" Penelope almost could not say it, how awful it had been, to witness such a violent, terrifying attack against a fellow woman. Eloise stilled, and it was only Penelope's persistent tugging that made her stumble forward again. "Luckily, the Duke of Hastings was close at hand. Daphne punched Lord Berbrooke in the face and the Duke was there to verify her innocence."

"I– I am honestly impressed," Eloise said faintly, her voice, for once when discussing Daphne, a little in awe. "I never would have thought Daph had it in her to punch someone. Well, other than us siblings. So she is courting the Duke out of… What, gratefulness?" Eloise narrowed her eyes, suddenly, a furious fire building behind them. "Did he blackmail her?"

"No, no, nothing of the kind," Penelope said quickly. "You must understand I heard and saw only parts of what happened. All I know is when I saw your sister safely with the Duke, I left as fast as I could."

"So you were also on the Dark Walk?" Eloise said, a little too loudly, and Penelope reached up her pink gloved hand to cover Eloise's mouth. "Mmph!"

"Everything alright, Miss?" called Penelope's lady's maid, Maevis.

"Yes, yes, Maevis. Miss Eloise had a fly land on her mouth!" Penelope called out before glaring at her best friend.

"Sorry," Eloise whispered when Penelope finally removed her hand.

"I got enough of a scolding from your brother, thank you," Penelope said.

"I am assuming you mean Benedict, I have four irritating brothers if you recall." Eloise rolled her eyes. "So you did tell him what happened?"

"No. He saw me come out and I told him I had been curious. El, you must realize that if the rumor of your sister being alone on the Dark Walk with Lord Berbrooke, even for a moment, and her punching him got out, it would completely ruin her? This is why we cannot let your brothers know. They would either challenge Lord Berbrooke to a duel, and both outcomes of said duel would have a horrific cost, or worse, force her to marry him."

Eloise grimaced, her blue eyes suddenly hard as flint.

"You are right, Pen. As much as Daphne at times may…irritate me, I would not wish Lord Berbrooke upon her. Or anyone for that matter."

"You see my point then," Penelope said, nodding sagely as they sidestepped another couple on the pavement. "But there is something even more concerning I must tell you."

"More concerning? How?"

"I know of someone…with child."

Eloise stumbled again, and Penelope supported her friend as they continued on, looking back at their maids. They could not tell if the flat looks upon their faces were suspicion or resignation.

"Is it your mama? Is she not advanced in age?" Eloise asked, nose wrinkling in disgust. "I suppose your father should still want a boy…"

"It is not Mama," Penelope interjected, and here was the moment she had been dreading. Lying to Eloise, even in part. But it was Marina's secret, and not only was Marina her friend (for what else could she call Marina, who was kind to her and giggled over sweets with her before bedtime?), but also because the scandal was in direct relation to her own family. Penelope may degrade herself, mother, and sisters within the confines of her column. But this? This would ruin any prospects for them, no matter how weak they were. And Penelope still held on to that tiny kernel of hope, that one day Colin would notice her and she'd be worthy enough for him to marry. So, yes, she had to lie. "It is a maid."

"Which one of your maids is married?" Eloise asked, and Penelope darted her eyes around them, pausing for a moment to let two gentlemen pass them in the street.

"She is not married."

There was no pause. Eloise was quick, her mind working faster than Penelope believed the many members of the Royal Society could. It really was a shame that Eloise could not go to university or seek a career in exploration, politics, or science. She would be terribly good at it.

"How did she become with child if she is not married?"

"I do not know, but I will find out," Penelope said, shivering a little as her mother's words came back to her. "Mama says it is catching, and that worries me! But it also makes no sense. Plenty of women of the ton have been pregnant once married and around society. And we have not caught it before. Is it only with unmarried women?"

"Oh, lawks! You must find out, Pen. Otherwise, how can we make sure it never happens to us? We have accomplishments to acquire!" Eloise shuddered, and Penelope could only imagine the horrors filling her mind that also assaulted Penelope. Being with child, with no father to claim it. Alone and growing a human being within your belly… How terrifying it must be!

Penelope resolved to talk to Marina. She must be scared, and Penelope had to know. She just had to.

Benedict had been enjoying a perfectly peaceful late morning; Daphne practicing pianoforte, Hyacinth and Gregory pestering one another, Colin by his side before they took off for a round of fencing, teasing Daphne about her evening at the ball and how now she was apparently courting the Duke. All perfectly lovely, and all perfectly normal.

Trust Eloise to completely blow that to smithereens.

"How does a lady come to be with child?"

The question positively boomed in the room. Daphne's playing abruptly stopped, their mother looked just about to keel over in shock, and even Hyacinth and Gregory paused their constant state of motion. Benedict and Colin shared a look before staring at Eloise. This would not go over well.

"Eloise, what a question!" his mother exclaimed, clearly flummoxed.

"I thought one needed to be married," Eloise persisted and Benedict could literally feel his stomach dropping lower and lower until it attempted to settle amongst his guts. This was certainly not how any of them expected the morning to go. He could see Colin grinning like a mad fool beside him and he pinched his thigh in warning.

"What are you talking about?" Daphne inquired, twisting in her seat on the padded bench, clearly wanting Eloise to elaborate.

"Apparently, it is not even a requirement," Eloise said, splaying her hands out in exasperation. Benedict clocked the exact moment on his mother's face when she flipped from bewildered to closed off, adamant.

"Eloise, that is enough!"

Eloise gave their mother a rather put out look, and as Violet encouraged a confused Daphne to keep playing, Eloise sauntered over to the sofa in which Benedict and Colin sat. She promptly flopped between them, sagging in the seat, before hitting both of their legs to ask,

"I take it the two of you know?"

"Do not look at me," Benedict said, working hard to not even move his head even a centimeter towards his sister. God, why now? Why was she asking this? He knew his sisters knew next to nothing of the marital act, how babies were made, the conditions the various acts of pleasure could come about in…and he was starting to wonder if that was wise. It was how it was done, yes. No man, apparently, wanted ladies of the ton made aware of sex and its consequences. Because, of course, if they knew the realities of sex, what was going to keep them from finding themselves scandalously forced into marriages?

It was common, of course, for well-bred ladies to seek their own pleasure in extramarital affairs after marriage, as long as they had provided an heir first. It was certainly not expected for men to be loyal to their wives. Benedict did hope, if he ever decided to marry, that would not be the case with him. He did not want that to be true for any of his siblings. All eight of them secretly desired to possibly have a match as true and loyal as their parents had been (well, except maybe Anthony, but that was an issue for later. Or Eloise, who was determined not to marry at all). But Benedict also knew the unlikelihood of this. His parents had been the exception, not the rule.

Benedict was snapped from his ponderings when Colin asked all too innocently,

"Have you ever visited a farm, El?"

He promptly smacked the back of Colin's head, upsetting Eloise's own noggin in the process, and she hit them both in turn. Only of course, for Violet to promptly scold them. But Colin was on fire that morning, making a comment about whipping out their sticks . Colin really could get away with anything, the bastard.

As Benedict made to move, Eloise grasped his forearm, pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear, "I will demand an answer you know! I shall hunt you down!"

Benedict winked playfully, though his mind wrestled with itself.

"We will see if you catch me."

It was as he and Colin were exiting to go for that round of fencing that they witnessed the deluge of gentlemen callers making their way into the house. My goodness, Benedict smirked. Penelope's column, and his sister's supposed courtship, were really working wonders on her prospects.

Seven year-old Penelope was alone.

That wasn't unheard of. In fact, it was quite common.

Penelope had sat alone in the hall, forlornly picking at her buttercup yellow skirts. Her sisters had refused to let her play hoops with them in the garden, and the sound of their laughter was a painful taunt echoing from the open veranda doors. Her mama had ignored her when she pulled on her violently pink skirts, asking if her mama could play with her. She had been shooed away; a thick, white face cream covered her mama's face, and she told Penelope in no uncertain terms she was not to be disturbed.

Papa was gone, again. Whenever Penelope asked where he went her mama rolled her eyes, snorted,

"Doing what men do, Penelope. My dear girl, let me tell you. While you must aim to be married, never expect to see a man around the home. That is just wishful thinking."

So Penelope never expected to see her papa, except in the morning as they broke fast, perusing his broadsheets. Penelope often picked them up when he was done, attempting to read them. When she grew tired of deciphering the tiny print, she'd attempt to fold little paper boats that would never set sail on the Serpentine. Though she wished they would.

The governess, one of the only people who actually paid attention to Penelope, was not there that day and the nanny was minding Prudence and Philippa.

Because Penelope was often alone. So she knew how to be alone. To pull herself into a small ball, sit in a corner, and stay quiet.

She was invisible.

But one day, Penelope sat alone again in the hall, her buttercup skirts an eyesore when the Cook, Missus O'Carroll, spotted her. It was often the servants who pitied her, Missus O'Carroll most of all. Missus O'Carroll didn't understand the rich, especially her own masters. To have so much money, so much time, and not want to spend even a moment of it with their own children? How did that make sense? Missus O'Carroll simply couldn't spend much time with her own girls, and that was only because she worked day and night to provide for them.

So Missus O'Carroll ushered her downstairs to the kitchen, sat her on a stool, and gave her fresh scones with honey and butter, and a battered book, torn and frayed at the edges, spine cracked and well-loved. Penelope let herself feel safe and warm, savoring the scones and honey her mama often did not let her have. She licked her fingers clean with relish, swiping her tiny, pink tongue across her lips for stray crumbs. Politely she asked for a wet cloth to wipe her hands, she was a lady after all. She did not want to get the book dirty.

And then, with the same curiosity she set to her studies, she opened the book and began to read.

It was the first fairytale she had ever read. Mama had not been very invested in her children reading beyond their basic letters so they could study matters of purportment. But Penelope was different. When with her governess, she devoured every little piece of literature, every single dot on a map, and every little letter or word presented to her in some shape or form. How one could move and shuffle letters to create words, phrases, sentences, and whole paragraphs that spanned for pages and pages. It was fascinating!

But this little fairytale showed her the true power of a story.

A woman trapped in a tower, held there by a witch. A prince who finds her, climbs her long, golden hair and they fall in love. But the witch finds out, steals the girl away and tricks the prince so he climbs her shorn tresses and falls to the briars below, blinded and scarred.

Penelope turns the pages, enchanted by every word, until she flips to see what happens when the prince wanders the desert and–

Nothing.

Penelope thumbed the page, thinking they may have stuck together with stray honey or butter. But nothing. As she inspected the spine, she found that the page had been torn out. She turned to Missus O'Carroll, childishly indignant.

"What happened to the last page? Now I shall never know the ending!"

Her little face was flushed, cheeks puffed, lips pursed, and Missus O'Carroll had to make quite the effort not to chuckle.

"Well," Missus O'Carroll said matter-of-factly, turning back to the pie crust she was kneading for that evening's fish pie. "Write yer own, then!"

Penelope's tiny brow furrowed in confusion.

"My own?"

"Yes, ya' wee wain. Yes!"

Missus O'Carroll wiped her hands on her apron before shuffling over to a drawer in the kitchen counter. She rummaged around before holding up a piece of graphite triumphantly. She shuffled over, setting it in Penelope's tiny, pudgy hands.

"There ya' go!"

Penelope sat, staring at the blank back page of the book cover, twirling the little piece of graphite in her hands. It smudged her fingers gray, she'd get scolded for that later, but she didn't care. She set the tip to the back cover, and began to write.

The prince wandered the desert, weak and helpless. It was dry, hot, and it seemed all was lost. So one day he sat in the sand, and let himself wither away.

But he did not know the love of his life, was just around the corner, also alone.

But she had grown used to it.

Penelope wished what had come out of her wasn't a sad ending. Truly. She wanted the prince to save the damsel in distress. She wanted love, marriage, and hope for the future.

But that just wasn't what she knew.

Penelope found herself in Marina's room, sharing cake and concerns. Marina had let her in many times in the evening, and they had often shared sweets and a laugh. It was the first time that Penelope had felt such kinship with anyone in her household besides the servants. It was glorious and warm, to actually be close to her cousin and revel in stories together. Penelope hoped tonight, Marina would share more.

In her bright green dress, not the worst gown her mama had ever made her wear to a ball, Penelope listened with rapt attention as Marina told her how her "condition" came about, teasing her about the cake, and then relaying the sweet courtship between her and Sir George Crane. It was a lovely, beautiful story – something that Penelope thought was worthy of its own telling in a novel. The love letters between her and Sir George as he fought in Spain were inspiring, and Penelope delighted in them.

But the answer, that it was love , that caused her pregnancy was simply…unsatisfying. It, first and foremost, didn't make sense. She wasn't certain of many things about her parents' own marriage, but she knew that Lord Archibald Featherington and Lady Portia Featherington were certainly not in love. Yet they had three daughters! So, no, love could not be it, or at the very least it could not be all . There was certainly something missing.

Penelope had also decided that the condition could not be catching . That was nonsense! All women across the classes would be pregnant constantly (or not at all) if that were the case.

She understood why Marina perhaps could not tell her. She was under Penelope's mother's roof, and Lady Featherington would certainly punish Marina harshly if she knew that she'd told Penelope how a woman came to be with child. Though, Penelope thought bitterly, it might also be because Marina saw Penelope as naive. That wasn't untrue, but it still hurt to think on.

Why couldn't anyone give Penelope the power, give her the agency, to be knowledgeable so she could grow into a woman? Surely the knowledge would help, rather than hinder.

She thought back to the carriage ride, where she had asked Benedict about the Dark Walk. He had refused at first, but he had, in the end, told her the truth. Or, at least, as much of the truth he could feasibly get away with.

Penelope smiled then as she gathered her skirts and went to meet her mother and sisters so they could depart for the ball. Perhaps she would pass by her room and gather a heather from the bouquet by her bedside and tuck it into her hair. Benedict would have to approach her then, and then she could make inquiries.

He still owed her two boons after all.

Penelope stood in the corner of the main room that served as the entrance, hidden once again even in a frock as ostentatious as hers. While she knew her mother hoped that such loud, 'happy' colors would make her daughters stand out amongst the creams and pastels, really it just made people turn the other way. So people steered clear of Penelope as she absent-mindedly fiddled the small piece of purple heather she'd grabbed before her mother screamed for her presence.

She watched and waited, and could not help the leap of joy she felt when, just behind Daphne and the Viscount Bridgerton, were Benedict and Colin escorting the Dowager Viscountess. Her heart performed the regular little dance it did when she saw Colin, but she knew she had to focus. If she and Eloise were to get the answers they sought, it was Benedict they needed to speak to. Penelope could not even imagine asking Colin such a question!

Penelope hurriedly stuck the little piece of heather in her looser curls. At least her mother had allowed her, once again, to wear the looser style rather than the tight poodle curls atop her head. It made her feel a tad more comfortable in her skin. She tried to catch his eye, but Lady Danbury and the Duke of Hastings approached, and she saw with a giggle that Lady Danbury sufficiently whisked the disgruntled looking Viscount away as the Duke led Daphne to the dance floor.

Benedict seemed to leave Violet in Colin's care as he walked forward, possibly for a chance to tease Anthony about Lady Danbury all but hauling the proud lord away. But Penelope needed this chance now, so she took a deep breath and weaved through the crowd to reach him. Luckily, it appeared she was just as invisible in motion as she was standing still. So she passed and squeezed through people, gaining on Benedict, but his legs were so long, and she was behind–

"Mister Bridgerton!"

Her voice came out as barely more than a wisp on the wind, but somehow, though no one else heard, though no one else turned or blinked, he stopped. Benedict moved, spinning slowly around and he saw her, just a few steps behind him, standing there with her hands clasped in front of her chest nervously, wringing her hands.

He smiled.

"Miss Featherington."

He glided towards her and a part of her couldn't believe it, but he was there. Her friend was there, and there was something about that feeling, blooming with delight in her lungs, that made her feel that…something. She still didn't have a name for it. But it was there.

Benedict paused, eyeing the piece of heather in her hair. With a nod he offered his arm, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"A dance, Miss Featherington?"

Although she knew it was just a ploy so they could talk undisturbed, their words drowned out by music, it still was an exciting prospect, to be asked by a gentleman to dance. To actually get to dance, one of her favorite things to do and yet something she often did not get to enjoy.

"I would be honored, Mister Bridgerton," Penelope said, taking his arm and following him out to the floor. She spotted the Duke and Daphne preparing to dance as well, and she couldn't hide the glee on her face. Seeing them up close was quite exciting!

Benedict followed her line of sight and raised an eyebrow,

"A curious development, do you not think? It certainly helps Daph's prospects if nothing else."

"She is free of Lord Berbrooke, then?" Penelope asked as he bowed and she curtsied, the quartet beginning to play.

Benedict narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean? He may have been the only suitor for a while, but now she has plenty."

Penelope coughed, thinking hurriedly. She really was far too comfortable around Benedict now. She had a feeling he was like that, someone you felt you could tell anything and it would be kept close to his chest.

"Yes, yes. I only mean that now with so many options, she may be rid of him!"

"I believe that is now the case," Benedict said as he took her hand and began to lead her in a dance. "Though I've been trying to listen for anything against Berbrooke at the club… Nothing concrete. But I do not like it–"

Penelope pondered this as he moved her across the floor. Benedict was a competent dancer, though not as graceful or jubilant as Colin. However, Benedict made up for it by how secure he held her, firm and steady.

"Well, actually, Benedict. I have called upon you not just for a column, as I will be publishing tonight," Penelope hedged, biting her lip nervously. "But Eloise and I have a pressing question–"

Benedict's eyes immediately lit up in understanding, and she inwardly cursed. Eloise and her big mouth!

"No, Miss Featherington. I cannot possibly inform you how that particular happenstance comes to be."

Penelope, imperceptibly, pinched his arm.

"Ow!"

"Why does no one seek to inform us what is to happen to our own bodies? Keep us in the dark? It is women who must carry babies, not men! Eloise and I simply seek to know so we may protect ourselves!"

Benedict's brow furrowed, his ocean blue-green irises waving curiously, pensively.

"You," Benedict swallowed, leading her along the dance floor, the movement about to come to an end. "Have a point."

"Plus you still owe me a boon, a favor!" Penelope pressed and Benedict pouted, sticking his bottom lip out imploringly.

"You are to use my honor against me?"

"Quite, if it serves my purpose!"

Benedict sighed but it broke into a little grin and as the violin strings hummed and the cello faded, he boldly, habitually, tweaked her nose.

"Cunning thing. Fine. Meet me and Eloise in the garden after tonight's ball. Might as well make a long night of it."

The music ended and Penelope's lone dance of the night came to an end, as they were about to part ways Penelope glanced at Daphne and the Duke. The way they stared at each other… Penelope could not pinpoint the emotion, but the air was thick and heady around them.

"They look good together," Penelope commented.

Benedict opened his mouth to reply but Anthony strode up to his brother's side, completely ignoring Penelope, and said gruffly,

"Go dance with your sister."

Benedict huffed incredulously.

"Why?"

"Because I said so!"

"Ugh," Benedict groaned. Shooting Penelope an apologetic look, he walked away to take his sister's arm. Penelope watched the Duke go into the refreshment room and Lord Berbrooke and Anthony followed.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something interesting brewing. She snuck forward to follow.

She was invisible, after all.

Benedict watched as his sister left his arms to talk to the Duke and his elder brother stormed toward him, a look of stony fury on his face. Benedict followed him outside, trying to catch up. He was taller than Anthony but his brother, in all his anger, could be quite quick when trying to escape something.

"Anthony! Ant!" Anthony didn't turn around until they were out the front entrance, down the steps, and Anthony paced in the gravel, practically pulling his hair out.

"Brother, what is the matter?" Benedict asked, watching as his brother seemed determined to dig himself a grave with his boots alone.

Anthony did not pause but rubbed his face with his palms furiously.

"Lord Berbrooke attempted to assault our sister on the Dark Walk last night," Anthony said gravely, and Benedict felt as though a stone had been dropped in his stomach. There was a protective, simmering fury that was working its way to a boil. How dare that toad of a man touch his sister? He did not deserve to inhabit the very space she existed in!

"Have you challenged him?" Benedict asked, striding up to his brother and forcing him to stop with his hands. While the thought terrified him and dueling was illegal, he knew many men still settled matters in such a way. Anthony, with all of his hot-headedness, certainly would.

"No, and you must not either," Anthony said. "I've told him to stay away from Daphne unless he wants to end up six feet underground. But we cannot risk such action without word getting out how he got his black eye."

Benedict had to pause, thinking for a moment when it dawned on him. Despite himself, despite his overwhelming anger he guffawed, letting go of Anthony to slap his knees.

"She planted a facer? Oh, good show, Daph!"

Anthony could not help but let the tiniest grin escape.

"Yes, she never fails to amaze me."

Benedict and Eloise waited in the garden, settled on the swings as the cool night air blew gently against their cheeks. Eloise sat simply in her dressing gown, while Benedict had removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He hoped Penelope wasn't too scandalized, though the subject they'd be endeavoring to discuss already threw the idea of propriety out of the proverbial window. Eloise was currently trying to grab the thick stack of folded parchment he'd brought with him from upstairs, but he held it aloft from her with one hand, batting her away with the other.

"Oh, Benedict, let me see–"

"No! I refuse to have this mortifying conversation twice! We shall wait–"

"El! Mister Bridgerton!" The siblings turned forward to see Penelope hurtling forward through the damp grass, her dress as bright and green as the limes imported from the tropical parts of the Empire. "I am here!"

Penelope placed one hand on her chest, pausing to catch her breath. Benedict stood up, steering her towards his seat on the swing set. She smiled up in thanks, ember curls now a halo of frizz around her face. Collapsing onto the grass, he opened his mouth to begin only to find his words die in his throat. Penelope and Eloise were staring at him expectantly, leaning forward, eyes wide and curious and he…

Zounds, Anthony and his mother would murder him if they ever found out.

"I do not know if I can do this," and Benedict flushed as his voice came out a tad more like the squeak of a mouse then the tone of a man.

"You promised, Brother!" Eloise exclaimed, hands flying to her hips in indignation. She looked scarily like Violet when she did that. "We are cashing in Penelope's favor, you must pay up! As you and our brothers so often say, you are a gentleman ." Eloise said the last part quite sarcastically, and Benedict thought he should perhaps feel offended.

"Maybe just pretend we are Colin or Gregory?" Penelope suggested, sticking her pointer finger in the night air thoughtfully. "Pretend we are young boys who actually get to have this knowledge. Will that help?"

"The pair of you are clearly not Gregory, let alone boys," Benedict scoffed, staring up into the tree branches as if asking the Lord above for guidance. They would be the death of him, he was sure.

"I think I could pass as a boy if I cut my hair and wore shirts and breeches," Eloise mused, toeing the grass with her slippered feet. "What do you think, Pen?"

"You certainly could," Penelope concluded. "I would be hopeless though."

"Yes, binding your bre–"

"Enough!" Benedict pleaded, for he certainly did not want to hear a discussion about Penelope's bosom, thank you very much. He may be a gentleman, but he was still a man. "The point is, you are both clearly not boys."

"How so, Brother? Care to elaborate?" Eloise raised an eyebrow, daring him to speak. Benedict resisted the very powerful urge to push her off the swing.

"That is unfair," he mumbled.

"Zounds! Mister Bridgerton, if you must close your eyes as you speak then go ahead. Though I daresay," Penelope said, pointing at the thick folds of parchment he still held firm in his grasp. "If those are what I think they are, it may make pointing out the bits of anatomy tricky."

Benedict let himself fall back into the grass, not caring how his shirt soon became soaked with dew. It at least cooled the growing flush creeping up his chest and back. The smell of damp earth along with what must've been Penelope's perfume, warm ginger and spices, permeated his nostrils.

"This task, I have decided, counts as two boons, Miss Feathrington!" He raised two fingers and waved them in the air.

Penelope, the stubborn girl, snorted.

"It counts as one. Blame society and our mamas for never bothering to tell us how our own bodies work."

Benedict ran a hand over his face before forcing him to sit up.

"Fine. Sit down here, both of you. Let us get this over with."

The best friends looked at each other before sliding off their swings and onto the ground, scooting closer to him until they formed a tiny circle, their knees touching. Benedict took out the thick wad of parchment and unfolded it, blushing furiously as he handed them the first piece of paper.

"I figured we should start with anatomy. As you can see, I referenced an old textbook I found in the library about the proper labels–"

"Which textbook?" Eloise asked and he glared, flicking her forehead.

"None of your business. Now, a-as you can see, there's the f-female anatomy, I do not think I need to tell you much on that."

At least he hoped not. The girls stared, brows furrowed, nodding.

"And on the other side," Benedict pointed to the other end of the parchment. "Is the male a-anatomy."

God, could he not stop stuttering?

The girls studied it, turning the parchment this way and that, and Benedict felt like he was developing a high-grade fever the longer they peered at the image. This had been a bad idea, why did he agree to this madness?

"So," Penelope said slowly, pointing to a particular bit of the drawing. "What do you call that piece of anatomy, Mister Bridgerton?"

Benedict peered over and gulped, wanting desperately for this conversation to be over.

"Um," Benedict swallowed. He looked at Penelope who was all open curiosity, an eagerness to learn, and fondness for his newfound friend nearly overshadowed his embarrassment. Nearly. "I think if we are to continue having this conversation, please just call me Benedict."

Penelope paused, tips of her ears pink before she gave him that small, closed mouth smile that was all secrets and cunning.

"You must still answer my question…Benedict."

His name off her lips made the whole situation much more intimate and Benedict squirmed. He saw that Eloise was also waiting for an answer, her eyes darting from the drawing to Benedict's face, ever more quickly the longer she stared.

"Well, uh," Benedict swallowed again, scratching the back of his head. Why couldn't he just say it? "It's the–"

"The STICK?" Eloise exclaimed, something clicking into place in her mind. "The stick Colin referenced, Brother? Is that what it is?"

Benedict wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. This, he concluded, was his own personal level of Hell.

It was an agonizing hour in which Benedict stuttered and spluttered through explanations on how a male and female joined in sex, how the act could result in children, specifically without protection, and the difference between willing sex and rape. He had especially not wanted to go over the latter, but he knew within the depths of his soul that it was important, that they had to know they had a right to reject a man and if said man forced themselves on them–

"I will kill them."

Eloise eyed him, face a little green.

"Brother, you of all the men I know are the least viol–"

"I will kill them," he said again, tone hard as flint.

And that was that.

He provided sketches of the most common positions a couple would take during sex. (He was not about to go into any sort of explanation on the myriad of ways one could receive pleasure. No. Nope. He refused.) They asked questions, like scientists trying to get to the bottom of a great mystery or problem, and Benedict did his best to answer them as he periodically, nervously, glanced up at the house windows, praying that none of his family would suddenly awaken. It was dark, they could barely be seen but by the moon's light. It was only thanks to Eloise's hidden pack of matches that they were able to glance at some of the finer details. And when he explained the very mere basics of childbirth, which he only knew because of his mother's many pregnancies, both girls recoiled.

By the end of it, Benedict was strangely relieved to hear Eloise gag, saying, "I am never, ever having children! If there is no guarantee I can be protected from pregnancy at all times, what ever is the point of the marital act? Ugh, disgusting. No! Just, no! Gah!"

Eloise shuddered, kicking her feet out at the grass and shaking her limbs as if to rid herself of some gross, coating of filth covering her skin. Penelope sat still, a little lost in thought, her eyes drifting in and out of focus.

"Well," Penelope sighed. "At least now we know the truth."

"And better yet, we can protect ourselves from it!" Eloise added, gripping Penelope's hand in her own. "It is a simple solution, Pen. We shall just be spinsters together as we have planned!"

Benedict caught the waver in Penelope's smile and his heart went out to her. It was clear that Eloise was unaware that her dear friend might not share her dream, but that was something they'd have to talk out on their own.

Benedict tentatively took back the drawings from the middle of their circle, folded them carefully, and shoved them in the band of his breeches. He would burn the lot of them in his fireplace the moment he returned to his room.

"Now, your column, Penelope," he said, and it was different for her given name to roll off his tongue. It was quite pleasant, like playing up the scale on the pianoforte, or dotting a canvas with paint. "Let us see it."

Penelope reached into the bodice of her dress and Benedict politely pretended to look behind them for any intruders. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was late, or rather quite early, he would need to get Eloise to bed soon. Penelope handed the siblings the column and they began to scan it. There were some murmurings on an affair of Lord Fife's, commentary on the recent bout of boxing matches, but soon they came to the paragraph on Daphne.

This Author has often thought the heart a most curious of instruments, heeding neither reason nor rank. For what possible explanation might Miss Bridgerton have for entertaining the suit of a mere baron when she seems to have secured a duke? Could the debutante's mind not be the only thing amiss? Let it be known, Dear Reader, that if this bizarre behavior portends yet another scandal, then be sure that I shall uncover it, for there is nothing like an excursion into nature to lift the spirits and loosen the tongue.

"It comes off quite…" Benedict paused to search for words. "Condescending. At least on Daphne's part, and it is not her fault that Berbrooke continues to pursue her."

Eloise pursed her lips.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, Benedict may have a point."

Penelope bit her thumbnail, crossing her arms. She was afraid of this. She knew she was coming off…well, like she was accusing Daphne of being daft. But Penelope didn't want to reveal what she had overheard between the Duke, the Viscount, and Lord Berbrooke earlier that night. It was a juicy bit of gossip to be sure, but she had no intention of revealing Daphne's incident on the Dark Walk, that would be far more scandalous.

She also knew that part of her, when writing that bit of the column, had been trapped in resentment. The Duke of Hastings was, as far as she could tell, quite kind, humorous, and of course very rich. It had appeared easy to Penelope who Daphne should let pursue her. But also, Penelope's secret bitterness, how she wished she could have such a dilemma, had reared its ugly head.

Glancing between the two siblings, she was suddenly quite thankful she was not taking on this enterprise alone. Penelope was suddenly quite sure that her girlish reasoning and jealousies would have taken over at times, if she did not have such companions to bounce her ideas off of.

"The personality of Lady Whistledown is biting," Penelope admitted, cupping her chin. "All the eyes of the ton are on this new pairing, and yet Lord Berbrooke persists."

"Then redirect your bite," Benedict offered. "Aim it, once again, towards Berbrooke. Or even Anthony. God knows, it turns out he was a lousy judge of character…"

Benedict trailed off and although Eloise shot him a curious look, Penelope did not push it. She wasn't sure how well she could lie to Benedict if it turned out he finally knew what she had known since the night before. But maybe–

"I did overhear the Viscount tell Lord Berbrooke to stay away from Daphne," Penelope offered, and both siblings blinked at her. "I did not hear why, but maybe we could focus upon that? That maybe your elder brother has finally discovered something unsavory about Lord Berbrooke?"

"Oh, yes!" Eloise clapped her hands excitedly. "Now that would be interesting. I would love to see the look on that foul man's face!"

With a flourish Benedict offered Penelope his graphite, and Penelope scratched out and edited the paragraph.

This Author has often thought the heart a most curious of instruments, heeding neither reason nor rank. For what possible explanation might Lord Berbrooke have when he still attempts to gain the affection of Miss Bridgerton? Surely his brain is addled if he cannot clearly see that the young debutante is enchanted with the much more handsome, much richer, and much more graceful Duke of Hastings. Even more curiously, it is rumored that the Viscount Bridgerton finally saw something in Lord Berbrooke that was most unsavory, kicking him out of the Bridgerton nest before promptly sitting back on his brood of seven eggs. As This Author predicted before, could there have been a dastardly reason that Lord Berbrooke targeted our fair diamond? Let it be known, Dear Reader, that if this bizarre behavior portends yet another scandal, then be sure that I shall uncover it. For there is nothing like an excursion into nature to lift the spirits and loosen the tongue.

"The image of Anthony as a Mother Hen will never not cease to bring me boundless entertainment and joy," Eloise said, clasping her hands to her bosom as if she was about to swoon in delight. "Brother, if you ever decide to draw cartoons, I demand that it be your first one."

"Noted, El," Benedict said, glancing at his silver pocket watch again and nearly groaning. It was going on five in the morning. "Well, Penelope. Best make haste to the printers!"

He showed the girls his timepiece, both flopping to the grass in defeat. Benedict, despite his exhaustion, let out a full-bellied laugh.

Nine year-old Penelope sat under the shade of a willow tree in Hyde Park. A book propped up on her knees as she followed the words with one small, pointer finger. It was an unusually sunny spring day, so her mama had decided to drag the whole lot of them for a picnic in their tent at Hyde Park. To see and be seen.

Prudence and Philippa sat in the shade of their tent, munching on treats as their papa read that day's broadsheet, and mama stood at the entrance to the tent, calling out to any lord or lady she deemed worth their time. Penelope had snuck away to read in the sanctity of the willow's bower, periodically staring up at the glittering surface of the Serpentine. She saw a few young girls and an older boy with green-blue eyes that glittered in the sun attempting to sail paper boats on the surface.

The smallest curl of jealousy and longing twisted in her gut before she directed her attention back to the page. It wasn't until a shuffling of skirts on the grass and a new shadow loomed over her that Penelope looked up again to peer into the bright blue eyes of a little brunette girl about her age. Her white dress was covered in dirt, her smile wide and disarming.

"What are you reading?" she asked, plopping herself right beside Penelope in the nestle of roots.

"O-oh, um," Penelope stuttered. "Grimm's Fairy Tales."

"Can I read with you?" the little girl asked excitedly, looming very close to Penelope's face, almost nose to nose.

"I-I do not know your name," Penelope said. She had been taught, after all, to always secure an introduction.

"Oh! Of course!" The little girl smiled, holding out her dainty little hand to shake. "I am Eloise Bridgerton!"

Penelope, hesitantly, took Eloise's hand and shook it. "Penelope Featherington."

"Oh! Do you live in Grosvenor Square too?" Eloise asked excitedly, beginning to jump on her bottom with glee. "The house across the way? I remember Mama saying the Featherington's lived there. We reside in the house across from you!"

Penelope blinked in wonder. She knew exactly the house Eloise referred to. It was beautiful for its red brick, elegant gate, and bright, beautiful purple wisteria that bloomed every spring. Penelope had often imagined the lives of the people who lived in such an airy, welcoming looking abode. It must be a fairytale within the confines of those walls.

"So, may I read with you?" Eloise asked again, looking eagerly down at the page Penelope was turned to. Penelope offered a hesitant smile, and turned back to the beginning of the story, Aschenputtel, translated to Cinderella.

"Okay," Penelope whispered, a warm blossom of feeling unfolding for the first time in her chest. She couldn't put a name to it.

So they read together for what must have been hours, reading through four stories, giggling and "ahhhing" all the while. It wasn't until a young man approached them and grabbed their attention that Penelope suddenly noticed the sun was setting over the water. She looked into the man's bright blue-green eyes, saw his dark chestnut hair, and knew immediately this was one of Eloise's many siblings she had informed her of.

"Ben! Look! I made a friend!" Eloise yelled excitedly, promptly hugging Penelope's arm to her side as if it was always meant to be there. It hurt, in a good way. And Penelope couldn't believe that someone was actually calling her friend .

The man smiled gently. Although it was clear he was young, his eyes crinkled deeply at the corners, kind but weathered.

"Benedict Bridgerton at your service, Miss–?"

"Penelope Featherington," Penelope squeaked, suddenly shy again, curling into herself, pushing her back into the bark of the tree.

Benedict appeared unphased, his smile growing wider as he offered both girls his hands.

"Lovely to meet you, Miss Featherington. We are neighbors I believe. Allow me to escort you back to your family."

Penelope looked up and around, remembering for the first time in hours that she was here with her family at all. As she thought about it, she hadn't heard her sisters' shrill laughter for a while. It was with a sudden, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she realized, with no ostentatious pink tent in sight, that they were gone.

They had forgotten her.

Penelope wasn't sure what to be more upset by. That they had left her, forgetting she even existed. Or that this wasn't a surprise to her at all.

"They are not here," she whispered, tears filling her eyes despite her attempt to blink them back. She wiped the back of her hands across her eyes, trying to appear resilient. Her mama and papa hated it when she cried. Surely the Bridgertons wouldn't appreciate it either.

"What do you mean?" Benedict asked, his eyebrows creasing, shifting on his feet, crouched before them.

"They are not h-here," she choked, swallowing furiously. "They must have forgotten me. Their tent is n-no longer h-here."

She pointed to the spot where the tent had been and Benedict turned, frowning.

"Are you sure it was there, Miss Featherington?"

Penelope nodded weakly and Eloise came to her defense like a little knight in shining armor.

"If she said it was there, it was there!" Eloise stood up and stomped her foot before turning to Penelope, her face a mask of righteous fury. "It was the big pink one, right?"

Penelope was speechless and could only nod again.

"See?" Eloise said, turning back to her brother and crossing her arms. "They left her! How stupid could they be?"

"Eloise!" Benedict chided, but Penelope shook her head.

"I would not call them stupid," Penelope said, fighting back a sniffle. Somehow it turned into a hiccup. "I am just forgettable."

Benedict looked at a loss for words, opening and closing his mouth a bit like a fish. Once again, it was Eloise who came to her rescue.

"No you are not! You are smart and nice! I could see and remember your hair from a mile away, it is like fire! You shared your fairytales with me. How could you be forgotten?"

Penelope bit her lip as it tried to quiver. The tears were pushing harder against her eyelids, to her mortification. But now it was big, strong hands that grasped her arms, pulling her gingerly forward so she was forced to look into Benedict's blue-green eyes.

"It is okay to cry," he said, smoothing her curls behind her ear. "What happened is upsetting. It is okay to cry."

And Penelope did. Great, big, heaving sobs and before she knew what was happening strong arms were lifting her up. She felt her book slide out of her hands, Eloise shuffling to grab it, and although she was a little too old to be carried, Benedict Bridgerton let her weep into his shoulder as he moved her to the blue Bridgerton family tent.

As they approached, Penelope kept her face buried into the fine material of Benedict's jacket. She couldn't bear to look up, dare to see what Eloise's family must think of her. To be so easily forgotten by her parents and sisters? They would see. They would see how little she mattered, how forgettable she was.

And Eloise would forget her too.

So she refused to look up, dampening Benedict's shoulder as he walked along the slope of grass. She felt when the sun went away, when they entered the shade of what must be their tent, and heard two drastically different voices.

"Benedict, what in the blazes–"

"Oh, dearest, what has happened?"

One was deep, commanding, not rough but something fine that had been frayed at the edges. The other was… What was it? Penelope wasn't familiar with gentle , it was practically a foreign concept to her except when it came to how she handled her books. But she thought, just maybe, that the second voice was gentle .

Such a nice word, Penelope thought, still refusing to look up.

Before Benedict could say anything, Eloise had jumped in, talking a mile a minute.

"Mama! Mama! You see, I made a new friend. That is Penelope! Penelope Featherington , and I said– I said, we should read together! And we did, we read for hours and hours! But then, but then– when Ben came to fetch me, we looked up and Penelope's family was gone! Mama! Just gone! They left her! It is horrible, Mama! Horrible !"

"Eloise," Benedict sighed, but it was a soft, feminine gasp that pricked Penelope's ears.

"They forgot her? Oh, if I could give Portia a piece of my–"

"Mother," another voice sounded, a little lighter, soothing even. Another young man – boy – between a young man and a boy. "We shall return her home, will we not? She must be very scared."

"Of course we will! Oh, Benedict, give her here."

Benedict gingerly tugged on Penelope but she tightened her grip around his neck, eyes squeezed shut. She couldn't look at any of them. How mortifying this all was… She felt how her face flushed red and knew it would stand out against her horrid, yellow dress. How she hated this.

"I do not think she is ready to let go, Mother," Benedict observed, shifting his weight and bouncing her up to get a better grip on her.

A shuffling of fabric and Penelope felt warm breath caress the ginger strands at the top of her head.

"Penelope, please look at me."

Penelope hesitated, seeking safety in the warm darkness of Benedict's shoulder.

"It is alright, Pen! Mama will not hurt you!" Eloise said firmly, as if this was an absolute truth.

Pen? No one had called her Pen before. She'd never been given a nickname.

Penelope, very slowly, lifted her gaze to stare into the eyes of one of the most kind looking women she ever saw. Blue eyes the mirror image of Eloise's, mahogany brown hair perfectly braided and tucked away. She had the soft, lovely crinkles at the corners of her eyes that Benedict had, laugh lines near her mouth, and a dusting of freckles across her face from the sun.

Nothing like her mama. Where Lady Featherington was pale, cool, smooth skin and fierce eyes, Eloise's mama was tan, warm, with wrinkles that showed she smiled, and eyes that displayed she cried. Penelope was convinced at that moment that maybe only warm mothers actually shed tears. It would explain a lot. To her, at least.

"I am Violet Bridgerton, Penelope dearest," she cooed, stroking Penelope's hair with all of the assuredness of a mother who had done it a thousand times. "I apologize for what happened. But we will take you home, yes? You are just across the square from us. It is no trouble. You are no trouble."

Penelope stared at Violet, the skin around her eyes red and puffy. They would surely be swollen all day tomorrow. But Violet looked unconcerned about her crying. She just appeared, well, Penelope wasn't sure. These were very new faces, very new emotions she was contending with. A boy – the boy from earlier by the lake – was peering at her too, as tall as his mother and probably still growing. Green-blue eyes, darker than Benedict's, sparkled like gems alight in his face, and he offered her a large smile.

"I am Colin," he said. "We shall take you home, Penelope."

There were various nods and verbal assents, and as the family and servants packed their belongings and began the journey back to Grosvenor Square, Penelope still firmly in Benedict's arms, she wished this moment in time wouldn't end. It was warm, bountiful, and safe. And suddenly, now discovering what a family could be, she was afraid to return to the quiet, cold confines of her own home.

For surely, the Bridgertons would forget about her come the next morning. Once she was out of sight, she'd be out of mind. It was simply the way of things.

Little Penelope sat in the hallway, as usual, curled up with a book. A small book of poetry this time, though she was struggling to understand them all. She had realized this morning that Eloise still had her book of fairytales, and although it saddened her to lose them, she was glad that Eloise had a piece of her, even if the Bridgerton girl wouldn't remember.

Penelope was avoiding her family for once, rather than the other way around. Lady Featherington had not been pleased to be scolded by the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, her son, the esteemed Viscount Bridgerton, looming behind her. Eloise had been forced to stay in the carriage, but Penelope had seen the moment Benedict had finally coaxed her down to the floor, when Eloise had stuck her tongue out in the direction of her mother while Violet's and Anthony's backs were turned. Benedict had hidden a snigger behind a cough, and Penelope giggled. For a moment at least, until her mama's glare was directed at her and she bowed her head immediately. All three Bridgertons frowned.

But it was a new day, and she was invisible again. At least she had the memory. She was sure she'd cherish it as long as she lived. That is, until the front doors opened and a footman announced, "Mister Benedict Bridgerton and Miss Eloise Bridgerton."

The footman, Francis, Penelope noticed, saw no need to alert the actual owners of the house. He winked at her.

Eloise, in a freshly pressed lavender dress, her hair done up in matching ribbons, rushed up to Penelope in her little corner of the world. Benedict sauntered in slowly behind her, hands behind his back, studying Penelope curiously.

"Pen! Pen!" Eloise squealed, tackling Penelope in a hug so tight she barely knew what to do with herself. "Oh, Pen, I have come to invite you to play! And I brought you your book! I figured afterwards we could read more stories!" Eloise released Penelope and held up the book, beaming like manna from Heaven was raining down. "We are going to make paper boats and see if they float!"

"R-really?" Penelope asked, swiveling her head between the two siblings, one full of incredible energy, the other thoughtful and…

Gentle . That word again. It slid slowly, softly down the tongue and settled in her belly like the most refreshing drink in the heart of summer.

"Of course, Miss Featherington," Benedict said, holding out his hands for both girls to take. "We could never forget Eloise's dearest friend in all the wide world."

Penelope took his hand, less trepidation than ever before, and as they sauntered off into the cool spring day, Penelope thought she finally knew something more .

Benedict remembered that day, that little girl in the ridiculous yellow frock, the wild hair, and the hopeless, forlorn eyes. And something in Benedict had recognized something incredibly familiar; that ache of being lost. Of wanting something more.

As Benedict nodded off, protected from the elements under the shade of the tent, images of little Eloise and Penelope flitted across his mind's eye. He absently wiped crumbs from his vest, trying to shake off the blanket of slumber determined to wrap him up on such a warm, cloudy day. A scone still lightly gripped in one hand, he watched through half-lidded eyes as Penelope dashed over to meet Eloise midway between their family tents.

It was sweet, really. How the two girls flourished in each other's presence, how they seemed to grow and expand outside of the shells they donned when around their mothers. Benedict knew that, as loving as his mother was, that Violet Bridgerton was just as determined to marry off Eloise as she was Daphne. And Eloise, despite her best efforts, was a girl who could not gain an edge over their mother's machinations.

It comforted him then that Eloise and Penelope had found one another. While the memory made Benedict's blood boil in anger towards Lord and Lady Featherington, it also caused him to ache with such tenderness toward Penelope he had to wonder if something was bruised. Little, nine year old Penelope had reminded him of himself. Misplaced within her own household, unsure as to what her purpose must be.

Hell, the girl Penelope was in 1813 still resembled the child of 1804. At least in spirit.

Though Benedict had to admit as his eyelids fluttered shut on Penelope and Eloise's approach, she worked hard to find her place in the world. A small, soft part of him glowed with pride at the thought.

The picnic at Hyde Park with all of the colorful tents, children playing games, and families taking their tea made Penelope feel a mixture of emotions. It was a sumptuous delight for the eye, to be sure, but there were too many memories attached to the occasion.

Yet it was maintained, and Penelope always sought out the company of Eloise during it.

It was cloudy, but not raining, leaving the atmosphere pleasantly cool.

It was as she excused herself from her mother's presence, dashing in quite an unladylike manner to link arms with Eloise, that Penelope realized how young they still were. Her first instinct, even with all of the knowledge she and Eloise had acquired the night before from Benedict, was still to go off and play. Strangely, she was thankful she would attract no suitors, especially now. She had a feeling she was not yet ready.

Not that anyone would ever ask.

Eloise yawned, not even attempting to cover her mouth as she did so. This, immediately, made Penelope yawn, and they both took turns yawning as they wandered closer to the Bridgerton tent. Much to their delight, Benedict was half-asleep in one of the chairs, a scone falling from his limp hand to his chest, covering his decorative waistcoat in crumbs. They giggled, trying to capture the image in their minds to tease him later.

"How do you feel, now so knowledgeable about how a woman comes to be with child?" Penelope asked, bumping her shoulder into Eloise's.

"Both relieved and scandalized," Eloise replied. "And very much disgusted. I assure you, dear Pen, you shall never see me willingly taking part of such acts! Don't you agree, it's rather beastly?"

Penelope blushed as she thought back to the sketches Benedict had drawn for them before taking them to be burned in the fire grate of his room. They were incredibly intimate. Penelope had never known it was possible to be so close to another human being before, to physically let someone inside . She remembered how her thoughts as she drifted to sleep had journeyed to Colin, how he could join in such a way with her…

Red, hot heat flew up her chest to tinge her neck and cheeks.

"W-Well, men are beasts themselves, are they not?" Penelope said quickly before pivoting. "Come, we should wake your brother before he falls out of his chair."

"Oh, but it would be so fun!" Eloise whined, but went along anyway as they decided to set to poke and prod Benedict awake. As they began to dig their fingers into Benedict's arms and side, Penelope observed Daphne with a copy of the Whistledown she had delivered early that morning with Benedict while talking to Anthony. Their conversation looked quite serious and she hoped the column had not caused too much distress. She had edited it, taking Benedict and Eloise's concerns into account. Penelope had successfully tamped down the resentment she knew brewed within her, her jealousy that other women would always outperform her in terms of beauty and prospects. She then turned to Colin playing with Hyacinth and Gregory. Colin was sunshine to her, his green-blue eyes forever laughing, wonderful, and exceedingly full of good-humor.

How was she not to have fallen in love with him, truly?

"Penelope?"

Penelope snapped her neck, shocked, to see Benedict staring up at her, his eyes half-lidded with slumber. It had been him, who called her name so quietly, a little choked with tiredness. They had agreed after last night to use their given names in private, but this was the first time he had done it in front of people who were not…well, Eloise. It was something truly sweet, remarkable, and theirs. A sign of true friendship and Penelope appreciated it greatly. She did not have many friends.

However, Benedict's expression was a little too knowing as he lazily swiveled between her and Colin. So she quickly changed the subject,

"Come, Benedict, before you are covered in so many crumbs you become a feast for the fierce waterfowl that call the Serpentine home!"

He chuckled weakly and, just as he made to get up, brushing off sticky crumbs as he did, all hell broke loose in the form of the bouncing toad that was Lord Berbrooke. The man's face was black and purple, horribly bruised and near pulpish in its appearance. Lord Berbrooke was raving on about a special license, about how Daphne was 'his' unless everyone wanted to know about the Dark Walk. Benedict was in front of Penelope and Eloise instantly, shielding them behind him until the Duke of Hastings tried to step in, and Benedict was forced to grab him, pushing him back to prevent a violent altercation.

Penelope could not believe what was happening in front of her, and a small tiny part of her wondered whether this could've been avoided if she had told Benedict what had happened on the Dark Walk right when it happened. A look at Eloise said her best friend was thinking the same. They clutched each other's hands as poor Daphne increasingly appeared resigned, her gaze downcast, her shoulders slumping, and not even Anthony, with all his power, was able to do little more than read the special license as if it was a notice for execution.

As soon as Lord Berbrooke had stalked off, much of the family was surrounding Daphne or Anthony, trying to comfort or obtain information. But before Penelope could so much as step forward, a hard grip took hold of her bicep and was dragging her down towards the old willow tree, away from prying eyes.

"Wha-"

Benedict yanked her along, pushing her to move, his face stone in its upset.

"B-Benedict, please, you are hurting me!"

Benedict stopped, looking down and promptly releasing her arm as if it had burned him. He stood, back towards the roots of the great willow, his jaw clenched, the vein at his temple visibly pulsing.

"You knew ," Benedict hissed, clenching his fists at his sides. "You knew what happened on the Dark Walk and you did not tell anyone!"

"I told El–" Penelope started and Benedict, somehow, appeared even more furious. The tips of his ears were turning bright red, and he turned towards the trunk of the tree as if he could not stand to look at her.

"So both of you thought it best for Daph, for this family, to keep such a grave instance to yourselves?"

"Daphne herself kept it from you," Penelope pointed out, and she knew she might be considered childish for not wanting to take all of the blame. But, really, wasn't it obvious why no one told them? Were they really so blind? "You said so yourself when warning me that just merely being on the Dark Walk as a woman could be ruinous, but to be found with a man? And the fact she punched him? That was Daphne's secret to tell, I could never share it."

"We could have protected her!"

"But you did not! None of you were there! It was the Duke who stepped in on Daphne's behalf! If you had known, Anthony would have immediately demanded satisfaction, and the ton would have wanted to know why! You think Lord Berbrooke is honorable enough to keep such information quiet? You know he is not. It was safer for your sister to keep quiet and seek the Duke's protection. El and I decided it was better this way. You cannot understand, as you are a man! A man's scandal is forgotten within a season. A woman's lasts a lifetime!"

Benedict stiffened, his back taut under his jacket, his shoulders set back, his knuckles white. Penelope wondered if she had stepped too far, been too honest, loose-tongued. But soon his shoulders sagged, his fingers unfurled, and he slowly pivoted on the spot. He still wasn't looking at her, turned towards the ground. He appeared quite… helpless.

"I had resolved this season to be less involved with my siblings affairs so I could find… something for myself." He laughed bitterly, expression utterly bereft of humor. "But maybe that was the wrong choice. If I had been more attentive, then maybe Daph would never have–"

"Don't say that," Penelope said fiercely, coming closer to him, reaching to take his hand– But then she remembered where she was and stepped back. People could be watching. The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally trap Benedict. Not that anyone would believe that anyone would willingly court her, but Penelope wanted to avoid such a misunderstanding all the same. "Benedict, you do deserve something for yourself, something that is all your own. Your sketches are quite good!"

He snorted indelicately and she blushed, remembering how she was introduced to his drawings.

"But Benedict, this probably would have happened, whether you had been attentive or not. You cannot give up on finding something that will satisfy you, give you passion in life." She again reached her hand out hesitantly, and he glanced at it, his own fingers twitching by his side. "You let me pursue mine, so I could feel even a small ounce of freedom and pride. I will not let you give up on yourself."

Benedict, in absence of anything else, leaned against the trunk of the willow, and a chilling wind made the long, green leaves on the hanging branches blow.

Penelope turned to look out over the grounds, and noticed the absence of her family's tent. She sighed, but unlike in childhood no tears came. It had happened several times since, and she was far too used to it. She was, for lack of a better word, numb.

"Looks like they left," she commented idly and Benedict followed her eyes to see the spot her family's tent had been a mere half an hour earlier.

She heard Benedict amble down the grass to her side and, much more gently, tenderly than earlier, he offered his arm.

"You are much too old to carry now," he said as they both turned their attention to the Bridgerton tent being packed up, Eloise and Colin both waving at them to get their attention. "But I shall take you home, Penelope."

It was a tad cramped in the second family coach. Eloise had decided she wanted to see if she could get more information on what happened with Daphne so she sat in the first carriage with their mother, Anthony, and Daphne. In the second carriage were Benedict, Colin, and Gregory on one side with Penelope and Hyacinth on the other. Gregory had tried, quite valiantly, to sit next to Penelope, moon-eyed boy that he was. He had a rather large tendre for Penelope, and it was normally sweet. But, considering the emotionally draining circumstances and the cramped space of the coach, Benedict had no desire to make Penelope uncomfortable with the overeager antics of his younger brother. So Benedict, with Colin's assistance, had wrangled the young boy onto their laps. It had not been Benedict's ideal situation, half of Gregory's bony arse on his lap and the other on Colin's. But Penelope's comfort came first, and he knew Gregory would be all too eager to take advantage of Penelope's kindness.

There was technically room next to Penelope, but Benedict would not have it. Although, he was wondering whether he made the right choice. As the carriage rumbled down the dirt and gravel streets, it bounced causing Penelope's bosom to, well…respond with the coach's natural motion. Gregory was getting quite the eyeful, and it was then Benedict decided to push Gregory to the side, over Colin's lap and crammed into the corner of the carriage, so that he was facing Hyacinth instead. Gregory's answering pout was all Benedict needed to affirm he made the right choice.

"I am so terribly sorry, Pen," Colin said, a mixture of sympathy and pity. Benedict winced. "I feel like this happens often. Not that we mind your company! It simply means we get to monopolize you more!"

Colin's wide, toothy smile was genuine and Penelope's answering blush told Benedict that she didn't feel slighted by how he noticed her unfortunate predicament with her family. Instead, she felt noticed. Benedict wondered if that was good or bad but quickly shrugged it off. It wasn't really his business.

"It is no issue, Colin. You're much more pleasant company than my sisters. They cannot seem to stop talking about the different suitors, none of whom shall ever visit us. It is growing quite tedious."

Benedict frowned but Colin laughed, and Benedict wondered at both the rapport between the two, as well as her self-deprecating humor. Benedict wasn't sure how to feel about it. Penelope was his friend, he wanted her to have some confidence in herself if no one else would. And, really, ever since she had convinced her mother to relax her hair style, it had been quite the improvement – At least if it was looks Penelope was worried about.

"You are always quite good with little barbs, Pen," Colin chuckled.

"Yes, you are!" Gregory quickly chimed in, not wanting to be left out.

"Of course she is! Because she reads so much!" Hyacinth said, nose in the air as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Some people can read all they want and never be near as clever," Colin said, and once again Benedict noticed Penelope's cheeks go as red as her hair. The flush faded faster than a runaway carriage though as soon as Colin asked, "Oh, how is Miss Thompson? Is she faring any better?"

Penelope blanched, twisting her fingers together in her lap. Benedict could tell how one cheek hollowed that she was chewing it in nervous thought, and he wondered how he already knew that about her. He glanced towards his younger brother and was amazed to see that Colin didn't seem to notice.

"She is recovering, albeit slowly," Penelope offered, before Benedict saw her bite her other cheek. "I know Mama wants her to…rejoin us soon."

"I hope to see her at the next social event," Colin remarked a little dreamily. Benedict resisted the urge to kick him. "She is quite charming."

"Quite," Penelope squeaked, taking a sudden interest in the moving scenery outside.

As they approached Bridgerton House, Benedict quickly offered to escort Penelope to her door. Penelope accepted, barely able to look up as Colin bid her a cheery farewell. Benedict, against his better judgment, pitied her. It was as he had suspected, Colin was not ready, if he ever would be, to return her affections. His eyes were still moved by material beauty, flitting from one superficial vision to another. Benedict was not immune to it either, but he had grown from the desire and recognized it for what it was: lust. Lust was a powerful thing, and Benedict heeded it when it needed to be followed. He exorcized it, then moved on. That was the beginnings of a man of their society.

But to Colin, every emotion, however fleeting, was powerful and overwhelming.

He was still a boy.

And as Benedict walked Penelope over to her doorstep, each step careful and measured, he knew by the look of confusion and pain on her face that she was still a girl.

They would grow, to be sure. But he was afraid that one's journey may be more painful than the other's.

As she started to ascend the steps she paused, revolved on her heel and stepped back down until she was just level with his face. They could've touched nose to nose.

"Will you and Eloise meet me in the garden again? Tonight?" she asked quietly, studying his expression. "I think we can help Daphne, but I cannot do it alone."

Benedict shouldn't have doubted her. He had, briefly, under the willow tree when he had realized she had known Daphne's plight since Vauxhall. But he shouldn't have. He knew she had the will, the cunning, and now the growing power to fix his sister's predicament. Benedict's own guilt wouldn't let him settle. If given the opportunity he would take it, and she was offering him a small chance of redemption.

"Alright. Eleven?"

"Yes, that should do."

He held her sky blues a moment longer, his brain in its constant tumble of thoughts and feelings turning over stones at a rapid pace.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" he asked.

She shuffled her hideous pink skirts, fanning them out before smoothing them again. The air was cool, a bit humid, as her loose curls frizzed around her head.

"Yes," she said. "No one should feel trapped just because of their family. Whether that family is good or bad. Everyone deserves to find themselves, I suppose."

With that, she spun to ascend the steps to her family's door. Benedict watched her go and disappear inside. Guilt once again wriggled in the corners of his mind, though for what he could not say.

Benedict entered the garden slowly, the darkness of night rendering Eloise into a mere shadow under the tree. The faint light from the house windows and the moon above his only guide, he followed her shape until he smelled the tobacco smoke.

"Eloise Bridgerton."

He did his best to level a glare at her, despite the fact he had shared a smoke with her not long ago. It was always a little fun to tease, to toe the line between older brother and friend. It was also entertaining to keep Eloise on her toes. She stiffened at first before rolling her eyes, flicking a bit of ash into the ground.

"Go on, then," she said defiantly. "Chastise me."

She took another long inhale from the daintily rolled bit of tobacco and he just couldn't hold it together any longer.

"Spare one for me?"

She grinned, reaching down for her hidden stash to hand him one. He took it and the matches gratefully, lighting the cigarillo with ease. He inhaled the bitter smoke into his lungs, holding it there until it burned. They sway for a moment, enjoying the silence. He was about to ask when she though Penelope would join them, when Eloise suddenly said,

"Suppose I desire something different."

He glanced at her curiously.

"How do you mean?"

"Just different." She paused, inhaling a steady stream of smoke before easily exhaling it from her lungs. Benedict probably should scold her, but he knew he wouldn't. "I watch Daphne prepare for these balls with all of those dresses and the many suitors, and I am exhausted. Suppose I want a different life, that I truly believe I am quite capable of something more, even when I am not allowed to have anything else."

"Then I would say…" Benedict twisted towards her, dangling the rolled tobacco from his fingertips. "That you are not the only one."

They grinned at one another, that little one that was just between them. They knocked their knees together, swaying in the swings. They were so engrossed in their own thoughts that when they heard the rustle in the grass they both hastily blew out the smoke, trying to wave the evidence away as if their very mother was encroaching upon them.

"At ease, Bridgertons," came a light giggle. "Your naughty actions have not been caught by mother or foe."

Eloise and Benedict sighed in relief, bobbing their heads as Penelope approached. Benedict was taken aback. Penelope had decided to cross the road in her lady's maid cloak, hood lifted to mask her face. When she finally reached them she sighed and lowered the hood, carefully untying the cloak to settle it in the grass. Underneath she wore, quite clearly, a light pink dressing gown. It still was not complimentary to her skin, but it was certainly more flattering than the other ostentatious frills her mother made her wear. But his confusion was set off twofold. A disguise over something so casual? And how was he to feel that she had suddenly deemed it fine to wear something completely inappropriate around him?

She really was at ease around him now, and he wasn't sure if that was entirely positive. At the same time though, he couldn't find it within himself to correct her.

"Do you plan on making a delivery tonight?" Benedict asked, sliding down from the swing to sit in the grass in front of her. Eloise mirrored his actions, shuffling over to adhere to Penelope's side.

Penelope waved her hand dismissively.

"No, not at all. Mama has just been–" She stopped, biting her lip as she considered her words. Benedict's curiosity piqued. "More on edge lately. Stressed. I felt it best to wear a disguise just in case."

Eloise hummed, satisfied. Benedict, however, was not quite convinced.

"So," Benedict started slowly. "The two of you knew about Berbrooke's assault on Daph."

Eloise and Penelope both had the good grace to look a little ashamed.

"Understand, Brother, we did not tell you for Daphne's sake," Eloise implored, actually looking quite contrite. That was a first. "But it looks like Berbrooke has successfully found a way around such a scandal. Who would believe poor Daphne's words over a man's?"

"This is why we must do something," Penelope said, covering her friend's knee with her hand. "If we could uncover something horrible about Lord Berbrooke–"

Benedict rubbed his temples, at a loss.

"Anthony himself said he could find no trace of scandal about him. I have heard mere whispers of financial problems at White's, but that is not enough."

"That's because you are asking the wrong people," Penelope said primly, sitting up straight, looking for their little group to seem much like the Queen when she was in one of her imperious moods. "People of our class only know so much about each other after all."

Benedict cocked his head, puzzled, but it was Eloise who caught on first. She bounced on the ground in her white nightgown, clearly thrilled.

"The servants!" Eloise burst out. "They know everything !"

It was then it dawned on Benedict what her idea was, and he couldn't stop the fizzle of anticipation that flared through his veins. Is this what she felt whenever she set about to uncover a secret? How thrilling.

"We must all ask our servants to ply the rumor mill about Lord Berbrooke having financial problems. Eventually, his servants will not be able to resist sharing whether it's true or not. They might possibly uncover something bigger . Implore your mother to do the same. I could even use my disguise, go down to Bloomsbury–"

"No," Benedict said firmly. "We have discussed this. You cannot go down there alone, and what if your own servants catch you? They will report you to your mother and then you would be locked up in your house for the rest of your life."

"Maybe not your whole life," Eloise said unhelpfully. "But definitely until she finds some old man to marry you off to."

Penelope shivered.

"Fine. Point taken."

She stuck her tongue out childishly at Benedict and he tweaked her nose in response.

"El, I think you should approach Mother with the idea, it will make more sense coming from you."

Eloise bristled, trying to sit up taller than her much larger brother.

"Why? Because I am a lady and therefore supposedly love to gossip?"

"Because I, shamefully, have not been very involved. It would be strange if I suddenly had some grand idea to help Daph," Benedict said, poking his sister's cheek. "But as you've said, you've had a front row seat to everything. I believe you could do it. I will still implore my valet to talk amongst the other servants though."

Eloise relaxed, inclining her head a little rudely.

"I suppose that makes sense," she conceded.

Benedict and Penelope shared a grin.

"Alright then," Benedict said cheerfully. "Operation Boil the Frog is under way!"

Both girls gave him unimpressed looks and he shrugged, before grinning lazily, reaching for another cigarillo.

"What? I think it is hilarious."

They quickly set to work. With Penelope's coaching and Benedict's encouragement, Eloise plucked the courage to approach her mother the next morning. Apparently Violet had experienced a rather harrowing conversation with Daphne, and the idea was just what Violet needed. Eloise had been surprised that her mother had actually taken her words seriously, so used to her loud opinions being ignored, but Penelope had assured her that her mother was probably just as desperate to rescue Daphne from Lord Berbrooke's clutches as they were. Violet quickly arranged for Lady Berbrooke to be invited over for tea later that day before Violet would see the Queen the next morrow.

"It will be considered last minute, but you must insist," Violet had pushed as she sent off the letter with the fastest post boy. Both Benedict and Eloise were impressed.

Benedict, in his turn, set to work with the male servants, telling his valet to see if he could dig up any information. To Benedict's shock his valet, Radcliffe, actually shot Benedict a knowing smile, small as it was.

"Mister Bridgerton, I know exactly where Lord Berbrooke's valet and footman frequent."

So it was now Benedict's turn to sneak into Penelope's back garden, followed closely by Eloise. Eloise instructed him to pick up gravel from the drive and, aiming at a lit window on the third floor, Eloise began to throw the pebbles with expert ease. Benedict gaped at her briefly before following her lead, barely missing Penelope's forehead as she abruptly opened the window.

"Keep it down!" she hissed from above, wrapped in his pink night robe, her hair pulled back in a simple braid. "Have you news?"

"Better!" Eloise whispered as loudly as possible. Benedict pondered if there was an actual word for that. "Don your disguise! We must make haste!"

Penelope was down within ten minutes, wrapped in her lady's maid cloak and out the servants entrance. It was now close to midnight and if they were to overhear the conversation Radcliffe was setting up for them, it was essential they hurry. They took a Bridgerton coach, heading into one of the corners of Covent Garden known for its brothels. Benedict bribed his coachman to wait two blocks back.

"Keep watch, El," Benedict said, narrowing his eyes as if she already disobeyed his orders.

"Oh, why can I not come?" Eloise whined.

"Because you do not have a disguise," Penelope tried to reason, tucking her fiery hair within her hood.

"And you have a loud mouth," Benedict finished before shutting the carriage in an aghast Eloise's face.

"Oh, you should not have done that," Penelope giggled as Benedict pulled her along the paved side street, gravel streets and muddy alleyways.

"She will forgive me eventually. I am still her favorite!"

Penelope resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Benedict took her by the hand, practically sprinting until they began to reach a street corner. At every turn there were men and women plying their trade, attempting to catch any man with a purse's eye.

"Still quite busy," Penelope remarked. "Even without Harris's List !"

Benedict glanced at her sharply.

"And how exactly do you know about that?"

Penelope flushed and hid her face in her cloak, a little ashamed.

"You forget who my father is," was all she said before carting him forward. Benedict felt a little ill at her words, suddenly imagining a poor, little Penelope rifling through her father's papers, only to find old issues of such a craven publication.

Before he could say anything close to comforting, however, he spotted Radcliffe in position outside the brothel, milling about by the entrance. Benedict checked his pocket watch, they were just in time. Tucking Penelope into his side, he inclined his head towards his loyal valet, keeping his top hat low over his eyes. He rounded the corner, both keeping their head down so they were just out of sight, but just in hearing distance of the entrance. Some people leered at them as they walked by, some barely noticed them. But Benedict pressed Penelope further into his side. He risked much by bringing her to such a place. If anyone recognized them–

Well, Benedict rather not think about it.

So he waited and listened, until he heard the telltale, deep voice of Radcliffe call out, "Williams! Granger! You absolute devils, I was hoping I'd find you here!"

"Do me eyes deceive me? Radcliffe?" That voice was gruff, older, probably a man in his forties.

"Is the proverbial angel on our shoulder actually joining in the fun tonight?" The other voice was much younger, slick, even a tad polished.

"Nah, waiting on my master, the terrible sod!" Benedict could practically hear Radcliffe rolling his eyes and shrugging in a what can you do sort of manner. If Benedict didn't know any better, he'd really think Radcliffe didn't like him in this instant.

There were "Ahhhs," and "Oh yes," from the other two.

"The bloody rich and their appetites. I like a good tumble, but I swear they're not as discreet as they think. Spending all of their money, gambling it away or using it in whorehouses. The rate it's going, none of us will be getting paid!" Radcliffe continued, steering the conversation just as Benedict had wanted him to.

"Be blessed if y'er getting paid much, keep an eye on y'er master," the older man growled. "We're getting paid pittance now, 'cause of milord's financial troubles."

"Oh?" Radcliffe asked, all ears.

"That's why he's after y'er master's sister, ain't he? That family is loaded. I doubt y'er boy will spend it faster than I 'ear 'is brother makes it."

"Let us hope," Radcliffe agreed.

Benedict turned to Penelope and both of them were practically vibrating with excitement. This was just the sort of news they needed to hear!

"It gets worse," the younger man said, and Benedict realized that the slickness he had heard in the man's voice was actually the looseness of sweet alcohol. "The master see, he knocked up one of the maids a few years ago. And what does he do? Sends her, pregnant, to the country with no money to speak of!"

Benedict felt his jaw unhinge, dropping to hang loose in the air. Now this he had not expected. From Penelope's tiny gasp, he doubted she did either.

"Oi! You can't be blurting that around–"

"I'll do as I please! Cause what does the blaggard do? He's gone and tupped another maid, my sister! She's with child and scared. He'll do the same to her once he finds out, I guarantee it."

"My master is many things," Radcliffe said, and Benedict peered to see him patting the young servant's shoulder. "But he is no villain. I am sorry for your sister."

"Thanks, mate."

The conversation dwindled on and started to drift, but Benedict and Penelope shared a knowing look. They had exactly what they needed to be rid of Berbrooke once and for all.

When they arrived back at the carriage, Benedict hurried to tell Eloise everything as Penelope gathered the portable writing desk, dipping a quill in fresh ink, before nodding to Benedict. Eloise lurched forward to hold the ink bottle and keep it from spilling as Benedict banged the roof of the carriage, "Bloomsbury!"

It has come to This Author's attention that the ton is abuzz with a most sordid tale.

It is said one cannot judge a book by its cover. But in the case of the bumbling Baron Berbrooke, it seems his displeasing appearance is quite an apt metaphor for the state of affairs in his household. I would not be surprised if Lord Berbrooke were called away to the country on alleged business…

Business which, perhaps, might involve sending some much overdue funds to one former maid and young boy, who we can only hope takes after his mother. He may take quite a permanent leave soon, as it has also been heard that he may have recently acquired another charge he may try to shirk responsibility for. My Dear Readers, it seems the water in Lord Berbrooke's pond has reached a boiling point without him knowing. I am not one for the French delicacy of frog's legs, but I'm sure there are many people who would just enjoy skewering him.

Benedict had to physically hold back from cackling in delight as he saw Lord Berbrooke sweat, reading Lady Whistledown on the sofa at White's as his bulging eyes flickered around the room nervously. Every man was watching him with great distaste and nothing was more satisfying than watching the dastardly man practically hop out of the room as if he was being boiled alive or fried in hot oil.

Benedict would be sure to save this particular issue. He felt a tinge of pride at Penelope's reference to his little joke. He knew she'd see it as quite humorous.

With the Lady Whistledown issue and his mother's rapidly successful campaign to spread the same gossip she had received from Daphne's lady's maid after tea with Lord Berbrooke's mother yesterday, the scandal had snowballed into a catastrophe of epic proportions. Lord Berbrooke would be all but run out of town, and Daphne was free to pursue her viable options at last. Benedict settled back with a great sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, he could now relax as well. Ever since his sister's debut and the revelation of Penelope as Lady Whistledown, he did not feel he'd gotten much time to breathe.

Though, he had to admit, working with Penelope on such clandestine work was quite exhilarating. Knocking back his drink he stood, ready to depart and to have Eloise go call upon Penelope for a secret meeting. He knew just how to celebrate.

"Is this night three? Four? No, three?" Eloise asked a little hazily, wobbling in her spot on the grass as she took another swig of wine from the bottle. "We have not slept properly for so many nights in a row, I cannot possibly know numbers now."

In front of the three of them in their little circle by the swings, Benedict had laid out a small feast of cakes and two bottles of red wine.

"One bottle for me," he had said. "And one for the two of you to share."

Both Eloise and Penelope, simultaneously, clutched at their chests in mock outrage. Any sort of effect they wanted to give was ruined by the fact they were both in their embroidered night robes.

"You think we cannot hold our drink because we are women?" Eloise accused.

"I think you cannot hold your drink because you are inexperienced," he replied calmly, uncorking the bottle for them. "And because you are both incredibly tiny."

Penelope snorted, opened her mouth–

"Not one word about yourself, Penelope," Benedict scolded, and her blue sky eyes widened in shock. "Tonight is a cause for celebration. One that you helped create. As your friend, I will not tolerate such cruelty towards yourself."

Penelope sat stunned for a moment as Benedict popped a piece of orange cake in his mouth. Eloise actually patted Benedict's knee with something close to approval before taking a rather large swig from the bottle, choking in her exuberance. They talked and laughed for hours until they were a strange set on the ground, lined up like matchsticks, their heads knocking into each other as they stared at the night sky through the tree branches.

"This is certainly unladylike," Penelope commented, her speech slightly slurred. "Absolutely inappropriate."

"Indeed," Benedict agreed.

Eloise muttered something nonsensical.

"Beyond the bounds of propriety, even?" Penelope asked.

"Most certainly," Benedict replied.

"Then why are you here, Benedict? Indulging the whims of girls?"

Benedict laid there with the question, puzzled over it in order to give it the answer it deserved. He wasn't that drunk, and Penelope deserved an honest answer, even if she wouldn't remember it in the morning.

"El is my sister, and you are my friend," he said softly, and while he didn't look at her he could feel her autumn fire curls tickling his skin, becoming stuck in the stubble gracing his cheek. "And no one should be alone when they're sad or when they want to celebrate. Do you not agree?"

He felt Penelope nod beside him, her fiery strands tugged on the brown stubble, whispering against his skin.

"Benedict?"

Her voice was growing more heavy now, Benedict could tell that the alcohol and slumber were pulling her down and away from consciousness.

"Yes, Penelope?"

"Do you like stories? Comedies or tragedies?"

Benedict dared to turn toward her, and felt the cool blades of grass press into his face along with more of her glowing tresses. She was still looking up at the shrouded sky, Eloise now snoring beside her.

"I prefer a comedy. They have happy endings."

Penelope looked pensive, fighting sleep as her eyelashes fluttered, her girlish round cheeks puffed out in thought, a funny purse to her lips. Then, as if by magic, it all relaxed, taking on a slack, dreamy quality.

"I hope to write one someday, a comedy," she murmured, growing fainter by the second. "When I know in my soul how one ends."

"I am sure you will," Benedict said, a beleaguered ache in his chest as he watched her fall asleep.

He'd let her dream a while, before he woke her to go home. He hoped Morpheus would grant her wish.

Chapter 3: A Practice in Friendship

Summary:

The gallery at Somerset House puts several new things in perspective for Benedict. Penelope learns that love, unfortunately, is not the thing of fairytales.

Notes:

Hello friends!

While this is a shorter chapter than the first two, there's a lot going one! Episode 3 is always a big on in Bridgerton!

I've linked to the artworks listed in this chapter so you can see what they actually look like!

Thank you again to itakethewords for being my beta and designing the art! I loooooovveee youuuu!

Also, forgive me, I'm sleep deprived these days.

Chapter Text

The trio had all begged off the ball the very next night, far too hungover and sleep deprived to do much else. Even Penelope was willing to sacrifice the potential gossip. The scandal on Berbrooke would last the whole week until the greedy ton craved more blood, so she figured she and her dear friends earned the respite.

Friends, Penelope couldn't help but think gleefully, even as she winced in bed when her lady's maid drew the curtains and light assaulted her face, making her temples throb. It was not just she and Eloise anymore. She could now count Benedict among them.

Though, suddenly, Penelope thought with a frown, taking the sip of water Maevis offered her, she felt a little guilty. Colin was her friend, and yet she had hardly been able to spend time with him. Not that they were glued to the hip as she and Eloise were, but they always had an amiable rapport, and, well, Colin filled her stomach with butterflies and made her feel as if she was floating on air. She thought she was enamored of him ever since she saw him setting paper boats to float on the lake when she was nine, but it was when she was thirteen and she'd knocked him off his horse with her bonnet that had changed everything. By all accounts he should've been mad, annoyed at least. But he had just laughed, and oh how she had fallen in love with his laugh.

She was convinced if a doctor could find a way to bottle up Colin's laughter and make it into medicine, it would cure the world. Wasn't that what it felt like to be in love? To believe that the right kind of person could fix everything?

But it could not be helped. Colin was a young gentleman and he was occupied with a young gentleman's pursuits. Penelope was not always completely sure what those were, but she was convinced that for Colin they must be important. Besides, Benedict himself admitted that at present he wasn't sure what he would do further with his life. Benedict was also determined not to let Penelope pursue her enterprise alone, stubborn man that he was. She rolled her eyes fondly before wincing and clutching her head. She begged Maevis to inform her mother she was ill, and it would just hurt Prudence and Philippa's chances if she was seen sniveling all over the ball tonight. As Maevis left the room, Penelope hastily gulped down the rest of her water. She had a feeling she would need a lot of it today.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is often said that those who marry in haste must repent at leisure, a sentiment that is clearly shared by Miss Daphne Bridgerton, who has apparently rejected not one, not two, but three proposals already this week. Some believe she is showing admirable forethought in her deliberations, but I would venture a different conjecture, that she, like This Author, is still waiting on the only suitor of note.

Benedict sighed as he closed the Lady Whistledown issue, sipping his tea thoughtfully as he let the usual family chaos of the drawing room surround him. It had been a week and a half since the closure of the Berbrooke incident. For the first few days afterwards he had simply laid in bed, recovering from his lack of sleep and his persistent hangover. His sister had been no better, not leaving her room the first day and padding over to his chambers the second day just so she could snore on the sofa by the fireplace in his room.

"Inappropriate," he groaned, too weak to even get up to kick her out. "You have your own room."

"Your room has a fireplace," she said, weakly yet still incredibly petulant. "Now shut up and let me sleep."

Unfortunately, their mother would not forget them for too long and on the third day she'd forced the pair of them up, had them bathed and properly dressed to sit through the agony of watching suitor after suitor fill the drawing room to woo Daphne. It was a peculiar type of torture, and he was convinced his mother knew they were currently too weak to escape.

But it had been enough time and Penelope was back to writing as his sister's apparent courtship with the Duke continued. Daphne was promenading with the man at that moment, with Violet and Lady Danbury as chaperones. Benedict lay on the sofa, his legs so long and lanky they hung over the wooden arm at the end. He folded up the scandal sheet before slipping it into the pages of the sketchbook nestled on his lap. He picked up the sketchbook and retrieved the graphite he tucked behind his ear to attempt to continue his sketch.

Eloise sat across from him, nose in a book, as Hyacinth and Gregory played marbles on the floor between them. Colin was at the table, eating a scone as he read his own book, a sparse one on travels in Greece. Travel books were only just gaining some popularity, though the most common ones were about traveling the English countryside. With the war against Napoleon still raging on the Continent, Benedict had honestly been surprised that Anthony and Violet were allowing Colin to embark on a Grand Tour at all.

Benedict looked up, sketchbook and graphite slightly limp in his hands. He'd been trying to draw a side profile of a female face; pert nose, stubborn chin, and round cheeks. But he couldn't get it exactly right, so he bobbed his head towards Colin to ask,

"Still planning on Greece, Col?"

Colin looked up, mouth a little full like a chipmunk as he chewed and swallowed his bite of scone.

"Why would I not be, Brother?"

"Well," Benedict hedged, tapping the tip of his graphite on the page in front of him. "You seem quite enamored of Miss Thompson…"

He winced, almost regretting bringing it up. But there was a part of him that had to know. Penelope was his friend now, and anyone who wasn't willfully blind (such as Eloise, or Colin himself) could see that Penelope carried a torch for his bright, affable younger brother. He wanted, in his own small way, to protect her from the ravages of heartbreak. They spent so much time together, even if it was due to the demands of the work Penelope set for herself, and he saw within her the girl who was infatuated, in rapture with her first love. Benedict knew Colin well and therefore he knew Colin had not even thought of Penelope as anything more than a friend. To some degree, he thought Penelope knew that. But young hope, having not been snuffed out yet, could be strong and illusory.

"She is the most lovely lady of the season, to be sure," Colin said amiably, adjusting his book in his hands. "I do worry about her illness, as she's been absent for the past few social events. But until then, I must focus on what is already planned, Brother."

Colin shot him a smile before returning to his pages on ruined temples and the Aegean Sea. Benedict could not help the worried frown that crossed his face.

Penelope could not believe the audacity of her mother.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. She could believe it. It was just her actions appeared so incredibly, indescribably crass that she could barely stand it.

Penelope had checked the mail every day for Marina, looking for letters from her beloved Sir George. Alas, nothing had come, and her mother had caught her consorting with Marina, kicking her out of the room. But of course, Penelope listened at the door and gasped to learn her mother was forcing Marina back into society to quickly snag a husband before her pregnancy was revealed.

"I do not want–" Marina had began, but Lady Portia had quickly interrupted her,

"What you want became immaterial long ago. You shall wed and you shall do it as soon as possible."

Penelope could not let this happen. Marina truly had become a dear friend. No one had so eagerly sought to confide in her, at least not someone who was a part of her family. Marina was kind to her and truly listened when Penelope spoke. And there was a fire in Marina, one that reminded Penelope so much of Eloise. She could not let her mother try to douse it out, especially not with Marina's relationship with Sir George at stake.

Marina had shown Penelope their love letters, and now with the knowledge Benedict had given her about how children were created, that such acts were done for pleasure, without the intention of procreation… Well, so many words and phrases suddenly found new meaning, causing Penelope to blush as she read–

Your body a temple in which I enter, worshiping you as a goddess.

– miss your lips, as they create bountiful opportunities for pleasure…

Divine, inspired, my love. I long to hold you–

The letters went on and on. Beautiful, salacious words that Penelope could only dream could one day be directed at her. She felt herself grow hot just thinking about it. If Colin were to ever write such words of passion to her, she'd follow him to any battlefield.

So she had to help Marina escape the machinations of her mother. It was something she would resolve to do. For true love. For, in her heart, so desperate to believe that fairytale endings could be achieved, she wanted to see their love succeed.

Penelope could not help but be disappointed when she could not find Benedict among the men at Almack's. She smoothed her bright pink floral skirts carefully, trying to fight off the tinge of sadness. She had hoped to see her friend and observe the madness surrounding the arrival of Prince Friedrich with someone who might find it as amusing as she did. Alas, she was relegated to the corner as her sisters fought over who could gain the Prince's attention.

"The prince is from Prussia, and I dare say that I just caught his eye," Prudence said, pushing forward through the crowd.

"I love Russia! I could swoon," Philippa added and Penelope had to fight not to hide her face in her gloved hands out of embarrassment.

She did, however, observe the easy camaraderie between the Duke of Hastings and Daphne with glee. She wasn't even noticed when Prince Friedrich introduced himself to Daphne, complimenting her dress, only for Daphne to respond with a snort of a laugh. Penelope had to hide a giggle, it was so unusual to see Daphne so…well, relaxed. The Duke did wonders for her disposition, even lowering her guard so she made such a faux pas in front of the Prince and the Queen. It was sweet, truly, and Penelope wondered idly if Marina's Sir George made her laugh the same way, little inside jokes that would cause a random spurt of giggles when she saw something to remind her of it.

Colin made Penelope laugh. He was a fan of puns and a good joke, as lighthearted as he was. But she shared no inside jokes, no quips that only the two of them would understand. Rapidly, she was filled with a sore kind of longing, empty and painful. As she let such feelings take her away for a moment, she did not notice the Duke of Hastings approach her.

"Miss Featherington."

Startled, she looked up to see Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, standing regally in front of her. With his well fitted jacket and gold and blue cravat, he could honestly be just as dashing as any prince, though he did have the hint of a rogue about him. Penelope looked around her, maybe he was speaking to someone else? One of her sisters? But the Duke merely gave her a polite, kind, close-lipped smile. His dark eyes, she noticed for the first time, glowed with an inner warmth.

"Yes, Miss Featherington, I am speaking to you."

"Oh, Your Grace!" Penelope quickly curtsied, realizing how belated the action was, her face flushing. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I was wondering if you would accompany me for the next dance," he said, offering her his hand.

Penelope stared at it a little dumbly.

"But, Miss Bridgerton–"

"Is currently dancing with some other dandy," the Duke said, pointing to where Daphne, willowy and beautiful, the dainty feather in her hair waving about, was indeed on the arm of another suitor. "And I would kindly ask of you to help a lonely man in need of a dance partner."

"Ah!" Penelope said, hesitantly taking his hand. "You need help warding off other eligible debutants!"

The Duke frowned, and Penelope began to wonder if that had been the wrong thing to say, too forward, until he said,

"Miss Featherington, while partially true, there is something even more important that has led me to ask you." He smiled again, a bigger smile than before, a little more true. "You have kind eyes."

Penelope was speechless as the Duke of Hastings led her to the dance floor. No one particularly noticed or cared, except Daphne who actually gave her an encouraging smile and practically radiated approval when she looked at the Duke leading Penelope on the floor. They chatted about the weather, about the horse races, about silly mamas and sillier daughters and it was all incredibly pleasant and genuine. When the dance was done, he pointedly led her across the room away from Penelope's family, stationing her snugly by the refreshments table.

"Miss Featherington," he said, peering over his shoulder to spot Penelope's mother and sisters, who seemed to be yawning behind their fans, not at all concerned about Penelope dancing with the Duke. Penelope knew that they already saw it for what it was; nice, but meaningless when it came to Penelope's marriage prospects. "Please know, that family never need define you."

With those cryptic words he bowed, and glided away to join Daphne's side again, leaving Penelope strangely light but bewildered.

Benedict watched the gambling taking place from the corner of the room at White's with a sick, twisted feeling in his gut.

The haze of tobacco smoke hovered in the room and was filled to the brim with lords and other gentlemen crowding the various betting and cards tables, raucous and greedy. He'd been there all night, watching Lord Featherington bet and lose, bet and lose; his money, various items from the Featherington estate, and when he had no more money on him, then his very word. It was incredibly painful to watch.

Benedict was supposed to be with Colin, watching him have another friendly spar with Jackson at the boxing gym. Yet Benedict felt called here. As Benedict grew closer to Penelope, he became hyper aware of Lord Featherington's activities within the club, at various gambling hells, the whorehouses, and at animal baiting arenas… He just couldn't let it go. Penelope was his friend, a girl who he had insisted rely on him for protection. How could he not observe how Lord Featherington could very well be ruining his own family?

So it was with a well of shame as he leaned in the corner against a bookcase, strangely situated between the Greek tragedies, as he watched his older brother and the Duke of Hastings absolutely run away with Lord Featherington's money. Penelope's money, for what else should a lord's money be used for other than the well-being of his family and his tenants? Benedict was not, and never desired to be, the Viscount of the vast Bridgerton estate. But even he knew where his responsibilities, his honor and duty, would lay if he did.

He winced, watching yet again as Anthony and the Duke won again, and he was suddenly incredibly thankful that Penelope had come up with Whistledown. She was slowly, carefully building a nest egg she could use. Though, Benedict thought, it would be better if she never had to use it at all. At least not for the support of a family who, apparently, thought not one wit about her when gambling their fortune away.

The round coming to a close, Benedict pushed off of the bookcase, fully intent on talking to Anthony. As he approached, he heard Anthony comment,

"Restraint is not among Lord Featherington's skills," Anthony said.

"Well, then, neither is gambling," Simon replied.

Benedict gritted his teeth, sidling up to his brother's side.

"Anthony–"

"Ah, Brother!" Anthony exclaimed, apparently in quite good spirits. "Come to see our winnings?"

"Actually," Benedict began. "I thought, perhaps, you could go easy on Lord Featherington for a while. Maybe do not encourage his worse impulses–"

"And why would I do that when his 'impulses' pay the rest of us so well?" Anthony crowed, clapping his brother's shoulder as if Benedict were all but an idiot.

The Duke glanced thoughtfully at Benedict, his dark eyes calculating. Benedict swallowed.

"We have always known him to be a horrible gambler, Anthony. He must be losing great amounts of his fortunes at this rate. Please, think of his daughters–"

"I would hope that Lord Featherington would not gamble with money he does not have," Anthony said dismissively, patting Benedict's cheek condescendingly. "But if he is, well, he must reap what he sows. Come, Hastings."

"Call me Basset," Simon reminded him, shooting Benedict an apologetic look as they left to join the chatter of the adjacent room.

Benedict watched on, frustrated and a little helpless, as he turned to see Lord Featherington make another absurd bet.

I have always thought that an appreciation of the arts is what lifts us beyond mere animals. It stirs the passions and moves the spirit, and, This Author hopes, inspires more newsworthy pursuits. A new wing at Somerset House is to be opened today, where several attractions will be on display… like the lovely Miss Marina Thompson, newly recovered from her mysterious illness and expected to finally rejoin the season.

Of course, there is today's royal attraction as well, Prince Friedrich of Prussia. His Highness has come to our shores in want of a fine Fräulein. Could this be the reason a certain language tutor has been seen visiting Cowper House all week?

"I find no fault with this column!" Eloise exclaimed, studying the parchment extensively by the little light emitted from the Bridgerton House windows. They sat in the garden, waiting for Benedict to join them so Penelope could make her delivery. The whole of the haut ton would set upon Somerset House, home to several Royal Societies and the Royal Academy, tomorrow for the art exhibition, and she wanted to make sure the column was distributed first thing in the morning. "Capitalizing on the Prince's arrival is certainly best, and all of those silly debutants vying for his affection, prancing about like painted birds with not another thought in their brains!"

Eloise rolled her eyes and Penelope could not help but snort at the look of disgust on her friend's face. She shivered slightly in the spring night air. She'd taken her blue cloak off, leaving her in a simple, pastel pink woolen day dress to compensate for the slight chill. It was one of the least offensively ostentatious things she owned and only because her mother, when she wore the dress in winter, usually forced some horrific, gaudy floral coat over it.

"He is certainly making the whole of the ton chitter more than birds at St James' park, I must say," Penelope concurred. "Though I feel if your sister was not so attached to the Duke, the Prince would be pursuing her instead of Cressida."

Eloise wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"That would be just what I need. Daphne becoming a princess! Mama would expect me to marry no less than an Earl then. Lawks, I do not believe I could stand it!"

Before Penelope could reply, a jovial voice joined the fray,

"What's this? The two of you out of bed and gossiping?"

The girls stiffened. That was certainly not Benedict's voice and as they turned their heads they gaped to see Colin Bridgerton grinning down at them.

"None of your business!" Eloise screeched, a little more loudly than Penelope thought she meant to, as Eloise frantically shoved Penelope's column right down her bosom. Penelope tried to sneakily shove her lady's maid cloak behind the tree, hoping the darkness would make it look like a rock or mound of dirt.

"That titillating?" Colin asked with a grin before flopping down on the grass to peer at the both of them. "Come on! If you tell me, I promise not to tell Mother how Penelope snuck out of bed to see her closest friend."

He grinned warmly and Penelope immediately knew it was an empty threat, said in jest to rile up Eloise. Which worked, because next thing she knew, Eloise said,

"W-well, just to mitigate that, I am going to– to– gather forces against you!"

And suddenly Eloise was up and dashing across the lawn towards the house, leaving Penelope alone with Colin. Penelope felt her cheeks heat up under his gaze as he chuckled, turning his disarming smile to her.

"Will you be the stone I can squeeze blood from, Pen?" he teased.

Oh zounds, Penelope thought. He didn't know how right he was.

"We were just discussing the Prince's arrival," Penelope said, cursing the way her voice came out at a slightly higher pitch. "And Cressida's rather um…" Penelope tapped the dimple in her chin to find a more polite way of saying what she thought, but decided there was no way around it. "Cressida's rather peacock-like strutting to get his attention. She seems to forget that it is the male of the species with any real value to their plumage, and so she's coming off rather pale and flat."

Colin laughed uproariously, great booming laughter that burst across the garden like shots from a canon. Penelope's heart swelled with pride that she had made him make such a sound. It had been because of her, not Marina a dark part of her whispered, that he was currently clutching his stomach and laughing so heartily.

"Oh, Pen," Colin gasped, wiping tiny tears from the corners of his eyes. "You are a good friend, I needed a laugh!"

And all at once her heart sank again, though she tried to pull threads of positivity from it to shield herself from the sinking cold taking over. A friend was better than nothing. A friend could be a firm foundation for something, couldn't it?

"Col!"

Penelope turned to see Benedict taking long, easy strides towards them, Eloise shuffling behind his easy gait. Penelope observed that Benedict's smile was a bit too wide, his eyes darting around the dimly lit garden as if searching for others lurking around the corner.

"This is your great defender, El? Poor choice. I am much better at boxing than he is!" Colin said jovially.

"And I excel at fencing, we are at a draw, Brother," Benedict said before bowing to Penelope. It took her a moment to realize that she should probably curtsy, it would look strange to Colin for her to have much familiarity with his older brother. A little belatedly she scrambled to her feet, lowering her gaze and curtsying. "Miss Featherington, I have been recruited to accompany you to the safety of your home."

"I can do it, Brother," Colin chirped, standing up and brushing off his breeches. "I know the way to the servants entrance, and I could enquire about Miss Thompson!"

Penelope felt another horrible pang in her chest, keeping her gaze to the ground, her shoulders shrinking in on herself. If she hadn't known that Marina was steadfastly loyal to Sir George, she'd almost hate her good cousin. But it wasn't Marina's fault she was beautiful and caught Colin's eye. Marina had played her part well as she waited for news from her lover, and Penelope willed herself to tamp down the ugly jealousy causing her lungs to seize and her stomach to turn. She saw Benedict's boots shift in the grass.

"Normally I would let you, Col, but I'm afraid, uh, Gregory requires your presence."

"Greg?" Colin asked, perplexed.

"Yes," Benedict said smoothly, hands clasped behind his back, entirely amiable. "Ever since your spar with Jackson, he's been completely inconsolable that he could not see it. You know he admires you so, and he will not let Mother rest until he hears you recount the venture in excruciating detail."

"Huh," Colin said, blinking. "I did not know it would upset him so. He is keeping Mother up?"

"Yes, and you know how Mother gets when she is lacking in sleep."

All three Bridgertons, if Penelope was correct, shuddered in abject fear. She bit her cheek, the corners of her lips fighting to tilt up.

"Ah, well, it cannot be helped then." With another smile that made Penelope's heart do somersaults, he gave a small bow. "Another time, Pen."

With that he was gone, ambling up towards the house. The three co-conspirators waited until he was well out of sight before they heaved a collective sigh of relief.

"I apologize, Penelope, I did not mean to be delayed," Benedict said, sauntering over to her as Penelope retrieved her cloak.

"No harm done, Benedict," she replied, though she did feel like her pride and confidence had taken a solid hit. "Let us be off before any of your other siblings decide to pop out from the hedges!"

Benedict held out his arm, and Eloise retrieved Penelope's column, presenting it to her with a flourish.

"Watch out for her, Benedict," Eloise said rather seriously.

"When do I not?" Benedict asked, gently flicking Eloise's chin before tweaking Penelope's nose.

As they were off towards the coach, Penelope settled into easy steps by Benedict's side, who shortened his strides so she could keep up. At least this was easy. This, indeed, was a comfort.

Benedict rolled the little stones across and his fingers, using his thumb to control the two rocks' trajectory across his skin. He'd dismissed his valet as he waited to be called upon by his mother to set off the Somerset House. The shiny white stone stolen from a manicured flowerbed and a little gray rock, a piece of gravel in truth, were warm from being held in his palm. The weight of them was a comfort, along with the reminder of the moments he sought to remember.

The morning of Daphne's presentation, one he'd pilfered from the palace grounds.

The evening he'd discovered Penelope was Whistledown.

He couldn't wait to add them to his collection, tucked safely away at My Cottage. The light fighting to make itself seen beyond the clouds that clogged the London sky made them blink prettily up at them. They weren't particularly shiny stones, but he found them beautiful nonetheless.

His mother's voice called his name and he tucked the rocks safely away in his writing desk.

He eagerly wondered if he'd find a reason to collect more this season.

When the Bridgertons arrived at Somerset House, Penelope had to laugh as she carefully tucked the bit of purple heather she'd snuck from the house behind her ear. Eloise, of course, rushed to her side like the devil was on her heels. Penelope had to hide an indecorous smile as she saw Violet try to rope the Viscount then Benedict into some sort of scheme, both running away like gazelles being chased by a predator. It was sweet Colin who ended up arm-in-arm with his mother and Penelope's heart warmed at the sight.

"It is terribly familiar, yet I am sure this is the first time I have seen it." Penelope tilted her head up at the oil painting, naked nymphs frolicking in the wood.

"That is because, like all of these paintings, it was done by a man who sees a woman as a decorative object," Eloise said snidely. "They are like…"

"Human vases!" Penelope said eagerly before turning and noticing her mother dragging Marina towards a grotesque older man conversing with her father in the middle of the room. She quickly excused herself, hoping Eloise would understand and dashed off. She couldn't ignore Marina's plea for help.

It was as awful as it appeared. Her mother clearly had every intention to shove Marina at any old, eligible bachelor who was without heirs. Lord Middlethorpe was balding on top of his head with wisps of white hair, a tad portly, and blatantly fake teeth. If he had no heirs now, Penelope doubted it was actually in his power to create any.

She did her best, trying to excuse Marina away. Marina, with all her inner fight that Penelope so admired, rudely turned the lord away. Penelope marveled at Marina's confident rebuke, her self-assurance. Many days Penelope wished she was that strong, that brave, to be able to simply tell people, like her mother, "no."

Like in this mortifying moment, as Penelope took the verbal beating, eyes downcast, when her mother hissed,

"You are a meddlesome little wench." Lady Portia's glare was angry enough that Penelope was convinced it should be shooting daggers. "And you–" she started, turning towards Marina until an icy, masculine voice interrupted,

"Excuse me."

Benedict could not believe what he had just heard.

He had approached from behind, deciding it was time to talk to his friend as Eloise had sent him urgent looks to rescue Penelope from the clutches of Lady Featherington. Plus, he had glanced at the hint of purple heather, tucked behind Penelope's ear. He'd seen the bouquet that morning as he dutifully looked out the window across the street, but clearly she'd wanted to be sure. He'd come over quietly, expecting Lady Portia to be lecturing the young women in her care about the eligible bachelors. But he never imagined that he'd stumble upon the woman, who had suddenly grown even more vile in his esteem, to lob such cruel, awful words at her own daughter.

No wonder Penelope had no confidence in herself.

"Excuse me," he said coldly, and Lady Featherington jumped, spinning around to face Benedict, all of the blood having drained from her face.

"M-Mister Bridgerton," Lady Featherington said, clutching her bosom like her heart was about to leap out of her chest. "I-I did not hear you approach."

"Clearly," Benedict gritted out. "For I would hope you would refrain from using such words to address your daughter in front of me."

Penelope was staring up at him with surprise, utterly taken aback. This gave Benedict pause. Did no one stand up for her against this harpy of a woman? Was this normal?

"I came to ask if Miss Featherington would accept my company for a turn about the room," Benedict said, voice increasingly tight.

"M-Miss– You mean Penelope? How about Miss Thompson, Mister Bridgerton, she would–"

"I think Marina would like to see our friend Eloise, your sister, Mister Bridgerton?" Penelope cut in, not even looking at her mother, grasping Marina's gloved hand.

"Yes," Marina joined in. "I quite like your sister, Mister Bridgerton. May I have your leave to join her?"

Benedict recognized collusion when he saw it, being one of eight siblings. So he nodded towards the young woman who shot him and Penelope a gracious smile, before hurrying off towards Eloise. Lady Featherington gaped, speechless for once.

"Miss Featherington." Benedict offered his arm, and Penelope took it gratefully.

Benedict nodded curtly at Lady Featherington before whisking Penelope away, grumbling under his breath, "That complete– How dare– Penelope, does she always speak thusly to you?"

Penelope didn't look at him, simply patted his arm as he directed her to a stretch of portraits on the wall. She picked at an applique on her hideous yellow bodice, before saying,

"Ah, Benedict, look. A portrait of Lady Hamilton!"

That was all the answer Benedict needed, and he felt something soft and open inside him fray at the seams. It was wrong for a mother to speak in such a way to her child. Maybe it was his family, his mother, who were odd amongst society. Penelope acted as if her parents' cruelty and neglect were nothing out of the ordinary. His mother had her failings, but she would never call them such names.

"It's much too cold. Where's any sense of the subject's spirit? And the light! Given the quality, I do wonder why the piece was not skyed with the other daubs," Benedict said, a little cockily. Penelope still hung on his arm, tilting her head to try and see what he saw. They had been looking at a long stream of portraits now, many of them rich, beautiful women. Many had been boring, but, to be honest, she actually quite liked this portrait. The woman appeared demure, yes, but not lacking in vitality.

But maybe that was the point of art. That one would not always agree upon it.

Lady Danbury sidled up with a dapper looking man dressed in a berry red velvet coat, his hair perfectly styled into smooth, dark blonde waves.

"Perhaps we should ask the artist," Lady Danbury said slyly, and Penelope's eyes widened. She tugged on Benedict's sleeves, trying to warn him. The man on the other side of Lady Danbury actually caught her eye, winking at her. Penelope increased her tug upon his jacket, but Benedict ignored her.

"That would be something, Lady Danbury," Benedict replied, once again a little high in the instep.

"Hmmmm… Mister Granville, why was your piece not skyed?" Lady Danbury turned to the slightly older man beside her, and Penelope had to resist the urge to bury her face in Benedict's arm. She saw the moment Benedict's eyes widened in panic and she could practically feel his pulse racing where her fingers rested in his wrist.

"Mister Granville, I–" Benedict tried to say, but Mister Granville quickly excused himself,

"If you will excuse me, um, I must find my wife." With that the man walked off and Benedict turned his horrified gaze between Penelope and Lady Danbury, finally focusing on the older woman, who was snickering mercilessly.

"You diabolical… How could you let me rattle on like that?" Benedict wheezed, cheeks flushing.

"How could I not, my dear Mister Bridgerton?" Lady Danbury smirked. "It was riotously funny, you must admit. Miss Featherington tried to warn you. You really should listen to the women in your life more often."

Benedict swiveled his face down towards Penelope, who shrugged.

"In this case, I must agree with Lady Danbury. I believe we are the more tactful of the sexes."

Benedict groaned, gripping Penelope's hand on his arm and shaking it playfully.

"Don't the two of you ever join forces. It will be the death of me!"

"Oh, Mister Bridgerton," Lady Danbury said, clacking her cane on the floor, the sound echoing like a gavel. "I think you just gave me a marvelous idea!"

Benedict, with a mixture of terror and awe, shuffled a giggling Penelope away.

"Stop, Penelope," Benedict moaned, as she was utterly unable to control the giggles that burst and popped from her lips like champagne bubbles. "I am mortified enough as it is."

"I apologize," Penelope said, gasping for air as they swept along the crowded wall of paintings. "Let us talk of another painting then."

"I am afraid to open my mouth, for fear of further shoving my foot in it." Benedict's shoulders slumped, and Penelope squeezed his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "Then let us only look at dead artists' work, you cannot possibly insult them."

"Watch me be haunted by offended spirits tonight," he muttered, and Penelope had to muffle another flurry of laughter.

They walked along the wall, looking at several classical and biblical scenes rendered in vivid oils. Benedict was explaining how Joshua Reynolds, in his famous lectures, 'The Seven Discourses on Art,' proclaimed that depicting such scenes were the highest form of art a painter should aspire to create. Penelope pursed her lips, studying the many paintings, filled with depictions of nymphs, gods and goddesses, Old Testament catastrophes, and New Testament miracles.

"Do you agree?" she asked, studying one of many scenes of lithe nymphs bathing in a stream. "That these sorts of paintings are the best, purest form of art?"

Benedict looked at her, suddenly speechless. Cocking his head, he looked with her as they moved to Joshua Reynolds own Cupid and Psyche . The play of the candlelight as Psyche illuminated her previously faceless lover was haunting and surreal. It was fascinating, and yet–

"I do and I do not," Benedict said. Penelope glared at him and he tweaked her nose. "Let me finish. While I think the scenes depicted are lively, admirable, beautiful even, I feel the very same could be done with real, living human beings who tell their own stories. This scene between Psyche and Cupid could be any intimate moment of discovery between lovers. Yet it's believed that if we do not render such tender, exposing scenes under the veil of Homer or the Bible, then they are lewd and obscene."

"So us mere mortals are lacking? Impure? How sad a view to have," Penelope commented. "Is it not a farce, then? To paint such scenes as an excuse to study the female form or portray emotion that is so human, yet apparently obscene to be portrayed in art by real people?"

Benedict moved his free hand to cover her own that rested on his arm. He was now looking at her with something akin to wonder, his crows feet prominent and crinkled kindly.

"I could not have put it better myself," Benedict said.

As they moved along, they stopped to look at more portraits of Classical and Biblical scenes, but something was…different about these.

"Oh, Penelope," Benedict said, turning around at the sound of a screech across the floor. "Can you wait on me for one moment? Gregory is pulling upon Hyacinth's ribbons–"

Penelope waved him away, not turning her gaze from the artwork in front of her.

"I shall stay right here, Benedict."

She felt him squeeze her hand gratefully before darting off. Growing distant, she could hear him say, "Greg, let go of Hy this instant, we are in public–"

But as his voice faded, Penelope's entire focus was transfixed by the group of paintings sitting in their gold frames. She was trying to place the commonality among them, besides the fact that they were all grand and by the same artist, Peter Paul Rubens. From The Judgement of Paris , Samson and Delilah , to The Three Graces , something was eerily familiar, an innermost memory–

She analyzed with a blush the way Samson fell across Delilah in carnal lust when it came to her with a flash.

The women, the goddesses, in the paintings all had bodies similar to her own. Soft bellies, rolls of flesh and fat gracing their back and sides, their thighs thick and plentiful. Delilah's breast was heavy and full for her lover, not pert and apple sized like many of other paintings of women around the room. None of these mythical figures were willowy, yet they still attained a grace and allure that was undeniably sensual. They were painted as beautiful.

As she marveled at such a treasure, a wave of incredible hope washed over her. Could she be lucky enough, one day, for one man to see her how Rubens had seen Aphrodite or Delilah?

Penelope peered over her shoulder, wondering if Colin was in the room. She spotted him across the vast space, at his mother's side, conversing with a pretty wisp of a young debutante, all dainty wrists and ankles. She bowed her head before turning back to the handsomely painted Paris debating on which round, gorgeous goddess to bequeath his apple too. Penelope didn't want the apple. The admiration, the look, Paris bestowed upon the goddesses before him, embodied in a man, would be enough for her.

Benedict tore apart his youngest siblings with some effort, as Hyacinth was particularly furious about the state of her new ribbons. Benedict did not want to do this, lawks, he was tired. Quite frankly, he'd been having a good time with Penelope before his two wild siblings had decided to thoroughly act up in the middle of Somerset House. Being banned from such a lauded establishment would not do.

"If the two of you do not march right up to Anthony or Mother and follow them like good little ducklings," he said, crouching down to their level to make sure they knew he meant business. "I will tell Cook that neither of you is allowed to have syllabub after supper for a whole month."

"A month? Brother, no!" Gregory whined, and Benedict did a little jig of victory in his soul when Hyacinth promptly piped up, "It will not happen again, Benedict! I shall go seek out Mama immediately!"

With that she turned on her heel and ran to where their mother was subjecting Colin to conversation with Miss Francis. He didn't know whether to feel more sorry for the young debutante, who clearly wished to be anywhere else, or his brother who stood a little nonplussed.

"Well, I'm not following her," Gregory huffed, pouting. "I want to stay with Anthony."

"Go on then, you scamp!" Benedict pushed him forward before standing back up, watching Gregory weave through the crowd to be Anthony's adorable annoyance for a while.

As Benedict blinked the sun from the great skylights out of his eyes, he saw a collection of paintings from Dutch artists on the stretch of wall in front of him. He looked left to check on Penelope and, seeing she was still engrossed in what was in front of her, he stepped forward to take a quick look.

It was a painting by Pieter de Hooch, titled simply Woman and child by a window, with maid sweeping . This was the kind of painting Joshua Reynolds, brilliant artist though he was, would've scoffed at. The dark palette of the majority of the painting gave the illusion of the wide room being in shadow, the sun sinking over an invisible horizon. While the elderly maid, her face almost a blur, existed within this darker space, the young woman with her child in the background of the painting, to the corner was swathed in a careful beam of sunlight from the window. Her face was lit beautifully, almost tenderly, as she looked down at her child and Benedict felt like he could hear the sound of a town winding down at the end of the day, a child wriggling in his mother's lap as she soaked in the warmth of the last rays of an autumn sun. The focus of light, the careful choice between where detail was heightened and where it was blurred, made something within him stir. The story behind such domesticity, such normalcy, it just…calmed him.

He thought of summer days at Aubrey Hall, his father chasing them all around in the garden as his mother laughed, stomach swollen with child. He felt the chill of quiet winter nights when all he wanted to do was stretch out by the fire and wait for the apricity of a bright morning. And the careful quiet days, the very rare ones where he retreated to My Cottage in Wiltshire, and let the hours slow to a crawl as he sketched in his blooming garden.

It was artistry and peace, rolled into one, and he so wished he had the talent and power to create such a piece.

He stared for a few moments longer before shaking his head, and retreating to retrieve Penelope.

"For a moment I thought you would never return," Penelope joked as he approached her. He saw that she was still studying Rubens' paintings, and it was with a painful pang that he thought he knew why. She'd never seen a body like hers painted so reverently before.

He'd never really pondered on it before, how different, how meaningful it might be to see your own body reflected back at you in a great work of art or even literature. Penelope thought, he knew, that she was no beauty. And while it was true that her mother dressed her in unflattering dress cuts and colors, that she had the aspect of girlhood still about her, Benedict thought she could most certainly grow into herself. The more he had gotten to know her recently, the more he fervently admired her wit, ambition, and loyalty to his sister, daresay his family. Since her mother allowed her to wear her hair in the looser style Penelope preferred, her round face held more light to it. Face bare of rouge, her innocence, despite her newfound knowledge, was palpable. She had started to mature, to grow, he could see its beginnings. But for now she was just a girl, unsure of where to step in this society.

She deserved friendship, loyalty, and small, quiet revelations.

"Now, Penelope, do you not know by now?" he said, more gently than he meant to. "I will always come back."

Penelope turned to him, her sky blue eyes incredibly wide and bright. He fumbled for a moment, unsure of what to say next, until suddenly there were loud gasps and a small scream from the adjacent room. Turning towards the noise, Benedict immediately took Penelope's arm and escorted her to see what the fuss was.

They were joined by Daphne and the Duke and the four of them pushed their way to the entrance to the next gallery where Prince Friedrich was supporting a swooning Cressida on the floor.

Benedict's ears perked up as he heard Daphne and the Duke joke about Cressida's swoon, something they found hilarious, as others explained how it happened.

"I dare say it was the most romantic thing I've ever seen," Penelope and Benedict heard Philippa say, as Prince Friedrich helped support Cressida on the floor. Penelope actually snorted, and Benedict clipped her hip gently with his own.

"Behave, you," he whispered, though he could not keep the grin off his face.

"Me? It is clearly Miss Cowper you need to tell to behave! What will she do next? A manufactured wardrobe malfunction?"

"Penelope!" he whispered, though he felt nothing but enchantment at Penelope's display of some attitude, some bite that proved she was not the wilting wallflower so many people thought her to be.

Her delighted dismay was infectious, and soon his lungs were burning from the very real effort of keeping his laughter bottled up.

"You are a menace," he whispered, shoulders visibly shaking.

Penelope beamed at him, and he was once again struck with just how charming she could be when she wasn't weighed down by her many insecurities.

"I aim to be so," she said, sky blues sparkling as they both held in another burst of laughter as Cressida daintily took a sip of water while trying to stare deeply into Prince Friedrich's eyes. "In every possible way."

That very evening, in the safe bower of the tree that held Eloise's beloved swings, Eloise was reading Penelope's column to be published the next day. Benedict had been wrangled into helping put a still too excited Gregory and Hyacinth to bed, so they waited on him, nestled in the soft, cool grass.

"These days, the modern young lady must display a miscellany of talents in her quest for a suitor. She must be a witty conversationalist, an accomplished musician, and an expert in the art of the swoon. For managing to faint with nary a petticoat out of place is a most coveted talent indeed. Of course, not everyone has fallen victim to the royal fever sweeping through London Town. One diamond in particular seems quite immune, making this author wonder if the crown has lost its luster."

Eloise finished reading the paragraph aloud, frowning down at the bit of parchment in her hand. She was already in her white nightgown, twisted around her knees from Eloise impatiently shifting and stirring in her spot, unable to stay still. Penelope tore at the blades of grass with her fingers, shredding them nervously.

"You dislike it?"

Eloise sighed, handing the parchment back to Penelope.

"It is not that, Pen." Eloise fingers twitched, and Penelope knew she was itching for one of her hidden cigarillos. "I just…all of this about Daphne and her suitors, getting married. I see how much it distresses her, and yet it's still her lifelong ambition to be a wife and mother. I do not understand her! She does not lack intelligence, as much as I complain about her. Why can she not see her potential? And, arguably more important, why does she not understand how I may not want the life she wants? The life that my family seems so desperate to carve out for me?"

Penelope reached forward to grab Eloise's hands and Eloise took hold, gripping so tight that Penelope felt her knuckles grind against one another.

"Marriage, childbirth… It terrifies me, Pen," Eloise whispered, looking at Penelope with eyes as wide and frightened as a rabbit being hunted. "I remember the night of Hyacinth's birth– Mama's screams. She nearly died, and for over a year, it was like Mama was dead anyway. All because she lost Papa. I do not desire to put my life and heart in danger like that. I want to live as a man does. Nurture my wit and speak my mind! What is so wrong with that?"

"Oh, El," Penelope murmured, and she suddenly felt consumed with a strange sense of guilt she could not assuage. Guilt that she could do nothing for Eloise, not for this battle. "It is not wrong to feel that way, to want such things. But the world, the men who rule it…"

Penelope didn't know what to say after that, the ugly truth hanging in the air. Eloise sniffled before laughing bitterly.

"Men would rather see the return of the plagues of Exodus then let women go to university," Eloise huffed, though all of her vehemence had drained from her. "They would probably find a way to blame it on us, anyway."

Eloise shifted and scooted across the ground until she could rest her head on Penelope's shoulder.

"At least I have one small comfort," Eloise said. "That we shall always be together, as spinsters you and I. We shall never be parted."

Penelope swallowed, trying to fight back the tears that stung the back of her eyes. She didn't know what was worse, feeling like she was lying to her best friend by not admitting that their dreams were not the same; or that Eloise believed just as much as Penelope that finding a suitor for the youngest Featherington was a useless endeavor.

So Penelope said nothing, allowing Eloise her tiny bit of peace.

Nothing was coming out right.

Penelope threw her quill to the side before crumpling up the piece of parchment in front of her, staining her hands with the still wet ink. She didn't care. There had been no valuable news since the art gallery, as everything seemed to revolve around the Prince, Daphne, the Duke, and Marina.

Marina…

Poor Marina was waiting on news from Sir George. Penelope kept trying to reassure her, that a love as strong and beautiful as theirs could not be beaten by distance or a war. Surely that was the truth, it's what all the fairytales and novels said. That a pure, good, true love would conquer all. No witch's curse, evil stepmother (or in this case, conniving Lady Featherington) could beat it. So Penelope had sworn to Marina she would do everything in her power to aid her cousin in avoiding her mother's machinations.

A love like Marina's should flourish and thrive, it was only right. Penelope daydreamed about it often, Sir George coming home on a snow white steed, coming to take Marina away from the awful clutches of her Featherington cousins, for which only Penelope could be called a friend. He would thank her, and say Penelope would always be welcome in the home he and Marina made together. She and Marina would write often and Penelope could visit every summer!

And then maybe–

Maybe Colin would see her. Notice her. See that his loyal friend had more wit to her, more than enough to make up for her lack of beauty. He'd write her long, beautiful love letters, just as, if not more, romantic than Sir George's. It could be another love story for the ages, one they would tell their children. One she would write about one day. She'd finally write that comedy she told Benedict she wanted to create; one with a wedding and dancing at the end.

She sighed, resigning herself to a night of reading rather than writing. She bustled over to her stack of books, in pride of place by her bed. From the stack, she pulled out the well-loved copy of Grimm's Fairytales, and flipped to the beginning of "Rapunzel": Once upon a time there was a man and a woman who had long, but to no avail, wished for a child…

Benedict probably shouldn't have been indulging Eloise's smoking habit, but he was nothing if not an indulgent older brother with his sisters. And, these days, especially with Eloise. He'd taken care of them all for so long, that he'd forgotten how much fun it was to be a co-conspirator rather than a surrogate parent. And Eloise understood him, reflected him in a way none of his other siblings did.

"Oh," Eloise said, flicking a bit of ash into the dark garden. "I found bits of your sketchbook in the fireplace."

"Are you spying on me now?" Benedict asked, disgruntled. He hadn't meant for anyone to see those horrid attempts at drawing. Could he truly even call them sketches when they appeared, to him, to be mere scribbles? No better than a child's drawings? It was simply embarrassing.

"You would actually have to be interesting for me to bother spying on you," Eloise scoffed, grinning mischievously. "I see you so often now, anyways. There's no real secret about you."

Benedict bowed his head, the cigarillo dangling between his long fingers. Was it so awful, that the first thing he thought of was that he so desperately wished for a secret from his siblings? Something that was all his, something to treasure and covet like a dragon hoarding its treasure.

"The drawings in that sketchbook were abominable. I could not stand to look at them." Benedict took another drag, the tobacco smoke scorching his lungs as he held it a little longer than he should.

"I believe that is why they call it a sketchbook. I write in my diary, which is not the same as writing in my novel," Eloise admitted. Was she admonishing him? "It must be very difficult to want something and not be able to get it."

Ah, there it was. The bitterness Eloise held so close to her breast. Benedict worried one day it may fester into something awful and rotten, something she couldn't control unless she found some sort of outlet.

"Eloise…" he began, but she interrupted him, taking on a fervid, frustrated pitch, as if verbally taking him by the shoulders and attempting to shake sense into him.

"If you enjoy drawing but need practice, then practice. Hire a drawing master. Find a young lady to act impressed. If you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky!" Eloise appeared so lost then, flinging her arm out to the dark night angrily, as if cursing the heavens for her predicament, for her womanhood. "Some of us cannot. Look no further than dear Pen! She possesses a huge talent for writing, and yet she must hide away and publish under a false name."

"Yes, because if anyone knew who Whistledown truly was, she'd be strung up for what she said." Benedict felt sick to his stomach then, the tobacco smoke making him nauseous. God, had he done the right thing, letting Penelope go forward with Whilstledown? "Maybe we shouldn't have let Penelope continue Whistledown–" he started but Eloise cut him off.

"That is not my point." Eloise's expression was hard now, tired. "Pen is a woman, a mere girl to many who behold her, therefore she has nothing, and still she writes. You are a man, therefore you have everything. You are able to do whatever you want. So do it! Be bold. At least that way I can live vicariously through you."

"El," Benedict said, staring at her as she stood, blowing smoke into the cool night air. "Is there nothing I can do to help?"

"Pen letting me help with Whistledown is enough for now," Eloise admitted, flicking the ashen remains of her cigarillo on the ground before stomping them out. "That will be satisfactory until I figure out what I can do to achieve what I want."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"I do not know. More, Benedict. Just more."

Penelope gently placed the new bouquet she had rushed to buy on the windowsill, conspicuously on the left hand side. Emergency. It was later in the morning than usual and she had no guarantee that Benedict would see it. But she had to hope, she had to try. Nodding resolutely, she rushed back to Marina's room to comfort the still wailing woman.

That morning a letter from Spain had finally come, and where Penelope had thought it would bring unmeasured joy, it only brought about the most fearsome and ferocious heartbreak Penelope had ever seen. The only heartbreak she had ever seen, besides the small ones of her own throughout her childhood. It was devastating to witness, and she tried to sooth Marina by rubbing her back, letting her cousin sob in her lap as she screamed herself hoarse.

Penelope felt tears break free, sliding down her own cheeks but she didn't dare call attention to them. Marina needed her…

How could Sir George do this? Had her mother been right all along? Were men truly so fickle, so dishonest, that they would do anything to just have sex with a woman before tossing them aside? These were the kinds of men Benedict had warned her about, the ones who would pull a poor, unsuspecting girl onto the Dark Walk without a second thought.

But Sir George's letters had seemed so heartfelt, so filled with admiration and honesty. Were men just natural born liars and flatterers? Were all of the fairytales, princes coming to the rescue on the backs of their trusty steeds, lies?

She stayed as long as she could. Poor Marina, exhausted, fell asleep. Penelope did her best to clean up Marina's face with a wet handkerchief, not wanting her cousin to awake with the sticky tracks on her face as a reminder of her grief. When she was done, she rose on unsteady legs and made her way to the back entrance to sneak into the Bridgerton's garden.

Benedict looked up from where he swayed on the swing set when he heard the familiar rustle of skirts. Penelope appeared, head down as she approached on her slippered feet. Benedict's greeting died in his throat the second he took in her countenance; face downcast, shoulders slumped, her little fingers wringing the fabric of her ridiculous frock. Benedict was up faster than he would have expected, his hands awkwardly outstretched, a little unsure how to act. Why? He had comforted before, many times with his sisters. Why was he so unsure?

"Penelope?" he whispered. "What ever is the matter?"

Penelope took one look into his ocean eyes with her sky blue ones, and immediately burst into tears. Horrified, Benedict did the only thing he knew how to do and took her into his embrace. She was so short, the top of her head barely coming to the middle of his sternum, but his arms wrapped around her shoulders and back snugly, easily, as he tried to calm her tears.

She shook her head against his chest and just continued to sob. She was broken, awful coughs and hiccups were the only interruption between her distressed cries. Benedict hadn't expected how much the sight could hurt him, make him feel rotten, useless, like he had somehow failed at protecting this girl from some ugly aspect of the world.

Benedict was unsure how much time passed before her crying began to subside, soft sniffles taking over. She carefully pulled her face from his chest, but he didn't release her. She gasped softly, and he saw she was staring through red, swollen eyelids at the wet splotch on his shirt, right above his waistcoat.

"Oh, Benedict, I am–"

"Do not apologize," he insisted. "It will dry. Come now, let's sit down."

He led her to the shade of the tree, bobbing his head around to ensure no one was watching them. He was used to being alone with Penelope, he had accepted the risk. But it was usually at night, hidden by a cloak of darkness, her maid disguise, within a carriage, or even Bloomsbury. This was broad daylight, the servants meandered about, and there was no Eloise to act as a buffer. If Anthony or, worse, his mother were to find out it would have repercussions for both of them. Penelope loved Colin, and though he was sure his brother didn't return her affections, Benedict refused to trap her when her heart so firmly belonged to someone else. And he didn't want to be married, simple as that.

He settled her on one of the swings and, as he lowered her to the wooden seat, he was reminded of when she was a child who had sobbed into his shoulder when her family had left her at the park. How he had set her down on the floor of the Featherington House and had almost snatched her back up in his arms at her mother's awful sneer and clear neglect. But she was safe here. As safe as she could be, at least. Benedict sat beside her on the other swing, digging into his coat pocket to pull out his handkerchief. He handed it to her and she blushed, attempting to make quick work of her face. As she tried to clean the sticky tear tracks from her now blotchy face, he tried again to ask,

"Penelope, what happened?"

Penelope wiped the tear drops that clung to her eyelashes away, like dew upon a spider web, before she began to wring the tiny piece of cloth in her lap.

"I– I cannot tell you the full truth," Penelope confessed, looking between Benedict and the ground. The air was still around them, full with the scent of grass and the hyacinths blooming beyond. Benedict felt a weight drop in his stomach. "It is not because it is my secret, not like Whistledown. But another's. Please believe me, I would tell you if I could."

Penelope chewed her bottom lip, tearing it to shreds. Benedict leaned over and gently pulled her lip from her teeth with the pad of his thumb.

"Alright," Benedict said, not unkindly. "I will not push you for answers. Tell me what you can."

"I– I know someone, a maid in my household. She is with child," Penelope started, his handkerchief becoming a twisted wad of fabric in her hands. "She is unmarried but had a man she loved. They wrote letters often, gorgeous ones."

The cogs in Benedict's brain turned, piecing bits and pieces together. So this was why Penelope and Eloise suddenly had wanted to know how babies were made. It was making much more sense in his mind's eye, the sudden demand for knowledge, the desperation to be aware of how their bodies could change. They had been shown an unfortunate circumstance, a possibility for pregnancy in one of the worst situations.

"Penelope, I do not mean to sound crass, but how do you know so much about this maid's personal life?"

Penelope blushed, staring down at the wrinkled mass of wet cloth in her grasp, wrapped around her fingers.

"She was kind to me," Penelope said simply. "In my household, that was enough. So I returned that kindness and she trusted me."

Benedict felt a great wave of pity wash over him that he tried to tamp down. He knew, without a doubt, that Penelope would not appreciate it.

"Her lover is in Spain with Wellington," Penelope explained. "And she wrote to tell him of the baby and…and his letter came this morning. He– He–"

It was an ugly realization, something that spoke to Benedict's knowledge of men and himself that made him understand at once. Filled with no small amount of disgust, he said,

"And he did not want the baby."

"He didn't want the baby or her anymore."

Tears were gathering in her eyes again and she dabbed at them furiously with his handkerchief. Inhaling deeply, she tried to speak again, her voice coming out hoarse, her face so downtrodden Benedict almost squirmed with the discomfort his sympathy brought him. He clutched the wooden ropes suspending the swing to keep his hands steady.

"I just do not understand," Penelope admitted. "His letters– his devotion seemed sincere. Yet he had no issue with breaking her heart. I thought, maybe, true love could exist for some people. That he'd come one day, and take her away so they could find their happy ending." Penelope blotted at her eyes again, her now loose curls falling into her face. "But my mother was right… Men only want one thing from women and will abandon them when they see the consequences it brings. Look only so far as Lord Berbrooke! He sent his maid, carrying his child, away without a penny! Men find pleasure by paying brothels full of women for their time, disloyal to their wives. Marriages are business arrangements, made for money and protection. Love…it does not seem to exist. Not in the way I thought."

Benedict was speechless. The truth of the matter was, Penelope was not exactly wrong in her assessment. Marriages, in full honesty the majority, were ones of convenience. It was mistresses who were kept for love and pleasure, though the minute any woman besides a married wife fell pregnant, they were abandoned. In his own affairs and dalliances, Benedict had worked hard to ensure that conception wouldn't take place. The only solutions to pregnancies out of wedlock were barbaric: Claiming or abandoning the bastards, backdoor abortions by doctors who, more than likely, would kill the woman too, or a marriage that would ostracize the male from polite society. Was that really love, if men were so willing to abandon the women they swore devotion to because of a pregnancy?

Benedict thought not, and he would prefer never to have to find out if he was capable of such cruelties.

But he didn't want Penelope to lose her faith in love, not completely. She should have a more realistic view of it, yes, but he didn't want her to become jaded right while she was on the cusp of womanhood. It seemed cruel to let her hopes be dashed so terribly. Especially when she swayed the opinions of others among the ton, depending on her moods when she wrote. But, more than anything, Benedict did not want his friend to give up on the best ending for herself, even if it wasn't straight from a fairytale.

All of this flashed through his mind but he still struggled to speak. How did he articulate this? What did one say to a friend, a friend who was female and that he had already broken all bounds of propriety with, to mend a slightly tattered heart? For he saw it, now, within her. She was like a stuffed toy, well-worn not from love but neglect and abuse, and the one thing giving her some sense of vitality was now mercilessly ripped away from her.

"Will you go to the ball tonight?" Penelope blurted suddenly, shocking him out of his contemplation. "I mean– I know you have not been to many of the balls lately, but… I would like a friend. And I must make a delivery afterwards. So I just thought–" She shook her head, started to backtrack, "Forget I said it."

"I will go," Benedict said, gripping the ropes of the swing so hard he could feel it itch and burn his palms. "I will go." He gave her a small smile, trying to cheer her in any way he could. "I would have probably just drunk myself silly at White's anyway. At least this way, I can drink myself silly with you. I am sure Mother will not mind."

Penelope, even though her eyes were still puffy, her cheeks still a mottled red, and her fiery curls a lank curtain over her face, raised her gaze to smile back. It was a tiny, infinitesimal, thing but it was honest.

"Thank you, Benedict."

Benedict was bewildered when Daphne and his mother hung back in the carriage to be announced last. He cocked his head at his sister curiously, but she assured him she's alright with a strange little smile he'd never seen before. Benedict turned to his mother, who simply nodded, rather distressed.

"Go on, dearest. Your sister and I will be there in a moment."

Benedict, not sure how he could refuse, nodded before entering, being announced on his own. He hurried down the staircase, not really minding the slightly scandalized looks. He'd already spotted from the top of the stairs a girl with hair of autumn fire in a disastrous shade of lemon yellow, easy to spot. He hurried over to her with all of the dignity he could muster in his haste. She stood by her cousin, Miss Thompson, and the palpable relief that came from her as he took a place by her side was apparent. She'd fixed herself up, as he'd made her keep the handkerchief. Her cheeks were no longer an angry red or pink, and her eyes were not as swollen.

"Where is your sister and mother?" Penelope asked, spinning a little as if they were hiding somewhere amongst the crowd.

"They will be in shortly," Benedict said, not able to help the crease of his brow. "I am not entirely sure–"

But the audible gasps he heard diverted his attention. Following everyone's stares, he saw Daphne making her way down the stairs, resplendent in her sparkling white dress. Her strawberry blonde hair was done in elaborate curls that hung down her back, demurely waving a feather fan across her chest. It was so obviously coquettish, near brazen, words he would have never associated with his younger sister before. He trailed her line of sight, only to see Daphne not looking at the Duke across the room but at the Prince.

Benedict felt his jaw unhinge, his mouth become agape, and he couldn't close it fast enough, even when Penelope elbowed his side. What in the bloody blazes was happening. Prince Friedrich moved forward, enchanted by the spell his sister was creating and as they both reached the bottom of the stairs at the exact same time, Daphne dropped her fan. The ploy was obvious, but Benedict still could not believe what he was seeing. Daphne's eyes were calculated, assured, as the Prince picked up her fan before offering his arm. Benedict looked around the room to make sure his eyes were working correctly. Was this real? For this felt like some nightmare where his sweet, maternal sister had been replaced with… He knew not what. He saw Cressida actually looking completely hurt, torn asunder. Simon's face was of stone, but the false kind, the one with obvious cracks trying to hide the anguish underneath. It was a flurry of emotions and as Benedict watched Daphne be escorted to the dance floor by the man, he felt like he didn't know his sister at all.

He shared a look with Penelope before she directed her eyes to the Duke of Hastings, who was attempting to make a swift exit from the room. Benedict saw, once again, Penelope's faith be shaken. She had believed there was an honest attachment between Daphne and the Duke. While Benedict had been trying to distance himself from the whole affair of his sister's courtship, he had also thought that maybe, just maybe, there had been a genuine care between the two. But now Daphne was aiming for the Prince of Prussia, with a strategic ruthlessness he had only seen in his sister on the Pall Mall field.

Had he been in the wrong, to hold himself so separate from Daphne this season? If he had paid closer attention, talked to her more, would he have been able to help, to intervene? The Daphne he remembered was a little girl of ten who acted as if she was thirty, trying to prove herself by helping Benedict mother their siblings. Always underfoot but constantly earnest. The only time her true age was revealed would be when she was visited by nightmares, sneaking into his room so he could cuddle the monsters away.

But now she was a stranger and he couldn't help but wonder if he was partially to blame.

He felt a small tug on his jacket. It was Penelope looking a bit like his mother had when she had escorted Daphne down the stairs; sick. Benedict would not make the same mistake twice. He would be there for Penelope at least. He'd committed himself to being her friend, a supporter of sorts. At least he was doing that right. Apparently he'd been an awful brother of late.

"Why?" was all she asked.

Benedict carefully placed her pink gloved arm on his.

"I have not a clue," he replied honestly. "I think I will need a few drinks to parse that one out."

Penelope turned towards her cousin, asking quietly, "Marina, will you be alright?"

Miss Thompson studied Benedict for a moment before turning to Penelope with a half-smile. She was dressed in Featherington yellow, though it did not diminish her as it did Penelope. The young woman set her shoulders back and laid a hand briefly on Penelope's shoulder.

"I will be fine, Cousin. I must jump back into the fray whether you accompany me or not."

They both shared a knowing look, one that Benedict often saw traded amongst his sisters when they knew something their brothers didn't. It was best he didn't ask, that always led to trouble.

"Come," Penelope said, leaning on him a little as they sought the refreshments table. "I promised to watch you drink yourself silly."

It was around eleven o'clock that they snuck out of the ball, into the darkness of the damp London streets.

"Where–" he began to ask as she pulled her cloak from behind a well-manicured bush near the servants entrance, but she shook her head.

"Evans is sick," she said, wrapping the lady's maid cloak around her, quickly pulling the hood over her tell-tale red curls. She stripped her arms of her ridiculous pink gloves, shoving them in the coat's pocket. "We must take a hired hack."

"We are not taking a hired hack," Benedict growled, hands on hips. "We shall take Rapscallion."

Penelope blanched.

"Oh, um–"

"Come now, Penelope. Do not tell me you have never ridden a horse before."

"Um," she repeated, and for the second time that night Benedict's jaw bone lost all ability to stay in place.

"You were never taught to ride?"

"Mama did not think – She was not –" Penelope started but Benedict waved a frustrated hand.

"I do not even want to hear what horrible reasoning your mother could have. Come on!"

With that he led Penelope, scurrying behind his long strides, to where Rapscallion was tethered, waiting for his master. It didn't take long for him to teach her how to mount the gentle beast, once she was sure the large horse wouldn't trample her underfoot. He knew it was quite scandalous, improper, to teach a lady to ride astride. But Anthony had taught all of their sisters how to ride side saddle and astride, in the case that they would need to make a quick getaway under any circumstances. It would not hurt to teach Penelope the same.

So Benedict found himself trotting along the muddy streets, one hand leading the reins and the other firmly wrapped around Penelope's waist. Her hood was lowered as far as it would go, hiding her tell-tale Featherington features. She'd added the last few paragraphs of her column hurriedly in an empty room at the ball, using Benedict's graphite as he kept look-out from the entryway. Much of his time was spent staring at Daphne, as if he could eventually puzzle his sister out. When he had brought it up to Penelope as she exited the room, she appeared incredulous.

"Benedict, I thought you knew," she said frankly. "A woman must grasp the highest rank of protection she can to ensure her safety. As I now know…" She gulped. "Love does not always factor into the equation."

Now, on his beloved steed, he could feel, no, he could hear Penelope's mind whirring in a dark spiral, hurtling to a lonely, miserable, hopeless conclusion.

And, for some reason unknown to him, he couldn't allow that.

"Have I ever told you that my first love was Lady Danbury?" he queried, already feeling the blood rush to the tips of his ears.

Penelope straightened, bending her neck back to peer up at him as Rapscallion trotted along, her hood falling off. He was caught between chuckling and cursing as he, very briefly, removed his arm from her waist to adjust her hood and tilt her head back into a less painful position.

"Eyes ahead," he ordered. "This is precarious enough as it is."

"Lady Danbury?" she gasped.

"Why so surprised?" He asked, pretending to sound outraged, though he couldn't pull it off. "She's a formidable woman. Powerful, graceful, unafraid of anything! And she's still quite beautiful."

"She's older than your mother!"

He secured his arm around Penelope's waist again, pulling her more securely against him.

"Yes," he conceded. "But many men who are old enough to be your grandfather are married off to girls your age."

Penelope gave a little "hmph," of thought, and it tickled him to know he could hear how her thoughts clanged around in her head sometimes, like some great contraption trying to get all of its moving parts to work to create a conclusion, a tangible product. Around him and Eloise, her mind could clatter and bang around as much as it wanted, but he saw her around others: how she shushed it, muted it, until it was more of a whisper of wind created by a bird's wings as it tried to assess what prizes it had collected that day.

"So, clearly she did not accept your suit," Penelope said slowly, and Benedict feigned a mighty wince.

"Ouch. It is still a tender subject, Penelope. My heart is still mending itself back together!"

But Penelope ignored him, he could practically envision her rolling her eyes in the way she'd learned from Eloise before she asked,

"What happened?"

Benedict had to resist the urge to scratch his head bashfully. Instead he led Rapscallion right along another street, now entering a busier part of London. People stumbled and laughed on the side streets, ale houses were full to near bursting, and Benedict could hear the calls of prostitutes plying their trade. Young, working class children ran across the street shrieking as they went, barely dodging the horses and carriages plodding along.

"My feelings were unrequited. I was enamored of her, Penelope. I was young, fresh out of Cambridge. She was – is – intriguing, with all of her independence and wit. No other woman seemed to compare, and I thought myself old enough, dashing enough, smart enough to at least capture her interests. And I did fall in love with her, in my own way. My heart was soundly broken when she finally put me in my place after following her around like a puppy for half a season."

Penelope giggled, a welcome sound to Benedict's ears.

"I can hardly imagine you to be a lovesick puppy. Surely you jest!"

"Afraid not, I was in earnest by the end. I think, at first, I saw her as some impossible conquest. A challenge to undertake. But after a while, I truly found all of her qualities, even the unsettling ones, endearing. It suddenly did not matter that she was much older than me, that she would never truly accept my affections. I could not shake the infatuation." He shook his head. It really had been quite pathetic, his younger, gangly self constantly asking her to dance and being shot down. He'd invaded every conversation she was a part of just to pick her mind on a new topic, from art to politics. His mother had been absolutely mortified. Anthony thought it was hilarious. "But I think, when she realized I was actually starting to develop true and honest feelings, that's when she told me that there was no man who could ever convince her to marry again. That she could never love me, and she could no longer humor me. And you know, I spent the rest of the night crying into my port in Anthony's study."

Penelope shifted a little in his hold, and he could tell how badly she wanted to look back into his eyes. But it was too risky now, they were now in the hubbub of London, where anyone could recognize them.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked simply.

"Because Penelope, I do not think love is ever the same, ever simple. My mother makes it out to be this grand yet obvious event because her and my father found each other so quickly. But she is an exception, not the rule. Fairy tales and novels make romance into a grand adventure that can conquer all, and that is not always the case." He pressed his gloved hand into the soft flesh of her side, feeling the outline of her ribs even through the layers of fabric, skin and muscle. "But I do not think that means love does not truly exist, or that it is not worth it even when it breaks our hearts. First love, whether it is fleeting or all-consuming, often hurts us. People betray us, people reject us… But Penelope, I truly do not believe that we can give up on such rich feelings. It will hurt us, but we can grow from that hurt and learn to love others. Even if that love must be born from a sense of duty or security. Maybe your friend, the maid, will find love through another man willing to protect her. Maybe Daphne will learn to love the Prince. I do not wish for my sister to do anything she does not want to do, but I will understand if she does what she has to do."

"You truly believe that?" she breathed.

"I do," he said, gingerly guiding Rapscallion's reins again as they made another turn. "Love is born from all sorts of everyday events. Some are struck by lightning, some look up one day and realize the person in front of them was there all along, and others work hard to build something, anything, that will sustain them. While I hope, I pray, that the two of us will be lucky, and that my sister will make the choice best for her heart, I understand that most of us, especially women, must choose the third option. To work hard to build something lasting, even on a shaky foundation."

Penelope was silent the rest of the journey, one of her hands absentmindedly reaching forward to stroke Rapscallion's mane once in a while. He could hear the cogs in the machine turning in her mind.

Could it be true? The season's diamond even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought? For it now appears this treasure is set to join the likes of the Queen's ever-so-cherished crown jewels themselves. The Duke of Hastings, I hear, was left looking rather tongue-tied last night, as Miss Bridgerton seems to have finally grown tired of waiting for him to pose that all-important question. Or, perhaps, the young miss has simply traded up.

Surprising? Quite.

Unreasonable? Of course not.

For a woman, my Dear Readers, cannot simply wait. While men may travel, gamble, and sow their wild oats well into middle-age, supposedly growing and spreading like an aged oak or a bottle of fine wine, women are told they will rot the longer they are left on the shelf. Like a delicate flower or a sweet honey cake, women wilt and mold, unable to sustain themselves unless a man deigns to save them from societal death.

Oh, women dream of love, and it exists. But is it lasting in the face of the rapid ascension women must take in order to merely survive? When men are allowed to take their time. This Author cannot be sure. This is, surely, why married couples soon take the pleasures of the marriage elsewhere once the heir and the spare are born.

But This Author cannot help but hope, vainly, that my bitter views could be wrong. That, perhaps, it is a matter of building love within a match given the foundation one has. Perhaps Miss Bridgerton, like all women of the ton, is making the best of the situation handed her by society. We fervently hope that the best decision, for her security and her heart, can be reached.

Chapter 4: A Lesson in Love

Summary:

A secret. A discovery. A duel.

Benedict and Penelope both unearth scandal and neither is entirely sure what to do with the information.

Notes:

As usual, thank you again to itakethewords for being an awesome beta and even better friend and soundboard!

In this chapter, we're moving right along with quite a few personal discoveries. Penelope does a bit of growing up learning the way of the world, and Benedict becomes aware of problems other than his own.

In this chapter you'll notice a lot from the show that is the same but also takes a pivotal change. Penelope's and Eloise's chat in the market is a good example of something that starts out looking similar but changes drastically because of the knowledge El now holds. Another example is Benedict's reaction to certain events at the boxing match.

I also have tried to add some qualities I liked from the books I thought would add nicely in subtle ways to this fic. Some of you may have noticed Benedict's rock collecting, for example. I also added a slightly more protective element to his care for his sisters, at least in terms of him being very mindful of it and why he chose to step back this season.

I identify a lot with Benedict. In many ways he faces the challenge many people have in their thirties, which is separating their individual identity from their familial identity. It's hard, confusing, and painful.

No real historical notes for this chapter. Except for the confusion over when to capitalize a title and when not to. I probably still got half of it wrong. Haha.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter Text

In a town filled with ambitious mamas and fortune-hunting gentlemen, marrying above one's station is an art form, indeed.

But Miss Daphne Bridgerton's advance from future duchess to possible princess is an achievement that even This jaded Author must applaud.

Though This Author cannot dismiss the Duke of Hastings quite so soon. He may have let the diamond slip through his fingers for now, but I shall wager he is not a man to ever hide from a fight.

As we all know, there is nothing This Author loves more than a scandal, and tonight's soiree promises more than its fair share, courtesy of the recently widowed Lady Trowbridge. Some may call her celebrations too provocative, and I would caution any young lady from getting caught up in the sensual nature of her fêtes.

For one scandalous move between an unwed couple, a wayward touch, or heaven forbid, a kiss, would banish any young lady from society in a trail of ruin.

Penelope hated the column. As discreetly as possible she crumpled the paper in her hand, trying to resist throwing it across the room. The writing itself was not awful, but it just… It just…

It hurt.

Despite Benedict's kind words, his reassurance on the matters of love, Daphne's courtship with Prince Friedrich was moving forward. Even Benedict seemed a bit despondent in the face of it, for neither of them saw a glimmer of hope, of spark, that signaled that something solid could be built between Daphne and the Prince. But Penelope was no expert, maybe she was wrong.

But, then, there was Marina's predicament.

Penelope's mother was growing more desperate by the second. Penelope had to admit, at least her mother was trying to do something. Penelope's father had not moved an inch to help his wife solve the predicament of Marina's pregnancy and it was even frustrating Penelope. How could her father be so callous? But the men her mother was digging up were horrid; old, putrid, and terribly off-putting.

"Show me a smile, girl," Lord Rutledge said as he paced around Marina, like a farmer examining its prized animal to sell at market.

"I beg your pardon?" Marina asked, lovely brows furrowed, totally affronted.

"Your teeth, I want to see them. Is she simpleminded?" Lord Rutledge asked Penelope's mother, Lady Featherington, and Penelope could see her mother fighting off a terrible headache. It would ensure her mother was not in a good mood the rest of the day. Not that she was often in a good mood anyway.

"Goodness, no! Oh, you are droll!" Her mother chuckled, fake and desperate as she plastered on a wide smile. "Miss Thompson, um, show Lord Rutledge your lovely smile."

Marina hesitated, frowning, and Penelope had to hold back a very visible wince. It was painful to watch Marina being treated like chattel. She had never seen what Eloise often ranted and raved about so clearly before, and it made her shiver. Penelope almost felt she was trapped in some sort of vision of a possible reality for her.

"Miss Thompson?" Lord Rutledge implied, and Marina was forced to bare her teeth for inspection.

Lord Rutledge prattled on about his false teeth, disgustingly acquired, before claiming he'd see how Marina would purport herself at the Trowbridge Ball in the evening. Penelope was frozen, terrified by a premonition of the future. Not just Marina's, but her own. When her mother grew tired of waiting for Penelope, the daughter she saw as the most unappealing, the most worthless, what old, vile man would she sell Penelope off to? The thought made a chill shoot up her spine

Lord Rutledge, finally, left and Marina fought yet again, claiming she would not marry that man, that beast. Penelope was filled with equal parts dread and admiration for Marina. She wished she could one day stand up to her mother as well. But, as usual, her mother fired back with a cold, unyielding yet practical view of the world. It was why Penelope hardly refuted her. Lady Portia Featherington was a master at shutting people down.

"Even if a miracle occurred, and one of them married you tomorrow, how do you imagine they would react six months hence when that whelp of yours pops out looking the picture of health?" her mother said, as if she was tiring herself by explaining basic arithmetic to a child. "Lord Rutledge is in want of an heir. He will not ask questions!"

The look of rage and horror on Marina's face was already enough to make Penelope sick with pity, but her mother's conniving and her father's utter indifference were much, much worse.

Penelope hesitated. She had promised Eloise to go shopping with her but if Marina wanted her to stay–

But Marina, powerful but good to her, told her to go ahead. Penelope didn't know why, but she felt all the more worse for it as she departed.

"I have never understood the fashion for feathers in the hair," Eloise said, snarling. "Why would a woman want to draw notice to the fact that she is like a bird squawking for a man's attention in some bizarre ritual?"

The market was a blaze of bright, vibrant colors around them. It was nothing like the local markets in Bloomsbury, Penelope noted. Bloomsbury had all of the essentials, with no added bits of fluff or ostentation. This, however, was carefully curated for polite society, made palatable for their delicate sensibilities and constant need for entertainment.

"Then why are we looking?" Penelope asked.

"Because I would rather do anything than stay a moment longer in that house while everyone flutters around Daphne, cooing over her prospects." Eloise appeared more than frustrated or disgusted. She seemed absolutely done with the constant clamor around her sister, and Penelope felt a smidgen of guilt for contributing to the buzz around Daphne's courtship.

"Is Prince Friedrich still courting her? I imagine you cannot wait for the engagement," Penelope commented. "Then all the talk will be over."

"Pen, once they are engaged, I shall be next in line," Eloise said, an undercurrent of fear making her voice unsteady. "If anything, I hope Daphne stays on the shelf forever."

"She must marry eventually," Penelope said. "It is the way of things. She is the first daughter of your family. If any of you must marry, it is her."

"Why must our only options be to squawk and settle or to never leave the nest? What if I want to fly?" Eloise sounded so sad, so lost then. "You, Pen, you are flying. Even within our gilded cage, you're finding your wings, beating against the doors, fighting your way out. I do not even know where to start."

"Oh, El," Penelope said, biting her lip, clutching her friend's arm close to her side. "You must…understand. A major factor in my decision was because I felt I did not fit in with the ton, that I would never find a place."

"Because you are far too clever, just like me! We are both too smart for all that is vain and vapid around us," Eloise exclaimed.

Penelope bit her cheek. It was now or never. If she could not admit to Eloise her biggest dream, her most laughable secret, how could she claim to be Eloise's best friend? It seemed silly at first, to be afraid of Eloise's opinion. The more Penelope thought on it, the more she realized it would tear her apart if her dearest friend thought less of her.

"Partly," Penelope admitted. "But, El, that does not mean – I do have dreams, sometimes, El. What it would be like to be married, have a love match."

Eloise stopped and stared at Penelope, people milling past them as they stood still. The cacophony of the market around them attempted to drown them out, but Penelope swore the world went quiet as she waited for her friend to speak.

"You–" Eloise started, eyes darting about as if she was struggling to comprehend. "You want to be married?"

"I do not believe it will ever happen!" Penelope hurried to say, afraid of her best friend's discontent. "And El, if it is as I think, I will happily be spinsters with you, grow old with you."

Penelope turned towards Eloise, grasping her hands in her own, despite the fact people were passing them by from either side. She'd never been so brave publicly.

"El, you are my best friend. But please understand, I was not raised by a loving family who indulged my thoughts and feelings. I know your mother will put pressure on you to find a suitor, but I truly think it comes from a place of maternal feeling on her part. My own just wants me out of her house, no longer the rat scurrying around her shoes."

Eloise clutched Penelope's gloved fingers in her own, eyes wide and impossibly soft. The Bridgertons all had that in common, eyes that were so expressive they could have entire conversations with them alone.

"Oh, Pen. You know you are not, right? You are not a rat. You are incredibly valued and loved by me."

Penelope sniffled and blinked rapidly to fight off the sting of tears.

"Just as you are to me. So you understand?"

Eloise paused for a moment before sighing, taking Penelope's arm again to resume their walk.

"I cannot claim to understand your dreams, Pen. But as your friend, I will try."

Penelope felt that now familiar feeling she felt with Eloise, a blossom of warmth in her chest that made her feel light from her head to her toes.

"How is Marina, by the way?" Eloise asked. "She is still ill?"

"Uh, recovering," Penelope said, inwardly wincing. This was the one thing she hated, keeping this secret from Eloise. Even from Benedict. But it was Marina's secret to tell and any chance of the news getting out would be ruinous for the whole of the Featherington family. "It would be cruel of me not to be by her side when she comes back out. But I promise, whenever I am not being thrown at events like a piece of meat in a bear baiting ring, I will help you figure out how we can help you fly."

Eloise leaned her cheek on Penelope's fiery curls for a moment.

"Thank you, Pen."

Benedict had honestly been shocked that Anthony had allowed Daphne to attend the boxing exhibition. Such events were attended by gentlemen and working class alike, but the women who attended were usually working women or mistresses draped all over the arms of their rich providers. So to see Anthony escort their sister over to Prince Friedrich put Benedict's head in a bit of a spin. His sister deserved a good time, deserved levity, but he never imagined her enjoying bloodsport. So, clearly, this played into her plan to capture the Prince's hand.

Which would all be well and good if he hadn't caught her staring at the Duke of Hastings on the other side of the ring supporting Will Mondrich like he was the only man in the room.

He wondered for a moment, as he settled into his seat in the stands with his brothers beside him, if he'd have been ignorant to Daphne's movements across the chess board that was the marriage mart if he hadn't gotten involved in Lady Whistledown. Hell's bells, would he even have noticed his sister's burning gaze if he hadn't witnessed her power play at the ball the other night? Penelope was certainly observant; she heard and saw things he'd never notice because he was noticeable. Penelope had been right. She'd told him on one of her deliveries that a Bridgerton amongst polite society naturally brought attention: "Pretty, perfect, rich Bridgertons. An entirely faultless, flawless combination to constantly be sought after." She'd said it wistfully, with a touch of envy that made his heart ache.

But she had been right. Benedict could never overhear the servants or his fellow members of the ton like she did; he entered a room and they all looked.

But Penelope knew how to blend in, quiet and thoughtful as she listened. People took their cues from her vile parents, he supposed. For who would bother paying her any mind if her own parents didn't deem her worthy?

Benedict's attention was diverted as the fight started, the pugilists fists flying, the wet slap of skin being soaked in blood and sweat and the vicious crack of bone. It made adrenaline rush and men lose their senses as they stood and cheered. It was happening fast, Mondrich and Gillespie, both giving their all. The duke had taken his jacket off, rolled up his shirtsleeves as he yelled direction and encouragement–

And there it was again, his sister's face. Her eyes never left the duke. Benedict saw the moment she seemed to recognize something, whether it was her error or something deeper or more uncomfortable he couldn't say, and she rose to her feet, yelling at the top of her lungs,

"Go on, Gillespie! Plant a facer!"

He barely noticed when Anthony slipped away, he was so focused on his sister at first. Fire had possessed her, controlling her actions and it frightened him. Fire, as everyone knew, could burn. It could destroy, indomitable and indiscriminate.

Then his attention was diverted again, and he looked to the row in front of him where Lord Featherington was yelling himself hoarse until he was purple in the face. Benedict already could see the problem; Lord Featherington had certainly bet an untold number on one of the fighters and knowing the irresponsible lord's track record, it was probably the one that would lose.

It was over so quickly Benedict could barely react, his mind so muddled and distracted as it was. The light filtering in through the tall windows lit up the flying spittle, the glistening sweat, the dust motes in the air and the blood on the floor. It was a riot of noise when Will Mondrich came out victorious over the Prince's man, but Benedict did not miss how Lord Featherington cursed or how the Duke of Hastings, at Mondrich's side, directed a heated stare at Daphne.

Benedict was overwhelmed and, lawks, he couldn't fix everything.

The crowd began to disperse to collect their winnings, chatter about the fight, or grab a drink, the trio of brothers fought their way through the throng to retrieve their sister from the Prince. As they bumped shoulders, Colin saying something beside him, Benedict couldn't help but feel a bit hopeless. He loved Daphne, more than anything, just as he loved all of his siblings. But this was something he couldn't solve for her, not as he had done when she was a little girl with her nightmares. Her heart, her feelings and where they would lead her, what decision she'd choose to make – that had to come from her. He was not Anthony, seeking to control in order to protect. Benedict knew he had to let Daphne make her own decisions.

Though, he promised to himself that if any man dared to hurt her, there would be hell to pay.

But the issue of Lord Featherington, he'd sworn he'd tell Penelope what he knew. He was positive the thoughtless man was gambling his fortune away, and that had a direct impact on his friend. He could at least warn her. With the information she would be clever enough to sniff out the truth of the matter.

He resolved to head to White's once Daphne was safely sent home and try to gather how much the Baron Featherington had lost.

But, Benedict wondered as they headed out to the carriage, just when he would have a moment to breathe, to think about himself.

Benedict could barely watch as Lord Featherington tried to appease the collectors and the other gentlemen he owed, yelling furiously in one big circle around him. It made him queasy to watch, to overhear. There was only one place where Benedict had Penelope beat when it came to gathering information, one of the few places she wasn't allowed to go. And at White's, members just assumed that whatever they said within its old walls would never leave, never see the light of day or reach the ears of their wives and mothers.

"You guaranteed my money," a burly man said, shaking his fist at the discomfited baron, who was vainly trying to wave them all back.

"Gentlemen! I assure you, on my good name, each of you will receive your payments. I merely need two days to raise the blunt," Lord Featherington cried, which barely appeased the men around him. Benedict knew, could feel in his bones, that the lord must be in much more debt than he originally thought. The idiot man must have been banking a lot on the boxing match if he couldn't pay off a single person in the room.

He had no choice but to tell Penelope.

Benedict shook his head and turned to stare at the painting on the wall again. The plaque clearly said the artist was Henry Granville, the man who he'd accidentally insulted at Somerset House. Well, he didn't accidentally insult the painting. Though he'd never intended for the comment to actually reach the artist's ears. Just the mere memory made him blush with embarrassment.

"What do you think, Bridgerton? This one more to your liking?"

Benedict startled briefly, turning to look down into the face of Mister Henry Granville, giving him a wry smile. He was dressed smartly in a red wine colored jacket with a matching cravat, his eyes twinkling under his styled dark blonde hair.

"Mister Granville…" Benedict started, feeling the tops of his ears begin to burn as if they were being exposed directly to the sun on an unusually hot day.

"Perhaps they should take it over to Somerset House so it can be skyed right next to mine," Mister Granville said, smirking at Benedict's obvious discomfort. Benedict squirmed before swallowing, trying to regain a scrap of dignity.

"I believe I owe you an apology, sir," Benedict said, very much in earnest.

For Benedict knew, deep down, he may be a lover of art but he was no expert. It was a dream, really, something he wanted but felt unworthy to grasp. Eloise would scold him, hit him over the head if she heard him say that. But he couldn't help it.

"Unnecessary. I actually quite enjoy the eloquent stings of your critique," Mister Granville said with much more joviality than Benedict expected. He gestured with his hand, pointing towards another painting. His eyes were inviting, clearly asking a question. Benedict decided to play along, mend the bridge he thought he had burned. Mister Granville appeared game enough.

"Mm," Benedict considered, crossing his arms.

"So?" Mister Granville inquired. There seemed to be no trick about him.

"A touch morose for my taste," Benedict admitted, peering at the dark landscape, a winter bitten wood, bare and desolate.

Mister Granville gestured to the next one, and Benedict couldn't help the smile that played upon his face, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"A tragedy. The hound deserved better," Benedict quipped and Mister Granville chuckled, much to Benedict's delight.

"Where is yours?" Mister Granville asked, looking along the wall as if to find Benedict's name amongst one of the many plaques.

Benedict felt the blood drain from his face, suddenly cold.

"My…" he hedged, trying to sidestep the question to no avail.

"Your work," he clarified. As suddenly as the chill had filled him with dread, the mortification came and Benedict could feel his face heating up. Mister Granville clocked it at once. "Are you to tell me you are not an artist yourself?"

"Well, I… I suppose sometimes I like to…" Benedict stammered. "Well, I mean, I almost…"

"I believe 'yes' and 'thank you' are the words you seek," Mister Granville said, not unkindly. Benedict noticed that about him, his eyes were weathered and understanding in a way he'd never seen worn so openly before. Mister Granville reached into his pocket and pulled out his card, his details printed neatly on the white bit of rigid paper. "But either way, you should come by my studio. The pieces I do for myself are there and I think you will find my real work far less, um… Oh, how did you put it? Cold and lacking inner life?"

Benedict felt all at once relieved and embarrassed. Mister Granville was being exceedingly good-natured, making a joke of his insult. Benedict huffed a small laugh, before he said,

"Mm. I shall never live that down, shall I?"

Mister Granville smiled and nodded goodbye before strutting away. Benedict glanced between the mysterious artist and the card. For that's what Mister Granville was, mysterious. He had that smile, the same sort of smile he'd see Penelope wear once in a while, especially when conducting Whistledown business. Secretive, full of words they were determined to leave unsaid. If Benedict couldn't catch up, that was on him.

Benedict smiled to himself; he realized his heartbeat had been hammering against his chest and it was finally slowing down. Excitement filled him, thrummed like bolts of lightning hopping along his skin, like the remnants of a thunderstorm humming in the air. Could this be the start of something? The start of something that was all his?

Quite frankly, the world must have been spinning on a different axis than Penelope was used to, for she was absolutely dizzy from everything going on around her.

First had been the vulgarity of Marina being thrown at Lord Rutledge the moment they arrived. Penelope wished she could help more overtly, but ever since the gallery viewing at Somerset House, her mother had been keeping a closer eye on Penelope when it came to helping Marina. It was horrid, absolutely awful, the way Lord Rutledge simultaneously leered at Marina while remaining utterly unconcerned for her thoughts and feelings.

It seemed that Lord Rutledge and her father were made of the same stock. For then her father was making strange comments, how there was no chance any of his daughters would marry that year, that Philippa would not marry Mister Finch…and it was unsettling that for once, Penelope agreed with her own mother. She could feel her mother's concern, utterly appalled at her father's callous, even heartless, words. Why would he ever even think to deny Philippa a marriage? The Featherington sisters were on the low end of society as it were, he should be dancing a jig at the chance of marrying one of them off to anyone who showed interest!

It made no sense and immediately set Penelope completely on edge.

Penelope had to mull it over later, though. She still had gossip to collect while looking out for Marina, as she had promised.

Penelope observed the widow, Lady Trowbridge, as she bounced her young son, the new lord, in her arms. She studied carefully, a slight, knowing grin blooming on her face as she observed the vivid red hair of the child…and that of the footman, constantly by Lady Trowbridge's side. Lady Trowbridge's deceased husband had possessed decidedly very dull, thinning blonde hair.

She bit her lip before turning her concern back to Marina, who was stuck dancing with the ancient, decrepit Lord Rutledge. Marina was making faces at her, rolling her eyes at the predicament she found herself in, and Penelope watched all the while, torn between gentle laughter and genuine worry for her cousin. This scheme of her mother's was entirely undesirable and Penelope really did want her cousin to be happy, or as happy as she could be without Sir George. That reminder was still a bitter pill for Penelope to swallow, and she tried to send Marina a reassuring smile as she was practically thrown about by the awful old lord. She'd promised Marina to look after her…

"Our host looks a bit fussy," Colin joked, coming up from behind Penelope, startling her a bit. She smiled, looking up at him then down to smooth the folds of her hideous, buttercup yellow dress. "Do you think if he goes to bed, we all have to leave?" Colin paused only a moment, before continuing, slyly, "It is lucky the lady produced an heir before the old earl croaked, no?"

"Lucky, indeed," Penelope replied, with just as much, if not more, guile. "But do you not think the boy bears a passing resemblance to Lady Trowbridge's footman?"

Penelope almost thought she'd gone too far in her assessment, no matter how true or witty it might be, but Colin's tone was nothing but roguish delight when he said,

"Penelope! What a barb!" The smile he shot her made Penelope's stomach, nay, her entire chest cavity, fill with fluttering butterflies, beating their wings furiously against her rib cage. She smiled back, a moment held a beat too long, and Penelope realized she was blatantly staring. She bowed her head quickly, and Colin broke the silence, "I have tried to get in front of Miss Thompson all night. Surely she cannot be interested in Lord Rutledge, can she?"

Colin's words swiftly culled the beating beasts inside her, all fluttering, tickling, ceased to be replaced by an odd combination of confusion and jealousy. But the second she looked at her cousin again, nothing but pity filled her heart. Her cousin was now sending desperate, pleading looks, begging for help from the hellscape she found herself in.

"I think the only thing Miss Thompson is interested in is a swift rescue, indeed," Penelope said honestly, hiding a wince as Marina was shoved around the floor by Lord Rutledge with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.

"I believe you are right." Colin was suddenly on the move, weaving his way through the crowd.

"Oh, Colin, I did not mean–" Penelope tried, but her voice was lost to the people milling around her and she watched, forlorn, as Colin made his way over to where Marina was trapped on the dance floor.

And then the jealousy flooded back again. It was ugly, terrible in force and flavor, like bile rising up the throat. She didn't want to feel this way. Colin was affable and good, of course he would go and rescue Marina, in the way a man could, from Lord Rutledge. And Marina was beautiful, willowy in stature, her dark eyes alluring in a way Penelope's would never be. Penelope couldn't blame Marina for that, resplendent in her white gown with black embroidery, while Penelope was stuck looking like some exotic bird that was, suddenly, too big and ostentatious to attract the right partner.

But as she looked at Colin, sweeping Marina off her feet, she felt physically ill. She had to look anywhere, at anyone else before the horrible feeling inside her grew too great. The deep breath she took did nothing to center her as she walked away, though she attempted to convince herself she had a column to write. She should be gathering gossip. Yes, that's what she must do.

But her heart still ached as she walked away, and once again, she bemoaned the nature of love. How painful and traitorous it could be, even when the person she was in love with had technically done nothing wrong.

Why did it still feel like he had inflicted such a grievous injury upon her?

As she wandered she spotted Daphne with Prince Friedrich and, if she wasn't mistaken, Daphne looked just as sick as Penelope felt. In fact, Daphne looked like she could barely breathe and a strange ominous prickle crawled up Penelope's spine as she watched Daphne rush away past a bewildered Cressida. Penelope saw the moment Cressida, with a vehement look upon her face, climbed the stairs to the windows on the next floor. Oh, Penelope knew exactly what Cressida planned to do. Penelope bit her thumbnail through her hot pink glove, unsure of what to do. If she followed Daphne, it could be a repeat of the dangers of the Dark Walk. Lady Trowbridge's abode, settled on Hampstead Heath, had vast gardens, dark and perfect for trysts. She could hear Benedict's warning in her head, to be careful and guard herself. Plus, there was the danger of Cressida seeing her.

But her curiosity was getting the better of her. Also, what if Daphne needed help? Surely it was better for Penelope to follow. In fact, if Cressida saw the two of them together, it would be much less of a scandal then Daphne being on her own.

And if she heard a juicy tidbit or two along the way, that was certainly helpful.

Mind made up, she nodded to herself as she picked up her skirts and weaved her way through the throng of polite society with the ease of one who was barely even recognizable as decoration. She'd seen Daphne head to the gardens, and just as Penelope caught up to the glass doors and stepped out to round the corner, ready to say something, she came to a sudden halt. She saw Daphne, diamond necklace discarded, apparently arguing with the Duke of Hastings. Penelope took a step back, unable to hear anything without taking a step closer, where she would surely be seen. Soon, Daphne was running off into the hedges, out of sight, the duke calling after her.

Penelope was stuck, frozen a bit in fear. She angled her gaze up at the window, and saw Cressida through the panes of glass, smirking before disappearing.

Oh zounds.

This was bad.

Penelope took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and rushed into the garden after them. They had to be told, if they did not rectify the situation quickly, Cressida would ruin Daphne's reputation permanently. Penelope might get a thrill, make her living off scandal, but this was certainly not what she had in mind for the next column.

She cursed her short legs as she attempted to catch up, following the sound of raised voices. It was hard to make out what they said, and she came to a wall in the hedge where she could approach on the left or right. She chose the left, seeing an extension of the hedge wall that formed a sort of barrier where she could hide if need be. Scurrying over, slippers wetter with dew by the second, Penelope turned the corner and covered her mouth to muffle her gasp.

Hastings and Daphne were locked in a passionate embrace, kissing wildly, his long arms reaching down to ruck up her skirts, to press into her, to touch her–

Penelope felt something strange; part discomfiture, part some sort of edgy agitation. An awakening in her belly, as if Benedict's drawings from all those weeks ago had come to life. Were – were they about to–

But suddenly there was another voice, a furious, deep voice that Penelope recognized immediately. She threw herself behind the corner hedge once more, peeking out to observe the scene.

"Bastard!" The Viscount Bridgerton yelled, throwing a punch right into his best friend's face.

"Anthony!" Daphne frantically screamed, appalled at her brother's act of violence. Penelope did idly wonder why she was so surprised. The viscount had made no secret of his protectiveness toward her, no matter how pigheaded it may be. There were shouts, punches being thrown, and once again Penelope found herself frozen as Daphne attempted to pull her brother off of his former best friend. The duke seemed to be letting the oldest Bridgerton throttle him, not really seeking to defend himself. Penelope, paralyzed in her horror, not for the first time wished she was braver.

"You will marry her!" Anthony exclaimed, so incredibly wild in his wrath it nearly stunned her. She briefly wondered whether her father would ever be that furious on her behalf before pushing it aside. The answer was no , of course.

"What?" Daphne asked incredulously.

Penelope couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, her gloved hands gripping the leaves and vines of the hedge, though she stopped as they crumbled audibly. Did Daphne truly not understand? This sort of action had to lead to marriage, Penelope knew that now. After Benedict's teachings, she was well aware of the dangers of being caught taking such liberties. Had…

Had no one ever told her? She must know, she had known the implications of scandal on the Dark Walk!

"Immediately," Anthony demanded, pointing a shaking finger at the Duke. He was one spark away from exploding, Penelope saw that. "We can only hope no one saw you take such liberties, and my sister is saved further mortification. You will marry her!"

"Brother!" Daphne cried again.

Was she attempting to object? Or was she simply shocked by her brother's vehemence? But before Penelope could contemplate on it, she heard the answer that shook her to her core.

"I cannot marry her," Simon said, and Penelope could have sworn he actually seemed upset about it. Heartbroken even.

But what was he to be heartbroken about when it was he who was rejecting Daphne? Damning her to a life of spinsterhood and ruin? Possibly even damning her younger sisters, to be seen as untouchable on the marriage mart for years to come?

His countenance was agony, hurt, yearning… and yet he spurned her. Was love truly so fickle? Or was lust truly that much of an inhibitor of sense, that once it returned and one was forced to face the consequences, men recoiled like they had been burned?

Penelope had thought there'd been an honest connection between Daphne and the Duke of Hastings. Of friendship, if nothing else. But Hastings was acting as if it had all been a mistake. First the Prince, and now this…

Did love…have no power at all?

Penelope once again, had no time to ruminate over this vast question. She thought she'd been shocked before but the next words out of the Viscount Bridgerton's mouth made her knees buckle. She had to catch herself on the hedge, heart pounding, as the viscount said,

"I must demand satisfaction."

It was as if the very air around them had been sucked away. Penelope could not breathe.

"A duel? Anthony, you cannot…" Daphne tried to say, but the viscount interrupted her.

"He dishonors you, sister. He dishonors you and me and the very Bridgerton name. I have misjudged you, indeed. You have duped us both, but I shall not see my sister pay for my own misdeeds. We will settle this as gentlemen."

"I understand. I shall see you at dawn," Simon said, and it was his face, even in side profile, that spoke volumes. The resignation…

He was going to die.

Penelope didn't stay a second longer, picking up her skirts again she ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. She had to get to Benedict and Eloise. Had to warn them somehow. Maybe they could stop Anthony, calm his ire. If anyone could talk Anthony down, surely it was Benedict! And Benedict would forgive her for going into yet another dark garden alone if she warned him, surely.

She contemplated telling her mother she was leaving but decided against it. It would take too much time and, unfortunately, her mother had a habit of rendering Penelope speechless. Penelope didn't want to get tongue-tied or forced into staying. She had a duty to Eloise and Benedict, as their friend, to tell them of the disastrous events. As she scurried back into the ballroom, heading for the exit where the family coach was waiting, a hand at her elbow slowed her stride.

"Pen!" Marina whispered excitedly, coming in close, a dazzling smile upon her pretty face. "Where are you going? I must tell you how Colin rescued me! He's just gone to get drinks."

"O-oh," Penelope said, and she felt her guts twist, her stomach roil. So it wasn't exactly untrue when she tried to say, "Actually, Marina, I am feeling a little i–"

"Pen, he is kind and funny and a surprisingly accomplished dancer. And, well, I'm sure you've seen him with the small Bridgertons. He will be a wonderful father," she whispered, careful of the crowd around them. But her face was alight with an inner glow, her dark brown eyes whirling with thoughts, and Penelope realized with a dawning alarm what Marina is beginning to plan.

"Surely, though, Colin is a tad young for marriage. You do need someone who will propose soon." Penelope wanted to run, but was also fixated in a horrific trance. Was this really happening? Was her beatific, down-on-her-luck cousin, the only family member who had ever been kind to Penelope, going to try and trap Colin Bridgerton in marriage?

"But that is why Mister Bridgerton is so perfect. Did you see the way he rescued me? He's not like the other young men who play games and guard their affections."

Marina could barely contain herself and Penelope sadly assumed that this was what a broken heart did to a woman. Especially a woman in Marina's situation, desperate to save her reputation and the livelihood of her child. Penelope wanted to understand that, she did.

But this was Colin they conversed about.

Penelope shook her head. No, she would have to deal with this issue tomorrow. If she didn't hurry, she wouldn't be able to tell Eloise in time. For all she knew, while she had been conversing with Marina, Anthony and Daphne could have made a swift exit.

Penelope's eyes, unbidden, sought out Colin. He seemed to be now with his mother who, surprisingly, looked to be well in her cups.

"I – I must go, Marina. I really do not feel well," Penelope begged, slowly extricating herself from Marina's grip.

Marina frowned sympathetically, patting Penelope's shoulder.

"Oh, of course, Pen. I shall see you at home if you are not abed."

"Y-yes," Penelope stuttered. "Please tell Mama where I have gone. I shall send the coach back."

And with that Penelope flew away from the ball, though not from the now many problems she possessed.

Penelope had been lucky. She'd snuck into the back garden, thinking she would have to find pebbles to hurl at Eloise's window, but she found her friend there, smoking. Penelope would have normally found this funny, but the mad order of events that night left no room for such levity.

"El!"

Eloise looked up, anxiously blowing out the smoke in her mouth before she caught sight of Penelope, still in her gown. Eloise smiled, striding over to greet her.

"Pen–"

"El, there's no time!" Penelope grabbed Eloise's hand and began to drag her back to the house, Eloise yelping and trying to stomp out her cigarillo behind her. "We must warn Benedict! Your brother, the Viscount Bridgerton, has challenged the Duke of Hastings to a duel over Daphne's honor!"

Eloise let out a laugh that quickly died in her throat when Penelope shot her a hard look.

"You are not jesting?" Eloise asked, eyes widening like an owl's. "Anthony has challenged the duke to a duel?"

"I cannot explain everything now. All I know is that Benedict might be the only one who can talk him down!"

Eloise nodded faintly and picked up her pace. They both ran to the back entrance, ignoring some of the servants who were still up. These footmen in particular, especially John, were quite used to Penelope sneaking in to see her friend. As long as the viscount never asked them directly if Penelope had been there, they wouldn't say anything.

They ran to Benedict's room first, Eloise throwing open the door with no warning. Penelope covered her eyes, knowing it was highly inappropriate to see Benedict's private quarters.

"Damn! He's not here!" Eloise cursed and they were off again, hurrying down the stairs and down a back hall to check the kitchens. No luck there. As they came back out towards the main entrance hall, they heard voices. Immediately both recognized the hard, clipped tones of the viscount and the furious pleas of Daphne. They ducked behind a pillar, watching as an argument played out. Though they could not hear what they said, it was quite obvious what it was about. Daphne looked frustrated, distraught, and as if any moment she might actually punch her brother in the face. Too soon Benedict entered, and Daphne was ordered to bed as Anthony dragged Benedict away.

Penelope's heart sank into the acid of her stomach. They were too late. Benedict was going to be dragged into the whole affair blind.

"Oh, Benedict," Eloise murmured. As if he heard her, Benedict turned his head, making eye contact with Penelope and Eloise. His brows raised imperceptibly before he was pushed into his brother's study, the dorm slamming behind them, and right into poor Daphne's face.

Benedict had been having a lovely night. When he had shown up at Mister Granville's door, led down a hallway full of paintings and marble busts, then through the door where artists were sketching the nude models in charcoal, quite frankly Benedict thought he'd died and gone to some bohemian version of heaven.

"I do not know what I was expecting, but it surely was not this," Benedict said in awe as he turned his head. Men and women alike were in front of easels, sketching the models in their own styles, telling their own stories in charcoal and graphite. It was incredible, and although he had thought that Mister Granville would surprise him, this hadn't been his guess.

"Oh, simply a gathering of like-minded souls," Mister Granville said airily. "Here, let me show you what I've been working on."

The older man led Benedict to the right side of the room to show him his own easel, and as they passed the people smoking and drawing, Benedict heard snippets of conversation. True, learned conversation, not the vapid, meaningless talk of the ton at one of the many events held during the week. It was even between a man and a woman, discussing goings-on as equals.

"They speak of war abroad as if it will distract from inequities at home," one of them said, waving a hand as he flickered his gaze between his models, his work, and the woman beside him.

"They do not need a war to be distracted. Why, this Whistledown is enough to turn their eyes from the needs of ordinary people," the woman replied, and Benedict grimaced briefly. It was certainly true. Penelope's writing did distract the upper echelons of society from the grievances of war and the poverty at home.

Not that the lords and ladies cared much for the poor to begin with.

"What do you think?" Mister Granville asked, proudly displaying his work of the nude models. They were sensual in a way none of the Classical and Biblical paintings could be. His art displayed the female form in all its honesty, for the beauty of it alone, without the half-baked excuse of telling some moral tale.

"Hmm. It is a far cry from Somerset House, I must say," Benedict responded, barely able to tamp down his astonishment. He was trying to cover it with a cool nonchalance, but in this moment, he was failing. He hadn't truly seen an artist at work before, in a space so free and uninhibited.

"I shall take that as a compliment," Mister Granville replied.

"And I must say, I am truly jealous. Is this your life?" Benedict asked eagerly, looking about the room again. The artists clearly came from all classes, working or the rising merchant class. It was incredible, really, the ease in which conversation flowed, in which artistry – uninhibited by expectations – flourished. How had Mister Granville managed it? He was a part of the same social class as he was, born into a wealthy family. He was sure his brother was titled, though for the life of him he didn't remember who.

"There are advantages to being the second-born. Heirs have the responsibility, second sons have the fun," Mister Granville winked at him, yet there was something about the way he said it. Calm, reassuring, like they were sharing a precious, well-kept secret. Benedict had been rather good at keeping secrets lately. "So…why not go have some fun?"

Mister Granville led Benedict to a blank easel, primed and ready to be used. The blank, white drawing people sat before him, and for a moment Benedict hesitated. That usual fear gripped him before he drew, that he was untalented, unworthy, no near good enough to even put charcoal to paper. But he turned his face up to see the woman beside him offer him a smoking cigarillo. He took it gingerly, gratefully, and with a great inhale, he began to draw.

It all started off as lines at first. Mere lines that became shapes, soon connected together by curves. Smudges became the details in the women's hair, a tiny wayward 'v' became a nose, or a knee, and a lopsided 'u' became a bountiful, bare breast. It didn't come easily, he was still terribly filled with doubts. But it was easier. At times the woman to his side would talk to him, from politics, the war against Napoleon, how the Royal Academy wouldn't allow women to apply, and even to Whistledown.

It was strange, wonderful even. No one in here except Mister Granville knew he was a Bridgerton, and he doubted they would have cared. They didn't care about the trust his brother set up for him, why he wasn't a clergyman or in the army. They picked at his mind, offered critique and guidance. And something in Benedict's chest sparked, flickering, whispering: This, this, this, it's THIS.

As the night dragged on, the moon waning out the window, the candlelight the soft source of light, Benedict lost his jacket, so intent on his work he lost all track of time. The soft chatter around him quieted somewhat, as if in his focus the world had faded away. Eventually he sat back, studying his work when Mister Granville, cigarillo lit between pointer and middle finger, came up behind him.

"Hmm. You have great potential," he commented, assessing Benedict's work with a critical eye.

"It's nothing," Benedict shrugged off, though he felt a small swell of pride from the compliment balloon between his ribs.

"Though, for such a staunch critic of others, you certainly lack a clear eye for your own work," Mis Granville admonished gently, though he raised his eyebrows so they approached near his hairline.

"It is the lines. Not what they are supposed to be," Benedict said, staring back at the sketch. If he stared too long he could see every little mistake, every little flaw, and that tiny shadow of doubt creeped through the folds of his brain again, leaking out like fog through narrow alleyways.

"Take the compliment, Bridgerton. There is no expectation or judgment here. You left all of that back in Mayfair," Mister Granville waved his cigarillo in the air, before clasping Benedict's shoulder. It was comforting, the weight of his hand heavy, and Benedict felt like someone was actually taking the time to guide; usher him along a path he'd been searching for. "You can feel free to be yourself here…if that's what you should like. It's what works for me, at least. And I haven't been dissatisfied with my lines in… Well, quite some time."

Benedict couldn't help the genuine smile that he could feel stretching his lips. He couldn't deny, the open invitation felt wonderful. A chance to explore this life, a possibility, a trajectory for himself, and just himself.

"Well, I have done worse, I suppose, really," Benedict said, and Mister Granville clapped his shoulder indulgently, like a professor or mentor giving into their young student's whim, before releasing him.

"Mm. Fair enough," Mister Granville said.

Benedict looked out to the sky through the window. His siblings should be coming home from the Trowbridge Ball right about now. If his brother's murmurs were right, Daphne could very well come home engaged to Prince Friedrich. Benedict didn't want to miss the news. He did want to be there for his sister, whatever her decision may be.

"I seem to have enjoyed myself too much this evening. I should be on my way." Benedict stood, picking up his jacket to shrug off, glancing at his work one last time with a smidgen of pride.

"As you wish. But know you are welcome back any time for practice or even conversation." Mister Granville placed an arm around his shoulders to lead him out. Benedict was sad to see the room, and the other artists, go. He hoped he'd be coming back soon. "I'll see you out. And Bridgerton, feel free to call me just 'Granville' or even 'Henry' in private. Niceties can be quite tiresome."

Benedict had felt his steps grow lighter on the way home, and he could not wait to tell Penelope and Eloise about his progress that night. While he was joyous to find the beginning of something that could be all him, he had this sense that they would understand and encourage him. Penelope especially. He imagined his friend's small smile, mysterious but uplifting.

Yet what greeted Benedict as he arrived home in fairly high spirits was not at all what he had gambled on.

He stumbled upon Daphne and Anthony arguing fiercely, his sister's hackles raised. Benedict had not seen Daphne so angry in his presence since the time Colin had thought it a good idea to cut Daphne's bangs while she was napping on the sofa. Colin had very nearly died that day. But this… Something told Benedict this was far more dire.

He had barely asked what was going on before Anthony yanked him aside. Daphne tried in vain to follow but she was too small to keep up with her brothers' long strides. The look of horror on her face was enough to make the hair all along his arms rise and gooseflesh prickle across his skin. Before he was thrown into his brother's study he caught the horrified glimpses of a hiding Eloise and Penelope, looking at him as if he was a pig for slaughter. But just as soon as he'd caught sight of them, Anthony had slammed the door right in Daphne's face.

"What in the blazes is going on?" Benedict hissed. "Was that really necessary to treat Daphne so? Did she say no to the Prince? Honestly, Ant–"

"The Duke of Hastings compromised our sister in the gardens at the Trowbridge Ball and then refused to marry her to save her honor and reputation," Anthony said quickly, brown eyes as hard and unmoving as packed earth. "He defiled her, so I challenged him."

Benedict felt his lungs seize, his mind stutter to a halt, and for a few moments he was frozen in place. Ice threaded through his veins as the image of Daphne, his little sister, the first girl born to his mother, the child his father had made him and Anthony swear to protect, being sullied by a rake.

It was odd how frigid and icy his anger was. It took him a moment to parse out that he wasn't just furious with Simon (though he was filled with the desire to beat the lout into the ground if his brother was to be believed) but with Anthony too.

It was another disaster, another matter, a mess, that Anthony had made that Benedict would have to help clean up for family honor. He hated the word in that moment. Where he had been a mere hour ago, no dumb, small, antiquated version of family honor existed. If this duel had been instigated by anything less than Daphne being taken advantage of, he would've scoffed. But here he was, and he knew with a sinking feeling of dread, like pure lead being dropped in his stomach, what Anthony would ask of him. Worse, he knew the consequences of the question, and he did not like the sight of the blurry visions slowly solidifying in his mind's eye.

Even though within the very fiber of his muscles he knew this was wrong, that he was bloody scared, he would be obligated to stand by Anthony's side. He was the second son, he'd be expected to. One look at his brother's face told him it would be hard to talk Anthony down from this course of action. He could, would, try.

For Daphne, he would try.

"And what does Daphne think of this? She appeared displeased–"

"She does not understand how it is not just her honor at stake, but this entire family's," Anthony snapped, striding around the room with a frantic energy, gathering the polished wooden box that contained his dueling pistol. Benedict had hoped he'd never have to use it. "Without defending it, our other sisters' chances at a life where they can be married and taken care of are at stake!"

Benedict was convinced he'd be sick all over the floor. Bile climbed up his throat, acrid and sour, and he swallowed multiple times to fight the urge to vomit. The anger was there again, icy pricks at the back of his mind.

"I will need you to stand as my second," Anthony said.

"What if you get yourself killed?" Benedict asked bitterly, though he knew the answer. But he needed Anthony to say it out loud. He needed to know that Anthony actually understood what he would willingly wrought upon his closest brother.

"Then the title and estates will pass to you."

"And if you kill Hastings?"

Anthony leveled Benedict with his dark, brown gaze. Anthony knew, with all the weight and seriousness it entailed, what he was asking Benedict to do.

Damn him.

"Then I shall have to leave the country, and you will be head of the family in every way that matters."

Benedict had the sudden sensation he was falling, even though the floorboards didn't open up and swallow him whole like he so wished. He wondered if Anthony could tell that in mere seconds, Benedict saw the two options, terrifying premonitions, flash across his mind.

The first, where Anthony would be dead. It would be hell on earth, and Benedict already knew, deep within the marrow of his bones, that his mother would never recover from the loss of her eldest son. Their father's death had nearly killed her. She could not suffer another blow. He saw long stretches, lonely days where Benedict could not seek the artistic fulfillment he had felt not too long ago that very evening. Bent over a desk, managing money, tenants, leases, and his siblings' marriages and welfare. By God, he did not envy Anthony the position. It was demanding, often thankless, and Benedict knew he was being selfish when he so desired to keep away from it, ensuring it was Anthony who kept it.

The second vision was worse, in a way. In no world would Benedict wish his brother dead. But at least if Anthony didn't run away, Benedict wouldn't feel so abandoned. Was that what Anthony wanted? To shirk the responsibility that had firmly, unfairly, been thrust upon him at the mere age of nineteen? Benedict never thought it was fair but, damn it, Benedict had done his part! He'd managed the children, made sure his mother ate, kissed papercuts and broken up fights. Did he not deserve something for it? Something of his own?

Benedict knew, in his heart, he was luckier than Anthony in many ways.

Then why did it feel like a curse, that Anthony knew Benedict would step up to the title of viscount if he needed to? That, no matter how much he might want to, he'd never abandon his family?

Because family, his family, had always been his everything. Their everything. The Bridgertons had been raised to love and protect each other like wolves protecting their pack.

And Benedict hated himself for despising that fact in that moment.

But even though Benedict felt a surge of resentment to how incredibly, intricately bonded he was with his family, so much so he did not always know who he was… He still loved them. His siblings, his mother…they were the very arteries that kept his heart beating. And right now, two of them were being squeezed, suffocated so tight that his blood flow had become sluggish.

Daphne had been dishonored. Worse, she had been humiliated and made to feel disparaged. Possibly unloved.

While Anthony needed him, whether it was to watch him die or help him commit a great escape.

Benedict loved them.

Which is how he knew, with a horrible resignation, that he would not leave Anthony's side. If Anthony was to die, Benedict would hold his brother's hand until the last. If Anthony was to run, Benedict would bribe, cheat, and steal to get his brother safely to the Continent.

And at that moment, Benedict hated that about himself.

A sound of drunken laughter, slurred words caught their attention. It was Colin, coming home with their mother. Anthony strode to the door and opened it slightly, enough to see and hear Colin tell their sloshed mother goodnight (what was that about? Benedict hadn't seen his mother so in her cups since… Well, he couldn't remember). It was as Colin turned to catch Anthony's eye, the eldest angling his head to signal Colin to sneak in like a bandit, that Colin said,

"Good God. Did someone die?"

And Benedict couldn't help but snort. It was awful, ill-timed, but his emotions were so heightened he couldn't help it.

Anthony glared at him before ushering Colin in, slamming and locking the door again. Swiftly, Anthony relayed to Colin what he'd just told Benedict.

"That absolute bastard!" Colin raged, throwing his hands in the air while looking wildly between his brothers. "I never would have expected such behavior from Hastings, Anthony, you talked so highly of him–"

"I was duped, fooled," Anthony growled. "Clearly, I should have been more careful. I did not suspect–"

"Truly?" Benedict couldn't help but ask, incredulous. "Did you not see the way they look at each other, Brother? I admit, I would have been blind to it if I had not seen Daphne at the ball where she first indulged the Prince's affections. You can see it, the difference with how she looks at the Prince and how she looks at Hastings."

"Are you saying our sister is to blame?" Anthony snapped, easily riled in his fury and self-loathing.

"No!" Benedict exclaimed, placing his hands on his hips. "Never! But I am not surprised your supposed best friend went after her!"

"He is certainly no longer any friend of mine!"

"If what you said he did to Daphne is true, then he should not be," Colin cut in. "But I must admit, brother, a duel? I know the code of honor, but Daph would be devastated were you to get yourself…"

Colin hesitated, biting his lower lip.

"Killed?" Benedict shrugged. "Go ahead and say it, Col. That is what our brother is risking. His life. "

"I know very well what I am embarking upon has consequences!" Anthony strode over to the bar cart, picked up the decanter of scotch and, after a moment, uncorked the crystal decanter and took a swig right from the source.

"Could this not have been handled quietly?" Colin implored.

Benedict had wondered the exact same thing, his lips set into a thin, white line. He had wanted to ask, to plead that Anthony simply beg Hastings to go away and never repeat the incident to anyone. Grovel at Daphne's feet, and then let Benedict and Colin soundly beat him before sending him off on his ship. But Benedict had already decided he had no bleeding choice but to stand by Anthony's side as the second born. However, Colin could ask these questions, bless him. Anthony might consider him young, a tad naive, but he might listen.

Might.

"It is not just about handling things discreetly," Anthony scolded, as if Colin were a child who'd come to the wrong answer when solving an equation. "This is about family honor. By defiling then refusing to marry Daphne, he dishonors every single one of us. I cannot let that pass, even if it costs my life and livelihood."

There was a silence then, as Anthony took another long drink from the decanter. Benedict watched slightly queasy but unable to look away.

"And what of us?" Colin asked quietly. "Losing you… What of the rest of us?"

Anthony wouldn't look at them, just stared into the amber liquid, shining through the crystal decanter as it sloshed around, flickering in the candlelight.

"The family will be fine," Anthony murmured. "You will have Benedict."

And Benedict felt, once again, like he was falling into a dark abyss; flightless, sightless, straight toward a ground he could not see.

Benedict stormed angrily into the garden. It was close to a quarter after three in the morning, and Anthony had clearly gone to some whorehouse or mistress to seek comfort in his final hours, leaving Benedict and Colin alone. Before leaving, he had informed Benedict of his duties, to safeguard their sister's dowries, see the solicitor, comfort their mother… In truth, Benedict was still very much torn between screaming like a bloody maniac or vomiting all over his shoes. Anthony had strictly told Colin that while Benedict was his second, Colin was in charge of ensuring Daphne didn't do anything stupid. She was still up, pacing and irate when Benedict had walked Colin to her room. He could hear her through the door, mumbling angrily, actually cursing (a very rare instance indeed), and the minute Colin had waltzed through the door, he heard the beginnings of what would be a very long interrogation. Benedict did not know whose task was worse, his or Colin's.

To watch their brother die or be exiled, or to watch their sister suffer.

He hated it.

He saw Eloise and Penelope huddled together in the grass, both wrapped up in woolen blankets they must've taken from Eloise's room. They were hidden in the tree's bower, their heads leaned against each other, slightly nodding off. It wasn't until Benedict was toe to toe with them, crouched to see their faces, that they warily blinked their eyes.

Eloise, of course, broke the quiet first.

"Is it true? Will Anthony be dueling the duke?"

Benedict nodded slowly, before releasing a long sigh, settling into the grass himself.

"I am to be his second."

"Oh, Benedict," Penelope whispered, her sky blue eyes shining with sympathy in a way that made him feel oddly tender. "I am so sorry. If I had gotten here sooner–"

"So you did know?" Benedict asked. "I suspected, the minute I saw you hiding with El."

Penelope began that nervous habit of hers, twisting whatever was in front of her. She began to wring the corners of her blanket around her fingers.

"I – I know I should not have, but I noticed Daphne looking…unwell at the ball. She all but ran away from the Prince. I followed, just to check on her! But the duke got there first. She ran away from him, into the garden. He followed, then I followed. And, well… By the time I caught up, they were–"

Penelope blushed furiously, and Benedict felt heat creep up his own cheeks.

"Trust me, Penelope, you do not have to tell me," Benedict moaned, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I really do not desire to envision my sister in such a…position."

Penelope nodded quickly.

"I did not see how the kiss came to be, who initiated it," Penelope admitted. "But the next thing I knew, the Viscount was there. Terribly angry and–" She shrugged. "The rest you know."

Eloise bumped Penelope's shoulder, eyes wide and imploring.

"You must tell him the last of it, Pen."

"The last of it?" Benedict asked. "Lawks, I am unsure what else I can handle tonight! First, you go against my advice again and go into a dark garden unchaperoned, the Duke of bloody Hastings takes liberties with Daphne, Anthony is dueling him, and now there is something else ?"

Penelope gulped audibly, scooting up so she was sitting straighter against the tree trunk.

"Cressida Cowper saw them," Penelope said faintly. Benedict just felt like he had been doused in cold water. "She did not see them kiss! But she was watching from a window. She saw them enter the garden together."

Benedict buried his face in hands, trying to fight the urge to scream in frustration.

"Another bloody mess I must solve." Benedict closed his eyes, letting darkness consumed him for a moment. The bright future he had begun to see for himself mere hours ago was slipping away. "You know what I was doing before coming home to this disaster?" Benedict laughed wryly. "I was at Mister Granville's, drawing! With the other artists, like I was their equal, someone who had talent. For one glorious moment, I thought I had finally discovered what I wanted to do! And now, no matter the outcome of this duel, I will become the viscount. And I deplore how much I do not want it. I tasted freedom, the pursuit of…of something great! And I hate myself because I am blaming Anthony for it, but I cannot leave him."

Ugly, bitter tears stung Benedict's eyes.

"Ben," Eloise said, taking one of his hands in her own and prying it away from his face. "There must be a way. Maybe the duke will come to the field and change his mind. Maybe Anthony will calm down. You cannot give up!"

Benedict kept his eyes glued shut until he felt another pair of hands, smaller than Eloise's, grab the fingers of his other hand, placing them in her own. He opened his eyes, his tears falling as the two girls stared at him, gazes sad on his behalf.

His blue-green irises met Penelope's light blues one.

"I have not achieved even half of what you have accomplished by seven and ten," he said. "And I am quite envious. I thought that maybe tonight–"

He choked, unable to say it. How he thought he'd finally found the confidence, a safe place, to do what he always wanted to do. Yet this duel, his own brother, was cruelly taking that chance away from him.

"I know," Penelope said simply. "I know. And I am sorry."

They sat like that for a long while, nothing but the light wind, and the occasional burrow of a fox or hedgehog in the distance making any noise. Mayfair, for once, was quiet.

"Eight and ten," Eloise said, and Penelope shot her a warning look.

"What?" Benedict asked.

"Pen is eight and ten," Eloise said, despite Penelope attempting to pinch her side through the thick, brown woolen blanket. "Her birthday is April 8th, it was the day of Lady Danbury's opening ball."

Benedict whirred his head around to Penelope, her crimson tinged cheeks all the answer he needed.

"Why did you not say anything?" he blurted.

"It is not exactly celebrated," Penelope hedged. "Besides, the ball was more important."

Benedict could read between the lines. Her own family hadn't celebrated their youngest daughter's birthday, in favor of throwing their girls at all of the eligible bachelors of the ton during that day's events. The constant picnics, pleasure gardens, teas, and balls. Yet, not once, had they acknowledged Penelope's day of birth. It made his very blood boil.

"Pen does not like to mention it," Eloise chimed in, able to read the simmering anger under her brother's face. His second sister knew him too well. "We went and got ice at Guenther's, did we not Pen?"

"Yes," Penelope chimed in more cheerily. "And that was lovely!"

But Benedict's chest still felt bruised and torn. If he hadn't known any better, he would've thought someone had decided to use his body as a punching bag while he had been unaware. The emotional weight and pain of it all, the duel and now this, a birthday of a friend being ignored–

He could kill the Featheringtons. Or, to be more accurate, he would tell his mother and let her handle it. Her maternal rage was quite powerful.

The Featheringtons–

Hell's bells.

"While I refuse to let your birthday slide by uncelebrated by me, your other, more handsome friend," he winked, attempting to be playful, and it did make Eloise gag and Penelope giggle, so he'd take that as a win. "I do have something to tell you, Penelope. Something you must know."

Penelope's face sobered quickly, her fingers still grasping his own tightening.

"What is it?"

Benedict took a deep breath, wiping away the remains of the sticky mess on his cheeks.

"Well your father likes to gamble,"

"Everyone knows that, Ben," Eloise huffed, but Benedict shushed her with a look.

"Penelope, I have reason to believe your father is squandering the family fortune on his bets. I have witnessed him be rather reckless of late, more impulsive, unable to pay up–"

Penelope blanched, and Benedict could see those magnificent cogs in her brain turning, working, putting the pieces of a puzzle together.

"Oh no," she muttered. "That would– That would explain why he would deny my sister a marriage. Mister Finch wants to marry her, but Papa said something to him–"

Benedict bobbed his head and Eloise wrapped her arms around Penelope's shoulders.

"We shall get to the bottom of it, Pen," Eloise assured. "I promise, I will never let anything horrid happen to you. And you are making money with Whistledown! Should your father really be so foolish, we can find a way to squirrel your money away. Make a nest egg!"

Penelope leaned into Eloise's side, and Benedict thanked the stars for probably the hundredth time in nine years that Eloise stumbled upon little Penelope that day in the park.

"I am sorry I even had to mention it, I thought you should know." Benedict looked at the sky. It was still dark, but there were signs of an early spring day. A light graying of the sky, like the softest filter of light being painted across the velvety night. "I will stay a while longer, then I must go meet Anthony," Benedict said. "But when I return, viscount in name or not, we shall take a moment to celebrate your birthday. Alright?"

"Benedict," Penelope started. "You do not have–"

"Please," Benedict pleaded, tweaking her nose. It had become a habit, something lovely. "Give me something good to remember tonight."

Penelope smiled, her little closed mouth smile that wrapped so many unspoken words between her lips. He leant forward and, in a rare intimate act of affection, embraced them both. He stayed like that, Eloise and Penelope's chins on his shoulders, as he counted down every dreaded minute until he had to ride into an uncertain future.

"We shall wait for you."

"El–"

"We shall wait for you."

Benedict had expected many things from the duel. He had expected blood, gunshots, a body on the ground. He had (and had not) expected his brother to hand them their father's old timepiece and swear he would take care of the lady, a mistress, whose name was tucked away in his desk drawer should he die. He had expected agony, anguish and an emptiness to soon fill him.

What he had certainly not expected was Daphne to charge in at a gallop, headfirst, into the middle of a duel just as his brother's shot rang out.

"Stop!" Daphne cried, and as the ugly shot echoed across the field, the gunpowder flaring, Daphne's horse had reared and she'd fallen to the wet patch of earth with a hideous thud.

"Daphne!" The duke shouted, lowering his pistol from the sky as he dashed to Daphne's side.

"Sister!" Anthony yelled, the panic Benedict felt flashing clearly through Anthony's expression.

Oh God. Oh Christ. What if she was dead? What if she'd been shot? This was worse than anything else that could have happened. Any of the other possibilities Benedict had foresaw. If Daphne was dead, his mother would perish but not before taking Anthony with her. No, no, no, Daphne, his sister – the little girl who hovered around his knees, begging to help, to ease his burdens – she could not be, please.

"Sister!" Benedict felt himself shout, hastily placing the gun box on the ground before running over as well. Hastings and Anthony already crouched near her head, Anthony trying to push the taller man out of the way,

"Stand aside!"

There was a moment, as Benedict knelt at Daphne's feet, Colin running over from his own horse (Benedict would have to deal with him later) where time stopped. Nothing stirred, nothing moved and Benedict was half convinced that even the birds had frozen in flight.

Until Daphne shifted under her powder blue cloak, shakily lifting herself from the ground, and Benedict felt his lungs take in air, his heart beat, and his brain start to work again. He let out a great shuddering breath, rubbing his palms over his face. Daphne was alive, she was moving. It had been too close for comfort, he had already been imagining what he would tell his mother, tell the family. He would have rather been shot himself then try to fight through the grief Daphne's death would have brought…

"Oh, good God," Anthony gasped, looking as if he'd been running through the same scenarios as Benedict had.

"Are you hurt? Tell me!" The duke commanded and Benedict glanced at him sharply. Who was he, to demand such a thing of his sister? This man who had apparently no problem taking her innocence, but would not marry her? Yet the look on Hasting's face, worried, desperate, was not the expression of a man who didn't care.

Daphne rose to her feet, furiously straightening her cloak, eyes ablaze with anger at their stupidity, "I am perfectly well, no thanks to you idiots!"

"What are you playing at?" Anthony yelled, in the way only an older brother can and Benedict was resisting the urge to smack every single one of his siblings present over the head. Was no one thinking straight today? Colin had apparently let Daphne decide she was going to stop a duel that Anthony had declared. Zounds, he could murder them all. He'd tell their mother they had run away to a farm in the countryside. Because right now Benedict didn't know if he could bear to look at them.

"Says the man who just shot at me!" Daphne shrieked.

"You rode into the middle of a duel!" Anthony countered, clearly torn on whether to be glad his sister was okay or angry at her recklessness.

Daphne straightened her cloak again, her strawberry blonde hair loose and wavy around her shoulders. She glanced between all of the men present before they settled on the Duke of Hastings, her bright eyes boring into his dark ones.

"I require a moment with the duke," Daphne said, in what Benedict imagined was her best attempt at civility in such a heated moment.

"Daphne…" Anthony started, but Daphne – Daphne! – cut him off.

"I require a moment with the duke," she demanded, and Benedict had to lunge forward to step in front of his brother as Hastings made to follow Daphne.

"Brother, we must let Daphne have a say. It is her future," Benedict insisted, and was rewarded when Daphne shot him a grateful look, though surprised. "But make it brief."

As they wandered off, Benedict wasn't sure what to expect. All he knew, after observing so much through Penelope's eyes that season, was that Daphne had to be able to say her piece. She had so little control, so little volition, that she must seize what she could. Was that not what was fair?

Though Benedict had to admit, the last thing he had expected was for his sister to say, just as the duel was about to start again,

"There will be no need to resume. The duke and I are to be married."

Benedict studied his sister's face and realized, not for the first time, that his sister was a woman. But beyond that, Benedict understood with a sliver of despair that he no longer really knew Daphne. He used to know all of her secrets, the ones she'd tell him in hushed tones in the dark of night as a thunderstorm raged outside the windows or when snow fell on the ground outside of Aubrey Hall. As soon as he returned home from Eton or Cambridge she was in his arms, so small and willowy it was like she could break, and she'd ramble about her adventures with Colin, how she'd impressed her governess, and how it was no fun to play Pall Mall without him. It dawned on him that the older they had become, she'd delved farther into the need to be the perfect first born daughter, an example to her younger siblings, someone flawless to make their mother proud. And suddenly there were no secrets in the dark between them anymore. Her secrets were now kept close to her chest.

And that hurt him.

As Anthony and Colin worked to rush Daphne home before the household arose, Benedict paid off the Doctor (once again, cleaning up the mess) and observed Hastings and his friend, Will Mondrich, walking away. Hastings appeared…devastated. Not the sort of look that was of a man trapped, but like he had broken something tangible, delicate, and pure.

He'd been so ready to die, aiming his pistol in the air, and that had been the first signal to Benedict that they were missing something. Something essential that had happened between his sister and the forlorn lord.

But, it appeared Hastings would keep this secret too and Benedict was left feeling bereft.

Benedict rubbed the back of his head, the morning mist beginning to clear, and as he made his way over to where Rapscallion waited patiently, he glanced over to see a small bunch of wildflowers. It wasn't much, just some southern marsh orchids , but he smiled and bent down to pick them anyway. Nestled in between the stalks of the pretty blooms, was a jagged little rock, speckled white and black like a bird's egg. He picked it up too, pocketing it safely in his waistcoat.

When Benedict finally returned, he headed straight to the garden, knowing he must swiftly get Eloise to her room and Penelope back home. Though he knew this, he was still pleasantly surprised, warmed even, that the two girls had waited. They were asleep under the tree in their blankets, cuddled around each other. It looked a tad uncomfortable, but they must've been exhausted.

He hurried over, gently shaking their shoulders to rouse them from slumber.

"Eloise, Penelope," he murmured softly. "You must wake."

He lightly tapped his sister's cheek a few times before she stirred, groaning as she slowly sat up, attempting to stretch.

"Brother, what happened?" she asked, trying to sound urgent but the remnants of sleep clogging her usually quick brain. "Is Anthony–"

"He is alright and home safe. No one died," Benedict soothed, and he could see Penelope blinking from the corner of his eye, her nose wrinkling. "I will explain later. But we must get you to bed before anyone sees."

"You are not the viscount?" Penelope asked groggily, still upon the ground, her fiery hair a riot of tangled curls around her head.

"I am not, thank goodness," Benedict chuckled, and he allowed himself to feel true relief and levity for the first time in hours. "I would have been dreadful at it."

As Eloise stood on wobbly legs he helped Penelope up with one arm.

"I could not acquire anything nice, I fear," Benedict said. "I promise we shall celebrate properly later, but happy birthday."

With that he presented her with the clump of marsh orchids, their petals a soft purple-pink like the color of the sky during a summer sunset.

"Oh." She didn't move at first, just staring at the flowers a little in awe before hesitantly taking them. "I–" She paused, swallowed. "I have never received flowers before."

"They are just wildflowers," Benedict admitted. "But I thought they would do for now, until we can get you something proper."

Benedict felt a swell, a balloon, really, of contentment when he saw how reverently Penelope handled the flowers. She was marveling at them, and Benedict gingerly took her arm. "Father used to tell us, every birthday," Benedict said. "'I am happy you were born.'"

Penelope looked up curiously, almost hopefully. Benedict could feel Eloise lean against his side, as if in silent approval for what he was about to say next. Penelope was their friend, she deserved to know.

"Penelope," he said, with a smile that came, he knew, from the very depths of kindness his father fought to instill in them all. "We are happy you were born."

Chapter 5: The Artist and the Scribbler

Summary:

A scandalous party, a small wedding, and the birth of jealousy.

Notes:

As usual, thank you again to itakethewords for being an awesome beta and even better friend and soundboard! You are amazing!

Seriously, itakethewords is amazing. They help me come up with plot, throw things against the proverbial wall to see if it sticks. There would be none of this story without them.

This chapter is where A LOT changes in terms of where this plot may head. Pay close attention and please, take guesses on where you think this will go! I'm a firm believer in even the slightest change can alter a path. :)

Now, first, Marina is NOT a villain in this story. And Penelope does not see her that way. But Penelope's emotions are complicated. Such is life. Much of Pen's POV is going to deal with how she feels conflicted about Marina's plan.

Second, remember, this is a Benelope HEA, but a slow burn. Benedict is still going to go through some of his plot points before he reaches his HEA. But never fear, there are still changes. Let's just say most people become team Benelope in the story. Haha.

Chapter Text

One may say modesty is a virtue, yet This Author is hardly a virtuous woman. It is therefore my great pleasure to announce the news others questioned, but I never doubted. The diamond of the season has made her match, officially betrothed to the Duke of Hastings. The bride, undoubtedly, is giddy with anticipation over the impending nuptials… An event that will apparently take place sooner rather than later.

Of course, there are only two reasons to procure a special license and race to the altar: true love, or concealing a scandal.

Penelope was completely, utterly, entirely exhausted. She'd obtained restless sleep in the Bridgertons' garden before Benedict returned from the duel, the air cool and misty as he woke her. She'd been sleepy when he'd given her the clump of wild marsh flowers, their pinkish purple petals sparking a warm glow in her heart.

We are happy you were born.

Or was it the words?

When she'd been snuck into the back of her home, she'd begged Benedict to hold on for a moment. She needed to publish the column on Daphne's engagement that day, or else it would allow too much time for people to question the validity of the engagement. Just the night before, Daphne had been seen entertaining the very serious attentions of Prince Friedrich. It was essential that Penelope controlled the narrative now, before the ton could form their own opinions.

His brows furrowed.

"Penelope, why—"

"It will sound legitimate coming from Lady Whistledown," Penelope said firmly. "And she would report it, anyways. If she is the first, it could quell any rumors of a duel or any sort of violence last night. We must speak before Cressida does!"

Benedict moaned, rubbing his tired face with a dirty hand.

"I am loath to admit you have a point. I shall await you around the corner. May we secure your coach?"

"It is just late, or, rather, early enough, I would not," Penelope admitted, beginning to bite her bottom lip. She couldn't risk the Featherington coach being seen too frequently in the heart of Bloomsbury, at least not during the light of day. Absentmindedly, he tore off his black leather glove and gently pried the flesh from in-between her teeth, using the pad of his thumb to pull her plump bottom lip down and away. It vaguely registered with him how soft the skin was as his thumb dragged the flesh away for a moment, skirting against the skin of her dimpled chin before falling back to his side. "We could take a hack…"

"Penelope!"

"We cannot take Rapscallion," Penelope insisted. "There is no other choice."

Benedict sighed before nodding wearily. Penelope knew he would have fought harder on the subject usually, but Benedict, first and foremost, was almost asleep on his feet. It was obvious he was still so relieved that the viscountcy would not fall upon his shoulders that Penelope could have probably convinced him to do anything short of marrying her.

"For my sister, and for you…fine."

Penelope used her free hand to squeeze his arm reassuringly before fleeing through the back servants' entrance. She did her best to sneak through the kitchen but met the eye of Missus O'Carroll, dusting flour off her arms. The kindly old woman rolled her eyes.

"Hurry, ya' wee wain! Ya' know the house will be stirrin' within the next few hours!"

Penelope gave her a bright smile before rushing to the laundry basket where she kept the ladies maid cloak. She carefully pressed the flowers in Missus O'Carroll's hand. "Please see these are put in water and…keep them down here. They will probably live longer if Mama cannot see them."

Missus O'Carroll nodded in understanding before pushing Penelope's hip with her own.

"Hurry, child! As if the Devil 'imself was on y'er heels!"

Penelope threw the cloak around her shoulders, tucked her vivid ember curls beneath the hood, and rushed back outside to where Benedict waited. Without a word, he took her hand and they dashed to the street to hail a hackney off to Bloomsbury.

It only took ninety minutes to conduct her Lady Whistledown business and while Benedict returned to Bridgerton House to try and sneak in some sleep, Penelope still had business to do. Her family was breaking fast and Missus O'Carroll, bless her, had covered for her by telling Penelope's own lady's maid to say she felt ill. Penelope was reminded how good and essential the household staff were to her everyday life. They had truly cared for her since she was young and in return, Penelope had learned kindness when her sisters had not. Penelope had no illusions that she was wholly good, not really, but she was aware how essential it was to treat the staff well.

Penelope quickly shuffled through her father's ledger and various papers. Scanning the contents rapidly, her heart hammering in her chest, perspiration lining her forehead.

It was as Benedict had suspected. Her father had gambled and spent nearly every pound they possessed, including the dowries of all three Featherington sisters. She knew her father could be callous, neglectful. But she had never suspected he would so willingly ruin their futures, their only chances at safe, secure homes. Her stomach turned and she felt bile climb up her throat that she forced herself to swallow down. The recklessness of it all, of her father's actions, brought him down to the level of men like Berbrooke. How could she raise her head even an inch high amongst society when her father was thus?

No wonder he had denied Philippa (who Penelope actually pitied, she'd never thought she'd see the day) the opportunity to wed Albion Finch. Even with no title, the Finch family was respectable enough to recognize how unwise it would be to marry a daughter with no dowry, even a titled daughter of a baron. It spoke volumes to the state of their coffers. Suddenly it clicked into place why Marina was also present within their home, as Penelope found the name of one Mister Thompson amongst the people who her father owed. Securing Marina a home and match for the season must've been part of some deal to settle the debt.

Fatigue assaulted her body, her vision growing blurry, her mood plummeting into what felt like an unfathomable depth. It could not possibly get any worse.

"Mister Colin Bridgerton for Miss Thompson!" Briarly's booming voice called, echoing up the stairs.

She stood corrected.

With terror seizing her lungs, she rushed down the stairs, her anxious brain working through problem after problem. If they were in debt, she had no doubt that after last night her shrewd Mama had probably done the same snooping Penelope had done. If that was so, Lady Portia Featherington would double her efforts to help in Marina's new scheme to ensnare Colin into marriage without informing him of her pregnancy. Her mother, if nothing else, was practical in the ways of marriages and men. With little options left, she would throw herself in ensuring they would have a Bridgerton relation; the youngest, most good-hearted, and therefore most gullible, one.

Shaking in her garish citrus dress and slippers, she came into the drawing room just in time to see Marina complimenting a new bouquet of flowers that Colin had given her. They were lavish, clearly expensive, and Penelope thought of her tiny bunch of marsh orchids, their tiny blooms reaching for the sun in the kitchen window. Even through her tiredness, Penelope felt a simultaneous pang of jealousy and a rare little tendril of warmth that sought to comfort.

"Oh, Mister Bridgerton, these are beautiful!"

"I applaud you, Miss Thompson. I bring you flowers on each of my visits, and yet you react with admirable surprise every time," Colin commented with his signature, affable smile, and Penelope felt her heart palpitate, the blood roar in her ears, and a queasy ache in her gut. "I shall need to bring you something unexpected. A bushel of tomatoes, perhaps."

"Oh!" Marina exclaimed softly, delighting in Colin's humor, but now Penelope saw deception anywhere. Out of everyone in her household, she had not thought Marina… No, she had known that Marina was capable of trickery, cunning, and wiliness. It was one of the reasons Penelope liked her so well, because Penelope thought she, too, capable of it.

But this… She couldn't– not to Colin.

"Marina hates tomatoes," Penelope blurted unthinkingly, rudely interrupting the conversation. Penelope had to resist the urge to yawn, her lack of sleep catching up with her. She wondered if she would have made the same inane comment even fully rested, and she concluded she would. She didn't do well when stressed on a normal basis, and this was certainly out of the ordinary.

Marina sent her a discreet, bewildered look before rushing in to assure Colin, who'd also given Penelope a strange stare.

"That is untrue. I love tomatoes."

Penelope's mouth was just going now like a runaway carriage, unable to stop as it throttled past common sense and headed straight to disaster.

"Colin, you know where I have heard you can get excellent tomatoes? Greece!" Penelope said, a little desperately. She realized her voice was taking on an unattractive whiny, almost petulant edge but zounds, she couldn't stop herself. "Perhaps you could bring back a tomato plant for Miss Thompson as a souvenir when you return from your travels this year."

While Marina turned towards Penelope again, incredulous, Colin barely spared her a glance. And, oh, that was so much worse.

"I am uncertain of my travels at the moment, Pen," Colin said, rather tightly.

"But you were so keen to travel," Penelope pressed, stepping forward. She knew she was acting silly, childish even in her efforts, but why couldn't Colin see? He was usually so smart. His observations keen, his retorts witty. And yet, all he saw was Marina's charm and beauty, enveloping him in a haze of infatuation, maybe even lo–

Penelope could not even think it without feeling like her heart was breaking. She glanced over at her mother in the corner, completely blind and inattentive to the exchange. Penelope could not help but wonder whether it was simply because she, her mother's youngest and most inconsequential daughter, was part of the display.

"It is true," Colin admitted. "But, were I to go, there may be things in London I should miss even more than seeing the world." Colin never took his besotted gaze away from Marina, and Penelope saw Marina preen from the insinuation, the idea that her plan was working. Marina had chosen the kindest, amiable, and most caring of the eligible bachelors of the ton. Colin, Penelope knew, was a charmer, but he was also someone who liked to take care of people and things at his core. Like his brothers, especially Benedict, Colin did not care to see vulnerable people misused.

It was like Colin sensed that Marina needed him, or someone like him to save her without her even having said anything.

It was a boon to him, in a way, and made her love him all the more. But Marina… How was she meant to feel about Marina now?

Realizing with her half-delirious, distraught brain she was going to get nowhere during this call, Penelope sequestered her mother into the hall while Colin was offered tea. She eyed them again as they sat next to one another on the sofa before, braver than usual, approaching her hawk-like mother.

"Mama? Do you think this is wise?" Penelope asked, as calmly, demurely, as she could.

"Whatever do you mean?" Lady Featherington asked, looking down her nose at her youngest daughter.

It was not disdain on her face. Penelope believed, and maybe it was foolish to do so, that her mother did love her deep within the depths of her heart. But her love was a prickly, almost poisonous thing, quicker to sting than to soothe. Lady Portia Featherington was the type to think that cruelty was kinder in the end, for it prepared her daughters for the realities of a harsh world. Penelope still wasn't sure if that had been the right choice.

"Colin is young, years from seriously thinking about marriage," Penelope continued, trying to make the argument as rational and logical as she could. Her mother, despite what many people thought, appreciated cold facts, rather than speculation based on feeling. "I would hate to think Marina is simply wasting her time, time she simply does not have, of course. That is all."

Her mother actually seemed to ponder this, turn it over in her head. Even when Penelope was dismissed, she thought it quite possible that she'd gotten through to her mother. She didn't want Marina to end up with Lord Rutledge, truly she did not. But Colin–

Penelope rushed to her room and collapsed into the wooden chair at her mahogany writing desk, more of a comfort than even her own bed. She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and just let herself feel the textured piece, trying to find some sort of serenity. But it never came, as all that she thought had been so clear, straightforward, was now muddled and complicated. The one family member she could count on, who had been kind to and defended her, planned on tricking the man she loved into a marriage under false pretenses. How was she meant to feel about that? When it had been any other available man, Penelope had been sympathetic to Marina's plight. Yet now that it was Colin, the situation had been flipped on its head.

She knew in the dark depths of her heart that a great deal of this was due to jealousy. Unlike the beginning of the season when Colin could have been written off as a mere flirt, his courtship of Marina appeared to be turning quite serious now. Especially if he was considering forgoing his Grand Tour. A Grand Tour was incredibly difficult to organize these days, especially with the Continent thrown into war against Napoleon. The fact that the Viscount and the Dowager Viscountess had even given Colin permission to go had been astounding.

But he was throwing it away… Throwing it away on a woman who did not love him, who would force him to take care of a baby that would obviously not be his own.

But Penelope also tried to understand Marina's situation. She was thinking about the safety of her child. Without a secure marriage, Marina could be thrown out of society with no money or connections. Penelope would be able to do little to stop it and on top of it all her family's name would be dragged through the mud as well for being clear co-conspirators in Marina's plan.

Separately, she could think about her secret love and her dear cousin clearly.

But throw their names together; Colin and Marina, Marina and Colin…and all Penelope wanted to do was curl onto the floor and sob, retch, and tear her heart out for all the good it did her. It appeared while love did exist, it never went to plan. Her mother and father, in a marriage with three daughters born from obligation, not love. For surely, if her father had held even a modicum of love for them he would not have squandered their very livelihood. Daphne had Hastings, but at what cost to herself and reputation if the wedding didn't go over smoothly? Marina had been rejected by Sir George and in her spurned state, was aiming to use any means necessary to secure her child's safety. Colin, with all of his affection for Marina now, could not be guaranteed to hold it if he were to marry Marina and find he had been duped.

And Penelope?

She possessed no one's heart, but, then again, her heart has never been her own. Torn this way and that between first love, friendship, and duty… If she had known this was to be the consequences of entering polite society, she would've run away from the start.

It was with this in mind that Penelope began to write. The brief column she'd written that morning to be published had been heralded as a special edition to announce the Duke of Hastings and Daphne's upcoming nuptials. She still had to write the "real" column, one that would entail all of the gossip and drama from the Trowbridge Ball. There would need to be something. Either a story that could overshadow the jilting of the Prince (for that was indeed what it was, there was no way around it), or provide some sort of reasonable excuse. Her earlier column had hinted at chemistry and love between Daphne and Hastings that could not be thwarted. The story had to be solidified in the minds of the ton for the wedding to go off without a hitch.

So Penelope wrote and wrote, letting the ink take up every available space on the page. She gave praise to Lady Trowbridge's lavish, in some ways obscene, ball, throwing the barest description of her child and his flaming red hair (she felt no need to mention the footman. It was enough of a hint without outright disgracing the widow and her child, for she did not want his legitimacy to be questioned). Penelope talked of Cressida Cowper's vain attempts to steal back Prince Friedrich's attentions, then reported on Marina's dances with Lord Rutledge and Colin (not much choice there). After dithering a bit about her mother's atrocious taste in gowns, and even the bewildering calling off of Philippa's courtship (Penelope wrote this angrily, her quill stabbing the page, nearly blotting out the words. She hoped, she prayed, it shamed her father), until finally she painted the Duke of Hastings as the dashing hero who swooped in and claimed his undying love for Daphne. Who could resist such a proclamation? Surely no swooning young debutantes and mamas at least. Plus, it was the story that Daphne and her betrothed would have to sell.

With a trembling flourish, Penelope finished and carefully blew on the ink to speed the drying process. She hurried to her window, intending to put flowers in but cursed. Her latest batch she had bought herself had died and been thrown out it seemed. If she was lucky, maybe Benedict was still sleeping in his room at Bridgerton House. Though, she winced as she checked the clock along her fireplace mantle, it was now nearly six in the evening. She'd been so wrapped up in her wallowing and writing she'd completely lost track of time.

Benedict would surely be out by now, whether at the gentleman's club or some other engagement. Penelope had already begged off any social event her parents had said yes to that evening. Luckily her mother, in her single-minded focus to see Marina wed before the baby began to grow much more in Marina's belly, easily dismissed Penelope completely and allowed her to stay in.

Surely… Surely delivering one column without Benedict's help couldn't hurt? Penelope would be as quick as a flash in her disguise, and while her usual driver, Evans, had been used to transport her family to Almack's or Vauxhall or wherever her family was going that night, she could take a hired hack again. It wasn't hard, and there were plenty to be found in Mayfair and in Bloomsbury. As long as she kept her head down, she would be fine.

Penelope knew she had already decided. She was incredibly stubborn, especially when she was weary and shattered. She was positive it must be some sort of defense mechanism to ensure no harm would befall her. It was amazing how swiftly she'd donned her plainest (and favorite) day dress, as it was not so gaudy, and was at least an acceptable dusky pink rather than an outlandish orange or yellow. Over it she donned her blue lady's maid cloak, along with plain, white gloves that only went up to her wrist. With her column tucked safely in her bosom, she fled out the back of the house, glancing at her now cherished bunch of wildflowers on the way out before she fled into the early evening. She turned and scurried to Mount Street before flagging down a hackney and giving her destination.

Yes, it would be fine. She'd be in and out before anyone noticed.

Benedict noticed. Of course he did.

He'd gotten just enough rest that afternoon to regain some of his better senses, including his sharper eyesight and the use of his intelligence. He also, even when deprived of slumber, could now recognize that blue lady's maid cloak anywhere.

He'd been enjoying his evening stroll to Henry Granville's residence in Bloomsbury, having decided to walk half the way. It was a rare, balmy spring evening and as the sun had descended beyond the reaches of London's brick and stone buildings, he'd spotted her across the street, trying to hail a hackney.

Alone.

It was the glimpse of the pale face with the pert nose and bright sky blue eyes that had clinched it. At least she had done a fair job of hiding the tell-tale Featherington red hair but, damn it, was she trying to send him to an early grave? She was young, alone, and a woman. Even with her disguise, it was these three traits alone that would make her a target to less than honorable men. The mere thought of someone trying to take advantage of Penelope set his teeth on edge and made his blood boil. It was horrendous, uncouth, what some men did to women. Benedict had four sisters after all, and he could not go by one day without fearing for their safety.

How could she do this a mere day after what had happened to Daphne? Did she not understand the possible consequences? She would be considered lucky if she was caught in a situation where she was only forced to marry. But in this area of town, she could be used and abused without the slightest thought to her welfare, thrown to the curb. With the type of family she possessed, it was likely the Featheringtons wouldn't hesitate to ship her off to the country, never to be seen again.

He felt his fingers curl into fists.

Before he was truly aware, his feet moved across the street. Soon, he loomed over her and he could've sworn his expression must've been as menacing as Anthony's on a good day, because Penelope actually jumped back, startled. It took her a moment to recognize him, and the moment she did, her pale complexion became absolutely pallid.

Good , Benedict thought. He knew it was petulant, even cruel. But she should have been scared. Fear of retribution was what kept them safe.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he hissed, grabbing her wrist without hesitation as he began to haul her across the street, dodging carriages and carts on their way.

"B-Benedict," she squeaked. "I-I can explain."

"Oh, you very much will!" As soon as they reached the paved sidewalk he drew her close, her covered wrist held against his breast as he breathed heavily, blue-green eyes boiling. "Because this is now the third time you have put yourself in danger against my advice. I am not even counting the first two times I caught you in Bloomsbury alone. Those were forgivable in your tenacity and ambition. But now…this is just reckless!"

Penelope shrank away from him, cowed under his gaze, and Benedict realized that she'd never really done that before.

He was scaring her.

And though a dark, horrible and vindictive part of him reveled in it, the rest of him felt suddenly ashamed.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose before releasing the air like he was spouting water from his mouth. He tried to will his pulse to slow, to regain his sense of self, to reach for his gentleness and pull–

"I am sorry," he breathed, opening his eyes and releasing his harsh grip on her wrist. Instead, he gently pressed his flat palm to the back of her hand and pressed it against his heart. "I should not have lost my temper. But please, Penelope. You are giving me a heart attack. Anything could have happened to you. Why did you not call upon me?"

Penelope squirmed uncomfortably under his stare and it was then he noticed the purple-blue circles under her eyes and the way she swayed unsteadily. The clear blue color of her irises brightened under a glassy sheen.

"You were not home," she said simply. "And I had to– To ensure Daphne and the Duke's story rang true, that it was love… I had to write a more fully-fleshed article. To boost their claim and possibly draw attention away from them by highlighting other gossip. I… I have been muddled all day, Benedict. I just thought I could get the job done this once without bothering you."

Benedict felt himself soften like chocolate in the warm sun. Running fingers through his hair, he couldn't help but sigh, keeping Penelope's hand on his chest.

"You have not slept, have you?"

Penelope shook her head.

"Well, I am not sending you home alone in a hack," Benedict said firmly. "But I will not be missing out on a good time either. I had plans, you know!"

He clucked his tongue at her, looping her arm through his own and walking her down the street.

"Oh, Benedict. I am sor–"

"No," Benedict said, holding up a finger to silence her, tweaking her nose with his free hand. "I will think of some momentous, lavish, incredibly heartfelt grand gesture you can do for me later. For now I am keeping my eye on you! But I will not sacrifice my frivolity to do it!"

With that, he quickly led her up the stairs to the stoop of a nice townhouse and knocked upon the door.

Mister Henry Granville opened the door with a casual smile. One which, Benedict noticed, strangely only widened upon seeing the rather put out looking Penelope Featherington. Benedict observed Henry's eyes analyze her, lingering on the blue cloak meant for a maid.

"Ah, Bridgerton! I am glad you made it. But to what do we owe the pleasure of this other guest? All are welcome, of course."

"I found this little bird outside the confines of her gilded cage," Benedict said, directing his best attempt at an admonishing glance at Penelope. She shot him a flat, banal look in return. "Flying around with no regard to what hunters lurk in the dark. She is an artist too… Of a sort."

"Ah," Henry regarded Penelope with open curiosity, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You are one of Lady Portia Featherington's doves are you not?"

Penelope actually snorted.

"Less a dove, more a chick at the peck and call of a tyrannical mother hen," Penelope bit out before she could stop herself. There was a pause in which Benedict could tell that Penelope had started to curl in on herself most likely afraid she had horribly misstepped. She had become too used to speaking her mind in front of him, and yet Benedict found himself with no desire to correct her.

Henry broke out into a roar of laughter and Benedict's mouth twitched unwillingly into a grin.

"A writer then! How marvelous, I do so enjoy them. Come in, you two. Come in."

They entered the abode, Penelope lowering her hood in order to marvel at the artwork that lined the walls and the marble busts that sat proud and regal on various decorative columns. As they headed further down the hall, Benedict heard the muffled chatter of the artists as they worked on their drawings based on the models Henry had hired. It was with a light pinkening of his cheeks he realized that those models would most likely be the very same as they were last time– completely nude.

"Uh, Penelope–" Benedict started, but Henry interrupted with a playful grin.

"On a first name basis with our feathered writer, are we?" Henry asked, eyes alight with mischief. "Something you must share?"

Benedict felt a flush creep up his chest. Another mistake: He and Penelope had allowed themselves to be too informal, though he doubted Henry would really care. Before Benedict could answer, Penelope huffed a small laugh, and Benedict could've sworn it was partially self-deprecating.

"Mister Granville, Benedict is my friend at best and sees me as an extension of his little sister at worst." She said all of this with ease, quite confident in her assessment. "I have no doubt that Benedict's lovers are of great beauty."

Benedict's ears grew hot, not only at the implication of what his lovers were but what Penelope wasn't.

"Penelope–"

But Henry interrupted again, his brows furrowed but his eyes crinkled in kindness as he spoke to Penelope.

"Well, great friends are hard to come by. And I have no doubt that Benedict would only allow a very great friend to come to this little soiree with him." Henry turned and continued to guide them down the hall. "I must warn you, Miss Penelope, you might find the state of the models shocking to your sensibilities. It is very intimate and a tad avant-garde."

Penelope's nose wrinkled for a moment before her brow smoothed in understanding.

"Ah, well," she gave a nervous smile, and Benedict instinctively gripped her elbow. "Technically nothing I have not seen before. I received ample instruction on anatomy."

"Have you now?" Henry asked, turning his head again, his eyes flickering between the two of them. Benedict thought he would sink into the floor or be sucked into the adjacent wall. Or he could just die. That would be fine. He could feel heat radiate off Penelope beside him.

"O-oh! I mean– that is– not– Benedict only helped– No! I mean, he did but it was not– he made sketches–"

Benedict, boldly and without much thought, clasped his hand over her mouth. She let out a little mmph of surprise, much to Henry's very obvious delight. He laughed heartily as he finally ushered them into the candlelit room, windows open, artists gathered in a semi-circle sketching the two models. It was a male and a female this time, locked in an embrace. Both models faced forward but the man had one powerful arm wrapped around the woman's curvy waste and the other crossed across her chest, his fingers locked upon her shoulder. Her eyes were closed and turned away from him as her head rested upon his chest, long black hair falling in waves between their bodies.

They were, as Benedict predicted, stark naked.

To Penelope's credit, while the apples of her cheeks flared pink, she said nothing as Henry led them over to two available easels in the corner. Henry reached out his hands in offering to Penelope, silently indicating her cloak. Tentatively she removed it and handed it to Henry to put away. Benedict was taken aback. Along with her looser curls (thank the heavens he'd made sure to compliment them at Vauxhall so she was no longer forced to look like a poodle) she wore a dusky pink muslin dress with absolutely no special adornments whatsoever. It must have been one of the rare gowns that she had a say in, and Benedict had to admit she appeared more comfortable in her skin, more like the woman she was expected to be rather than the half-girl she was.

"Thank you, Mister Granville," Penelope said. She bit the inside of her cheek in that way that instantly told Benedict she was deciding on whether to ask a question when she glanced at the drawing paper set up on the easel. Benedict had already sat on his stool and in the process of removing his cloak. "I fear I have no real propensity for drawing, however."

"Oh, dear, no! I do not expect you to draw," Mister Granville chuckled. "I quite expect you to write! You are a writer, are you not?"

"W-write?" Penelope stuttered, taken aback.

"Why yes. Why not? These models here," he waved an airy hand at the figures frozen in their embrace. "We doodlers draw what we see. If we have imagination we may create a landscape around them, some sort of scene frozen in time. But you! You could write a poem, a scene, a chapter, a whole novel inspired by this one moment!"

Henry smiled indulgently before nodding at the piece of twine-wrapped graphite on the easel's ledge. "Is that not exciting, Miss Penelope, that you can twist and turn this pose any which way you want?"

Penelope stared, her cupid's bow lips parted a little in awe before turning to study, really analyze, the models before her. Without a word she sat down, picked up the graphite and clutching the wooden edge of the easel in her left hand to steady herself, began to write. Henry and Benedict grinned, and Benedict met Henry's gaze and mouthed, "Thank you." Henry simply shrugged it off good-naturedly. Around the semi-circle, the group conversed quite happily. The same woman from before offered Benedict her cigarillo again before picking up a glass of red wine from the side table and sauntering over to Penelope, handing it out to her. Penelope glanced up a little shyly but accepted the drink as the woman inquired about Penelope's work.

"I'm Bess," the woman smiled, charmingly crooked canines peeking from beneath her upper lip.

"Penelope."

"Do ya' think it's a love story?" Bess asked, peering between the sentences Penelope had constructed so far and the models.

"Yes," Penelope said, tilting her head to get a better look. Benedict was trying to draw exactly how the man's grip at the woman's waist indented the plush skin. "I do not know if it ends tragically or happily yet, though I think the embrace is tragic."

"What makes ya' say that?" Bess studied the models again, squinting her eyes as if to parse out an expression or angle she hadn't caught. "I was going for carnal m'self, like he needs to possess her, every inch of her."

"But is that not tragic in its own way?" Penelope wondered, and Benedict's ears pricked up. "What if she had no say? No way of knowing that he plans on keeping her forever, with no knowledge of his true self? Or what if this is just one last embrace before they part?"

"On the other hand," Bess pressed, "What if this is their first time after surrendering to their desires? What if they're overcome by the passion of finally being in each other's embrace after a long time without?"

Penelope nodded slowly and Benedict could almost hear the cogs in her mind turning as she attempted to dissect their expressions.

"I hope so. It would be nice to write something that ends well."

Bess and Penelope talked for a few more minutes before the artist returned to her work. Benedict was working on smudging some graphite to create the shadow across the woman's torso, tongue peeking out from between his lips.

"That looks wonderful, Benedict!"

Benedict blushed for what felt like the tenth time that evening, his skin growing hot around his cheekbones.

"I– the shading could be better, and I am still working on the lines–"

"Benedict," Penelope said, tilting her chin down and peering at him through her lashes as he was the one in need of a scolding that night. "Take the compliment."

Benedict huffed, rolling his eyes and leaning over to playfully smudge graphite across her cheek. She attempted to swat his wrist away but failed as he successfully smeared gray across the apple of her cheek.

"Henry said the same last time I was here," Benedict confessed, settling back into his seat to smile a little shyly.

"I knew Mister Granville was intelligent," Penelope remarked, frowning at a phrase she'd just written and crossing out a word.

Benedict's lips tilted upwards in an almost bashful smile. He felt nearly compelled to admit that it had been nice, wonderful even, for someone as talented and worldly as Henry to compliment his work no matter how small. It was much more than Benedict had ever dreamed of doing or achieving before, alone in his room, constantly sketching before furiously ripping the mess of lines and shadow from his sketchbook and tossing it in the fire. Henry was starting to help Benedict see his lines more clearly, his shadows as purposeful rather than random or wrong, and there was a new, wonderful way he could sit back straight and look at what he produced with a little more confidence.

"He is," Benedict agreed before reaching out, graphite still tucked between middle and forefinger, to gently tuck a stray curl behind Penelope's ear. "Henry's even promised to help me with various painting techniques. Teaching me the value of underpainting or the use of chiaroscuro . I am really interested in alla prima …"

He trailed off slightly when he noticed Penelope had a rather odd expression on her face. In the dim light, the purple bruising from lack of sleep around the soft skin of her eyes wasn't as obvious; but nothing could disguise the sag of her shoulders, the faint sallowness to her cheeks, or how she'd occasionally, in a moment of absent thought, close her eyes and nearly fell off her stool until she recovered her equilibrium. But, more than anything, there was something inexplicably heavy and troubling pulling her down and if Benedict did not pinpoint the problem soon, Eloise would never forgive him. Quite frankly, Benedict would never forgive himself.

"Penelope," he soothed, setting his twine-wrapped graphite down onto the wooden easel's ledge. "What really happened today? You have clearly not slept. In fact, I very much doubt you have even supped." Swiveling on his stool, he reached out to grasp her hand tenderly in his own. It didn't feel so improper within these walls, so dangerous to grab a young girl's hand who needed his comfort and protection. Not that he obeyed many bounds of propriety with Penelope when it was just them and Eloise, but at least in this room it seemed normal. All Benedict was doing was comforting a dear friend and that would never be put into question. Nothing more would be demanded of him. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb, her skin incredibly soft like rubbing against silken sheets. "Penelope, surely you must know by now you may confide in me. Surely I have proven myself to be a stalwart protector and most loyal of secret keepers."

Penelope peered up at him then, and while he did not wring the giggle he had hoped for, it meant so much that she was looking up at him with her watery blue eyes.

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for only a moment, gripping his large hand between her tiny fingers. When she met his gaze again she said, voice quavering,

"You were right. My father has been gambling away all of our money."

Benedict felt as though someone had just shoved a boulder down his throat, landing with a horrible, leaden splash in his stomach.

"Papa has successfully gambled away our entire fortune," Penelope pushed on, her words tumbling out a little faster like a landslide gathering speed with no signs of stopping. "It is why he took Miss Thompson in. He owed her father money too, and the ledger stated if he took her in and found her a match that debt would be forgiven. But there are so many debts, Benedict. From the horse races, the boxing matches both legal and illegal, the cockfights, gambling hells, brothels…" It appeared as though Penelope was on the precipice of crying, yet not a tear fell. Benedict felt a strange emptiness in his chest at that. How sad, how hollow it must be to deny yourself the simplest of releases. "He even gambled away all of our dowries!"

Benedict's heart stopped dead in his chest.

What had it been… A mere 24 hours ago, less than that, when Anthony had been certain he may die and forced Benedict to swear above all else to protect their little sisters' dowries in order to ensure their future, their protection and livelihood? If there was one thing Benedict could not live with, could never forgive himself for, was to ruin any prospective endeavors or futures his sisters could take when they were limited in scope as they were. Was it not the sacrifice Daphne was making herself? Saving herself from scandal to protect the chances of her younger sisters' fortunes and matches? Anger, hot and red and bubbling, begged to explode from his skin.

"T-that villain did what?" Benedict's voice was no longer his own, deep and gravelly in a way he rarely heard. He felt her tiny fingers thread through his own and he was momentarily distracted when he realized she was clutching it to her soft belly, like one would do with a cherished childhood blanket or toy.

"I am not a fool, Benedict. I knew my chances on the marriage mart were small to begin with. I am not slim like my sisters or beautiful like yours." Benedict opened his mouth to say something, anything to dismantle her fears but Penelope kept going, unable to stop. "The only security and means to possibly tempt a man to marriage was my dowry and now I have none. I cannot use my Lady Whistledown funds, it would be too risky for my family to have knowledge of them. So I am…bereft of options, of choices. The only thing I work hard for, that I made the conscious choice to do, I must continue in secret." She bowed her body over their enjoined hands and Benedict could feel the softness of her, her warmth and sorrow enveloping his palm like a liquid tear embodied in a person. "I wish I could be you, Benedict. I so desperately wish I could be a man and take my time, do what I want creatively and have no worries on when to find a match. Even with no fortune I could risk it all on an occupation, or make money that my father would have no claim on. If I were a man–"

She stopped suddenly, her body still bent forward, her ember curls a curtain over her face. No one else existed in that room; not the artists, the models, or even Henry who Benedict noticed was standing a bit off to the side, pointedly making an effort not to look at them. But it was only Benedict and Penelope, and Benedict was at a sudden loss on how he could be of any assistance to the girl he swore to protect. The one man that was supposed to put her interest above his own, her father, was worth less than sewer rat. Yet it was still Baron Archibald Featherington who held the actual power in that family, and if he was determined to drag his daughters into destitution with him, he would.

"Penelope–"

Penelope sat up and his hand suddenly felt cold without the heat her body had provided. She carefully placed Benedict's palm back on his knee, patting his knuckles almost absentmindedly before returning to her easel. Plucking her graphite from the ledge she began to write again, her focus trained once more on the models.

"Tell me more of alla prima , Benedict. I have never heard of it before."

Benedict reeled, taken aback by her sudden change of topic.

"Penelope," he started and he found himself biting his lower lip, much like she did in times of nerves or stress. "Please, we must talk about this. Surely you know, I would never allow you to fall into disrepute. Eloise–"

"Tell me of alla prima ," Penelope repeated.

"Penelope, we must discuss–"

"No, Benedict."

The way she said his name, as if her very voice was tearing at the seams, broke something inside him.

"Benedict, please," she said weakly as she continued to write. "Please, talk of something else. Something happy. Tell me about alla prima ."

As she wrote upon the page, a story Benedict would no doubt find tragic yet lovely, he picked up his own graphite and worked on the curve of the female model's stomach as he began. Her frantic scribbling made him stare at her for a long moment and, for reasons unknown, he imagined her as Ariadne. Lovely Ariadne, spinning her ball of thread for her lover Theseus as she sought to defy her father. It was an image that overtook him for a moment, unsure as to why…

But if she could spin a story for her comfort, for her distraction…then so could he.

" Alla prima means 'wet-on-wet.' Essentially, you apply wet paint to the first layer of paint before it dries so you can mix and blend colors–"

"Is she alright?"

Benedict turned to see Henry staring kindly at Penelope a little ways ahead of them in the hallway as she shrugged on her cloak.

"I–" Benedict swallowed. "I will try to ensure she will be."

"Is it just you and your sister then? Who are her friends?"

Benedict pondered this for a moment. He was honestly quite sure that the Bridgertons were the only people in the whole of London who called themselves Penelope Featherington's friends and that stung more than he thought it would.

"My other brother, Colin, would also name Penelope a dear friend. But she does not have many companions. People can be quite…"

"Cruel," Henry said, nodding in understanding. "Rest assured, she will make others soon. She is growing into herself. True friendships usually follow."

Benedict only nodded, though was unsure of the truth of it. When Benedict thought of the many flimsy birds of the ton, his nose wrinkled and he was tempted to scoff. None of those flighty ladies really had the qualities that would make a good friend for Penelope. Only his sisters so far had met such requirements, but Eloise could not be with Penelope all of the time since she had not yet debuted.

"Will you be coming to the party tomorrow night?" Henry asked instead in a low voice as they drew closer to Penelope, waiting patiently by the door. "Your Penelope is more than welcome to join."

Benedict frowned, unnerved for some reason.

"I have a feeling such a party is not as tame as this gathering," Benedict said. "Tonight worked out, but Penelope is a lady of good breeding despite her parents' efforts for it to be otherwise. I could not in good conscience bring her."

Henry hummed, giving a little smile and wave to Penelope who, Benedict was gladdened to see, brightly waved back.

"Then another conscience is required."

"What?"

"Pay no heed to my ramblings, Benedict. It will do you no good." Henry patted Benedict's shoulder heartily before taking Penelope's hand and laying a gentle kiss upon her fingers. "Goodnight, Miss Penelope. I am sure I will see you soon."

Benedict left with Penelope on his arm, more than a little confused about the exchange.

Penelope was shocked the next mid-morning after finally obtaining some sleep, to receive an invitation from Missus Lucy Granville for tea later that afternoon. The calling card was white, crisp, and beautifully embossed. No one was as stunned as her mother when Penelope showed her the invitation, asking if she could take one of the carriages and go with a lady's maid.

"What would she want to do with you?" her mother asked, imperiously drawn eyebrows raised.

Penelope let the comment slide off her back like water from a duck. She was too used to such remarks by now.

"I talked briefly to Missus Granville and her husband, the artist, at Somerset House during the exhibition," Penelope lied quickly. "I guess she must have taken a liking to me. May I please go, Mama? I doubt I will be missed on the promenade today."

Lady Featherington briefly mulled this over before letting out a sigh, as if she was being incredibly magnanimous for even entertaining Penelope's request.

"Very well, then. It does not hurt to make connections. I believe she has a male cousin or two who is unattached. Enquire after them for Prudence. I have my hands full with Miss Thompson."

With that, Penelope's mother shuffled away, leaving Penelope feeling oddly cold.

Penelope arrived at the Granville's residence again, a mere twelve or so hours from when she had departed its threshold. She'd brought no lady's maid, despite what she'd told her mother. Penelope had a gut feeling that it was wiser not to, not for this place. The less servants, no matter how loyal, the better.

Her suspicions were proven correct when Penelope's knock was answered not by a servant, but by a lady with dark black curls pinned to her head, light brown skin, and dark brown eyes. She wore a royal purple dress with no gloves. Her pointed nose and direct stare made Penelope feel as if she was being mentally dissected, assessed in order to determine whether she was friend or foe.

By the slow smile that spread across her face, Penelope gathered she'd passed the test.

"You must be the Miss Penelope that my Henry has told me so much about," the woman, who Penelope assumed to be Lucy Granville, said. "The little writer. He is quite excited about you. Insisted you would fit right in with me and my fellow ladies. And I must say, his instinct appears to be correct. The fact you brought no servant with you already tells me you're shrewd. I like quick learners."

Lucy stepped aside to allow Penelope inside the townhome.

"Thank you for inviting me," Penelope said, biting her cheek as she stepped into the hall lined with paintings and sculptures every which way. "Though, I must say, I am not sure Mister Granville gave an accurate account of me. I am not particularly interesting."

Lucy laughed heartily, the sound much like a magpie's raspy chatter, yet it sounded near musical coming from the woman.

"It is exactly because you said that I know my Henry was right. He told me you would attempt to downplay yourself. But he read your short story last night. I hope you do not mind, he shared its contents with me."

Penelope blushed furiously. She forgot that in her mental state, absolutely shattered as she was, she'd left the story there upon the easel. As if sensing her rising embarrassment, Lucy entwined their arms and said, very gently, "It was incredible, despite its tragic nature. I particularly adored the ending where she perished on her own terms, even after scorning love. There is something to say about a woman who chooses her own path, even if it is not what she first dreamed of."

Penelope could not help but beam with pride as Lucy led her down a hall, past the room Penelope now knew was used for Henry's artist gatherings, and to a slightly more private sitting room. The room was decorated in rich, dark velvets; burgundies, purples, and greens. In the middle sat an embroidered sofa along with a long chaise lounge, and a chair or two. Almost every seat was full with various women, two Penelope recognized immediately. Sitting next to each other were the modiste, Genevieve Delacroix, and the soprano, Siena Rosso. Both were beautiful in their casual dresses, mostly dark colors that were not fashionable with high society but that Penelope thought were much lovelier.

Penelope tried not to wince when she saw Genevieve stiffen slightly at the sight of her and, looking around the room, Penelope gathered that besides Lucy and maybe one other woman, she was one of the only members of the ton here. Lucy sensed this as well and said,

"Henry has vouched for Penelope Featherington and I believe my husband to be a good judge of character. Do you not agree?"

"Oh of women, yes, a great judge of character," one woman chortled, her dark blonde hair titled and secure up in a bun. Her well-worn but lovingly stitched emerald dress was tight around the bodice, lifting up her ample breasts. Penelope noted that the woman was actually around Penelope's size, full-bodied and thick, just an inch or two taller. "But I think with men he does have a habit of judging the book by its cover."

The women shrieked with laughter, even Lucy, and Penelope felt just a little out of her depth. Before she could puzzle over it for too long, Lucy bustled Penelope over to sit in-between Siena and the dark blonde woman, Genevieve watching Penelope carefully from Siena's other side. The woman who had made the quip about Mister Granville was the first to stick out her hand for a shake.

"No fancy protocols here," she said jovially as Penelope took her hand, small like hers but hard with callouses. "Charlotte Addams. Like the Queen, but definitely more fun than that snooty cow. Pleased to meet 'ya!"

"Oh, um, Penelope Featherington."

"Oh, I know," Charlotte said with a wink. "Your father frequents the establishment enough. And I don't mind telling 'ya I've never had dealings with him, or else I wouldn't be able to look 'ya in the eye!" Charlotte seemed to rethink this a moment, tapping her chin as Penelope struggled with the swirl of feelings surrounding her father upsetting her stomach. She realized she was most definitely talking to a prostitute and, for some reason she was quite proud of, it didn't bother her much. "Mind you, I did have dealings with a husband and wife once, neither of which knew I was seeing the pair of them separately. Handled that alrigh'."

"Maybe it would help Mama loosen up a bit," Penelope found herself saying, unsure where the courage came from. "If they both saw the same woman, I think that is the closest they would come to warming the same bed for eighteen years."

This got an unexpected guffaw from not only Charlotte, but Genevieve and Siena as well.

"I may have been wrong about ya'," Genevieve said, and Penelope realized the modiste was talking with a very specific London accent. "If you can recognize your own mother as the witch she is, you must have some sense."

"Mind you, I shan't trust you fully," Siena chimed in, and Penelope noticed there was a strange anguish about her eyes, tired in a way that did not speak to lack of sleep. "Your lot are flighty, jumping from bed to bed or entertainment to entertainment with nothing of substance to hold you firm. But it does not mean I cannot grow fond of you."

Penelope took that as the backhanded compliment it was before Lucy said,

"Now, with Penelope's permission, we can get our soiree started today. I thought with a writer now in our midst, we could talk of various pieces, starting with Penelope's own short story if she'll allow us!"

Lucy held out a carefully folded bit of parchment, rather large as it had been on an easel hours before.

"Indulge us, Penelope. We must hear the story in your own voice!"

Penelope blushed furiously, her sudden penchant for wit fleeing at the sign of attention.

"I-I… That is, it is not good–"

"Spare us such insecurities," Siena said, snatching the parchment from Lucy's grasp to wave it in Penelope's face. "It gets one nowhere. No, if you want to improve you need an audience! That was the only way I learned, to practice before others!"

"What Si is trying to say," Genevieve said. "Is we are constructive critics. We are not the birds of your pastel colored ton who peck at one another for sport. If we have something to say, it is because we mean it. And nothing leaves these sacred walls. Not our faults or troubles, or any of our secrets." Genevieve eyes Penelope meaningfully and she understood that if she was to repeat anything she learned here, she wouldn't be allowed back.

Something tangled and tight in Penelope's chest unwound, loosened in a way that let her breathe smoothly for the first time. It also meant that whatever Penelope did or said was safe here, protected by Lucy's extension of friendship. Titles were done away with, only given names used. It was an intimacy Penelope had never been offered by other women who were not Eloise before.

With slightly trembling hands, Penelope took the parchment, carefully unfolding it and smoothing out the creases in her lap. She held the story up, inhaled, and began to read.

Benedict arrived at Henry's door close to eleven o'clock that night, the streets dark and cool. Society was still very much awake, only finishing with their first events of the evening. Daphne's wedding was but a few days away and yet the air of Bridgerton House was thick with Daphne's resignation rather than her happiness. As Daphne had gone to bed, Benedict had made a hasty exit. It was a coward's move, he knew this, but his sister's struggle weighed upon him. He needed release, he needed fun, and he needed to forget.

"Bridgerton!" Henry exclaimed. "I am so glad you came."

"I dare not miss it," Benedict said, stepping into the abode as Henry led him down the hall. The rooms were suddenly filled with people, many of whom were in various states of drunkenness, amorous encounters, or both. Benedict suddenly felt very overdressed and like he was dipping his toes into uncharted waters.

"Please, come in. Make yourself at home. I would show you around, but host duty calls," Henry said, throwing him a playful wink before disappearing into the crowd.

Benedict marveled at the party, at this hedonistic world around him where this form of debauchery, the seeking of pleasure and those who sought it were not judged. The ton had its own pleasurable pursuits of course, high-end brothels, gambling hells, animal baiting, and various other establishments desires could be bought for near any price. But this was an intermingling of people and class Benedict had not participated in before. Men in corsets and braided wigs, women in suits, people naked as they fucked upon the stairs, opera singers dancing, even poets attempting to sing. It was almost too much to take in.

"What are you doing here?"

Benedict turned around to see a gorgeous, alluring woman trussed up in a black corset, dainty French cigarette holder in hand, smoke drifting from the end. She had glossy black curls, a beauty mark over her impossibly full lips. She was mature and more regal than any women he'd seen among the bright colors and fancies of the ton, excepting Lady Danbury. In fact, Benedict thought, he wondered if Lady Danbury had been much like this woman when she was young.

"Apologies. Have we met?" Benedict asked, licking his lips as he took in her figure, ravishing her body with only his eyes.

"We do not need to have met. You are a Bridgerton, yes?" the woman asked, rather unimpressed.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Benedict said and he knew it was a dumb line as soon as he uttered the words, but it did not matter. He wanted distraction, he wanted pleasure and he was quite sure that the woman before him could meet his needs.

"Not exactly a virtue," she said, it was almost a sneer and yet Benedict felt his breeches grow tight. Oh, she could admonish him any time and he had a feeling he would be quite alright with that.

"Anything that gets me your attention is a good thing, I rather think." Benedict sounded much like a puppy begging for his master's attention. He was reminded a bit of his actions when he had made it his mission to follow Lady Danbury around in his youth, cocksure that she would discover that he was a man who could give what she needed. Benedict often found that he could be rather full of himself around women. While modest about his art, he was not when it came to his own body.

"You should go. Home to your brother, perhaps."

"But I am receiving far too warm a welcome here."

The woman wandered away as he turned to explore, up the stairs and around corridors. Along the way he lost his jacket as he evaded couples in the throes of passion, grabbed a fruity concoction and drank it in one gulp, wandered through a haze of cloying smoke and sultry eyes.

Yes, this was exactly what he needed before Daphne's wedding. The weight of the decision his sister made lay heavy upon his heart. Though he knew how ridiculous that sounded when it was Daphne who actually had to deal with the fallout of the Duke's actions. But he couldn't stand watching his mother for another minute convince herself that Daphne was marrying for love, and in return see the pained expression on his sister's face as she perpetuated the lie.

He just couldn't. And he knew it was selfish.

In a flash, he thought of Penelope just the night before, bent over his hand, seeking comfort one moment then pushing it away the next. Could she sense that within him? The truth? That he was empathetic, yes, but often tried to push it away to seek his own escape?

He made a vow not to let that happen with Penelope or Eloise. His sister's fate was sealed, nothing to do about that. But he could and would help Penelope, once he drowned in pleasure, in forgetfulness, his own River Lethe.

He remembered – as he began to open doors, seeing some things as innocent as lively debates about the war against Napoleon amongst traders, an errant lord and what looked like a French Catholic nun, to rooms that were decidedly, steamily occupied – that Henry had invited Penelope to come along. Benedict was glad he had dismissed Henry's idea. Penelope, despite their friendship, was still a girl. Teaching her the realities of sex, taking her to an artists' gathering was one thing. But this?

No, surely the young girl would faint from shock. It was best she wasn't there.

He didn't want to think of her being pulled into one of these rooms anyways.

But it was as he opened another door that he caught a sight he'd never expected to see.

There were two men, locked in an embrace against a marble mantle. Both completely nude, one rutted furiously into the other, their moans and gasps of pleasure suddenly a roar in Benedict's ears. One of them looked back at him and it with a wave of shock that Benedict recognized it was Henry Granville fucking Lord Wetherby.

There was a flash of recognition in Henry's eyes before his attention was turned back to his lover and Benedict closed the door, processing what he'd just witnessed. He wasn't an idiot, he knew of men who took lovers of the same sex, frequented establishments whose clientele had very specific tastes. But it had never been a reality for him, held up right to his face until that moment.

He was distracted at the foot of the stairs when he heard someone loudly whisper,

"Bridgerton."

It was the woman from earlier, who he'd learned was called Genevieve, curling her finger and inviting him to the embrace of a settee and the arms of another dark-haired woman. Without thought, he fell into their embrace, kissing and touching and letting fire reign in his veins as he sipped the cool waters of the River Lethe from their lips.

Penelope hadn't intended to hear. She hadn't.

But of course, with the kind of luck she possessed, she'd heard everything from outside Marina's door.

"If I were to marry Mister Bridgerton, you would be connected to what I gather is a very powerful family, indeed. Think what that could do for your girls. Give me until Saturday. If I have not secured a proposal from Mister Bridgerton by then, I shall accept Lord Rutledge with a smile on my face."

Marina's voice was so calm, so assured, so calculating as she laid out her plan that Penelope could barely believe her own ears. Penelope had known, had seen, that Marina was going after Colin with the steadfastness and accuracy as Artemis on the hunt but this… To hear it so plainly, the plan to trap a man who was her friend, a good man who hadn't even gone on his Grand Tour yet, the man she loved so fully it felt like her heart might burst when she thought of him–

It hurt.

Penelope had never been sure what betrayal felt like, but this must have been close. It wasn't fully because Marina was stealing any chance Penelope had with Colin. Penelope knew those feelings were there, that jealousy and resentment. She couldn't deny them, they were so foul and bitter tasting in her mouth. But Marina had never known the candle she held for Colin Bridgerton, so despite her childishness, Penelope could not fully blame Marina for targeting him.

It was because she was fine with fooling, tricking an honest man into marriage. That she had no intention to tell Colin the truth.

Penelope had been fine, she admitted, with her mother and Marina's scheme when it had involved any other gentlemen. Marina needed to protect her child and herself, and the rest of the men of the ton in Penelope's eyes were mostly either daft fools or bullheaded imbeciles who would deserve it.

But Colin? Any of the Bridgertons?

No, Penelope could not bear it.

"My girl, you are six months away from motherhood, seven if you are lucky," Penelope heard her mother say, snapping her attention back to the matter at hand. "And even if a miracle were to occur, and Colin Bridgerton proposed tomorrow, the wedding wouldn't be for weeks."

"That is only assuming we wait until the wedding night to consummate the union," Marina said, and Penelope felt her heart drop into the acid of her stomach.

"You will seduce him?" Lady Featherington asked and Penelope could hear her mother calculating and testing the soundness of the plan in her head, weighing the pros and cons.

"I will do what I must," Marina answered.

Penelope knew, without a doubt, that Marina would.

Penelope secluded herself the rest of the day, alternating between sobbing into her pillows and hesitating near the handle of her door. What did she do? Did she confront Marina? Marina sounded so sure of herself, of her plan. And while Marina treated Penelope kindly, it was becoming more than clear Marina did not view Penelope exactly as a peer when it came to womanly pursuits. She had never fully explained how she'd gotten pregnant, Penelope had to team up with Eloise to beg Benedict for that knowledge. Marina also knew that Penelope was never asked to dance at balls, except for what was seen as pity dances by Colin, Benedict, and on one or two occasions, the Duke of Hastings.

No, Marina would not listen to her. At least, not directly.

She debated going down to the shops and putting flowers in her window, as to summon Benedict and Eloise to try and work out the problem. But…she couldn't. As much as she wanted their advice, she still held a thread of loyalty to Marina and her secret. If not Marina, it was the child in her belly that needed protecting. To make matters worse, the security of her own family's reputation was at stake. With no dowry to speak of, a fall from grace like this would shatter Penelope and her sisters' chances at marriage more than they already were.

So Penelope cried and cried until her eyes were too swollen to fully open anymore. She fell asleep exhausted.

When she awoke the next morning to find another invitation to Lucy's all-female salon, she felt her brain begin to work again. Nothing could ever leave the sanctity of those walls. Maybe, just maybe, if anyone could have advice, they would.

So with less fuss than before, Lady Featheirngton absentmindedly allowed Penelope to depart (though Penelope would have gone even without her mother's permission) and hurried over to Lucy's in the plainest yellow day dress she owned. Unfortunately, it wasn't much.

Ushered in and amongst the woman, Penelope observed more than she had the previous visit. She watched as fiery debates went on around her about art, the war, or worker's rights; arguments they could never be allowed with men and certainly not in public. She studied some of the women giggling and fluttering their eyelashes before they, hand in hand, disappeared out of the room. Others brought out art pieces they'd been working on. Genevieve actually brought out samples of designs inspired by the latest fashion in Paris (despite the war, the city did still aim to be fashionable) and everyone offered their constructive opinions.

Penelope felt that feeling again and something settled in her chest. She was safe here, amongst these women from all different experiences and walks of life.

She was safe.

"Penelope, dear?"

Penelope looked up to see the immediate women around her, Lucy, Charlotte, Genevieve, and Siena, staring at her curiously.

"What's the matter?" Charlotte asked bluntly. "Ever since you entered the room, there's been a cloud hangin' over 'ya."

Penelope shifted under their intent gazes but sighed.

"You must swear–"

"Yes, yes, we'll keep our pretty mouths shut and all that rot," Siena said, rolling her eyes before leaning in close. Penelope was taken aback. She was finding that Siena could be quite frank. "Come now, get it off your chest."

Penelope wrung her hands and chewed her lips before finally beginning.

"I know someone with child."

It fell out of her in much the way it had when she'd confessed to Benedict about how her father had put the family in debt. Penelope was careful to omit names so nothing could be directly pointed back to Marina, the Featheringtons, or Colin but she had the sneaking suspicion that at least one of the women saw through her attempts at secrecy.

"So, she plans on luring my… This nice man into marriage by seducing him. I know she must protect her baby, I do! But why him? Why this man?"

"I fear I cannot give good advice on this particular plight, none you shall like anyways," Siena said, crossing her arms and leaning back. "I currently am of the opinion that all men are swine, no matter how caring they appear to be. If she is to take him for all he is worth to protect herself, I see no issue."

Penelope gaped and Genevieve sighed, waving a dismissive hand.

"Pay her no mind, Penelope. Si is still very bitter about a man who did her wrong," Genevieve explained. "Are there truly no other options for the girl?"

"None that she sees," Penelope said forlornly.

"And trying to dispose of the babe isn't in the cards?" Charlotte asked bluntly.

Penelope found herself speechless again, before stuttering,

"O-Oh, I mean, not that I know of. I doubt… I don't know."

Charlotte sighed, patting Penelope's hand sympathetically.

"Done it once myself, when one bloke wasn't careful. It's…painful. But more common than you think. But I guess rich ones wouldn't consider it."

Penelope shrugged, unsure of what to say. She tried to convey her apologies by squeezing Charlotte's hand.

"You can't exactly blame the girl," Genevieve said softly. "It's a desperate situation."

"I know! But the man she's chosen he's… He's good. Truly good! He does not deserve to be tricked!"

Lucy eyed her pitifully, coming over to hug Penelope's shoulders.

"Penelope, unless you can sway her eye towards someone else, there's not much you can do short of telling the truth. That's a dangerous risk to take." Lucy leaned her mass of curls against Penelope's own, and something about the heaviness of Lucy's head against her own soothed the young redhead.

"How about this; I shall send word to your mother that I must have you over for dinner. We are having a party tonight. Stay awhile! Genevieve and Charlotte will dress you appropriately." All four women eyed Penelope's garish yellow gown, causing her to flush red again. "And you shall enjoy yourself. Forget your troubles! We might not have a solution, but distraction and friendship is certainly something we can offer."

Penelope found herself nodding. It would be nice to forget, even for just a while.

Benedict liked forgetting, lost in Genevieve's mouth and Lucy's hands. The give and take of lips at they sucked and nipped, hands as they roamed up the back of his shirt, nails scratching up his spine and pressing into his shoulder blades. It was beyond compare to let himself float with alcohol and lust, to not be kept grounded and weighed down with gravity's problems.

Until he felt Genevieve pull away and in a fond, admonishing, tone said,

"Now, Penelope, I thought we told you to stay in the music room with the bluestockings."

"You cannot invite me to a party and expect me to not explore!"

Benedict's eyes snapped open and he turned to see Penelope Featherington, with a pretty blush on her round face, eyeing them nervously as she talked to Genevieve.

Penelope Featherington.

At a party.

That was essentially an excuse for an orgy.

"What in the blazes–"

Benedict stood up quickly before remembering his very hard predicament. He awkwardly scrambled to snatch his coat from the floor, tying it off around his waist so the back of the coat covered the front of his breeches. Penelope cocked her head, bewildered, and for some reason that made Benedict all the more determined to whisk her away. He could feel Genevieve and Lucy's eyes on him as he grasped Penelope's upper arms, pulling her to him as if his body could shield her from the activity around them.

"Hello, Benedict," she grinned shyly, not really making eye contact with him. He realized she had just caught him in an amorous embrace with two women and he felt his whole body grow unbearably hot. If he hadn't been holding onto her, he'd have attempted to close the collar of his shirt, wide open and displaying his freckled chest.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, holding her tight against him. His sea blue eyes searched and flickered about the room as if to check for danger. "You should not be here– This is not a place–"

"I invited her," Lucy said in a quite superior voice from behind him. "Is that a problem?"

Benedict flinched at the edge in the woman's voice as he turned his glare upon her, determined to make his point. Penelope was a girl, a genteel lady, he had to protect her. This was no place–

He hadn't realized he'd been saying all of that aloud until Genevieve unashamedly slapped the back of his head, much to his chagrin.

"It is none of your business how Penelope became our friend, that is between us ladies," the modiste said, raising a superior eyebrow. "And she is entitled to some fun, just as much as you. We've dressed her for the part, look. She is no simpering highborn lady now."

Benedict took a step back and properly took Penelope in.

She was most certainly in a dress that did not belong to her. It was a dark navy velvet, plush and soft that wrapped around her body like a secret. The hem was a tad too long, and despite the longer sleeves that billowed and cuffed at her dainty wrists, it certainly matched the party more than the usual monstrosities her mother forced her in. It distracted Benedict briefly, how suddenly she just seemed to fit into the room around her, how a simple color change could make her more comfortable in her skin.

Without thinking, he tucked a curl behind her ear and tweaked her nose. Idly, he could feel eyes on him, burrowing into the back of his skull. But Penelope needed him, surely. Was that not what he'd sworn to do? Be there when she needed him?

But Penelope smiled at him before stepping out of his hold. He felt Genevieve and Lucy's hands back on him, sucking him down into carnal oblivion.

"I will be alright," Penelope said calmly, though she was biting her cheek. He could tell by how it hollowed slightly on one side. "I will not let a strange man pull me into a room, I promise."

Benedict almost bolted upright at that but Genevieve and Lucy held firm, pulling him back upon the sofa.

"She is alright, Bridgerton," Genevieve whispered into his ear before nibbling his earlobe. "Your girl is safe."

Benedict lost himself again, for a while at least, not even realizing he'd never refuted that Penelope was his.

As soon as Benedict was spent, satiated like a cat who got the cream, his mind cleared. He jumped up from the sofa, jostling Genevieve and Lucy as he went. Desperately grabbing his shirt and breeches he hastily made to pull them on, jumping on one foot as he struggled to find the proper hole to put his right leg in.

"What's the rush?" Lucy called lazily, lying on Genevieve's lap with her hooded gaze focused on him.

"I need to find Penelope," Benedict said hastily, finally getting his foot in the right hole.

Genevieve stared at him, assessing him with those dark, knowing eyes. He imagined she was taking him apart and piecing him together like any of her swaths of fabric.

"Penelope is fully grown, Bridgerton. And this is not one of your silly balls with stuffy expectations; Penelope does not need a chaperone."

"She needs– I swore," Benedict stuttered, becoming unexplainably frustrated. "Look, I just need to ensure she is alright."

With that he stalked off, going from room to room, looking for that vibrant shock of autumn fire tresses. It didn't take long before he found her in a small parlor, drinking wine and laughing with a woman with dark blonde hair. They appeared to be conversing about the state of the war and Benedict felt a tad... Odd. A bit foolish but also strangely proud. Genevieve had been right, she was alright. Look at her . Benedict leaned against the doorframe, contentedly watching as she drank and debated with abandon. She was growing up in a way, widening her scope. Benedict, a little full of himself, felt partially responsible.

Benedict grinned, a little silly and ridiculous. He was convinced, in some small way, she still needed him. He hadn't forgotten about her father's villainous behavior in robbing her family of everything, but they could sort that out later. After the wedding, when all was quiet. Let them forget just a little while longer.

Benedict regretted, slightly, a bit, letting Penelope and himself continue to forget. At least well into three in the morning. Both of them were incredibly sloshed. So much so, Benedict was sure that even Rapscallion was judging his comportment. The loyal horse pressed his snout to Penelope's palm when she offered it, her giggle bouncing off the stone townhouses on the dark street. Rapscallion appeared to glare at Benedict, as if blaming his master for the girl's drunken state. Genevieve had to lend Penelope a cloak so she wouldn't be recognized on the streets and it was quite honestly a miracle that even Lady Featherington had not noticed her daughter's long absence.

Benedict had a feeling he'd be properly mad about it tomorrow.

By the time they reached Grosvenor Square, Penelope was still swaying in his hold, soft and loose like a cloth doll. There was no way he'd be able to sneak her back into Featherington House, not in this state. So, in a haze, he led them to their bower in the garden, lying her down beneath the swings to sober up.

"You know," Penelope slurred, gripping the black wool cloak around her like a blanket as she stared up into the tree's leafy branches, mere shadows in the darkness. Benedict plopped in the grass by her side. He peered down to watch as her lips moved, a pretty pink bow that floated through the night air. "Colin has been giving Marina so many flowers."

Benedict felt his mind stutter and pity well up inside his breast.

"I know," he cooed, using his long fingers to push her curls out of her face. He prayed she wouldn't remember this in the morning. "I am sorry. I know."

"I know I am not pretty," Penelope went on as if she didn't hear him. "But just once, I wish he would give me flowers. It would not matter why…just once. Before it all hurts."

"Penelope…" Benedict looked up at the sky and inhaled, exhaled, before turning back to her. What was he to say to that? When the person you loved didn't even know enough to kindly reject you? At least Benedict had that. Lady Danbury had let him down, killed his hope in the quietest way possible, something a young man could bear and learn from. Penelope didn't have that. "You should be given flowers because someone believes you to be beautiful, because they want you. Nothing less."

"Then it will never happen," she chortled wetly, closing her eyes as she settled into the grass.

Benedict didn't say anything, just thought of the wildflowers he'd given her for her birthday.

Eloise put another scoop of lemon ice in her mouth as Penelope sat across from her, taking slow bites of her own bowl of vanilla ice. Something was definitely up, though Eloise couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Benedict had woken her that morning, eyes tired, asking Eloise to invite Penelope out that day for a day of shopping and ice at Guenther's. Benedict even volunteered to chaperone despite his knackered state. He had left them at Guenther's, telling them to stay there until he had gotten back from an errand. She was fine with that, it allowed her some alone time with her best friend.

"Pen," she said, keeping her voice low as she leaned forward over the table. "Is something upsetting you? You appear awfully tired…"

Penelope set down her spoon in the crystal bowl, massaging her temples.

"There is a lot, El. I cannot say it all here for fear of being overheard."

Eloise nodded in understanding.

"What can you say?"

Penelope bobbed her head around the room for a moment, making sure no patrons were close enough to overhear her before getting as close as she could, her bosom resting on the little round table.

"I tried to deliver a column myself a few days ago… Benedict caught me and took me to an artist gathering to keep an eye on me–"

"What?" she squawked before Penelope shushed her. Eloise rolled her eyes before whispering angrily, "What? That absolute dunderhead! He has never brought me anywhere risqué or fun–"

"El, not the point of the story," Penelope continued, poking Eloise's forehead. She let herself pout, knowing Penelope would understand. "I told him that I discovered that... That…" Penelope's voice somehow got quieter and Eloise had to strain to hear her over the chatter and clatter of the other diners. "Papa has squandered our entire fortune."

Eloise's eyes grew as round as saucers, words lodged in her throat for the first time in, well, as long as she could remember. Various emotions spread through her veins; indignation, frustration, anger, pity, and then a sort of horrible, cold understanding. Because in the end, it did not surprise Eloise that her dearest friend's neglectful father would recklessly waste the only insurance of a decent future for his daughters.

"We'll… We'll fix this, Pen. I promise, I would never let anything bad happen to you. I would not allow you to become destitute!"

Penelope gave her a small smile.

"Benedict said the same. I am so lucky to have you both as friends."

Eloise opened her mouth to reply when Benedict sidled up to them, his arms holding two small bouquets; one of white and light pink apple blossoms and the other of dark pink crabapple blossoms.

"Talking about me, now?" he asked quietly before handing the pretty apple blossoms to a stunned Penelope.

"Benedict, what–"

Penelope started, brows furrowed in confusion. A shadow passed over Benedict's face, something unreadable before he smiled again.

"Can I not get flowers for my friend? Those marsh flowers will not last forever, you know."

Penelope blushed but held the flowers close to her breast, and Eloise cocked her head. Before she could say anything her brother thrust the hideously, outrageously vivid pink crabapple blossoms into her face. She squawked indignantly.

"And for my dear sister, who would have been an absolute terror if I had not bought her anything as well."

"Excuse me! I am a gem of a sister and an even better human being."

"Such modesty."

"Oh shush, you dunderhead."

She fumbled with the bouquet in her hands as her older brother turned to the sound of Penelope's soft giggle. Eloise settled in her seat, raising an unheeded eyebrow as she observed her favorite brother and her dearest friend stare at each other a little bashfully.

She knew her friendship with Penelope like the back of her hand, what made Penelope so dear and precious to her.

It was the first time Eloise had to ponder, as she studied the shy grin on Benedict's face, what made her so precious to others.

How did Penelope always end up overhearing conversations she was not meant to? Truly, it must be a sign that she had chosen the right vocation, even if it was a secret.

"He cannot have children," Daphne told her lady's maid in the shroud of the Bridgerton's garden. Penelope really had meant to simply retrieve Eloise's hidden stash of cigarillos to sneak up to her room. Of course, instead she stumbled upon information she wasn't meant to have. "I shall not pretend to understand the extent of his physical impediment, but I imagine it is a source of great pain for the Duke, indeed."

There was a short period of time where the lady's maid, Rose, attempted to comfort Daphne. It was a good, honest effort. Rose was undoubtedly kind and the story of her aunt and uncle in Greenwich, Penelope had to admit, was incredibly sweet.

But Penelope could also tell that none of this was easing the tension in Daphne's body.

Penelope held her breath and waited, crouched behind a well-manicured bush as Daphne finally dismissed the maid. Penelope waited until the shuffle of skirts was gone and, thinking the coast was clear, she sighed and stood, dusting off her lemon yellow skirts.

Only to be met face to face with Daphne Bridgerton.

Penelope fought the very real urge to bury her face in her hands and pretend she was simply a garden ornament as the two women stared at each other, trapped in an awkward silence. Daphne, with all of her grace despite the humiliating situation, broke the quiet first.

"I kindly ask," she said, a little tightly. "That you not repeat what you heard."

"Oh!" Penelope immediately rushed to reassure Daphne, desperate for her to know she'd never betray that sort of confidence. "Oh no, no! Never! I am so sorry, it truly was an accident! I was just visiting Eloise, and then she asked– and I went, and you see, I did not want–"

Daphne's lips twitched as Penelope continued to bumble and stumble over her words.

"Oh, I am making a fool of myself," Penelope moaned, and Daphne finally did chuckle, though it was faint.

"Thank you, Miss Penelope," Daphne said, giving a small, genuine smile, hands clasped in front of her light muslin nightgown. "I needed that."

Penelope flushed but nodded mutely as Daphne began to glide past her across the grass. Penelope didn't know what possessed her to speak again, what moved her forward to clutch Daphne's nightgown like a child, but everything she'd seen, she'd experienced recently concerning love and happiness… She wanted to say something, anything of comfort.

"I often wondered why Mama and Papa bothered having children, more of us, when they did nothing but snipe and ignore each other in equal measure," Penelope said. Daphne didn't turn, but she didn't move away either, her light skirt still clasped in Penelope's hand. "It made for a quite miserable childhood. Many times I thought I'd be happier…if I'd never been born at all. No existence surely was better than being surrounded by such bitterness."

Daphne still did not move, but Penelope recognized a shift in her stance, like she had re-aligned her focus, her thoughts.

"If it is a happy marriage between the two of you with no children, at least you have each other. But if it is not, then there will be no one else harmed by such coldness."

Daphne finally pivoted her head so her face was in side profile, one light blue eye meeting Penelope's sky blue ones.

"I never thought of that," Daphne confessed. "And while I do not know if I agree, I also know I can never understand what it is like to grow up in a house without love."

Daphne tenderly took Penelope's hand, removing it from her dress, gave it a careful squeeze, before walking away back into Bridgerton House.

The wedding had been bearable.

That was the only way Benedict could describe it. Was it physically beautiful, small and intimate? Yes. But at no point had Benedict felt secure that his sister was entering a marriage where she would be cherished as much as she was within the familial embrace of his family.

And that worried him.

There was not much he could do about it. Anthony had the final say when it came to the futures of his sisters and Benedict was starting to hate it. Anthony loved their family dearly, but in some ways Benedict felt like they, as brothers, had failed Daphne.

This was compounded at home when, a few days prior, Eloise had informed him and Penelope that Daphne and Hastings had been forced to make their case to the Queen to allow the wedding to happen at all. It had apparently worked, someone had put on an impressive show at least. The Queen herself was there at the wedding breakfast, smug as always with her ladies in waiting and manservant as they snacked on the finger foods his mother was providing.

Benedict could see Daphne's worry, it was written all over her face as she was forced to mingle. The Duke wasn't much better. It was such an oppressive feeling that Benedict immediately grabbed Eloise and made a beeline for Penelope the moment her family came through the doors.

Friends, that's what was needed. Friends who, despite their own plethora of problems and worries, could chase away his own.

As Benedict approached, Eloise plodding along by his side, he could hear Penelope pointing out gentlemen to Marina.

"What about him? He seems…pleasant. Or him! Kind eyes–" she said something else, something Benedict did not catch before he heard Marina's response.

"Pen, I neither know nor have time for any of these men," Marina said, clearly frustrated, standing on her toes to peer around the room. "Now, where is Colin?"

Benedict felt like he had just entered the makings of a storm as Penelope's face grew downcast and peculiarly exasperated. She opened her mouth to say something but Benedict dove in, afraid of what may come out. Penelope's jealousy was valid, completely allowed, but he couldn't let his young friend make a fool of herself at his sister's wedding breakfast.

"Miss Penelope, we have found you!" Benedict exclaimed and he saw how Penelope's lips snapped shut, an odd panic making her pupils flicker between them and Marina. There, she must've realized her near folly. Benedict had interrupted in the nick of time. "We must ask you to take a turn about the room with us. Eloise and I find these events ever so boring. Right, El?"

"Quite," Eloise was quick to nod, though she stepped on her brother's toe when he had discreetly pinched her side to prompt her response. To his credit, he barely winced. "You will not mind, will you?"

Marina shook her head, still looking around the lavishly decorated room.

"Not at all! Would you happen to know where your brother, Mister Colin Bridgerton, would be?"

Penelope's face paled and she began opening and closing her mouth like a fish. Benedict frowned, gently grasping her elbow in his gloved hand.

"First rule about my brother, Miss Thompson. Where there is food, there will certainly be Colin. I advise checking the refreshments table."

Marina laughed politely before she curtsied and departed. Benedict watched as Penelope followed Marina's form the entire time, looking utterly helpless.

Benedict could feel his forehead crease, his mind working to try and find the right words to say. He had known for years of Penelope's infatuation with Colin, but it had not been until recently that he knew her to see him as her very first love. She was on her way to certain heartbreak if she let this jealousy, this devastation rule her so completely. Yet he knew, as he'd known before, his situation had been different. How was Penelope to get over Colin until he himself made it so he was unavailable? There would always be a spark of hope in her heart otherwise.

He opened his mouth to say something but before he knew it, Lucy of all people had approached, clutching Penelope's shoulders and giving what appeared to be a comforting hug. What was she doing here? Surely she wasn't–

"Ah, Bridgerton!" Henry Granville approached, a bright but nervous smile upon his face. "I see my wife has made herself known to you!"

Lucy's dark eyes twinkled from under her lashes and Benedict choked on his spit, sending him into a coughing fit.

"Oh, brother, you always embarrass me!" Eloise said indignantly. "I shall fetch you a drink."

Eloise glided off to find a beverage while Benedict continued to splutter on his simultaneous surprise and mortification. Lucy was Henry's wife? He had slept with Henry's wife?

Oh, Lord, he would soon be smote. He was sure of it, and he was not even a religious man.

Henry chuckled as Lucy pulled Penelope a little ways away, talking in hushed tones with the younger girl.

"Do not worry yourself, Benedict. I am well aware of Lucy's…activities. Just as she is well aware of…" Henry pulled on his cravat, trying to loosen the tie. "Of my own. What you saw–"

"Did I see something?" Benedict asked, shooting Henry a conspiratorial grin. "I was not aware there was anything to see. I am sure I did not."

Henry's shoulders relaxed immediately, his entire face alighting with that inner kindness Benedict had discovered the older man possessed in spades. Benedict knew he had made the right choice. Henry was a good man who did not deserve to face the gallows simply because of who he desired. Benedict had discovered that his own proclivities from time to time were not always so straightforward. If Henry and Lucy were honest with each other, he saw no harm.

"I was hoping Mister Bridgerton's ridiculous face would make you laugh," Lucy said gently, holding Penelope to her side as people milled about the room. "Yet you barely cracked a smile."

"I am so sorry, Lucy, I just–" Penelope started, trying to bite back the wave of tears that threatened to overwhelm her as she tried to keep an eye on Marina.

"Was that the girl?" Lucy whispered. "The one targeting the good man?"

Penelope nodded glumly.

"And is that man… Colin Bridgerton?"

Penelope hesitated for only a second before telling the truth. It was so tiring, so exhausting, to hold the weight of such truth to herself. At times she thought she'd be crushed, like a witch under the heft of boulders being stacked upon her chest.

"Oh, yes."

"Oh dear," Lucy whispered and Penelope glanced up just in time to spot Marina being escorted by Colin out of the room.

"Oh no," Penelope gasped, making to move but Lucy held her back.

"Penelope, dear girl, if you were to follow them and catch them in any way, innocent or not, you'd simply speed up the wedding," Lucy said low into her ear. "Your best option is not to follow. For his sake and for yours."

Penelope furiously rubbed at the corners of her eyes, nodding a little pathetically. Lawks, she felt pathetic. Unable to tell her very best friends about what Marina was planning on doing to their own brother out of what loyalty she had for Marina's predicament and her own family's reputation. And on top of it all, her heart was breaking.

"You love that boy, do you not?" Lucy asked. Penelope looked up at her, lips quivering and Lucy pulled her back and close, trying to attract the least amount of attention. "Oh, dear girl, it will be alright. You must… I know it is hard. But I do not see a way around that girl's determination. There are many different kinds of love, and she is desperate. There is love for the self and love for the child that grows inside the womb that can drive a woman to do great, terrible things."

"But would you do that to someone, Lucy?" Penelope asked.

"Undoubtedly," Lucy said confidently. "Though thank heavens I never had to make that choice. I was destined for a bad marriage when Henry, my dearest friend, proposed a marriage that would save us both, allow us freedom and a partnership for life that I will cherish above all else."

"Partners?" Penelope asked.

Lucy nodded sagely. "Penelope, it does not matter who I or Henry love romantically. We cannot be with them in the way we want. But Henry and I protect each other, and I always know he will be my very dearest friend."

"But your marriage is not based off of a lie," Penelope insisted. "You were honest with each other from the beginning."

Lucy sighed, conceding that point.

Lucy didn't get to say much more before Benedict stormed over.

Benedict had discovered something about himself from a very young age.

When he had been all of ten years old, Daphne had cried for the first time. A true, proper cry, not because she was hungry, needed changing or throwing a temper tantrum. She had sobbed, so small, wailing in his arms when his father had ridden away on a business trip. Little Daphne had been so sad at the prospect of not seeing her father for a whole month and it had shifted something integral inside him. Ever since, Benedict couldn't stand to see people cry, well and truly cry. It hurt in a way that left him feeling more sore than a bruised rib.

And to see tears on Penelope's face, even a few that she swiftly wiped away, caused him to hear the rush of blood in his ears.

"Penelope?" he asked frantically, Henry hot on his heels. "Are you alright? What has upset you?"

"Oh, Benedict, no it is–" Penelope started but Benedict had taken Penelope from Lucy's arms, weaving her small forearm to rest upon his own. Benedict could feel Lucy and Henry, who had gravitated towards each other again, eyeing him in amusement. At least, that's what it seemed to be. Benedict, for the life of him, didn't understand why. "It is just a lot, Benedict. That's all. I have not been myself lately."

"Lucy and I will circle around back to you in a bit," Henry said kindly. "We will grab a few morsels for you on the way, Miss Penelope. You look a tad faint. Is that alright?"

"Thank you, Mister Granville. That's incredibly thoughtful," Penelope replied politely, though the small smile she shot him was warm and familiar.

Henry and Lucy departed to circle the room while Benedict kept a hold of Penelope's arm.

"You know," Benedict said a bit hesitant, hoping he was not about to muck up. "Remember when I told you about my past tendre?"

Penelope briefly rested her temple on his arm and gave a simple nod before straightening up, her gaze glued to a corner of the room. Benedict trailed her line of sight, but took her action as permission to continue.

"Penelope, the feelings we have, those tendres, our first loves… They have a way of overpowering us," he chuckled, embarrassed. "I remember when Lady Danbury first charged into a room–" Benedict thought about that statement and felt his ears go very red. "I- I mean… Getting back on track– W-when our feelings are not r-reciprocated, everything's just…more." He flinched in on himself. Hell's bells, he was quite rubbish on conversations about love, apparently. At least subtle ones. He much preferred to be straightforward. Benedict glanced at Penelope but she still stared blankly at the corner of the room, as if waiting for something to appear. It was so vacant that it became incredibly sad, more than anything. "Everything we feel when we're hurt is true, real, and is made to be felt. But there are some feelings we…shouldn't act on. We must move forward and grow from that experience."

Benedict was quite proud of his subtlety, even though he'd stuttered a bit. He'd never been terribly good at it, it wasn't a Bridgerton family trait. But he thought he'd done a rather good job this time. Yet, as he checked on Penelope again, he found she was now watching Daphne make a hasty exit up the stairs after saying something rushed to Anthony. Penelope met his ocean eyes, her sky ones wavering. Penelope often looked unsure, especially at events such as these when she took up her resident status as a wallflower, taking everything in but not confident enough to contribute. But he'd never seen her so at a loss, not even when she told him about her father's folly.

"Is the Duke of Hastings your sister's first love?"

Benedict was taken aback, and his eyes immediately sought out his sister fleeing up the stairs at her own wedding breakfast. He thought her eyes were full of tears and he felt the bit of his heart reserved for Daphne rip at the seams just a little.

"That is what she claims," he admitted quietly.

"Then how sad," Penelope said. "She will never get to move forward if he does not love her back."

Benedict's voice lodged in his throat. He didn't know what to say to that.

They stood in silence, almost oppressive but unwilling to leave each other's side as she pivoted her face back to a corner just in time to see Colin and Marina back in the crowd. Benedict followed her line of sight but now had no words. Nothing wise or subtle that could help ease what she must be feeling.

Thank the heavens above for Eloise, always a ball of chaotic energy who could provide distraction at the most opportune times. Eloise flew to their side, her hair falling out of its pins and ribbons, face flushed, chest heaving in her distress and excitement.

"The Q-Queen," Eloise gasped. "The Q-Queen was talking about Whistledown to L-Lady D-Danbury, trying to find her!"

Both Benedict and Penelope froze in their spots. Benedict felt Penelope squish herself against his side, trying to get desperately closer. He held her arm tightly, using his other hand to pull Eloise over to block their closeness from view.

"El what–" Penelope began, her voice much more lively than it had been a moment ago.

"I-I was not thinking," Eloise blurted. "I lied, told Lady Danbury I had a theory on who Lady Whistledown was, that it could be her, and she laughed in my face. But the Queen heard me and demanded I tell her my theories, that I help in her search!"

"Oh, bloody hell," Benedict murmured, rubbing his face with his palm as he wished for patience. "El, tell me you did not."

Eloise grimaced.

"I told her I thought Lady Whistledown was a rich widow, and a few other lies… And I said I would give her any leads I may find."

When both Benedict and Penelope continued to gape at her, Eloise huffed quite petulantly, crossing her arms across her chest. "I thought I was quite clever! I can feed her lies to throw her off our scent!"

"Our scent?' Penelope asked with a little giggle, and Benedict felt a huge wave of relief hearing the sound for the first time that day.

"Yes! We are a team, aren't we?" Eloise asked, sticking out her lower lip in a pout.

"Yes," Penelope said. Benedict was impressed in that moment. He'd have never known about her earlier bout of jealousy. "Of course we are."

Chapter 6: Alla Prima

Summary:

A fight, internal turmoil, the dinner from Hell, and finally the discovery of a plot.

But, most of all, forgiveness.

Notes:

As usual, thank you again to itakethewords for being an awesome beta and even better friend and soundboard! You are wonderful!! Thank you for telling me when I need my commas taken away, but also keeping this story coherent, emotionally sound, and making sense.

Also please forgive any format errors for now. I'm updating this on my phone on a train! I shall come back and check properly.

Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Reader,

I must send felicitations to the new Duke and Duchess of Hastings. Congratulations and stamina as they embark on the most exhilarating time in a young couple's life. I am, of course, talking of the honeymoon. Is there a more romantic notion? To retreat from society together, finally leaving watchful eyes behind. While This Author, along with the rest of the ton, will certainly miss its most-remarked-upon couple back in London, perhaps we might find solace in the promise of the Duke and Duchess returning to us bearing a surprise.

It had pained Penelope to include the paragraph about the Duke and Daphne, but she knew what would be expected. But the canard was essential in order to perpetuate the supposed romance around Daphne and the Duke of Hastings' hasty marriage. Penelope knew her alter ego would have to speculate on the honeymoon as well. She wondered, if Daphne read the paragraph, whether it would greatly pain the woman, knowing she could not be a mother because of her husband's infertility? Penelope knew it probably would and the thought was terrible, making Penelope's guts twist with guilt. But Penelope had thought in order to keep the secret she had overheard, it would be best to perpetuate the idea that Lady Whistledown, at least, was none the wiser about the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Daphne's marriage.

It had been a tad embarrassing when Eloise and Benedict had read over the paragraph, both siblings dramatically gagging at the thought of their sister having marital relations. Penelope had not even fought the unladylike urge to roll her eyes.

"For a full grown man and quite the superior young lady, you're both being incredibly immature about this," Penelope said wryly.

"You try to imagine one of your sisters having marital relations with someone," Eloise sputtered, shuddering at the thought.

Penelope grimaced.

"That is not nearly as disturbing as the thought of my parents having relations," Penelope muttered idly and the Bridgerton siblings' horrific gagging and dry retching began anew. Penelope giggled and both Eloise and Benedict had pushed her off the swing she sat on in retaliation.

Penelope stood in her light pink dress splattered with obnoxious rose florals, dainty gloved hands clasped in front of her as she let herself laugh between Benedict and Eloise at a tedious garden party. It had been difficult to laugh lately. With Daphne's wedding a mere few days before and the increasing weight of multiple secrets she kept from her dear friends (at least Lady Whistledown wasn't one of them. She'd go absolutely mad if she was keeping Whistledown to herself on top of Marina's pregnancy and the Duke's infertility) it had been hard to find anything that gave her joy. But Benedict and Eloise were a blessing, poking and prodding in that delightful way only friends can get away with.

It was what she needed, especially when she had been unable to have a private conversation with Colin since the Trowbridge Ball. Colin's courting of Marina had increased in earnest, so every time she saw Colin, Marina was glued to his side. It made Penelope anxious, not just because she couldn't get a word in edgewise with Colin (though she'd admit to the petty jealousy that rose from that), but also because it meant Marina had not altered her plan. The only thing that could delay the venture was Colin himself.

So she tried to let her heart go and laugh, praying that Colin was too honorable a man to want to marry Marina hastily. Benedict and Eloise were sniggering over the woman who would be the subject of Penelope's next column, a Missus Howard that, quite hysterically, was the true head of her family estate. It was rumored that she arranged her late husband's horseback riding accident and put her young son, who she controlled rather easily, in charge of the family fortune. They doubted the murder aspect of the story was true, and Lady Whistledown would be sure to dispute that. Instead, it was the way Missus Howard moved her son around like a puppet that was both humorous and admirable. Lady Whistledown planned to write a good paragraph singing her praises. Penelope could not help but admire the cunning of the woman, the way she'd admired Marina's before. Of course, Penelope's admiration had only dulled in the wake of Marina picking Colin to be her target; her newfound discomfort with her cousin had nothing to do the plan itself.

"You know, if Mother had a bad bone in her body, she'd do as Missus Howard has done," Benedict commented, watching as the woman steered her son of three and twenty years around the garden like a dog on a lead. "She's quite clever."

"Oh, but she does use her wit for evil, Brother," Eloise chimed in, and Penelope had to stifle a breathy gasp at the accusation.

"Eloise!"

"No, no, hear me out, dear Pen," Eloise said, raising a gloved pointer finger in the air like she was a lecturer at one of the Royal Societies. "Mama's machinations are simply of a different design! She uses well-placed words of guilt, stories about true love, and the most preposterously timed invitations to try to snag us into marriage! Genius, really. I'd appreciate it more if it was not so diabolical!"

The three of them laughed uproariously and for a moment, Penelope was able to forget the miasma of fear, uncertainty, and agony inside her breast.

"Oh, speak of the Devil!" Benedict whispered with a smirk. "I must make a hasty exit!"

"Benedict, what–" Penelope began but she followed his gaze to see a determined Violet Bridgerton striding towards them across the lawn.

"You traitor!" Eloise hissed and Benedict just laughed as he tweaked Penelope's nose and poked Eloise's cheek before scampering off to converse with Anthony and a few ladies.

Penelope decided to excuse herself as well, even as Eloise made a desperate attempt to grab at her arm. Eloise glared at her as Penelope stifled a small giggle and waved as Violet set upon trying to discuss Eloise's debut next season. As much as Penelope wanted to be there for her best friend, for she knew that the idea of debuting into society was one that Eloise despised, it was best not to get in-between a determined mama and their daughter. Penelope wanted to maintain a good relationship with Lady Bridgerton and she knew she'd be a better support for Eloise if she did not presumptuously try to mediate between Lady Bridgerton and her second daughter. She could only be Eloise's constant support if she was still allowed over for tea after all.

Penelope bobbed her head around the garden, searching until her eyes finally landed on Colin. For once, he was alone. Although her family, including Marina in a butter yellow dress, stood not far behind him. Penelope swallowed before biting her bottom lip nervously. Maybe now was her chance to warn Colin in some way that would not reveal Marina's secret. Perhaps she could try again to convince him to go on his Grand Tour? Or perhaps she could try and insult her own family, making them unappealing to be related to. For honestly, who would want to marry into a family where they would have to deal with her mother? It was a valid concern.

Penelope breathed in the cool air of the garden on that cloudy spring day. She could feel an oncoming rain storm in the air though she knew not when rain would burst forth from the sky. She moved forward, creating a large circle to appear as if she was just getting a glass of lemonade from the refreshments table. As she made a wide berth around the guests she could now see Colin from the other side, as well as Anthony and Benedict in conversation with two young ladies, Lady Bridgerton and Eloise only a few paces in front of them. Just as Penelope inched closer, digging deep into the wells of her courage she had the wind knocked out of her by two screeching little bodies. Gregory and Hyacinth yelled brief apologies as they sped past her. Penelope couldn't help but shake her head, dusting off her skirt while she retained her balance. When she straightened up, she knew her face must have appeared crestfallen. For in the short amount of time it had taken for the youngest Bridgertons to knock into her, Marina was by Colin's side. They were talking in low voices, both sharing secret, sweet little smiles that made Penelope's blood curdle in her veins. An ominous sense of premonition came over her just as Colin raised his crystal glass to tap it with a silver utensil.

The clear ring vibrated across the garden, the bell tone of the glass being struck hummed in the moist air. Suddenly all eyes were turned towards Colin Bridgerton, poised perfectly next to Marina Thompson. Penelope felt her stomach sink further into her guts. No, no, no, no she thought, it could not be…

"May I have everyone's attention? I would like to make a small but important announcement," Colin said, his voice boomed proudly across the green space. Penelope could even see Colin's own family staring at him incredulously. Oh lawks , Penelope thought. They did not even know what Colin was about to do. She thought her lungs had stopped working, frozen in her chest as she fought to breathe. "I have happy news to impart. I have asked Miss Marina Thompson to be my wife… and she has accepted."

Penelope's vision swam in and out of focus as she tried to simply breathe. If she did not soon, she would suffocate, she was sure of it. But in that moment, oblivion had a certain appeal. Already, she could not bear to look at the presumably happy couple as cries of "Congratulations!" and "Bravo, sir!" rang across the garden space. Penelope registered the look of simmering fury on the Viscount Bridgerton's face as well as the wary smile upon the Dowager Viscountess'. They truly had not known and Penelope instinctively knew this plan, this surprise engagement, was concocted by her Mama and Marina. Penelope did not think Marina had successfully seduced Colin as the original plan had been, but she did not doubt that Marina would find a way to get Colin down the aisle as swiftly as possible.

Penelope stumbled away. She needed to catch her breath. Zounds, she could not think straight. Her brain was trapped in a maudlin fog, dragging her down into an abyss that had too-powerful a pull to climb out of. As Penelope tripped over her skirts, entering the safety of a closed of hedge after a turn or two, she heard the faint shuffle of feet behind her like the calculated movements of the fox upon the heath.

"Penelope?"

Penelope turned, already knowing the owner of the voice. Rich, a tad nasal in a way that let the timbre of his voice travel up and down in a way that betrayed his inherent kindness, Benedict stood there. He approached her slowly and wordlessly he reached out to lightly hold her in the circle of his long arms. His usually joking, amiable face almost roguish in quality, was so unbearably soft and pitying Penelope could hardly meet his stare. Instead, she glanced between where her hands had settled in the middle of his broad chest and the intricate embroidered pattern of his waistcoat.

"Penelope, I— I know this must be upsetting to you. Colin has always been kind to you, very dear in your heart." Penelope's eyes widened, physically flinching in his hold.

"W-What?"

"Penelope," Benedict continued, his face pinched in that unrelenting, wretched pity. "It's been clear as day to see. It's understandable, your jealousy, it is, but you must not act on it."

Penelope could not believe what she was hearing. Did Benedict truly think so little of her to assume she had not been wrestling with these facts already? To assume it would only be mere jealously motivating her actions and emotions in Marina's presence?

He thought her a child.

And somehow, that realization gutted her in a way that left her open, raw, ready for infection.

Before she truly knew what she was doing, she raised her hand to slap him but paused just in time. She was too short in stature to reach him and it would only prove his theory about her; that she was childish, petulant even. With a force she had not known she possessed, she pushed on his chest, wrenching herself from his hold. She could feel her mouth twist in disgust, her eyes burning as Benedict stared at her, arms outstretched and looking for all the world like she had smacked him. The blue-green of his irises appeared dark in the dim, overcast light and his mouth was parted in surprise, like he had a word stuck in his throat much like an errant piece of fruit.

Brilliant. Let him steep in astonishment.

Let him hurt.

"How wonderful," she spat, anger blinding her, filling her with a strange rage she had never felt before. "To discover that one I considered a friend sees me as nothing but a spoiled child, ready to scream and complain if she does not attain her desired toy."

Filled with a pain so acute, so jarring she was almost knocked off balance, she met his startled green-flecked blue eyes with her own light blue ones. She wondered if Benedict could hear the thunder she felt clamoring beneath her breast. He took a step forward and she retreated two paces behind in the soft grass. His arms were still outstretched, his forehead furrowed in something akin to confusion.

"Penelope, please, you misunderstand. I did not mean— that is to say—"

"I usually find when one is at a loss for words, Mister Bridgerton," she hissed, incredibly aware of the chatter still going on just beyond the hedge, people congratulating the ebullient couple. "It is because they've ascertained how they've mucked up quite incredibly when spilling a thought they should've kept locked away."

Penelope bit her cheek, blinking back tears. She refused to let them fall, not now.

"You are putting your own bitter thoughts behind my intentions, twisting my meaning! Be sensible!"

A heavy, horrible tension settled between them. Benedict retreated a bit into his body, awkwardly clenching and unclenching his fists at his side, as if unable to decide what to do with them. For once, the corners of his eyes crinkled not in happiness but confusion, a deep crease settling across his brow. Penelope studied him, donning the kind of cool, uncaring air she had been forced to create and adopt whenever her family acted thoughtlessly towards her. Benedict appeared to recognize this, a flush crawling on his cheeks, his eyes darting about between her eyes and the hedge. He had never been at the end of her ire, at least not one so incredibly excruciatingly intimate before. Because there was something incredibly personal about Benedict's accusation. He had known her since she was a mere child who could fit into his arms, be settled upon his shoulder. To know that he still thought of her thus…

It nettled more than she liked to admit.

"Penelope, please. I only said what I said because—"

"It doesn't matter why," she said flatly, turning her body away from him. "Only that you said it. I may be young and more inexperienced than you in many regards, Mister Bridgerton," she felt more than saw him flinch at her formality. "But I'm a woman with her own experiences, secrets, and heartbreak."

Penelope spared him a glance, just one. He seemed frozen to the spot and she had the odd feeling no one had ever been truly angry at him before. Not really, not like this. Not in the way where being at odds with a friend left a stabbing pain in one's side, or made one feel hopeless and roughly torn open like a child, careless with their doll.

Bloody Bridgerton men. Fine. Then let this be the first.

"I'm a mere eight and ten, but by society's standards, I'm ready for marriage, motherhood, the running of a home. While men are allowed to wait and wait until it suits them in their middle age. I wonder what that truly says about our experiences and our maturity?"

She turned the moment she saw the hurt flash across his face, the tightening of his jaw. Somehow despite her fury, she couldn't bear it.

"Good day, Mister Bridgerton. I won't allow you to suffer my childish presence any longer."

And she swept from the sanctity of the hedges, making a mad dash for Eloise. She knew if she did not, she would fall to the ground and sob.

Eloise took one look at Penelope's round, red cheeks, her wet eyes, and how her lower lip trembled before curling her gloved hands into fists.

"What did my complete imbecile of a brother say?"

"W-what? I do not know– El, I was not…"

"I saw him follow you out beyond the hedges. What did he do?"

Eloise took Penelope's hand and dragged her off to the hidden crevice of another hedge, this one with pink roses in bloom. Perfect, with her horrific pink dress she'd blend right in. It was only with a quick glance across her shoulder that she saw Benedict watching them, his shoulders slumped, thumbs hooked under the top of his breeches, and looking utterly helpless. She turned away before regret could sway her.

"What's wrong, Pen? Benedict may be my favorite brother but you are my dearest friend in all the world and if he has hurt you–"

"My pride, yes," Penelope admitted with a sniff, wiping furiously at the corners of her eyes with her gloved fingers. Tears were beginning to leak out but she refused to cry now. "I do not believe I will be able to look him in the eye for awhile though."

"What did he say?"

Penelope gripped her friend's hand, both for support and to give herself time to think of an excuse. Call it pride, but she refused to consider that Eloise might know of her feelings for Colin too. It would hurt too much to suddenly recognize the pity in her eyes. A half-truth, then. She did not want to lie to Eloise, not more than she already was.

"I– I have just been overwhelmed, El. What with managing Lady Whistledown and not knowing how to handle the knowledge of my family's debt. Benedict tried to comfort me, but I'm afraid I was insulted when he implied that I would, well, handle things childishly."

Eloise's dark brows came together in concern, a grimace of chagrin settled onto her face.

"Childish? Oh! Brothers of mine… I swear, if it was a man who was as burdened and concerned as you, they'd take it seriously! But when it is a woman, suddenly we are being hysterical!"

Eloise rolled her eyes, her grip tightening on Penelope's hand. Penelope breathed a small sigh of relief. It had been exactly the right thing to say and, in a way, Eloise was right. She had no doubt if she was a man feeling such an ache or suffering problems, Benedict would have given her a stiff drink, shuffled her to the gentlemen's club, and listened patiently to her concerns without once implying her youth had anything to do with her outburst of emotions.

Penelope knew Benedict had been trying to be kind, that he was concerned for her well-being. That much was obvious. Ever since that day in the park where he'd scooped her up in his arms and let her sob into his shoulder, she believed she had a fair measure of the man. Strong in a way not many men were; able to withstand the onslaught of emotions that many other men would call soft but were really just… overwhelming. He had an uncanny knack to study a person and discover what they needed. Benedict was excellent at this and Penelope had witnessed him be that person; both a pillar of strength and a malleable entity who shifted and changed his approach depending on what someone needed. He excelled at the practice with his siblings.

But it appeared Benedict had miscalculated with Penelope herself. Penelope pondered if it was because he had decided to treat her as a sibling and not a friend, an equal. The thought made her stomach clench uncomfortably.

"Men do underestimate us," Penelope said thinking of Colin and Marina, even her own father and mother. "They expect very little of both our minds and hearts."

"Yet it is men who thrust countries into wars, put communities in debt, and make fools of themselves by declaring last minute engagements," Eloise scoffed.

Penelope's small smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Y-Yes…"

"I admire Marina, truly," Eloise said, releasing her hold on Penelope to pick at a stray, robin's egg blue thread on her bodice. "But Colin is a fool if he believes he can just declare an engagement without consulting Mama or Anthony first. It's their approval he shall need, we all know that."

"True," Penelope admitted. She dared not think that the Viscount or Lady Bridgerton could put a stop to the engagement without an adequate reason. Marina was far too determined and Colin was…

Penelope felt the familiar lump in her throat.

"Help me compose a column, Eloise," Penelope said, looping her arm through her friend's and leading her on a walk away from the happy couple, away from Benedict. "While Colin's engagement will have to make an appearance, there must be other gossip. Did you hear much? I overheard the Earl–"

Penelope babbled on, grateful that Eloise latched onto the conversation. Eloise could always be relied upon for distraction and that was what Penelope would need if she were to get through this disaster.

Later that day Penelope was already in Bloomsbury, alone.

She'd hastily written a draft of a column with Eloise while everyone was distracted with Colin and Marina's engagement. Penelope had made it a habit to carry around spare bits of parchment and a bit of twine-wrapped graphite so she could jot down ideas or paragraphs quickly when inspiration struck. More accurately, when she heard something particularly scandalous.

It had been so easy, with Eloise by her side and everyone else knotted around the happy couple, calling congratulations.

Everyone except for Benedict Bridgerton, who had stood to the side watching her with sharp, narrowed eyes.

A chill raced up her spine and she somehow knew that he was all too aware of what she was doing, what she was planning. Which was why she begged Eloise to distract Benedict while Penelope made a mad dash for the family coach. She had no choice but to go home with her family but, luckily, the minute they arrived home, she would pretend to go inside and sneak out the back to have Evans take her to Bloomsbury.

It had been the perfect plan.

No member of the ton thought Penelope was fast when they looked at her. With her incredibly short stature, many people thought she was slow. However, Penelope had the ability to move her legs incredibly fast, slipping through crowds of people with relative ease. She enjoyed it, truly. The sensation of her blood pumping through her thighs and calves as she jumped from dirt to cobblestones in the streets of Bloomsbury. Penelope had to be quick anyways. It was broad daylight and she would not put it past Benedict to have attempted to thwart her, if only to scold her recklessness.

What she had not counted on was running into Genevieve Delacroix in the middle of a busy street, looking over wholesale bolts of fabric and strips of lace.

Genevieve's mouth parted open, sultry brown eyes widening. Penelope's first instinct was to run, but before her brain could command her body to move, Genevieve had grabbed her wrist and pulled her aside into an alley. Mud squelched under Penelope's slippered feet, dirtying the hem of her lady's maid cloak.

"What," Genevieve hissed, "are you doing out here? Disguised as a maid?"

Penelope bit her lip, chewing on the delicate skin. Genevieve assessed her shrewdly and it was with a sudden realization that Penelope remembered the modiste was currently involved in an affair with Benedict. Even if Benedict did not catch her, Genevieve coud report her whereabouts to him and…

Why did that matter to her?

She had done this partly to hurt, to punish Benedict. So why did the idea of Genevieve telling him suddenly fill her with embarrassment and shame?

Maybe Benedict had been right. She was acting the child, although not in the way he had expected.

Genevieve was studying her closely, looking back towards the direction Penelope had come from, the state of her gloved hands, her disguise.

"You are a writer," Genevieve said slowly, and it was as she said it that Penelope saw the older woman make the connection. "Oh mon dieu!"

It was kind of funny, a little bit of hilarity for the clearly local London woman to still speak in that French accent in front of her. Maybe it was her heightened emotions, her anxiety, or her exhaustion, but she actually had to fight back a giggle.

"Figured it out?" Penelope asked, resigned.

"I see now why Benedict is always so frantic over you," Genevieve murmured. "Quite risky, this little operation you have."

Penelope's throat closed up at the sound of Benedict's name. She hated it. No matter what, she'd been filled with nothing but hurt and a sense of betrayal, no matter who she thought of that day. Colin, Marina, her mother, Benedict… There was no escaping the discomfort that made her stomach feel like it had knives trying to dig their way out.

Penelope peered at the mud below while Genevieve sighed.

"Come on. This appears to be a conversation best had with wine and privacy."

Benedict knew he had fucked up quite terribly.

He had never known he could be that devastated before, broken down with just one look of betrayal and a few bitter truths. While nowhere near the kind of pain he had felt in the wake of his father's death, Benedict had been unaware that there would be another kind of pain that could, in the moment, feel nearly unbearable. To hurt another person, someone he cared about, was a unique experience he had no desire to repeat.

Penelope had avoided him the rest of the garden party and she had quite pointedly written a Whistledown column with Eloise. Oh, no one else may have noticed but he knew that Penelope was all too aware of his eyes on her. He knew what she was about to do before she had done it. Benedict should have calculated that Eloise would side with Penelope over him in this situation. The second Penelope had run off in a flurry of rose pink skirts and autumn fire curls, Eloise hung off him like an anchor, dragging him down so that it was far too late to stop Penelope from undertaking her venture alone. By the time he'd made it to Bloomsbury, desperately searching amongst the crowd of maids, merchants, and apprentices, she was nowhere in sight.

His heart had quickened in fear when he could not find her, thrown into such a state of panic that when he arrived at Genevieve's shop that evening, he had every intention of telling her he would have to cancel their rendezvous. He had still not found Penelope and Eloise refused to tell him whether she had made it back to Featherington House.

"Genevieve, I am sorry. Truly. But Penelope has disappeared, I have been searching all day and I must–"

"Calm yourself, Bridgerton," Genevieve said, thrusting a very full glass of red wine into his hand. "Before you have an apoplectic attack. Penelope is safe. She just returned home not an hour ago from the Granvilles."

"The Granvilles?" Benedict asked, incredulously. He couldn't deny the knot in his chest eased. "What was she doing there?"

"I caught her in Bloomsbury," Genevieve said, raising her eyebrows, clinking his glass with her own before taking a sip. "On certain business."

Benedict nearly spat out his wine.

As he choked and spluttered, Genevieve moved to his side and hit his back twice sharply with the palm of her hand. It just made him choke on his spittle.

"The poor girl told Lucy and I everything. Lady Whistledown, you and your sister's involvement… It all makes sense now. Why you brought her to that artist gathering where she caught Henry's eye. Her spirit, her tenacity for more. But it seems you've hurt the poor girl's feelings." Genevieve hit him again, this time for no discernible reason Benedict could devise other than as vengeance for Penelope herself. "Called her childish ?"

"I– I did not intend–" But Benedict stopped, remembering Penelope's words. "I guess it does not matter what I intended." Benedict downed his glass of wine in one mighty gulp before striding in Genevieve's small hidden sitting room, slumping onto the blood red velvet sofa. "I hurt her today, and I do not know how to beg her to forgive me. To make it right."

"Beg?" Genevieve asked, her hips swaying as she approached him. She lifted a bare foot to toe his thigh on the sofa, her dress rising just enough to reveal her slim calf. Benedict caught her ankle, stroking the bone with his thumb. "I did not know a Bridgerton would know how."

He chuckled weakly, trying to let the softness of Genevieve's brown skin under his hand soothe him. Yet he could not help but still see Penelope's furious, anguished face flash across his mind. It must have been clear on his expression that his mind was still elsewhere because Genevieve shook her head in exasperation before removing her foot from his hold. She settled beside him on the sofa.

"I will only say this once, and then I would like to be able to tell my young friend with a clear conscience that I have not discussed her when about to have sex with her friend," Genevieve said and Benedict felt a blush stain his cheekbones. "Penelope, as I'm sure you know, has been under great duress of late. She does not need a lecture on how to act, Benedict. She just needs you to listen. Believe me, most women come up with solutions on their own. But that does not mean they do not require someone who will patiently hear their trials and tribulations."

She ran her long, callused fingers through his thick hair and he leaned into the comfort. Benedict thought vaguely of tweaking Penelope's nose, cupping her cheek in his hand…

"She will accept your apology when she is ready," Genevieve said. "Just do not give up on her."

Benedict nodded before leaning forward to capture her lips. He was quite done talking, and he needed to push the peculiar guilt worming its way through his mind away.

Benedict was about to lose his sanity, patience worn thin. His reprieve last night with Genevieve had helped in the moment; allowed him to forget about his younger brother's idiocy, his mother's stress, and his disastrous fight with Penelope. But that feeling of release, of distraction, fled as soon as Genevieve's door had shut behind him.

And now here he was at the breakfast table, his mother reading the latest Lady Whistledown, (Penelope had delivered the column without him, a fact that made him vibrate in frustration), staring in mute discontent at the gossip sheet while Benedict had to mediate an argument between Gregory and Hyacinth.

"He took your ribbon? Did you take the ribbon?" Benedict questioned, turning from Hyacinth to Gregory with a tired frown.

Unfortunately, Gregory was all too practiced at denying his wrongdoing. Benedict felt sorry for Gregory, truly. He was the youngest boy, born ten years after Colin. As a result, he was much closer to his sisters, especially Hyacinth. However, Benedict knew that Gregory often felt left out, too young to really join in with any of the activities his brothers participated in but hating the idea of doing girlish activities with his sisters. As a result, Hyacinth often suffered as a result of Gregory's discontent.

Not that Hyacinth could not give twice as much hell as Gregory gave her. Benedict feared for the state of the world when Hyacinth inevitably came into her full power.

"Dunno what you're talking ab…" Gregory started but was quickly interrupted.

"I saw him do it," Hyacinth whined.

Benedict resisted the urge to rub his temples in a vain attempt to dull the throbbing that was beginning to make itself known. He knew if he did, he would look too much like Anthony and he'd never be able to live it down. He pushed his barely touched breakfast plate forward, leaning forward to try and catch Gregory's avoidant gaze.

"I did see something in your pocket," Benedict said sternly, making sure to keep his voice level. "What is it?"

He was much too tired for this but when he flickered his pupils towards his mother, she was still looking at the column, forehead cradled in her lithe fingers, completely ignoring the argument. Benedict gritted his teeth.

Gregory glared down at his toast as if it had sat up and slapped him.

"Exactly! It's not fair, he does it every time," Hyacinth countered, turning towards Benedict, pouting.

Oh no, Benedict would not be taken in by that. Even if, for once, Hyacinth was not trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

"Oh, just show it. Just give it back," Benedict sighed, reaching his palm out.

Suddenly, Gregory flung the strand of pink ribbon, along with a piece of kipper across the table right towards Hyacinth's face. It hit her water glass instead, bouncing off and falling to the table with a clatter. Benedict saw red for just a second before forcing himself to calm down.

"Gregory, stop!" Benedict scolded, Hyacinth screeching at his side. He was just about to stand up so he could properly reprimand his youngest brother when an awkward cough made its presence known.

"Good morning."

The whole table except for his mother turned to look at Colin, who stood at the entryway a little unsure. Benedict was struck by how boyish Colin appeared standing there, shoulders hunched, trying to force their mother to notice him by shifting from foot to foot. But Benedict knew their mother was in one of her moods, unwilling and unable to handle her anger with anything other than icy coldness. She thought she was being kind when she did this, by not exploding like Anthony would. Benedict did not have the heart to tell her that most of his siblings would much prefer Anthony's volcano-like anger; it was quick, hot and terrible but swiftly rendered to ash. Their beloved mother's cold disapproval was like frostbite, numbing and bitter until the rotten flesh decayed and died.

"Morning, brother," Benedict said. He tried to force some joviality into his tone but it just came off as almost… sarcastic.

Or had he meant it that way?

He turned to lift his tea to his lips. Benedict was filled with loathing towards himself and he found he tried in his darkest moments since the garden party yesterday to direct it at Colin. Penelope was heartbroken over his brother, and the boy did not even know it. Could Colin truly not see how he was hurting their dear friend? Benedict attempted to bite back the unrighteous blame. It was not his responsibility to correct Colin's ignorance, he doubted Penelope would thank him for that.

"Colin, your engagement is in Whistledown!" Hyacinth exclaimed, injustice over her stolen ribbon promptly forgotten.

"Hyacinth!" Eloise scolded and Benedict, despite himself, smiled against his teacup. He'd forgotten she was behind him at the serving board and, despite the fact she was still upset with him, he couldn't help a swell of pride. She really was a good sister when she needed to be; firm with Hyacinth in a way that actually made the little girl listen.

"What? It is!"

Benedict spared his mother another glance before turning to Colin. Colin had always been rather close to their mother. Like Daphne, he'd been rather eager to please as a child. He'd do anything to make her smile, truly, and Benedict knew that Violet's disapproval must have been eating Colin away on the inside.

"Very well. Everyone out, I think," Benedict said, ushering Hyacinth out of her chair.

Gregory, thankful that the attention was no longer on him, practically skipped out of the room. Benedict cuffed his neck, leading him out at a more dignified pace, though Eloise ruined the image by balancing a plate of eggs in one hand while she held a pear in her mouth as they exited the room.

Benedict finally released Gregory once they were well out of earshot from the breakfast room. Gregory ran down the hall, Hyacinth soon chasing after him. Benedict let them. He had no doubt their governess would wrangle them soon enough.

"Eloise," he said before she could slither off with her food. She pivoted on her heel, pear still hanging precariously in her mouth. She raised a single eyebrow. "Have you heard from Penelope?"

Eloise took a rather obnoxious bite of the pear, catching it in her hand as it fell from her lips. She licked the juice clean from the side of the green fruit even whilst chewing. Benedict flicked her forehead.

"Manners. People will think we raised you in a barn."

She swallowed and stuck her tongue out at him.

"I've not heard from Penelope since yesterday," Eloise said, glowering at him before licking another stripe of sticky pear juice that had dribbled down the side of her palm. "Do not worry, Brother. She clearly delivered her… business yesterday without a smug man's assistance."

"Listen, Eloise–"

"No, Brother, you listen," Eloise straightened to her full height and while her forehead barely met his shoulder, she looked quite impressive. She would hate to admit it, but she really did inherit their mother's talent for intimidation. "I do not know exactly what you said to Penelope yesterday but what I do know is she came away feeling chastised and childish. You of all people should know how shameful it feels to be belittled as someone who is unworldly or not ready for society, when you yourself have faced hardship. Penelope may be younger than you, but we both know she is facing problems this season that we cannot even comprehend. If you are her friend, truly her friend, treat her as your equal and wait for her to come to you."

With that Eloise stuck the pear back in her mouth and gave a curt nod before turning on her heel to march away.

Benedict had not known it was possible to feel worse until that moment.

Penelope walked into the drawing room, book in hand, to see Marina sitting with Philippa and Prudence like they were fast friends, co-conspirators in a great, elaborate charade. It sickened Penelope, though she knew it was partly jealousy, for it had been she Marina giggled with over tea not so long ago. Penelope had to acknowledge that it was partly Penelope's own fault for drawing away.

When she had cried in Lucy and Genevieve's arms yesterday she had confessed nearly everything: her double life as Lady Whistledown, her family's debt, and the engagement between Colin and Marina. Lucy had kindly filled Genevieve in about how it was Marina that had been the pregnant woman Penelope had previously spoken of.

"Penelope, I know it is hard but you must endeavor to be patient, kind even with Marina," Lucy said, stroking Penelope's riot of ginger curls. "There is a time to be ruthless and a time to be gentle. I think it is more likely Marina may listen to you if you display an understanding, a shade of the friendship the two of you had before."

So Penelope swallowed down the sarcastic comment she had wanted to make when Marina had commented about the Featherington fortunes turning. Instead Penelope silently retreated to the sofa by the window, opening her book but not really reading the words on the page. Truthfully, she was not even sure what novel she had picked up. She looked at the spine and her heart sank. It was a collection of poetry by the late Scottish poet Robert Burns.

Benedict had recommended it.

"You look very lovely today, Penelope."

Penelope heard Marina's words with painful clarity just like how she felt the warmth of Marina's leg against her own as the fabric of her dusty pink skirt rustled against Penelope's pineapple yellow one.

"Do not mock me," Penelope muttered petulantly before wincing inwardly. That wasn't kind, the bitterness and sarcasm. She was already forgetting Lucy's advice.

"It pains me you should think every compliment a mockery," Marina said softly, and Penelope wondered whether her words were true. She was so muddled, she honestly could not tell fact from fiction anymore, lie from truth.

Penelope forced herself to look up and meet Marina's soft brown eyes. They reminded Penelope of the kind of eyes that some writers would describe as doe-eyed, wide, shiny, almost innocent.

Innocent was not exactly the right word, Penelope thought. But Penelope acknowledged that Marina's expression was open with her, earnest even. Penelope's heart ached as she tried to glance surreptitiously at Marina's belly.

Kindness and patience, Penelope, sometimes is much more effective than heavy-handedness.

Penelope prayed Lucy was right in this case.

"Please understand, Marina. It feels like you now simply pity me and my… perceived ignorance and viewpoint."

"I do not pity you, Penelope. I respect you. You have been a true friend since I arrived here, and I rely on your continued friendship and sympathy." Marina did not reach for Penelope's hands which Penelope was glad for. She wasn't sure if she would accept the touch and Marina seemed to understand that.

"Marina… if you must marry Colin, could you not tell him the truth?" At Marina's astonished gaze, her mouth falling open, Penelope rushed on. "I just mean, you yourself admit Colin is a kind, good man. Surely he would understand! Marry you regardless of your condition. I know it must seem silly, Marina, that I was willing to accept you tricking any other man. But I have been friends with the Bridgertons for a very long time. It does not appear fair to Colin."

"It is not fair to anyone, Pen," Marina said not unkindly. "Not to me, my baby, and… yes, not to Colin either. You are correct, Colin is a good man. Which is why I cannot bear to even take the slightest risk that he may reject me over the pregnancy. I'm sorry, Pen. But I will not tell him." Marina must have seen Penelope's face crumple, for before Penelope could try to beg again Marina said, "I want you as my friend, Pen. Can you not try to understand and be a little pleased for me?"

Penelope felt like a horse had just kicked her in the ribs.

"Marina… I want your baby safe. That is true, and I will not betray your trust for not only would it hurt you but our entire family." Penelope gripped the book of poetry in her hands, trying to keep a desperate grip on the pages. Lucy's words swam in her mind but the tidal wave of fury, jealousy, and sorrow kept trying to drown out the message. "I cannot condone lying to Colin–"

But before Penelope could continue, her mother called Marina away for an appointment at the modiste. They were to arrange Marina's trousseau.

So Penelope sat there, frustration hammering on the walls of her chest as her sisters giggled. She couldn't read Burns' words without seeing Benedict's face, so she tossed down the book in frustration.

It was only a few hours later that Penelope received a missive, asking Penelope to join Lucy for a spot of afternoon tea. Penelope frowned at the address, it was most certainly Genevieve's shop…

Had something happened?

With great haste Penelope had Evans take her to the street lined with shops a few blocks down from Genevieve's. Her mother and Marina were still out, so she got away with not taking a lady's maid. She wandered forward, pretending to admire the trinkets in the window, trying to act like she had a confidence and security she did not actually possess. Soon she slipped down a side street to the back of the shops, quickly finding Genvieve's and rapping her knuckles on the door.

Genevieve opened the door with a crack and sighed in relief to see Penelope, allowing the young girl to scuttle in.

Lucy was already sitting on Genvieve's blood red velvet sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand.

"I've not seen that kind of tea before," Penelope said dryly and the women laughed before Genevieve handed Penelope her own glass.

Penelope was barely settled beside Lucy before Genvieve slumped into her own chair and pointed a warning finger at the young redhead.

"Watch out for that Miss Thompson, Penelope. After dealing with her ruthless cunning this afternoon, I no longer agree with Lucy that kindness will sway her."

Penelope let out a soft gasp while Lucy tutted, taking another sip.

"What happened?"

"The chit recognized I was not actually French," Genevieve said, taking a big gulp of wine, licking her lips. "She threatened to expose me in French if I did not give her the trousseau free of charge. As you know, your family is behind on paying for your account."

She shot Penelope a sympathetic look and Penelope hung her head in shame.

"I am so incredibly sorry, Genevieve. I– I will discreetly pull from my Whistledown funds to try and settle part of the account. If you swear not to tell anyone where it came from, I could manage it."

Genevieve let her wine glass dangle from her lithe, pretty fingers before letting her upper lip curl prettily. The beauty mark above her mouth seemed to wave at Penelope, and Penelope understood why Benedict found the modiste so incredibly alluring.

"I will allow it so far as it pertains to your own wardrobe," Genevieve conceded. "But not your sisters."

Penelope could not help but grin at that before finally taking a sip of the wine, full-bodied and dry on her tongue. There was a slight hint of blackberries, though Penelope couldn't be sure. Sometimes she thought she simply wished or imagined these flavors upon the wines she drank, simply to make it more interesting.

"Well, I must admit," Lucy said in a rather resigned tone. "Her behavior towards Gen changes my previously understanding disposition towards her. But I am trying to remember that she is desperate, doing this for the security of the child in her belly."

Penelope caught how Genevieve huffed while Lucy threw her a sorry smile.

"I must warn you, Penelope," Genevieve said. "Lady Bridgerton and your friend Eloise were here at the same time. It seems your family will be hosting dinner tonight for the Bridgertons. You must be prepared. I have no doubt that scheming mother of yours will be angling for something."

"She will probably negotiate a way for Marina to get married without a dowry before the fish course is served," Penelope remarked wryly. "Shame she was not a man. I have no doubt she would have talked Napoleon out of world conquest by the mere sound of her voice."

The three women cackled like a gathering of keen ravens and sly foxes, yet it was incredibly pleasant to Penelope's ears. Loud and boisterous. She had not realized how one could forget such a joyous sound when locked in melancholy.

When the laughter died, Genevieve turned to Penelope once more, her dark eyes twinkling.

"Now, Penelope, will you do me the favor of forgiving Bridgerton sometime soon?"

"W-what?" Penelope asked, flabbergasted. "I am not… I am not ready today, Gen."

Genevieve shrugged.

"As long as it is soon. I must tell you, my friend, it's quite disappointing when you're in the throes of passion with a man and his mind is quite clearly on another woman."

She winked and Penelope hastily gulped down her wine to distract from the heat she felt working its way up her neck. It went down the wrong way and she coughed and spluttered, Lucy patting Penelope's back gently.

Genevieve laughed again.

"My Lord, the two of you are quite the pair when embarrassed!"

Penelope did not know what to say to that.

All too soon, the time for the dreaded dinner came. Penelope wished she had managed to drink more of Genevieve's wine before she'd been rushed home so her family wouldn't notice her absence. A part of her desperately wished that Eloise or even Benedict would be present at the dinner as well, though she doubted it. It was more likely that only Colin and the heads of his family would be there.

Penelope stood in single-file with her sisters as her mother acted as the general, constructing a battle plan before the Bridgertons arrived. Her father, as usual, stood silent and impotent at his mother's side. Penelope felt awkward in her pale pink dress and was simply glad her mother no longer made her wear the tight curls reminiscent of a poodle. Still, it galled her a color that appeared resplendent upon Marina or Daphne simply made Penelope look washed out.

Penelope's mother told Marina to swish, examining her side profile for any imperfections. Penelope thought she could see the faintest outline of a baby bump under the dress but honestly was not sure. She did not remember her mother's pregnancies at all, since she was the youngest child. She wondered if Lady Bridgerton would notice.

"Good. You have done well thus far, Miss Thompson. Tonight, I shall need to raise the matter of a swift wedding," Portia said, smiling at Marina as if proclaiming a sure fire strategy to win a battle.

Penelope could not help the snicker that fell from her lips. It was cruel, horrible, even she knew how trite and petty it sounded. But after hearing about Genevieve's encounter this afternoon, she suddenly cared a lot less about being subtle or kind.

"I am… very sorry. But this plan of yours, I find it wanting," Penelope said, swiveling her head between her mother and Marina. How could they not see or understand the flaws in their idea? "Deceiving Colin is one thing, but being at close quarters with his mother, that is quite another. Lady Bridgerton is shrewd. She has had eight children. Trust she knows when she is being managed."

Penelope actually smirked before returning to staring at the wall. She felt her father's eyes on her, a look of bewilderment as if he did not know her from Adam. Fine, let him get a glimpse of her, even the darkest, most awful bit. He never paid her attention anyway, so why should he be gifted with any of her good graces?

From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother give Marina a worried look.

Penelope waited with her bitter little smile. She was sure the dinner from hell would commence soon.

Penelope had been right. This was truly, awfully, most embarrassingly, a dinner that could have only been devised and executed in the ninth circle of Hell.

Her thoughts were akin to a swarm of hornets were buzzing around in her skull, angrily bumping and stinging the soft tissue of her brain until it was swollen and full of thoughts that were not even coherent. The only thing she had managed to register were the seating arrangements. She'd been correct in her assumption that only the Viscount and the Dowager Viscountess would arrive, along with Colin. Penelope's parents were at either end of the table, Penelope found herself between Violet and Prudence with Philippa on Prudence's other side. Directly across from Penelope was Marina with Colin to her right and the Viscount to her left.

If it had been any other family, Penelope would have loved to pick apart every juicy morsel and put it in Whistledown. But this was not any other family. This was Penelope's.

Though, at times, she sometimes forgot which family she belonged to.

"Have you traveled at all beyond England, Miss Thompson? It has long been Colin's greatest ambition to travel the world." Violet asked, and Penelope was forced out of her thoughts. She realized she was holding out her glass for a servant to refill, on her second glass of white wine already.

Lawks, this entire situation was going to make her a lush.

"Never. Though it is now a great ambition of mine as well," Marina said sweetly, and if Penelope did not desperately need the wine in her hand to make its way down her throat so it could ease the angry buzzing in her head, she might have crushed the crystal in her grip.

"I am sensing a honeymoon in foreign parts. What think you, Lord Bridgerton?" Portia asked, angling that smile she wore when she wanted something towards the young Viscount.

"I would not like to speculate," Viscount Bridgerton said, and Penelope paused.

It dawned on Penelope that Colin's older brother might be against the marriage just as much as she was. For a plethora of reasons, he had no way of possessing the knowledge of Marina and her parents' deception. But maybe, just maybe, the Viscount could convince Colin not to marry by his mere displeasure alone. Penelope never thought she could be in agreement with the Viscount on anything, but it was an odd comfort that they were in accord on this, even if he had no idea.

She stole a glance towards Colin's face and the tiny, miniscule spark of hope the Viscount had ignited died a swift, cold death. Colin's face was set in mutinous determination, shooting his brother a look of displeasure before giving Marina one of his wonderful, wide smiles. The very sun could be held in his smile, Penelope thought. It was so incredibly warm and bright.

Colin determinedly spent much of dinner complimenting and defending Marina, even at the expense of his own sisters' accomplishments. Each bit of praise is like a dagger to Penelope's heart and she finds herself drinking more and more to dull the agony. It nagged at her, pulled at the edges of her mind. Had Benedict been right about her? Was she merely motivated by jealousy, a desire to covet Colin for herself? She knew she would not be even attempting to stop Marina if it was any other man from any other family sitting across from her now, being duped into marriage to claim a baby that was not his.

If Colin had chosen someone else, anyone else in the ton that season, would she be working this hard to stop it? Would it still hurt this much?

She was not sure anymore. Or, maybe, she did not want to be sure. Examining the darkest, thorniest parts of her soul was not appealing.

But, Penelope reasoned with herself, she had provided Marina with the ideas to choose someone else or tell Colin the truth. She had tried to reason with her. While, yes, it would still be near unbearable to watch Colin marry Marina, if he had known about Marina's pregnancy and still chosen her, Penelope would have been forced to accept it. But this… she could not abide it. Not for someone she loved. Suddenly unwilling to even touch her meat course, she set her knife and fork down and made her decision; she would try to tell Colin not to go through with the marriage, without revealing Marina's secret.

How she would do this… that would require the rest of dinner to think about.

Penelope was reminded why she usually vacated a room the minute Prudence sat at a pianoforte. By God, her singing truly should have been classified as a crime against the good people of London. The only thing worse would be the annual Smythe-Smith Musicale, although at least the poor Smythe-Smith girls were likable.

Unfortunately, it proved difficult for Penelope to think of a coherent plan on what to tell Colin while her sister's shrill voice echoed throughout the room. That buzz from earlier, the wasps between her ears, grew louder and her temples throbbed. It was mortifying, truly, this whole spectacle. Viscount Bridgerton had been stiff and dismissive the whole night, his comments sarcastic and his mouth set in a thin line. Lady Bridgerton tried desperately to be kind but that was the problem, how obvious it was that she was trying.

She excused herself into the hallway when she saw Colin make an escape, not that anyone paid much attention to her. Partly out of a desperation to leave the room, partly because she saw a chance arise to speak to Colin, but mostly because of that unusual brand of courage that too much alcohol could give a person.

"Colin? Might I have a word?" Penelope asked, hating at how small and insistent she sounded. But she had to do this, had to try and warn him.

The long hall was quiet except for the faint, terrible trill of her sister's voice still determined to warble through the whole song. Philippa's own halting, amateur playing of the piano doubled the sheer mortification of the whole fiasco. Neither were musically inclined but, like the Smythe-Smiths, were oblivious to their lack of talent. Penelope blushed and it only became worse when Colin looked down at her and smiled. His tall, broad frame was snug in his dinner jacket and his boyish smile made her heart do its usual somersault.

"Pen, of course," Colin said kindly, hunching over slightly to better meet her eyes.

Penelope found it even harder to hold his gaze when he did that, when it came to a matter as delicate as this. She bit her lip, chewing on the spot she'd torn into the past few days. There was a sore already forming there, tender that tasted metallic as if she held a ha'penny in her mouth. She realized with an abnormal twist in her gut that she had not torn a wound on her bottom lip since Benedict had discovered her as Lady Whistledown.

"It… is a rather delicate matter. I wish I did not have cause to raise it, but I believe you deserve to know," Penelope forced herself to say, clasping her gloved hands together. She peered up at him through her eyelashes and realized that Colin had not stopped smiling.

"Is there something on my face? Has it been there all evening? It has, hasn't it?" Colin joked, his grin fading when Penelope's expression of solemnity did not falter. "Sorry. Um, go on."

Lawks, she really had to say something now. She had gotten this far. Why was it so much harder to tell the truth as Penelope Featherington, when it was so incredibly easy when she was anonymous? Lady Whistledown, a gossipy old biddy who did not care what people thought? The hideous truth was that Penelope did care what people thought about her. She had never had the luxury to allow herself not to care.

She swallowed.

"I have wanted to talk to you since the engagement was announced, but we're always in company," Penelope hedged, twisting her fingers together. She pulled a little too hard on her ring finger and she felt the joint pop.

"So, this is something about Marina?"

Penelope felt the edge of her temples begin to sweat, the palms of her hands under her satin gloves becoming moist and sticky. She did not want to do this. Why had Marina not listened to her?

It was with that thought Penelope realized as she looked up into Colin's curious face, how much Colin truly cared about Marina. That what she was going to try to tell him would break his heart. Penelope was not sure what was more awful; Colin marrying Marina or Penelope hurting Colin by telling him the truth.

Penelope took a deep breath.

"I– As you know, Marina came to us from her father in the country. He asked for my parents to help Marina find a husband."

"So I must send him a great, long letter of thanks for sending Marina to London? Duly noted," Colin grinned again, that wonderful grin that could brighten up any space. But Penelope shook her head, despairing when his joy was snuffed.

"Please, Colin, I'm worried. You see… I found out recently that our family is in… dire straits. Our accounts are not as in order as they should be. There had been a growing amount of desperate situations, one on top of the other. I– I worry that Mama is trying to hurry the marriage along for unsavory reasons. I am also worried that Marina may be determined to marry you for… just, not for the reason you think."

It was a partial truth. In her anger, bitterness, and frustration earlier she had considered telling Colin about George's letters, how Marina had been so in love with him. Yet, even after Marina's take down of Genevieve in the older woman's own shop, it was Lucy's voice she heard in her head. How Marina was desperate, how she would do anything to provide for the child in her belly, to protect it and herself from shame.

Penelope would have hated how good of an influence the Granvilles were being on her, if she did not like and admire them so much.

So she found she couldn't do it…

Colin gave her another smile, this one smaller, softer. The type of smile one gave a friend or sibling who was trying to help with a task they were not yet ready for.

Penelope's heart felt like it had been stabbed with a pitchfork.

"Pen, you are a true friend. It could not be easy to tell me of your family's troubles and how your parents might try to… manipulate a situation in their favor." He patted the side of Penelope's upper arm and she felt all the more despondent. "But I assure you, Marina and I have the utmost love and trust in each other. I shall ensure a marriage arrangement where both parties shall be satisfied. Be happy, Pen. We are to be family soon."

No, not a pitchfork. Her heart was being thoroughly, methodically, surgically lanced.

"Oh. Have we moved the party to the corridor?"

Penelope spun around to see Marina, her dark eyes knowingly assessing. Penelope knew in that moment that there would be no way to convince Colin of Marina's duplicity. He was too… He was too…

He was too in love.

When Marina told Penelope the bald-faced lie that her mother was looking for her, she dashed off, embarrassed and defeated.

Penelope sat by the window in the drawing room, blissfully empty in the early morning. With a vicious headache and her abdomen cramping in pain, she'd taken only a glass of water as she skipped breakfast. In her utter humiliation at being dismissed by both Colin and Marina, she needed the peace of an early morning to think.

Which was why it shocked Penelope when her father entered the room, sat on his favorite corner of the sofa, unfolded his broadsheet, and began to read.

Penelope stared at him blankly as he sat across from her, his face hidden behind the tiny newsprint. While her papa truly enjoyed reading his morning paper, she rarely saw him in the drawing room this early. It was barely past eight o'clock and she was well aware now of his late night habits at the gambling hells and brothels. She wrinkled her nose in distaste before trying to return once again to Robert Burns. She blindly picked up the book again and the dull ache of her head, doubled with the now fresh pang in her heart, made it all the more difficult.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

Ae fareweel, and then forever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,

While the star of hope she leaves him?

Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;

Dark despair around benights me.

She frowned as she read and re-read the first stanza. Nothing was making sense to her this morning. And, of course, the first poem she finds herself studying is about heartbreak. How much worse could the morning get?

Her silent question is apparently answered when she feels a weight sink into the seat next to her on the sofa. When she turned to meet the uncomfortable, shifty eyes of her father, she could have sworn she must have actually still been locked in a wine-induced nightmare.

Maybe not a nightmare, but definitely a very unusual dream.

"Papa?" she ventured, wondering if he was feeling ill.

He crossed his legs, rustling his now folded broadsheet in his hands. He gave her a sidelong look, not away but not fully in the face either. His hawk-like nose was pointed towards the corner of the room, and his weathered face creased in something related to befuddlement or confusion.

"Are you having a good season, dear Penelope?" her father asked.

Penelope gawked at him. Was… was her father being serious? She knew he was oblivious. She knew this probably better than anyone. It had always been Penelope that was left behind at the park, looked over at balls, and standing in the corner at Almack's with no one paying her any heed. It was Penelope who was able to sneak out of social events and her own home to travel to Bloomsbury to publish her column with none of her family the wiser. In fact, her own father barely noticed her when she entered a room in the house, barely glancing past his paper to acknowledge anyone, even his own wife.

And now he was asking her how her season was going?

Penelope slumped in her seat, her book going limp in her hands. She was suddenly so incredibly exhausted.

"Papa, I've received no callers of any kind, and I've never been asked to dance unless Lady Bridgerton has found it in her heart to pity me and asked her sons to take me on the floor for a jig. I– I did not want to debut this season, Papa."

It was nice to be honest, even with her father. In a way it was… safe. Penelope had no doubt her father would forget this conversation ever took place later when he was in his cups, betting on an underground all-female boxing match. According to his ledgers, he betted quite a bit on all manner of boxing lately.

To Penelope's surprise, her father's face furrowed, his lips pinching together, perplexed.

"You did not want to debut? But your mother–" Her father paused, fiddling with the paper in his hands, folding and unfolding it constantly, the sound filling the room. He sighed. "If I had known, Penelope, I would have let you wait a year."

Penelope blinked.

"You– You would have? Truly, Papa?"

The nod of his head came off more stilted but he finally met her gaze. Firm hazel eyes stared back at her and, for once, Penelope knew her father spoke the truth.

"Yes, Penelope. You are my daughter. I do not want you to ever enter an arena you are not ready for."

As abruptly as he had come in, he was gone, the seat next to her suddenly vacated and cold. The only evidence that her father had been there, the slight indent in the upholstered seat, already fading as the fabric began to smooth out and right itself.

Benedict had not been sure what had possessed him to accost Colin for a fencing match so early in the morning. Going on nine o'clock, quite early for the males of the Bridgerton brood, and Benedict had already hurried a barely awake Colin to the garden with their fencing equipment, foils in place.

"Benedict, it is too early," Colin whined, rubbing his eyes before patting his stomach quite pitifully. "I swear the cock has barely crowed, and you wouldn't let me have a third helping of eggs!"

Benedict rolled his eyes before tossing Colin his saber which his younger brother deftly caught.

"There are no cocks in London, at least not of the feathered kind," Benedict grinned, getting into position on the grass. The sun was peeking out from behind a scattering of long, silvery gray clouds. The London sky was mercurial, having not yet decided on its mood that day. "Now, tell me of the dinner at the Featheringtons last night."

"I should have known you just wanted to hear of my misery," Colin groaned, getting into position as well. "Anthony was an absolute churl."

"En garde," they both exclaimed before their conversation was joined by the quick shuffle of their feet across the ground and the clanging of their sabers.

"You, of all people, know that Anthony is a churl," Benedict said, parrying a thrust. "What did you expect?"

"At least for him to be half-civil in front of my betrothed," Colin exclaimed, missing his footing and cursing when Benedict struck a point. "He could not even find it in himself to be kind to Marina's family! Mother was doing the heavy lifting all evening."

"Not even P– Miss Penelope?" Benedict asked, floundering over his wording. Why not just call her Penelope? Benedict did not seek to keep his friendship with the young lady a secret. But there was something insurmountable when it came to Colin, about sharing his newly found friendship with Penelope with his younger brother. Colin had been friends with Penelope for far longer than Benedict had and maybe that was why Benedict felt strangely… covetous about his relationship with her.

Not that Penelope had given him the time of day lately.

Benedict hissed as Colin struck a point, Benedict retreating as he readjusted his grip.

Colin did not seem to overanalyze Benedict's words as he simply cocked his head for a moment, pondering his answer.

"To be quite frank, he ignored her, politely I guess. Most people ignore Pen, unfortunately. They just do not recognize what a wit she is. A good friend too." Colin shrugged before resuming his stance. "Oh well. It just means El and I reap the benefits of her friendship for ourselves. Hardly a hardship."

Benedict bristled.

It unsettled him, his brother's words. Not so much that Colin clearly valued Penelope's friendship. In fact, that truth was a welcome relief in the sea of discomfort and heartache it had been to watch Penelope's face crumple when Colin had announced his engagement. No, it was the insinuation that Penelope being ignored by the ton was just fine as long as he could have her to himself.

Did he not see that while Penelope may accept her lot, make self-deprecating jokes about her looks and status, that it pained her to see other women be asked to dance while she was ignored? Did Colin not understand that Penelope was not a wallflower by choice, but by the mere fact that her parents' lack of faith in her had taught the young woman to have no faith in herself? Why could he not see that Penelope wanted so badly to be noticed, to make a mark upon the world in her own way? So much so that she risked her reputation, her very life, to stand above it all?

Benedict, distracted by his thoughts, was struck again. He gritted his teeth.

With new, incredible vigor he re-entered the fray.

This was most certainly a new low for Penelope. She knew it.

But something had been eating away at her all day, once her head had cleared from the terrible hangover. While she had lamented about not telling Colin about Sir George, she had begun to think upon the letter he had sent Marina, rejecting her and the baby.

The letter… did not make sense.

Penelope spent much of her time around writing, whether she was reading it or jotting down her own original work. One could tell a lot by a person's handwriting, their signature, whether they filled every corner of space or were willing to pay for the expensive parchment while barely writing a word. Every person had an individual voice: curt, eloquent, succinct, or loquacious. Sir George's previous letters to Marina had all been of the long, romantic sort. One could almost assume that the young soldier had packed a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets right next to a rifle when heading off to Spain.

So Penelope was bothered .

She found herself digging through Marina's room with the original damning letter, the one that had started this whole fiasco in the first place. She unearthed all of Sir George's old love letters, each more heartfelt than the last and began to compare them to the one ostracizing Marina from his life. The tone, the voice– it was all a little strange but… but…

The signature.

"Penelope, what are you…? How dare you!"

Penelope whirled around, her skirts flaring a little as she faced an indignant Marina, her expression stormy.

"Look," Penelope demanded urgently, hurrying over to present the two letters she held in her hands. "Look at the signature on Sir George's last letter, and this one from many months ago."

"So?" Marina asked, looking between the two with no comprehension on her face.

Penelope wanted to scream, to shout. Couldn't she see? Look, just look, Penelope wanted to beg. But she had to retain a drop of calm, just a bit. Surely Marina would see…

"So, they are not the same. The slant of the lettering, it is all wrong," Penelope said triumphantly, shaking the parchment insistently.

"Penelope, I am tired. I haven't…" Marina sighed, and Penelope had to admit her face looked pale in the flickering firelight. But Penelope was too far gone now, too determined to make Marina see the evil, the cruelty her mother had committed.

"This one. It was in a drawer on the back of Mama's desk. She, or even Missus Varley, practiced George's signature, but even they could not get it perfect," Penelope said, pointing at the slant at the beginning of the G and the tailend of the e. "That last letter, the one where he broke your heart… It was a forgery, Marina. George never wrote those things to you. He never denied loving you. He never denied your child."

Any bit of hope Penelope had at this revelation began to slowly wither and die at the sight of Marina's blank face.

"Perhaps," Marina said flatly.

"Marina…" Penelope began, desperate to get a foothold in the rapidly failing conversation. This was not how she imagined this would go.

"Even if you are correct…" Marina said, shaking her head slightly before waving a dismissive hand.

"I am correct. You cannot deny…" Penelope started but was interrupted.

"Even if it is true, George has still not replied to my letters. He has abandoned me, while Colin has embraced me," Marina said definitively, almost coldly. She was closing herself off from Penelope. No, not from Penelope. From George.

"I thought you loved him. George," Penelope tried, her voice coming out higher, more distraught than she wanted. Was love truly so fickle? Or was it just that devastating? That weak?

"I was a fool. This changes nothing."

There was a brief silence as Penelope tried to absorb her cousin's words. She glanced to the side towards Marina's trunk and she felt her whole body go cold, a heavy stone drop in her stomach.

"Why is your bag packed?" Penelope asked, eyes wide with frightful understanding. "Tell me you are not going to Gretna Green! Marina! What will you do when Colin realizes the child is not his? That day will come. He is not simple."

No, Colin was not simple. Oblivious? Maybe a little but only because he was so good, so kind. He believed the best of everyone, trusting people's words and intentions with nary a doubt. How could Marina target a man like that? Anyone else could have done, but she had gone after one of the truly honest men of their petty society.

"What I will do is live safe in the knowledge that my husband is a good and kind man. He would never turn me out on the street. He will care for us both, come what may," Marina said gently and Penelope knew Marina was right. Colin was too good to ever throw his wife out on the street even if he knew she had lied.

The thought made her love him all the more and Christ it hurt.

"Then at least do what I suggested earlier, tell Colin the truth!" Penelope was truly desperate and as much as it broke her heart, she thought again how Colin would never leave Marina and a baby destitute. Marina must understand, if she at least was honest with Colin it would be leagues better than marrying him blind. "He is a truly wonderful man, you said so yourself! Tell him the truth, and he may still marry you despite everything–"

But suddenly Marina was staring at her as if seeing her in a new light, her mouth slightly agape, her brow unwrinkling as if all had become clear.

"You love him."

Penelope blinked, her mouth suddenly as dry as paper.

"What?" Penelope asked blankly, though she could feel her heart thudding in her chest like a soldier's drum.

"No, it makes sense now. Your objections, your meddling. You love Colin Bridgerton," Marina said.

What made it all the more worse was Penelope recognized the tone of her voice: Pity.

"You know not of what you speak," Penelope tried to deny, curling in on herself like a wild animal caught in a trap. Marina took a step forward now, her face almost… soft. Penelope would not call it gentle. Marina looked like she was about to do something she truly did not want to do, like culling a baby bird after it fell from the nest, too broken to get back up.

"I believe I know so much more than you, Pen… Of Colin, of the world. If I am to be the executioner of this childish infatuation, then so be it," Marina's voice was calm, almost detached and Penelope flinched. "Your love is an unrequited fantasy. Colin sees you as you are and regards you no differently than he does Eloise, or even little Hyacinth. He sees me as a wife, a woman. And as a woman, I must make these difficult choices for myself and for my child. Even if they hurt your feelings."

Penelope felt as though she had been slapped. No, worse. Punched in the belly and left to curl in on herself as she wheezed, gasping for air. There was no oxygen left in the space between them and Penelope wondered how it came to be this way. Just weeks ago, she would have sworn to be Marina's most incredible defender. Marina had recognized Penelope's loneliness, had been nothing but warm in a way that Penelope thought a good sister should be.

But a chasm had opened between them, so sharp and wide, Penelope had no idea how it could ever be breached. She retreated from the room, tears stinging her eyes and Penelope understood how much words could hurt. She thought herself a master of them, a poisonous pen that could wreak havoc upon the lives of others. Before she realized it she was blindly writing a column; terrible, scathing, and blistering with hurt.

But even as she blew on the ink to let it dry, she thought of the friendship she lost… and of ones she had gained. Lucy, Genevieve, Charlotte, even Siena… they would not approve of this.

And when one more face swam in Penelope's mind's eye, his crow's feet crinkling, she knew what she must do.

Benedict sat on the swing in the garden, the night dark and cool. There was a liminal nature to the end of the day; the in-between, shaky stasis before an oncoming storm. He could smell moisture in the air and hear the susurrus of the leaves in the branches of the tree swaying in the wind. It should've been a perfect, peaceful night. He had returned from the hot, carnal embrace of Genevive Delacroix a mere hour ago and yet…

He found himself despondent.

Penelope's avoidance of him had weighed on his mind since their argument at the garden party, incredibly terrible, pressing down on his lungs like iron weights. Even Genevieve remarked upon it, pinching his bare stomach as he lay in her bed, smoking a cigarillo and staring at the ceiling.

"I cannot take any more of your moping, Bridgerton," Genevieve had scolded, throwing his breeches at his face. "Go reconcile with your Penelope, or I shall refuse all calls upon me!"

He scowled, twisting the rope of the swing tightly around his palms until he could feel the steady cease of blood flow. He knew what he'd said to Penelope had been… ignorant at best and cruel at worst. It was clear by the way she had looked up at him, desperately holding back tears like he had betrayed her in some intimate way. He supposed he had, underestimating not only the weight upon her shoulders but the breadth and depth of her feelings.

Had Penelope not, this entire season, endeavored to take on a tremendous task of her own? For glory, yes, but for security? Security she desperately needed under the terrible knowledge that she had no dowry, no fortune to rely upon?

He had vowed to protect her. From the moment he'd first caught her delivering that column in Bloomsbury, he'd sworn to keep her safe. Benedict had promised he'd help the girl who'd become his friend.

Yet, somehow, he had failed miserably. By hurting her, she'd turned away from him, publishing one column without him as she avoided his company as if he was riddled with cholera or consumption. Part of him was furious with her, to risk herself further. Another part of him just felt… bruised. As if someone had punched him right over his left breast, and it twinged and throbbed the longer the silence between them stretched.

Benedict sighed, releasing the ropes of the swing and letting blood flow return to his fingers. He felt the peculiarly cold, tingling sensation spread down his fingers, causing him to twitch. He scuffed the toes of his boots in the grass, but it was the soft shuffle ahead that caused him to lift his gaze up to the garden entrance.

There before him in a lemon yellow dress and shawl, her face ruddy, blue eyes raw and red, was Penelope. Her ember curls were a mess around her head, fly-aways sticking to her face or frizzing in the humid hair. Without thinking he rushed to her, his legs pumping as he caught her in his arms, the corded muscle flexing as he supported her weight. She collapsed against him, sobbing uncontrollably. He tried to smooth the gossamer strands of hair that flew about in the night air and his heart stilled for a beat as she rested upon him, his shirt becoming damp.

"Shhh," he whispered, encircling her in his embrace, his grip tightening. "Penelope, shhh. Whatever it is, it'll be alright. I will help you, whatever it is. Shall I get Eloise? Oh, Penelope–"

"B-Benedict," she spluttered, coughing slightly on her sobs. "I'm so sorry. I tried to s-stop h-her. I s-swear. I do not k-know–"

She could not continue, dissolving into her cries like sugar in the rain, sagging into his hold. He lowered them into the cool grass, taking a quick glance around before adjusting his body so his feet were planted on the ground, knees in the air as he spread his thighs to settle Penelope between them. Penelope leaned her side into his chest, her left cheek resting below his shoulder. Benedict did his best to thumb away her tears, even as they escaped her eyes almost faster than he could keep up.

"Penelope, take a deep breath. Just breathe until you can speak," he said gently. The fraught tension between them the past week was not forgotten, but it had died down a little, settling like a lull between the tides. "I will wait."

Penelope's shaking and despair began to calm as she took in great, big gulps of air. Benedict tried to imagine what had set her off, who could have propelled her into such a state of despair. Her mother, perhaps? Penelope had mentioned a woman… Benedict clasped Penelope harder to his chest, his body going rigid at the thought. Had that vile woman hurt her? Forced Penelope to do something? Maybe to settle the debts? Benedict grit his teeth, feeling them squeak like nails upon the new chalkboards that had been introduced at Cambridge when he was a student. He would make that woman pay if she–

Benedict's terrible, loathsome thoughts were interrupted when he saw Penelope move, reaching into the valley of her bosom to pull out a folded bit of parchment. Benedict did not even have time to blush as she thrusted it into his face with trembling hands. She did not utter a word, simply trembled against his chest as he gingerly took the note from her fingers, unfolded it, and began to read:

All is fair in love and war, but some battles leave no victor, only a trail of broken hearts that makes us wonder if the price we pay is ever worth the fight. The ones we love have the power to inflict the greatest scars. For what thing is more fragile… than the human heart? The bond between man and bride is private, sacred. But I must tell you, I have learned that a grave fraud is afoot. As if the Featheringtons did not have enough to be dealing with, Miss Marina Thompson is with child… and she has been from the very first day she arrived in our fair city. Desperate times may call for desperate measures, but I would wager many will think her actions beyond the pale. Perhaps she thought it her only option, or perhaps she knows no shame. But I ask you, can the ends ever justify such wretched means?

Benedict's breathing stopped, his eyes widened, and the edges of the parchment where he held it in one hand crumpled.

It could not be.

"Penelope, tell me this is a falsehood."

Penelope said nothing, shrinking between his legs as she folded in on herself, as if suddenly terrified that he might shove her away. When her red-rimmed eyes met his own, he knew without a doubt that nothing but the truth was written within that damning paragraph.

"Penelope," he gasped. "Christ… is this the secret you've been keeping? All on your own?"

Penelope barely let out a whimper in response before she fell into his lap, her head on his thigh, her back nestled into the crook between his legs. She curled her legs in on herself, tucking into a ball. It was with sudden clarity, Benedict realized that Penelope had been holding the secrets, the burdens, of her entire family for weeks. A family that, except for maybe Miss Thompson, barely gave her scraps of affection to live on. No wonder she'd been so torn, so desperate for her cousin to look at any other man. Her loyalties had been pulled mercilessly between the family she loved out of obligation and the family she loved out of choice.

Benedict had only seen half the picture. No, that wasn't it. He'd seen an outline, a sketch, really. But he'd been blind to the proper shadows and color that completed the complex story that unfolded before him.

"Oh, Nel," he breathed, barely registering the nickname he gave her. A moniker of affection that had suddenly been bestowed. Pen didn't feel right. That was what Eloise and Colin called her for years and years. But Nel was something all his, just for their friendship. "I swear we'll make this right. You did not publish this, yes? That's why you've come. You want to find another solution?"

Penelope nodded again against his thigh and he could faintly feel the brush of her eyelashes through the fabric of his breeches. Because of the angle of his knee her cheek rested more on his hip so he straightened his leg out in the grass, allowing her to pillow her face on the top of his thigh better.

"I will make this right, I swear to you, Nel. You've done the right thing, warning me." He combed her tangled tresses back, plucking a few strands off of her sticky, damp cheeks. "We'll come up with a plan so you're not implicated. I know your… your mother would not like it. But I must get Eloise, you understand? Can you wait here for me?"

"No need, brother."

Benedict's face shot up to see Eloise standing in her nightgown, face waned and heartbroken at the sight of Penelope pathetically curled up in his lap. It was amazing, really. Nothing short of miraculous how Eloise just sensed that Penelope needed her.

"Oh, Pen," she said, falling to her knees so she was at Benedict's side, her hand reaching to tentatively cup Penelope's shoulder. "What has transpired? What can I do?"

"Penelope," Benedict bent forward, one of his hands held her soft stomach in his gentle grip. She was incredibly close, too close for propriety but Benedict didn't give a damn. He needed her safe, and if that was in the bower of the garden, cradled between his thighs, so be it. "I think to form the best plan, we must hear what happened from your lips."

Penelope breathed against him, her warm breath a ghost across his clothed thigh. He registered the moment that the cogs in her head started to turn again, having been clogged up with her stress and despair. Eloise laid down so her own cheek rested upon Benedict's boney knee, the two women's noses almost touching. Finally, finally Penelope's shoulders stopped quaking, her breath evened out and her swollen eyes stayed fixed upon Eloise. She barely twitched upon the grass, nuzzling closer into the nook Benedict sheltered her with.

"M-my father put us in debt, as you well know," Penelope said hoarsely, swallowing a couple of times before continuing. "Taking Marina in and ensuring she made a good match would settle a portion of that debt. We will still be destitute. But she… she…"

"It is alright, Pen," Eloise said quietly. "We will not tell Marina you disclosed her confidence. Clearly if it has upset you thus, it's quite important."

The corner of Benedict's mouth twitched. Eloise had no idea just how right she was.

"Marina had a…lover. They wrote letters to each other, he's in Spain for the war effort. But one day, he stopped replying and we found out that Marina is…is…"

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, Benedict could always tell by the way one side would hollow out. He furrowed his brow, his brain moving fast, but it seemed Eloise was putting the pieces together just one step ahead of him. Eloise gasped, clapping one hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

"It was not a maid who came to be with child, was it Pen?"

Benedict felt like he'd just been boxed in the ears, as if a mighty clap of thunder was crashing across his eardrums from one side of his head to the other. The truth dawned on him with a strange mixture of horror and pity.

"Does Colin know of Miss Thompson's pregnancy?" Benedict asked hurriedly, unknowingly clutching Penelope's stomach tight, pulling her towards his warmth.

She shook her head.

"When Mama and Papa found out about her pregnancy, they became determined to marry her off to anyone who might overlook it. Marina resisted at first, loyal to her Sir George Crane. But then she received a letter, supposedly from him, rejecting her and the baby. Marina found new resolve to find a man to marry, but not anyone Mama tried to foist upon her. She recognized Colin's gentleness and chose him." Penelope's eyes welled with tears again and Benedict felt the warm liquid drip onto his breeches. "I just found out earlier tonight Mama and Missus Varley forged the letter from Sir George, but Marina is still determined. She believes he's abandoned her and– and she and Colin plan to elope to Gretna Green tomorrow morn at first light."

There was a beat of terrible silence before Benedict broke it with one word, slipping off the tongue unbidden.

"Fuck."

"Alright, the two of you know the plan? The story?" Benedict hissed, glancing behind him to the door of Anthony's office, waiting for it to burst open any minute.

"You had suspicions that Colin was being duped, particularly because you heard of Lord Featherington's debt. That he could be manipulating Marina in order to get at the Bridgerton fortune," Eloise recited as Penelope nodded, fiddling with the shawl around her shoulders. "So you asked Penelope and I to investigate, ask Marina questions."

Benedict turned to Penelope, pointing his nose down at her to prompt her lines.

"We asked questions and I snooped in Marina's room only this night and found the letter detailing her pregnancy," Penelope said as if reading the lines from a particularly difficult play. "Upon confirming your suspicions, I came to Eloise who took me to you."

"Good," Benedict said, glancing back at the door again. "Penelope, it's essential you do not tell my brother or mother you knew of the knowledge before tonight. Mother may be understanding, but Anthony… Well, he can be a right prick. We will use your testimony for Mother and Anthony, and Mother can lie about how she can spot pregnancies blindfolded or some rot. Honestly I am surprised she didn't notice, but the clues will be enough that your family and Colin need not know of your involvement."

Penelope's pupils were blown wide, nervously darting about the room. Benedict gingerly tweaked her nose in an effort to calm her with the familiar gesture. Just when it had become so easy, second nature, he was unsure.

"Nel," Benedict said softly, and he noticed that Eloise shot him a look, one imperious brow raised. "Eloise and I will not allow your family's name to be dragged through the mud, but you must be brave. I know that you are." He gave her a small, close-lipped smile and the crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled kindly. "You are the infamous Lady Whistledown, after all. You possess courage unmatched."

Penelope appeared to stand a little straighter at his words, a modicum of confidence helped her set her shoulders back. The light blue of her irises peered up at him with gratitude and no small measure of astonishment. Benedict grew a little hot and shifted on his feet, wanting to turn away. It unnerved him when her gaze took on that quality, like he had said something wondrous and all together revelatory. She shouldn't be shocked or surprised by her own brilliance, her own worth. He felt his fists tighten at his sides. The Featheringtons had truly done what, at times, felt like insurmountable damage to Penelope's sense of self.

Before he could ponder the surge of protective anger any further, the great wooden door burst open. Anthony strode in clearly disheveled but, Benedict was glad to see, mostly sober. His eldest brother still wore a shirt and breeches, along with his solemn black waistcoat. However, his collar was open and absent a cravat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Their mother hurried in after him, her hair down in a simple braid, a cornflower blue nightgown with starched ruffles enshrouding her figure. She looked harried and tired, clearly roused from slumber hastily. Benedict quickly stepped away from Penelope, letting Eloise entwine her arm with her dearest friend.

"Benedict, what is the meaning of this?" Anthony demanded, rounding behind his desk before he noticed Penelope behind Benedict's tall frame. "W-what in the blazes– Miss Featherington?"

"Oh, dear," Violet muttered, shuffling to Eloise and Penelope's side, straightening her robe as she went. "Penelope, it is so incredibly late for you to be here without a chaperone. If you were discovered–"

"She has important news regarding Colin's engagement, Mother," Benedict interrupted though it was Anthony's stare he held. "She has risked much to give us some vital information I asked her to retrieve for me. We must ensure no one outside this room discovers she was here at all."

Anthony's dark brown eyes narrowed while Benedict watched his mother halt fidgeting with Eloise and Penelope's hair, her mouth parting in shock.

"What have you uncovered, Benedict?" Anthony demanded.

With a small flick of his wrist and a gentle grin he beckoned Eloise and Penelope forward until they were in front of him. Benedict towered over them, spreading his stance a little wider as if to indicate that the two young women were under his protection. Anthony bristled slightly, but wisely said nothing.

"We shall explain."

It had taken half an hour to relay their concocted story in full, the half-truths flowed off Benedict's tongue smoothly, though they tasted bitter in his mouth. Eloise and Penelope played their roles brilliantly with Eloise forever the cocksure friend and Penelope no more nervous than she might normally be in front of the Viscount Bridgerton. Which was quite nervous, but it worked in her favor.

When they were done, Anthony fumed and Benedict could have sworn that smoke practically seeped out of his brother's ears. His mother swayed, hand to her mouth and Benedict quickly came to her side to support her weight.

"That little, conniving–" Anthony swore but Benedict leveled Anthony with a sharp look.

"Brother, please do not insult Miss Featherington's family in front of her."

Penelope shifted on her feet, wringing her fingers together.

"I do not blame you, Viscount Bridgerton, for your anger at my parents and my cousin's deception. But please, I beg of you do not let our name be ruined. My sisters and I…" Penelope trailed off and Benedict saw she could not fully finish, unable to lie again. To claim that she and her sisters had known nothing. His heart gave an awful pang of pity. But the method seemed to work and Anthony, surprisingly, reined in his temple. The older man pinched the bridge of his nose, huffing a sigh as Violet rushed to reassure Penelope,

"Of course, my dear. This is no judge upon your character. And while my heart aches for my son," Violet sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. Violet's brow furrowed and Benedict recognized the expression she wore when she was torn about something. "As a mother myself, I know I would risk it all to protect my own children. I cannot help but pity Miss Thompson, though my indignation still outweighs the goodness of my heart."

"Do not let your kindness overtake you, Mother," Anthony commanded sharply. "We must be shrewd. It is late, or should I say early? I have no doubt Colin is already packed and ready to make his escape. We must handle this discreetly before sunrise. I shall confront the Baron and Lady Featherington myself."

"Allow dear Pen to sneak back into her house before then, brother. Give her twenty minutes!" Eloise said, clutching Penelope's bicep tightly. Benedict was grateful for Eloise's loyalty; truly, his little sister, as they all were, was incredibly good . "Then go and do what you must."

"Mother and I will deal with Colin," Benedict said, standing tall despite the dread and exhaustion that threatened to overtake him. "After Eloise and I escort Miss Featherington through the servant's entrance to her home, I will help Mother ensure Colin does not leave and that he knows the truth."

Violet frowned at Benedict, pursing her lips.

"Benedict, dearest, that is highly improper–"

"It would be worse to send Miss Featherington by herself, Mother," Benedict pointed out. "And we must limit how much the servants are aware of."

Violet's lips became a thin line but she said nothing.

"We will be able to silence the Featheringtons for a day with our knowledge," Anthony commented, gripping the edge of the old oak desk, knuckles white. "But if we do not come up with a solution to Miss Thompson's condition within the day, we are in danger of being ruined by our mere awareness of the situation. I have no doubt the Featheringtons will use that to their advantage."

"I will come up with something, brother," Benedict swore. "I swear. We know that no matter what has happened to Sir George Crane, Miss Thompson is desperate enough to protect herself and her child. I will find a suitable arrangement."

Anthony moved his head up and down, assessing Benedict in a new light. Benedict felt his elder brother taking greater stock of his ability and he could not stop the swell of pride and indignation that filled his chest.

"I will leave it to you then, Benedict."

It was as Benedict and Eloise made sure the back courtyard was clear and Penelope made her way to the kitchen door that Benedict stopped her. He grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers together and he couldn't pinpoint why he was so full of flaming nerves making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"Nel," he whispered. "I still have not– for the other day, I am so sorry. You were right. I was unaware of the burden you carried, that you still have weighing upon your shoulders. You are a woman, with your own mind and responsibilities. I must apologize for implying anything less."

Penelope squeezed his fingers with her own, the knuckles of their fingers rubbing together almost painfully. For the first time in days she granted him one of her small, secret smiles and Benedict felt something inside him unspool.

"Thank you, Benedict. I forgive you."

In a flash, she was gone through the door and out of sight, Eloise's tug on his sleeve the only movement that forced him back into the present. He gritted his teeth as they jogged to the square, headed back to Bridgerton House. Benedict was not looking forward to the task set before him.

Chapter 7: Pontes Fluminum

Summary:

A plan executed, resulting in another small wedding, an unleashing of feelings, and, of course, more trouble for Whistledown.

Notes:

To my dearest itakethewords, you are literally one of the lights of my life. Thank you for being an amazing friend and having as much passion for this story as I do. You edit, you toss ideas around with me, and you sit on eight hour long calls fleshing out the story. You are magnificent, a gem, and a wonder.

No real historical notes for this one. Instead, note that a, uh, major plot change happens here that affects the rest of the story.

Chapter Text

Telling Colin what had transpired and come to light in the last few hours had been as unpleasant as Benedict had expected.

Benedict abhorred seeing anyone in pain. It made his chest physically ache, his stomach churn and opened up a well of overflowing feeling inside him that, these days, he tried to keep sealed shut. No one told children or adults how much it hurt to be empathetic, to identify with the person in front of one's self as if their wounds could be shared.

So when Benedict shook Colin awake and told his younger brother of Marina Thompson's pregnancy, Colin's immediate denial struck Benedict squarely in the chest, as if they were fencing again.

Violet stood awkwardly behind Benedict's crouched form, wringing her hands. Benedict gritted his teeth and kept his focus on Colin, who now sat on the edge of his four-poster bed. Benedict had already known his mother would not be that much help in this matter. She could be relied upon often for calm advice and some comfort, but she had been overwhelmed lately with Daphne. Their mother had been forever altered by their father's death and could only deal with one sibling crisis at a time before she was overcome and shut down. She relied upon him and Anthony greatly, and Benedict did his best to shove down the rising resentment.

"Colin, I would not lie about a matter so grave," Benedict said calmly, placing a heavy hand on Colin's bare shoulder.

"No… Marina loves me, we respect one another. This must be a misunderstanding."

Benedict tried not to grind his teeth together in frustration. He felt for Colin, truly he did, but he was being naive. Benedict had no reason to lie or get this sort of information wrong.

"All the same," Benedict insisted, "Anthony has headed to the Featheringtons to stop you and Miss Thompson's foolish elopement to Gretna Green."

Colin's face drained of what little color had remained and Benedict cursed his tongue. In his frustration, he had said something quite unwise. How should Benedict know of the elopement if not through someone at the Featherington house? He had sworn to Penelope to protect her friendship with Colin as well as any indication she had known about the pregnancy from the beginning. His mind worked overtime as Colin gaped at him and Benedict wished his mother would say something, anything–

"One of the maids noticed your packed trunk," Violet said and Benedict had to hold back a sigh of relief. "It was not hard to put together after that disastrous dinner the other night. It also made sense that Miss Thompson would go along with such a plan after Benedict unearthed the truth."

Colin narrowed his eyes, flicking them between his mother and brother. There was a swell of rancor building behind his eyes and Benedict struggled not to flinch.

"Anthony was absolutely boorish to Miss Thompson, I could not tolerate such disrespect. While I understand that you are concerned for me, Brother, I must insist that you have gotten your information wrong."

The refusal to believe him hurt more than Colin could ever know. Was that a sign of true love? To believe anything your beloved said even over the word of your own family? Benedict would not know. He had never been put in the type of situation where he would ever have to choose between his family and someone else. The prospect was slightly terrifying.

"Col," Benedict squeezed his brother's shoulder again, trying to be reassuring. "Truly, I pray that I am wrong. But we must assess the situation before we make any decision about your engagement."

"I must see her."

"No, Col."

Colin bristled, pulling away from Benedict's hand as if his older brother were a leper. Benedict tried not to let that sting. Colin's anger was but a flash in the pan most of the time. He did not dwell on what made his blood boil beneath his skin for long. Colin did, however, have a penchant for the melancholy like all Bridgertons did.

"I am an adult," Colin insisted, "and I want to talk to my betrothed."

"You are an adult," Benedict agreed. "But Anthony is the Viscount, the head of our family, and it is him who has the right to interrogate the Featheringtons. Mother has instructed him to rein in his temper with Miss Thompson, to act cautiously. Right, Mother?"

Benedict tried to pull her back into the conversation, desperately yanking at that maternal tie he knew she possessed. He had no doubt she loved her children, would throw herself on a burning pyre for any of them, but her despondency could be a yawning black pit of nothingness. It was honestly worse than any anger she could spew.

"Yes," Violet nodded vigorously. "Do not worry, my dearest. I had a stern talk with Anthony on how he was to act the gentleman."

Benedict rose on tired legs. He wanted nothing more than to sleep dreamlessly in his soft bed but he had more work to do. Since returning Penelope to her home, a plan had been forming in his mind, one that he knew was clever but bothered him on a moral level. He was not sure if it would even work, whether it would be agreed upon.

But for the sake of Penelope, for the sake of Colin and both of their families, he had to try.

It was the ungodly hour of six o'clock in the morning when Benedict banged on the Granvilles door. He knew this was improper, way beyond the pale, but there was no time to spare. Anthony had been at the Featheringtons since five o'clock and tried to take comfort that his elder brother probably received a much cooler welcome than any he was about to receive. After another minute of relentless banging, a harried maid finally opened the door, linen cap askew on her head.

"Pardon, sir, but what–"

"I am deeply sorry," Benedict said, brushing past her and he felt a twinge of guilt at her rising indignation. "Truly I am, young miss. But this is a matter of terrible urgency. I must speak to your master and mistress. I swear upon my good name that it is an emergency."

The maid looked him up and down from his now dusty leather boots, wrinkled but well-tailored indigo waistcoat, and slightly ruffled but matching cravat. She was probably trying to discern whether he had enough wealth about him to merit a good name at all.

"Your name, sir?"

"Benedict Bridgerton."

"Then you may wait in the drawing room while I fetch Mister and Missus Granville. I will throw you out if you are not who you claim to be."

"I expect nothing less."

The maid gave a quick curtsy before leaving him to walk to the drawing room alone. Benedict had not had many interactions with the Granvilles' servants before and wondered idly if they were permitted to speak so freely normally or if he had accidentally disturbed the young girl in some way. Either way, it did not matter. What was most important was to handle the matter at hand quickly.

Benedict had forgone sitting in the darkly upholstered sofa, standing a little awkwardly as another maid stoked a fire to life in the modest marble fireplace when Henry and Lucy strode in, both only wearing plush velvet night robes of matching vermillion.

"I pray you do not mind the casualness of our dress, Bridgerton. You have seen us in less," Henry remarked dryly as he firmly shook Benedict's hand before Benedict bowed to Lucy.

"And as you have called upon us at an unspeakable hour of the morning," Lucy said, eyeing him curiously before gesturing for Benedict to sit in the emerald green upholstered chair next to the sofa. "Lucinda said you claimed an emergency?"

"Yes," Benedict said gravely, waiting for Henry and Lucy to sit side-by-side on the sofa before he followed suit. "I fear that Penelope's problem with Miss Thompson has come to a head. She told me the truth that I feel you, Lucy, have known. That Miss Thompson is pregnant and we have just thwarted an attempt by her to run away and elope with my brother to Gretna Green."

Henry actually cursed under his breath and Lucy placed her thin, delicate hand over her heart. Her dark eyes overflowed with understanding.

"How is Penelope? Is she alright?" Lucy asked, brushing back a few tight curls from her face. "Please understand, I could not break Penelope's confidence to you. She was in great pain about it, believe me."

"I–" Benedict swallowed. He knew what she implied, that he might be furious with Penelope or even Lucy for keeping this truth from him. But in reality, Benedict understood. If it had been any of his sisters he would have lied, cheated, and stole to ensure their safety and good reputations. He had failed in many regards with Daphne, but had he not been a perpetrator when it came to the lie of how Daphne had married the Duke of Hastings? Assisted in a falsehood so that Daphne could be safely ensconced in a prosperous marriage to Simon, whether she truly loved him or not? The thought made his stomach churn, but he would do it again. He would do worse. "I am not angry with Penelope or even you, Lucy. More at myself for not noticing the signs sooner, for not trusting that Penelope's feelings were not mere childish jealousy. That I was blind to the burden my friend carried. That is what galls me."

A weary sigh filled the room, coming to slow life under the warmth of the fire and the gray light beginning to seep through cracks in the drawn curtains. Benedict had no idea who had released the sigh, it may have been him for all he knew. Exhausted like a horse who had been forced to gallop for miles with no rest, Benedict desired nothing but sleep. But he could not. He still had more work to do.

"I very much doubt you woke Lucy and I just to inform us of this news," Henry said slowly, assessing Benedict with his shrewd gaze. "I like to believe we have become friends, and heaven knows my wife and I are quite fond of your Penelope. So I think you have come to ask for a favor?"

"It is a very delicate matter," Benedict admitted, placing his elbows on his knees before rubbing the heels of his hands into his crusty eyelids. "To save both of our families from ruin, we cannot let the truth of Miss Thompson's condition get out. But we cannot let her marry Colin, either. We must find her a husband, one who needs an heir but will grant her freedoms. I do not doubt Miss Thompson would expect nothing less." Benedict looked up to see the dawning realization flitter over Henry and Lucy's faces. "A marriage like yours. I have noticed your lover, Lord Wetherby, courting many young women of the ton. I believe he has danced with Miss Thompson a few times."

The words were a strange, acrid film coating his tongue. In truth he did not know how he felt about the Granvilles' marriage. He had no problem with Henry's preference for men, that did not bother him. But to have a wife and then a man on the side… Benedict was a romantic at heart. He always dreamed that one day, in a far off glittering future, when he married he would be so in love with his wife that he would never dream of straying, of entertaining anyone else in his bed.

So he had to know. He had to know how this worked, if he was making the right decision for Miss Thompson. She may have done something against his family, lied to their faces but he knew it was borne from desperation. And in all of her anger, jealousy, and sorrow, Penelope loved her cousin. Benedict had no desire to hurt who or what Penelope loved.

"I would simply like to understand your…situation. I would just like to understand," Benedict started, swiveling his head back and forth between Henry and Lucy. "Please. Before I even propose the idea half-formed in my mind, I need to know what I would be asking Miss Thompson to do."

"It is simple. I am in love with Lord Wetherby," Henry stated calmly, leaning his head on a gently closed fist while Lucy took his other hand in hers.

"You are married."

"And our marriage affords my wife her freedoms and protections. It is a happier union than most of the people in the haut ton, I assure you." Henry's stare penetrated him, though it was not hard or full of fury. Henry simply analyzed him, trying to read Benedict's reaction. Benedict observed how Henry angled his body towards him but not so he could get a better view; he appeared to be shielding Lucy.

"Henry saved me from a potentially harmful marriage where I would have been miserable," Lucy explained. "And the two of us have always shared a kinship. We are partners, friends above all else."

"What is the advantage for the young ladies Lord Wetherby is courting? Do they also share this understanding? What about honor? Romance?" Benedict inquired, an unexplainable swell of self-righteousness rising to the surface. He was a romantic at heart, and while there was an honest rapport between Henry and Lucy, that did not mean that Lord Wetherby had been courting any of the young ladies of the ton with integrity.

"What would you know of either?" Henry asked, cutting right to the quick. "You are a romantic, Benedict Bridgerton, but you have yet to act upon any feelings of great love. At least not in the way that is risky, all-consuming, like jumping off of a cliff. We live under constant threat of danger. I risk my life every day for love. You have no idea what it is like to be in a room with someone you cannot live without…and yet still feel as though you are oceans apart. Stealing your glances, disguising your touches. We cannot so much as smile at each other without first ensuring no one else is watching. It takes courage to live outside the traditional expectations of society. You talk of doing the same but perhaps it is merely just that… All talk."

Benedict pondered his words for a few moments, Henry's words like a decisive punch to the gut delivered by an expert pugilist. He was strangely thankful to be trapped within the Granvilles' drawing room, for if this had been a public event, he would have slinked off in shame. But Benedict was rooted to his seat, forced to reckon with his opinions, how his view of the world had been challenged. Henry did not love Lucy in the way Benedict's father had loved his mother, not completely at least. Lucy did not love Henry in that way either, in the way that passion set blood alight like a match to a line of gunpowder before hitting an explosive. They were friends, companions, steady in a storm and constant under pressure. In reality, how much different was their marriage from most of the ton? The majority of gentlemen had mistresses after they were married, and once a lady bore an heir, most sought their own sexual freedom. Benedict knew this, but his parents' love story was a pillar upon which the Bridgerton family was built– integral to their cores.

But Benedict had no right to expect the world around him to comply with his own desires.

After a few moments, Benedict said,

"I am sorry. I have grown up…incredibly sheltered. Privileged even more so than most in our class. Not only is my family wealthy, but my parents were incredibly in love. I have known, of course, this was an exception and not a rule. But in a family like mine, spoiled rotten by love and fed tales of great romance… I have not thought of others' struggles. I have not thought of the reality behind keeping a love like yours safe. I had never given one moment's consideration for the plight of girls like Miss Thompson, who are tricked into marital relations without knowing the consequences and must make drastic decisions for their unborn child. I had never allowed myself to see how women like Penelope struggle, expected to marry and yet ignored, disdained when her only chance of safety is marriage or a secure spinsterhood. Lawks, Henry… I am so sorry."

Henry studied him for a few more moments, letting his hand bear the full weight of his head. Hazel eyes roamed over Benedict's tired face as if testing his sincerity before the older man finally sighed. He leaned forward to clap Benedict's knee.

"You are forgiven, Bridgerton. You have not yet realized your own great love story, though I have no doubt it will hit you like a bolt of lightning soon enough. Funny thing about thunderstorms, you don't realize you're in the middle of one until… Well, until you do."

Benedict's eyebrows furrowed, his nose wrinkling in confusion. But before Benedict could even begin to ask Henry what he meant, Henry continued,

"I believe Wetherby could be convinced of the match. He seeks to be married by the end of the season and, while he had been prepared to lay with his wife in order to obtain an heir, he would be delighted if it was not strictly necessary. If we are lucky, the child will be a healthy boy, and I guarantee that Wetherby would treat Miss Thompson with the utmost respect."

A knot in Benedict's chest loosened slightly, allowing him to breathe properly for the first time in hours.

"Could he be persuaded to call upon Miss Thompson today?"

Henry stood up, squeezing Lucy's hand in his before letting her go.

"Let us ask him, shall we? You can stop hanging by the door, my love."

From the shadows behind the drawing room door kept ajar emerged the tall, young and handsome figure of Lord Wetherby. A robe of deep royal purple hung off his frame, not even tied, his bare chest exposed for all to see. He wore a rumpled pair of black breeches but his feet were unadorned. Clearly he felt quite comfortable in the Granvilles' home. He ambled about with an easy-going confidence that even made Benedict gulp.

"An interesting plan," Wetherby said, his grin jovial and not the least bit ashamed for being caught listening at the door. "Start from the beginning, Mister Bridgerton. If I am to propose marriage, I need to know a little bit more about my future wife."

Penelope had not slept in twenty-four hours now. But, even though she could feel her body sagging from the weight of sleep deprivation, the tension in the Featherington drawing room kept everyone just on edge enough to make sleep impossible. Penelope had barely managed to change into her nightgown and her pink night robe before Anthony had burst into the house, demanding the Featheringtons' presence at once. The entire household had been pulled into an uproar when the Featherington women, Marina, and the Baron had been called down in only robes to cover their nightclothes.

The Viscount Bridgerton waited in the drawing room like a predator preparing to strike, and he very clearly indicated his power when the Featheringtons settled into the room and he blocked the door with his body.

"My lord, what is the meaning of this?" Lady Featherington gasped, her deep auburn curls, for once, free down and tumbling down her back, her eyes wide as she stood at the center of the room. Penelope's father was already sitting on the sofa, looking removed from the whole spectacle. Philippa, Prudence, Marina, and Penelope stood in a little group behind Lady Featherington like an odd group of goslings. Penelope kept to the back, attempting to appear as shocked as the rest of her family.

"I should be the one asking questions, Lady Featherington," the Viscount said tightly and Penelope could tell the intimidating man was actually holding back. His upper lip twitched as if he was tempted to curl it back in a snarl but he refrained. The eldest Bridgerton's eyes flitted amongst the family members, landing on Penelope for a moment before settling on Marina. "Like how you have kept Miss Thompson's pregnancy secret from the ton this entire season, and how you planned on marrying her to my brother, hoping we would be none the wiser until it was too late."

Penelope finally knew what one meant when they said a silence could be heavy. The quiet that permeated the room was thick, oppressive like the thick, sticky heat of summer that made one feel like they could not breathe properly. She felt it stick to her skin, clog her throat so that she could not help but contribute to the ugly, accusatory atmosphere. Penelope felt Marina sway slightly at her side and glanced over to see that Marina had actually paled, her eyes wide like a doe caught at the end of a marksman's rifle.

"M-my lord, there must be a mistake–" Lady Featherington tried but Viscount Bridgerton cut her off.

"Do not even try to deny it. I have irrefutable proof collected by my brother, Mister Benedict Bridgerton, to the truth. My own mother noticed a few peculiarities. She is quite…" The Viscount smirked, " shrewd in these matters."

Penelope quite frankly could have swooned at his choice of words, they were so close to her own. Luckily none of her family even looked at her, not even Marina. Not for the first time, Penelope was faced with the unpleasant truth that they thought so little of her as a woman of any capability.

And so Viscount Bridgerton stood vigil at the door, proclaiming no one would leave until Benedict arrived with his solution to save both of their families from ruin. The Featheringtons had scattered about the room, for once utterly silent. Lady Featherington sat on the sofa at the opposite end of her husband, Prudence and Philippa between them. Penelope sat herself at the table and, surprisingly, Marina sat across from her. Despite their vicious fight, Marina sought Penelope's company, though she said nothing and it made Penelope's heart pang with guilt.

As the morning dragged on, Missus Varley parted the curtains to let gray morning light into the room, Penelope carefully pulled out a piece of parchment from her robe, along with a piece of graphite. She would have preferred a quill, but Benedict had correctly pointed out that graphite was easier for transport and quick use. It had become a habit to carry one around, so she began to compose a letter. It would probably be seen as impertinent, writing a letter to this recipient. She did not know the woman, not really. But Colin needed all of the help he could get.

Marina watched her without really seeing her. Penelope had been surprised how silent Marina had been in the face of the Viscount's outrage. Marina had stood up to Portia Featherington for months now, fighting for the kind of husband she wanted for herself and her baby. Maybe Marina was now just weary, ready for it all to be over. The thought filled Penelope with a certain kind of dread. She prayed that Benedict could execute the plan he had kept to himself when he had departed early that morning. Penelope feared Marina might do something drastic if it did not meet her needs.

A little past eight o'clock in the morning, as Penelope was slipping the letter she had written into her robe and various plates of untouched toast grew cold, Briarly announced the arrival of Mister Benedict Bridgerton and Lord Andrew Wetherby. Penelope's mind began to whir as she blindly stood to greet their guests despite their completely inappropriate attire. Did Benedict mean to do what Penelope thought? Oh, she knew about Mister Granville and Lord Wetherby now, it was no secret amongst the women invited to Lucy's afternoon soirees. Lucy herself had inclinations towards both sexes but Penelope never would have imagined that Lord Wetherby would willingly offer himself up to be the matrimonial cover for Marina's pregnancy.

Then again, Penelope thought as Lord Wetherby bowed and Benedict looked around the room bewildered, he needed his own type of disguise if he was to keep his relationship with Mister Granville.

"Anthony, what is the meaning of this?" Benedict asked, aghast, his blue-green eyes landing on Penelope and taking in the state of her unbound hair, wrapped in her pink night robe. She blushed and looked down at her feet. "You did not allow them to even be dressed properly?"

"I could not take the chance that Miss Thompson would sneak out to meet our brother," the Viscount said unapologetically. "While Mother may be watching him, we both know he's nothing short of crafty when he wants to be."

Benedict sighed, massaging his temples briefly before turning towards Penelope's mother and father who had risen hesitantly from the sofa.

"Baron Featherington, Lady Featherington, may I introduce Lord Wetherby. He is willing to offer for Miss Thompson's hand–"

Two things happened at once.

Lady Featherington practically shrieked her assent, desperate to salvage the situation as best she could. Philippa and Prudence were looking more clueless than usual while Baron Featherington proceeded to just let things happen around him.

Marina also finally spoke,

"What?"

"Lady Featherington, cease your chatter!" Viscount Bridgerton commanded, and while the woman shut her mouth, she did look highly offended. Even without her imperiously drawn-on eyebrows to help her.

Lord Wetherby turned to Marina and bowed again, his face quite soft and kind.

"Miss Thompson, please do not be nervous. I would never marry you without your full consent–"

"She has no choice unless she wants to lead this entire family to disgrace!" Lady Featherington interrupted, her face flushing with barely constrained frustration.

"If I am to even consider marriage to Miss Thompson, the one thing I require is that it is her choice to be bound to me for the rest of our lives. It is no small feat I ask for."

Penelope could not help but admire Lord Wetherby in that moment, proud and quietly fierce in front of her mother. He did not bluster and growl as Viscount Bridgerton did but instead remained unphased in the face of her mother's domineering. Cool and collected, Penelope could see why it would have been easy for Mister Granville to fall in love with this man.

"I require a few minutes alone with Miss Thompson so I may gauge her true thoughts and feelings on the matter," Lord Wetherby continued, hands clasped behind his back. "I shall ask Mister Bridgerton to stay on my behalf."

The Viscount scoffed, looking at his younger brother in disbelief.

"Benedict, this is highly irregular! I am head–"

"I know, Brother, but I must ensure this marriage will happen at all before the hardest part of all falls to you," Benedict said, smoothly soothing his brother's ruffled feathers. Penelope was impressed. Benedict usually knew exactly what to say. "It will be up to you to contact a solicitor and make sure a contract is properly drawn up and the ink dried before the day is out."

Anthony pondered this for a moment before grudgingly nodding his assent, dark brown eyes as hard as the frosted earth.

"Then I want Penelope by my side, to represent myself and my own interests," Marina said, hands clasped so hard in front of her cream colored robe her knuckles were white. Her voice, however, never wavered.

"What? No!" Lady Featherington snorted. "Penelope is not needed in such matters, she is ignorant of the world!"

Penelope felt the insult strike her keenly like a kick to the ribs but she did not flinch or falter, merely chose to move her stare from Marina to the fireplace. She learned long ago if she did not look at her mother's face directly when receiving such a verbal assault it was less likely she would cry.

Penelope was shocked to hear her own father's voice speak,

"Oh let it be, Portia."

Penelope's head snapped to her parents, eyes wide as tea saucers. Her own mother's face mirrored her own as they both gaped at the Baron Featherington, who merely appeared bored. With that her father began to exit the room, flicking his wrist in a gesture so the rest of the family followed him. It took two nudges from Philippa and Prudence to motivate their stunned mother to move out of the room, Anthony following after them and closing the door behind him with a firm click.

A silence followed, less oppressive than before, and Penelope dared to look into Benedict's blue-green irises. They had always reminded her of the ocean, changing color depending on his mood like the waves depending on the weather. In that moment, Benedict's eyes were slightly apprehensive, a sea made dark by a cloudy sky unsure if a storm would break or not. Marina reached out tentatively and, without thinking, Penelope took her hand. It was the least she could do.

"Miss Thompson," Lord Wetherby said softly. "I must be clear, Mister Bridgerton told me of your predicament. I swear upon my life and honor that I will never tell a soul, even if you reject my suit. In return, I shall tell you a secret of mine, why I have come to willingly ask for your hand. I would claim your child as my own, raise it as my own, and they would inherit everything I possess. You would have freedom to run the household as you like, do as you like, love who you like. I will not restrict you."

"To offer such freedom, my lord, is tempting indeed," Marina said cautiously, her eyes narrowed. "Your secret must be a grave one to offer it."

Lord Wetherby's smile turned sad, and Penelope's heart actually broke for him.

"I am here to ensure, Miss Thompson, you will not tell a soul what you hear from Lord Wetherby, whether you marry him or not. It is quite literally a matter of life and death," Benedict added.

Marina's lips pursed and Penelope felt Marina squeeze her hand, her knuckles grinding together under the pressure. Penelope knew the question Marina wanted to ask without any words.

"He is not violent, Marina, I assure you," Penelope said. "Are you, Lord Wetherby?"

"I could not so much as crush a spider, I am afraid," Lord Wetherby replied. "No, I would never lay a hand on you, Miss Thompson. I will gladly swear to be struck down by Bridgerton here if that proves to be false."

"It would be me you would have to worry about," Marina sneered and Lord Wetherby actually chuckled.

"You can take care of yourself. Good. I admire that in a person."

In two quick strides Lord Wetherby towered over Marina and Penelope in his wrinkle-free suit, lavender waistcoat and matching cravat perfectly fitted and in place.

"I am going to whisper in your ear, Miss Thompson. After that, make of it what you will."

With that, the young lord leaned down, his full lips hovering near the shell of Marina's ear. To anyone with no inside knowledge, it would truly appear like a secret between lovers. Penelope registered when Marina's eyes widened, her eyebrows raised, and when she tilted her head closer to Lord Wetherby's mouth. After a few moments, he withdrew, his expression incredibly vulnerable. It was humbling in a way, Penelope thought, to see a powerful lord exposed and at the mercy of a young woman.

Marina finally, slowly, took her hand from Penelope's and pressed both of her palms to her belly.

"That must have been difficult to confess to me," Marina said. "I am thankful for your courage and understanding. For Lord Wetherby, even if that was not the case, I could not bring myself to love a man again, I think."

"As I could never bring myself to love you as more than a friend and life companion," Lord Wetherby admitted. "But I do promise friendship, liberty for yourself, and safety for our child. I promise I would love your child as my own as long as I live, for it would be you granting me with a lifelong favor and gift I could only hope to receive."

Penelope marveled at the scene in front of her, struck by an emotion unexpectedly powerful in its force. It was not romantic love, not the type Penelope used to dream about growing up whenever she read her fairytales or gazed upon Colin's face. But this was, she realized, a different kind of love that could be planted, nurtured, and cared for. She remembered in the studies she had clung to growing up, always begging her governess for more long after Philippa and Prudence retired, that the Greeks had different types of love; eros was the most commonly known of course. A deep, sexual, romantic love. But this… Penelope was reminded of philia , an affectionate love, that of friendship. Like what Henry and Lucy had.

For the first time in days, perhaps weeks really, Penelope actually began to hope again. A yearning for proof that love really did exist in this faulty society of theirs.

Marina studied Lord Wetherby a bit longer, assessing him closely. Ever so slowly she nodded her assent.

"Then I accept your proposal, Lord Wetherby."

It had all been a bit of a rush afterwards. Anthony and Penelope's father had immediately been called back in to help draw up the contract. The solicitors of Lord Wetherby, Lord Bridgerton, and Lord Featherington were summoned to write and sign the contract before anyone could change their mind about the whole thing. Lord Wetherby left, gracefully kissing Marina's knuckles as he bid farewell, saying he would ensure they retrieved a special license to marry by the end of the week.

Penelope stood in a fog for a bit, seeing and yet a little bewildered by the flurry of activity happening around her. Yet, all too quickly, someone called her name.

"Nel?"

It was a whisper, deep and concerned. She craned her neck up to face Benedict, the lines at the side of his eyes creased deeply in concern, like the ravines of a river. Penelope blinked.

"Benedict," she whispered back, her pupils darting around the room so as not to be overheard. Marina stood in the hallway, staring out at the space Lord Wetherby had just vacated as Lord Bridgerton and Penelope's father discussed a few final points. "I do not know what to say, other than I do not believe I can ever repay this debt."

Benedict hesitated, making sure no one was watching before he caressed her cheek, the round skin fitting perfectly in his rough palm.

"You were brave, to tell me the truth," he said quietly. "You owe me nothing. You will never owe me anything, Nel. All I want is your trust. All I want is to help carry your burdens. Have I not proven capable?"

Penelope blushed but let her cheek rest in his hold. Benedict was always so fervent, so passionate in the words he said honestly that, sometimes, she was unsure of how to respond. It left her feeling raw in a way she was not accustomed to. She had never realized that such a close friendship with a man could feel so intense at times. If Eloise had spoken the same words, Penelope would have accepted them gladly, heart warm with little thought. But when something so honest and tender left Benedict's lips, well… Lately she started to feel like her very skin was the sheerest of fabric, translucent, her entire self apparent.

"I have never had a friend quite like you," she said truthfully. "But yes. You have more than proven yourself, though you did not have to."

"I did not, but I wanted to."

Frozen in time just for a moment, they were both startled when Anthony barked, "Benedict! We must depart!"

Benedict dropped his hand from her face as though she were made of fire. It felt more than true for how incredibly hot her skin burned. They both turned to see Anthony had already stepped out the door, clearly expecting Benedict to follow him. Benedict took a step back. His long legs put at least a foot between them.

"I will see you soon?" he asked.

Was that hope she heard in his voice?

"You will," she said with a small smile. "And be quite sick of me I am sure."

"Never," he grinned, and then he was gone, hurrying after Anthony into the now bright, humid spring day.

Penelope stood still for a few moments, wondering idly if she could sneak off to bed, though she stood lost within a swirl of emotion she could not recognize.

"Penelope?"

Once again, Penelope was ripped from her reverie but this time it was Marina who faced her. They were both still wrapped in their robes and Penelope was starting to sweat uncomfortably under the warm fabric as the morning chill dissipated. As much as she wanted to beg off Marina's attention, Penelope had a feeling this next conversation would be a turning point. Whether good or bad, she couldn't say.

"He's a good man," Penelope blurted. Marina looked at her, her wrists primly crossed in front of her body as if she did not know how to wield them. "Lord Wetherby, I mean. I have met him through Mister Granville, he's–" Penelope could feel the sweat beading in the valley between her breasts and resisted the urge to wipe it away. "I guess you know who he is."

"I do now," Marina said wryly. "I could never have foreseen such an outcome." Marina squeezed then flexed her fingers, not able to keep completely still. "I guess you will have your chance with Colin now."

Marina stated it plainly, as if it was simply fact. That did not stop the terrible pain that ripped through Penelope's chest, as if a knife was physically tearing at the muscle within.

"You were right," Penelope said before she could think better on it. "Colin's feelings for me… I know you are probably right. Nothing but a sibling yet–" Penelope had never admitted it aloud, ever. But all she wanted in that moment was a singular moment of clarity between her and her cousin. "Though that does not ease my feelings for him, I fear."

There, out in the open. It was true. Penelope did not know why, but even though Marina's words had hurt Penelope terribly, Penelope's love for Colin was still undimmed. She thought of him now, how he must be grieving over the loss of the woman he loved, the web of lies that had been spun around him, and it made her stomach churn.

"I am sorry," Penelope bit her cheek, tasting copper on her tongue. "For what I said. I could have been more understanding."

Marina sighed, inhaling deeply before taking Penelope's hands in her own. They were linked together suddenly, like young children playing a game at the park. A pure, tethered connection.

"While I cannot apologize for taking the actions I needed to for myself and my child," Marina said. "I am sorry for the hurtful words I said to you. I meant it, Pen. You have been my dearest friend in this house. I wish for us to remain so."

Penelope's guilt multiplied tenfold even as she felt warmed by Marina's desire to maintain their friendship. Marina would still always be the bright, assertive girl who had befriended Penelope upon the moment she entered the house. That would always mean something to Penelope, a golden memory that could never be replaced.

"Pen, just because one man may not see you the way you want them to, does not mean that another will not," Marina said with a small, coy smile.

Penelope cocked her head in confusion, and she thought she must look like a magpie studying how it may best obtain a scrap of food.

"Marina, you know no one has come to call on me this season."

Marina shrugged.

"I never said it was someone who has called upon you."

Penelope huffed a little laugh, for the first time feeling the kind of ease she'd felt with her cousin mere weeks ago.

"Do not talk in riddles again, Marina. I now know babies are not made by eating cake!"

The two girls smiled, clasping each other's hands. For a few blissful minutes, all seemed right with the world.

Until Colin Bridgerton strode in, determined, as Briarly was barely able to announce him while the young man crossed the threshold. Instead of Penelope's heart skipping its usual beat at the sight, it stuttered to a halt entirely. Lady Bridgerton stumbled in behind her third son, face ruddy and flyaway strands of chocolate brown hair escaping its usual chignon.

"Marina," Colin sighed in relief at the sight of her, now standing so close that Penelope could smell his musky cologne. "You must tell me that my family is mistaken. What they say, it cannot be true."

Marina had dropped one of Penelope's hands as Colin talked. Colin reached for her but Marina drew it away.

"But it is," Marina said, her chin raised high, no hint of shame in her voice.

"You are with child?" Colin's voice began to tremble with disbelief and Penelope did not know what to do. She wanted to stand by Marina, help the young woman tell the truth that Colin needed to hear. But she wanted to embrace Colin too, take him in her arms and hold him until his shaking subsided. "I do not understand. We were to be wed. You… You said you loved me."

Marina never stuttered, never faltered, and never let her shoulders slump as she met Colin's gaze. The only signs of nervousness Marina betrayed was when her grip on Penelope's hand tightened. Lady Bridgerton stood behind Colin, unsure of what to do, hovering between despair and pity.

"Colin, I hold you in the greatest esteem," Marina said but Colin's new anger burst forth,

"'Esteem'? You are a cruel woman indeed to stand here and talk of friendly affection, as if you have not just committed a grave sin against me."

"Colin, please," Penelope tried, but Colin ignored her. It was as if she was mere air in the space beside Marina, clear nothingness. Penelope tried to understand, he was blinded by a broken heart.

"Speak not of sin, Mister Bridgerton. I did not come here to be shamed by you, nor anyone else," Marina never once broke her powerful hold on Colin's gaze. It was what Penelope had always admired about her, how she would endeavor to command a room until she was heard. "I did not know better. You may think me a villain, but I did what I thought I must. No one ever truly helped me, or guided me in a different direction. I had no choice. I needed to wed. And you, you were the only man who offered me even a glimpse of happiness." Marina faltered slightly, clearly thinking about the life she could have led if her original plan had achieved fruition. "But your brothers have saved you, found me another man to marry. You should be satisfied you have a chance to start anew."

Penelope winced. She could not help it. As much as she admired Marina, she had a way of speaking thorny truths when they should not always be shared. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

"So I should feel flattered, then? Consider myself lucky that you chose me, lied to me, tried to trick me into a fraud of a marriage?" Tears were now making their way down Colin's handsome, boyish face and Penelope was once again seized with the urge to embrace him. He looked truly miserable. "I shall take my leave of you for the last time, Miss Thompson. You wish to know the cruelest part of your deception?" Colin's eyes were rapidly becoming pink and irritated as he held back a sheen of furious tears. Penelope's heart broke, soundly and surely in her chest. She felt torn in twain between her understanding and affection for Marina and her overwhelming love for the young man in front of her. "If you had simply come to me and told me of your situation… I'd have married you without a second thought. That is how in love I believed myself to be. But I see now that was all a lie."

Marina's face changed, as if someone had slapped her. Penelope imagined she looked much the same, for the first time, hated the fact that, for once, she had been right. The knowledge that Colin was not only good enough, but had also adored Marina enough to marry her despite the baby, if only she had told him the truth, tore a little corner of Penelope's soul that had been more vital than she ever realized. Colin walked hurriedly out of the room, Lady Bridgerton shooting an apologetic look towards the girls before hurrying after them.

It was only then that Marina finally allowed herself to sob, sagging into Penelope's tight embrace.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

In a surprising turn of events, the lovely Miss Thompson who had many suitors indeed twirling her across the luminous dance floor and braving the vicious harpy claws of Lady Featherington to call upon the spritely beauty, has become engaged. Again.

It had appeared that young Colin Bridgerton, third son of the late 8th Viscount Bridgerton, had captured her heart when he announced at a recent garden party the engagement between himself and Miss Thompson. However, it has come to This Author's attention that sometimes there are greater forces than just the desire to marry and that even sometimes true love knows no bounds. It turns out that Miss Marina Thompson is no longer engaged to Mister Colin Bridgeton (so many sons to keep track of, it makes This Author exhausted) but to the virile, handsome Lord Wetherby.

It turns out that the thunderclouds surrounding Lord Anthony Bridgerton, his stern attitude, coupled with the enticement of love by an Earl rather than a third son, was the sort of heady cocktail that would of course drive a young lady to choose the more secure option. It appeared that Miss Thompson truly cared for Mister Bridgerton, choosing him when Lord Wetherby had not made a move. But Lord Wetherby, upon hearing about the engagement and desperate to right his wrongs, confronted Miss Thompson on a cloudy evening in St. James' Park merely a night ago. All could hear it within several paces, including This Author, a befuddled Lord Lumley, and a shocked Mister Benedict Bridgerton. The desperately in love Earl got on his knees and tearfully professed his love. Miss Thompson was further torn between the love offered by the kind, third Bridgerton son and the reciprocal passion she felt with the Earl.

You can guess, Dear Reader, who she chose.

For one, This Author cannot blame Miss Thompson for her actions. Did not the former Miss Bridgerton, now Duchess of Hastings, follow her own heart and reject a Prince in favor of the Duke she loves? With this in mind, Dear Reader, we know this will hurt the young Mister Colin Bridgerton for some time. But he will bounce back and find purpose anew. Additionally, it must be a great relief for the Viscount Bridgerton to be free from shackling himself to the Featherington family forever, by all accounts he seemed to find the idea quite odious. But for a young lady, where the window to control one's future is relatively short, Miss Thompson made the right call by listening to her instinct. Lord Wetherby will surely be a fine, adoring husband who can grant her protections and freedoms unmatched. But, in addition, Lord Wetherby's public declaration and Miss Thompson's relieved acceptance appeared to prove that love, one built on mutual trust, cannot be outmatched.

Trust me, Dear Reader, if there are any more developments surrounding this swirl of events, This Author will discover the truth.

Benedict frowned down at the column in his hand, pursing his lips. He sat cross legged in the garden, Penelope and Eloise seated on the swings, their toes gliding across the grass as they swayed in the breeze.

"Did I get something wrong?" Penelope asked, placing a short pointer finger on the top of the parchment and pushing down, as if trying to read upside down. "I know our little incident at the park did not have as many witnesses as I describe, but I think that was rather the point, no? People will simply want to pretend they were in the middle of such drama."

Benedict grimaced slightly and shook his head. Their scheme had gone off without a hitch; Benedict had sent a hurried missive to Penelope mere hours after he had left the Featherington abode, realizing they would need some sort of performance for society so the engagement made sense. Preferably in a public enough place where Lady Whistledown could possibly hear and write about it. Benedict had even run the plan by Anthony, leaving Penelope's involvement out secret, and his prickly brother had approved. With great haste, Benedict arranged to take a walk with Lord Wetherby in St. James' Park, the Granvilles accompanying them. They just happened to run into Penelope and Miss Thompson with a lady's maid, taking a rejuvenating stroll when Lord Wetherby fell to his knees to profess his undying love for Miss Thompson and how he could not bear to see her married to another. The absolute look of shock that graced Benedict's face had been no act. Truly, if Lord Wetherby had not been born into nobility, he would have been made for the stage. Benedict also had the feeling that he was being kind in his own way, making a fool of himself to make Miss Thompson laugh. It nearly worked, for Miss Thompson's little twitch of a smile appeared genuine, even though her eyes were still red and swollen. Even Penelope and the Granvilles had to work doubly hard not to ruin the charade with unrestrained giggles.

It had been a perfect plan, not too many people had been out but the affable and slightly dense Lord Lumley had been witness to the whole thing, along with a smattering of a few others. But Lord Lumley, ever the poet, would surely write sonnets in honor of the event at White's that evening.

So, no, it was not that Benedict had taken an issue with.

"You say that my brother would never want us shackled to your family," Benedict said slowly. "As if it would be a terrible fate."

Penelope shared a glance with Eloise, both clearly understanding something he did not.

"Benedict, it would be a terrible fate," Penelope insisted. "It's already horrible enough for me. We are penniless, remember? That would have come to light soon enough when my parents decided to try and use the Bridgerton fortune to help them out of the hole Father has put us in. I have no doubt he may try it with Lord Wetherby. And, well… Quite simply, they are not exactly a joy to be around."

Benedict thought of Lady Portia Featherington in all of her scheming and cruelties, as well as the Baron and his indifference, his utter callousness. No, they were not pleasant, that was true. Though, Benedict had to admit the Baron had surprised him today when he had, in his own way, stood up for Penelope. Benedict himself had felt indignation rise up like building pressure in his chest but before he had spoken, Penelope's father had. According to Penelope's own stunned face, her father's defense on her behalf was not a normal occurrence.

Penelope's own sisters were not great company either. Philippa seemed harmless enough if a little vapid, but Prudence desired to be a copy of her mother. The problem was, Prudence simply did not possess the intelligence Lady Featherington had in spades. It was a particular hardship for Benedict to admit that Penelope's mother was cunning, but it was true. Lady Featherington had gotten Miss Thompson this far without discovery, after all.

But much to Benedict's chagrin, he still did not like the implication that marrying into the Featherington family would be a death sentence. Though it could not be denied that if news of their destitution got out, marrying a Featherington daughter would not be high on any young lord's list. It was with a start that Benedict realized the reason he did not care for the observation in the column was because of what it implied about Penelope, that it would be madness to marry any of the Featherington girls if it meant being associated with the family itself.

Benedict scowled. If any man was put off Penelope simply because of her family, they did not deserve her.

"I just do not like it," Benedict groused stubbornly, causing Eloise to roll her eyes.

"It is a small comment compared to the many Penelope has thrown at herself this season, Brother. For now, it is more important to make sure Miss Thompson's marriage to Lord Wetherby goes smoothly. Right, Pen?"

Penelope nodded at her best friend happily and Benedict could not help but pout. Penelope was wearing her plainest dress again, an unadorned dusty pink that actually did not overwhelm her pale skin or her flaming red hair. It always showed when Penelope was comfortable and Benedict found he wanted to give her as many chances as possible to feel like she belonged in her own skin.

"Fine," Benedict said, standing up and brushing the dirt and debris that clung to his breeches before holding out his hand to Penelope. "Shall we announce an engagement, Lady Whistledown?"

Benedict had no idea why, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt heat flare up his chest, climb his neck, and light the tips of his ears. Lawks, he really could be a complete fool sometimes. It was moments like these where he wondered if he had crossed some invisible line with Penelope, one he could not step back over. Yet, he felt he was not fully across the border either. He straddled it, a state of limbo he did not fully understand.

But Penelope gave him one of those smiles; close-mouthed, the slightest upward curve, a promise to spill a thousand secrets in his ear, similar to how the lines and color of a painting recounted to him its story.

She put her hand, small and ink-stained, in his own.

"Let us set the ton ablaze… Again."

Lord Wetherby had been true to his word and obtained a special license swiftly. A small wedding was set up in a smaller church. Unobtrusive, simple, and quiet. The only observers were the Featheringtons, Lord Wetherby's frail mother and his two sisters, and Benedict as a friend and impartial witness. Though Benedict stood in the pews with Lord Wetherby's family as the ceremony proceeded, the vicar droning on and on about the sins of carnal lust and the benefits of holy matrimony in the eyes of God, it was Penelope he wished he was standing next to. It was as her friend that he had come, even though Lord Wetherby had asked for his presence to witness the ceremony in case others of the ton asked.

Benedict had briefly wondered if the Granvilles would come but dismissed it. Henry may have been more than happy to help his lover secure a marriage that would protect him from the scrutinizing eyes of society and the law, but that did not mean he would want to be privy to their legal union. Benedict felt his heart go out to Henry. How much must it pain his mentor and friend, to love someone but never be able to acknowledge it in the light of day? To be committed in soul to one another, but by law to someone else?

Henry loved Lucy, Benedict could see that now. But not in the way he was in love with Lord Wetherby. To the jovial young lord's part, he was doing his best to bring Miss Thompson cheer and comfort, and he thought the man might actually win the young woman over as a dear friend. But they would never be in love, it was impossible. Not just because Lord Wetherby's love and inclinations leaned the opposite direction, but because Miss Thompson's heart still belonged to another man even though it seemed to frustrate her.

The ceremony finally ended and the families surrounded the now Lord and Lady Wetherby, Miss Thompson solemnly pretty in a mauve gown, trimmed with embroidered roses along the cap sleeves, waist, and the hem. Lord Wetherby himself was handsome in black with an ivory waistcoat and cravat. His two sisters chatted happily with him, his mother's weathered face sincere as she engaged the new lady of the house in quiet conversation. It was for the best, for her to be married into a family that accepted without too many questions. It helped when your husband was the head of the house.

Penelope snuck to his side, as quiet as a church mouse. But he felt her next to him all the same, her short body radiating heat by his side. She wore her family's customary yellow, this particular shade though was pale almost white like a lemon ice. Dainty daisies lined where the waist fell and it honestly was…pretty. Benedict wondered if Genevieve was working her magic, taking a more tender approach when she could with her new young friend's wardrobe. It warmed his heart. The ember flames of Penelope's hair curled softly around her shoulders, her blue eyes as clear as the sky outside that day. He took it as a good omen, he had to. There was no other option.

"I can barely believe it," Benedict said softly, his eyes trailing the movements of the small crowd of people in front of them. "Did we really pull this off?"

"It appears that way," Penelope said, her tone one of utter disbelief. "Our families have escaped relatively unscathed. Colin being spurned is much easier to come back from than an elopement." She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip and Benedict moved his left hand to grip his right, keeping them in place. "How is he?"

Benedict stared at the stone ceiling.

"Upset still. Embarrassed, I think, for being duped. But Daphne's arrival yesterday has helped him." He did not mention how Daphne had barged in, fierce in her desire to comfort her favorite brother, yes. But there had been something new to her eyes, the way she held herself. She knew something now, something of the world that put weight on her shoulders and made the positive girl he had once known into a weary, cautious woman. It cracked something inside him, made him feel like he had failed in some way.

At least in this, he had succeeded.

Penelope nodded, fidgeting with her pale skirt.

"I am glad to hear it."

"Seems we have you and Eloise to thank for it. Daph said she received your letters practically back to back."

Penelope blushed furiously, biting her lip again and Benedict clenched his jaw, tightening his hold on his right wrist.

"I had no idea El and I had the same idea."

"The two of you are best friends for a reason. Sometimes I think Eloise would trade all seven of us siblings if she could have you as her sister."

"I do not know about that," Penelope giggled. "But I would gladly trade my entire family to have El as my sister."

"I would trade six out of seven siblings for you," Benedict joked, though for some reason he could not discern his throat constricted and it came out a little bit broken. "I know you would not agree if Eloise was not a part of the deal."

"You would trade six siblings so I could be your sister?" Penelope asked lightly. "Strong statement."

"No," Benedict said without thinking though he found it to be true. "No. Not as my sister. Just as you are."

He was unsure as to where the mysterious truth had come from; somewhere deep, dark, hidden and unwilling to be discovered just yet.

Penelope's face shot him a startled look, her cupid's bow lips parted slightly but their conversation was disrupted when Lord Wetherby and his new bride approached them.

"Bridgerton, I am so glad you made it," Lord Wetherby said, his smile wide and actually genuine. Wetherby kept surprising Benedict, that was for sure. He was ashamed to admit that he had briefly villainized the man after he had found out his connection with Henry and yet was courting various women. All Benedict could think about was what he would do if Lord Wetherby had been courting one of his own sisters; he had tried to court Daphne early in the season. With a rush of guilt Benedict knew he would not have allowed any of his sisters to marry Lord Wetherby, for a Bridgerton was a romantic to the very marrow of their bones.

But he saw now that Lord Wetherby was a good man, dedicated to the well-being of his own mother and sisters, the estate he was forever tied to. He was a man who knew how to treat a woman well, even if he could never fall in love with one.

"Would never dream of missing it," Benedict said, sharing a mischievous look with Penelope. He felt a pair of eyes on him and he glanced up to meet Lady Marina Wetherby's curious, shrewd gaze. Was she assessing him? Labeling him friend or foe? She had every right to hate him, it was him who had arranged this whole affair.

But there was no malice behind her dark brown irises, simply what appeared to be understanding.

She stepped towards Penelope to embrace her and Benedict was glad to see Penelope actually return the hug.

"Once my pregnancy is over, you must come to visit," Lady Wetherby said, pressing her light brown cheek against Penelope's pale one. Benedict had the thought that they appeared more as sisters than Penelope with Prudence or Philippa. "My dearest friend will always be welcome in my home."

Penelope's eyes shimmered and she blinked rapidly as she said, "Of course I will visit, for I shall miss you terribly."

Benedict felt she truly meant it, and he saw that Lord Wetherby was observing the two with a tenderness that Benedict recognized immediately: that of a man who had sisters he adored. Benedict fervently wished he had become acquainted with Lord Wetherby earlier, he had a feeling they had more in common than previously thought.

"Any friend of the Granvilles and of my now dear wife is a friend of mine," Lord Wetherby said. "You may visit any time whether at our country estate or Wetherby House in London. Call upon us if you need any favor." He rose his warm hazel eyes to meet Benedict's own, the green ring around his pupils bright against the brown. "That goes for you as well, Bridgerton."

Benedict nodded, a little bashful.

"Will the pair of you stay in London awhile?"

Lady Wetherby turned up her face to her new husband and he shrugged good-naturedly at her, indicating that she was free to speak. Benedict had a feeling Lord Wetherby would have no problem letting his wife do most of the talking if that was what she wished.

"We are going to retreat to Andrew's country estate until a few months after the child is born," she said. "That way my child will be old enough that no one can readily dispute the time period of my pregnancy."

" Our child," Lord Wetherby said gently. "I have sworn I shall love the child as my own. I meant it and I plan to start now."

Lady Wetherby actually granted him what must have been the first genuine smile Benedict had ever seen on her and he thanked the heavens that Penelope had gathered the courage to tell him the truth. He had no doubt that Marina Wetherby née Thompson would have been miserable with his brother, what with such lies between them.

Benedict settled onto the stool with a sigh of release, a great weight finally lifting from his shoulders. The wedding was over, the small wedding breakfast done with, and Lord and Lady Wetherby were off and headed to his estate in West Yorkshire. Henry chuckled beside him in front of his own easel and offered Benedict his smoking cigarillo. He took it gratefully, pulling a long drag until he felt the lovely burn in his lungs before he released the smoke into the air.

It was just them and a smattering of others. That day's practice was a still life of a vase of beautiful flowers; maidenhead fern, white poppies, and acacia blossom. It was a strange arrangement, and if Benedict knew the language of flowers better, he might understand the meaning. He had a suspicion though.

"Do you miss him?" Benedict asked before he could think better of it.

Henry, eternally patient with him it seemed, hummed softly as he sketched the delicate shape of the acacia blossoms, reminding Benedict of the pictures he had seen of a pair of lungs in an anatomy book.

"Of course," Henry replied. "I miss him terribly whenever he is not near. But I trust him and I even trust Marina. They both hold each other's secrets, secrets that could literally be life or death for the pair of them. I have no doubt they will take it to their graves."

"It still must hurt," Benedict observed, pausing in his shading of the vase, the thumb he had used to smear the graphite slowly dragging down the page.

Henry continued drawing even as he met Benedict's stare for a brief moment, wistful and a little forlorn.

"It does, even though it is the safest option for everyone. Oceans apart, remember?" Henry placed his graphite down on the ledge of his easel with a soft clack before beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves. "At least you only have a river to leap across. Once you pull your head out of your arse."

Benedict whipped his head so hard he thought he heard his neck crack with the force.

"And what in the blazes do you mean by that?"

Henry chuckled, stealing back the cigarillo hanging from Benedict's lips and placing it in his own mouth.

"Nothing at all, Bridgerton."

"Now that one catastrophe has been avoided," Eloise said airily while Penelope sipped her tea. "What shall we do about your father's idiocy?"

Penelope snorted into her cup, a spray of black tea with a dash of cream erupting and spurting up her nose. Leave it to Eloise to state things so plainly, in ways that most others would consider crass. While at times the words that came out of Eloise's mouth could seem cruel in their candor, Penelope did appreciate it. She understood Eloise, how fervently her dearest friend despised the glittering masks of flattery and false sincerity the rest of society dons. Eloise's blunt ways were her rebellion, her armor. She wouldn't be Eloise otherwise.

"I fear I cannot think of much," Penelope dabbed at her mouth with a spare handkerchief, clean but fraying at the edges. "Except to continue to hide the money I earn as Whistledown for emergencies."

They were alone in the drawing room. It was oddly quiet without the rest of the family, but apparently most of the Bridgertons had been forced on a promenade by Lady Bridgerton. The formidable Dowager had insisted the family needed to prove they were recovering after Colin's rejection by Marina. Public image was incredibly important, and Lord help anyone who stood in Violet Bridgerton's way. Eloise gleefully recounted to Penelope how the entire family had moaned and groaned at the proclamation, save Eloise herself, who had the perfect excuse to stay home in the form of her best friend visiting for tea. Benedict had apparently stuck his tongue out at Eloise as she cackled in victory, and Penelope had to admit that would have been hilarious to witness.

"When certain women in our society cannot even open their own accounts at the bank, I guess there is no other option." Eloise snorted, crossing her arms as she slouched in her chair, her dress rucking up to bunch at her hips, her hem now halfway up her calves. Penelope thought it would be quite the scene for Benedict to paint: Eloise righteously indignant. Penelope thought that Eloise could cross the goddess Athena in a battle of wits or might and win – At least in a couple of years.

Before Penelope could respond, they were interrupted by the soft swing of the door and Daphne glided in, full of poise and grace. The image was instantly ruined when the Duchess frowned at the near empty drawing room.

"Where is everyone?"

Penelope held back a giggle in favor of a polite smile while Eloise answered,

"On a promenade to demonstrate that Colin is healed and ready to be thrown into the lion's den again. Mama insisted."

It surprised Penelope to see Daphne actually roll her eyes at that. If Eloise's face was any indication, it surprised Penelope's best friend as well.

"Of course," Daphne muttered. "We must all maintain an image, mustn't we?"

Eloise furrowed her brows as Daphne grabbed a spare chair from beside the settee on the left side of the room and dragged it to the table by the window where Penelope and Eloise sat. Curiouser and curiouser. In Penelope's experience, Daphne always acted poised, collected, and… Well, perfect . It was one of the reasons, during Eloise's darker moments, she would confess to Penelope that she resented Daphne at times. How could one live up to such perfection, when Eloise was so utterly human? Penelope could empathize, even she could feel jealousy intertwined with her admiration for the eldest Bridgerton daughter at times.

But it seemed Daphne was tired of that image, of constantly maintaining perfection. At least, in that moment.

"Sister," Eloise edged cautiously. "Are you alright?"

If Eloise was concerned enough to actually ask her older sister how she was fairing, then Penelope knew for certain that Daphne was acting unusual.

Daphne closed her eyes for a brief moment, cradling the right side of her head in one dainty hand.

"I am afraid, Eloise, that I have become exhausted by the fabric of pretense Mama has insisted on weaving for each of us before thrusting it upon our shoulders, expecting us to maintain it for years without the proper guidance."

The response did not assuage Penelope's or Eloise's concern, and Eloise opened her mouth to say something but Daphne clearly was not willing to continue along that vein of thought.

"I still have not thanked the two of you for writing to me of Colin's plight. I appreciate it greatly that you both sought to tell me the truth so I could help our brother."

Penelope merely nodded, but Eloise actually flushed slightly, looking as if she did not know what to do with the praise from her sister. So Penelope hurried to fill any silence that may crop up.

"How is Colin? I have not seen him since the day he confronted Marina."

Daphne sighed, turning her sharp blue gaze on Penelope. She lifted her pink lips in a weary smile.

"He is better. Heartbroken, of that there is no doubt. But it is better that it was broken now, for it would have been much worse if it had occurred after being trapped in marriage to a woman he did not truly know."

Daphne's gaze suddenly appeared unfocused, as if she was not truly looking at Penelope any longer, but at something far away. The expression was troubling, possibly even disturbing. So Penelope decided to ask a potentially impertinent question but one that had been weighing on her mind,

"Your Grace, would you happen to have connections to the military?"

Daphne's eyes snapped back to attention and she straightened, tilting her head curiously. She took a moment to smooth her lavender skirts, her strawberry blonde hair only slightly mussed from where she had grasped her head.

"Penelope, we have known each other too long. You must still call me Daphne in private," Daphne said. "My husband might. To be honest I am unsure. Why do you ask?"

Penelope shared a look with Eloise. They had both been wondering the same thing, discussing if they should try and ask Benedict or Anthony to help with their inquiry. But Daphne had a more subtle touch, which was what the situation required.

"Even though Marina is now married, I know Sir George Crane's fate being unknown weighs heavily upon her. That chapter of her life will never be closed if she does not know why he stopped writing to her," Penelope admitted, even as Daphne narrowed her eyes.

"Marina was wronged as well, Daph," Eloise interjected. "A man had marital relations with her, then left her to reap the consequences when he went off to fight in Spain. Surely she deserves an answer."

That far away look took over Daphne's face again, distant and almost cold. It sent a shiver up Penelope's spine. What had happened to her?

"I am sure I could unearth information," she admitted. "I will inquire from various sources. Maybe at the Queen's luncheon. I am sure there may be an officer's wife or some sort from whom I can gain information."

"Maybe we should also check Debrett's. If he's titled, surely the family may be listed there. It could narrow down the search," Penelope suggested.

Daphne nodded before idly taking a butter biscuit from the tea tray, though she did not raise it to her lips. She stared out the window, looking as if she had given up. It reminded Penelope of her namesake, the Penelope of legend, looking out to sea waiting for a husband that she now barely knew to return to the turmoil trying to upheave the world around her. That unsettled Penelope more than she wanted to admit.

Penelope was somehow shocked that the Featheringtons were allowed into the Queen's luncheon with little fanfare. The whirlwind that had been Colin's engagement to Marina, the breaking of that engagement for a quick wedding to Lord Wetherby, and the return of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings had somehow only happened over the span of a few days.

Standing in a corner with Benedict and Eloise, the gray light of the cloudy day doing little to warm them, Penelope tried to at least casually admire the many flowers kept in bloom amongst the Queen's well-manicured hedges. The garden was much like a maze, but instead of deadly minotaurs or riddling sphinxes, one would come upon a row of exotic cherry blossoms or elegant stone statues. Penelope picked at a frayed edge of the hideous older rose pink dress her mother had forced her to wear, but at least her curls were relaxed and simply pinned back on her head. She really did owe Benedict a boon for inadvertently convincing her mother to relax her hair style. Penelope often felt that without the tight curls fixed atop her head, she could think more clearly. At the very least, her head ached less.

Penelope turned to her two friends, as they waited for the Queen to appear. They were both dressed in blue, Eloise in bright, calming blue like a robin's egg while Benedict was favoring a turquoise velvet coat that day with a matching satin cravat. Finishing off the look with his gold waistcoat he appeared for all to see like a proud peacock strutting about the yard. Penelope released a giggle at the thought.

Right on cue, both siblings turned their curious blue eyes towards her, brown eyebrows arching so perfectly in-sync that Penelope actually guffawed.

"Pray tell, Pen, what do you find so terribly amusing?" Eloise asked, the quirk of her lips curving into a grin.

"Yes, Nel, tell us truly what you think of us. I daresay unless you are laughing at the ridiculousness of Miss Cowper's hair, then it can only be us you would dare make fun of." Benedict paused for a beat, blue-green eyes darting around the space before settling on her again. "It is good to hear you laugh."

Penelope almost blushed. Almost. There was no reason to, Benedict was her friend. It amazed her still, how he'd evolved over the many weeks since the beginning of the season. His role in her life had transformed: best friend's brother, protector, mentor, and friend. It was a marvel that her prickly indignation that she had treated him with at the beginning when he had caught her in Bloomsbury, so far from the shy persona that took over her countenance at society gatherings, had endeared her to him. Eloise, obviously, adored Penelope's intelligence but it had been Benedict who had unlocked the hidden box that housed Penelope's honesty. Throughout her life, she had become so used to masking her true thoughts and feelings; she had learned early on that her mother did not appreciate it.

Marina was not the only one to have suffered a bruised cheek from her mother's hands.

So Penelope drew on a careful mask. The mask was not completely false, she was shy and not at all confident due to her upbringing, that much was true. But even at times with Eloise, she found herself hiding her bluntness or the sharpest edges of her wit. With Benedict, there had been no time to think before she acted in her best interest, exposing the raw core of herself that barely saw the light of day.

This allowed her to open up even more around Eloise, share more of the truth of things. And together, the Bridgerton siblings honed what was rough and jagged inside her, smoothing the edges until she began to find her natural shape.

Penelope shook herself out of her reverie when she noticed Eloise and Benedict's eyes on her. She had stayed silent for too long. So Penelope made a show of huffing, giving them a small smile before flicking a long strand of fiery hair over her shoulder.

"If you must know, I was thinking on how Benedict greatly resembles a peacock today. If he's not careful, the Queen will make him a part of her famed menagerie."

Eloise let out a burst of gut-busting laughter, turning several heads in their direction. Benedict fought back a grin, crossing his arms as he tried to appear insulted. He failed miserably though and, with another quick look around, he tweaked her nose.

"I dare you to write that in your next column," he smirked. "I will cut it out and put it beside my bed to remind myself of how best to amuse you."

Penelope…did not know what to make of that. Before she could even respond, the Queen entered, her immaculate white wig a near beacon amongst the green foliage of the garden. She was resplendent and haughty in shades of purple and white that day and she quickly approached the Duke and Duchess of Hastings. Penelope tilted her head, letting her pupils roam the garden. The Cowpers were, as usual, clearly strategizing what young bachelor to throw Cressida at next. Penelope's own mother had been attempting to talk to Lady Bridgerton, though the Dowager Viscountess was quite efficiently shutting her neighbor out with a more frigid demeanor than the fabled Snow Queen. Colin was off to the side as well, having what looked like a stilted conversation with a few other gentlemen. He looked eerily silent and it made Penelope's heart twinge. It felt unnatural for Colin to be anything other than the happy-go-lucky man with a sunny disposition. Though, Penelope wondered, was that unfair of her to expect? Lady Danbury shadowed the Queen, clearly aiming to talk to the Duke and Duchess next, while the Granvilles mingled with other guests.

Penelope desperately wanted to steer their little group to converse with the Granvilles. She had grown to feel quite comfortable in their company and she knew Benedict did as well. It was freeing, to shed the outer layers they built for themselves just to deal with society. Penelope knew if Eloise got to know them, she would feel the same way. And besides, Penelope already had begun scheming on how she could convince Benedict to allow Eloise to attend Lucy's lady soirees next year when Eloise was officially out in society. It would be a tough sell; Penelope was one thing, but Eloise was Benedict's little sister and his favorite at that. Penelope figured she could draft a mental battle plan over the summer and start trying to convince Benedict over the autumn months when everyone returned to London for Parliament.

Penelope sighed.

"I am afraid duty calls. As much as I favor talking to the two of you all day, if I did, I would be neglecting my job."

Eloise had another silent conversion with her brother before turning to Penelope again.

"Shall we be seeing you tonight?"

"I need to publish something tomorrow, even if it is a column declaring I have nothing of note to say." Penelope waved her hand airily. "Unless I hear anything of note at this luncheon. But it seems the only true scandal is the one I cannot write about."

They all shared a knowing look then, though it was no longer as grave a matter as it had been a mere few days ago. It was with an odd sense of accomplishment now.

The three of them went their separate ways. She saw Benedict wander over to the Granvilles, while Eloise quickly got swept up by Brimsley, the Queen's right hand man, and Penelope frowned. More about Whilstledown, probably. She would have to ask Eloise later.

But it was a conversation between the Cowpers that made Penelope's ears prick.

"I wonder what Lady Featherington has done to offend Lady Bridgerton?" Lady Cowper asked her daughter, disdain lacing her otherwise sweet tones.

"Does it matter, Mama? The Featheringtons are an embarrassment, the lot of them. With Miss Thompson's sudden marriage to Lord Wetherby, I would not be surprised if the girl was a lightskirt who had seduced the poor man!"

Anger and embarrassment heated Penelope's cheeks. How dare the Cowpers judge Marina, judge any of them when baseless manipulation tactics were not beyond them as well? Penelope's voice stuck in her throat, wanting to say something but too afraid to do it. Penelope knew she could be a coward at times, especially when it came to Cressida but this was a new low. Hot shame flooded her veins until she heard the clipped voice of Daphne snapping at the women,

"What exactly are you insinuating, Miss Cowper?" Daphne turned, the material of her dress the color of violent storm clouds ready to dispel their fury on those below. "You forget an important tenant to live by: Judging not, lest we too be judged. You could learn much from such a lesson, Miss Cowper."

With that, Daphne stalked off into the garden, weaving her way until she disappeared amongst the hedges. Penelope took a step forward and was surprised to find the Duke of Hastings had turned his eyes to her, as if he had been aware of her presence the entire time. He studied her for a moment, like a hunter who could not quite decide if their quarry was to be shot or released. But he shook his head, making a small motion with his hand as if to say, "After her, then."

Penelope did not need to think very hard on it. As discreetly as possible, she hurried off on her slippered feet across the gravel and grass, following Daphne's trodden path. She twisted and turned until she heard voices. Lawks, how did Penelope always find herself in these situations? Well, she knew. Because Penelope snooped. But truly, it appeared every time she followed Daphne out of a desire to help in some way, she ended up eavesdropping on a dreadfully fraught conversation instead.

Benedict and Eloise would probably find it funny, if it were not for the fact it was always their sister she listened in on.

Penelope peered beyond the edge of the hedge. Daphne and Lady Bridgerton stood in front of a statue of Athena, situated before a wall climbing with blooming, purple wisteria. It was as if Lady Bridgerton had interrupted her daughter as she made a plea to the goddess of wisdom, a supplicant seeking answers.

"Do you know what might have truly helped matters?" Daphne snapped, clearly in the middle of berating her mother for something. "If your motherly advice had actually prepared me to wed."

Penelope watched as Lady Bridgerton's face appeared stunned, as if her own daughter had slapped her.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean you sent me out into the world no better than a fool. You taught me how to play pretend, but nothing of the realities of married life, of marital relations."

Daphne was full of pent up fury, Penelope saw it clear as day. That bitterness that had seeped from the very pores of her skin like a festering wound at tea the other day was now on full display. Penelope gasped quietly when she felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Lady Danbury had snuck up on her, regal as always with her cane and top hat. But there was a resigned understanding to her eyes as she shook her head at Penelope, silently urging her to go. Penelope dashed off, but not before hearing Daphne's parting shot.

"If you had informed me about the things that were truly important, if I'd have known the truth, then perhaps I–"

Penelope approached the noise of the luncheon party again and slowed her steps in the grass, trying to catch her breath. Had Daphne worried something horribly wrong had gone on during marital relations? Penelope flushed slightly and took several deep breaths. What filled Daphne up with so much anger and despair that it filled every room she walked into? Oh, she was a good actress in front of the ton. But amongst those who knew her, women who knew her…it was the clear sign of a woman whose worldview had been upset by a man.

Biting her lip she stepped back into the more crowded space. Did she tell Benedict and Eloise what she overheard? She quickly dismissed the thought. No, she could not tell them exactly. But she could encourage them to talk with their sister, just as Daphne had been encouraged to talk to Colin. It was clear the eldest Bridgerton daughter needed someone, and unfortunately that someone was not going to be Lady Bridgerton right then.

Penelope was not watching where she was going when a pair of lithe hands stopped her.

"Miss Penelope." Penelope turned to see Lucy's smiling face, her dark hooded eyes twinkling at her. It was a little strange, to hear the formality of Miss on her lips, but they were in public amongst many others who would be bewildered to see too much familiarity between them. It was a comfort, though, for her friend to seek her out in public.

"Missus Granville," Penelope said, a weight in her chest easing. "I am so pleased to see you."

"And I you," Lucy said gently. "I wanted to invite you to another soiree of mine next week. It is the same day as the Hastings Ball, though early in the afternoon. I have none planned this week, as Lady Danbury's own late night soiree for married ladies and widows is scheduled. And she rivals even me in terms of hedonism."

Lucy laughed, that magpie-like sound echoing, gravelly but pleasant. Penelope could not help but think that Lucy was a woman of the very earth itself, free to spread her reach far and wide due to her privileged marriage. Lady Danbury was much the same in her widowhood and, now that Penelope thought about it, Genevieve was in her business enterprise, tied down to not one person. Maybe that was what Benedict liked, admired, even loved about these women: Their willingness to take the proverbial bull by the horns and steer it in the direction that they so pleased.

She blinked before giving Lucy one of her small, closed-mouth smiles.

"Of course, Missus Granville. I would love to."

Lucy's pupils widened slightly, her irises nearly as dark. She hovered her fingers over Penelope's forearm before stroking it lightly, gently.

"Do not be quick to give that smile to just anyone," Lucy murmured. "Not until the right moment. He will get jealous before he even knows what it means."

The gentle wind was warm despite the clouds overhead, making the air hefty with the scent of damp earth and flowers. The heady scent fogged Penelope's brain a bit, doubling her confusion. But as she parted her mouth to ask what Lucy meant, three things happened at once: Lucy left on swift, soundless feet back to where her husband stood with a drink in hand a few feet away, Benedict strode over from that spot with an intent look upon his face, and Eloise barreled into Penelope's side.

"Pen–"

"Nel–"

They bracketed her now, and Penelope looked from one to the other. Benedict's hands flexed and twitched by his side, his gaze at the forearm Lucy had caressed. But Eloise clasped her arm so tightly Penelope was afraid it would bruise. There was an urgency, a fear in her eyes that made Penelope forget about Benedict's odd stare or Daphne's fight with her mother.

"Pen," Eloise whispered. "It is the Queen."

Benedict had been having a rather nice conversation with Henry when Lucy wandered over to Penelope. It did not so much as surprise Benedict, now knowing that Penelope had made fast friends with the Granvilles, Genevieve, and their other acquaintances. It was freeing actually, to share such an experience with another person who felt as trapped in this buttoned-up society as he did. He knew Eloise did as well, of course, but Penelope was not his sister. While he had sworn to look after Penelope, she still managed to carve her own way amongst some of the artists and working class. Hell, she worked directly with them. In a way, it was an extreme comfort, to share part of that experience and company with someone he did not have to tutor from the ground up. Benedict was also just happy that Penelope had friends who weren't Bridgertons.

But as Benedict solidified plans to come to Henry's for another drawing lesson (Benedict suspected Henry was a tad lonely for company with Lord Wetherby on his honeymoon. While Lucy was his constant companion, Henry also appreciated that he and his wife had social lives outside of each other.) when Benedict saw it from the corner of his eye; Penelope's smile. The closed-mouth one, the one that carried all of her secrets that, until this moment, he had not realized he wanted so desperately to one day discover.

And she was aiming it at Lucy.

He could not see Lucy's face, but her light, nimble fingers traced Penelope's forearm and Benedict remembered how Lucy's fingers had felt against his own skin. The sudden thought that the sort of touch Lucy was directing at Penelope could be of a similar nature…

"Rein in your green-eyed monster, Bridgerton."

Benedict snapped his head back to Henry who seemed to be leveling him with a pitying gaze.

"What?"

Henry sighed, running a nimble hand through his perfectly styled dark-blonde waves.

"You are going to be one of those." Henry chuckled at some joke Benedict was not privy to. "It is going to strike you like lightning, and you will be fucking paralyzed."

But Benedict barely had time to reel from the comment, unsure what it meant, when he saw Lucy begin to walk away from Penelope. The short redhead's expression was nothing short of surprised. Benedict's legs moved of their own accord and, before he knew it, he was at Penelope's side just as Eloise practically tackled her.

Benedict hardly registered Eloise's panic until she had said,

"It is the Queen."

That was enough to knock sense back into Benedict's head, his mind leap-frogging from possibility to possibility.

Eloise opened her mouth again to elaborate but Benedict hissed, "Not here."

Not here, in front of so many people.

"She needs to know now ," Eloise insisted, tugging Penelope's arm.

"Come on," Penelope whispered and, with as much poise as she could muster, led them amongst the hedges to an alcove garden with a statue of Athena and wisteria flowers climbing the wall.

Penelope and Benedict whirled on Eloise then.

"What happened?"

With that, Eloise relayed how Brimsley had led her to the Queen so she could check on Eloise's progress hunting Lady Whistledown. When Eloise had fumbled for an adequate response, Queen Charlotte had urged her to look faster, that her patience was wearing thin.

"I am running out of excuses to give her," Eloise moaned. "I do not know how to lead her astray without blaming someone innocent."

Penelope chewed her bottom lip again. Instinctively, Benedict used his thumb to pry her pink lower lip from between her teeth. He tried to ignore how he felt the muscles in her face slacken as he did so, softening as he tugged upon the tender flesh.

"Maybe tonight," Benedict started a little cautiously. "You deliver what you said you may deliver. A column reporting on nothing."

"Nothing?" Penelope asked blankly.

Benedict noticed how his thumb lingered upon her soft skin a beat too long and he quickly clasped his hands behind his back.

"Nothing," Benedict repeated. "You said so yourself that there is little of note being said. Maybe by reporting that there is nothing of import happening, the Queen may get bored and lose interest."

Eloise snapped her fingers, practically bouncing down on the balls of her feet.

"I think," Penelope said, leveling the siblings with a determined stare. "You may be right."

Benedict eased slightly though the knot that had formed in his gut would not completely untangle itself. Part of him wanted to say something, to argue that Penelope should quit Whistledown for a while, until the Queen was distracted. But he knew Penelope would scoff at the idea, if not slap him for the insult. She had proven early to him that her stubbornness rivaled even that of Eloise's. Besides, he could now not bear the thought of smothering her ambition.

"Put the flowers in your window when you are ready to meet us within an hour," Benedict said. "I will keep watch for it.

Benedict desperately hoped he could watch out for Penelope as well.

Dearest Reader, a question.

Is anything more exhilarating than taking a gamble?

For it is often the highest risk that carries the greatest reward. Yet, wager wrongly, and you might find yourself left with nothing but regret. Of course, one can never know for sure whether a wager will make a fortune or ruin it, unless one chooses a more secure pursuit. But as the season continues, the biggest gamblers have yet to truly show their hand…which leaves gossip in short supply in recent days. In fact, This Author can think of no other event that merits a mention.

After the publication of the column with nothing to report, the days seemed to grow dry in terms of gossip if not weather. While the air was sticky and humid, the ton seemed to agree that in the final days of the social season they would pull together to behave, at least in public.

So Penelope sat, stupefied out of her wits on the sofa by the window, her only entertainment the now familiar tome of Robert Burns' poetry in her hands, when Briarly's announcement of a visitor perforated the dull silence:

"Sir Phillip Crane!"

Penelope dropped her book, the pages falling open with a flutter to the floor, louder than it had any right to be. The entire room stilled, frozen in some sort of paralytic state that sucked the very air from the space. Penelope's mother had been on the opposite sofa, worrying over the fact that the girls would have to reuse dresses for the remaining events of the season, much to Penelope's boredom. But now Penelope's mother was openly gaping as a young man stepped in with brown hair, deep blue eyes, and an impossibly tender, sorrowful countenance. Even Prudence and Philippa appeared to grasp the gravity of the situation, shifting uncomfortably with their embroidery next to their mother.

It was Penelope and her mother who recovered their wits first, standing up to curtsy while Prudence and Philippa followed a step behind. Penelope had heard from Eloise that Daphne had used the information she had acquired from Debrett's and cross-referenced that information with a woman at Lady Danbury's soiree. But it was bewildering, an utter shock that the letter must have reached the Crane estate so quickly, so that now someone who must have news about Sir George was there–

Wait…

But Briarly had called their guest Sir Phillip Crane…

An ominous dread made Penelope's entire body break out in a cold sweat. No. it could not be–

"Please pardon my intrusion," Sir Phillip said, his voice heavy with some sort of horrible weight. "But I received notice that, uh, Miss Thompson may want to know news of my brother, George. I just found out they had been carrying on a correspondence, and that Miss Thompson was–" Sir Phillip hesitated, rocking on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. "Compromised by my brother."

Penelope glanced quickly at her mother to see her brain already cycling through various scenarios faster than a runaway carriage. Marina was now married and out of the house, it was safe to say that Portia had finally shed the worry that had hung like a proverbial noose around her neck, at least when it came to Marina's pregnancy. But to admit to Sir Phillip Crane that they had known? And had married her off to another?

"O-oh dear!" Penelope's mother cried, and Penelope already knew what her mother was going to do: lie through her teeth. "Sir Crane, we had no idea! If we had known, we would have accommodated her better. As of a week and a half ago, Miss Thompson is now Lady Wetherby." She bit her cheek. A habit Penelope had learned from her. "H-how came you by this information?"

It was now Sir Phillip's turn to hollow out his cheeks in worry, and Penelope wondered what he would say.

"My brother…died on the battlefield in Spain. When his belongings were returned, I found his letters with Miss– I mean, Lady Wetherby."

Portia's shoulders relaxed a little, imperceptible to anyone who did not know her well.

"I see… I am terribly sorry for your loss."

Penelope bowed her head to indicate her own sympathies. And daringly, oh so daringly for Penelope, she asked,

"Mama, Sir Phillip has surely traveled a long way. Might we ask him to stay for tea at least?"

Penelope expected the sharp look shot at her but inwardly crowed in victory when her mother agreed and rang for tea service. Lady Portia Featherington was many things, but she would adhere to social niceties when the situation called upon it.

When the tea service was brought up and everyone was settled with their sandwiches and saucers, Penelope sat at the edge of her seat. She studied Sir Phillip's face, trying to read him. Oh, his grief was palpable that much was true. It was clear he loved his brother dearly, she just hoped that love did not turn sour when he thought upon Marina. Penelope prayed he understood that Marina had made the best decision she could for herself and the baby.

But then…this all meant Sir George had never ignored Marina's letters. He had died before he could write back to her.

He had loved her; fervently, ardently, and as deeply as the letters claimed.

"I admit, I had come here to offer for Miss– uh, Lady Wetherby's hand. My brother did her a great wrong, though he clearly loved her. She had written him of the child in her womb, and he had begun a letter back about how he would return to start a life with her…but that letter was never sent." Sir Phillip shifted in his seat uncomfortably, sandwich and tea untouched. "I cannot blame her for needing to do what was best for her baby, especially with no word from George. You have my word I shall say nothing on this matter."

Penelope's heart warmed at the man's generosity of spirit and it appeared that even her calculating mother was contemplative, taking in his words.

"We thank you, Sir Phillip. That is most gallant of you."

He shrugged off her praise, and for once, Penelope thought her mother had truly meant her words.

"I guess it is now my duty to inform Lady Wetherby of my brother's death."

Penelope felt her stomach clench painfully. Zounds, how would Marina feel to learn that George had not abandoned her, that he had died? Would it be a mercy to finally know the truth? That she had been loved until the end? Or was it more of a kindness to keep the knowledge from her, as Marina had only pursued marriage with Colin so hard because she thought she had been tossed aside? Would it not be cruel to inform her that she had been wrong?

Once again, Penelope's mother surprised her when she cleared her throat, setting her tea delicately on the table.

"Sir Phillip, far be it of me to make suggestions about your business, but Lady Wetherby is at least four months along in her pregnancy. I think the shock of learning of your brother's death at this juncture may," Portia bit her lip for only a fraction of a second, brows furrowed before smoothing her face into that cool, collected facade Penelope knew so well. "Prove harmful to her pregnancy. Great shocks can hurt the chances of a successful birth. I think it is wise to wait until she has delivered the baby before telling her the news privately."

Penelope stared at her mother openly, trying not to gape. Had her mother actually shown a modicum of concern? She was not completely sure. There were probably a myriad of reasons behind her mother's words: ensuring that Marina's marriage to Lord Wetherby was cemented, that the baby was born and claimed as Lord Wetherby's, and that Marina did not try something foolish if she heard the news. But Penelope did not think she was mistaken when she heard something akin to…not care, exactly, but a cousin to it in her voice. The only reason Penelope knew it was there was because she had never heard such a tone come from her mother before.

Maybe Penelope's mother had a begrudging respect for Marina in the end, or maybe she truly just did not like the idea of a potential miscarriage. Penelope would never know, for she would never ask. She long ago learned it was a moot point to ask her mother about anything pertaining to emotions.

Sir Phillip hesitated, his tea cup actually rattling against the saucer on his bouncing knee. But, eventually, he nodded.

"I bow to your expertise, Lady Featherington. I have no children or wife of my own, so I would not know better."

It was Penelope's turn to bite her lip, suddenly not hungry. Another secret to keep close to her chest, one she could not tell Marina. The two of them had already exchanged one set of letters since she had settled in at Wetherby's country estate. It was an awful feeling, guilt. Like a rat gnawing inside the lining of her stomach to make her squirm.

It was as that rat took a particularly vicious bite at her conscience that Eloise burst in unannounced. Had Penelope invited her for tea? She was so discombobulated she honestly could not remember.

Eloise made a beeline for Penelope, completely oblivious to Sir Phillip's presence.

"Pen! Oh, dear Pen, I must discuss this with you! I finally bribed Benedict into giving me a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Women ! Mama would not let me read it, which is ever so frustrating. It was written over fifteen years ago, but the ideas are still incredibly relevant–"

"El–"

Penelope tried to say as her Mama's fake eyebrows rose higher and higher, her eyes twitching, her hands tightened into fists in her lap.

"She has a daughter, also named Mary, not really the point. But–"

"Oh," Sir Phillip said, startled but Penelope was pretty sure, intrigued. He leaned forward in his chair, angling towards Penelope and Eloise, no longer trembling. "What did you think on Wollstonecraft's argument on the education of young girls shifting? I thought her arguments were quite sound."

Eloise turned slowly on her heel, only just now noticing that people other than Penelope were there. But Sir Phillip's question had lit up a familiar fire behind Eloise's eyes and Penelope noticed that for the first time since Sir Phillip entered the house, he did not look as if he would be swallowed whole by sorrow.

"Permission to speak freely?"

Sir Phillip nodded, gesturing his hand so Eloise would sit beside Penelope, not that it was his place to give such leave. But Penelope's mother must have truly used up all of her mental energy for the day, for she dared not criticize a Bridgerton about her reading choices, even a female one. So Penelope was treated to the sight of her mother sitting there, looking as if she was continuously sucking on a sour lemon as Eloise entered a lively conversation with the gentle, sad Sir Phillip.

Penelope watched on as Eloise and Sir Phillip conversed for nearly as hour and a half about Wollstonecraft's ideas of the rights of women before Eloise began interrogating the demure man about his own endeavors. This was how Penelope learned Sir Phillip was an educated botanist, who had never expected to inherit the family title or care of the estate. Their conversation volleyed back and forth like a professional tennis match, back and forth across a court designed with rules of their making.

Penelope herself found herself to be the unexpected umpire of the event, chiming in when required to calm any Eloise like outburst or to coax Sir Phillip to repeat an idea in a way that allowed their greater understanding. Even Penelope hated to admit that although Eloise and herself were well-educated, that could never compare to being allowed to learn in the sacred, male-dominated halls of Oxford or Cambridge.

Portia had tried and failed to insert Prudence into the conversation and at this moment had a look of one who had entered a trance-like state. Penelope knew that her mother's mind was thinking of other things, now just praying that the young lord would just leave. Or, more accurately, that Eloise would depart, as it was her who kept spurring on the discussion. Penelope would have thought she was hosting a salon or, more scandalously, the kind of debate deserving of the coffeehouses of Covent Garden.

"So, you are experimenting with growing plants native to the Americas on English soil? How are these species obtained?"

"Well, I do my utmost to retrieve the specimens in legal and humane ventures, usually hiring my own crew. Seeds for crops native to the former colonies, such as corn and tomatoes–"

Penelope thought, bittersweetly, about how Marina detested tomatoes.

"Have you tried to grow tobacco? I daresay, you could become a very rich lord indeed if you somehow managed to grow such a crop on our fair isle."

Penelope stifled a giggle at that comment, wondering what Benedict would think of this conversation between his little sister and the academic Sir Phillip Crane. There was a part of her heart that yearned to tell him, every single detail. She had no doubt he'd find it amusing. But the logical part of her, and a dearer part that was forever loyal to Eloise, knew she could not. No matter how loving and accepting Benedict was, he was Eloise's brother first. Benedict had shown glimpses of a protective nature he kept well-hidden up his sleeve. In fact, after the duel and the fiasco that was Colin's engagement, even Penelope's own troubles as Lady Whistledown, she intrinsically knew that Benedict had been actively hiding a sense of duty and overprotectiveness. It was something, she suspected, he'd developed over many years of being the brother who took care of his siblings' emotional needs and wants. The only reason he must've forced it down this season could only be out of Benedict's fierce desire to build his own, singular identity. It was not hard to decipher how much Benedict yearned to discover who he was unattached to his family name.

She saw how he now was thrown into a whirlpool of regrets over that, wondering if he'd done the right thing as he watched Daphne suffer.

No, she wouldn't tell Benedict of this burgeoning acquaintance between Eloise and Sir Phillip. Eloise deserved her own quiet rebellion.

It could very well be a one time thing after all.

Genevieve was honestly quite flabbergasted as the carriage rocked from side to side, Benedict on her left side as Eloise and Penelope sat on the bench opposite her.

Apparently the trio within the carriage, which Genevieve started to realize were quite inseparable in many respects, had escaped an orchestra concert early. While Genevieve had planned on Benedict certainly picking her up, she did not account for Penelope's or Eloise's presence. Genevieve was not completely sure how she felt being studied by Benedict's little sister. Though the modiste certainly believed that Penelope would not choose her dearest friend unwisely, Genevieve really had not intended on being scrutinized by a protective younger sister.

But, she had to admit, it was enlightening to study the banter between the three of them. More specifically, the way Benedict interacted with Penelope was fascinating.

Benedict carefully kept his hands clasped tightly on his lap. That made sense, while Penelope had seen Benedict in the beginning of the throes of passion, he had his reservations, especially while sober. More than that, Genevieve knew Benedict was honorable enough that he would never dare tease Genevieve in front of his own sister.

Yet his blue-green eyes, incredibly bright and full of a fervor she did not even see when caught up in his lust with her, were focused on Penelope.

They were discussing poetry, specifically the work of Robert Burns. The banter was easy, though scathing in places. It was not the same kind of quippy flirtations, sultry but a little insulting, that flared between Genevieve and Benedict in the heat of the moment. With Penelope, well… Benedict was not even trying . Their banter flowed easily, his entire self intent upon every word that fell from Penelope's lips.

Genevieve liked to experiment. With styles, fabrics, daring cuts and bold colors. She would not be in London forever. She dreamed of one day running her business in a gray stone shop in Paris, once the bloody war ended.

But experimenting with people was also quite interesting. Lucy had told her of an incident at the Queen's luncheon the other day, her eyes alight in mischief. Genevieve would conduct her own experiment, to compare results with Lucy of course.

As soon as a lull in conversation happened, Genevieve piped up in her fake, French accent for Eloise's benefit,

"Penelope, Lucy tells me you are coming to her soiree next week. We have much to catch up on, so much has happened the past two weeks."

Penelope aimed a small but bright smile at her. She really was pretty, a classical beauty. But her mother appeared determined to force the poor girl into unflattering dress cuts that hid her figure, or colors that washed her out. No matter, Penelope's beauty would make itself known with a build in confidence.

"Yes, Gen. And I have much to hear from all of you! I miss Charlotte especially, I have been wondering about her welfare."

Genevieve snorted as Eloise pivoted her head between them, a furrowed brow that Genevieve chalked up to slight jealousy. Not because Genevieve had an ease with Penelope, no, but because Penelope was getting to participate in activities Eloise could not.

"You mean her riotous escapades? She will make us all laugh uproariously I'm sure." It was then Genevieve chose to lean forward and place her long, calloused fingers against the ember-headed woman's thigh. Her bright orange dress, close to the shade of a tangerine, creased where she gripped. Penelope appeared none the wiser; touch was free and common amongst the women at Lucy's gatherings. Genevieve's chest swelled with a little pride, knowing she had helped facilitate that comfort.

But Benedict did not know that.

She felt how Benedict's gaze heated the back of her hands, following her middle finger as it made one languid stroke across the satin fabric of Penelope's dress.

"And after we have all had a good laugh, we can do something more…relaxing."

Penelope nodded, oblivious, but quick as a flash, Benedict's hand shot out to clutch Genevieve's wrist. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her back and released her wrist like it shocked him. Genevieve turned to see that Benedict's smile was now strained, his eyes narrowed in a warning that she did not think he even realized was there.

"Benedict?"

Benedict turned towards where Penelope and Eloise watched him curiously, but before much could be said the carriage had come to a halt in Grosvenor Square. As the footman opened the door and Eloise ambled out, Penelope close behind her, Benedict actually stood as much as he could to help her out, grasping her fingers as he steadied her. His back was bowed at an awkward, painful angle but he did not seem to mind.

"Goodnight," he told Penelope, and Genevieve could no longer see Penelope but she saw how Benedict's grip tightened for the briefest of moments before gingerly letting Penelope's small fingers slip from his own.

Genevieve could not hear Penelope's response but even when Benedict closed the door and banged the roof of the carriage to begin their journey to the party, he stared at the spot Penelope had been.

But as soon as they were out of the confines of the square Benedict turned to level a stern glare at Genevieve.

"She is off limits."

"Oh? But what if dear Penelope wants to…explore a little, Bridgerton?"

Benedict's face was harder than she'd ever seen it, usually so jovial, relaxed, and a little wry.

But this had apparently been a line not to cross.

"She is in love with another," Benedict snapped, running a hand through his thick chestnut hair and tugging.

"Ah, that fool brother of yours? Tell me, Bridgerton, will it truly help Penelope to pine after such an oblivious boy? Someone should provide release for her, give her attention and care. She's growing into herself, people will notice eventually. I am just unsure as to whether your brother will be one of them."

Benedict shook his head, tugging his thick brown strands again before settling back, not looking at her.

"She is off limits."

Genevieve could not resist the chuckle that escaped her as Benedict, for once, was incredibly succinct. She would have to end this affair soon, either when she arrived or when she got back from Paris at the end of summer. But it was all too fun now to end just yet. Penelope was unaware, still too caught up in her pure infatuation, hero worship, of Colin Bridgerton. There was no way Penelope would even see her feelings, like a bloom trying to grow in the undergrowth, waiting for the sun to finally shine upon it so it could grow.

But she pitied Benedict, truly. He had no idea just how fast and hard he was already falling.

The humidity of the spring night thickened the air; Penelope felt like she could feel the moisture in the air filling her lungs and settling there, simulating the sensation of drowning. The world around her was heavy, pulling her down as she desperately tried to just breathe . But even the usually comforting scent of wet earth and blooming hyacinths were too much, too cloying. The smell entrenched itself in her nostrils and throat, making her feel nauseous. Penelope tried to register what Eloise had just told her, she did. But while the words settled into the crevices of her brain like barbs in the grass, she still could not fully comprehend.

Penelope sat, shell-shocked as Eloise finished relating to her what the Queen had said at the orchestra performance. They swung slowly in the garden, not yet ready to depart each other's company. But Penelope was now slowly coming to a stop, the motion of the swing now simulating the horrible, queasy swoop in her stomach. How had this happened? How was everything she felt like she had just started to build now crumbling around her like a castle built upon sand?

She wouldn't ask why . That way lay madness.

"What?"

Eloise swallowed, fiddling with the cornflower blue ribbon she had ripped from her hair. Penelope could see how her friend's hands trembled even as she wound the ribbon between the web of her fingers, tying it tight until the skin turned white and mottled red before she released her hold to start the process all over again. If Eloise herself could be stunned, scared into near silence, then Penelope knew it was bad. With a horrible sense of foreboding, Penelope grabbed the rope to Eloise's swing and pulled her friend closer to her, silently pleading to say something, anything than what she had just said moments before.

Penelope was not so lucky.

It was obvious the amount of effort it took Eloise to meet Penelope's wide-eyed stare with her own. Penelope thought she was truly going to be sick.

"I would have told both you and Benedict in the carriage, but I did not count on Madame Delacroix's presence. The Queen has hired Bow Street Runners, Penelope. To try and catch you ."

Chapter 8: Comes the Light

Summary:

The drama of the season comes to a head as Benedict wrestles with his desire for individual identity and his belief he failed as a brother. Eloise strikes up a new friendship, while Penelope gathers the courage to admit a truth that could bring great joy or grave disappointment.

All the while, several others realize there is more to Benedict and Penelope's friendship than they claim.

Notes:

Holy crabapples, we've somehow made it to the end of season 1! So not fret! Obviously there's more, as this fic will go through seasons 2-3 as well. But the emotions in this chapter are HIGH.

I shall forever be thankful to itakethewords, as they are my beta, my friend, my planner who sits on EIGHT HOUR CALLS WITH ME plotting this story out, and makes all of the lovely graphics. Truly, they are a blessing upon this world, and I could not do this fic without them.

The only historical notes I have here is 1. When writing the boxing scene I actually found out underground female boxing rings were a thing in Regency England. I don't have time but, uh... if someone has the time and energy to write an underground boxing au with Penelope and Eloise (and whatever pairing you want but you all know what I'm partial to) please let me know.

2. Trying to figure out how to spell 'Madam' (the female head of a brothel). I was like, "Is it 'Madam'? 'Madame'? AHHHHH!!" I searched the internet and chose 'Madam' in the end.

Also, yes, Benedict is this dense about his feels I will be taking no notes.

Take a shot every time Pen or Ben claim they're just friends. Heehee.

Chapter Text

The fastest courtship upon record occurred during the markedly wet season of 1804, when Miss Mary Leopold secured a betrothal over a plate of sugared almonds and licorice in just four and a half minutes.

Of course, Miss Leopold and her new husband would leave London mere hours after their wedding.

Reason unknown.

Of all that I have imparted to you, Dear Reader, there is but one bit of wisdom you must heed most. One can never know the truth of a marriage hiding behind closed doors.

Beware indeed, blushing newlyweds. You know not the future that awaits.

Will there be hardship…

…or indignity?

Or will one's future see the rarest accomplishment of all, a true love match?

As for which of these fates await the eager matches of the season of 1813, only two things will tell…

Time, and, as always, This Author.

Penelope fidgeted while Benedict read her latest column, one they planned to run to the printers after their evening at one of Henry's little artist gatherings. Penelope now had an open invitation to come whenever she wished but, although she was adept at sneaking about unseen, it was still quite risky for her to go out as often as Benedict unchaperoned . So her appearances usually coincided to when Benedict would help her deliver a column. They sat at their easels, Benedict reading as he tried to balance his graphite on a puckered upper lip. He kept moving and swaying as the graphite teetered under his nose, and Penelope attempted not to giggle just to spite him, the fatwit.

Penelope shook her head demurely rather than stick her tongue out at him, turning away to look at the evening's model again. It was Charlotte who posed that evening, clothed in a beautiful Grecian chiton in a lovely light mauve that highlighted her thick blonde hair. She laid upon a settee as if sleeping or overcome by some tragedy, her arm closest to the back wall bent so that her forearm covered her eyes in a kind of swoon. Penelope stifled another giggle, simply because, knowing Charlotte, it was taking all of the woman's strength and energy to resist talking. She knew Henry must have paid her a tidy sum, if not a bit extra, to ensure she did not decide to lean over to gossip with the artists.

"Nel," came a nasally whine and Penelope looked over to see Benedict had dropped his graphite in his lap due to a comical pout now etched on his face, his lower lip jutted out. "You're not even paying me any mind."

"I pay no heed to childish exploits in order to garner attention," Penelope wrote a line of description about Charlotte, frowning as she pointedly turned her head away from Benedict. "If you give a dog too many treats, it will become quite lazy." She smirked, hearing Benedict's huff of mock indignation. "We do not want to overindulge you, do we?"

"What if I want to be overindulged?" Benedict asked, his voice oddly raspy. Penelope swiveled her head to meet his eyes and, for the first time in many weeks, she could not discern the odd look behind them. Penelope did not even think Benedict was aware because the next thing she knew he had turned, shaking his head before handing her the draft of her column back with one hand.

His jacket had been abandoned on the floor thirty minutes ago, his cravat loosened and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. A muscle in his forearm twitched when her fingers brushed his own to retrieve the parchment. It seemed he'd now decided not to look at her.

"It is all well in order," Benedict said, shrugging his shoulders before attempting to add texture to the waves of Charlotte's hair with the graphite. "Though I do not fully comprehend the bit about marriage… Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Penelope sighed. She was still resolute in her conviction not to tell Benedict exactly what she'd overheard between Daphne and Lady Bridgerton at the Queen's luncheon. But a little hint couldn't hurt. Benedict had made it clear several times now that he had felt like he had failed Daphne that season as one of her older brothers. He deserved a chance to make some sort of amends.

"I have two things of import to tell you," Penelope admitted, striking out a word and replacing it with a synonym before turning to Benedict. He was finally looking at her, a little serious at her words, his knees and upper body now angled in her direction. "The first is… I cannot tell you the details, but I think you might want to talk to Daphne. Check on her well-being. I overheard…something I should not have been privy to."

Benedict's eyes narrowed, one fist clenched the black fabric of his breeches, the other his graphite and Penelope realized what she might have insinuated.

"She has not been maltreated! Not physically harmed by her husband!"

Benedict's grip loosened only slightly.

"You say she has not been physically harmed, but if he has verbally abused her I will rip him limb from limb," Benedict growled.

Penelope felt an odd flutter in her stomach, something that sent a flare of heat throughout her lower body that she didn't understand. She shook her head, clearing her senses.

"You are not a violent person, Benedict. You have to be one of the most amiable people I have ever known. You detest conflict! That's Anthony's domain, not yours."

Benedict unclenched one fist from his breeches, stretching the joints before cracking his knuckles against his knee.

"I am," he conceded. "Unless it concerns my younger siblings, especially my sisters. I would commit untold horrors for them if that is what they needed. I could not abide it if Daphne was being mistreated." The corners of Benedict's eyes suddenly downturned, frown deepening as he peered down at his feet in what looked like shame. "I have already failed her so much this season."

Penelope's heart went out to him, ached keenly at his perception of failure.

"You did not fail her," Penelope whispered. "Yes, you might have done more, but in the end, Daphne did make her own decisions. You are a good brother, Benedict. I would be so happy to have a brother such as you."

Benedict startled slightly and Penelope became confused as Benedict's expression morphed not into one of acceptance, pleasure, or even friendly jest. He looked a bit like she had taken her graphite and thrown it straight at his face.

Benedict turned again, now absently tracing over a line of Charlotte's chiton that he'd already drawn.

"I shall talk to Daph tomorrow. I best do it soon before her ball," he nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose before shooting Penelope one of his wide smiles. It was a bit too bright, but Penelope decided not to press him on it. "What was the second thing?"

Penelope blushed. Penelope had to admit that even though she had made Eloise swear not to tell Benedict about the predicament with the Queen until Penelope did, she had not fully expected her dear friend to follow through. Benedict was Eloise's favorite brother and she trusted Penelope to Benedict's care. Penelope had at first not wanted to spoil any night that Benedict spent with Genevieve over the news, but then two days had passed and Penelope still had not garnered the courage to tell him. It was not that Penelope thought Benedict would be furious with her or beg her to quit Whistledown. No, he knew she would refuse. But for some reason she dreaded Benedict's potential ire and worry more than anything. Penelope had done her best to report nothing of real note over the past week but the Queen was still bloodthirsty for the woman behind the poison pen.

Benedict had done so much for her, sacrificed so much, given her innumerable minutes of his time, more than he needed to or probably wanted to. Even if they were friends, surely the man had his limits. Always looking after a girl such as her could not be very high on his list of priorities.

But when Penelope met his blue-green irises, his face having softened with her silence, how he'd scooted his stool and easel over with a rough hump and small screech across the wooden floor, one hand palm up as if in supplication– well, she felt the truth slip through her lips like spilled wine.

"The Queen told Eloise at the orchestra concert that she hired Bow Street Runners to track me down."

Benedict's whole body tensed.

Penelope witnessed a plethora of emotions cross his face, made all the more difficult to translate when he was barely lit by the candlelight of the dim room. Shadows flickered and though she downturned her head, unable to hold his gaze, she saw how his shadow upon the floor stayed completely still. Would he abandon her now? A tidal wave of fear threatened to overtake Penelope's whole being, culminating in a well of tears collecting in her eyes. She blinked but the salty water collected in drops upon her lashes. Would Benedict now decide that this was enough, a line he could not cross? Would he pull away from her to be caught on her own, dragging Eloise with him until she was that girl again, huddled on the floor by the great staircase of her family's home with only a book for company?

She blinked again, several tears escaping to run rivulets down her cheeks and that's when she saw Benedict's shadow move. Before she knew it, he was kneeling before her, hands outstretched and cupping her cheeks in his palms, thumbing away her tears. The room suddenly seemed to shrink in size as if it now only contained the two of them; there was no Charlotte reclining, no artists scattered around the room, not even Mister Granville who Penelope knew sat at the easel directly across the space from them. No, it was only her, filled with insecurities, and Benedict, with his tender touch trying to wipe away every single one.

"I refuse to leave you," he swore and Penelope marveled at how he'd somehow identified her fears as easily as he could identify the colors used in a Dutch masterpiece. "I admit, this is a development I had willfully not planned on. Careless on all of our parts. But Nel, you must trust me. I feel like I am constantly saying that as of late, but I feel as if you do not yet believe me. I will not abandon you to the wolves."

Penelope tried to huff a laugh though it came out more as a watery, clogged sob.

"I– I am sure, Benedict, that I could figure this out alone. I have been marooned most of my life, you know, on a little island of my own devising."

She tried to smile, truly she did, but she saw something startling, something akin to pity in Benedict's eyes. But she knew pity well, she had seen it on Benedict's face before and this was not it. But she did not know this emotion.

He curled one tentative finger to gently stroke up each of her long lashes, catching the droplets there to collect upon the side of his second knuckle.

Gently. That word still made Penelope's toes curl and her stomach somersault. She had not known the meaning, the real definition of the word until that day in the park when she was nine years old, held in Benedict's arms as Eloise buoyed her, Colin smiled at her, and Lady Bridgerton comforted her. Gently, she thought, was her absolute favorite word. Synonymous with the proper noun Bridgerton, she was sure.

"You could," he conceded, his voice nothing more than the ghost of a whisper between them. "But that does not mean you should have to."

He drew no closer, but Penelope knew that this was…intimate. In a way she didn't fully understand. If they were caught like this anywhere else, their mothers would be banging down the door and demanding they march down the aisle. If the Viscount Bridgerton didn't beat them to it. But here at the Granvilles', it just felt safe. Like he could hold her if he wanted to as she sobbed in relief and no one would let it leave this room.

With trembling fingers, Penelope set her small hands on either side of Benedict's neck. The pounding of his pulse danced over her palms and she squeezed gingerly, her thumbs sliding on the space where the bottom of his jawline connected with his neckline.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I just– I know it's difficult for me to trust. But…thank you."

Penelope wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, breathing only each other's air. But she knew something was shifting. Trust, maybe? Now she fully, irrevocably trusted him beyond measure; with her secrets, her well-being, her friendship. Yes, that must be it.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Benedict pulled away and the room widened again, coming back into clarity and focus. As they both returned to their easels, Penelope glanced up to see Mister Granville staring at them very intently, though his hand never wavered from his drawing. But he looked at them, not at Charlotte who was still posed along her back.

Benedict coughed slightly as he picked his graphite up again.

"So, what are you writing?"

Yes, safe territory.

"I keep going back and forth whether to portray Charlotte as Psyche or as Ariadne," Penelope admitted, frowning at the few lines she had been able to produce. Benedict tilted his head, signaling her to elaborate. "Psyche always impressed me. She was not particularly strong and she nearly gave up many times, but she succeeded in winning back Eros after loving him in the dark for so long. But Ariadne… She plotted and schemed against her own family for her love of Theseus, only to be abandoned on Naxos. But then Dionysus picked up the pieces holding her together, loved her, married her…and saw her worth. I have always adored that story. Two beings who were underestimated coming together, I suppose."

Benedict hummed as he smudged the shadow of the settee onto the paper with his thumb.

"Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but–"

"When have you ever not taken up the opportunity to inform me of your opinion?"

Benedict chuckled, light and lovely on the warm air.

"Point taken. But I think you appear more drawn to Ariadne. Try it. If it does not flow smoothly you can always attempt Psyche's story instead. Henry has been trying to teach me not to let my mistakes overshadow my potential."

Even with her cheeks dampened and sticky, Penelope felt herself give a small smile.

"Mister Granville certainly is a good mentor."

"That he is."

A few minutes of comfortable silence passed where the two of them worked. Penelope chewed her bottom lip as she concentrated on the words she wrote.

Ariadne's grief consumed her, leaving her motionless upon the rocks of Naxos, the crashing waves of the sea nothing but a reminder of her dread isolation. She would die here scared, alone and abandoned. The fabric of her chiton already began to tear upon the jagged rocks she lay upon, desperate for any pain that would distract from the breaking of her heart. Ariadne did not know how long she lay supine there, mere hours or days, her arm blocking the light of the sun or moon from her vision. But gentle, warm hands eventually cupped her cheeks, a stream of a breath that smelt of summer vines and freshly poured wine close to her lips,

"I have watched you suffer long enough, Ariadne of Crete. Come home with me, and let me ease your sorrow, strip you of your heartbreak until you can rebuild yourself anew. Come home with me."

Ariadne finally removed her heavy, tired arm and blinked back the weariness from her eyes. Eyes as sparkling as the Aegean Sea–

Penelope frowned again. She had meant to describe Dionysus' eyes as the deep green-blue of Colin's eyes. She had always been fascinated by them since that day in the park so long ago in her childhood. They had the sheen of a fresh blade of grass with the sun shining through it, the blue highlighting the tender plant. Yet Dionysus' eyes were coming out more…blue. Although she had never seen the Aegean Sea, only read about it in books, something in her instinctively told her that the ocean there must be a dazzling blue…

As she contemplated this, Benedict spoke again, forcing her out of her reverie.

"Francesca is coming home from Bath, did you know? She is the most reserved out of all of us and yet, the house somehow felt quieter without her. Is that not strange?"

Penelope bobbed her head as she observed the actual current of excitement in Benedict's voice. He really did adore his siblings, even while at the same time wanting a life that was separate from them.

"Are you excited for her return?"

"I have missed her terribly," Benedict confessed, scratching his temple with the point of his graphite, causing a slightly gray smear to appear. "I did not think I would, if I am honest. But I discovered my siblings are strange phantom limbs, always a part of me. It was the same when Daphne left. I felt her loss more keenly than expected in the quiet moments. When I realized no one was playing the pianoforte, or there was no one to team up with to wrangle Gregory or Hyacinth. Even in the mornings, when suddenly she was no longer demanding I move my gangly legs so she could read on the sofa next to me. It aches something terrible."

"I wish I could feel the same about my own sisters," Penelope said, resigning herself to the state of Dionysus' eyes. She'd puzzle that out later. "Or, selfishly, I wish they could feel that way about me. But I could disappear tonight. Take the money I've made and run to… to…" Penelope floundered for a moment, noticing how Benedict appeared to wear an amused smile, though slightly melancholy. "Liverpool!"

"Liverpool?" Benedict guffawed, slapping his knee as if Penelope had told the most riotous joke. "Nel, for all of that imagination inside your head, you pick Liverpool to run away to?"

Penelope blushed but stuck out her tongue.

"It's not as if there are many options. Running off on my own to the Continent would be a death sentence with the war going on, at least by myself."

Benedict's countenance softened again, almost imperceptibly but she could identify it now. The way his muscles relaxed and the crinkles of his eyes turned a little sad. It nearly hurt to look at him when he got like this.

"Whether to Liverpool, the Americas, or the Russian Empire… I beg you not to run away. I cannot speak for your family, but I can speak for ours. We would miss you terribly."

Penelope snorted.

"Oi! None of that," Benedict admonished, reaching forward to tweak her nose. "We would. One day, Penelope, you will make a family of your own and I know you will make it as warm and loving as you deserve."

Penelope pondered that for a moment, letting an unbidden vision fill her mind. A warm, loving home decorated in cool colors: blues, creams, greens and purples. She imagined having children, a desire that was hard to admit to anyone. It had been especially difficult to confess such a dream to Eloise, but she could not deny it. She wanted children with all her heart; children that she would love so loudly that they would never question their worth. In that beautiful daydream, though it flickered, was Colin by her side. Bold, confident, his bright demeanor lighting the room of her fantasy. He was the center of it, more so than her or the imaginary children that surrounded them.

Colin had always been the center of that dream for years.

"Do you want children?" Penelope asked, pivoting away from him.

Benedict nearly choked on his own spit. He sputtered and spat and Penelope giggled as Benedict began to cough, dramatically pounding the center of his chest in a vain effort to dislodge the offending spittle.

"Oh, sure," he wheezed, coughing again as Penelope clutched her sides in mirth. "Laugh yourself giddy as I perish. Do not bother to help poor me. This is humiliating."

Penelope believed Benedict was much relieved when Mister Granville joined them. The older man had quietly sauntered from the other side of the room, going around the semi-circle until he stood behind them. He pounded Benedict's back a little harder than necessary.

"Bridgerton, please do not execute such a lamentable death in my household. I would rather not face the Viscount or the Duchess and explain that their brother died of embarrassment on my rather nice hardwood floors."

Benedict glared at Mister Granville, though there was no bite in his gaze. His coughs finally subsided and Mister Granville and Penelope shared a look as Benedict cleared his throat.

Mister Granville sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the window ledge behind them. The sky was dark outside and it was a new moon. No light filtered in through the glass, the clouds blocking out any possible starlight. He was attired similarly to Benedict; his coat had been abandoned along with his cravat. His short collar hung open and his sleeves were rolled up. The lines creased in his forehead marked his fatigue, causing Penelope to worry. She bit her bottom lip, as was her habit, and did not even notice when Benedict tugged it out from between her teeth.

"Mister Granville, what troubles you?" Penelope asked.

Mister Granville had been studying the two of them but at the question he sighed again, running a hand through his dark blonde waves.

"I hope you do not take this as an insult, Bridgerton, but I spent the better part of today painting your sister's official portrait as Duchess of Hastings. I must admit it was rather…more demanding than expected."

Benedict's eyebrows knitted together and he leaned his forearms upon his knees as he looked up at his friend.

"She is usually quite serene while sitting for portraits. Was she ill at ease or sick? Is my sister alright?"

Penelope's heart warmed at the honest concern in Benedict's tone. He really was a good brother even though she knew he felt like he hadn't been that season. At least not to Daphne. But Penelope had no doubt at all that Benedict would do anything for his siblings if they asked.

Mister Granville shrugged and shook his head, his kind, watery blue eyes firm with resolve.

"I cannot say much more than that. I do my best not to air my clients' troubles to the wide world. But you are her brother. I highly suggest you talk to her and check on her welfare. That is all I will say on the matter."

Penelope saw the exact moment where Benedict's resolve hardened, like a steel sword in the final stages of its creation, hardening under a skilled blacksmith's hands. She did not know exactly when she had come to know Benedict so well that she could see it in the straightening of his back or the way his fists clenched in his lap. What she did know was that Benedict would contrive a way to have a discussion with Daphne and that Hastings better pray the problems beleaguering the Duke and Duchesses' marriage did not solely lay with him.

Benedict was not a man of conflict or violence.

But when it came to his siblings, Penelope realized he could become a tad more unpredictable.

Benedict cursed himself for oversleeping as he weaved in and out of the colorful market stalls, assaulted by pastel greens, yellows, pinks, and purples while dodging florists, fruit sellers, leatherworkers and cobblers. He had stayed up too late at the Granvilles' home, working well into the night with Penelope as they chatted. They should have left sooner to deliver her column, but once the modeling was done, Charlotte had immediately wanted to converse with Penelope. The older woman chattered nonstop about the recent goings on at the brothel, some stories that made even Benedict's ears turn pink.

He'd been further distracted when, while Penelope was distracted by her friend, Henry had shuffled him over to his own easel.

The image had made Benedict's heart stutter.

It was not an image of Charlotte that greeted him.

Instead, it was a detailed sketch of the moment Benedict had completely forgotten himself and had kneeled before Penelope, cupping her face in his large hands. Benedict couldn't help himself in that moment; just as he hated conflict, he despised suffering. To witness Penelope's tears, her terror that he would leave her, abandon her in her time of need– It had made him fall to the floor with a terrible, painful tug in his chest, as if her sorrow pulled and frayed on the very tissue of his heart. There was no choice but to comfort her, to hold her as tightly as he could until her tears stopped.

It had been instinct.

But being confronted with the tender moment, immortalized in graphite, startled him.

Henry observed him staring at the work.

"I will not share it, if that worries you. The two of you are quite recognizable. But I would like to keep it, the pose itself is quite an inspiration. Would you grant me permission to retain it?"

Benedict did not know how to reply. He wasn't sure if he wanted anyone other than him and Penelope to possess that moment between them. But he had nodded mutely instead, knowing he owed his mentor much in the way of gratitude and apology. So he would let Henry be the one other partner of that private moment, a witness.

Benedict tugged at his hair as he continued to search the crowded market, desperately trying to find Daphne and his mother. After staying too late at Henry's, Penelope and himself actually had to stay up until the early morning to catch the printer for publishing. As a result, Benedict had slept in longer than he meant to. By the time he had forced himself out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, Humboldt had informed him (with a very knowing, disdainful look, the crafty know-it-all) that his sister and mother had gone to do some shopping for the Hastings Ball being held at the end of the week.

So Benedict weaved in and out, in and out, constantly and repetitively between couples, lady's maids, scheming mamas, and gossiping widows to try and find Daphne. Henry's words had troubled him last night, along with the knowledge from Penelope that Daphne was having…trouble. Eloise hinted at it as well, that Daphne was different, changed in some way since she had left for her honeymoon. Furthermore, her mood towards their mother had been icy at best, signaling to Benedict that the situation was dire.

Daphne, amazingly, held no bitterness towards their mother for the period of time where Violet had been so lost in her grief she could not see her own children growing up and apart without her. Daphne performed tasks of motherly care without complaint, always willing to pick up the slack when Benedict was overwhelmed or had to go back to Cambridge. Daphne helped Eloise with her letters, entertained Francesca with music (it was probably why Fran loved the pianoforte so much – She wanted to play just as well, if not better, than Daphne), tucked Gregory into bed, and sang to Hyacinth when she cried. Daphne had always been a mother, molded to the job since the age of ten. Even after all of that responsibility and stress, Daphne had adored and looked up to their mother. She had never lost faith that dear Mama would return one day, and it made Benedict's eyes sting to think of little Daphne on the birthday she turned one and ten, everyone present at the table except her mother and father. Those first two years it had been like both of their parents had died, in truth. So even while Anthony glanced bitterly at the door to the breakfast room, hoping their mother would show, it was Daphne who had looked up at Benedict (he held her in his lap as a small form of comfort. When she had been little he would always hold her in his arms as he read her a story or allowed her to play with charcoal on paper) and said,

"Do not be cross at Mama, Ben. I think when Papa's soul went to Heaven, Mama's went with him to guide him. It will just take a while for it to travel back again."

What kind of child of one and ten said such things? Their society was one in which they all grew up quickly, that much was true. But Daphne's childhood had been sacrificed far too soon and, Benedict admitted, there were nights where his resentment would surface and he felt indignation on her behalf. He had similar feelings for Anthony, though those were slightly tempered by Anthony's vicious ability to ruin a moment with sarcastic cruelty. It was his older brother's defense mechanism, Benedict knew. Anthony didn't want anyone, not even his siblings, to peer too close at the absolute ruin of his very being.

Benedict saw it anyway.

Daphne had gone through all of the drastic ups and downs that had encapsulated the two years after their father's death and still idolized their mother. Benedict had thought that would never change. Until now, that is.

It was as Benedict made his second circuit around the market into a section heavily used by florists where he heard them. He spun on his heel slightly, finally seeing his sister's perfectly done strawberry blonde hair next to his mother's dark, walnut brown tresses. He would've proceeded, he was close enough behind them, a now clear path between himself and them. But when he took two steps forward, the words he heard tumble from his sister's lips with such finality and surety stopped him dead in his tracks.

"I have made my decision. The Duke and I are going our separate ways. It is for the best, truly."

Benedict barely absorbed the words, he only had as long as his mother's hesitation in what he assumed was a stunned silence. But within that miniscule space of time, questions already flew through Benedict's head like a flurry of clashing birds in the sky. Go their separate ways? What could have happened for Daphne to risk such the possibility of a scandal surrounding husband and wife living separately? Had the Duke wronged her? Had his little sister been hurt? Was any of the care Benedict hoped he'd seen between the Duke and his sister real? Or had it been a desperate lie Benedict had told himself so he would not feel so guilty in the aftermath of the duel?

Benedict's spiraling thoughts only got so far until his mother spoke in a nervous, maybe desperate, tone.

"I know I do not always say the right things. And then the things I do say, well… They are not always what you wish to hear." Benedict could not see his mother's face but just by the sound of her voice he could envision it; startled but determined. A mother who understood they were on slightly uneven footing with their child but also sure of their own knowledge. "I am only able to offer you what I know. However difficult forgiving someone may be, it is necessary to move forward."

He could tell Daphne was not even looking at their mother as she went from item to item, vendor to vendor, acting as if she was truly interested even as the words she gave were made of brittle ice.

"That is not up to me, Mama. The Duke is choosing to nurture some grudge against his father instead of allowing himself any…any kind of happiness." He caught a side profile of his sister's face as she turned to look at a bundle of lilacs, her blue eyes not even lighting up at the sight. She used to adore flowers. "However am I supposed to forgive that? However are we supposed to move forward from there?"

Once again, Benedict was thrown into a state of confusion, endless questions. A grudge against his father? What sort of grudge against one's dead father could drive such a wedge between a married couple? Anxiety began to gnaw at the inside of Benedict's stomach as if someone had decided to drop a rat inside to scrabble and chew until he was eaten alive. Had he truly failed so terribly to protect Daphne? Had he been so neglectful in his pursuit of his own interests, assuaging any guilt he felt by assuring himself he made up for it by protecting Penelope and Eloise?

He really was a terrible brother…

It was in this state of self-inflicted agony that Lady Portia Featherington and her trusted servant, (Benedict did not remember her name, just that she always looked like she was sucking on a particularly sour lemon), practically accosted his sister for an invitation to her ball. He stepped back, pretending to look at a fresh selection of apple blossoms, hiding his face amongst the petals. Penelope never mentioned that her family hadn't been invited to the ball, probably because of the perceived personal slight against Colin. Yet, despite his mother's blustering anger, Daphne extended a personal invitation that made Benedict sigh a little in relief. His sister was not completely hardened, then. The ice had thawed for only a moment, but Daphne had always liked Penelope. He had no doubt it was she Daphne thought of when telling a clearly desperate Lady Featherington that they could come to the event.

It gladdened Benedict that he would see his friend there but also that Eloise would not be alone. She would have felt terribly uncomfortable and out of place at her first official ball without the comfort of her dearest friend beside her. Benedict felt the furrow in his brow soften at the image of Penelope and Eloise side by side. Yes, it would be lovely.

Benedict waited another moment for Lady Featherington to disappear once more into the crowd before clearing his throat and calling out with false cheer and bravado,

"Mother! Daph!"

Both women whirled around with identical looks of incredulity. He would have chuckled under normal circumstances; in moments like these it could not be more clear that they were mother and daughter.

"Benedict, dearest, what–" his mother began but Benedict knew he had to be swift. He looped Daphne's arm with his own and gave their mother a wily grin.

"I must abscond with Daphne for just a moment, Mother. A bit of advice is needed. Do not fret. I shall return her to– uh," Benedict glanced around at the merchants' wares before shrugging. "Your floral arranging or whatever you do to set up for a party, soon."

With that he winked and all but dragged his sister away. Daphne appeared too astonished for a moment to speak as he maneuvered them through the throng of people once again until they were outside the market, into a wider space. Benedict breathed deeply, finally feeling less claustrophobic. God, how could anyone breathe in that space? How could anyone think?

"Benedict, what on earth is the matter?"

Benedict turned down to see Daphne glaring up at him, her free hand anchored to her hip in a menacing fashion. He was reminded of their mother again, not that he would tell her that. He breathed again, trying to take in as much air as possible. The scent of dirt, manure, flowers, oncoming rain– it was enough to center him.

"I wanted to talk to you," Benedict admitted, turning so his body was angled towards her, almost like a shield. He had no intention to be overheard. "I needed to talk to you. I was worried before, sister, but… I overheard your conversation with Mother about your husband. I am now doubly concerned."

Daphne stiffened and for a moment Benedict feared she would tear herself away from him and bolt. But like the Duchess she was born to be, she stood perfectly still and poised, only the darting of her pupils told Benedict he had reason to be worried. No one would be able to decipher the look on her face except her siblings.

"Daph…has he harmed you in any way? If he has, I swear on Father's grave, I will challenge him myself–"

"Why do you suddenly care?" she snapped, her blue eyes no longer cold ice but blazing with a fury that had been steadily building, ready to burst forth. "It is not as if you have paid me much mind this season. Throughout my many disasters and a tumultuous courtship, you have kept yourself apart!"

The urge to recoil battled with the equally powerful instinct to pull his sister closer. Benedict knew he deserved the criticism. A small, masochistic part of him even welcomed it. But it did not make it feel any less than like a horrible blow to the face.

Benedict fought the very real urge to hug his sister. Except for the day she left for Clyvedon after her wedding breakfast, he hadn't given her a proper hug in an embarrassingly long time. As she'd gotten older it had seemed unnecessary. She was a grown woman now, he'd reasoned. She didn't need assurances of his affections.

He was starting to think he'd been wrong.

"I–" Benedict swallowed. Daphne's glare had not lessened in intensity. He squeezed her hand that lay upon his forearm. It always surprised him how thin, lithe and delicate her fingers were. He could feel her bones through the satin gloves. "Daph, I cannot begin to apologize enough for how I have neglected my duties as your older brother this season. This is arguably when you needed me most but I was more than happy to let Anthony take the reins. I trusted him blindly when I should have been an advocate for you, someone who could fight against Anthony's worse impulses. I wanted to be free and unattached to my siblings, find myself, when I should have been seeking a balance."

Benedict bent his head just enough to briefly press his brow to the crown of Daphne's head, an action he used to do often when she was a child. Daphne, when she'd been small, begged him to play with her or protect her from the ghosts hiding in her armoire. In answer to her pleas, he used to press his forehead to her gently, a quiet assent between the two of them. He hadn't realized how much he missed that.

It only took a few seconds before he straightened up but it made all the difference. Daphne's eyes crinkled at the corners a bit like his own, the softest upward tilt of her lips betraying her.

"Daph, I know it may be too little too late. But you know I love you, right? That you are the best of sisters? That I would do anything for you?"

Daphne let her mouth succumb to a playful smirk.

"Do not let Eloise hear you say that. She would be devastated."

Benedict shared in her amusement. This was easy, the camaraderie he remembered. They had liked to joke often that if there was ever a sibling civil war in their household it would most likely be an easy split between the elder four siblings and the younger four. It had always been the elder four of them that remembered a life with their father best, and a time where their mother had been whole. After the travesty that followed the aftermath of that bee sting, it had been the four of them against the world. At least, that was what it had felt like. Anthony, Benedict, Colin, and Daphne worked to build a safe foundation for their younger siblings over the years. There'd been no other choice after their father died. Always the four of them that acted in the better interest of the family. They'd each performed different roles, but the goal remained the same; to protect and nurture their family.

"More like an avenging fury," Benedict commented, squeezing her hand again. "So we shan't tell her, will we?"

Daphne shook her head before laying it gently upon his bicep. He ached for a moment, feeling as if she was trying to share her load with him without so many words.

"What is between my husband and I is between us. I can promise you that he has not physically harmed me in any way. It is…a mess of our own devising, I'm afraid. Yet, I must bear it. A woman can do little else."

What lay unsaid between them made the air thick with tension, and Benedict wished he had wise words to offer her like he used to, often with a bit of humor:

Daph, you must sound out the letters as you write them, to check if they are correct. Like so: BEN-E-DICT IS MY FAV-O-RITE BRO-THER.

Daph, ghosts do not live in little girls' armoires. They live in big, abandoned houses with crotchety old men. So never visit Anthony when you are fully grown.

Shhhh, Daph. It's just a little cut upon your finger. Take a deep breath and count to ten.

But for once, he had no words. Daphne moved beyond him to a challenge in life he had not yet met. Benedict had no idea what it was like to be married. He knew a little of love, of youthful heartbreak, of lust, even of things yet unnamed. He thought of fiery red hair for a moment until his brain blocked the image. Benedict knew what it was like to have hopes and dreams, expectations even. Yet his sister's problem was uniquely her own and he had no advice to give. He wondered if his father would have known what to say. He liked to believe that his late father would have had the perfect words to say to his daughter.

"I can see you thinking, Ben," Daphne muttered, her jaw flexing along his arm as she spoke. "Brother, I forgive you. There is nothing you can fix. But I do appreciate that you would aid me if I asked." She turned her face up to him, craning her neck and she appeared so small. "All I will say is be careful with your own heart, Benedict. I fear us Bridgertons have a tendency to be fanciful romantics. You are empathetic to a fault. Do not let it set you up for an impossible love and a greater heartbreak."

Benedict became speechless and she led him back to the market where their bewildered mother waited. He felt a dreadful sense of foreboding that seeped and settled into his skin.

May 15, 1813

Dearest Pen,

I write to you from the country estate up in West Yorkshire. It is much cooler here than in London, but the vast green hills comfort me. There is much more wild terrain than the farm I grew up on but it is beautiful nonetheless. I feel more connected to nature here, centered in a way I never was in London. Andrew lets me walk the grounds and visit the stables whenever I like. His mother has been slowly teaching me my duties with a patience I could only wish to emulate. His sisters, Georgiana and Louisa, treat me as one of their own.

Georgiana is actually older than Andrew, though you would never think so. She is striking and Andrew says she grows more beautiful as she ages. Yet she has rejected every suitor who has ever come knocking upon their door. She is two and thirty, a spinster on the shelf. When I asked Andrew if this bothered him, he told me he has plenty of money to support her, so why not let her make decisions that make her happy?

Can you imagine, Pen? I do not think even the Viscount Bridgerton would allow Eloise such freedom. I admit, it made my heart warm to him all the more.

Louisa is the youngest, only a year above us at nine and ten. Andrew said she will debut next year. I cannot yet tell if she will want to find a husband but she did ask if I would help with her dance steps before I have grown too round with pregnancy.

Our baby has started to move within my belly. It is still strange to think of it as ours, Andrew's and I's. But he insists I call the baby ours. It makes my heart ache, but for the life of me I cannot discern whether it is warmth or heartbreak that makes it so.

George broke my heart, whether he meant to or not. My mind cannot bear to fathom much more beyond that terrible fact. It is as if every time I try, a stone wall or iron gate slams shut, forcing me not to look any further. It is all well and good. I do not think I could bear it.

How are you, my dear Pen? Has the season gotten any better? I am sure you are glad it is almost over and done with. There was certainly too much chaos being thrown about, I think. And none of the men, besides the now married Duke of Hastings, Colin Bridgerton, and my own husband, were stellar catches.

Although I must ask, how did you come to be such good friends with Mister Benedict Bridgerton? He appeared quite…protective of you. An upstanding man indeed. Not only did he work to save his own family, but he found me a husband who would accept my situation and entire self. There are not many men like that.

Andrew says that we may return to London next season with our baby. I know he will be anxious to see Mister Granville. They exchange letters often, you know. I admit if I was not so jaded, I would find it quite sweet. But it is now a friendly joke between Andrew and I. I am proud to say no bitterness lies there.

I admit, I believe he is becoming a dear friend.

If your mother will let you, maybe you can visit in the summer?

Your Loving Cousin,

Lady Marina Wetherby

Penelope exhaled in relief as she pressed the letter to her chest, closing her eyes for just a moment to allow the the weak rays of gray light kiss her eyelids, nose, and cheeks. She sat at her writing desk, facing the window with its curtains thrust wide open. She delighted in it, sitting by a window to write or read, looking out at a world that passed by while she sat still. It was as if multiple worlds and stories were happening all at once; the one outside her window, her own, and the story she wrote or read in her hands.

Taking a deep breath she read the letter again, piece by piece as if to memorize every line. Marina appeared to be content. Maybe not just content, she seemed to be on her way to happiness. Nothing could have gladdened Penelope's heart more especially in the wake of Sir Phillip Crane's visit.

Penelope had worried greatly after the kind botanist turned lord's appearance on their doorstep. All she could think about was if they had made a terrible mistake marrying Marina off to Lord Wetherby in haste before ensuring that George Crane was alive or dead? Would it have been better to have Marina's child raised by their uncle? Some familial connection to their father?

But after Marina's missive, Penelope was appeased. Lord Wetherby was not only compassionate but possessed a sense of levity that comforted Marina. One of the qualities Marina had liked in Colin was a sense of humor, and while Sir Phillip was no doubt an intelligent man, Penelope doubted he was made of the more barbed sense of humor Marina at times preferred. She knew she could be wrong, she had only been in Sir Phillip's presence for a few hours. But even if he was made of sterner stuff than Penelope thought, she somehow doubted that Marina would have taken kindly to being constantly reminded about George whenever she looked into Sir Phillip's face.

No, Lord Wetherby was a much more suitable match. Both of them had their hearts closed off to romantic love with one another, and it was a mutual understanding and respect that had quite quickly founded together. Penelope's only lingering guilt hovered like a dark cloud above her head whenever she thought of not telling Marina about George's fate. She feared Marina would never forgive her withholding such information…

But, as much as Penelope hated to admit it, her mother was right. Informing Marina of the loss now would endanger her pregnancy and well-being.

Penelope let her mind wander to Sir Phillip again as she gingerly folded the correspondence and placed it on the desk. The poor man, lost in his grief, also seemed to be miserable at the prospect of handling the estate himself. The man was a botanist, not raised to be head of the household. Though, Penelope was curious as to how George had managed to be head of the estate and run off to fight in the war. She very much doubted he had told his brother before running off.

Just as Penelope had flattened out a piece of fresh parchment and uncorked a bottle of ink, her door burst open to reveal an absolutely frenetic Eloise.

"Oh, I do not understand why my presence should be required at this ball!" Eloise moaned, flopping her back onto Penelope's bed.

The loud thump and the way Eloise bounced softly a few times made Penelope swallow back a laugh.

"Your mother is pushing you to make a public appearance?"

"She believes that I must practice for my debut next season." Eloise dug the heels of palms into her eyelids. "Why can I not wait another season or two before my debut? Are she and Anthony so keen to be rid of all of us daughters?"

Penelope noticed a tinge of fear in Eloise's irritation and moved to sit next to Eloise. The mattress dipped under her and Penelope gently clasped Penelope's hand.

"El, are you nervous?"

"Nervous, yes. But not just because it is a large social event, or even because I believe it to be truly foolish for a woman to be judged based on looks or how fine she is at dancing." Eloise squeezed Penelope's hand, staring up with wide eyes at the ceiling. "But…now it is my turn to set an example for our sisters. I cannot be perfect like Daphne. Even worse, I do not think it is the kind of deportment I want to attempt to model for Fran and Hy."

Penelope nodded softly, feeling sorry for her friend. Eloise had always been a girl of curiosity, fire, and independence. If no one succeeded in feeding and nurturing those aspects of her personality, then she became like a dragon without its hoard; puffing smoke, glaring, with fire flaring out of her nostrils.

"El, I will not leave your side," Penelope reassured, laying down so her bright ginger hair tangled with her best friend's chestnut brown strands. "I think you can convince your mother and brother that you do not want marriage just yet. Besides, if anyone could escape a marriage by pure will, it would be you."

Eloise snorted and a smile fought its way onto her face. Penelope matched it with one of her own.

"You– you want to marry though, Pen."

Penelope stayed silent for a few moments, chewing her bottom lip pensively.

"Marriage to a kind man, one who can give me children. One I may be friends with, if I was lucky."

Penelope shifted to lay on her side, and she felt the mattress bend and heard the rustle of fabric before meeting Eloise's gaze.

"But El, I will always be your best friend. Though it is probably more likely we will be spinsters together. In honor of your friendship, I will look after you at balls."

"Were you not scared this year to debut?"

"Of course I was," Penelope sighed. "But I was never expected to be perfect. Mama and Papa lost faith in any kind of success on my part years ago."

Eloise scrunched her nose in that way Penelope knew meant her friend was feeling an uncomfortable bout of sympathy. Penelope felt an odd ache in her side, studying Eloise closely. To Penelope, ever since that day in the park when she was nine years old, Eloise had appeared larger than life. Atalanta encapsulated in the body of a child; wild, brave, intelligent, and brash. All of the brilliant attributes that Penelope desperately desired to see in herself. But Eloise's tautened shoulders, blown pupils, and the steady gnawing of a now masticated thumbnail betrayed her nerves. Penelope reached out to gently rub the side of Eloise's upper arm.

Eloise deserved a life where she could be free to make her own choices, a girl out of time and place. Penelope thought that maybe Eloise's family didn't understand, except perhaps Benedict, that if they simply allowed Eloise to choose her own timeline it wouldn't be so difficult for Eloise to forge her own path in society.

Because forcing Eloise to do anything just led to disaster.

"You can always use me as an escape, El," Penelope promised. "I will be there at every single ball, I am sure. I know Benedict would never let you do something you do not want if you told him."

Eloise's brow was still furrowed in worry and Penelope reached to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Thank you, Pen," Eloise whispered.

They basked in the now comfortable silence for a few moments before Eloise spoke again.

"How is the situation with Marina? Sir Phillip? Have you told her…"

Penelope shook her head as best she could, her ember tresses becoming tangled on the sheets as she did.

"I've heard from Marina but, like I said, Mama deemed it best to inform her of George's fate after the pregnancy. For once, I am in agreement with her."

The two friends giggled and it felt as if the very air lightened around them, gravity no longer so heavy.

"A very rare occurrence indeed," Eloise said. For a moment she hesitated and began to bite her thumbnail again and Penelope pulled the digit away from her teeth. "Do you think I should send Sir Phillip a letter sending my condolences about his brother? He was kind enough to engage in intelligent conversation with me when I came to visit. Though no man should ever be worried that a woman cannot handle civil conversation, as if we're dumber than farm animals. But, I mean, he was quite eager–"

Eloise rambled and Penelope became all the more confused. Was Eloise actually nervous? Concerned about what someone might think of her? Eloise bit her lower lip again, inwardly cursing when she felt the familiar taste of copper hit her tongue. Penelope technically should not encourage correspondence between a bachelor and an unmarried woman. But Eloise obviously was, even if she did not want to admit it, grateful for Sir Phillip's attention and how he'd patiently listened to her opinions.

What could one letter hurt?

"I suppose it could not hurt," Penelope said, interrupting Eloise mid-thought on how women should be allowed to speak in public forums. "I am sure Sir Phillip would take comfort that you thought of his grief. Just…do not let your brothers or mother see it. Really, any of your family. You know how society sees letters between unmarried individuals of the opposite sex."

Eloise harrumphed, causing Penelope to laugh.

"Well, that's another ridiculous notion! As if mere letter writing is an indication of bad behavior. It is an absolute travesty–"

Penelope just settled more firmly into the bed, a small smile plastered onto her face as she listened to Eloise go on one of her long diatribes. Yes, Eloise deserved more. Penelope resolved in that moment to help Eloise get through her first season unscathed. Eloise had been an unwavering source of support to her, and Penelope was confident that if she and Benedict combined forces, they could give Eloise enough time to discover herself and what she wanted.

Genevieve stretched languidly on the bed, arching her back as Benedict reached to light a cigarillo beside her. Genevieve particularly relished the aftermath of sex as the room cooled, causing her sweat soaked body to shiver pleasantly. She felt her muscles stretch and a joint pop pleasantly as Benedict sat up against the headboard, taking a long drag of the tobacco. As he exhaled the smoke his taut stomach hollowed out slightly and she resisted the urge to trace her fingers along the pale skin that would inevitably lead to another round of fucking.

No, she had to gather some information today. She needed to create an exact timeline of events to this little arrangement she and Benedict had. While all fun and good, Benedict could never possess her heart, not that he wanted to. Genevieve had two great loves in life; Lucy and her career. Lucy was more than understanding about Genevieve's passion for fashion and design, it was only an accident of birth that had led Lucy down the road to marriage. Both Lucy and Genevieve also understood that there were some sexual needs that, unfortunately, could only be fulfilled by a man for the both of them. Besides, the love that existed between them was too strong to be broken by anybody, a trust so deeply rooted that it could never fully be removed.

Besides, even if Benedict was so inclined to attempt anything more serious, not only did his social standing get in the way but the fact that his heart was already halfway to being placed in the delicate hands of another. The foolish man was oblivious to what was happening right in front of his eyes. It entertained her to no end and she, Lucy, and Henry had now spent many an hour hypothesizing when exactly the unlikely pair would remove their heads from the sand.

"How is dear Penelope?" Genevieve asked casually, turning to her side to look up at him, pulling a sheet over her naked form so he would not become distracted.

Benedict arched a dark eyebrow at her, the mole just above it moving up as well.

"You are still not planning to seduce her, I hope," Benedict said tightly, taking another drag from the cigarillo and exhaling smoke into the air. "I have made it clear she is not to be trifled with. I will not allow her to be hurt."

"By anyone but your younger brother, you mean?" Genevieve noticed him wince. Satisfaction curled in her belly. "I do not plan on seducing the dear girl. She is my friend now, and I will not act on any urges of that particular nature unless she expresses an interest first." Benedict opened his mouth slightly, his blue eyes clouding over like a stormy sea but Genevieve continued. "I am genuinely interested. What with her cousin's hasty marriage, her family's debt, and the end of the season with neither her or her sisters engaged it must be stressful for her."

Benedict seemed to ponder this for a moment before he sighed and relented. He stubbed out the cigarillo on the chipped crystal ashtray on the bedside table before he spoke.

"It is to be expected. Nel is incredibly worn down… No, that's not right. She's…" Benedict looked up into the bed's canopy, as if the right word would appear out of thin air. "Frayed at the edges. Like one of your fine, well-loved dresses that has been overused and mishandled. She needs…mending."

Genevieve stayed patient, quiet as Benedict ran a hand through his mussed, chestnut hair. He wasn't seeing now, not really, as he peered into the dim space of her bedroom. She imagined he was looking at something else. Someone else.

"Her family constantly uses and discards her, with no regard to the care it takes to keep her…whole. I believe Penelope has responded by trying her own methods to help herself, and she's been partly successful. But it is a lot for one person to take on alone." He paused, entwining his own fingers together before he began to wring them nervously. "No one is meant to be alone."

"So, do you intend to be the mender? Rescue her from her fate?" Genevieve asked a little derisively. There was nothing she hated more than a man who believed himself to be some hero, a rescuer of females because they thought women couldn't save themselves.

"God, no," Benedict pulled at the strands of his dark hair absently, shifting his legs to bend his right ankle under his left knee. He bit his bottom lip, a nervous habit she'd noticed he'd developed in the past few weeks. "Not exactly, at least. I'm not…qualified to be… We are friends." His tone, which had wavered before, became firm as he said the word friends. "I feel a responsibility to look after her, to help her. She is not a damsel to be saved. But that does not mean she could not use the aid of a friend or two."

Genevieve hummed in approval, watching as Benedict's body settled and relaxed again. Truly, the man before her certainly was pulling the wool over his own eyes. Genevieve wondered idly if it was because Benedict had seen Penelope as no more than a child, his little sister's best friend up until recently. The friendship between Benedict and Penelope itself had changed, from one of simple-minded protection to one of…partnership? Genevieve would have to ponder over the idea some more. Preferably with Lucy, Henry, and many glasses of wine.

Genevieve cocked her head, letting her tight, black curls spill over her bare shoulder. The room's previous atmosphere, thick with heady need, musty sweat and darkness had dissipated. Now it was cool, light, as Benedict began to share more about Penelope's writing during Henry's sessions. It seemed he was unaware that Henry frequently discussed Penelope's writing with Genevieve and Lucy. It was fascinating that even though Benedict was all too aware that Genevieve knew Penelope was Lady Whistledown he was careful not to discuss her other writing. Possibly he felt possessive of that side of Penelope, that it was a precious secret he relished holding close to his chest no matter how many other people became privy of it. Genevieve knew, one day, she could use the information to her advantage if Benedict needed a little push in the right direction. But at that moment, Genevieve decided that committing time to studying Benedict's words and actions was more important. Benedict unknowingly gave Genevieve more insight into how fast and deep his fall was becoming.

"She's quite descriptive, you know. I think if she tried to write a novel, with enough support, she could get it published. It would sell well! I would buy it, certainly–"

On and on he went, and Genevieve relaxed into her thin sheets as he prattled. Zounds, he was utterly unaware that he was talking about Penelope incessantly. If Genevieve had been a woman with actual expectations of this man, she'd be furious.

But she simply gave him a close-lipped smile, her dark eyes sparkling as she silently encouraged him to babble on.

Her decision was made.

Genevieve would not continue her affair with Benedict. She loved Penelope too much to block any attempt at happiness she could have. Genevieve liked Benedict, truly, even if she did concur he was being just a tad thick. While Genevieve knew it would take a mighty effort for the youngest Featherington to get over her love for the younger Bridgerton brother, she had no doubt that once Benedict realized the depth of his feelings, he would be up to the task of winning Penelope's heart.

At least, she hoped so. He better not turn out to be one of those self-sacrificing idiots.

Genevieve despised the eldest Bridgerton, for being so recklessly careless with Siena's heart. She'd thought Benedict would be no better, and if he had ever shown such tendencies she wouldn't have let him within a mile of Penelope. But Benedict had proved her wrong. At the party where Penelope had appeared, he'd immediately leapt from the carnal embrace he'd been in. He didn't seem to realize how terribly intimate he had seemed, holding Penelope in his arms, checking her for harm, his gaze lingering just a second too long on the cut of her dress and the warm flush of her cheeks.

Yes, she would help Benedict. Though if he fucked it up, there would be hell to pay.

Genevieve mapped it all out in her head while Benedict talked. She already had a ticket to France, despite the dangerous climate, to study continental fashion for the summer. She would write a letter from there to break off the affair. Benedict would have the summer in the country to get over her, she doubted it would take long, and maybe have time for his brain to catch up with his heart.

And when she returned, bright and ready to dress the young ladies of the ton for the new season, she would help get these two fools to recognize what was right under their noses.

Baron Archibald Featherington, quite frankly, had not fully thought his plan through.

He believed he had quite the perfect, foolproof plan. But somewhere in the back of his rather over-inflated brain, even he could recognize the high risk.

But high risk, high reward. Surely it was reason enough to risk the last thing he had to his name: the deed to his London home. Mondrich had agreed to lose the match, giving Archibald the chance to replenish a great chunk of the fortune he had lost. He felt the old organ in his chest squeeze slightly. While he and his wife did not often see eye to eye, she had been right about one thing; he'd trampled his daughters future happiness and security by betting and losing their dowries.

Sometimes he'd wondered if he would have been more motivated to be more mindful about his gambling if he'd been blessed with a son, but he shrugged the thought away. He'd learned long ago there was no use thinking about what if's.

He sidled up to two rough, burly men with an air of cockiness he was starting to feel. Mondrich had already agreed to throw the match, there was no way this could go wrong.

"I want to place a sizable wager on this match, and I am told you two can manage serious transactions," Archibald said, setting his shoulders back and standing as tall as he was physically able. While the men had an advantage of height, Archibald would not forget that he had every advantage of birth over these brutes. "My money is on The Beast."

One of the men with a hardened face, his dark eyes as unmoving as flint, scoffed.

"With Mondrich heavily favored?"

"There's only one reason a flash cull lord would come to us with such a bet," the other one said with a sneer. "Anyone who knows you must know your word is worthless."

Archibald raised himself slightly on his tip-toes, feelings beads of sweat accumulate along his hairline. He refused to falter here. The biggest opportunity to replenish his fortune, his daughters dowries, and to get his wife off his back had presented itself. He had no choice but to press forward.

"You don't need to take my word," Archibald shrugged nonchalantly. "Instead… you can take the deed to my house. Should I lose, it's yours."

The two thighs eyebrows raised as they eyed him then each other, a silent conversation happening between them. But Archibald could see the moment they had decided to take him for a fool. A lord's house was a mighty offer, heaven knows what they would do with it.

Archibald ignored the curling in his gut. This had to succeed and then everything would be fixed and as it should be. He had it all planned out. He'd go straight to his wife with the money to appease her obsession with their daughters' wardrobe, then he'd treat himself to the finest whorehouse in London. Everything would finally go his way.

Blast it.

Baron Archibald Featherington was certainly a vile bastard born under a halfpenny planet.

Benedict fisted his hands at his sides as he observed the brazen-faced, leery eyed man who dared to call himself Penelope's father weave away from the company of certain unsavory men. While Benedict did not know the shifty men personally, he did know them by sight. Scum who helped run the many local gambling hells, ones that had serious consequences for men who couldn't pay what they owed.

Benedict pulled his top hat as low over his forehead as it would go, hiding behind the wooden planks that made up the support for the stands. A sense of horrible dread nibbled at his guts as the two broad men, clearly strong enough to rough up any fop and dandy there to watch the fight unfold, lumber away. They murmured to each other, and as they passed Benedict by, all he could make out was,

"No payment will be enough–"

Before they faded away into the growing crowd.

Benedict's heart sank as he slunk back to his top seat where Anthony and Colin waited for him. If there was no amount of money that could possibly clear Baron Featherington's debt, what chance did he have at helping Penelope salvage a dowry?

Benedict admitted he did not have much of a plan before this moment. It would be befuddling to Lord Featherington why Benedict would concern himself in his affairs if the second Bridgerton son approached him personally. While he could at least now feign interest in the Featheringtons finances due to the hidden scandal involving Colin, it was not ideal. But so far, Benedict's best idea was that if he could use the incident as leverage (alright, blackmail ) he could somehow convince Lord Featherington to stop gambling or accept some form of help. Lady Featherington might be mortified, but according to Penelope, her mother was much cleverer with numbers and figures than her father was. Benedict doubted Lady Featherington would stand in his way when the livelihood of her daughters and herself were on the line.

But it only appeared much more hopeless. As Benedict reached his seat, sitting next to an excited Colin with Anthony on Colin's other side, he stared down at Penelope's father who stood particularly close to the boxing ring. He felt his eyes narrow and a white hot fury flooded his veins. How dare this man play around with his family's livelihood? How could he literally gamble away Penelope's only safe chance at a future? It made Benedict's very blood simmer until it roiled, and Benedict had to shake himself. Christ alive, was this how Anthony felt all the time with that temper of his? It was near unbearable.

No, there had to be something else Benedict could do. If Baron Featherington would not protect Penelope's chance at a future she would be comfortable with, he would. Wasn't that what friends should do? Eloise would never let him do anything less.

As the final bets took place around him, the little leap frog in Benedict's brain hopped from thought to thought, idea to idea, connecting the pieces until finally it all made sense. His pupils landed on a man a few rows below him, clearly perusing the latest issue of Lady Whistledown. Penelope earned money from the publication and she had admitted to Benedict and Eloise that she hid her funds somewhere in her room where her family couldn't find it. It was not the best hiding place in the long run, Benedict knew that. Sooner or later her ruthless mother or bloodhound of a housekeeper would find the stash.

But if Penelope could invest it…

If Benedict could invest it, open an account for Penelope, a trust that was all hers that she could one day use as she pleased…then Penelope could have some semblance of a future. Some slight possibility of independence.

It wasn't exactly what the young woman had envisioned for herself. To one day have to emerge to use secret funds so she may take care of her needs. Penelope would not be able to freely advertise the money; it would look suspicious, and he had no doubt her parents may try to take anything she accumulated from her. In this respect, the youngest Featherington wouldn't be able to use it for a dowry to entice a potential husband.

Something sour curdled in his stomach at the thought of Penelope having to try to tempt a man to marry her. She deserved to be courted because she was admired, desired, and loved. He knew it was a rather fanciful notion, this season had proved just how unlikely love matches could be. But Benedict desperately hoped his young friend could be cherished by someone who deserved her.

If only Colin could see it…

Benedict was startled out of his thoughts by the sudden roar of the crowd as Will Mondrich and the fighter known as The Beast entered the ring. Benedict resolved to converse with Penelope, run the idea of him creating a bank account for her to invest money in. If nothing else, at least it could fund a comfortable life of spinsterhood with Eloise.

Though that image which used to bring him comfort, no longer lit him up with joy.

The fight began with a mighty roar and even though Benedict tried to feign the level of excitement Colin was exuding beside him, he kept becoming distracted by Baron Featherington's reactions. With every excruciating right hook Mondrich would land on The Beast, Penelope's father grew agitated. And with every eventual uppercut The Beast landed in return, the older man screamed in unfettered anticipation. With the clear light streaming through the many windows of the domed roof, the violence and the reactions it incited were incredibly easy to see.

With every word someone yelled, whether it was the Baron, Colin, or his brother-in-law down by the ring – Benedict increasingly felt sick.

"Hit him!"

Benedict's blue coat tightened around his chest.

"Knock him out!"

Benedict's top hat suddenly felt heavy and too small, squeezing his temples until his head throbbed.

"Make me some money!"

Benedict actually tasted acrid bile rise up his throat.

"Come on! Come on, The Beast!"

Benedict forced his gaze away from a purple-faced Lord Featherington to watch just in time to see the mighty, powerful Will Mondrich take a blow, fall to the ground…

He and Colin stood up abruptly, concerned. Mondrich had been an excellent fighter all season, surely the man would get up.

But the pugilist did not stir.

"Get up, Mondrich!"

Benedict heard the roar of the crowd, the faint echo of time being called, and he turned with a horrific sense of foreboding as Baron Archibald Featherington cheered so loud, so boisterously, that it would be a wonder if the man didn't lose his voice. The sight should have brought Benedict reassurance. If the Baron had won, that was a positive for the Featheringtons' wealth.

Yet Benedict could only see, out of the corner of his eye, the burly, sly men from earlier. They were leering over at the bloody old fool, jumping up and down where he stood like a maniac. It caused Benedict's very blood to run ice cold.

Baron Archibald Featherington never won anything.

And that frightened Benedict most of all.

Bridgerton House had been abuzz since the return of Francesca. Benedict gratefully embraced his younger sister, a welcome distraction since his thoughts had been swirling since the boxing match the day before. He squeezed her tight before placing his chin on top of her head and putting half his weight on her as he bent down to annoyingly fluff out her salmon pink skirts.

"Brother," she laughed, poking him in the ribs in retaliation. "You are too heavy for me!"

"I have always been too heavy for you. That's half the fun," he smirked, straightening back up to cup her chin, tilting her head this way and that to better look at her. Her cheeks were still round in a way that belied the last bits of childhood and her smile still gentle. However, much to his dismay, her forehead now reached his collarbone.

"Am I, as El would put it, a farm animal being placed up for auction?" she teased, though the grin suddenly died from her lips as she peered up at him. "Benedict?"

He blinked, realizing he'd stared a tad too long at his little sister. Her comment sent an odd chill up his spine and he realized that Eloise's words had a point.

Shit. He was never going to hear the end of it.

He pulled Francesca in again, this time letting her plump cheek rest upon his upper chest.

"Just stop getting older," he whispered into her chestnut hair so much like his own. "Please?"

Before Benedict knew it Francesca was pulled away from him, being nearly torn in two by Hyacinth and Gregory in equal measure as they dragged their older sister to the drawing room. Eloise sidled up to him, hands clasped behind her back. She knocked her hip with his own. Well, she tried. She clipped his thigh instead.

"Are you turning into some sentimental sap?" Eloise asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow. Her light lavender day dress, so incredibly muted it was almost gray, swished slightly as she rocked on the balls of her feet.

Benedict pondered answering her honestly. He usually did with Eloise. But he still felt incredibly tender from seeing Francesca return, caught between being a girl and a woman. Eloise's debut next year caused his lungs to constrict. All he had appeared to learn from watching Daphne and Penelope's struggles were that the waters of society were shark infested, and if a young debutant was not willing to join the predators, they often became the prey. It terrified him.

And he wasn't willing to admit that to Eloise just yet.

Instead, he clasped a hand to his heart, his hand making a loud slap over his chest. He sighed dramatically, closing his eyelids as he leaned heavily on Eloise's shoulder, nearly toppling her to the ground.

"Oh, El, I've just become so sensitive! So overcome with emotion. I'm completely overwrought. Hold me, dear sister!"

" Ew, gross! Get off me. You complete, dunderheaded buffoon."

Benedict smirked as his ploy worked, Eloise hastily shoving him off of her. She twisted her body so he nearly fell flat on his face to the hard wooden floor but he belly laughed all the same. Smacking his shoulder for good measure, his little sister rolled her light blue eyes before grabbing his forearm. As she led them both to the drawing room, she said,

"I invited Pen over for tea in half an hour," she tilted her head up to assess him, lowering her voice. "Will you broach her about your plan?"

Ah, yes, his plan. When he'd returned home from the boxing match yesterday, he'd told Eloise all about his idea to convince Penelope to let him create a bank account for her, depositing her Lady Whistledown income in a safe place. Eloise approved of the idea, though she grumbled for an hour about the unfairness that most women could not even create their own accounts without the assistance of a man. Benedict usually counted himself as a very indulgent brother to Eloise's wiles and radical opinions. But he had not been just indulgent, he'd also been indignant.

All he had been able to think of since the fight was Lord Featherington's face alight with victory, a slight madness highlighting his puce face.

He had no intention of telling Penelope of that particular worry. He was probably overreacting, but this plan was something he could do for her. To protect her.

To, possibly, give her freedom one day.

"Yes, if we can get a quiet moment alone with her from the rest of the family," Benedict said.

Eloise waved a careless hand.

"They'll all be too excited over Francesca's return and the Duke visiting to notice anything we say."

Benedict frowned just as they entered the drawing room, Francesca already sat at the pianoforte talking animatedly to Anthony. Anthony nodded and hummed at everything Francesca said, his dark brown irises warm and attentive. Benedict knew that Anthony must've missed her just as terribly, if not more so, than the rest of them. Not that he'd ever admit it, the tosser. Eloise released Benedict's arm and quickly swept by the tea service spread on a table, swiping up an entire box of candies for herself. Benedict snorted before shedding his coat and tossing it on a sofa, much to his mother's displeasure, and wandered over to converse with Francesca and Anthony.

Even as he talked, his mind couldn't help but be full to the brim with two concerns: Daphne and Penelope. His sister had refused to explain what the problem between herself and Hastings was. It must be rather large, insurmountable even, if Daphne was going to physically separate from her husband. Then there was Penelope, hiding from the Bow Street Runners and family in desperate need of money. Sometimes, Benedict honestly wasn't sure if it was an asset to care so much. He had tried to shove it down this season, abandoning his empathy to pursue his own hedonistic wants.

But discovering Penelope as Whistledown had changed everything.

She was there, a little reminder, a beacon in the night with her hair that glowed like embers in candlelight, clear blue eyes as expressive as the sky, and a small smile full of secrets he wanted to persuade her to spill. Every time he turned around and thought he could shed his compassion and shrug on a jovial coat of nonchalance, she pulled him back. She made him ruminate on how he could balance the life he now wanted, one as a free artist, while still being the big brother he prided himself on being. Surely, he could combine those two identities into one singular man.

Penelope didn't have that sort of luxury. To be at once Penelope and Whistledown to the wider world. It was unfair.

Though selfishly, Benedict was glad that he got to see both sides of her. He coveted it. It was a secret, one that he shared with Penelope, and only Penelope (and Eloise, but Benedict was of the firm opinion that his favorite younger sister simply did not count).

Benedict and Penelope both straddled the class divide, living one life while seeking another. It was only natural that he would find a friend in her and, as a result, they would balance one another. He tempered her impulses. She reminded him of his kindness.

And with a sudden, thud of his heart against his ribcage, Benedict realized that was fucking terrifying.

Benedict was snapped back to the conversation at hand as Anthony regaled Francesca with the story of the boxing match yesterday.

"I am confident I could last a few rounds in a boxing ring," Anthony said, smiling in a charmingly smug manner at Francesca.

Benedict leaned against the pianoforte, shaking his head.

"Well, that is certainly a match I would like to see."

The whole room swiveled to see Daphne walk in, resplendent in a lavender dress that matched Benedict's cravat. His brother-in-law stood behind her, tall and handsome if not a tad out of his element. The Duke of Hastings studied the room just as the inhabitants studied him; with an eye to see who would make the first move.

All except Hyacinth who, in the wake of Daphne and Francesca's reunion, rushed up to latch herself upon Hastings' arm.

"Simon! When will I be able to visit Clyvedon?" Hyacinth asked, bouncing up and down like a soap bubble in the air with all of her enthusiasm.

"Allow the Duke to find a seat before you trouble him," his mother called, clearly trying to avoid any potentially uncomfortable situations.

Benedict felt his knees bend, prepared to move–

But Simon astonished him, the man's face breaking into a soft smile. His dark, brown eyes beheld Hyacinth as if she was the only one in the room, which was a surefire way to the youngest Bridgerton's heart. Benedict knew Hyacinth often felt left out and overlooked amongst their rowdy brood.

"Well, you are certainly allowed to visit at any time," he said.

A tense knot in Benedict's chest loosened and he shared a look with Anthony that expressed his older brother felt the same. Maybe, just maybe, things were improving over at Hastings House.

When Daphne joined Francesca at the pianoforte, Benedict observed his first sister for a moment. Her countenance was gentle, incredibly encouraging as she always was with Francesca. The new layer to Daphne, the one that told Benedict she'd discovered things that could never be taken back, was still evident in her eyes. But… But there was an unexpected lightness there, an air of acceptance that hadn't been there before.

It gave Benedict just a little bit of hope.

Out of loyalty, however, he still cocked his head at Hastings, who seemed to enjoy entertaining Hyacinth and Gregory. Daphne clocked the moment and as Benedict passed her on the way to join Eloise on the sofa he carefully grabbed and squeezed his sister's fingertips. She squeezed back, not looking at him but her mouth tilted upward slightly.

Benedict plopped on the sofa besides Eloise, who shifted the box of candies to the left on her lap out of Benedict's grasp. He tried to grab one but she leaned all the way to the left, the side of her body now flush with the cushions to keep it out of his reach.

"I do not share!"

Benedict scoffed, sitting back to the side as Eloise righted herself, popping another lemon drop into her mouth.

"You will share with Nel when she comes, surely," Benedict remarked casually. "I daresay she's the only one you share with."

"Since when did you start calling her Nel, by the way?" Eloise shifted the confection from one side of her jaw to the other, the faint outline of the ball poking through her cheek. "I do not recall you calling Penelope anything other than her name in… Well, a while."

Benedict felt heat travel up his neck to make his cheeks flare. He didn't know why he was so embarrassed, Eloise had seen that moment– Penelope cradled between Benedict's thighs as she sobbed in the safety of the garden, held together by his arms. His fingers twitched as he recalled the tender feeling of her soft belly beneath his palm, her damp cheek nestled on his thigh. It was overwhelming in the extreme and nothing in the world had felt more natural than to comfort her, to call her Nel with a familiarity he hadn't used before.

But he found himself inexplicably tongue-tied, saved only by Daphne settling gracefully on Eloise's other side, delicately plucking a lemon drop from the box.

"Oh, is Penelope visiting today? I've been meaning to speak to her."

Both Benedict and Eloise tensed for a moment, Eloise quickly stuffing another candy into her mouth so she wouldn't have to speak. The pulse in his neck throbbed nervously. Benedict wasn't ashamed of his friendship with Penelope, far from it. But the closeness of their friendship could be easily misconstrued. Colin got away with calling Penelope Pen because he was… Well, because he was Colin. The absolute charmer could say or do anything and his words or actions would come off as completely normal. If Daphne knew Benedict called Penelope Nel and was frequently alone with her, it would raise questions about his intentions. Yet, whenever Colin talked to Pen or found himself in her company, no one batted an eye.

For some reason he could not name, Benedict felt as though a gaping maw was snapping and tearing ferociously inside his stomach at the thought.

"El invited Pe– Miss Penelope over for tea today," Benedict said neutrally.

"How wonderful," Daphne replied, still holding the little oblong shaped candy between her forefinger and thumb. "I have always liked her, Eloise. She is a good friend to you and, if I may be forgiven for saying so, not at all like the rest of her family."

Before Eloise could even respond, Benedict guffawed and he couldn't help the words that escaped his mouth,

"That's an understatement."

Daphne leveled her astute gaze to his own and Benedict suddenly felt like he may have misstepped.

"Indeed," Daphne said, finally placing the tart candy into her mouth.

Benedict and Eloise were not near as subtle as they thought themselves to be.

Daphne shook her head, equal parts fondness and exasperation, as she led Penelope in a turn about the room. Her brother and sister were practically chomping at the bit on the sofa where she had abandoned them in order to abscond away with their best friend. The moment Penelope had entered the room as Colin sang had been particularly…enlightening. Penelope, of course, stared at Colin as if he was the sun itself, all bright rays and nourishing light practically blinding her where she stood. Daphne was familiar with this, it was no secret amongst much of the Bridgerton family how Penelope felt about Colin. The only ones who seemed unaware were Anthony, Colin, Eloise, and the two youngest. It didn't surprise Daphne that Eloise was unaware, as the clever but stubborn girl mostly only paid heed to how Penelope existed in her own orbit. Although, Daphne thought, as she watched Eloise take in the occupants of the room, her younger sister seemed to be growing more astute.

Eloise's reaction to Penelope's entrance was also just as expected, practically pushing Daphne off the sofa to make room for her dearest friend. But it was Benedict's expression that had made Daphne pause a moment.

His whole face had lit up and he had taken advantage of Eloise's distraction to push her over so Penelope could sit between himself and Eloise. Quite frankly the whole room was technically too relaxed as Penelope entered, the men without their coats and their shirt sleeves rolled up. If they were a proper family, they'd never allow someone who was not related to see them like this. But Penelope had always just been there and Benedict was different from the times before. While he had always been exceedingly kind and generous with Penelope, he'd never vibrated with such barely constrained eagerness to see and speak with her. Daphne could tell he had so many words just on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said the moment Penelope approached them.

Which was when Daphne had promptly ruined her siblings' plans by standing up and whisking Penelope around the room before she could even say two words to her friends. Benedict and Eloise had shot Daphne such incredulous glares (well, Benedict's had been incredulous. Eloise's had been downright venomous) as she languidly began to walk Penelope to the opposite end of the room.

Penelope wore one of her mother's hideous choices of dresses that day; a combination of vivid yellow and deep pink that assaulted the vision. But Penelope herself was shy and lovely, her light blue eyes clear.

"I apologize for stealing you from my siblings, but I knew if I did not do so immediately, they would monopolize your entire afternoon with us."

"Oh," Penelope said, mouth genuinely rounded in a little o of surprise. "Surely not, Your Grace. They have many a varied interest."

Daphne resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Short attention spans, you mean? And call me Daphne, Penelope. I have told you so."

Penelope gave a small, closed mouth smile.

"Of course."

Daphne let a few moments of silence pass them by as they rounded the end of the room, and Daphne watched as Simon made a paper horse for Hyacinth and Gregory. The cockles of her heart ignited with a fervent, warm glow that would not abate no matter how she tried. He really would make an excellent father, if he could ever let go of the devastating shadow his own had left behind. Daphne looked at Penelope to see she had placed a small palm over her mouth to stifle a giggle and as she followed her gaze she realized she was looking at Benedict and Eloise, who were staring at her, pouting pathetically. Benedict had even stuck out his lower lip, letting it quiver like a puppy in the cold rain.

"Overdramatic, the lot of them," Daphne said and Penelope nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes I feel as if the two of them are delicate flowers. If not watered often they'll wilt."

"Oh, you must surely tell them that. That they are so immature that if they do not receive enough attention they will simply die."

"They seem unphased." Penelope shrugged, her expression exceedingly fond as Eloise appeared to be mouthing something particularly obscene to get Penelope to abandon Daphne and join her and Benedict instead. "Lucky for them, they're quite entertaining. I do not think I could survive without their attentions either."

Daphne patted Penelope's arm that was entwined with one of her own. Penelope had been a girl who had been deprived of love and affection in her own home. It had been no surprise to Daphne that Penelope relished being showered with attention here, even on the Bridgertons most boisterous days.

"I wanted to thank you, Penelope," Daphne said, lowering her voice so only the two of them could hear. "For your discretion over the conversation you heard before my marriage. I wanted to inform you… I was wrong about my husband's…condition. I cannot go into specifics, but it was not at all exactly as originally thought."

Penelope's eyes widened before the young woman quickly schooled her expression into something more placid. Daphne noted and filed away her skill at masking her emotions for later. There was clearly more to Penelope than she originally thought.

"That is…good?" Penelope asked hesitantly and Daphne had to wonder just how much else Penelope knew about the state of her marriage. It was possible, if the youngest Featherington was closer to Benedict than Daphne had originally thought, that he may have confided in her. But Daphne suspected there may have been more incidents at overhearing private conversations that Penelope may be involved with.

Interesting.

"Keep in mind, Penelope, for when you get married one day yourself," Penelope huffed a small, bitter chuckle at Daphne's words. Daphne ignored it with all of the grace of a duchess. "Marriage is hard. There is nothing easy about it, for every day requires an intense amount of work. I have learned that complete honesty between both partners is essential to the health of the union. And, as much as I hate to admit it, forgiveness might be as well. Can one love their partner so completely that they're willing to forgive them? Accept them as they are? That is perhaps the greatest test of all."

Daphne felt Penelope's surprise in the way she stumbled slightly, but Daphne kept them gliding back across the room. All too soon they were back at the sofa and the pair of siblings boldly grabbed Penelope's hands to force her to sit between them. Daphne glowered half-heartedly at Benedict and he had the grace to look a little cowed, releasing Penelope's hand quickly. Really, he was being far too obvious. Did he truly forget himself so much when she was near that he didn't even realize his actions? He was lucky that in Bridgerton House, Penelope was such a staple presence in their lives that no one paid particular heed.

But Daphne did. She watched Penelope's eyes wander back to look at Colin, still positioned by Francesca at the pianoforte. The longing in her eyes as she stole glimpses at his happier demeanor. He really had recovered greatly since the debacle with Miss Thompson. But then Daphne saw the moment Benedict had also witnessed where Penelope's gaze had traveled. He angled himself to the side, his thigh pressing against Penelope's own, long arm draped on the back of the sofa. He pressed for her attention just slightly, saying her name in a low voice full of intent Daphne did not think he meant to imbue.

But when Penelope turned to face him, a small, closed-mouth smile upon her lips, Benedict melted, softened like malleable clay under an artisan's expert hands.

Oh, Daphne thought. She backed away, not ready to handle a problem that was not her own right now. Before she could focus on what she'd just witnessed, she had to resolve the matter of her own marriage first.

But once she did, oh, Benedict would be hearing quite a lot from her.

The trip to the modiste was incredibly…odd.

Penelope felt a tad like an owl forced to try and assess her surroundings by daylight as she kept blinking incessantly while Genevieve fitted her new dress. These gowns had been specifically put together for the Hastings Ball and Penelope didn't despise this dress, as Genevieve had done her best to make it such a light yellow it was almost more of a cream. But she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. Penelope knew their family's coffers were empty, thanks to her father's recklessness. So how was it possible that their mother could afford to pay Genevieve for brand new gowns?

Penelope tried to meet Genevieve's gaze as the modiste adjusted her hem, but her friend gave the slightest shrug and shake of the head. They couldn't talk here and it appeared that Genevieve was just as bewildered as she was.

The thought of her finances and Genevieve brought Benedict's face to mind, as he had whispered fervently in her ear the day before at Bridgerton House. The excitement that spilled from his lips as he relayed his idea, Eloise nodding fiercely beside him: to let him open up a bank account for her where she could deposit her money in a safe place, somewhere her family could never touch it. Penelope had been flabbergasted.

"Benedict, I– that's a huge risk on your part. If anyone found out–"

"If they did, then I would accept the consequences wholeheartedly. You deserve an out, Nel. A nest egg that can grow, that only you have control of." He'd shifted closer to her on the sofa, the hard line of his body discreetly pressed into her side. "It is no burden if it is you."

Penelope almost lost herself to the gravity in his voice before Eloise briefly laid her head atop Penelope's, brown and red strands becoming entangled.

"It will ensure you will never be destitute, Pen. Ben and I will be alright. Let us help ensure your future is safe, my dearest friend."

The memory flooded Penelope's veins with tendrils of warmth, flames that did not burn but sustained.

Naturally Penelope's mother doused the burst of feeling when she said,

"Madame Delacroix, do you not think that particular shade of yellow is too dour? It is almost cream!"

Penelope gritted her teeth as Genevieve subtly patted her ankle.

"Your order was rather last minute, Madame Featherington. I must make do with what I 'ave."

Penelope hid a grin at Genevieve's deflection as her mother huffed and muttered before moving onto Prudence and Philippa.

"But my other girls' dresses are astonishing, Madame Delacroix!"

Penelope did not miss how Genevieve's fingers twitched at the hem, her nose scrunching.

"Because you were able to pay in advance this time, and since I happened to have some fabrics no one else seemed to want…" Genevieve trailed off, meeting Penelope's eyes again before they both had to look away before they began to giggle incessantly.

"You see, young ladies, everything works out in the end," their mother exclaimed, and Penelope could not help but frown. Where was this money coming from? "And Philippa, perhaps Mister Finch might even reconsider his proposal, now that, um, you have your dowry again."

Penelope stiffened and she felt even Genevieve's hands still in their deft work. Penelope knew she and her sisters were supposed to be ignorant of the loss of their dowries. A sign of carelessness, Penelope noted, and her mother usually wasn't so careless when it came to valuable information. Penelope's mind itched with curiosity and a sense of apprehension.

"Again?" Philippa asked, tilting her head in befuddlement as she adjusted her bodice.

"Yes."

"Well, did I lose it somewhere the first time?"

Turning at Genevieve's direction, Penelope resisted the urge to slap a hand to her forehead in secondhand embarrassment. Philippa at times could be rather dense, but it baffled Penelope on how often that still surprised her.

As her dress was adjusted Penelope let her mind wander again to Benedict's and Eloise's promise to help her. For the first time in a long while, Penelope allowed herself to imagine a future where she could be secure. The money she earned could never be advertised, or else she would be under threat of her earnings being taken away by her parents. With that in mind, it could never be used for a dowry. It was a nest egg, one she could use to secure a safe life as a spinster, possibly with Eloise.

Penelope tried to be soothed by the thought. She did. But she couldn't help but feel a sense of loss when all she could see was the lovely fantasy of her by Colin's side, happy, healthy, and surrounded by chestnut-haired children.

The final ball of any season is distinguished by one of two things, anticipation…or dread.

For, while those who have been successful in the year's marriage market look forward to flaunting their perfect, joyous unions…others shudder at the thought of spending one last night before the discerning eyes of the ton.

As they know, indeed, just what the evening signifies, that their time is officially up. And yet, to those who may still find themselves out of both choices and hope, fear not.

For who knows when and where one's fortunes may change?

Penelope fiddled with her wine glass as she sat on the sofa at Lucy's afternoon soiree, pondering the article Benedict had helped her deliver early that morning for today's publication. She thought it had been a hopeful way to end that season's string of gossip columns. Indeed, much of the season had been focused on the prospects of love and marriage, and Penelope wanted to imbue a bit of wishful thinking, for others as well as herself.

Though she knew nothing of particular note would happen to her.

Penelope accepted her role, her outer persona, as a wallflower. It was a fact she had accepted long before her societal debut. But that didn't mean she wanted to live in the shadows forever.

At least, not when it came to Colin.

Colin was everything bright, sunshine after the rain. She could never be sure that she could match his natural radiance, and Colin needed someone who could compete with his shining personality and charm.

Penelope wanted to be that so badly. But more than that, even if she never could, she at least wanted to drop the weight on her chest. To inform him of her feelings. There was a part of her that wondered how he could not already know. The skills she'd perfected over the years for masking her emotions, intentions, subtly changing the direction of conversations were admirable. But her tendre for Colin? She knew that she'd not been so successful at keeping that hidden up her sleeve. Marina proved that.

So, surely Colin knew? Had an inkling? If so, why did he not say something?

Penelope chewed her bottom lip, gripping the crystal glass a little too tight when a voice chimed in,

"Now that's a bad habit to get into."

Penelope peered through her lashes just in time to see Siena settle onto the sofa next to her. Penelope was always a little in awe of Siena. Her frankness coupled with her beauty never ceased to stun her. Hooded eyes, delicate beauty mark, and a voice that was at once blunt and vulnerable. Penelope admired her greatly, though she knew her considerably less than she did Genevieve, Lucy, or even Charlotte.

"You are friends with the second Bridgerton brother, correct?" Siena inquired, taking a great gulp of brandy straight from a decanter. Had she secreted it from Henry's study?

"Uh, yes," Penelope hedged, bewildered. Usually people referred to her as Eloise's friend, though more and more of Henry's acquaintances knew her as either Lucy's friend or, at times, Benedict's friend. Somehow, Penelope knew it meant entirely different things, though she wasn't sure what.

"Is he much like the eldest? Entitled, arrogant, self-serving?"

Penelope felt the moment her jaw unhinged, unable to regain her bearings for several moments.

"N-no! I do not know Lord Bridgerton well, but I do know that Benedict is kind, empathetic to a fault, even! He is incredibly patient, an excellent listener and–"

"Are you in love with him?"

Silence.

Penelope felt the world shrink around her until it was only her and Siena cramped into one tiny corner of the earth. Just them with Siena's dark, all-knowing eyes studying her like she probably did a piece of music while preparing for a performance.

"N-no," Penelope stuttered, and it was the truth. She was not in love with Benedict. But she did care about him, deeply so.

He was her friend.

"Someone else, then?"

Penelope felt heat surge up her chest and crawl up her neck all the way to the tips of her ears. If she didn't look like a freshly plucked strawberry in appearance, she'd be surprised. Somehow though, Penelope felt compelled to be honest.

"Yes," Penelope shakily set her wine down on the side table, unable to meet the opera singer's gaze. "With another."

She heard Siena sigh and before she knew it, Siena had used the hand not clutching alcohol to grip Penelope's chin and level her with an open stare. It was raw, damaged, and it hurt to look at.

"Let me speak candidly," Siena said gruffly. "Be honest about your feelings as soon as they appear. Do not hide or shrink away from them, for it is better to be forthright about your intentions from the start, and let go of something that may never work from the beginning. The minute I knew I was falling for that prick of a lord, I should have told him of my expectations. I want and need to be taken care of, but I will never sacrifice who I am. I am a proud working woman, who will do whatever I deem necessary to survive. I must let go of the viscount because he may think he wants to save me, but it is I that will save myself for the life I want. You must also be straightforward and honest, so you do not end up in a situation where your feelings are trapped, festering inside you. A man may expect you to be the damsel, but it is you that is the heroine."

Siena released Penelope's chin and handed Penelope the decanter. She could smell the strong, sweet, almost burnt-like scent that brandy emitted.

"Drink up for some courage."

Penelope took the decanter and carefully took a swig before coughing and spluttering. Siena laughed, though it was not cruel in nature. She patted Penelope's back before taking back the drink.

"T-thank you, I suppose," Penelope choked.

Siena tilted her head, her eyes sad as her thick brown hair fell down her slim shoulder.

"I do not want you to be some dainty debutante," Siena admitted. "Gen likes you, as well as Lucy. I would hate to see the world eat you up and swallow you whole."

Penelope just tried to breathe. The Hastings Ball was, unsurprisingly, gorgeous. Held in the courtyard of their London home, it was clear that Daphne had spared no expense to make the closing ball of the season as beautiful and elegant as the Duchess herself. Penelope stood to the side, watching the dancing take place on the floor as she fiddled with her empty dance card. She'd been abandoned shortly after they'd arrived, her mother pushing Philippa to seek out Mister Finch while Prudence trailed behind. Their father, of course, was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't abnormal for her father to miss social events in favor of gambling hells and whorehouses, but Penelope couldn't deny the horrible sense of unease that gripped her guts in a vice. Eloise had arrived earlier with her mother, looking as if she may faint on the spot while she descended the grand staircase. Poor El, was all Penelope could think of, but it appeared that some words exchanged between Eloise and Daphne had settled Eloise somewhat.

The best friends had clung to each other for thirty minutes until Eloise remarked that she was going to see if she could inquire about the search for Whistledown with the Queen, see where Penelope's safety stood. Penelope had smiled wanly when Eloise departed, leaving her alone, not that it was unusual.

Penelope's lungs froze for a moment though when she saw Benedict and Colin make their way down the stairs. A riot of emotions welled within her like a tidal wave. While Benedict's presence inspired warm, tender feelings of comfort, Colin's easy posture and light smile made her feel as if someone was beating her heart with a battering ram. Suddenly, her whole body was alight as she tried to claw back the courage she'd gathered just that afternoon after her talk with Siena. She had to be brave and be honest, tell Colin how she felt. Even if it led to nothing, to let it out in the open would be a relief, surely. She would be released from the manacles of secrecy… Well, for one secret, at least.

It was Benedict who met her eyes first, his stare appraising as he took her in. Even from a distance she could see how his pupils widened, then he nodded, as if he understood what she was about to do. Benedict turned to Colin, who had just noticed Penelope as well, and a look that only the Bridgertons seemed to share passed between them. Benedict veered off to the right to grab champagne and join a group of his peers while Colin made a beeline straight towards her. Frantically, she straightened out her light, muted gown and she became so determinedly distracted she almost missed Colin's first words to her since his upset over Marina.

"Enjoying your evening?"

Penelope startled and resisted the urge to curl in on herself as she did so many times in nerve-inspiring situations.

"What?"

"Are you enjoying your evening?" Colin repeated with his usual kind smile. Penelope could practically feel her insides become liquid, even as she scrambled for something to say.

"Ah… Y… Yes. I just came from the dance floor," Penelope stuttered, wincing as she did so. She had not danced at all, of course. No one asked her to dance except the Bridgerton brothers, and everyone knew it was born out of pity.

"I did not see you," Colin replied, looking around as if he could spot the specter of her gliding across the dance floor. Penelope fought back the horrible grip of embarrassment that caused her chest to constrict.

"I was in the back of the dance floor. It was quite crowded," Penelope insisted. She hesitated for only a moment before recalling Siena's further words to her as the soiree had gone on that afternoon. The opera singer had been a fountain of knowledge, truly, one that sprung from her heartache. If I had stopped expecting him to read my mind and had told him from the beginning, maybe it all would have been different. "So… Colin–"

But Colin interrupted her, talking over her words so smoothly she barely noticed.

"Pen… I owe you an apology," Colin's gaze bored into her with a sincerity she'd never witnessed from him before. At least, not directed at her. "I did not see it at first, but I know you were only trying to prevent me from heartache with Miss Thompson, and…" He paused for only a second before boldly admitting, "And I was a fool."

Penelope found herself shaking her head vigorously, her ember curls shaking with the force. She took a small step closer and from here she could smell his cologne; citrus and sea salt, light and breezy like him. The words tumbled from her lips unbidden but honest, spilling up, up and over like a freshly popped bottle of champagne.

"You were not a fool. You merely believed yourself in love. One should never apologize for that," she insisted, full of the devastating fire of longing and anticipation. There were people all around them but, because it was her no one paid much mind, and for once she was thankful. The only pair of eyes she noticed vaguely from a corner were a wild blue-green, glancing every now and then. "One finds oneself in such an incredible position, and, well, one should declare it… assuredly, fervently…loudly." Penelope exhaled then inhaled again, trying to settle the frantic pounding of her heart against her ribs. "One must be honest. Courageous, even. Colin, I wish to tell you something."

But before Penelope could continue, Colin cut in again in that unfathomable way of his, as if the conversation had been his to steer all along.

"I have something I wish to tell you as well, Pen. I am leaving," Colin gave her a small smile, eyes never wavering in their amiability. But Penelope's spine stiffened and she felt a chill make its way through every bone in her body. "First thing tomorrow morning, I begin my tour. I am to start in the Mediterranean. It was actually you who inspired me. You kept reminding me how much I longed for travel," he kept going. Oh, God, it had been she to remind him of his desire to explore? He was leaving and yet he wouldn't even let her get a confession out? She was the cause of his restlessness? "Oh, um… What was it you wished to say?" Colin finished, faintly registering the panic and hurt that crossed Penelope's face.

She quickly schooled her expression into one of excitement and understanding, though she knew it was weak. It was weak because how could one keep up a facade when their heart was breaking?

"I don't remember," Penelope huffed a small, incredulous laugh.

She laughed at herself, her foolishness. Her bravado had melted away more swiftly than sugar in the rain. All of her determination to tell Colin how she felt was torn asunder with his words. How could she ever compare to a life of adventure and discovery? A man never needed a woman, not really. Not when the world was their oyster and they had a plethora of options ahead of them.

And, out of all of the women in the world, why would Colin ever want her?

"Shall we dance, Pen?" Colin asked, breaking her out of her whirling thoughts.

"No. Um… I am all danced out for the night, Colin," Penelope just wanted to run, to leave, to get out of this humiliating situation and hide for the rest of the night. But not in her empty home, no. No, she wanted to hide under her second skin. Under the personality that made her bold and reckless. And she couldn't do that here. "Good luck on your tour."

Penelope first turned right to make her retreat but was further mortified to find Benedict watching, looking from Colin to Penelope, realization dawning on his face.

She turned to the left before she could see even a hint of pity take over his features, not getting far as she felt both Bridgerton brothers stare after her until Eloise all but barreled into her. Penelope studied Eloise in her light blue dress, elegant and refined, a beautiful tiara sitting upon her head and Penelope suddenly felt dowdy in the dress Genevieve had worked hard to make bearable for her. What she'd thought had made her passably pretty now just seemed lackluster in the face of Eloise's elegant dress and Bridgerton good looks. Even if this was not the life Eloise wanted, she fit in seamlessly. At least, from the outside.

"Pen! Look, the Queen. She is here. Now is my chance to find out her plans for yo– I mean Whistledown," Eloise said in a rush, practically bouncing on her feet in a flurry of anxiety and nerves. "I had tried to catch her earlier but Mama dragged me off to introduce me to some truly boring people and– Pen, is everything all right?"

Eloise's face furrowed in concern, her fingers tightening slightly on Penelope's arms. Penelope would have taken more time to marvel over her friend's growth this season, how much more observant she was becoming, if Penelope hadn't been consumed by a desperate itch to get away from this place. She'd gathered enough gossip she'd saved over the week, even a few morsels she'd overheard at the ball. Penelope didn't want to be Penelope right now, the poor, lonely, dejected wallflower.

She wanted to be the daring, brazen, cunning gossipmonger instead.

"Entirely all right. The Queen," Penelope made a gesture to indicate where Queen Charlotte stood, surrounded by her many ladies in waiting and Brimsley. "Go before you miss your chance."

Eloise, in her chaotic way, flitted away, thoroughly distracted. Unsure why, Penelope peered over her shoulder to see Benedict conversing with Colin, an unnatural glare settled upon his face. Before he could realize she had been staring, she hurried away, her slippered feet making no noise across the stone floor then the grass that led her to the side and to the servants quarters. She had not planned on publishing tonight, so all she had in the coach was a garish yellow cloak. But Evans was the one driving and that was enough.

She dashed to the coach, giving Evans' the briefest of instructions before throwing herself into the seat without assistance, pounding on the roof, before bursting into tears.

All of the things she was unable to say were trapped in her chest, clawing to be freed. Her lungs physically hurt as her confession lay there, caged by her ribs and needing to burst. It felt as if she couldn't breathe, as if someone held her underwater and the air in her lungs burned, screamed, begged to be released. The pain would only go away if she could finally gasp for air, releasing her feelings into the world so at least she was no longer held captive by them. Frozen, encapsulated in ice, Penelope had the epiphany that it hurt so much more to never be free from this torment. There was a rejection in Colin's words, she sensed it, but it wasn't clear, wasn't straightforward. Lawks, him telling her he hated her would have been better than this.

At least then, she'd have an answer.

At least then, she'd be liberated.

Benedict was supposed to have snuck away by now, having planned to meet Genevieve at one of the Granvilles' parties.

He should have been in the sultry embrace of the modiste and sweet, sweet alcohol.

But instead, he stalked towards his daft younger brother after witnessing Penelope's heart break in half. It had been written all over her face as Colin spoke. Although Benedict had not heard the words, Benedict knew Penelope well enough by now to discern when she had to pull on a facade just to limp her way through the rest of a conversation.

He was going to beat his brother to within an inch of his life if he had been cruel to her.

Deep within, Benedict knew Colin would never be harsh or cutthroat when talking to Penelope. It was Penelope. Besides, Colin couldn't bear to be vicious to anyone. Colin knew how to stand his ground, but unlike Anthony, Colin had honed the valuable skill of being firm while also being kind. It was a fine balance but one Colin had mastered early on.

So why in the ever-loving, ninth circle of hell had Penelope attempted to put what looked like an entire continent's worth of distance between them?

As Benedict finally reached Colin's side, he noticed Eloise had found Penelope and gave an inward sigh of relief. Eloise would take care of Penelope, and Benedict could deal with his brother.

"What did you say to her?" Benedict hissed, curling his fingers into fists for a moment before placing his hands on his hips.

Colin blinked up at him, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Benedict could smell moisture in the air, the inevitable taste of a thunderstorm on his tongue. He tried to let it center him but he only became more flustered.

"I simply told Pen about my Grand Tour, that I'm heading to Greece tomorrow," Colin shrugged innocently. "She was going to tell me something, but forgot."

The corner of Benedict's mouth twitched in a frown. He physically resisted the urge to slap his palm over his eyes.

"That's all you said?"

"I thanked her for being a true friend to me. She tried to warn me about Marina, I had been to blind to see it. Then told her of my travels and how she inspired me to reconsider my Grand Tour."

Benedict clenched his jaw, feeling the back of his teeth grind together. Benedict had known intuitively that Penelope had probably every intention of confessing her feelings for Colin sometime soon. It had been evident with every glance she'd sent Colin's way the other day at Bridgerton House, her nervous energy when delivering her last column, and the way her face flashed through a myriad of nervous yet hopeful emotions at the beginning of her and Colin's conversations. While the idea had, for some inexplicable reason, made Benedict's stomach turn, he knew it was for the best. Penelope could be set free with an acceptance or a rejection. It was better than letting her feelings grow and fester inside.

Yet it sounded like Colin had beat her to it.

And as a result, Penelope hadn't been allowed to unburden herself.

The mere thought of Penelope stewing in hurt, rejection, unable to be given any sort of emotional release made Benedict's skin crawl.

"You really couldn't guess what Penelope might have wanted to say to you?" Benedict asked, his tone suddenly too light.

A flash of something flickered across Colin's face and Benedict felt his eyes widen. Was that…guilt?

Could Colin have–

If he had, this changed everything.

If he had, Benedict was going to have words.

As Benedict opened his mouth, ready to unleash a verbal lashing he hadn't given to Colin since he was eight and had ripped the head off of Daphne's favorite doll, a harsh tug on his arm made Benedict completely lose his balance and momentum.

"Benedict!"

He swiveled his head down to see Eloise in all of the finery she hated aggressively pulling on his arm, trying to lead him away.

"Not now, Eloise–"

But Benedict looked up and saw that Colin had slipped away, the absolute tosspot! He'd known Benedict had been about to give him a lecture and had scampered the first chance he got.

"Brother, please!" Eloise whispered fiercely, standing on her tiptoes to reach his ear. He bent obligingly, even though he was still incredibly annoyed at this turn of events. "The Queen's man told me they're going to ambush Whistledown tonight. Pen is in danger!"

"What?" Benedict craned his neck up, searching the area for a flash of fiery, ginger hair. He found the other three Featheringtons quickly, but no Penelope in sight. He groaned, wiping a palm over his face. Penelope must have been so upset by Colin's news that she'd dashed off to publish a column alone. She made terrible, reckless decisions when she was in an emotional state. He really had to discuss with her how to seek help from friends before she decided to conduct her risky exploits on her own in these situations.

"They discovered that Pen delivers her columns to the printer on Lombard street during events like this! We must warn her, or the Bow Street Runners will catch her and… and…"

Benedict's blood ran cold. He finally knew what it meant to feel near paralyzing fear. If Penelope was caught, she would be arrested. Worse, she could be hanged for what she had written about the Queen and her subjects.

"Come on," Benedict whispered, looping his sister's arm though his own. She had a death grip upon his bicep as he led her away, walking as quickly as he could without drawing undue attention to themselves. As they made their way through the house, out the front door, and to the line of tethered horses and waiting carriages, Benedict barely noticed the other people and finery. He barely recognized how furious his mother would be if she realized both he and Eloise were skipping Daphne's ball. But at the moment, none of that mattered. Only Penelope's safety was paramount.

Benedict steered them toward Rapscallion, tethered to a post amongst many other horses. He had intended to take his loyal steed alone to the party he was supposed to meet Genevieve at, but all thoughts of hedonistic merriment had been chased away by the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

" You are going to take John and the carriage, and go the typical route to Lombard street," Benedict insisted, adjusting Rapscallion's saddle before hoisting himself up onto the horse. "I will take the back way. One of us is bound to catch up to her if we go fast enough."

"If one of us catches her, what do we do?" Eloise asked, clutching her hands in front of her chest. "It may be too dangerous for her to return home."

Benedict bit his lip, a habit he realized he'd picked up from Penelope.

"Tell her to take the long way to the Granvilles', she'll know what to do," Benedict said. "Make haste, El!"

As Eloise dashed to the Bridgerton carriage, Benedict kicked his horse into action and he was off down the dark streets of London.

Benedict galloped, which he knew was highly improper and highly dangerous to do on the crowded city streets. Even at night, London was full to bursting with people. But all of those damn summers where Anthony had drilled horsemanship into Benedict like a bloody general commanding an army had paid off. Benedict was swift, skilled, knowing exactly how to make sharp turns, and slow Rapscallion just in time when a person appeared on the road through the fog.

Benedict sweated bullets, keeping his eyes open for Evans atop the Featherington carriage. Maybe Eloise had caught her, he prayed she had. He was getting closer to Lombard street, too close, what if he was too late?

But as he turned the last corner he saw it, the carriage with the Featherington coat of arms emblazoned on the polished side. With a final kick he spurred Rapscallion on until he was side by side with Evans, yelling "Pull over! Now!"

Evans, so taken aback and frightened, listened on command, pulling the reins so hard, the horses came to a sudden halt and Benedict heard a thump and a yelp in the carriage itself. Stopping Rapscallion, Benedict leaped off his steed and practically yanked the carriage door off its hinges to see Penelope draped haphazardly in smoky gray cloth, the cloak nothing like her usual lady's maid uniform. She was sprawled across the carriage, groaning as her front side rested against the opposite seat from where he assumed she had sat, her knees on the floor.

"Nel, get out now."

Penelope's head shot up but she moaned again, clutching her forehead.

"Benedict, what–"

"The Queen has laid a trap for you on Lombard street," Benedict said quickly, reaching in to pull Penelope out himself. "We must divert your course!"

Penelope's already pale face drained of what little color had remained.

"Oh God," she muttered, but Benedict was already moving.

"Evans," he called up, and it was a testament to the built familiarity between the two men that the coach driver sat at attention, ready to listen. "Take the carriage back to the Hastings Ball to pick up Penelope's family. Take the longest way you can. Say Penelope went home early with a cold and is already abed."

Evans nodded, giving one last worried look towards Penelope before whipping the coach back to life and taking off into the fog. Benedict helped Penelope mount Rapscallion, who snorted in greeting.

"We must get Eloise, now," Benedict clicked his tongue, urging the sturdy cob forward at a much more sedate pace than he had come charging in on. "Pull your hood well over your head, hide your hair."

Benedict deduced that Penelope must have been incredibly in shock for her to follow his orders so blindly. But, he admitted, he was thankful. He really did not need to be arguing over his domineering efforts right now.

Benedict trotted Rapscallion at a more leisurely pace, trying to appear casual. As he rounded onto Lombard Street he did not see his sister's carriage, but he saw Eloise in her own blue cloak watching from around a corner, anxiously looking from left to right over and over again. As his horse's hooves echoed across the dirt road Eloise looked up and smiled in relief. Benedict waved and tried to convey a sense of calm, despite the very obvious group of men lingering along every corner in various states of alertness.

"Stay here," he whispered into Penelope's ear as he dismounted. He saw John watching from around the sharp angle of the stone building and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Eloise," Benedict said lowly, his voice not much more than a mumble. "Have John take you to the Granvilles' abode. Better yet, have him follow me. We will take the long way, then I will dismiss John and have him tell Mother that you became ill and retired early. I will vouch for you if she asks."

"Is Pen okay?" Eloise asked, twisting her fingers together.

Benedict glanced back up at Penelope, utterly still.

"She will be," Benedict said before pushing her along. "Get in the coach. Have John follow me."

The entire ride to the Granvilles' home was silent. Benedict didn't know whether to be grateful or afraid. If this had been the time before his friendship with Penelope, Benedict wouldn't have batted an eyelash over it. He had known Penelope as quiet and shy, nothing out of the ordinary.

But now? Her silence nonplussed him. Scared him, even.

He wanted her to do something, anything. To rail, to scream, to sob her beautiful, blue eyes out.

But she simply sat there, leaning against his chest, her hood shielding her expression from him.

Benedict entered the Granvilles' entryway without even a knock on the door, Penelope and Eloise hanging on each of his arms. John was already rushing to return the Bridgerton carriage to the Hastings Ball to feed his mother the lie Benedict had concocted. If he vouched for it in the morning, his mother should believe him… Hopefully.

The minute the front door clicked shut behind him, Penelope lowered her hood, her face oddly vacant but her shoulders relaxed a little. Eloise, however, gaped like a fish.

"You will catch a fly, Sister, if you do not shut your hanging jaw," Benedict teased softly.

Eloise shut her mouth but glared fiercely at him, which looked rather ridiculous when coupled with her shining tiara, satin gloves, and crystal blue dress.

"You have been gallivanting off to such parties while I have been stuck at home with Mama critiquing my needlework?" she hissed. "Oh, if I had been born a man…"

Benedict briefly removed his arm from Eloise's grasp to pluck her tiara from her head and ruffled her hair, before tossing the jewelry somewhere to the side. His sister gaped at him before pinching the place above his ribs mercilessly, and he tried not to wince as she painfully pulled at the sensitive flesh under his coat.

"Ow! El–"

"That tiara is made with real diamonds!"

"And you have at least a dozen more. You do not even like them, El."

Eloise grumbled, taking his arm again as she used her free hand to comb her fingers through her hair, releasing her dark brown tresses from their constraints so it fell to her shoulders. Benedict nudged Penelope with his hip but, to his dismay, she didn't react. The redhead continued to stare numbly ahead at the swirl of revelers around them.

It was a sea of people, some dressed in finery while others wore nothing at all. It was to be expected from the Granvilles; they offered a safe space from the world for people from all over the stratum of classes. But once a man wearing nothing but a pair of stag antlers on his head pranced across the hall, Benedict remembered his company and hurriedly covered both Eloise and Penelope's eye sockets. While Eloise complained and spluttered as he steered them through the masses, Penelope gently removed his palm from blocking her vision, entwining their fingers by his side instead. She didn't even look at him as she did it, but her grip on his hand was oddly reassuring.

Penelope appeared to know exactly where they were headed, her pace quickening along with Benedict's as he attempted to clutch Eloise to him tightly, refusing to wince as she clawed at his large digits clasped firmly over her upper face.

"Brother, you cannot bring me to a party and not expect me to look!"

Benedict was about to respond when a seductive purr of a London accent joined in,

"Oh, so Miss Bridgerton is more like Penelope than I thought. But she is a Bridgerton, through and through."

Benedict and Penelope turned, dragging a still wriggling Eloise with them. Genevieve stood in her black corset, her dark skin glowing in the candlelight, the elegant cigarette holder she favored held between her pointer and middle finger.

"I apologize for the unexpected guests, Gen," Benedict started but Genevieve shook her head, her unbound curls bouncing across her shoulders.

"It is quite alright. Penelope has a standing invitation," her smile was curved, enchanting even as she winked at Penelope. Yet, when Penelope didn't respond, her grin fell and she raised an eyebrow at Benedict.

"I promise to explain later," Benedict said, clutching the quiet woman's hand in his like a lifeline. "You can find us in the music room. I am afraid I cannot–"

It hung in the air, unspoken, the original plans for that night ashes on the floor between him and Genvieve. He expected anger, at the very least displeasure. But to his relief Genevieve stepped forward to kiss Penelope's cheeks.

"Take care of our girl," Genevieve tucked stray ember curls behind Penelope's ears. Penelope actually looked up, silent tears now falling down her cheeks. "I will let Lucy and Henry know that revelry is not on the agenda for the three of you."

Benedict sighed gratefully and bent down to kiss her. At the last moment Genvieve turned so his lips grazed her cheek.

"Go," she said, shooing them away. "The music room is relatively empty."

Benedict nodded, choosing not to think too closely on the chaste kiss. It was Penelope who needed him, he had an obligation to her. He wanted to comfort her. She was his friend, after all.

After successfully maneuvering their small group into the music room, blissfully sparse on people, he finally released his younger sister. She swatted his hand, petulantly sticking her tongue at him before re-focusing on her friend. Her expression significantly grew somber when she caught a glimpse of the tears rolling down Penelope's face.

"Oh, Pen. What happened?"

At the simple question, Penelope's resolve crumbled and dissolved like a sand castle that met the tide. Her face crumpled and she scrunched her nose, making a valiant effort not to start sobbing in the middle of the room. Eloise took Penelope's hand from Benedict's, leaving him oddly bereft. Before truly knowing what he was doing, he prompted both young women to a settee that had been pushed against the wall, layered with cushions. He grabbed the fabric and threw them to the floor, making a sort of nest before lowering them down and out of direct eyesight from the few men and women in the room. Penelope's tears had briefly distracted the group sat by the pianoforte, a group of bluestockings and radicals talking politics who, thankfully, averted their gaze.

"Nel," Benedict implored, but was distracted when two sets of hands thrust glasses and two wine bottles into his face.

There stood Henry and Lucy, all kind eyes and gentle smiles.

"I think you may need some medicinal aid," Henry shrugged.

Benedict scratched his head before taking the proffered bottles while Lucy passed out the glasses, wiping away Penelope's tears and whispering sweet nothings as she did so.

"Let us know if you need anything else," Henry said, clapping Benedict's shoulder. "Take good care of our girl."

Benedict couldn't help the snort he emitted, much like Rapscallion when the great beast thought he was being ridiculous.

"I know. She was my friend first. Why does everyone keep telling me that?"

"It always bears reminding," Lucy said after giving Penelope a tight hug, straightening up. "Especially in the beginning."

Benedict furrowed his brows.

"The begin–"

But he was cut off when Henry leaned down to kiss Penelope's head, the married couple waving as they left the room as swiftly and quietly as they came. A strange flutter in his chest that both made him want to squirm and stay frozen in place took over for a moment before he shook it off. The wine was quickly poured and he waited for Penelope to take several, calming sips before trying again.

"Nel, what happened?" When Penelope stared at him blankly he needled a bit more. "You usually only decide to publish by yourself so recklessly when you become…emotionally compromised. You were conversing with Colin before you fled the ball. What transpired?"

Penelope bit her bottom lip, worrying the tender flesh between her teeth. Like clockwork, Benedict carefully pulled her lower lip down and out of harm's way, his thumb pad lingering on the pink skin until Eloise spoke, startling him.

"Pen, please. If Colin was an ass in any way, I will throttle him myself."

Penelope huffed a wet, bitter laugh that caused Benedict to scoot closer to her side, as if he could absorb not only the sound but the pain with his body.

"He told me he was going to Greece, that is all," Penelope sniffled, taking another fortifying sip of red wine. "He thanked me for my friendship and then told me he was leaving."

While Eloise cocked her head in confusion, Benedict untied his cravat, loosening the tight hold on his windpipe. He'd had an inkling as to the information Penelope wasn't filling in for them. He had always known, as many of them had, that Penelope's tendre for Colin had been strong since she was a child. It appeared Penelope might have finally found the courage to try and tell him and had been soundly, carefully pushed aside in a desperate attempt to keep the status quo.

Colin was incredibly kind, but there were some changes in life he feared above all else. The world could advance, the scenery could fluctuate. None of that bothered the third Bridgerton brother. But after their father's death and now with Lady Wetherby's betrayal and new marriage, Colin did not want to see change in his relationships with others.

It was too frightening.

"Did you try to inform him of your feelings?" Benedict asked, his palm settling on the creamy fabric draped over her thigh.

Penelope stiffened as Eloise's eyes widened bigger than a barn owl's.

Penelope could barely glance at Eloise, utterly mortified, tears anew formed in her eyes. Benedict suddenly realized he'd probably made quite the faux pas. It had been one thing, for it to have been an unspoken acknowledgement between them. That Penelope's love for Colin was transparent to him.

But he'd just carelessly revealed that truth in front of Eloise. A friend to Penelope, yes. But she would undoubtedly scoff at the idea of Colin being a man of interest to anyone. Especially her dearest friend.

"You have feelings for Colin?" Eloise hissed, nose wrinkling though she kept a firm hold on Penelope's arm. It appeared she couldn't decide whether she was disgusted, astonished, or anything in-between.

Benedict grimaced, taking his own sip of wine. He let the dry, tangy flavor sit on his tongue for a moment, centering his thoughts. Blackberries seemed to burst on the back of his tongue and he wondered vaguely how the flavor would transform if he pressed closer to inhale Penelope's ginger scent. It'd be like mulled wine at Christmas, he was sure.

"Forgive me, Penelope. But it became, um, obvious to me when you were a child. You had not seemed to let your affections go as you grew, so I just assumed."

Benedict tried to shrug nonchalantly. It was best not to inform the poor woman that both he, Daphne, Francesca, and even Violet had discussed it in passing at times. Well, the women of his family had, all while he eavesdropped like the gossip mongrel he was. (Truly, how no one had accused him of being Lady Whistledown was shocking). The only reason Hyacinth remained unaware was simply because she was too busy mocking Gregory for his own tendre for Penelope. Anthony was oblivious in that regard, Eloise was too focused on Penelope being her friend, while Colin… Well, he was far too intent on preserving his friendship with the youngest Featherington.

Penelope moaned before gulping down the rest of her glass of wine. The wine bottle almost magically appeared in Penelope's hand as she refilled her glass. Benedict would normally stop her, but he had a feeling she would need all the liquid courage she could get to unburden herself of her personal embarrassment.

"Why did you never tell me?" Eloise asked and Penelope shot Eloise a guilty, sidelong look.

"I was afraid you would mock me for it. I know you dream of us being spinsters together one day, and being in love with your brother…"

Eloise took a sip of her own wine before resting her cheek on Penelope's shoulder.

"I mean, you are not exactly wrong," Eloise admitted and Benedict glared at her. "All of my brothers are complete fools, even my favorite. But, Pen, I would have listened to you. You're my dearest friend."

Benedict was not exactly sure if that statement was true. Oh, he knew Eloise believed it to be and that she loved Penelope more than the rest of her siblings put together. The Eloise of now would have listened to Penelope's heartaches, after poking fun at her for a few glorious moments. But the Eloise of even a few months ago? Benedict wasn't so sure she wouldn't have exploded at the idea of anyone else monopolizing Penelope's attention other than her.

Pride swelled in his chest though at his sister's support. Still Eloise, a little sharp at the edges, but full of a fierce love that couldn't be dampened.

"Thank you," Penelope whispered. "It's just, I wanted to tell him how I felt. So I could at least be rejected, so I could let go… But he spoke first. He is leaving and in a way it was like a rejection. An admission that he could never even think of me in such a way. Yet I am still left with these feelings tangled up inside me, unable to release them. It hurts, El."

Finally Penelope began to sob, small little hiccups that vibrated her chest and caused her to curl in on herself.

"Pen," Eloise tucked herself closer into her friend's side, a tad unsure.

Benedict could see how his sister searched in vain for words on how to comfort her friend. Love and the heartache it could bring was not a subject she was familiar with, nor did Eloise seek to become acquainted with romance on any level. Instead, Eloise sought out her wine for answers and Benedict had to resist massaging his temples in frustration. He would soon have two very sloshed, very forlorn, possibly crying women to contend with. Wine and sad women were never a clever combination.

But before Benedict could offer any advice, a voice high and shrill carried through the corridor outside.

"Oh, Lord Almighty, what a night! Murder, Gen! I 'ad to contend with murder!"

"Shhhh, Charlotte! My dear, what in the bloody blazes–"

"Lord Featherington, it was! Came in all high and mighty, ready to have his cock sucked off. And the Madam led him to the best room, where they waited for him! Those skeezy men who own the gambling hells. Forced 'im, they did. To drink poison–"

Benedict's sharp eyes could see Genevieve from the hallway glancing frantically into the music room, pushing Charlotte out of earshot. But the damage was done, it was far too late. By the pallid color of her skin, Penelope had heard everything.

Whatever little control Penelope maintained broke violently, wracking sobs consuming her, filling the small room with such noise that the remaining occupants stared in horror. Eloise rose to her feet, shooting daggers with her stare alone as she hustled them out and away. Benedict wasted no time. Without thinking of himself or propriety, he wrapped his hands around Penelope's hips and lifted her between his legs. Swiftly he untied his cravat, ready to use it to clean her cheeks later. He settled her so she wailed into the crook of his neck, one of his hands caressing her belly while the other cradled her head. His knees bent up to create a protective shield around her as he kissed her forehead, urging her to breathe.

When the door slammed shut, Eloise hurried over and settled on Penelope's other side in front of her brother's shins, bracketing her between the two siblings.

"Shhhhh, Nel, shhhhhh," he soothed, his lips brushing across her tangled fiery tresses. Eloise worked to remove all remaining pins from Penelope's hair, tossing them haphazardly to the scarlet carpeted floor. "God, Nel, I am so sorry. But we are here, we understand."

Eloise's chin wobbled as she gently worked her fingers through Penelope's unbound hair.

"We know what it is like to lose a dear papa," Eloise said, her voice breaking. "Oh, Pen, I am so sorry. Maybe she got it wrong."

But the words sounded blatantly hollow and untrue.

"W-What a-am I to d-d-do?" Penelope stuttered, and Benedict felt the wetness on his neck drip down his sternum like a knife tearing through the sensitive flesh. "Without P-Papa, w-we will truly h-have n-nothing."

"You have us," he breathed into her hair, the smell of salt and ginger making him feel at a loss. "Bridgertons take care of their own. You have us."

Penelope had finally fallen asleep in his lap early in the morning. The blankets that Lucy and Charlotte had brought to cover Benedict's friend and sister had been tucked around their bodies. Charlotte felt awful after she'd learned that Penelope had not only been at the party but had heard Charlotte's tactless account of the event. The woman promised Benedict to look more closely into the baron's death, swearing she'd do anything to help the distraught redhead in his arms.

The music room had settled and Benedict's right leg had gone completely numb with the weight of Penelope's head on his thigh and Eloise's propped up with a pillow against his knee. While Eloise snored, sprawled out in the carpeted space, her arms and legs already sticking out of the red, woolen blanket that Lucy had covered her with, Penelope remained tucked compactly into the space between his thighs. Her back pressed against him as he held her round stomach, holding her fast as her sticky cheeks dried. Absentmindedly, he used his cravat to dab at drying trail of tears. Her eyes were red and swollen even in sleep, and Benedict feared she would sob anew when she woke and remembered the losses that befell her that night; Colin's rejection and her father's murder.

Shifting his weight so the leg of the sofa behind him supported more of him, his lower back aching and stiff, he gingerly began to run his fingers through her tangled curls. The fire that licked across his skin, wrapping around his knuckles, glowed in the dim candlelight of the room. He was struck, suddenly, by Penelope's choice of inspiration when they had drawn Charlotte a few nights ago. Was that only a few nights ago? It felt like an eternity.

Ariadne, abandoned on Naxos, laying across the rocks in her grief. Abandoned by Theseus after working so hard to literally weave a new life for herself. She defied her father, aided in the murder of her brother, all for the sake of love and freedom… Yet she was left to rot by the treacherous sea. A steady rising of something warm and liquid filled his chest, his very lungs, like red wine being poured into a waiting glass. He wanted to be her comfort, her Dionysus who took her away from the world that treated her so cruelly. He wanted to shower her with all of the affection and endearments until she felt cocooned in safety, just enough to allow her to finally grow so she could one day flourish.

God, in that wretchedly tender moment, that was all he wanted in the world.

He refused to analyze it too closely as he bent over her, detangling her fiery red tresses, circling her belly, his mouth so close to her face that his warm breath was a caress on her cheek.

He refused to define the emotion, and he refused to acknowledge Henry lingering at the edge of the entryway, watching them intently.

It was too raw, too real. Part of Benedict wanted to run.

But as his hand moved against her belly, the rise and fall of her chest moved her stomach. Knowing air flowed in and out of her body settled him as he held her.

And Benedict knew, in that moment, he could do nothing but stay.

Penelope didn't come to say goodbye until Colin had rode off and out of sight.

Benedict knew, however, that she'd watched from her window. He'd seen the flash of her fiery hair through the glass as Colin glanced up at the Featherington home. Avoiding Colin's searching gaze could now be added to the long repertoire that Penelope was refining. But Benedict felt a little hollow at the thought. It still meant it would take much effort for Penelope to release her heart from Colin's grip.

If she ever could.

"Will Pen be alright?" Colin asked from atop his horse, still staring at the house now filled with mourning.

Benedict bit back his sardonic retort: If she will not be, would that actually stop you from leaving?

Benedict already knew the answer.

Instead, he replied,

"Eloise will support her every step of the way."

As will I.

Colin lifted his top hat in goodbye to his family, all but Eloise who had headed straight towards Featherington House as soon as it was appropriate. As Colin trotted off to catch his boat to the Continent, Benedict loathed himself. There was a part of him that wanted to beg Colin to stay for Penelope's sake.

But a slightly larger part of him wanted Colin to leave, not look back, and let Benedict take care of her.

He didn't know what that said about himself.

But later that day when the whole family packed their belongings into carriages, ready to close their London home until autumn, Penelope crossed the street to say farewell. Benedict and Eloise chatted as he packed his saddle bags. He would be spending the first half of the summer at his country property in Wiltshire, My Cottage. There would be nothing better to do but to sit and soak in the air and scenery. He couldn't wait for the thunderstorms that would bring his small garden of strawberries to life, and lazy afternoons where he'd simply lay out under the sun. He loved nothing more than to sketch and dream in the haze of summer, serene and languid.

Eloise hugged Penelope so hard Benedict actually heard her back pop.

"Write to me?" Eloise asked, stepping back, swinging her friend's hands between them.

"Every day," Penelope replied, her voice faint and hoarse from crying.

Benedict stepped forward then and peered around to make sure no one, especially his mother, was watching. He cupped Penelope's cheek, letting his palm absorb her warmth before trailing his fingers across the round skin to gingerly tweak her nose. A faint blush spread across her cheeks and he reveled in it.

"Write to me as well?" he asked. "I will grow jealous if Eloise gets to have all of the fun."

"I doubt I will have anything of note to report," Penelope rolled her eyes, brushing invisible lint from her dark, mourning dress.

"Then I shall tell you of all of my dazzling exploits," Benedict tupped her chin before smiling so wide he could feel the corners of his eyes crease. "And you can tell me what a twat I am."

That brought forth the giggle he wanted, that he craved to hear, bubble from her lips once more. The little victories mattered, after all.

"Will you be in London or your country estate?" Eloise asked.

"If you were to ask Mama, we would be going to our country home. But," Penelope hesitated for only a moment before continuing. "We have lost all of our staff except Missus Varley. The money Papa lost… We have nothing. We cannot afford the servants and upkeep to stay there this summer, so we will be staying here in London."

Benedict and Eloise shared a nervous look with each other. The Featherington women were utterly destitute, and Penelope could not risk using her Whistledown funds without fear of her mother finding out and stealing it.

"That is why," Penelope said, with more bravado than she probably felt. "I have come to give you this."

Penelope reached into the valley of her breasts and Benedict pointedly looked up at the sky, feeling his neck flush from more than the summer heat. He swore he heard Rapscallion huff behind him. He heard a jangle of coin and he looked down to see that Penelope had somehow been concealing a large bag of coins. She opened the drawstring and grabbed a handful of them, counting carefully she shoved a few each into Eloise and Benedict's grasps.

"What? Pen–"

"Nel–"

"Hush," she commanded, smiling despite her still ruddy face. "That is your wages for helping me this year. I will not take it back!" She then pushed the bag into Benedict's chest and he had to scramble to catch it. "And the rest of that shall be put into the account you promised to open for me. It is my only salvation now. I cannot risk anyone taking what I have earned from me."

Benedict clutched the money to his chest as though she had given him the crown jewels or her very heart.

"Nel, I swear I shall make sure this shall be safeguarded in a secure account for you. You deserve freedom and safety."

Penelope swiped a bit of moisture from the tops of her cheeks.

"I am glad you agree."

Benedict wanted to hug her, hold her impossibly close. Tell her over and over that all would be set right in the end.

Instead he made a show of counting the coins she'd given him.

"What? Why, Lady Whistledown, is this how you pay your employees? I would like to ask for a wage increase!"

She laughed again and, even as Eloise hit him, it was Penelope's laughter that filled his soul and echoed through his mind the whole ride from London to Wiltshire.

Chapter 9: Interlude, June 1813-February 1814

Summary:

As the seasons change, letters are written, conversations had, and holidays shared.

Notes:

Hi, friends!

We have two big announcements, and I do not mean the royal "we."

First, you'll notice there are now two authors listed on this fic! The brilliant itakethewords (velvetcovered-brick on tumblr) has been my ride or die since the beginning of this fic. They not only edit everything but they plot everything with me, and I do mean EVERYTHING. Literally, they sat on a 9 hour phone call with me to plot s2 of this fic out, no joke. They also do all the graphics!

Their heart and mind is just as much a part of this fic as mine, so it's time for all the recognition they deserve!

Second, after this chapter is posted, there will be a 3 week wait for chapter 10. The main reason for this is because, quite honestly, we're gonna be behind on writing and editing cause the second part 2 of season 3 is released, we'll be thoroughly distracted. Therefore we'll get behind, so we're building cushion.

FORGIVE US!!! As compensation ch 9 and 10 are even longer than usual

Now, it's time for a message from itakethewords! Love y'all!

happilyinsane13 (writingwhilecaffeinated on tumblr )

Hi everyone!

I'm itakethewords and I've been working behind the scenes for many months now but here I am popping out of the woodwork.

Happilyinsane13 one day looked at me and said something like, "would it be crazy to rewrite the show as Benelope?" I said yup but do it anyway! I believe one of the very first scenes that launched this story from *what if* to reality was joking about the sex drawings from QC and what if Eloise and Penelope asked Benedict to do that for them? I think this was back during the holidays? Several months before we posted at least lol. Anyway we have spent many, many days and nights together talking through this story and continue to do so to make sure we give it justice and the care it deserves. Nothing about that will change. My special touch has always been in this story in some way but now y'all know it from more than just our esteemed happilyinsane13 and her notes!

I love this story so much. I love working on it with happilyinsane13, I love getting to reread it like 20 times between discussing scenes as they're written, the multiple edit rounds (it takes multiple because every time I go through it, I end up enjoying it and not working on it ), and having to revoke her comma on her keyboard.

Anyway, I've kept my eye on all the comments and kudos and bookmarks too, been excited with how much you all love this story (maybe I'll reply to comments too? I'm notorious for not but that's the spicy brain for you, so maybe not) Thank you everyone for your love of this story and happilyinsane13!

Please enjoy this extra long chapter and enjoy season 3 part 2 next week! We'll see you with chapter 10 in 3 weeks!

Itakethewords

Chapter Text

June 17th, 1813

Dear Penelope,

I write to you from my property, My Cottage, in Wiltshire. Yes, yes, before you say anything or smirk to yourself, I am aware the name is a tad cheeky. Or uncreative. Or boring. Or self-important.

Nothing I have not already heard from my siblings. But their opinions truly do not matter one wit when I am out here in the summer, blissfully absent of their cacophonous voices. Anthony has no escape, and I make it a point to remind him of it with every letter I send.

It is probably why my dear brother has not replied the last five times.

Forgive me, I fear I have a habit of rambling when I am unsure of how to get to the point.

I have written to you for two reasons.

The first, and most important, is that I wanted to inquire about you and your family. The end of the spring season, I know, was filled with incidents that wounded you deeply. I am so incredibly sorry, both for your heartbreak and your loss.

If I possessed the ability to absorb your pain and inner turmoil into my very being, I would. You are my friend and Eloise's dearest bosom sister.

Yet, I fear the best I can offer you is my thoughts and shoddy penmanship.

Are you quite alright, Nel? Is there any way I can assist you?

The second reason I have written to you is I have found that I miss you terribly while I am grateful for the reprieve from my gaggle of siblings, I am also incredibly bored without my dear friend to entertain me. Our adventures during the season were wild, unpredictable, chaotic, but incredibly invigorating. Our artist sessions at Henry's were always thought-provoking and a solace to me in the evenings.

While I love the country and drawing landscapes, it can be lonely without a friend's conversation or any sort of shared mischief.

Similar to poetry, I believe conversation between two kindred spirits to be good for the soul. A balm upon a wound, even.

So, my dear Nel, let us help each other. Save me from my madness.

I have drawn a sketch of the strawberries growing in my garden. I fervently wish I could send you some. Give you something sweet during what must be a dark time.

I know I am asking much of you, and it is inappropriate for a bachelor to share correspondence with an unwed woman.

But I cannot think of anyone else I would rather converse with. I like to think Mother would understand (Though, please, I beg of you. Do not tell her!)

With Hope and Care,

Benedict Bridgerton

June 18th, 1813

Dear Pen,

Pen, my dearest friend, I know you are trapped in London for the summer but can you not perform a miracle and save me from this purgatory?

Without Benedict to entertain me, (he left for My Cottage, that traitor!) I am stuck with the rest of my absent-minded siblings. All of them are grating on my nerves, except dear Frannie, who is just as willing to discuss novels with me as she is to obliterate our brothers on the Pall Mall field. I will gladly accept her company, but the rest of them would be better off far away from me.

I realize I am being harsh. Possibly, and Fran says definitely, unnecessarily so. But I am slowly going mad, Pen. Anthony is always a grump, either trapped in his office working on the accounts, out visiting tenants, or telling the rest of us off. Gregory and Hyacinth either cause chaos because they are attempting to destroy each other or because they have joined forces in another attempt to conquer the empire (or, at least, Aubrey Hall). Colin is away, as you know. I have not responded to many of his letters. He rambles, does he not? Daphne is pregnant and visits every so often. I actually look forward to her visits because it means Mama is not paying attention to me.

Or my upcoming debut.

Lawks, Pen, I do not desire to be introduced into society in any capacity. I know we have previously discussed this great trepidation of mine, but my mind cannot seem to stop obsessing over it. The way Mama assesses my dresses, my dance lessons, my every waking move reminds me of how the farmers in Anthony's employ assess their cattle.

Tell no one, Pen, but… I am afraid.

I do not want to be sold to a man just to be his property.

I know Daphne is happy with the Duke of Hastings. I begrudgingly admit that he appears to respect her and that is more than can be said for most men. As much as I complain about my brothers, I do believe they would have rescued Daphne from the marriage if she had been miserable.

But Mama…

It is not that she does not love us. But she is so blinded by her undying love for Papa that I think she forgets that not every man is like Papa. She believes our only chance at happiness is marriage because she herself had no other choice but to find joy in it.

That sounds incredibly bitter, does it not?

But I remember Grandfather Ledger. Mama's father used to regale me with stories about how I was so similar to Mama as a child. That she loved learning, especially maths, and had desperately wished she could continue her education.

I look at Mama now and I just…do not see it.

Please, Pen, do not leave my side next season. Or, when you have to for LW, bring me along! Or spill lemonade on my dress so I have an excuse to escape!

Are you any better, Pen? I know your Papa's death had you reeling. All of us, really. It was so…violent. And I am so incredibly sorry, for I know losing a father so unexpectedly can make the world seem upside down.

Counting Down the Days,

Eloise Bridgerton

June 25th, 1813

Dear Colin,

I hope this letter reaches you. I have sent it ahead, as per your instructions, with the intent it will reach your destination just before you do.

It sounds like Greece is proving incredibly exciting, as per your last letter! I wish I could see the places you have described myself. The poisonous properties of oleander or the intricacies of the production of olives and olive oil sound fascinating.

I know you are making your way through the mainland before exploring the various islands. I wonder if you are to visit the island of Naxos, whether you would mind describing it to me? Out of curiosity. If it is not a part of your itinerary then I completely understand.

You remarked on the food being more flavorful there, more well-seasoned then in England. I am curious about that and the rest of your destination on your itinerary. You were talking about adding the Ottoman Empire to your list in your latest missive. Does this mean your Grand Tour will have you away through the Christmas season? Do you not wish to see me or your family?

I eagerly await news of more of your adventures.

Sincerely,

Penelope Featherington

June 25th, 1813

Dear El,

You think you are bored? At least your siblings provide constant entertainment. Prudence and Philippa talk of nothing more than the fact they're forced to wear mourning colors and constantly eat potatoes. I must be going stark raving mad. Or, at least, Mama thinks so. I have spent the last few hours merely writing correspondence, and my hands are now stained in ink.

Francesca is a darling companion if there ever was one. I daresay if you can just hold fast for one season, she will take the spotlight off of you if you merely asked it of her. I do often wonder how she was born to the Bridgerton brood, as she appears much calmer and more level-headed than the rest of you.

I say all of this out of friendship, of course.

As to your fears, while I cannot completely understand them, I do sympathize. I am so sorry that you are carrying a weight of perfection on your shoulders that you do not wish for. Your mother believes whole-heartedly that marriage will fix all problems, fill in every crevice in one's heart. I admit, I wish that was true.

My Mama simply hopes it will fill our coffers.

But I will be by your side and if you need me to whisk you away on LW business, I will. Benedict will surely help in our covert endeavors. I am also confident that Benedict would never allow anything to happen to you, especially against your will. After what happened to Daphne, especially, I have faith he will keep a firm eye on you. He would go toe-to-toe with Anthony for you, I am certain.

Have you discussed your fears with your Mother? Maybe if she was like you, like your Grandfather said… Maybe she would be more empathetic to your cause then you realize?

I wish I could be with you at Aubrey Hall… London in the summer is terribly boring, and the heat makes it stink to high heaven. So we cannot do much, I am afraid with the ton gone to the country.

I would be so much happier with you or Benedict .

Waiting for your return,

Penelope Featherington

June 25th, 1813

Dear Benedict,

As a dutiful friend, I adamantly refuse to comment on your choice of name for your country property… At least, that is what I swore to myself for all of a minute. Oh, Benedict. It is both charming and a little ridiculous.

But it is incredibly you.

It is an awful shame you are suffering, languishing away even, in the depths of ennui. How unfortunate, to be alone at your country property surrounded by fresh strawberries and periodic sunshine.

I promise that was not meant to sound as sarcastic as it probably came off. But I believe LW overcame me for a moment.

In regards to your first reason for writing to me, my family and I are surviving. Mama is nothing short of a scavenger, and I do not mean that necessarily in a negative fashion. In fact, it serves us quite well during these times. Because she has no choice, she is pinching and saving. Papa's death made his debt all the more clear to Mama and my sisters. The entire staff except Missus Varley had to be let go.

I share this with you as my dear friend…but I wept, Benedict. Awfully. Evans, Missus O'Carroll, and Maevis…they are all gone. It feels, strangely, like pieces of my very childhood have broken away and fallen somewhere I can no longer reach. Maybe this is growing pains but it feels more like undeserved heartbreak.

Am I an awful person, if this loss hurts more than the death of Papa?

We are constantly dressed in mourning colors, which, I admit, are more flattering upon our coloring than the bright citruses and pinks Mama usually foists upon us. Our country estate is probably falling to ruin, but Mama has deemed the London property more important to maintain, since it is only our marriages to pitying gentlemen that could possibly save us. I do not know what Mama will do to fend off the Finch's when Parliament opens again and the Christmas season starts. You know how the parties are during that time of year, and Mama would never refuse to keep us from being out and about. But the Finch's were promised Philippa's dowry and I do not know how much longer Mama can use the facade of grief to keep them at bay.

As to your second reason for writing me, I must say, is not your boredom a product of your making? You wanted peace, how are you to find that with me? The spring season was by no means calm once you were wrapped up into my business. But I shall take your friendship, and your desire to maintain it, as the compliment it is. I miss our sessions with Mister Granville as well. I cannot tell you the amount of times I have resisted writing to him to ask his opinion on a turn of phrase or a new idea for a scene but I do not wish to be presumptuous.

But I miss the quiet moments with you most of all.

I miss our talks in the garden, with you and Eloise. While I have never been so sleep deprived in all of my young life, I also have never had such joy in having friends to turn to.

Well, until you join your family at Aubrey Hall, I suppose I must sacrifice my time and energy so you do not languish away under the weight of your loneliness. Am I not incredibly benevolent?

Benevolent to the Bored,

Penelope Featherington

P.S. I wish you could send me strawberries from your garden. They look beautiful, even just from the sketch you composed! Do you grow them yourself?

Benedict was caught halfway between a frown and a smile, the corners of his lips twitching as if they did not know which direction to go. Clasping Penelope's letter in his charcoal stained hands, he lay supine upon his garden bench at My Cottage, letting the sun beat upon his exposed skin. Quite scandalously, he only wore a shirt haphazardly tucked into breeches, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The suspenders helping to hold up his breeches were falling off his broad shoulders, and he had already unbuttoned his white shirt to the bottom of his sternum.

The Crabtrees had tutted and fussed over his haphazard appearance, one of the many reasons he quite adored them. But it was his country property and he had no one to impress, so he'd chosen to adapt a much more relaxed air whenever he came to his Wiltshire home.

His eyes perused the parchment again, devouring every line, every word, every letter that pertained to Penelope's well-being. It irked him terribly that she was stuck in London over the summer with her mother and sisters. He'd still not forgiven the woman not only for attempting to trap his younger brother in a marriage with Miss Thompson, now Lady Wetherby, but for how she'd mistreated Penelope over the years. The memory of the first time he'd ever met Penelope, as a lost girl of nine who'd been utterly forgotten by her family at the park, still had the power to make his blood boil in his veins.

Though, he pondered as he lifted Penelope's letter higher to shield his face, that could also be the summer sun.

Propping one foot upon the bench so that his right knee stood tall while his bare left foot stayed settled in the cool grass, Benedict traced the lines of Penelope's neat, tidy handwriting with the pad of his forefinger. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and he took in the scent of ripe strawberries, fragrant rosemary, freshly tilled dirt, and wildflowers. It reminded him of nights in the garden with Penelope and he felt a strange, steady ache bloom in his chest.

He missed Eloise too, of course. Those memories were made all the more pleasant because of his headstrong, loyal little sister. But Eloise would always be his sister, ever present in his life whether he wanted her to be or not.

Penelope existed in a more liminal space. A state of in-between that could either tip in Benedict's favor or leave him barren of her presence. He scowled at the thought of Portia Featherington scheming to get Penelope married to any pitying gentlemen, as his young friend had put it. Benedict had been forced to admit at the end of last season that he'd grown protective of his sister's dearest friend, for she had quickly become one of his own. Benedict had been keenly smarted, however, when he failed to protect Penelope from the two threats he'd arguably known the most about.

Her wastrel of a father.

And his good-hearted younger brother.

"Oh, sir!"

Benedict glanced up to see Missus Crabtree glowering a few feet away from him, hands on her wide hips. Her mess of gray curls were peeking out of her white linen cap and he had to bite back a grin from the look of absolute maternal disapproval etched upon her weathered face.

"Do not tell me, Missus Crabtree, I already have five reasons as to why you are cross with me."

"If they all relate to your appalling state of undress then you're correct!" she snapped and Benedict had to stifle a chuckle. "Just because you never invite anybody to your home, does not mean you can dress so…so…"

"Rakishly? Like a cad waiting to seduce a water nymph?" Mister Crabtree chimed in, his head popping up from behind the apple tree he's been meticulously weeding around. "You're lucky the vicar is too old to make house calls like he used to, boy. Or he'd have quite the sermon for you."

"Then it is a wondrous thing that you help me avoid him every Sunday, Mister Crabtree."

Benedict stretched like a cat in the sun, arching his back and wiggling his toes before sitting up. He still held Penelope's letter in one hand so he carefully folded it up before tucking it into his sketchbook that he retrieved from the grass.

Cocking his head as Mister Crabtree wiped his dirt covered hands on a spare rag flung over his shoulder while Missus Crabtree continued to mumble under her breath, Benedict wiggled his brows playfully. Mister Crabtree rolled his eyes, his bright hazel eyes twinkling as he lightly swatted his wife's thigh with the rag, causing the older woman to shriek in surprise before giggling like a young girl. Benedict was caught between boyish disgust, the kind he'd felt as a child whenever his father kissed his mother openly in front of him, and a strange kind of jealous longing.

He averted his gaze to study his bushel of ripe strawberries, plump and gleaming red in the sun.

"Is it possible to send strawberries to London?" Benedict asked, standing up to pluck a particularly large bit of red fruit, wiping off the any dearth clinging to the rough flesh on his shirt before taking a bite. He relished the burst of sweet tartness on his tongue, letting the sticky juice roll down his bottom lip and across his chin. He had no one to impress here, no reason to follow any rules of propriety or manners. While he certainly did not mind the finer things in life, he quite loved being a stylish dandy with beautifully embroidered waistcoats and cravats in all manner of colors, it was moments like these that he cherished.

Where he was himself, unabashed as to how he was seen.

Not a second son. Not a rich gentleman masquerading as an artist.

Just a man enjoying his summer strawberries while he sketched in the garden and read letters from his friend.

One of his best friends.

The Crabtrees blinked at him, though to Mister Crabtree's credit he tilted his head in thought.

"Well, sir, it might have been possible earlier in the season. But with the recent heat and how ripe the fruit are now, I think the berries would spoil before arriving." The old man wrinkled his nose, his balding head spotted and shining in the sun. "Even if they did arrive well, I wouldn't be surprised if they rotted immediately upon hitting the putrid London air."

Benedict snorted but didn't disagree. He'd have to send Penelope something else to cheer her up in the meantime.

He thought about the food situation in Penelope's home and frowned. Penelope said her mother was scrimping and saving, but Benedict had seen the grand total of the late Baron Featherington's debts. It was devastating enough that he, with Penelope's consent, had secreted away her Lady Whistledown savings in a bank account he'd made for her at the end of the season. She now had an account at Barclays that was treated with the utmost discretion by the banker he had secured to head the account. Benedict had ensured its secrecy.

Penelope, as a single woman, technically had every right to open a bank account. It had merely been her parents' will that could stop her if they were to find out.

Or, worse yet, a future husband.

For some reason, the very idea made Benedict's skin crawl.

Quickly, he let his mind wander back to how Penelope's family were doing and resolved to ask Penelope about it in his next letter. He was confident he could obtain the information from Penelope; after last spring there were very little secrets between them, he was sure. Until then, he could at least send her something…nice.

Benedict finished his strawberry, tossing the remains in the dirt and casually burying it with his foot. The dirt between his toes didn't bother him, though he could feel Missus Crabtree's disapproving glare burning a hole in the back of his head. It made him smile. His father had always said he was a cheeky bugger before he died.

Mister Crabtree wordlessly passed along another clean rag for Benedict to wipe his face and hands on before dabbing at the sweat accumulating at the nape of his neck.

"I think I will wander around the garden a bit more, see if there's anything to sketch."

Mister Crabtree nodded just as Missus Crabtree said,

"Well, be inside in twenty minutes, sir. Lunch is about ready and I'll not have you skipping again!"

Benedict waved amiably before retreating further into his wild garden, bursting with fervent, green life he wanted to be nothing but reminiscent of old fairy tales or A Midsummer Night's Dream. With his sketchbook tucked under one arm and a piece of wrapped graphite tucked behind his ear, he was ready for whatever he might stumble upon. The cool grass caressed his ankles while he wandered, studying everything from the clusters of sage in the herb garden to the little yellow petals of primrose and cowslip. He wished it was the season for southern-marsh orchids to bloom…

As Benedict studied the flowers, a couple of butterflies flew into view, landing softly upon the petals to seek the nectar within. One was undoubtedly the holly blue butterfly, unmistakable with its wings the beautiful, bruised color of early summer dusk. The other, however, was orange with black tipped wings with little white spots on its forewings and black spots on its hindwings. He'd seen it before, of course, as it arrived every summer. But he'd never been as intrigued by it as he was now with its delicate wings, fuzzy brown and green body, the iridescence of its many colors sparkling in the sun.

Slowly, so as not to scare the creatures off, he pulled out his sketchbook, opened it to a fresh page, and began to draw the pair. Upon the page the curves of the fluttering wings, the soft shade of their shadow upon the primrose petals, and the length of their antennae took shape. When he was done it had gone on twenty minutes and while not his finest work, it captured the creatures quite well. Settling his graphite back behind his ear, he scooped up a jagged brown stone at the foot of the cluster of wildflowers, eager to add it to his rock collection in his bedroom. With a great rush of energy, he rushed back to My Cottage, bolting through the back kitchen door. Tracking dirt upon the wooden floor, much to Missus Crabtree's dismay, Benedict practically tripped over himself to grab the clean brushes by the sink that had just been washed, along with the watercolors he insisted upon keeping on the wooden counter in case of garden inspiration.

Items retrieved, he practically fell into his chair at the wooden table, technically supposed to be only for servants' use. Benedict didn't care. He often took meals in the kitchen since it was just him and the Crabtrees and, at least half of the time, he convinced them to have the meals with him.

He began dipping his brush into water, yet another rag beside him, as he began to paint in the butterflies. Feverishly he gave them color and depth until they shined, wet and vivid, off the page. He'd barely noticed the sliced hunks of cheese and bread Missus Crabtree had put beside him, or the fact that he'd unknowingly inhaled a few pieces in his single-minded focus. When he was done, he called Mister Crabtree, hands and arms freshly scrubbed, over to the table.

"Do you know the name for this butterfly?" Benedict asked, pointing at the orange, black, and white butterfly as if he'd found hidden treasure.

"That's a painted lady, that is," Mister Crabtree replied, without much thought. "They're only here in the summertime, when the weather is right for them. But see the spots there? Like all butterflies, they're a kind of camouflage. Even beauty, my boy, has its purpose for survival."

As Mister Crabtree walked away to join his wife at the counter, already skinning a hare for supper that night, Benedict sat back and peered at the painted image of the two butterflies. They appeared so different, one as blue and plainly pretty as a clear sky, while the other, mesmerizing in its own right, prioritized survival, its beauty hidden amongst the foliage of the English countryside.

He didn't really know why, but he was fascinated and he couldn't wait to show Penelope.

June 30, 1813

Dear Penelope,

I have no doubt that your mother is doing her utmost to keep your family afloat. Truly, if she had been born a man, I think the Featherington fortune would actually be well intact and flourishing.

Ah, blast. I hope that was not too harsh to say, as it implies inadequacy in your late father's care of the Featherington estate. Yet, I cannot fully take the comment back as I am always filled with a sort of indignation on your behalf. While I would never have wished your father's death, I certainly am unspeakably angry for the situation he put you in.

I can only imagine how you may be wasting away in London with no one to talk to. You should write Henry and Lucy. I am positive they would be thrilled to hear from you. Have you been writing to Genevieve Gen Madame Delacroix? I know she went to Paris to study the latest trends. I find myself hoping for her safety as well as Colin's, what with the current state of the Continent.

Has Genevieve written to you? Has she suggested anything? Has Colin written to you?

Have you written to him?

I am so sorry that your family has lost all of its staff, except Missus Varley. I know you were close to much of the staff. I did not know them all but Evans was a good chap. Were they able to find suitable employment? I can surely help to give them good references if needed, it's the very least I can do as they took such good care of you.

It is alright to miss them…

Ah, so you are benevolent to the bored, then? What does that make me? For as sure as I am going out of my mind, at least I have strawberries and the Crabtrees (the housekeepers for my property). You have empty streets and heat so strong it makes the wet pavement steam. I think I have the better option between the two of us. So, truly, I must be the saint between us friends, do you not agree?

In all sincerity, Nel, do not fret. Before you know it, Eloise and I shall return to London. I depart for Aubrey Hall in a week and the pair of us will come up with countless ways to keep you entertained during the colder months before the marriage mart opens up. I have no doubt half of those plans will be plotting a way for Eloise to avoid our mother's matchmaking schemes.

We can plot for you as well? I know you are the writer amongst us, but Eloise and I can do our best to ensure you may avoid marriage for another season? Say the word, and I shall put my wily brain to use!

I fear I could not send you strawberries. Trust me, I asked the very knowledgeable Mister Crabtree and, unfortunately, he was adamant that they are too ripe now to be sent safely to your doorstep. But my garden is full of other produce. I could have some sent to you, if you so desire it. It could simply be a happy accident, I doubt your mother would question free vegetables.

I have enclosed a watercolor I did of a set of butterflies to give you joy until I can think of something better. The holly blue is probably easy to spot, but I find the painted lady to be incredibly intriguing, do you not think? I do not know how I never noticed the fascinating qualities of butterflies before. But they are all over my garden, and suddenly my sketchbook is becoming full to the brim with their likeness.

The orange on the painted lady's wings is almost the color of your hair.

Address your next letter to me at Aubrey Hall. I will sorely need it, as I am sure my siblings will increase their efforts to drive me mad because I neglected them for the month of June. I am sure Anthony, and Daphne when she visits, will be quite cross with me. I have been exchanging letters with Daphne more regularly, and her pregnancy seems to be going well. As is her marriage, thank God. I was going to be quite cross if myself and my brothers had to storm Clyvedon to retrieve her. I do not wish to risk my mother or sister's ire.

Your More Benevolent Friend,

Benedict Bridgerton

P.S. I think Rapscallion misses you. I mentioned you in passing while grooming him and he bit me!

July 2, 1813

Dearest Penelope,

You should have written if you missed us so! Oh, do not be so cross with Benedict when you receive this. Our country home is not far from Wiltshire, so to receive a letter from him did not take long. When he mentioned how you wished to converse with us, we just had to write you immediately. We miss your presence as well and we are aware Genevieve does, too. You should write to her, we have attached her Paris address on the back of this missive.

We do not stay out of London long during the summer, as the more fun set return to London a tad early before the majority of the haut ton. Just for the months where the heat and smell is particularly hard to bear. You are made of much sterner stuff than us, that is for sure. We will be hosting a small gathering upon our return, just artist friends and the like. We can send a formal dinner invitation so as not to raise much suspicion from your mother, if you prefer.

It's quite bold for us to speak so plainly via letter but from the way you've told us your family treats you, we doubt very much anyone will read this.

You must send us more of your stories, we would love to read them. We grow quite bored with country life, we are folk who prefer a more urban setting. Occasionally we go to Bath if we are truly desperate, but nothing quite beats London for scandal and frivolity, do you not agree?

Have you heard from Andrew and Marina? We just came from visiting them and Marina is quite valiantly maintaining she can still be up and around in her pregnancy. Her belly is incredibly swollen, the doctor is convinced it may be twins. Andrew and Marina seemed delighted and they are getting on so well. Their friendship has made the transition easier and it looks like they will join us in London after the birth of the baby (babies?).

We hope you are well, Penelope. The end of the spring was quite hard on you and, truly, we hope for better for you. You deserve the world and more.

Yours in Friendship,

Henry and Lucy Granville

P.S. From now on, call both of us by our Christian names. A certain someone out of the pair of us grows jealous you have yet to use their given name.

Penelope giggled to herself as she re-read the letters again in the privacy of her bedroom. She should have known Benedict would write to the Granvilles to inform them himself how much she missed them. She should be irritated, really she should, but something about the gesture warmed her heart. It was incredibly sweet and thoughtful, to extend the hand of friendship in such a way.

Penelope sighed, looking up from the light her lone candle flickered upon her writing desk.The world outside her window was now filled with the soft light of dusk, a bruised blue-purple that nearly matched the watercolor rendering of the holly blue butterfly Benedict had sent her. The painted lady beside it reminded her more of the candle flame, waving around in the darkness.

She sighed as she walked over to the window that gave her direct access to the sight of Bridgerton House, the home shuttered up for the summer. The empty vase she sat upon her windowsill, the one that Benedict could see from the Bridgerton drawing room, and it reminded her of what had been one of the most exciting, tumultuous springs of her life. It had been full of trials, discoveries and heartbreak but…she missed it.

She missed them.

Eloise. The Granvilles. Genevieve. Charlotte. Hell, even Siena.

Benedict.

Always Benedict.

And Colin, of course. Despite his words to her, words that left her in an agonizing sort of limbo, she still missed him. He was still a beatific light in her mind's eye, shimmering like a reflection upon the water or a mirage in the desert.

But that was just it. It shimmered and wavered painfully, its beauty, Colin's beauty, ephemeral and temporary.

And, lawks, that hurt so much more than it should.

But she wished Benedict and Eloise were here with an incredible sense of clarity. Real, solid, everlasting. They had proven over the course of the spring that they would never abandon her, that they held fast and sturdy.

They weren't an illusion. Not even a precious fairytale.

They were real.

Unbidden, the memory of being cradled between Benedict's thighs hit her with opposing forces of ferocity and tenderness she hadn't experienced before. A desire to feel that safety, that sense of being valued and protected, shot through her.

She pressed her small fingers against the warm glass, leeching the last of the sun's heat it had absorbed all day. She stared at Bridgerton House and made a decision.

Sneaking into the Bridgerton's garden was much more terrifying when the house was empty of a living soul than when it was filled to bursting with people, she decided. Though there had always been a fear of being caught, at least Penelope knew Benedict and Eloise would have conjured many ridiculous excuses to explain away her presence. Now, with no one inhabiting the elegant space it felt…lifeless.

The family truly defined a space, she guessed. But as she moved further into the garden, still maintained while the family stayed at Aubrey Hall, part of Penelope's mind began to settle. She approached the familiar bower of the great tree that heard her many whispered secrets, their boisterous laughter, and was watered by both Benedict's wine and her tears. Her feet moved her closer until her knees were only inches away from the seat of one of the swings. The swing set hanging off the sturdy branches on the left sat still in the humid night air and Penelope smiled as she sat in front of it, spreading out the skirt of her nightgown in the grass. She imagined Benedict and Eloise sat on the swings in front of her, smoking tobacco, waiting just for her to appear. Settling her cheek onto the rough wood of one of the swings, she imagined it was Benedict's knee.

And, for some reason she couldn't fathom, that image coupled with the familiar smell of petrichor made her eyes sting.

July 5, 1813

Mister Bridgerton,

I have been in Paris for some time now, studying the latest trends in fashion. I think you know how important my art is to me, that it is my only way to climb upwards in this world.

The summer will end soon enough and I will be back in London to dress the young women of the ton for the autumn and winter months.

I must ask you not to seek me out.

We had great fun together, you and I. But I must cut our affair short. I must focus on my work, and my other needs can be satisfied elsewhere with men and women with less…responsibilities.

We may be good acquaintances, of course. Possibly even friends. But you must understand that nothing of a sexual nature can happen between us again.

I have been writing dear Penelope. I look forward to seeing her at the Granvilles artist gathering on their return to London. I wonder if she misses me as I have missed her?

bien amicalement,

Madame Delacroix

July 7, 1813

Dear Benedict,

I should be furious with you for telling the Granvilles how I long for their friendship… Yet, I cannot muster even a hint of ill-will. What have you done to me? I demand you return whatever bit of red-blooded temper I used to possess at once! No one listens to me on a normal day-to-day basis. If I do not have even an infinitesimal amount of anger, I shall be even more of a wallflower than before!

I digress, for you were also incredibly kind. All of our former servants appeared to find good employment. Missus O'Carroll was kind enough to keep me abreast of the situation. I see her at times when I make a run to the market in my lady's maid cloak for supplies, and she will chat with me.

I will happily submit some of my own ideas to help Eloise escape marriage. Has she thought of shimmying up the chimney on presentation day? Even if she does not make it to the roof, her gown will be so thoroughly ruined, your mother will have to give in and wait another year to present her!

Alas, for me, you need not worry. I fear it will be much the same as last year. No eligible bachelor looked at me before and I very much doubt one would look at me now with the state of our coffers. A wallflower is bad enough. A wallflower with no dowry? I think that makes me a weed, if we are to continue to use plant metaphors. Not only invisible but very much unwanted.

I must pity the Crabtrees, you must be quite the handful to take care of! But they must have hearts as big as yours if they provide so well for you. I have a feeling it is them who tend to the strawberries, is it not? It was thoughtful of you to even consider sending them, as impossible of a feat as that would end up being.

I can see what you are really fishing for, Benedict. And I can say we are well fed. We mainly live off potatoes, as they are the cheapest produce. I have wondered whether I should dip into my savings to buy food for us, but it would be strange if it was me that suddenly came home with fresh produce. I fear Mama would sniff out my bank account like a bloodhound on the hunt. It is the only thing that stops me.

But we are well, Benedict. We are not starving, I promise.

Though with the way Mama is roaming about the house, trying to decide on items to sell, I am not sure how long it will last. We can only hope the new Lord Featherington will return by next spring and take pity on us. Mama claims he is an old tyrant who may very well send us all to Cornwall. You may ask, "Why, whatever is the matter with Cornwall?" If you were to ask my Mama, she would equate it to Dante's ninth circle of hell.

Oh, Benedict. Your talent never ceases to amaze me. These butterflies are gorgeous. I hope you do not mind, but I have done my best to flatten out the creases from its travel and I have tucked it into the book of Robert Burns' poetry you suggested to me. It shall be safest there. Is it not interesting how the two butterflies traveled together, the same and yet visibly so different? I desperately wish I could go outside. I did, I snuck into your garden and pretended you were there. I miss you and Eloise so deeply, and all I wanted was to be held and smell the hyacinths again…

You must send me more of your sketches! Benedict, do you not think it's time to start sharing your talent with others?

I miss sharing my own talent, even if no one besides you and Eloise knew it was me. I resolved I would not write in the summer, autumn, or winter months. Too much risk. But it is torturous to wait until next spring.

But I am cheering myself, as since you must now be at Aubrey Hall, I have no doubt that your army of siblings are waging war against you for leaving them alone so long. Eloise might join your side, but I do not know if the two of you can come up against Gregory and Hyacinth's might. Hyacinth, in particular, could strategize better than Alexander the Great. (Do not tell her I said that. She need not get any ideas.)

Melting in the Heat,

Penelope Featherington

P.S. You share your sketches with me, but I remember your discourse on poetry. Will you not share this other side of your artistic talents with me?

July 15, 1813

Gen,

You little minx! What exactly did you say to Benedict? He wrote a three page missive to Henry and I about your intentions towards "dear Nel," "sweet Nel," "my sister's most precious friend," and "a woman I've sworn to protect." Oh how he went on and on! Are you trying to win the bet by pushing him forward? Henry is still convinced it will take Benedict another year to discover his feelings, and even longer to act on them.

It seems he is quite over your rejection of him. It was barely a line in the missive. The rest was completely centered around our dear redheaded writer.

We expect the finest bottle of French wine you can find upon your return for this!

In other news, Penelope shared a new excerpt from her retelling of the story of Ariadne. Oh, Gen it is quite heartrending. When Penelope retires Lady Whistledown, Henry truly believes she could write novels next. She just needs a little push.

With All My Heart,

Lucy Granville

P.S. Henry has informed me you should try something even more incendiary. He is thoroughly entertained.

Eloise poked Benedict's cheek for the fifth time as they lay sprawled in the grass, stomachs on the ground, studying a crop of their mother's well-manicured flowers as butterflies rested atop them. When Benedict didn't stop in his sketch of a painted lady, she poked him a sixth time. In response he puffed out his cheeks with air and she poked it again, deflating it successfully.

On and on it went, a repetitive rhythm that was as sure and constant as the rising and setting of the sun. It was why they barely understood the sibling dynamics in other families, though many of the eldest siblings knew it was technically the Bridgertons who were seen as odd . Families in society were, of course, loyal to each other. But in the sense that one was loyal to anyone who knew far too much about you to safely cross them.

But the Bridgertons had been raised to help each other. To care for and aid each other instead of leaving the work to just nannies or governesses. Their own mother had been considered terribly strange by insisting upon breastfeeding her own babies rather than hiring a wetnurse, with the only exception being Hyacinth. Their father had expected Anthony, Benedict, and even Colin to an extent, to shepherd their siblings and help in their learning. It was up to them to protect each other, no one else.

And so simply being , comfortable with one another in their own skin, was a rare, marvelous thing.

One that none but a Bridgerton could understand.

Still, by the thirtieth poke, Eloise grew mightily weary. She'd been trapped at Aubrey Hall all summer and while she loved many aspects of the country, playing with her siblings at Pall Mall and outshooting her brothers to name a few, she'd grown tired of the repetitive day to day. Yet she didn't want to return to London either, for that meant she was one day closer to her debut amongst society.

She hated it, that loathsome, middling state. Why could she not be considered a woman without going through the utter humiliation and pageantry of being presented? Why must her greatest accomplishment in life be finding a husband?

Why could Mama simply not still love her, be proud of her, even if she decided to be a spinster?

Zounds, it was all so irritating.

"Tell me again how you will let me abscond with Pen on Whistledown business this next spring," Eloise said for what was probably the hundredth time since Benedict had arrived. She didn't care. She was going to demand to hear it until the comfort of his words settled into her skin, pressed around her like the best goose down covers.

Benedict rolled his eyes in response though he still dutifully sketched the detail upon the painted lady's wings.

"El, my dear sister, I have already promised I will let you help Nel under my supervision. But only under my supervision. Understand?"

"You swear, Brother? Swear you shall let me. Swear that you will allow me to–"

"To escape?"

Benedict paused and looked at her then, their matching blue eyes meeting. Eloise had always preferred to seek out Benedict's comfort as a child, simply because of how open and kind his face was. Anthony tried his best, Eloise knew that in the depths of her heart, but he wore the facade of the stern, dutiful viscount for so long that he'd forgotten how to shed it to just be a brother. And Colin was more of a sparring partner in wit and antics, great fun to be sure. But not the brother she sought for validation or protection.

No, that had always been Benedict.

As if he could read her thoughts, Benedict reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing lightly.

"El," he whispered, even though there was nothing but the butterflies to hear them. "I made a mistake with Daphne, but I will not make the same with you. I promise to be your escape whenever you need it. If you do not wish to marry, I will speak to Mother and Anthony myself. You may have to struggle through this season. I do not think Mother and Anthony will take your wishes seriously if you do not feign putting in the effort. But I will shield you whenever you need it. And when I am not there, I know Nel will never leave you."

He smiled then, a closed lip smile that was so gentle, it made Eloise squirm. She'd never been graceful with softer emotions, though she was attempting to handle them with more tact. Benedict's warm smiles had been a habit as of late, whenever he sketched butterflies or read letters that he tucked back into his sketchbook.

Eloise cleared her throat.

"Thank you."

He squeezed her hand again before turning back to his sketch. Eloise fiddled with the blades of grass in front of her, mentally composing another letter to not only her best friend, but a new one as well.

July 15, 1813

Dear Sir Phillip,

I suppose I must thank you for the two new pamphlets you sent me. I did quite enjoy the discourse on how married women should be allowed their own bank accounts. It is quite astonishing, is it not? That single women should be allowed to build their own savings but the moment they are married, every cent they have earned themselves now belongs to their husband? How does that make any logical sense? Do women miraculously lose their faculties for numbers once we have been tied down to a man?

The entire situation fills me top to toe with fury. I simply do not understand it. My own Mama has her own bank account where she tracks her own finances, yet she had to have my late Papa's permission to have it. When my brother became Viscount Bridgerton, he luckily had enough sense to never demand to see the account. Though Mama is a traditional woman in many senses, I do believe he was aware she would have boxed his ears if he'd demanded even a cent of her own money.

The second pamphlet you sent me on the growth of tomatoes from the former colonies in British soil, admittedly, was less interesting to me. However, I did read it as, since you are a botanist, it is of interest to you. It is interesting about how much of what we now eat was taken from far flung parts of the world. Why, we cannot imagine life without our cakes and scones, but we would not have it had it not been taken from the sugar plantations in the Caribbean. The tobacco we now so crave from the South of the new United States… And how we established those lines of trade is abysmal. Now that interests me.

But, I suppose, if you can learn to grow it on English soil, we then do not have to rely on expensive trade or on anything that requires the maltreatment of fellow human beings.

It is easy to have these conversations with you. I wish it was so simple to talk like this with Mama. I know, I know I speak of her often in our letters. But I simply do not understand her sometimes. I know she is intelligent and incredibly loving. But according to my late Grandfather, she used to aspire to things I want. Learning, learning, learning and then using that knowledge.

What could have happened?

Surely it could not only be love. While I will forever cherish Mama and Papa's love and devotion for each other, is it so wrong that I am disappointed that Mama stopped wanting more ?

Maybe it is.

Why is it so easy to tell you this?

Agh, well, to better topics. In my last letter I informed you of my brother, Benedict's, return to Aubrey Hall. This has been a boon for me upon the Pall Mall field, as he will always attempt to avoid conflict. However, for me he will protect my interests as I attempt to crush all of my brothers on my path to victory!

Unfortunately, his return has also painted a target upon my and Francesca's backs as we flocked to his side, pitting Hyacinth and Gregory against us in the fight for attention. There have never been so many peas lost across the battlefield that is the Bridgerton dinner table. I think Mama has given up. I could have sworn she tossed a currant in Anthony's wine the other night but she appeared perfectly innocent upon my next glance.

Did you ever get into such shenanigans with your brother? I know you do not always wish to talk of him. But I do understand what it is like to lose a dear family member. You must miss George dearly.

I know you prefer to stay out of the London season, but will you be coming for any of the holiday festivities?

Sincerely,

Miss Eloise Bridgerton

Benedict sat bent over his latest letter to Penelope on a rainy afternoon. Since his first, he and Penelope had exchanged what appeared to be countless missives. He'd long since given up folding them away in his sketchbook. Instead, he began tucking them away in the same box he held his rock collection in. Bringing the precious item from My Cottage had been a tough decision but he'd a feeling, almost a premonition in nature, that he'd want it this coming year.

Peering up from the table he sat writing at, Benedict eyed Francesca at the pianoforte, idly gliding her fingers along the ivory keys. She appeared pensive, almost forlorn, glancing up periodically to take in Eloise sitting on a settee across the room with their mother and a pregnant Daphne. Eloise, sat on one side of Daphne, kept glancing down at Daphne's softly protruding stomach in what could only be abject horror. It would have been hilarious had Benedict not known just how fearful Eloise was about pregnancy. Their Mother, of course, had forced Eloise over in some sort of vain attempt to show Eloise the joys of oncoming motherhood, though it was decidedly having the opposite effect.

To Daphne's credit, Benedict had overheard her several times try to steer the conversation to topics Eloise might actually like, such as recent novels or Eloise's latest victory at outshooting Anthony, Benedict, and Simon.

Simon and, in a rare show of relaxation, Anthony were sprawled on the floor with Gregory and Hyacinth, playing a game of marbles.

Benedict took in his myriad of siblings across the drawing room, aching briefly that Collin was not among them, and his eyes alighted upon Francesca again. She needed something, he could feel it in his gut. It was an instinct, a skill he had honed to perfection growing up. One he had steadfastly ignored in the spring and had keenly regretted. He'd not make the same mistake twice.

He could find balance, he could. It shouldn't be so hard to be a good brother and be his own person.

Right?

Benedict carefully folded the top of his letter over, the ink already dry. He did not need Anthony or, worse, Mother, to see who he was writing to. That would beg too many questions. Once he had he strode over to glide onto the bench beside Francesca, playfully skirting his fingers across the keys to create a cacophony of sound.

"What, dear Sister, is swirling around that magnificent brain of yours?"

Francesca let out a small giggle that shot a thrill through his veins. Making his siblings laugh really was one of life's great pleasures. But even more so when it was one of his younger sisters. He took it as a sign that they were still… Well, little. He knew they had to transform from children into women one day, much sooner than men had to.

But, he'd admit, it irked him.

Francesca quietly assessed him, in that way of hers that made one feel she saw so much more than she ever let on. Her hazel eyes, rare amongst their family, had a strange power to change and adapt depending on her mood. Even when she was small, following Eloise around like a duckling, Francesca had appeared almost too poised. When their father had died, his first three sisters had changed irrevocably. Daphne had molded herself into a second mother, desperate to fill the void that their mother had left when she had sunk into her grief. Eloise had acted out, desperate and wanting for attention and approval, seeking fiery independence at even a young age.

But Francesca had turned inwards. She'd made herself smaller, as if seeking to go by unnoticed. Her only outlet had been music and sometimes, Benedict could only tell what sort of mood she was in depending on the piece she sat to play. In fact, on many occasions, it informed Benedict when she was sad or angry. Benedict never would have known that Colin had hurt her feelings (about what he couldn't remember) when she was eleven until she started furiously playing Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Benedict had, frankly, been a little terrified.

Francesca sighed, pressing down on the middle C, letting the note linger and waver in the air.

"I–" she swallowed. "I feel sorry for Eloise. But more than that, I am frightened."

"Frightened?" Benedict frowned. "By what, dear Fran?"

"I see how much El fears debuting and I think it scares me as well." Francesca averted her eyes to look down upon the keys. "I am not a fool. I know that, even for Daphne, arguably the most perfect, the one to make Mama proud, had a difficult time. If the season was hard for her, how is El to find it? Or me? Brother… I am much more content to play my pianoforte, to be the observer. Must I really debut one day?" She looked up and Benedict followed her line of sight to see her eyeing Eloise with pity. "Must El?"

Benedict could not be completely sure what a broken heart felt like. He had been hurt when Lady Danbury had refuted his suit when he'd been a young man. He'd thought that was heartbreak. As he'd grown and gained more experience, he'd realized that his young infatuation had been a kind of love, but more than anything it'd been an ardent admiration that persisted and had matured. He thought he'd loved others, in many different ways. But, if he were honest, he'd only experienced heartbreak, in a fashion, when his father died. When Penelope had sobbed, utterly broken between his legs in the garden and then again at the Granvilles' party… Lawks, it had nearly torn him asunder.

But the revelation of his little sister's fears…that came close. His heart twisted in the confines of his chest and he physically ached to fix it for her. If he had the power, he would fix anything she wanted him to.

But this…he didn't know where to begin.

"Fran, I do not know if I have the power to push your debut off. Lord knows Mother is hard to dissuade," he played a few notes, his hand moving down until their hands were side by side on the great instrument. "But if you never find a man you wish to marry, I will support you. I have already promised the same to El. What is one more sister? Truly between Anthony and our rich as sin brother-in-law, we do not need to marry off all of our women folk."

For the first time that day, Francesca seemed to finally spark with life and it showed when she began to play the first notes of Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 11.

"Truly, Benedict? You mean it?"

"I do," he assured her, sitting back to watch her play with more vigor. "Though, I beg of you, do not tell Hyacinth. I love her more than life itself, but I think she should live with Anthony for the rest of her days if she decides to never marry."

And Francesca laughed, a deep, melodious laugh. Benedict thought it was lovelier than any piece of music she could play.

July 25, 1813

Dear Penelope,

I do not know whether to welcome the arrival of August or to try to hold it off a few weeks longer. August means I am one more day closer to coming back to London and enjoying your company once again. Lord knows, Eloise can hardly stand it, though she will arrive a few weeks after me. But August also means the intensely muggy days where it feels like walking through pea soup by the Thames. I do not know how you have been able to stand it.

I know you tried to convince your mother to let you go visit Marina, to no avail. I am truly sorry. The north of the country surely would have been such a relief during a summer such as this. Your mother will not be able to refuse an invitation from her once the Wetherbys return to London, though. They are too highly ranked for her to snub them, and maintaining a connection through you would be to her benefit. I have not communicated with Lord Wetherby, though Henry has made mention of him. How has your cousin seemed through your correspondence?

Well, if you do anything in preparation for my own arrival, dear Nel, you must invest in a good pair of shoes. Ones you can feasibly dash away in. If I am to save you from dying of ennui, then we must be sure to be able to sneak and run away with the ease of master thieves. While I doubt your mother will notice much, it appears she may be on slightly higher alert, simply because she cares so much how society views your family after your father's death.

Is there any news of the new Lord Featherington?

Though, speaking of a new pair of shoes to dash off in, have you been going to the market by yourself? Again? I have warned you constantly of the danger it poses. I know you are capable of handling yourself but there are dastardly men across the city with physical strength that could outmatch you. Please, Nel, every time you mention going into the city alone I am at once gripped by equal parts admiration and dreadful fear. If anything happened to you, I do not think I would ever forgive myself.

Eloise would also surely blame me. I would be murdered, painfully and grotesquely. Please, do not be the cause of my early demise. I am far too handsome for such a fate.

Have you received the lot of produce I had the Crabtrees send? I know it was only cabbages and the like, but at the very least it diversifies your current pickings of potato soup, boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, and what was it last time? An attempt at some sort of potato pie medley?

I do not know whether to fear Missus Varley or give her some sort of commendation for the amount of ways she's attempted cooking spuds.

Are you truly alright? I can send more produce if need be, and you can always tell me anything that may bother you. Grief, in all its forms, has ways of sneaking up on us like an unexpected shadow.

Henry has raved about your writing lately and though I have offered up a piece of myself by sending you my renderings of the summer wildlife, you have yet to show me the product of your artistic labor! I will make you a deal, if you send me an excerpt of what you are currently working on, I will shoulder any embarrassment I may face by giving you a bit of my own horrid attempts at poetry. Deal, sweet Nel?

Waiting, Waiting, and Waiting,

Benedict Bridgerton

July 27, 1813

Dear Pen,

I have just arrived on the island of Crete, though I advise you send any letter to my next more permanent location. After the islands I should be venturing, finally, into the Ottoman Empire. I have scrawled the exact location on a separate piece of paper, along with a map as to where I shall be. I daresay, Anthony will skin my hide on the expenses for parchment alone.

I did as you asked and briefly visited the island of Naxos. It was incredibly interesting, I must say. Quite a lovely suggestion on your part. I know you enjoy mythology, though I did not take you for being a lover of quite a tragic tale. But I guess Theseus, on his hero's journey, had to make sacrifices to achieve his goal.

Naxos is unique in some respects, as it is one of few islands that has fertile soil. It has some stretches of beach, as opposed to islands like Santorini which are made entirely of rock and not much can be grown in their soil. Santorini is close to an active volcano, actually, and many use the volcanic rock to grow grapes for wine, but that is a story for another missive entirely.

Naxos is unexpectedly beautiful for being the supposed place of Ariadne's abandonment. Crystal waters lap upon the sandy beaches, with ancient ruins standing in stark contrast amongst the mountains. One of these ruins was a Temple of Apollo, and I have been told by the locals that there is a cave that Zeus was born, if I understood correctly. It is upon Mt. Zeus after all. Maybe it is not so much of a surprise that Ariadne was visited by a god after her abandonment, as this island seems to be full of their presence.

I can only hope I am painting a vivid enough picture for you, Pen, though I am afraid nothing compares to the real thing. The rough, sandy rock, the green shrubbery that stretches to the sky alongside the mountain's face. It is as if nature itself is desperately trying to reach Olympus.

I know I can ramble on about these things, but at least you listen. I receive very spotty correspondence from my siblings, and as much as I would like to blame that upon shoddy mail service, I also know them too well. They become easily bored when I go on and on about a subject. Though, bless him, Gregory tries. Truly he does, though I think he's attempting to subtly press me into helping him with his Latin. No luck for him, though. First, I am in Greece. Second, my attempts to help would arrive far to late to be of any benefit.

Anthony's letters to me are more frequent scoldings on my spending habits and adding more countries to my itinerary. But I must seize the moment, shouldn't I, Pen? It would be a shame if I did not take advantage of traveling. I have decided to continue to travel until the spring. Mother is not pleased I will be gone for the Christmas season, but she will forgive me in time. It will be one less of her children throwing bits of bread and veg across the dinner table.

Have you heard from Miss Thomp Lady Wetherby, out of curiosity? She has advanced in her pregnancy, has she not? Her husband is good to her?

I shall send another letter soon, Pen. There are ruins on Crete, said to be the place of the Minoans. I know you will be just as fascinated as I!

Sincerely,

Colin Bridgerton

July 29, 1813

Dearest Penelope,

Cousin, I swear, I am growing so round I must resemble a sunbathing seal. Truly, I fear the doctor's suspicions may be right and I could be carrying twins. I have seen pregnancy at this stage before, and I have never seen a belly as big as mine. The kicks and flutters I feel must be multiples. I believe I am roughly six months along and, goodness, I am ready to be done.

Andrew is kind, of course, and frequently provides for every need and want during my pregnancy. I once woke in the middle of the night craving kippers of all things, and he summoned for it! And bless his mother and sisters, they have been incredibly kind and supportive.

Though, it led me to suspect how much they know. As your dear mama pointed out (I am afraid I write that with much sarcasm) it does not take much intellect to understand I am further along than I should be if we had conceived during the honeymoon period. I asked my husband this, and he admitted he'd lied to his mother and told her that we had not been chaste when secretly courting (he's concocted a whole love story for her, bless him) and she accepted it readily enough, though she scolded him.

An easier sin to forgive than the truth.

I hated even writing that word, sin . As if what either of us has done could be called a sin when Andrew and I have done such things out of love. He with Henry and I with George.

It is becoming easier to write and say his name, though I am still incredibly heartbroken and angry.

I believe his sisters know, however, and he hinted as much. In truth it would explain much of their kind behavior towards me. They see me as someone who willingly sacrificed much to save their brother from possible ruination. Though he also saved me from the same.

Tell me of how you are, dear Cousin. I am saddened that you cannot come visit! Though I know for a fact your mama will not be able to refuse once we come to London in the later months. I will delight in showing you your darling second cousins, and I know we will have much fun if the Granvilles have anything to say about it.

Is London just abysmal during the summer? I imagine so. I also know you must miss dear Eloise. But Parliament will pick back up in a few months, and the Bridgertons will return. Have you heard from your friend, Mister Benedict Bridgerton? He seemed quite congenial, and you two appeared to have quite a rapport.

I know I ask you every letter, but I must still query as to yourself after your father's death? While he was not the most affable of men he was still your father.

Write to me soon, Pen. In the meantime I will read the fantastic tale of your last letter. It is not hard to imagine Prudence mistaking a steamed hunk of potato for Dover sole, and yet somehow I am still giggling so incredibly hard that the babies appear to be jostling in my stomach.

All My Affection,

Lady Marina Wetherby

Inhaling the midnight air of the Bridgertons' deserted garden, Penelope laid back against the trunk of the great tree that supported the swings, jostling slightly in the warm August wind. Even the little bit of air felt like an incredible reprieve to Penelope who already sweated under her nightgown. She'd removed her lady's maid cloak and set it aside in the grass, desperately trying to find a physical relief to the wet, sticky summer heat.

At least when she snuck into this garden she found a small, mental reprieve to the heaviness that pressed upon her mind. Her mother's anxiety about the arrival of the new Lord Featherington seeped into every cranny and crevice of the house until it crawled up her skin and burrowed inside. It exhausted her to be gripped by such fear. Several times, her mother's muttering about the possibility that the new baron could kick them out on the streets had made Penelope's stomach roll unpleasantly more than once. She began to seriously consider reviving Lady Whistledown earlier than planned. She'd plotted to wait until the excitement of the spring marriage mart but maybe she should begin again once autumn arrived and Parliament re-opened. They would surely need money to live and it did not appear that the new baron would be keen to provide for the Featherington women.

"What should I do?" she asked the night.

As usual, she received no answer except the caress of humid air upon her cheek, the smell of cut grass, and the susurrus of the tree branches. Sometimes, Penelope pretended that magical fae were answering her spoken queries when she was in a more creative mood. But on nights like tonight, she thought forlornly about how much she desired her friends in the garden with her. The warmth and advice they provided were unparalleled and several times, Penelope wondered how different last season would have turned out if she didn't have them to turn to.

A chill ran up her spine at the thought.

She layed in her bower a bit longer, flitting in and out of a doze that pleasantly distracted her. She thought of Marina's pregnancy and how she hoped to see her dear cousin and her babes in the coming months. Thoughts of the Granville's upcoming gathering in two weeks time, how she could see Genevieve and Charlotte again, talking over wine for so long their conversation would turn into a series of inebriated giggles and delightful nonsense. The image of Eloise and her laughing over everything and nothing over tea or on a walk through the marketplace. Even a hazy vision of Colin danced across her vision, returned from abroad, looking at her with a sense of warm friendship that confused her.

The dream of sitting at an easel once again, writing as Benedict sketched at her side, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal how his forearms flexed while he concentrated. How he steadily became covered in charcoal, graphite, or paint as the session progressed. How she found a part of herself envying the oil paint that graced one cheekbone as he grinned at her crookedly.

Penelope started, eyes opened wide and chest heaving as the lark sang and the coming of dawn pushed against the branches of her nighttime shelter. She stumbled to her feet, grabbing her cloak and wrapping it around herself. Hurrying home before Missus Varley awoke was of the utmost importance.

Yet as she dashed as fast as her short legs could carry her, out of the garden and across the square, the sky a midnight blue that lightened with each passing second, all she could see was a pair of ocean blue-green eyes and a delightful, wayward smile.

Ariadne blinked.

She could not help the action as she stared up at what was unmistakably a god looming over her. Even on Naxos, an island as steeped in the very essence of the gods' and their magic as it was, Ariadne wasn't sure why she was suddenly graced with the presence of one on the very beach she'd been stranded on.

Stranded to die.

The waves that had previously crashed upon the rocks steadied and stilled as if sensing that something beyond them was in their presence. Or maybe Poiseidon was on friendly enough terms with this god that he'd abated his beating of the long shore. Ariadne was unsure.

She blinked again and the man smiled at her, a tad crooked, the corners of his blue-green eyes crinkling pleasantly. That smell again, of summer vines and freshly poured wine overwhelmed her. At the back of her mind she knew who this must be, yet she still felt compelled to ask,

"Who are you?"

His smile only widened.

"Technically another whelp of Zeus," he said breezily. "But, truly, I see the maenads of Nysa as my mothers all."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but her dry mouth failed her, her throat constricting as she coughed. The man, the god, took her in his arms, maneuvering his body so she now sat cradled between his knees, back resting upon his chest. He conjured a silver goblet and held it gently to her lips. She shouldn't trust him, not when her trust in men had been so thoroughly shattered upon the jagged rocks of this very island mere days before. But she found her mouth parting and sweet wine flowed upon her tongue, bursting with a medley of sweet grapes, tart oranges and sumptuous figs. Almost too soon, she felt satiated and a small drop of wine slid along her chin. The god took his thumb, wiping it slowly up the path the wine left along her chin until it reached her full bottom lip. He let the pad of his thumb run across the plump skin, tugging slightly before settling his hand around her waist.

"Carefully, Ariadne of Crete. I do not want my wife to become ill before our wedding."

Ariadne's eyes widened and she stilled in his arms, peering up at him through her thick lashes.

"W-wife?"

He nodded and though Ariadne thought she should protest, she also knew better than to speak out against a god. She'd seen the consequences first hand, both of a god's favor and their displeasure. Many times they were indistinguishable.

"I must repeat myself, sir, who are you? Better yet, who are you to me?"

Now it was the god's turn to blink and she finally noticed the wreath of vines upon his head, fresh with ripe, dark grapes. His eyes, as blue and clear as the sea that surrounded them, seemed to push and pull her in like the tide.

"I am Dionysus, my abandoned princess. And you shall be my wife, one I shall cherish always."

"But why?" she insisted, a fervor taking over her body; confusion, hope, and fresh heartbreak simmering underneath her skin.

He cocked his head before nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck.

"Because I have watched you. Your before, your now, and I know your after. I love you whole and I love you broken. Let me be yours so you may understand what it is like to be mine. You will understand how it is to be desired and coveted but, more importantly, never left behind."

August 12, 1813

Dear Nel,

I hope you do not mind my change in address for you. I figured I have now been calling you Nel within the body of my letters, I should go ahead and address you as such always, where appropriate. And after sharing your writing with me, I daresay it is most deserved.

I am honored that you shared such a heart rending piece of your re-telling with me. Henry has raved about it, though he had refused to give me details. I am overcome with its tenderness, so much so I do think I need to gather my thoughts upon it. I shall tell you of what I think in person, for soon we shall be reunited. Eloise is quite jealous that I may see you before she does, as she keeps proclaiming that it is she who is your very dearest friend. I hope I at least come in second now, though I know Colin is tough to beat.

But I shall keep my promise. Enclosed with my new watercolor of the butterflies in the garden of Aubrey Hall (of which the painted lady is still my muse), I have written a poem I composed once the paint was dry. Do not make too much fun of me, it cannot compare to your prose. Though, I daresay, it is a farsight better than Byron .

It is not a traditional poem, or the current fashion. So… Forgive me.

Seeing You Soon,

Benedict Bridgerton

I hear so often of wings of night

Yet I never hear discourse about

What's utterly right.

Iridescent summer wings.

A painted lady flutters by

And I think of impermanence.

Soon it will die

Or fly back from whence it came.

Yet all I can think upon

Is how I wish to fly

On those wings, the sun

On my back as I make my way

Home to what I miss most.

I miss the swings and a midnight breeze.

I miss ember fire and a flitting ghost.

A dear friend, a memory on butterfly wings.

Wait for me.

Summer is near its end.

So wait for me.

Somehow, Benedict did not find himself at his bachelor's lodgings alongside the coach he'd sent his valet to take care of. Instead, Benedict found himself riding Rapscallion into Grosvenor Square, the thick midnight air choking him in its sweltering embrace. Casting his gaze between Featherington House and Bridgerton House, he studied their appearances with newfound curiosity. Bridgerton House was just as grand, even in the off-season, well maintained during the day by a skeleton staff. Featherington House appeared, from the outside, the same as before. Yet there was only one window he sought, dark at this hour, yet he kept expecting to see a vase full of flowers or a flash of ember curls.

With a sigh and a rustling in his heart, Benedict decided to seek solace and reprieve before settling into his bachelor's lodging. He led Rapscallion to the garden gate and, tying up his trusty steed, he pushed the well-oiled iron hinges open so no whining squeak was made. Striding into the dark garden, it wasn't long until the familiar tree was in sight, the swings still with the lack of breeze. Yet Benedict halted in surprise as his eyes adjusted to see the shadowy figure settled at the base of the tree's trunk.

Benedict crept closer, fists clenched at his sides just in case he had to swing them. Once he was two feet away though, he realized with a strange curl of delight in his belly who the slumbering figure was.

There in only a nightgown, her lady's maid cloak nestled at her feet, was Penelope. She breathed softly, deeply, her head lolled to one side a tad uncomfortably. He crouched down and couldn't help but notice the rise and fall of her chest, the swell of her breasts underneath the thin, white cotton–

No.

He had to stop there.

Benedict pinched himself, cursing the flimsy fabric women called nightgowns. He should be furious. What was Penelope thinking, sleeping out here alone? Someone, anyone, could take advantage of her if she were discovered. It'd be a scandal that she herself would have no choice but to write about.

But, he couldn't explain the giddiness that hummed through the blood rushing in his veins. The delight that crackled and zipped up his spine as he bent over her, gently squeezing her upper arm.

"Nel," he whispered. "Nel, wake up."

She mumbled a bit, nonsensical, wrinkling her nose. Her hair had been plaited to the side, though it was now thoroughly mussed by the tree bark that acted as her pillow. He shook her carefully.

"Nel, my dear friend, wake up."

Some awareness seemed to return to her, causing her to blink and arch her back in a stretch that pressed her breasts to his chest. Benedict froze, his lungs seizing in his chest. It didn't last long though as Penelope began to blink weary sky blue eyes up at him.

"Oh," she said, matter-of-factly. "I must be dreaming again."

Benedict couldn't help the chuckle that burst from his chest like champagne from an uncorked bottle.

"Flattering, to be sure. But I am no dream."

She blinked.

"Fae, then? Have I spent so many nights under this tree I have finally tempted fate?"

Benedict's chuckle became choking laughter, full and robust and oh so good .

"No, Nel. I promise I am no fae here to spirit you away."

Penelope blinked again, this time some clarity returning to her bleary eyes. Soon, recognition took over as he watched her raise her pointer finger and poke him hard in the cheek.

"Ow!"

"Oh my good God in Heaven," Penelope exclaimed, scrambling to sit up but wincing as she did so. "Benedict!"

He tweaked her nose affectionately, settling down to sit beside her. After a brief moment's hesitation, he nudged her forward with his leg until he could squeeze in behind her. He settled her between his knees, pressing her back to his chest. For some reason he couldn't explain, he felt she was safest there and he wanted to ensure that she always was safe .

"What are you doing here, Benedict?"

"I came back just in time to escort you to the Granvilles' party," he explained, pressing her shoulder gently until she relaxed into his hold. "And I told you, Rapscallion missed you."

"As I have missed him," she giggled before settling back. He could tell by the ease in her frame that comfort was overtaking her and he felt a swell of pride that she felt that way with him. "Are you staying here?"

"No, not until my family arrives a fortnight from now. Until then, I will sleep at my bachelor's lodgings. I just…" he hesitated for only a moment. "Needed some solace. I missed this place."

Penelope hummed in understanding and, as she shifted beneath him, the familiar smell of ginger and spices along with the sharp tang of ink nearly overwhelmed him. Strands of autumn fire tickled his nose.

"I waited," Penelope murmured.

He felt the pulse in his neck speed up, pounding more ferociously than any soldier's drum.

"Thank you."

August 20, 1813

Nel,

Hopefully this missive reaches you unopened and unscathed. Now that I'm at my bachelor's lodgings I realized we cannot use your flower signals as usual. This may have to do. Call me Ledger in these private missives, it was my maternal grandfather's surname.

Be ready three nights from now at your back gate at ten o'clock at night. Myself and Rapscallion shall escort you to our mutual friend's gathering.

I am happy to be home.

B. Ledger

Benedict had only been slightly jealous when he picked up Penelope for the Granville's party. Truly. Only a little. Yes, it had been him she'd talked to all night seventy-two hours before, catching up, before carrying her sleepily back to her abode. He was not upset that, upon picking her up three nights later for the Granville's party, she greeted Rapscallion with the enthusiasm one might usually reserve for royalty.

No. He had not been envious at all.

"Oh, Rapscallion! I have been ever so lonely without you," Penelope cooed, petting the gentle beast's snout with one gloved hand while holding her other palm flat out, a great lump of sugar glistening atop it. It was quickly snatched up by Rapscallion's seeking teeth and the gelding snuffled, gently nuzzling his lips upon Penelope's outstretched hand.

"The grumpy beast gets a more enthusiastic welcome than I did," Benedict grumbled, though he betrayed himself when his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Rapscallion heard him, for the horse turned and shot his master such a glare that Benedict almost stepped back.

Almost.

Penelope winked at Benedict before pulling her hood over her head. Benedict stepped forward, helping to tuck her tell-tale Featherington red curls away before assisting with her mount. Together they trotted off in the night, heading towards what was sure to be an interesting gathering of friends.

Henry Granville greeted the arrival of Benedict Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington maybe a tad too enthusiastically. But he was a known eccentric and an artist to boot, so no one truly noticed. Except his lovely wife and their dear friend Genevieve, of course, but he knew they were just as excited and intrigued as he was.

After the end of the spring season and over the course of many letters in the summer months, the Granvilles had heartily strengthened their new friendships with Benedict and Penelope. Furthermore, they could not help but be incredibly invested in the outcome of the complete maelstrom of feelings between the pair.

Though the two were, predictably, completely blind to their own burgeoning emotions.

"What was it Shakespeare said, my dearest?" Henry asked Lucy, bending down to whisper in his wife's ear as Genevieve took her turn greeting their young friends. Benedict's eyes watched the modiste like a hawk as the older woman embraced Penelope a little longer than propriety allowed. "'The course of true love never did run smooth?'"

Lucy's laugh, croaky and magpie-like, floated into his ears and he took joy in the sound. While he could never love his wife the way he loved Wetherby, he adored her in every other way that mattered. He knew, in the end, they would lay side by side in the earth and he found himself quite content at the thought.

"It was as you were saying over the summer, Henry. They will be quite blind until the very last moment."

"Though that will not stop Gen from trying to provoke Benedict's jealousy."

"She's currently succeeding, dear husband. You may want to go save her or else I fear Benedict's glare may burn a hole through her head."

Taking his cue, Henry swept in to wrap an arm around both Benedict's and Penelope's shoulders while Lucy took Genevieve's arm, kissing her lover's cheek.

"Come, you two. We have missed you and I have wine, tobacco and canvases abound for us to be entertained by!"

"What, no dazzling conversation from our host?" Penelope asked, eyes sparkling and Henry laughed at her cheek.

Henry spied a proud smile bloom on Benedict's face, one he would catalog for later. Oh, Henry had cataloged many expressions and tender intricacies Benedict had unknowingly expressed towards the young redhead in his presence. One such memorable instance was currently sketched out on a large canvas, halfway through its first coat of oil paint. He planned to use the mental list he was compiling against Benedict once the young but loveable fool came crawling to his doorstep, unsure what to do about his feelings.

But until then…

"Why, my dear Penelope, you wound me! I save nothing but the best and most scandalous conversation for your ears alone!"

Penelope's bright laughter filled the hall as they made their way to his room for art and Henry felt Benedict melt just a little beside him.

Lord, this man was an utter fool for her.

Hours passed in this manner. Henry has set up Benedict and Penelope at their usual easels. This time, however, Henry took up a space next to Benedict while Lucy and Genevieve shared one on Penelope's other side. While Lucy did not draw or paint herself, she delighted in sitting with Genevieve while her lover practiced her designs. Henry felt a sudden pang of longing for Andrew. It was a constant, steady pain in his chest whenever they were separated, but Henry understood his lover had to support his pregnant wife. It was the only true course to build a solid friendship that their marriage could subsist on. It had been essential for him and Lucy as well. During the entirety of their honeymoon, he'd done his utmost to learn about Lucy's every want and need as a person, to truly become a friend she could trust and rely upon for the rest of her days. Lavender marriages had to be built on solid foundations of trust and care or else it would crumble in the most devastating of manners.

Henry observed from the corner of his eye as Benedict and Penelope chatted. Benedict drew the models Henry had configured with steady hands, not betraying the earlier flush that had graced his cheeks when they'd walked into the room. Purposefully, Henry had set up the models with the male crouched before the female, who sat on a stool, with the dark-haired man between her knees, cradling her cheeks in his palms. Lucy called him wicked for resurrecting the exact position he'd sketched Benedict and Penelope in all those months ago, but he couldn't help himself. It had stuck with him, Benedict genuflecting before her cheeks were gingerly held in his grasp.

Besides, someone had to orchestrate events to push things along.

Penelope had not appeared to notice, sitting quickly, taking in the scene and writing with such fervor that Henry was impressed. She'd come a long way from the hesitant little bird who'd timidly entered his house one spring night.

"Are you constructing another scene between Dionysus and Ariadne, Nel?" Benedict asked, and Henry turned his head to listen.

"Oh, yes, dear Penelope. Tell us more. The snippets you sent me were full of such tension, I could feel it seeping off the page," Genevieve purred. Henry and Lucy looked at each other behind everyone else's heads and rolled their eyes.

Genevieve was having entirely too much fun poking the proverbial bear.

A tick in Benedict's jaw appeared and Henry decided to take pity on him.

"Penelope, I am curious as well. You really could have a future in novels if you ever wish to pursue it."

Penelope blushed but beamed at him. Unexpectedly, Benedict turned to glare at Henry with a flare of ferocity but seemed to catch himself in the act, shaking his head almost apologetically. Henry smirked as Benedict turned back to give the young woman his full attention.

"Yes, Nel. Truly, you are incredibly talented."

"I shall admit that I am in possession of such talent and worthy of such praise when you do, Benedict! Did he send you his beautiful watercolors of butterflies this summer, Henry? They're magnificent."

A torrid blush took over Benedict's cheeks and spread to the tips of his ears in a way that filled Henry with mischievous delight.

"He sent me many sketches, most of them of his summer garden and then a few practicing facial expressions with his siblings as the subject. But not the butterflies, no."

Penelope turned to Benedict then, jostling his knee playfully.

"Benedict! You must share your accomplishments as well as your practice. Your watercolors were perfection. I look at them near constantly, I have put them only in my favorite places throughout my room."

Whatever embarrassment Benedict had thawed like snow in spring. His shoulders set back, his body relaxed and he practically preened at the compliment.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again, Henry turned back to his canvas, carefully turned so his friends could not see it. It was of Benedict and Penelope as they were in that moment, soaking in each other's presence as if they fed off each other's energy. It was a lovely, symbiotic relationship. If only they would see it that way as well.

"I swear to all that is holy and unholy, those two beloved nitwits are going to be old and gray before they realize how utterly, stupidly in love they are," Genevieve sighed over what must be her seventh glass of wine.

The last of the guests departed around three o'clock in the morning, Benedict and Penelope among them. Penelope had waved goodbye with the brightest smile, swaying from side to side as Benedict fastened her cloak around her shoulders. The second Bridgerton son took great care to tuck her wild curls away before saying his own goodbyes, an arm wrapped securely around his young friend's waist as he led her out the door.

It had been saccharine in the extreme, but Henry found he didn't mind so much.

"You must remember, Gen, their obstacles," Lucy chided gently, carefully pushing a glass of water towards Genevieve's hold. "Penelope has been in love with his younger brother for most of her life. The dream of first love is not easy to shake. On top of that, her family actively neglects her, so any form of attention she receives, she may question its motives."

"That does not explain the obtuseness of Benedict Bridgerton," Genevieve shot back. "He has led an inordinately charmed life. Second son who was allowed to stay out of the army and the church, large and almost sickeningly loving family and incredibly rich. What is his issue?"

"You forget," Henry said softly, taking a delicate sip of his port. "He is a second son who has shouldered more than most. His eldest brother does not make it easy on him. I believe Benedict has lived a life entirely for his family up to this point. He does not know who he is outside of his family. While an entirely privileged problem to have, to him it is painfully real."

Genevieve scrunched up her nose in distaste. Sentimentality was not her pleasure or her strong suit.

"Are you telling me that Benedict will not realize his love for Penelope until he… what, goes on some sort of romantic mission to find himself?"

Henry snorted into his port, the alcohol stinging and burning its way up his nasal passages. He coughed and spluttered, Lucy kindly patting his back before also pushing water into his line of sight. Henry took a couple of sips of the cooling liquid before answering,

"I think Benedict will come to understand his love for her soon," he said somberly. "But I do not believe he will accept it until he can embrace the man he needs to be."

There was a silence filled only by tentative sips of water and the tapping of fingers.

"Well, bollocks," Genevieve said bluntly, and Henry and Lucy burst into laughter.

August 22, 1813

Ledger,

I am simply writing to let you know that I am somehow still soused. I blame you entirely for the absolute torture I endured during the vicar's sermon today. A sermon that went on for three hours.

I am certain God turned his face away to let me suffer such misery. And I blame you, you absolute cad.

Angrily,

Nel

August 23, 1813

Nel,

I do so humbly apologize. If I could, I would prostrate before you to beg your forgiveness. However, I am enjoying bed far too much.

To make it up to you, I shall bring Rapscallion and myself around two nights from now for a midnight ride. The clear, midnight air should relieve both your hangover and your boredom.

Cheekily,

Ledger

August 23, 1813

Ledger,

Clear air in London? Now I know you must be mad.

Until that time, maybe we may meet in the garden every other night? Until dear El can join us?

More Soberly,

Nel

August 24, 1813

Nel,

My apologies. The fog and chimney smoke of our fair city shall undoubtedly distract you from your worries!

I shall meet you tonight. I have no problem securing ample time with you to make El jealous when she returns. They plan to be back in town the third of September and I have no doubt she will attempt to take every bit of your attention.

Seeing You Soon,

Ledger

The two weeks before the return of the entire Bridgerton family flew by for Penelope. It was rejuvenating in the extreme, the bits of freedom she stole right under her mother's nose with Benedict by her side. Midnight rides through St James and Regent's Park, nightly talks in the garden, and frequent dinners and soirees with the Granvilles. It was just the escape she needed; her worries chased away instead of pursuing her and the plaguing anxiety of her tired mind, hiding during the waking hours spent with Benedict.

She'd not yet told Benedict of her fears surrounding the supposedly impending arrival of the new Baron Featherington. She didn't want to pop that lovely bubble of effervescent glee his arrival to London had given her with such seriousness. She figured she could hold it inside until a little after Eloise arrived, then she would unburden herself. And, if honest with herself, she'd always found it impossible not to keep some sort of secret. Isolation in childhood had carved a countenance that was all too used to guarding some things for herself, even the burdens that she should share. It was a lonely choice, that was certain, and made her feel a keen sense of despair.

For now she shoved it away, basking in her friend's attention. She could forget for just a little while.

It was so lovely and distracting, like being in another world, that when she received another letter from Colin, while her heart swelled with warmth, she actually waited a whole day to to pen her reply. Colin's constant stream of updates on his travels was glorious and wonderful, transporting her to the same places he was traveling. He was a talented writer in his own right, to be sure. Maybe one day she'd have the courage to tell him so.

But Benedict was here and spending his hours with her. He could easily be spending it with fellow bachelors at White's or the coffeehouses and places of disrepute in Covent Garden. Instead, he continued to shower her with his time and attention, so much so, it nearly knocked her off her feet with bewilderment. She almost questioned him on it many times but held back. Selfishly, she did not dare disrupt his lapse in sanity or mental acuity. His attentiveness acted as nourishment, watering her drying roots so she could spring to life and flower once more.

A wallflower she was, but that did not mean she did not need watering and pruning now and then.

Penelope convinced herself that Eloise's arrival would harken a steady but gentle pulling away from Benedict. If his sister and the rest of his family were there, he could distract himself with them or be more free to see fellow gentlemen. Or even to see a woman.

Genevieve had pulled Penelope aside at the Granvilles' first artist gathering to inform her of the dissolution of the affair between the modiste and Benedict. Penelope had blinked, wondering why Genevieve was telling her with such seriousness. The older woman did not appear upset, but Penelope had only recently been acquainted with the various forms heartbreak could take.

"Are you alright, Gen?" she'd asked, stepping forward to place a comforting hand upon Genevieve's shoulder.

The modiste's eyes sparkled in the low light, a mischievous grin curving her lips upward, the beauty mark above her lip inviting. Without any warning, Genevieve embraced her warmly, pressing their bodies together closely. Penelope wrapped her arms instinctively around Genevieve, just as she would do with Eloise, and her friend was tall enough to set her chin upon Penelope's head.

"I am quite well, Penelope. Benedict and I shall be cordial, but I must focus on my business. I have no time for anyone besides Lucy, as she understands my need to bury myself in my designs." Penelope felt Genevieve kiss the top of her head softly, the warm pressure a reassurance. "Besides, Benedict has other options to explore, whether he knows that or not."

Penelope's lips parted but before she could even think of the question trying to form in her brain, a strangled voice came from behind her.

"What is going on here, then?"

Genevieve only extracted herself from Penelope's arms enough to allow the young woman to turn around, so when Penelope looked into Benedict's face, she saw something she couldn't name. The dark, hot glare aimed directly at a smirking Genevieve made a heat spool in her belly but also left her unsure.

"O-oh," Penelope stuttered. Consumed by guilt for being privy to how his relationship with Genevieve dissolved, she tried to think how to smooth over the situation. Benedict must be upset that Genevieve had told her. Perhaps it embarrassed him?

But before Penelope could get any words out, he'd snatched her from the older woman's arms, leading her away while the clever modiste chuckled behind them.

"Benedict, what on earth–"

"Charlotte was looking for you, Nel. I know you are a young woman but do not go off by yourself–"

"I am more than capable!"

"Clearly not, as you were about to be sedu–"

He stopped, frozen in the middle of the hallway. They were strangely alone, Genevieve back in the deserted music room while the rest of the guests were sketching models or in the drawing room. The grip of his fingers creased the sleeves of her dress, pressing into her soft flesh. She raised a tentative hand to stroke his bicep in consolation, believing him to be more upset by Genevieve's dismissal of him than he'd previously let on.

"What?" Penelope asked, confused.

Benedict closed his eyes, breathing in and out, his nostrils flaring.

"I apologize for my behavior," Benedict said, calmly. Almost too calmly. "I simply was worried…"

"Are you embarrassed that she told me that she ended your affair?" Penelope asked tentatively.

Benedict's cheeks flushed and Penelope supposed she guessed right. It was often men rejecting women after all, and no matter what, the rejection must have bruised his ego. Even if the affair had been casual in nature.

"I–"

"It is alright, Benedict. I swear I shall not tell anyone or tease you about it," Penelope promised, eager to soothe the tension in his shoulders. "Although, I do not appreciate being manhandled away. You are both my friends, I hope you can at least try to be civil."

Benedict gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing like a dumbstruck fish. After a moment, he shook his head, releasing her slowly before running a hand through his thick hair.

"I will be civil," he said tightly. "As long as no harm comes to you."

Penelope didn't know what to say after that.

As the days flew by after that party, Penelope pondered the incident between her two friends often. More than that, after Benedict's clear upset over the incident made her wonder whether he would eventually use his time to seek out another lover or try to avoid Genevieve entirely. After all, she clothed all the young ladies of the ton and his mother and sisters were some of her most loyal clients. So with the knowledge that Benedict no longer had Genevieve to turn to for any sexual exploits, she'd honestly expected him to become scarce upon his family's arrival to Bridgerton House.

Yet when the Bridgerton brood finally arrived back in London, Benedict remained. Eloise and Penelope embraced over tea when Bridgerton House had been opened back up, teeming with servants and a flurry of activity. During that very tea time, the second Bridgerton son relayed how he'd moved half of his belongings back to Bridgerton House, planning to split his time between his two residences. He laughed and sketched as Eloise talked a mile a minute, clasping Penelope's hand in her own on the sofa as she recounted every last detail of summer.

Benedict stayed as the days of September continued, still meeting them for midnight rendezvous in the garden and escorting Penelope to the Granvilles' artist meetings. He even accompanied them both at tea time and on public promenades. As autumn crept up on England, the ton slowly filtered back into London. Though Penelope still wore mourning colors, her mother had become incredibly relaxed when it came to Penelope's whereabouts. It both gladdened and depressed her, as it only proved that her mother saw her as invisible as the rest of society did.

While Parliament had a late start that year, not until November, social life began to pick up as the city air chilled.

Unexpectedly, September became a month filled with many joys, no less the missive that announced the birth of Marina's babies.

"El! Marina had twins!" Penelope exclaimed excitedly over tea in the Bridgerton drawing room, barely able to eat her favorite eclair in her excitement.

Eloise's nose scrunched up in what Penelope thought was distaste.

"Two at once? Bless her, that will be difficult," Eloise shivered. "I hope to avoid such circumstances. I promise you, if it was men who had to give birth then human civilization would not have survived to this point."

"El," Benedict admonished gently. He was in his favored position on the sofa across from them, languid and stretched out like a cat with his sketchbook in hand.

Eloise opened her mouth to retort before she froze, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. Penelope realized Eloise must have seen some disappointment on her face for she quickly said,

"Oh, I am sorry Pen. Forgive me. You know… how I am." Eloise massaged her temples before clearing her throat. "I am happy that Marina successfully gave birth. If she is happy and you are happy, then I shall be glad for you both."

Penelope beamed, knowing that this sort of acknowledgement was great progress for Eloise.

"What are the babies' names?" Benedict asked, his hand moving graphite across his page in steady strokes.

"Amanda and Oliver," Penelope said proudly. "Once Marina is fully recovered, they should be here back in London before Parliament begins. I cannot wait to meet them!"

"Do you like children, N–" Benedict paused, eyeing his mother and two younger siblings across the room. "Miss Penelope?"

"Penelope wants children," Eloise answered for her, and though at times this might annoy Penelope, she was glad that her friend actually remembered and acknowledged her confession from last season. "She wants to be a loving mother."

Unlike her own.

The words unspoken hung in the air between the three of them.

Penelope shrugged, picking up her tea though not taking a sip. The fragrant smell of black tea leaves and lemon soothed her, the warmth of the china between her fingers a comfort.

"I do not think it is likely to happen," she murmured. "But yes. I like children. I would like children."

Tapping his graphite upon his page, Benedict studied her and bit his lower lip. She grew flustered under his gaze, wondering what he could be thinking. Luckily, Eloise moved the conversation along effortlessly, as she had far too many things to discuss. Penelope was thankful for it, as it distracted her from her bout of hopelessness and Benedict's penetrating gaze.

Benedict didn't like many haut ton events, but he'd always held a deep appreciation for the theater. It was a shame that it was quite common for the haut ton to bloody talk through the whole production, as it was seen as a social event while the play was seen as sophisticated background noise. It, quite frankly, irritated Benedict to no end.

However, the Drury Lane Theatre's current production of Shakespeare's Macbeth seemed to be a rare exception. It helped that the three witches were apparently being played by the well-known young actresses known collectively as the 'Three L's.' No one knew of their relations to each other, only that they acted seamlessly on stage. Most supposed they were sisters but Benedict had a more intimate theory.

Benedict convinced his mother to bring the family to the play and invite Penelope so that Eloise and Francesca could have a companion. Even Hyacinth had been allowed to come along and she nearly bounced on Anthony's arm as he escorted her to their seats. Benedict took some pleasure in seeing a rare grin light his brother's face. While Daphne was the sister the viscount was closest to, arguably Hyacinth was dearest to him. He was more her father than anything else, a fact that was heartbreaking and endearing all at once.

Violet, Hyacinth, Gregory, and Anthony sat in the front row of their family box while Benedict, Francesca, Penelope, and Eloise sat behind them. Benedict was slightly irritated that Eloise and Francesca had Penelope sandwiched between them, but he shoved the feeling down. It would be improper for an unmarried woman that he wasn't courting to sit beside him at such a public event, despite the presence of his entire family. He knew that.

So why was there something hot and irritable prickling across his skin, from his lower back, up his arms and to the nape of his neck?

Benedict's attention was divided during the performance. His eyes darted between the drama onstage and the girls beside him as they watched and whispered to each other, sharing their observations and takeaways from the play. Even at the most entrancing bits, such as the witches scenes or Lady Macbeth's monologues, Benedict couldn't wholly focus. He kept peering at Penelope and Eloise, wanting to lean around Francesca to join in the conversation. With creeping embarrassment, he realized he was becoming the very thing he hated; someone desperate to talk during a play. Though, in his defense, he wanted to talk about the play with his friend. She looked quite lovely that night, her dress a midnight blue velvet overlaid by a floating wisp of black gauze. It was certainly not the style the Featheringtons normally wore, but as Lady Featherington was determined to push forward the image that they were still in mourning, it shouldn't have been so surprising. Her hair that reminded him of the changing autumn leaves outside was coiled delicately at the nape of her neck, the curls at the front allowed to escape and frame her face.

"Brother."

The amused whisper snapped him out of his thoughts and he turned to see young Francesca grinning at him. She poked his side and tilted her head and the smell of her floral scented hair oils wafted towards his nose. He frowned. Wasn't she still too young to wear perfumes and the like?

"Brother, if you are not careful some will think you are jealous of your own sisters," she teased, playfully poking his thigh again.

He scoffed.

"I have no reason to be jealous of you or Eloise."

Within the darkness of the space, only Benedict could make out his little sister's sly smile. Truly, many underestimated Francesca, including himself. She noticed much, some would say too much. Like Penelope, in fact. Quiet, unassuming, but brutally shrewd when need be.

She raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Methinks thou doth protest too much."

"Wrong play, Frannie."

"Do not be so offended, Ben. Or you shall start to resemble Anthony."

Benedict audibly gasped at the perceived insult, causing his entire family and Penelope to turn and peer at him curiously. He knew by the hot flush that consumed his entire body that he was turning scarlet.

"T-the, uh, witches startled me," Benedict said lamely.

He resisted the urge to kick his sister's ankle as Francesca snickered while everyone else rolled their eyes or tutted. Penelope winked at him and Benedict couldn't tell if the audible rush in his ears was a sound effect from the stage or blood whirring through his veins.

It was a bitingly frigid winter.

When Parliament started up in late November, an incredibly terrible chill had already settled into every nook, cranny, and crevice of London. Along with the ice patches and snow flurries, a barrage of complaints about the winter season was all anyone could talk about.

But Penelope refused to pay the freezing temperatures any mind, at least not while Christmas festivities were held and she held one of Marina's twins in her arms.

Marina had been right in assuming that Lady Featherington would be unable to deny Penelope the right to visit her cousin in London once she'd arrived. Especially since, later in the month, Lord Wetherby and the new Lady Wetherby were holding a lavish, exclusive Christmas party that the Featheringtons were invited to. It would do Portia no good to snub the couple now, so she begrudgingly allowed Penelope to go visit her cousin for afternoon tea one December day.

Marina kindly sent for a carriage to pick up her cousin and upon Penelope's arrival she not only received a fierce, warm embrace but a delightful surprise.

"Benedict?" Penelope called excitedly as she and Marina entered the drawing room, the marble fireplace already lit with a roaring fire. Benedict chuckled and rose to his feet along with Lord Andrew Wetherby and Henry Granville. They barely caught themselves as they drifted towards each other, only remembering to bow and curtsy since others of higher rank were present. They both stifled a laugh before Benedict tweaked her cold, pink nose.

"I see you fought the elements to get here," he teased and she batted his hand away playfully before smoothing out the length of her black woolen gown.

"I have not yet decided whether I favor the idea of freezing to death this winter versus melting last summer," she replied, looking around Benedict's tall frame to wave at Lord Wetherby and Henry. "Good day, my lord. Henry."

Lord Wetherby's smile was wide and welcoming, and Penelope had to admit he cut out a fine figure in his blood red waistcoat and black velvet jacket.

"Call me Andrew, fair cousin. We are family now, after all."

"Do not let Mama hear you say that," Penelope warned good-naturedly and Marina giggled beside her, pulling her cousin into a one-armed embrace. "Or she'll take every advantage of your familial kindness."

Andrew shrugged while Henry shot his lover a congenial look.

"Let her try. I have much experience with terrifying, society mamas."

"Husband, I hope you're not lumping in your good mother with the likes of them!" Marina jested and there was a friendly twinkle in her eye that made Penelope's chest swell with joy.

Andrew placed a finger to his lips, shushing his wife and winking.

The group laughed heartily and Penelope suddenly realized she'd actually enjoyed laughter much more frequently these past few months than she had in a very long time. If ever.

Marina led Penelope to the other side of the room where two cots were waiting. From behind, she heard a short shuffle and Henry said,

"Come, Benedict. Converse with us first. Let your dear lady friend reunite with her cousin. I daresay you see Penelope more than her own family!"

Penelope flushed at the thought, but any embarrassment or questions left her head at once when she spotted the two little babies snoozing away. At their current age, they were nearly identical with brown skin that matched Marina's and curly tufts of black hair sitting upon their heads. The only discernible difference was that one had a small birthmark on their little right hand, a bright pink starburst that kissed the base of her tiny fingers.

"Funny enough, George had a similar birthmark on his thigh," Marina mused quietly as she scooped up the child and handed her to Penelope. "This is Amanda. The other is Oliver."

Penelope felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest, both from the unparalleled delight of holding Amanda in her arms and the guilt that ate away at her insides. She and her mother still had not told Marina what had come of Sir George. They had agreed it would be after the birth, but exactly when did one break the news that the lover who'd been thought an honorless rogue had actually died?

That he had loved her. Had wanted his child. Well, children.

Penelope didn't know.

"Marina, they are beautiful," Penelope breathed as she sat on the sage green settee next to Marina, each woman holding a tiny baby. "I do not believe I have beheld more perfect babes."

"I would hope so," Marina said, adjusting Oliver so his head was cradled against her breast. "They are my babies after all, and I will venture to say I am your favorite family member."

"You would be correct!"

They spent time catching up and laughing about the antics of Penelope's sisters and discussing Marina's new duties as Lady Wetherby. The Christmas party coming up would be Marina's first real test. Penelope knew her cousin would be anxious, but Marina also possessed the enviable ability to bury her fears and tackle a challenge. As they settled with tea, still holding a baby each and the fire warming Penelope among the spring green and cream colored walls, she paused in the sip of her tea when Marina asked,

"Have you heard from Mister Bridgerton?"

"I hear from him often. Especially since he is right here," Penelope smiled and took a glance at Benedict. His back was to her as he was deep in conversation with Henry and Andrew. But even his broad back was a strange comfort when they were in the same proximity.

Marina raised a delicate, thin eyebrow as she took a sip of her own black tea.

"Ah. I meant Mister Colin Bridgerton. I am quite aware of your near daily walkabouts and midnight adventures with Mister Benedict Bridgerton."

Penelope set her tea down on the low wooden table, fidgeting slightly until she felt Amanda squirm. She forced herself to freeze not wanting to disturb the little girl. She had a feeling Marina would not thank her for it.

"O-oh," Penelope felt the very real need to suddenly fan herself. The fire was suddenly too hot, especially when coupled with her woolen dress. "Well, we have been exchanging letters while he is on his Grand Tour. I believe he is still exploring the Ottoman Empire at the moment."

Marina hummed thoughtfully, nodding to herself before slowly, gingerly turning her body towards Penelope's own. She stopped once their knees were touching, allowing Marina to lean forward conspiratorially. She was reminded of the many nights they would whisper and giggle together over slices of cake in the candlelight of her cousin's room. It was a vision that Penelope was happy to see replicated even with the addition of the tiny babies.

"All well and good to live through his thrilling travels, no doubt." A sly grin slipped onto Marina's face and Penelope thought it should annoy her. But, oddly, it made her think of when Eloise would do the same when confiding a secret. "But I daresay the adventures you get to experience in the here and now are more clear, more tangible to you."

Quite frankly, Penelope had absolutely no clue how to respond to her cousin's observation. Penelope was well aware that Marina, of all people, was no fool. The young woman could see and derive things with just as much cleverness and cunning as Penelope herself.

And, though it was quite possibly hypocritical, she desired to avoid something she wasn't even ready to quantify about herself being unearthed.

"What of you, Marina? How are you adjusting to married life?"

"Excellent tactical maneuver, dear Cousin."

"I did not–"

"My married life is nothing like I dreamed," Marina set down her cup of tea in order to adjust Oliver against her, running a single, slender finger down his tiny, button nose. "But it is real and I am luckier than most women. I have a very true, solid friendship that myself and Andrew worked hard to solidify over the course of my pregnancy. He truly does love the babes as if they were his own. While he obtains romantic love elsewhere, he has assured me that if I ever wanted to have a lover again, he would support me."

Marina chuckled when Penelope's mouth made a little 'oh' of surprise. It wasn't that Andrew had told Marina she could have a lover if she ever wished it that shocked her. Incredibly, it soothed something in Penelope's soul. Guilt, maybe? Pity? But more than that, Penelope was amazed that she'd been exposed to another form of companionship, of marriage.

For so long, she'd thought there were two options when it came to marriage: true love or abject misery. The greatest examples in her life had been the Bridgertons and her own family. It had been black and white, good and bad, war and peace.

But ever since last season, strokes of gray in every shade had erupted into her vision. Or maybe they were great swaths of paint across a canvas.

The Duke and Duchess of Hastings had not been a simple love story where the journey smoothly sailed from love at first sight to marriage. It had appeared that while passion was burned bright, love and trust could not exist in a fast-burning fire. Instead, it was something that had to grow from the ashes that remained.

Even her sister Philippa's love for Albion Finch was not so straightforward. Philippa had not looked at Albion twice until they had bonded over cheese of all things. Finding commonality that sustained their affection for each other, even after her father's rejection of his suit, was complicated and special.

Marina and George's love had been real and all-consuming. But war could tear anything asunder. Marina's marriage with Andrew Wetherby was built on a mutual need for safety, a haven against scandal that could wreck them both. But they had worked tirelessly to trust one another and it was for the first time that Penelope realized that even if she could not have a love match, she could be content in a marriage as kind as this one.

Penelope was snapped out of her musings by Marina's dry remark.

"Not that I think I will ever be able to take a lover again, mind you. Besides Andrew, and maybe even Henry, I do not know if I can trust a man with my heart ever again."

And then the guilt flooded back, swamping Penelope under its weight. She was a horrible cousin, a keeper of yet another terrible secret. When would ever be the right time to tell Marina that George had not ignored her letters but had died on the battlefield? It was a terrible itch, the untold truth, scratching at her insides and desperately trying to claw its way up her throat. Her chest constricted, her breaths grew shorter. God, she'd lose Marina's trust and friendship, wouldn't she?

"Penelope?"

The voice was deeper than Marina's, a boat in deep waters. When Penelope glanced up she met bright blue-green eyes.

Benedict watched Penelope and her cousin chat happily as they made their way across the room to settle with the babes. It gave him joy to see her actually relaxed, more herself than the pitiable youngest Featherington. She was always so diminished in the presence of her mother and sisters. Experiencing Penelope be on good terms with her cousin gave Benedict hope that his young friend actually had family she could rely on.

"I am truly happy that the two of you can finally sit and get to know one another," Henry heartily clapped Benedict's bicep as the men sat down. "You know, Andrew, Benedict here actually wrote to me to initiate a friendship between you two? I need more men of honor as friends, I believe he said!"

Benedict flushed red as he settled into the chair across from the sofa Henry and Andrew occupied.

"Man of honor, am I?" Andrew chortled, crossing his legs and shooting Benedict a charming smile. "I do not think anyone has ever described me as such. Deviant and hellion are what I have heard before."

Benedict joined in the soft laughter at the comment while he took a moment to study the young lord. He and Henry's thighs were pressed firmly together, their arms affectionately bumping into each other. Andrew was, undoubtedly, a handsome man. With his aquiline nose, thick coffee colored hair, and bright hazel eyes he was a sight to behold. He was, undoubtedly, a man who was made to be given life as an oil painting or a sculpture. At one point, Benedict had taken that as an outward sign of his rakishness; for how thoroughly he appeared to turn the heads and hearts of ladies in the ballrooms of Almack's left and right. Now that he understood the man beneath, his all-abiding love for Henry, his great affection for Marina and her – their – babies, Benedict knew that Lord Andrew Wetherby would make a steadfast, loyal friend.

"Yes, well," Benedict said, swallowing. "I learned last season that life is much richer with good friends. And I very much doubt Henry would be so devoted to anyone less than wonderful."

At that, Henry and Andrew looked to one another and Benedict had to fight the urge to bashfully turn away. Even as a child he'd turn away, shield his eyes, when his parents gazed at each other with such unguarded affection.

Lust he was familiar with. It was something he could handle.

But that sort of love? One so incredibly intimate? Something about it made him want to hide in the face of it.

"I am afraid, Benedict, that you may not have much to talk about with Andrew. He's not very interested in the arts like ourselves."

"What?" Benedict gaped at Andrew who shrugged nonchalantly.

"I am afraid that, with what little spare time I have, I prefer to devote myself to the natural sciences. Geology, in particular, fascinates me."

Benedict blinked.

"You enjoy rocks?"

Andrew snorted then.

"If you would like to put it that way."

"I love collecting rocks," Benedict gushed, leaning forward, his knees now on his elbows. He reached into the small pocket of his waistcoat to retrieve the one he'd been carrying around with him for weeks. "I know that most of what I collect in London is not always interesting. Flint, sandstone, limestone, slate and so forth. But I still find it fascinating. I collected this one on the paths of Hampstead Heath with Pe–" Benedict stopped there, glancing up nervously. While Henry was very aware of his close friendship with Penelope, so undoubtedly so was Andrew, it would be unwise to admit he'd been alone on a midnight ride with an unmarried woman.

Andrew's eyes lit up at the tiny bit of jagged flint in his hands. As Andrew began to engage him in conversation, he steadily ignored Henry's unflinching stare. The memory of Penelope laughing so boisterously at Rapscallion's attempts to nuzzle her face in the darkness of the heath shimmered in his mind's eye. Her joy had been so radiant, so incandescent, that Benedict had been prompted to pick up a stone to preserve the memory.

The conversation flowed for a while until finally Benedict gave into the urge to look over at Penelope and Marina. Penelope's back was to his, the head of a baby poking out from her arms. Though Marina's face appeared genial one minute, her brows furrowed in concern the next. Benedict watched as Penelope's shoulders hunched, that familiar movement when she curled in on herself, lost in something only she could hear and see. Benedict had now seen it many times and he knew how it could devastate her. Without a word of warning, he got up and strode to the other side of the room, not even registering Andrew's words, distant in his ear.

"I see now what you wrote to me of, Henry."

Before he realized, he was behind her and focused on the ember that curls tumbled over her back. This close, he caught the faint whiff of her ginger scent, mingling pleasantly with the woodsmoke the fire burning in the hearth gave off.

"Penelope?"

She started slightly before looking up to meet his gaze. Something in her appeared to settle, her body straightening once more as her breaths evened out.

"Are you alright?" he inquired softly.

"Yes," she said. "I am."

Benedict and Penelope parted together, graciously given the use of the Wetherby's carriage. It wasn't at all proper but Marina insisted it was late enough in the day and it would be silly to send them in two separate carriages.

"What about Rapscallion?" Penelope had asked Benedict.

"Lady Wetherby insisted in her missive to me to leave him home and she'd send for me," he said.

Penelope furrowed her brow in confusion before turning back to her cousin, Andrew, and Henry. The three seemed to be sharing some sort of wordless conversation before turning back to bid them goodbye.

The sun was getting lower on the strange, partly cloudy day. Dirty snow still tried to glimmer upon the ground as it turned into slush in the chilly air. All of London held its breath for another snowfall, one that would make the city glisten for all of an hour before it became thick with soot and grime. At least the snow that remained upon some balconies and rooftops still looked pretty like icing on a cake in a bakeshop.

Benedict and Penelope sat across each other in the carriage, a familiar scene all on its own. Yet, there was something different about this ride Penelope couldn't pinpoint and she always hated a mystery she couldn't solve. Especially when she peered out the window and realized they weren't heading towards Grosvenor Square at all.

"Benedict, I think our driver either received the wrong directions or is completely lost," she said, pointing a small finger at their surroundings. "We are passing through Covent Garden."

"Do not fret, Nel. I simply informed the driver of a little detour we must take," Benedict replied, pulling his navy woolen coat tighter around him. "But, Nel, are you quite alright? For a moment in the drawing room you seemed distressed."

Penelope sighed, sinking into her seat as the carriage rocked and swayed. She'd only really told Eloise about the information Sir Phillip had given them, at least in full. What, with Eloise charging in the day she'd been given the information and having a secret correspondence with the man, it seemed only right and logical that Eloise should know. But they had never truly sat down and explained things to Benedict. One, because Penelope knew Eloise, and if Penelope brought up Sir Phillip Crane in front of Benedict, Eloise would not be able to lie about her correspondence to save her life. Eloise was a terrible liar, the truth of things practically frothed at her mouth. Penelope had no intention of awakening Benedict's over protective nature as a brother, not unless it was necessary. Two, it had felt wrong to tell him when she hadn't been able to tell Marina. But now…

She could really use a friend's advice.

It was a strange relief that she realized it was becoming easier to share burdens.

"As you know, Marina seems settled in her new life. Happy even," Penelope adjusted her black woolen skirts, her gray fox muff abandoned beside her along with her gloves. "Back in the spring, after Marina married Andrew and departed to his country estate, a Sir Phillip Crane came to our doorstep. He informed us that his brother George, Marina's lover, died on the battlefield in Spain. Sir Phillip discovered Marina's letter in his late brother's effects and found out about the baby." Benedict's eyes grew as wide as saucers as she related the story, his whole body growing tense. "He came to propose marriage to Marina but by that time, she had married Andrew and departed. My mother insisted we not tell Marina about it until she'd given birth to avoid complications. But now… I have still not gathered the courage to tell her."

There was a silence for a long moment.

"Fuck," Benedict said before clapping his gloved hand over his mouth as if she were the local vicar, sitting their in judgement of him. She couldn't help the giggle that erupted from her at that as he stammered out apologies for his use of foul language.

It was ridiculous in an endearing way. Half the time she and Benedict were so honest with each other, so close together that one would think they were more than what they were. Then there were rare moments where they seemed to catch themselves, as if awaking from a fantasy world and realizing they were breaking the strict rules of polite society. Again.

"While vulgar, I believe that to be a very apt word for the situation," Penelope admitted, shaking her head.

"Nel, I am so sorry," Benedict breathed, scooting to the end of his bench so their knees knocked together. "That is such a burden to carry. But I do believe that, as of now, it would be better to tell her sooner rather than later."

"I know you are right, but I am so scared to lose her trust and friendship. She has become more of a sister to me than my own."

"All the better reason to tell her as soon as possible," Benedict cocked his head thoughtfully. "Would it help if I told Andrew and Henry ahead of time, and if I was there? That way, if Marina is upset she will have others to lean on until she can gather herself to be willing to forgive you if she is angry."

Penelope mulled this over for a moment before nodding. She couldn't speak, a lump had caught in her throat as guilt and gratitude swarmed her all at once. Luckily, Benedict was uncanny at understanding her, even when she said nothing at all.

The carriage came to a sudden halt, jolting Penelope forward so she nearly tumbled into Benedict's lap. She caught herself on his thighs and she could feel the muscles under his trousers before she hastily righted herself.

"Benedict, where are we?"

She traced the outline of the limestone building outside the window curiously, the sun stinging her eyes.

"My bachelor's lodgings."

Penelope felt her very lungs stutter and she knew Benedict must have sensed her nerves for he quickly added,

"We are not going inside. But we're close to Somerset House and we are about a twenty minute walk from your printers, shorter by hack," Benedict fumbled with the many layers of his multi-caped greatcoats at his side on the padded bench, as if searching for something. "I wanted you to know where they are. I know you too well, Nel. There may be a time you sneak off again for a column without me."

He glared at her and she waved that away.

"But what does this have to do with your lodgings, Benedict?"

He took a deep breath and, oh-so-carefully, took out a round, brass knob from his greatcoats. Benedict held out the brass knob for Penelope to inspect and she gasped softly to find that of all of the flowers molded into the brass, it was a southern marsh orchid peeking at her from the front of the knob.

"I live on the fourth floor of that building across the street. You shall know it is my lodging when you see this," he said softly. Penelope imagined there was a slight tremble to it. "And you shall know you are safe there."

"You want me to seek refuge at your lodgings if–"

"If you ever feel you are in danger, yes."

Penelope studied the brass in her hands, becoming warm under her touch.

"Why a flower?" She traced the edges of the conical blooms with her gloved finger, in and out, the shape a soothing pattern to follow.

"Well, I thought it would suit us both."

She raised a quizzical brow and he couldn't help but tweak her nose softly. The carriage stood still on the side street, the building to his bachelor's lodgings still in clear view as the sun began its early winter descent.

"Well, you have probably noticed my family has definitely adopted bees to be a sort of…symbol." Benedict scratched his head, as if the thought bewildered even him. "I cannot explain why, since it was one of those creatures that caused the death of our father. But it is a bizarre sort of means to cope. All the same, us Bridgertons and bees are attracted to flowers of all shapes and sizes."

"And what of me?" Penelope whispered and suddenly, she found Benedict had grasped her hands in his own, his gloves discarded. They both cradled the little brass doorknob, gleaming in the fading light of day that filtered through the carriage window.

Benedict was silent for a few moments and Penelope couldn't help but wonder if he felt a sudden weight held between them, or if he noticed the softness of her fingers just like she felt the rough calluses on his. They entered that eerie, liminal space again. A place in time in between reality and willful fantasy. If Penelope could give it another word, that middling space, she'd call it a sanctuary.

The tree's bower in the Bridgerton garden at dusk.

Astride Rapscallion's back at midnight.

When they were the only ones left in the room at a Granville party at two in the morning.

This.

"The whole summer, I kept painting butterflies," Benedict's words fell from his mouth like water making its natural descent downstream during a storm, rapid and untamed. "Butterflies upon butterflies but I loved the painted lady most of all. It hid amongst its spots, its camouflage. And it hid well but it was no less beautiful or vital. And I thought of…" he hesitated. "Well, I thought of you."

"Me?" Penelope asked incredulously.

He chuckled, widening his thighs before his knees were outside her own then scooting them together, trapping her thighs between his own. The air inside the small space was incredibly thick now, and Penelope could feel the ghost of Benedict's breath waft towards her forehead.

"You. You have fought to get where you are. You flit and fly and hide amongst polite society and you do it well. So well that I fear you, my dear friend, dear Nel, do not remember that you are just as important, pretty, and wonderful as the rest of them."

Penelope was too stunned to speak, her mouth as dry as a piece of parchment. She tried to swallow but, realizing she couldn't, made a strange strangled sound.

"Benedict, I do not know what to say."

"In the words of a dear friend of ours, I think 'yes,' and 'thank you' are what you seek."

Penelope snorted at that, having a fairly good idea of who said that.

Taking one hand away from cradling her own, Benedict reached up and brushed a stray curl from Penelope's face. The faint smell of his leather gloves that still lingered on his skin, even after he had removed them, invaded her nostrils along with the faint scent of petrichor and horse mane.

"Even creatures that fly get tired, Nel. They need rest and sustenance." His hand hovered in the space by her cheek before falling to her hand once again, looking down at the doorknob. His ocean blue eyes darted around the space between him and Penelope wasn't sure if he was resigned, hopeful, or something else entirely. "I want to put this on my door so that, whenever you may need it, you know you have a place to rest."

A strange heat pooled in Penelope's belly, one she could not really identify. Gratitude, maybe? Something with great intensity, something one could feel for a friend who proceeded to go above and beyond for her well-being? Eloise would do anything for her, of that Penelope was certain. But Benedict appeared to always be trying to make great strides for her comfort and safety.

It must be worry, she realized. She no longer had any sort of male protection, even though her father had not been very good at protecting anything or anyone. But that must be Benedict's reasoning. With the uncertainty on how the new Lord Featherington would treat her family, she was in a precarious position. Benedict must feel protective on her behalf since she had no male relative of any kind to do so for her.

So she brought the knob, along with his hands, to her stomach and gripped it tightly against her warmth. She nodded, unable to speak, hoping that the clasp of her hands and the tears in her eyes would communicate for her.

They sat like that until the sun set. Only once darkness had fallen did Benedict remember to bang on the carriage roof to start their journey home.

Benedict kept his promise. A few days later, he stood in the corner of the Wetherby drawing room along with Andrew as Penelope sat her cousin down and told her the truth.

Marina sobbed. She screamed. She lamented the time lost to her anger and bitterness.

But rather than backing away, she fell into the safe haven of Penelope's arms and Benedict knew, with a relieved look to Andrew, that all would be well.

Christmastime in London for the haut ton was always an interesting mix of piety, vanity, and debauchery. Families did their utmost to outperform each other with lavish parties or by donating more money to the church, as if that alone would propel them closer to God. While some heads of the household sent their wives and children back to the countryside for December and January, others stayed to participate in the gilded balls and dinner parties that probably boasted more than they should, considering the religious nature of the holiday.

But Benedict was oddly thankful this year for the propensity to show off, as it meant he could see more of his friends in one place. While Lady Featherington undoubtedly was still pushing forward the facade that her family was still deeply in mourning, she was shrewd enough to acknowledge the importance of maintaining connections. With the Finchs safely still in the country, it would seem Lady Featherington was less afraid of ruining Philippa's chances at a marriage to Mister Finch by showing up at parties.

There had been a deluge of invitations. Many were dull, such as the events thrown by the Cowpers, the Howes, and the Smythe-Smiths. But Lady Trowbridge and Lady Danbury could always be counted on for fun affairs. In fact, Lady Danbury's proved fruitful for Penelope, when the trio overheard the woman say to Violet how irritable the Queen had been without Lady Whistledown to poke and prod.

"Her Majesty both loathes and delights in being challenged," Lady Danbury admitted. "Though usually only if it ends with her gloating over her opponent's defeat."

Benedict had not liked that thought, and it seemed more ominous that Penelope and Eloise actually grinned over the comment.

So to Benedict and Eloise's delight, their friend appeared in the early evening at the Bridgerton Christmas Day house party. The house was filled to the brim with wreaths of evergreen. The grand staircase was wrapped in ivy, holly, laurel, rosemary and Christmas rose. On every corner of any available surface were bowls of sweet smelling oranges and apples, as well as bundles of cinnamon and other spices. Great red bows were tied to the arms of chairs and around every Bridgerton lady's neck. A great kissing bough, lush with greenery, hung from the ceiling in the great room. Even the Prussian tradition of a great spruce tree, decorated with tiny flaming candles was present, though carefully surrounded by servants with buckets of water in case the worst happened.

"Pen, thank goodness you are here," Eloise exclaimed, rushing over in her intricate gown, high-collared with a white lace that looked like snowflakes themselves, the rest an icy blue satin. "The children are finally abed and I have been fighting off all of my brothers to keep them from devouring the goose before you got here."

"Excuse me, dear sister, but I was helping defend it alongside you," Benedict chimed in, strolling behind his sister in a dark navy velvet jacket. His waistcoat was silver over his muslin shirt, also embroidered with snowflakes to match his sister's lace collar. He tugged a bit at his cravat as he approached Penelope, silver and now pinned so the end went out to the side. It was a more bohemian style and, oddly, he wanted Penelope to notice.

Penelope smoothed out the skirt of her dark dress, an olive green wool that had been overlaid by sheer black tulle that kept her in more appropriate mourning colors. She'd worn this dress repeatedly at parties and Benedict and Eloise knew, without having to ask, that her family's financial situation was in dire straits. Eloise had wondered aloud whether they could gift Penelope with a new wardrobe or if Penelope herself could use her own funds to do so but Benedict had sadly shook his head. Such grand gifts coming from Benedict would be a statement of intent he could not afford to make, and Eloise did not have nearly enough pin money to justify it.

"And if Nel used her own funds it would look suspicious to her family," Benedict had pointed out.

Eloise had crossed her arms in frustration, huffing and puffing in indignation.

"You mean her mother. That woman is a damn bloodhound when it comes to secrets and money."

Benedict thought it wise not to point out that so was Penelope. Penelope just happened to use that ability for different means.

Benedict was pulled back to the conversation when Penelope said,

"I suppose we should be grateful Colin is not here, then. For surely he would have snuck past you both and inhaled the great bird in one go."

They all laughed as Eloise linked her arm through Penelope's, leading them to the great feast prepared. Benedict tried to hide that his own laughter had been slightly forced. At the mention of Colin, something twisted inside his guts, like a gnarled root digging into the earth. Though he loved Colin beyond measure, a part of him still felt protective over Penelope for the hurt his brother had caused her at the end of last season. Oh Benedict knew that Colin had not meant to wound Penelope so deeply, that Colin would never intentionally break her heart. But it had been awful timing, what with the late Baron Featherington's murder and the financial ruin of her family.

Benedict instantly felt guilty but the root in his gut twisted again when Eloise asked, "Oh, yes, has he written you as well? He has written to all of us and has a habit of rambling. Where is he again?"

"Naples," Penelope said without thinking, and Benedict noticed the scarlet blush that painted her cheeks and the tips of her ears when she realized how quickly she'd answered.

The root dug further.

"You write to him often, then?" Benedict asked, casually plucking a mincemeat pie into his mouth to smother anything else he might say. Swiftly he grabbed a glass of brandy as he chewed, needing something to quench the strange, dark pressure in his chest.

"I am sure no more than the rest of you," Penelope filled a glass with steaming wassail, and she held it in her small hands as if cherishing the warmth. "I received one from him just yesterday and have still been trying to think of a reply."

"We have not received one," Eloise said airily, her fingers hovering over the array of delights before she picked up a sliced piece of goose with her bare fingers, the juice dripping inelegantly along her knuckles as she shoved it into her mouth.

Benedict rolled his eyes before looking around to make sure their mother had not seen such a display of poor manners. The woman was sharp that way and Benedict really did not intend for his ears to be boxed because he could not herd his sister to act more appropriately.

"Oh," Penelope said, her cupid's bow lips turning into a slight 'o' of surprise. She retrieved her drawstring reticule hanging from her wrist, a tired thing that was a dull cream color embroidered with pink flowers. Opening it, she reached in and plucked out a folded piece of paper and handed it for the siblings' perusal. "Here. You may be informed about his current escapade."

Eloise grasped it and carelessly unfolded the parchment while the weight in Benedict's chest increased. Oh it was an awful, twisted thing he couldn't identify as he attempted to lean over Eloise's shoulder to read, as if he was unaffected.

December 3, 1813

Dear Pen,

I am not sure how long it will take for this letter to reach you. I have always found that the post moves even more slowly during the holiday season, but I hope this reaches you safely and relatively unharmed.

I shall stay in Naples for the Christmas season I think. Better to stay in one place and simply explore during such a time. Especially with Napoleon still being a menace on the Continent, it is best to stay safe and lay low. I try not to tell Mother these sorts of things much as I do not want to frighten her. Unfortunately, as I request the funds more my travel from Anthony, nothing gets past him. He is the sibling that writes me back the most, though it is mostly about how idiotic I am being for putting myself in danger while simultaneously using the family coffers to do it.

He is lucky that I know he is mostly concerned for my well-being and that is why he acts like a fire-breathing dragon most of the time.

No one thinks that a usually sun-soaked place such as Naples gets cold in the winter, but it does! It's incredibly frigid and rainy, not so different from London. I daresay the Neopolitans are more in touch with Christmas than we are, though. In almost every house you can see a recreation of the Nativity scene, called the presepe. There's also a fun game they played called tambola, though I fear I cannot explain the particulars to you without courting scandal. I am most excited to experience zampognari on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, shepherd musicians who go out into the streets to play music.

I shall miss home and my family terribly though, I admit. Mother always makes the holiday special in our household and fighting with my siblings over the goose and the Christmas Pudding is an activity I hold close to my chest. Mostly because I usually win.

I heard that Lady Wetherby is now in London, is that so?

Wishing you many good tidings this season, Pen.

Warmest regards,

Colin Bridgerton

Benedict knocked down his brandy in one gulp.

There was finally something bubbling under his skin he could identify, hot and raging like a cauldron boiling.

Anger.

Of all the things Colin could have asked Penelope in the entirety of that letter, he asked whether her cousin, the woman who he'd been betrothed to and was now married to another, was in London? He asked if the woman that Penelope adored as a sister was in town?

Colin asked his young friend, who was secretly in love with him, if she would inquire after another woman?

Benedict thought for sure the vein pulsing in his forehead was about to burst.

"See? He rambles," Eloise shrugged, handing the letter back to Penelope so she could tuck it back into her reticule.

"I quite like the descriptions of the places he visits," Penelope defended kindly. "I am not as quick to respond to him though, as I was during the summer. Luckily the two of you keep me entertained."

She smiled then, that close-lipped smile that held all of her mystery, every last one of her secrets locked behind her pink lips. Benedict still felt like it was something he wanted all to himself, that her little, close-mouthed smile was something for him to unlock.

"You keep his letters close, then." Benedict tried to say the words in a manner that appeared merely curious, but his throat caught on the word close. He cursed himself, silently picking up another brandy, trying to drown his senses in the smell of warm, spicy alcohol.

"I keep all of my correspondence close, along with quill or graphite just in case I think of a response in the most unlikely places. I treat it much like Whistledown," she replied. "In fact, I have your note about meeting tomorrow after your family presents your servants with their gifts, let's see… Ah! Here it is!"

Without embarrassment or fanfare, Penelope reached into the valley of her breasts and plucked out a small scrap of parchment, her sky blue eyes twinkling with merriment. Benedict gaped at her while Eloise snatched the note to read greedily. Benedict already knew what it said by heart.

December 24, 1813

Nel,

Happy Christmas Eve! It seems almost silly to send a covert message when you are just across the square, but I can admit there's a mischievous delight in it.

How are you, Nel? I know I saw you at the Trowbridge Christmas Ball a few days ago, but I was wondering if you were in need of anything? I cannot do much, but if your Christmas meal is looking more like a celebration of potatoes in all of its many forms, I could acquire the means to send a goose and some vegetables anonymously. Another simple mistake by the grocer I am sure your mother would snap up.

I ask that as if I have not already done it. It should be arriving today, after all.

I wondered whether you would join our family for afternoon tea on Boxing Day. The servants will have the day off, but they always leave plenty of biscuits and other delicacies for the day and, believe it or not, I have actually learned how to make a decent cup of tea. Afterwards we can feign me escorting you home and then go to another artist gathering at Henry's. What say you?

I hope to see you tomorrow at our house party. Eloise will not shut up about it.

Eagerly Waiting,

Ledger

"Oh, why do the two of you always get to go to such exciting things?" Eloise whined, placing her hands on her hips. Benedict had the vague impression she resisted stamping her foot. "No matter. You both promised once I debut, you will actually take me places!"

"Of course, El," Penelope promised, gently retrieving the note and stuffing it back in its intimate hiding place.

Benedict was reeling, a new feeling taking over his body. A lightness replaced the burning rage, a gentle unfurl shoved out the twist in his guts.

Elation.

He couldn't pinpoint why exactly, but the mere fact that while Colin's letter was resigned to Penelope's reticule, his short missive was placed in the hiding spot she usually reserved for Whistledown filled him with satisfaction. Prideful in the extreme, he knew.

But, damn it, it felt good.

"Benedict?"

Benedict angled his head to soak in Penelope's gaze, open and trusting for him.

"Yes?"

"I would be happy to join your family for tea tomorrow, along with later festivities." Tilting her head, she reached out and gingerly tugged the silken end of his wayward cravat. "And I quite enjoy how you have styled your cravat tonight, Benedict."

Benedict finally reclaimed his earlier cheer, smiling brightly as he snuck himself between his sister and their friend, pushing them towards the food once again.

"I would be delighted, Nel. Now, come on. Eat some goose. I am quite sure Gregory was plotting to sneak back down and hide under the table so he could steal some."

There was a squawk of terror very close to Benedict's feet under the pristine white table cloth. The trio simultaneously peered down to a rustle of the cloth, a tiny leather shoe sticking out for a second.

Uncontrollable, riotous laughter filled the space and Benedict saw his Mother and Anthony look at them from across the room as if they'd gone mad.

He never noticed though, how his sister Daphne cocked her head curiously before leaning over to whisper to her husband. Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, smirked.

"El?" Penelope leaned forward conspiratorially, a tad dangerous considering the action was done over a bowl of crackling flames. Penelope coughed as the fumes of burning alcohol stung her nostrils. She pulled back and Eloíse snickered as she threw another bit of dried fruit into the blue and orange fire.

"You best be cautious, Pen, or your flaming hair will not just be a metaphor. I doubt that is a favorable outcome of this game, though it would allow me to win."

She snatched the raisin back up from the fiery bowl of brandy and popped it into her mouth as a show of superiority. Penelope stuck out her tongue.

"El, I am in earnest. I have a question!"

"Fine, fine. What is it?"

Penelope snatched a flaming raisin and popped it into her own mouth, burning her tongue. Her fingers were red and blistering from the game of snapdragon, and all she could taste on her tongue was brandy and burnt sugar.

"Well, you have always called me Pen."

"Yes."

"And Benedict calls me Nel, in private."

"Mmhmm."

"Well, why?"

"Why does he call you Nel in private?"

"No, why does he call me Nel? You and Colin have christened me Pen."

Eloise cocked her head like a crow pondering whether to pursue a shiny object or stay the course. Absentmindedly she tossed another sultana into the blazing bowl but didn't bother to snatch it up.

"I have never truly thought on it. Benedict has always had his own way of doing things." Eloise shrugged before belatedly retrieving the now burnt bit of fruit, hissing as the fire bit her fingers. "I imagine he wanted something that was his."

"His?"

Penelope then felt like a bird as she tilted her own head in befuddlement, abandoning the game entirely. The flames began to die, flickering out as it burned through the alcohol.

Eloise nodded as if what she said was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Benedict is the second son and he's happy that way. But he does not have a path that he has claimed as his own. Anthony is viscount. Colin now has his travels, Daphne is a duchess. He may be a second son, but he does not like feeling secondhand, nor does he like receiving anything secondhand."

Penelope pondered this new information, recounting all of the times Benedict had made clear he'd never want to be viscount. But also that he was lost, attempting to forge a path for himself. She remembered with sudden clarity his joy when he'd told Penelope and Eloise under the cloak of night about his first artist gathering at Henry's, how he finally felt like he may have discovered something for himself. Attempting to put the pieces together, Penelope was not sure if she was thrilled at her conclusion.

"He thinks I'm secondhand?"

"Zounds, no, Pen! The opposite!" Eloise reached forward to grab her hands on instinct until the dying fire's heat tried to singe her woolen sleeves. Eloise flinched back but persevered. "Pen, it means he values you enough that he wants to christen you in a way that's all his. All you. For your friendship alone." Eloise tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Though I admit, it reminds me of the time he stole my new book for himself, writing his name inside the front cover."

Penelope was not exactly sure what to do with her hands anymore. She rolled a sticky sultana around in her fingers, a heat she prayed was to do from the simmering brandy crawling up her neck.

"Benedict is not the possessive sort, though."

Eloise guffawed.

"Pen, do you not know by now? All of us Bridgertons are covetous creatures. He's just better at hiding it than most."

The Frost Fair of 1814 was special in the extreme. That January had been so bitingly cold that the Thames had completely frozen over, giving way to the event that took over the great river. Tents upon tents of vendors selling commemorative tickets on great printing presses, roasted boar, hot rum and grog, special winter fabrics, toys, books, and other trinkets spread across the ice. Games were held as people skated and played, even attempting to dance as fiddle players struck up jaunty tunes as if that alone could fight off the freezing temperatures.

There were rumors of an elephant as well, though Penelope hoped it wasn't true. Mostly because the great creature was rumored to be incredibly heavy and Penelope had no intention of plummeting through the ice.

By some miracle, she'd been permitted to accompany the Bridgerton family on the outing, though she admitted that she may have fudged some of the details when asking her mother's permission. Honestly, she didn't think her mother heard much of what she said.

So she she stood in the biting cold, sipping hot rum that Benedict had secretly bought her and Eloise. Poor Francesca had not been allowed and instead Benedict had bought her tea. Anthony assisted Lady Bridgerton in wrangling Gregory and Hyacinth who skidded across the ice, frequently falling but not letting such incidents ruin their fun. Penelope pitied the man, as he was doing most of the chasing. Though he actually appeared to be enjoying himself a little, letting his youngest siblings throw snowballs his way or holding Hyacinth's hand when she grew slow and tired.

Eloise, Penelope, and Francesca stopped at a vendor who was selling books as Benedict stood watch over them. As they perused the rows of makeshift shelves that had been created out of box crates, Eloise sighed.

"I wish I could dedicate my life to studies like some men can, instead of debuting in a few months." She held up a thick book published on recent work in the field of botany for both Penelope and Francesca to see.

Penelope nodded sympathetically and Francesca, holding up a book of sheet music, took her sister's free hand and squeezed.

"I understand your fear, El," Francesca confessed quietly. "While possibly for different reasons, I wish I did not have to enter society either. I only know how to function around my own family, even as kept separate as I am from the rest of you. How am I supposed to trust a stranger to create a new family with?"

Penelope's heart broke at young Francesca's words, her round face appearing even younger than she was in her fear. Eloise, in a rare display of affection, kissed Francesca's forehead. Penelope dared to glance at Benedict near the flap of the tent. By the tight expression on his face he was pretending not to eavesdrop but he could hear every painful revelation.

Penelope inhaled the cold air around her. It stung her lungs but the crisp gales invigorated her, emboldened her. She could taste the spiced rum on her tongue and smell the smoke of a crackling bonfire from outside. Bravery was not something that came naturally to Penelope. Not at all. But she could be if it was for her friends. Even though her form of rebellion was much more subvert.

She stepped forward, the book she had been holding forgotten in the shelf. She gently gripped both young Brindgerton's forearms and said, "You need not worry. I will be with both of you when you make your debuts. You can always find refuge with me. I am quite invisible, after all. I am sure I can function as some sort of shield."

Eloise let out a snort of a laugh.

"Like a knight in shining armor?"

"Or a witch casting a spell?" Francesca suggested.

"Or just an overgrown wallflower," Penelope said, arching a fine brow. "You can hide behind my greenery."

The girls giggled like Penelope wanted. A plan began to form in her head, half-baked but sure. She would not be able to attend Eloise's presentation to the Queen but she had a feeling she could assist her nervous best friend.

There was a shift on the ice and Penelope found herself catching Benedict's attention, his brow furrowed and thoughtful. She was trapped in his blue-green irises, caught between consternation and gratitude. There was something else entirely there as his layered greatcoats fluttered in the wind, his top hat teetering precariously on his head.

But in the end, he mouthed "Thank you" over his sisters' heads.

But Penelope felt like there was something being left unsaid.

Benedict sat at a small desk in his bachelor's lodgings alone. After the fair and dinner with his family, he'd made his excuses and gone back to his flat. Briefly he'd considered going to White's, Henry's, or even seeking out more amorous company. But the thought of that day's conversation amongst his sisters and Penelope drained him of all energy and resolve. He'd felt hopeless under the weight of his sisters' plights. In the past he'd offered them shelter in the future, an offer he knew his mother would discourage. But he'd meant it. Eloise and Francesca would always have a place in his home if they decided not to wed.

Ruminating over this possible future, he tried to imagine what he would be doing. Would he still be a bachelor, housing his sisters as he attempted his hand at being an artist? Would they live in London or at My Cottage?

Would he be married?

He attempted to imagine the kind of woman he would be married to, but the image flickered and changed in his mind's eye every time he tried. The only thing he could imagine with certainty was that they would have bright eyes, clever hands, and that he would love them. For whatever reason it may be, he would love them.

If they were out there.

Unbidden, the image of Penelope filtered into his imaginings like smoke seeping through the cracks of a window and the seam of a door. What would become of her? Penelope had only been out a year and yet she was forlorn when it came to matters of the marriage mart. Stuck on his brother and determined in her belief that she was only a wallflower, stuck to the edge of things unless a miracle occurred.

Would he offer her his home too? Claim his sisters would surely need a companion and that it could be no other but Penelope?

Conjuring up such a future came more easily to him. He'd done it before: Eloise and Penelope at a table laughing together over a bit of writing or a book. But this time, Francesca was at the edge as well and the Crabtrees even lingered in the background, hovering around the edges as they did their work. He saw himself, sitting with them at Penelope's side, smile wide and crooked. Paint covered his fingers and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes he usually hated were prominent and told of much unfettered happiness.

He looked at her. Her luminous eyes. Her deft hands.

It was not just the apparition of himself that he'd conjured that gazed upon this spectral, happy fantasy of his future. Even in his own head, the real Benedict, the Benedict of now stared at Penelope and his sisters with such admiration and devotion that he became lost within himself.

For the first time in a while, he was not compelled to paint.

This image, for now, required words.

Slowly, as if afraid of the truth he dared not analyze too closely, he opened the rickety drawer of his desk and withdrew a fresh sheet of parchment. He extracted his battered quill, a weathered hawk's feather that had seen much use since the summer, and dipped it in his nearly empty bottle of ink.

When he put the ink to the bit of rough parchment, he held that image in mind. Eloise. Francesca. Penelope. All whip smart. All around a table, not worried about their well-being or safety. It was a terribly painful realization, to know he would do anything to keep them safe. That he'd walk through fire, step on glass, and willingly be taken to task in order to protect them.

Even Penelope, who had an uncomfortable knack for making his natural defenses crumple like sand facing the tide upon the shore.

What is it to admire a woman?

Chapter 10: S is for Secrets

Summary:

The spring of 1814 has kicked off with many a small scandal and revelation. Anthony has begun his own version of a courting dance, Eloise is thrust out into the marriage mart, Penelope continues her enterprise...

And Benedict has a revelation.

Notes:

Hello peeps! We have this gift for you!!!

An extra long chapter to kick off season 2 for our fave rare pair! It's a long one, but we hope you will be satisfied with some of the developments. :)

itakethewords made a beautiful new graphic for s2! We are so excited to start another journey full of emotion with you!

Chapter Text

February 25, 1814

Ledger,

I suppose I should have seen this on the horizon. Mama had grown more paranoid as spring approaches, knowing that many of the ton sequestered in the countryside will return and her increasing nerves about the impending arrival of the new Baron Featherington.

She has decreed that we must now stay out of society events and gatherings until after the Queen's presentation. She wants to be sure that when the Finch family returns, we appear as much in mourning as we were a year ago. As you know, my sisters and I have no dowries to speak of and she desperately wants Philippa to be married to Mister Finch. Philippa does so adore him and Mama does actually want Philippa to be happy. Especially since Mister Finch's family is quite respectable.

So, as a result, I will not be able to attend any gatherings, day or night, with you and Eloise for the foreseeable future. I do not wish to risk sneaking out at night as Mama is not nearly so distracted now that we are constantly in the house, just like in the summer. While she does not pay much attention to me, I had better lull her into a false sense of security to ensure she does not bat a lash at me once April arrives.

So, my dear friend, lament for me. I have sent a similar missive to Eloise. Please, support her during this time. You know how she feels about entering society.

Waving at you from my prison,

Nel

February 27, 1814

Nel,

I apologize to you, first and foremost, for this being a day late. I spent much of yesterday in bed after spending too long a night at White's on Friday's eve. Anthony was in a particularly dour mood and nothing would cheer him except beer and whiskey and even that was not much help. Second, I must apologize to my mother, though you shall be my only witness to admitting so. She currently glowers at me as I pen this response during the sermon on this dreary Sunday. What is every clergyman's obsession with fire and brimstone? And why does it take three hours to get the bloody point across?

However, I must now rescind my apology to you because, clearly, you hold no care for my well-being. If you did, you would not subject me to Eloise's moaning about how she misses you or Rapscallion's persistent nips upon a delicate aspect of my person. He was terrible all summer long when he did not get to see you and finally calmed upon your re-entrance into his life. He may very well make a meal of me if you disappear from his sights again!

Fine, I shall not take my apology from you. Instead, I shall direct all of my ire to your mother…or is that too rude?

Oh dear, Mother is about to box my ears. Me, a grown man of nearly thirty, for all of the congregation to watch.

Write to me, Nel! I am sure we can find a way for us so that you, me, and Eloise can get together.

Desperate for Salvation (From My Mother),

Ledger

March 1, 1814

Ledger,

How are your delicate ears? Do they still burn from your mother's swift punishment? Eloise detailed the incident in great, gleeful detail in her missive to me. She dragged you out of the church by the ear, I heard, after forcing you to make a rather large donation? I do pity you but I am also in hysterics laughing over the whole ordeal. I do not think I thought it was possible to feel such contradictory emotions at once!

I do not at all feel sorry for leaving you with Eloise but my heart does go out to Rapscallion. I shall miss him terribly as well. You say he bites a tender part of your anatomy? Pray tell, where does he choose to nip?

I am afraid I must cut my joviality short and pose a serious quandary: The new baron has still not appeared and it has now been nearly a year. Mama says he is purposefully drawing out his arrival in order to torture us. While I know you do not ever want to inherit your brother's title, you are close enough as a man of great fortune to the affairs of lords. In your opinion, why might the new baron, a man we do not know who now has great control over our lives, wait so long to claim what is his? I have speculated that because we are in great debt they may not want the title or they are trying to sort out as much of their finances as possible before dealing with the estate. But beyond that, I truly cannot fathom why he would leave us in such a state of purgatory.

In your estimation, how is Eloise? I consistently ask about her feelings in our messages and she still appears incredibly nervous. I worry for her.

Such dreary topics to leave this missive off on. Would you share your art with me again? Without Henry's gatherings, I will need some sort of metaphorical sustenance for my own artistic endeavors. Besides, your work always fills me with intense joy. You realize you possess great talent, do you not?

Across the Way,

Nel

P.S. Give Rapscallion a sugar lump for me.

March 2, 1814

Nel,

It is always so encouraging when one's friend gains a sense of ecstasy from your embarrassment and pain. I believe the Prussians have a word for it, though French is the language I studied and excelled at.

Truly, you know you have a true friend when they can laugh at your fumbles without fear of recrimination. It is an even better friendship when the one being mocked knows that there is no ill will intended.

Lucky I know you so well.

I do not think it is necessary or appropriate for me to share what Rapscallion chooses to munch on. No. Not at all. In fact, I demand you forget I said anything. In fact, I said nothing. You know nothing. That is all.

I see your concern over the new baron and his persistent absence. I cannot imagine the amount of terror that may give you and your mother and sisters. Admittedly, I am not as sympathetic to them as I am to you. But Eloise, and even dear Fran, have reminded me that I cannot comprehend the reality it is to be subject to a man's power over me. I can only speculate why the new lord may not have arrived yet. Is he advanced in age at all? I think your current theory, that he may be trying to get all of personal affairs in order before tackling the precarious situation of your estate may be most likely. I do hope your mother is wrong, that he is not being needlessly cruel. But from what I know of many men in power… They will wield it in order to assert their dominance of those they perceive as weaker. Anthony, as much of a stubborn mule he can be, is a rarity. He controls much of our lives but I know without a doubt he cares for us. Many heads of houses do not contain even a modicum of affection for some of those they are responsible for.

If it comes to it, maybe you can run away to My Cottage? I could shelter you there. The Crabtrees would… What am I saying?

It seems as we grow closer, Eloise becomes more volatile with her outbursts. She went to the modiste yesterday for more fittings for her presentation dress and when she returned, she stormed through the house like an impending squall and locked herself in her room for the rest of the day. Mother keeps tittering about it being nerves but I believe you and I know better.

As requested, I have used the back of this parchment for a quick sketch in graphite. El pointed out a bird's nest in a hole in the tree two days ago, so I have decided to mark their progress myself. Mother does not want me at my bachelor's lodgings while Eloise prepares for her big day and though I am a grown man who is decidedly not afraid of their mother, I decided to be a kind son and stay the month. So I must have something to do before the proper marriage mart season begins. I waited until the mother bird flew off before I climbed the tree and made a rudimentary sketch. Please appreciate my efforts. I tore a pair of breeches and nearly fell thrice for this. El believes the bird is a blue tit. She has been carrying books about botany and wildlife lately, so I trust her more than myself on this matter.

I expect an even trade! Have you worked any more on your Ariadne re-telling?

Thank you. For thinking I have talent of any kind.

Still Plucking Sticks from My Hair,

Ledger

P.S. I did as requested and gave the great beast a sugar lump (though he did not deserve it) and I think I must take a pound of flesh from you to replace my own.

…She was a bride.

Ariadne had imagined this moment so many times before. As a child, when she tried to picture the kind of man her father would marry her off to. Again, just a few months ago when Theseus appeared, ready to kill her half-brother and save the lives of future, innocent Athenians. But despite the life she lived, the very nature of her heritage, she never expected to be wedded to a god.

But Dionysus stared down at her, his eyes crinkling in delight as she stood before him in her peplos. The air was still in this space at the top of Mount Olympus, a liminal space between humanity and the gods. Still, unnatural, but not uncomfortable. It was warm and no small amount of that was due to the absolute adoration in her soon-to-be husband's gaze.

She thought she would die by the ocean, lost in a sea of despair. Yet his blue-green eyes steadied her, kept her from floating adrift.

"I have a gift for you," he said softly and with a wave of his long, nimble fingers a wreath, a crown, appeared. It was made of silver leaves and glittered with raw pearls and tourmaline in every shade of green from sea glass to deep emerald. He set it gingerly upon her head, brushing her cheek with his knuckles as he did. "Fit to be a constellation."

Ariadne could not help the disbelieving snort she emitted. Dionysus frowned.

"It was made clear to me I am unworthy of such praise or loyalty back on Naxos."

His eyes darkened, a storm passing over his face before he carefully gripped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze.

"Theseus is a man. I am a god and I am not my father. Have faith in me, wife. I will earn your trust."

And against her better judgment, she believed him.

March 10, 1814

Dear Pen,

I did as you said and followed Ben to the stables.

I can now confirm, with a great sense of justice, humor, and victory, that Rapscallion is doing an excellent job at bruising my brother's posterior. His derriere, as it were.

My dear Pen, join me in humiliating him. I have so few pleasures this month.

Laughing,

El

March 12, 1814

Nel,

I do not know whether I should be thanking you for sending me a salve or burrowing into the ground to die of mortification.

As it stands now, I think I will go sketch bird eggs as I contemplate my disgrace.

Bruised,

Ledger

March 17, 1814

Dear Colin,

I have not much to report in the way of my own life events. As Mama has kept us much in seclusion due to our period of mourning we have not left the house much these past few months.

Are you still enjoying your travels? There has been much news of Napoleon here and the advances of his army and I know your family must worry about you.

I fear I do not have much to comment on. I know I am usually much more loquacious when remarking upon your extraordinary journey. Please do not mistake the brevity of this letter as being uninterested in your trek across the Continent. But I must take care of a matter of an equine nature.

Please be safe, Colin.

Sincerely,

Penelope Featherington

March 18, 1814

Nel,

A miracle occurred, I believe. I went out to give Rapscallion some extra oats, hoping to soften his disposition to me and lo and behold he did not attempt to bite me once!

Nor did he appear very interested in the oats… I found evidence of quite a bit of sugar coating his lips.

This leads me to two conclusions:

One, that a good samaritan sneaked into the stables at night to appease my great beast.

Two, that this same good samaritan may think my horse is more handsome than me. For what else could explain why they would waste such an opportunity to see an ungrateful cob over one of their dearest friends?

Oddly Jealous,

Ledger

March 23, 1814

Dear Sir Phillip,

I know I often start my letter to you bemoaning my state as a woman with no actual rights to speak of, but I insist I must do so again. My debut draws ever closer and under no circumstances am I excited. Why can men enter society unencumbered by any presentation to the Queen or the expectation to marry as soon as possible? You all simply come of age after you get to choose whether to attend university or not and are simply there.

Men get to squeeze the absolute most out of life and customize it to your liking. I imagine it much like when someone creates lemonade making it as tart or as sweet as they like. And the greatest thing about being a man? If it is not to their liking, they can try again.

Us women get one shot. One opportunity to apparently be worth anything. Through marriage. And to marry limits our opportunities afterwards. And if we do not like it? There are no second chances.

My mother so wishes for me to emulate Daphne's success, happily ignoring all of the hardship my sister suffered through last season. She simply wants me to copy her best, most perfect parts.

I only obtain some semblance of freedom, of balance, with my dearest friend Penelope or through these letters.

I do not think I ever thanked you for indulging my academic interests or my thoughts.

I am afraid I have reached the limits of sentimentality for one letter. You will have to excuse my rougher edges. It is something my brother, Benedict, informs me he adores but also needs some improvement. My other brother, Gregory, informs me I must swap out my entire personality to be agreeable. You can imagine his fate at my hands.

Now, onto the article you sent me about blue tits and their nesting habits, Benedict and I have been cataloging…

March 30, 1814

Nel,

I hope you are not still reading the absolute drivel that is Lord Byron's Corsair. Do you know that tosspot said it is partially autobiographical? I am still in a rage since you informed me you bought the damn thing last week. It would do better as kindling for a roaring fire. Nel, dear Nel, what merit could you possibly see in his nonsense?

I had to step away from my parchment and ink for a few moments before sitting down to write again. Anthony gave me the most bemused stare as I walked across the drawing room to achieve calm once more. I sat by Francesca as she played the pianoforte and we remarked on Mozart's newest work that debuted in Vienna. Then she poked at my sour countenance and imitated a blasted dirge as I made my way back across the room.

Siblings. Why do I have so many of them?

I went to the Granvilles' the other night and they passed along their wish to see you as soon as you are free from your prison. But I know you exchange regular letters with them as well. I would like to state that Eloise and I have a prior claim to your presence.

I have attached a sketch of the blue tit's eggs progress. They are so incredibly tiny, I think they are all smaller than half of my pinky. I wanted to hold one but El just about bit my hand off. She said it was possible if I did the mother would abandon them and I would never desire that. I know you cannot tell from my sketches, but they are white and speckled with brown - the type of brown that resembles tea with a splash of milk - and I think it gives El a sense of calm to have these to return to every day.

We are rapidly approaching Eloise's presentation along with your birthday. So truly, I have only one question to ask: What should we do to celebrate? Your birthday is the day of the Queen's Ball this year, I believe.

Eagerly, Missing You, Awaiting Your Return,

Ledger

April 1, 1814

Ledger,

Well, seeing as I have a gift in store for the both of you, it feels strange to even think about the day of my birth.

So I will leave it at this:

Surprise me.

Eagerly,

Nel

It was another spring season. Another year where the marriage mart came to call and young new debutantes and their clever mamas developed and executed battle tactics that Wellington or Napoleon would envy.

Although, on the Day of Our Lord the Sixth of April, 1814, Benedict rather thought Eloise was planning a completely different plan from their mother's. The first one possibly being a desperate escape.

"Is this the plan?" Daphne hissed as she approached them in the hall outside of Eloise's room.

Benedict rather imagined they looked akin to a gaggle of geese and it made him chuckle nearly as much as imagining how Eloise could currently be attempting to rescue herself from the presentation to the Queen. Alas, it seemed only Benedict and his youngest siblings, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth, were drawing any great humor from the situation. It was a pity, truly. Anthony especially would spare himself the frown lines Benedict was sure were becoming more permanent by the minute if he deigned to laugh at how ridiculous they all looked.

"Daphne, thank goodness you are here." Their mother turned towards Daphne as if she was Christ on the day of resurrection and Benedict had to bite back another inappropriate chortle at the image.

"She requested time," Anthony huffed, and Benedict imagined little gray hairs popping out of the man's head every minute Eloise deigned to make them wait.

"We do not have time," Daphne insisted. "Stand back, all of you." In true Daphne fashion, so much like and unlike their mother at once, she stepped forward with purpose and Benedict hastily made himself a shield between his sister and the door.

"No offense, sister," Benedict smiled, both full of cheeky intent and utter resolution. "But I believe you are the last person she would like to see."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Benedict resisted the urge to wince at the offense and undercurrent of hurt in his sister's tone. While Eloise was his favorite sister, Daphne was his first sister and that left an indelible mark upon an older brother. By no means had he meant to offend her, but he knew El would appreciate a lecture from Daphne as surely as he would enjoy a meal of bull testicles. Daphne meant well, but part of Eloise's very crippling anxiety rested with how she was constantly being compared to her elder sister. Where Daphne was subtle, Eloise was blunt. Daphne was often tactful where Eloise could be brash. Daphne was considered graceful and beautiful in a classical sense of the word. Eloise was Eloise.

Though Benedict thought about reassuring El that she was beautiful and had her own wonderful qualities, he was also fairly certain that was not really what she wanted to hear at present.

What Eloise really wanted was simply to be told she did not have to do this. But that wasn't an option.

"Are we sure she is even in there?" Hyacinth piped up, twirling her freshly pressed white dress around her ankles.

"Of course she is in there," Francesca chided though she did not look nearly convinced.

"Where else would she be?" Gregory questioned.

Benedict smirked, deciding to fan the flames a little more amongst his siblings.

"Climbed from her window, escaped through the chimney-"

"Quiet, she may hear you," Violet shushed.

Benedict's smile turned maniacal and he could feel the crookedness of it, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He could not decipher what was more hilarious; that his mother truly thought Eloise would take his ideas and escape or the fact that she was one hundred percent correct.

As overzealous as she could be, Violet really did know her children.

"You do realize I left my child and husband at home for this." Daphne peered around at her siblings in exasperation as if they were all in kahoots to steal her away from her home in some great time waste of a ploy.

It wasn't a bad idea, really. They did miss her. Anthony probably most of all, Benedict mused. They were both incredibly bossy. It was why they clashed but also understood each other so well.

"How is little Augie? Can I return to Hastings House with you–" Hyacinth tried to say but Anthony interrupted. It demonstrated how frayed his nerves were if he were to interrupt little Hyacinth.

"I told everyone this would happen!" Despite the fact his brother's hands were firmly clasped behind his back it was a very pitiful, veiled attempt to maintain an image of control. Benedict knew his elder brother too well to not be able to read the clear frustration in his voice. Anthony did not exactly care for society events but he spent much time cultivating their image along with their mother. Missing the Queen's presentation, while personally entertaining to Benedict, would not be ideal. "And now we are to be late for the Queen."

In Bridgerton fashion, their brood began to argue and snipe at each other over the possible outcomes of such a thing, or whether Eloise was currently scaling the flue, climbing her way to freedom and a life amongst the pigeons, crows, and magpies of the world.

"Shh!" Francesca leaned forward, her ear nearly pressed against Eloise's white painted wooden door. "I hear something!"

Comically, Benedict had to admit, they all stilled and followed Francesca's lead. Leaning forward, their backs bent in half to hear the faint rustling sound coming through the cracks in the entrance. Anthony's patience already spent, he reached for the door just as Violet hissed his name. Barely a beat later, before his elder brother could touch the knob, they all practically jumped back as the door opened. Lady's maids filed out, their heads bowed low as they hurried away like a lion was nipping at their heels.

Or a lioness.

Or a goose what with that terrible feather in her hair.

For Eloise appeared, a mockery of good manners and elegance in her cream and gold presentation gown, a sneer plastered to her face.

"If one of you utters a single word," Eloise threatened, pointing at them all with every ounce of ferocity she could muster. With a frustrated pull of her skirts, she stormed past them. "Let us get this over with."

Violet followed immediately after and Benedict had no idea how the woman was grinning when Eloise so clearly would rather be burned at the stake than go through with the presentation. Benedict was even more sure that his sister was just one step closer to running away, throwing her dress on a burning bonfire in the woods and dancing around it naked with pagan women.

Honestly, Benedict would not blame her if she did.

Sighing, he pumped his long legs faster to catch up with Eloise. Not for the first time that morning, he wished Penelope would be there. She would calm Eloise's nerves.

He knew that Penelope and Eloise had been exchanging frequent missives since Penelope was forced into seclusion the past month by her mother. Benedict had been doing the same, savoring every inked letter, every word that he traced with his fingertip every time a new one arrived. That morning, they had both received a missive from across the square, addressed to them both.

April 6, 1814

My dearest friends,

El: Move purposefully. Slowly. Slowly.

Ledger: Please make sure she does not mysteriously disappear on the way to the palace.

Good luck.

Nel

"Breathe, El," Benedict whispered, bending at the hips slightly to reach his sister's ear. He dodged the ostentatious white feather on the way. "It will be alright. Just walk and bow. You do not need to be a diamond. Simply aim for the middle of the pack."

"I rather be trampled to death by the pack at this rate." Eloise moved even faster, lifting the hem of her dress as she began the descent down the grand staircase. Benedict grabbed her elbow to steady her.

"I would much rather aid in your escape and start your new life of crime as a privateer than let you be trampled," he teased gently.

Eloise made a strangled noise in her throat, caught between a whine and a laugh. Alas, their mother knew them too well.

"Benedict," he heard Violet behind him, the tone of her voice one made of pure, maternal suspicion. "You best not be planning any daring escapes."

He straightened and shot back his most charming smile.

"I would never, Mother!"

He clutched his free hand dramatically over his heart, widening his eyes for great dramatic effect.

"Cad," Eloise murmured.

He pinched her side and they nearly toppled over the foot of the stairs with how hard she swung her fist at him.

Ah, yes. Another eventful season, indeed.

As Benedict settled into the carriage reserved for the Bridgerton males, he sighed, glancing out the window to wave to Featherington House as they passed. Though he knew it was unlikely Penelope could see him at this distance, he liked to believe she could. He thought he happily imagined a flash of red curls and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

But as they drove away, the clip of horse hooves echoing loudly across the gravel and stone, Anthony was all business as usual. He sat straight, refined across from Benedict and Gregory. Benedict knew in this instance his elder brother was walking the fine line between a viscount and a brother, and the viscount was winning.

"Gregory. I have decided to replace your Latin tutor."

It was a statement, not a question.

Gregory tilted his head, his small brow furrowing in confusion. Benedict had to resist the very physical urge to soothe the little wrinkle on his youngest brother's forehead with a thumb.

"But I like Mister Allen," Gregory protested, his voice a tiny whine. "He can be quite funny."

Benedict made the strategic decision to stay playful, desiring to cheer up his youngest brother. In many ways, Gregory was at the biggest disadvantage out of the four brothers. He was younger than them by a decade at least and frequently was treated more as a son by Anthony than a younger brother. He wasn't yet old enough to join them in many pursuits, so often felt left out. The best Benedict could provide was to allow Gregory to join in on some levity.

And poking fun at Anthony was always fun.

"This is called distraction, little brother." He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis. "The Viscount's task of finding a bride this season will undoubtedly require it."

"I am more focused now than I have ever been, I assure you," Anthony said coolly, leveling Benedict with the glare that the second eldest knew was code for Not in front of the children, you absolute sorry excuse for a responsible adult. "And my task cannot be exceptionally difficult. Hastings did it, after all. How hard can it be?"

Benedict decided it'd be wiser not to point out that their brother-in-law had married their sister practically at gunpoint. The man, now that the trouble was over, did so adore Daphne.

"Spoken with such feeling, too," Benedict sighed exaggeratedly, clasping his gloved hand over his heart while not-so-discreetly winking at Gregory. His youngest brother was grinning now, happy to be included and that was worth it for him.

"I do not need feeling. What I need is what I have and that is a list." Anthony's glower had grown more intense as he said this and Benedict was struck by how serious Anthony was being. Well, more serious than normal. It was quite the change from the year before, where Anthony had seemed torn between duty and self-pleasure. But after Daphne's troubles and whatever had transpired with the woman Anthony refused to name, he'd turned to his duties as viscount with a fervor that was a tad terrifying. "Tolerable. Dutiful. Suitable enough hips for childbearing and at least half a brain. That last part is not so much a requirement but a preference, in fact." Benedict was caught between a huff and a laugh when Anthony added, turning to Gregory, "Mister Allen is not there to entertain you. He will be replaced by Sunday."

Gregory's mood fell again, Benedict saw it written all over the boy's face. His shoulders slumped and he sunk down into the carriage seat.

Benedict kicked Anthony's shin.

He wasn't sorry about it.

"Could we not have appealed to the Queen, Mama?" Prudence drawled, and Penelope felt like she was listening to someone taking a cheese grater against fresh marble. "After having mourned dear Papa for so very long, perhaps Her Majesty might extend a kindness and allow us to be presented again."

"I see no need to go through all of that again when I myself am already betrothed to Mister Finch," Philippa piped up, examining her cuticles with a strangely watchful eye.

"Mister Finch may very well still change his mind."

"Particularly when he discovers there is still no dowry," Missus Varley muttered at Lady Featherington's side.

But Penelope heard it.

After a year of honing the fine art of listening at doors, straining to hear hushed conversations over the clang and clatter of dinner, or the loud chatter and music of ballrooms, Penelope could simply not avoid hearing everything.

And what Missus Varley and her mother had been discussing more and more grew ever more disturbing.

"Hush," Portia Featherington admonished, trying to wave away all possible concerns and failing. "The new Lord Featherington shall see to that. When he finally decides to show his miserly face."

She sipped her tea before pulling a face and Penelope fought down a giggle. She received so little entertainment these days, she had to grasp humor where she could. Her only great joy was her correspondence with her friends.

As her mother announced it was finally time to shed their mourning colors and more hushed whispers about reusing tea leaves, Penelope stood on tip toe to try and gain a better view of the street. The Bridgerton carriage had pulled away not long ago and she could've sworn she could see Eloise's scowl from here. She'd even thought she'd witnessed Benedict waving at her but convinced herself it had been a trick of the light.

But now she was waiting for a surprise.

Her surprise for the Bridgertons to be exact.

"Penelope! How many times must I warn you to be wary of that window?" Penelope whipped her head around to see her mother clutching her temple as if Penelope was giving her a migraine of untold proportions. "Do you wish to appear like a befreckled beggar spending all day in the sun?"

"Of course not, Mama. My apologies."

Penelope shifted, making enough of a rustle with her skirts to appear as if she would move. The second Portia returned her focus to her sisters, Penelope returned her gaze to the square outside the window, her eyes searching greedily for her gift to Eloise.

And Benedict of course, as he would reap the benefits of a happier sister.

She just hoped she got the timing right.

Penelope had reliable friends and the printer she had newly employed was eager to make just as much of a splash as her. It would mean more money for him.

So Penelope waited, taking in this bit of joy before she had to return her thoughts to a lack of dowries, re-using tea leaves, and most possibly another discussion about potatoes.

Benedict found it vastly amusing how his sisters had to crane their heads to see the debutantes. There the girls went, one by one like decorated swans to curtsy before a very bored looking monarch. His sisters, especially Francesca and Hyacinth, observed with the sort of excitement and trepidation that this fate one day awaited them. Francesca's face in particular looked placid but Benedict knew a troubled sea of worry roiled inside.

Daphne kept looking towards the great doors the girls and their mamas would parade through, tottering as if she was Eloise's mother. He offered jokingly at one point to hoist her on his shoulders to which she shot him the look. Benedict decided not to admit that he actually missed that time long ago where it was socially acceptable to lift his little sisters upon his shoulders as they strained their little necks to pick an apple on one of their tenants' orchards or see some spectacle at the park.

Each passing debutante curtsied but none seemed to impress Queen Charlotte. Benedict thought he saw Lady Danbury try to hide a sigh at the Queen's antsy behavior. The monarch kept shifting in her seat, slouching slightly and waving away each new young girl desperately seeking approval.

But soon the doors opened and Eloise appeared.

Benedict could see a small bead of perspiration at her forehead. Her hands were dusted at her sides, chest rising and falling rapidly with her breaths.

He felt Daphne grimace in sympathy, while Anthony appraised the situation with a critical eye. It was a good thing his siblings knew him so well, for anyone else would think Anthony's look was judgmental. But the Viscount Bridgerton was just as nervous as the rest of them. Sympathy curled in Benedict's belly, making it twist and turn. The already warm room, crowded with countless bodies, seemed boiling hot and he was half convinced his sister would faint.

She took a step, the floorboards creaking beneath her.

The Queen tilted her head…

All at once, the doors behind the Queen burst open, and servants with gilded trays filed out into the room, pamphlets stacked atop fine silver trays. The very first went to the Queen herself as her right hand man Brimsley whispered in her ear. The woman's eyes widened in excitement as she gazed down at the parchment and without even looking at her subjects, she waved them away.

"I have seen enough."

Benedict felt his jaw go slack as Brimsley tried to protest.

"But, Your Majesty, there are still-"

"I have seen enough."

And with that, the Queen was gone, leaving the rest of them in utter shock. As servants began passing out the pamphlets, Benedict distinctly heard his sister say from beside their mother,

"Does this mean I can go?"

His mother said something, her polite smile frozen in place as she made a valiant effort to not break the put together character of the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. But Eloise, with no care for propriety, dashed away.

Benedict had to hold back a belly laugh at the sight.

Daphne attempted to scold Eloise, but as their younger sister escaped, she was no match when Eloise was on a mission. The mysterious parchment came into view, passed to Hyacinth and Francesca. Daphne peered over to scan the printed words and even his ever-perfect sister had to laugh. With a furrowed brow, Benedict managed to grab the copy Hyacinth held. She pouted at him which he returned with a grin before scanning the page.

And he snorted.

Gleefully. Truly. Heartily.

This was it. The gift Penelope had promised.

Lady Whistledown. Come to interrupt the event that Eloise had dreaded for months.

Oh, what a delight.

Benedict heard Daphne give Anthony a piece of advice, "Truly, I cannot say I will long for any of this. Best of luck, brother. You will certainly need it this season."

Benedict leaned over so his face was next to his brother's and he knew he was smirking like the worst kind of arse.

"I agree with our dear sister. You will need all of the luck you can get. If not the very grace of God."

Anthony muttered unintelligible denials as he shoved Benedict's cheek, causing the taller man to stumble. But he shook it off. How could he be in a bad mood?

His dear friend Penelope had triumphantly made her reappearance as her alter ego. Eloise had been provided an escape and Benedict had been gifted entertainment.

Now if only he could see his redheaded friend, the day would be perfect.

Dearest Gentle Reader…

...Did you miss me?

As the members of our esteemed ton lazily sojourned in their rustic retreats, This Author was doing but one thing.

Honing my skills.

Or should I say, hatching my plans?

No, even better...

I was sharpening my knives.

For all of you.

Questions abound as to This Author's identity and means. Seeking those answers shall prove fruitless, indeed.

There is, of course, another unknown identity at present. Though this one you will be able to unearth... I speak of the season's diamond, where ever she may be.

Your move, Your Majesty.

Arranging the distribution of the column to time with Eloise's debut had not been easy. Penelope now had a new printer on Chancery Lane and Penelope's palace connections had been a fat zero at the end of last year. But someone could always be bought, Penelope had learned, so she made use of her connections and the bank account Benedict had set up for her. It turned out one of Lucy's cousins had married well and had become acquaintances with one of the Queen's many daughters. As a result, naturally that cousin's lady's maid became good friends with some servants in the palace.

And so it went, the gossip chain that Penelope created link by link, getting in touch with high brow ladies and servants alike to facilitate the timing of things.

On top of that, finagling a new price for her column had to be done. She'd debated getting a hold of Benedict to stand beside her, a strong presence ready to defend her. But in March, it had been hard enough to escape her mother's watchful eye. In the end, it had been better for her to adopt her Irish lady's maid persona and put on a facade of confidence in order to conduct business.

Mister Harris needed to respect her. Revere her. Not some well-dressed gentleman standing guard behind her.

"Eighteen? We agreed on twenty," Harris had said, broad and intimidating even from the other side of a roughly-hewn wooden counter.

"My mistress changed her mind." Penelope could not help how her lips had twitched in amusement. "You're new to this arrangement, so I'll say this only once. What my mistress wants, she gets. And for whatever reason, that would be you at the moment. That doesn't make you special, Mister Harris." She saw the moment his mouth gaped in astonishment and relished in it. Penelope had discovered there was nothing better than taking a man by surprise. "Printers in this town are ten-a penny. But there's only one Lady Whistledown, and she can just as easily move her business elsewhere. So it's eighteen, not a penny more. And the delivery boys need a wage increase. They're the ones running around town, while you get to sit here on your lazy arse."

Harris nodded, slack-jawed, suddenly referring to her with respect. It was something Penelope admitted she liked quite a bit. She pondered if that made her vain or prideful, but a businessman who wouldn't have paid her any kind while she was dressed as a flimsy debutante referred to her with actual deference. It was intoxicating to say the least.

Benedict may be a tad displeased though.

She winced inwardly at the thought. Benedict had made himself her personal protector. Every time she'd gone out to Bloomsbury on her own last year, he'd taken it personally. The anger that would alight his ocean eyes could only be rivaled by the hurt.

She wasn't sure what that meant sometimes.

But it was a sure sign of his friendship, of that she was certain. And she would be sure to apologize profusely when she saw him next. Hopefully at Lady Danbury's ball.

But Penelope also had other worries.

She eyed her mother sitting casually on the sofa, reading her own words. They had been lucky the past year. Ever since the summer, Benedict had been sending produce deliveries from his country garden, disguised as mistakes made by the local grocer. Varley and Portia had been too desperate to try and make corrections, since the deliveries were already paid for. While their diet still mostly consisted of potatoes, there was accompanying vegetables and occasional fruit.

Something about that small gift actually felt rather large. It caused Penelope's heart to flutter and ache with a tender ferocity.

But it also brought to the forefront her family's dire straits.

Penelope had money. A good chunk of it squirreled away. If their situation got any worse, was it not her duty to aid her family with what she had?

But that could require revealing her secret. The last thing Penelope wanted was to give away this one thing that was hers, not her family's.

It was another reason she longed for Eloise and Benedict. They would have advice for her, surely.

Dragged back to the reality of her business, Penelope turned towards her mother.

"I am off to the market with my maid, mama. I have just a tiny bit of pin money left and…"

Her voice trailed off as her mother waved her away, not even giving her a glance. Now that the season had begun she was invisible again, of no real concern. Lady Featherington had to worry about fooling the ton that they weren't bankrupt, after all.

So Penelope was nothing of consequence. Again.

Scurrying out of the room, Penelope wondered if she was broken. For her mother's casual neglect did not hurt so keenly anymore.

Benedict sketched a pert nose on the face of a woman. She had round cheeks and curly hair though he had yet to draw her eyes or the shape of her lips. He kept hesitating to jot down those final details, some sort of mental block that held him in its grasp. Distraction held him in its grasp, he decided, as he kept glancing out towards the window to the house across the street.

Well, that and taking some sick pleasure in his sister's disastrous dancing efforts. He felt quite sorry for Gregory's feet. But Benedict had paid the boy five shillings to take his place.

Benedict hid a snicker as the sour old dance master glowered at Eloise's mistakes.

"I do not think she is very good," Hyacinth said from the sofa across from him, so casually he almost choked on his spit.

"I believe she can hear you," he replied, shaking his head minutely at his youngest sibling, tapping the end of his graphite to his bottom lip.

"I can hear you!"

Benedict and Hyacinth's eyes met and they giggled conspiratorially as Eloise, once again, trod on Gregory's feet.

"Ow! Watch my feet!"

"Might we be done?" Eloise huffed, releasing Gregory as she pleaded with their mother.

Benedict and Hyacinth continued to snicker as their mother, ever the essence of the well-refined lady, tried to reason with her second daughter.

"If you are to catch the Queen's eye after this morning's interruption, then you must be perfection."

"I believe it was the interruption that was perfection."

Eloise met Benedict's stare across the room and they shared a secret smile. Truly, Penelope's gift had been genius. Perfectly timed and choreographed. They would have to think of something splendid for her birthday in thanks.

"Shocking that Eloise Bridgerton was not named the season's diamond after all, was it not?" Benedict teased, shooting her a mocking look.

Naturally, she stuck her tongue out at him and he chuckled to himself as a rather perturbed Anthony strode into the room.

Benedict studied his brother from the corner of his eye. Every action his brother took these days appeared indelibly calculated, controlled. Even his state of dress for the past few months had been carefully curated and refined. Long gone were his sideburns, his hair shorn to a more close-fitting cut. His suits were expertly tailored, nothing loose or out of place. Their late father's pocket watch in many ways was the only thing that remained the same, always at Anthony's side as he went about his business.

Anthony had always been a man of duty, ever since he'd unexpectedly become a viscount a little over a decade ago. But over the past year, it was as if Anthony himself prepared himself for battle, for a new phase of life that would irrevocably tie him down in his place as Lord Bridgerton, head of a family that was destined to grow bigger. Yet there was no warmth in Anthony's countenance, only that ever-stiff sense of duty.

Sometimes Benedict missed the Anthony of many years ago. When his brother had been eighteen and carefree. Hell, sometimes he missed the Anthony of a year ago, as frustrating as that bastard could be, waffling between duty and running away.

Whatever his mistress had said or done, she'd altered something in Anthony. Bent something so out of place that Benedict was unsure if it could ever be straightened out again.

"Was anyone else aware that dear Colin has apparently decided to add Albania or some such place to his itinerary as he gads about the world?" Anthony sounded utterly irritated. Not entirely new for the man, but the mention of Colin had Benedict's ears perk up a moment.

For it made him think of Penelope.

It was probably good Colin would be abroad a bit longer.

"No." Eloise begrudgingly began dancing again with an even more disgruntled looking Gregory. "But how happy for him that he can simply decide to do that."

"Joining us for tea, Anthony?" Violet asked hopefully as Benedict began to refine the curls of the faceless woman on his sketchpad. He could smell the strange, dusty scent of graphite on his fingers and the scent of black tea with lemon coming from the tray service. Among it, Anthony's strong vetiver cologne wafted into the room, his presence overpowering everything.

"I am afraid I must pass. Too many calls on my funds today." Anthony clasped his hands behind his back, ever the man in charge. "Now that the season has started, I shall need to fill your coffers at the modiste, and oversee the hiring of a few extra staff, and your ring, when you have the chance, I shall need it. The fields by Ferryhallow – I was thinking we might hold off on leasing them this year due to the hard frost–"

Violet whirled around, placing a hand to steady herself on the sofa near Benedict's feet. He glanced at his mother sharply, just as surprised as she was. Though, he had to admit, he was more amused. His mother just about appeared as if she would keel over in shock.

"I beg your pardon?"

Anthony blinked at his mother as if she'd forgotten her own name.

"The frost hardens the soil, saps it of nutrients."

"That is very well, but you requested my ring?"

"Father's betrothal ring."

Benedict recalled the ring quite well. Though his mother had not worn it since before Edmund Bridgerton's death, she prized it above all else. It was a precious thing, a small set of creamy pearls shaped into the aspect of a flower.

But Benedict was curious. He eyed his elder brother and he couldn't help what he knew was a shit-eating grin cross his face.

"Did someone catch your eye at the presentation, Brother?"

"I thought all of the young ladies looked beautiful," Hyacinth exclaimed, not wanting to be left out.

"Not particularly. And all of the young ladies looked the same. Like young ladies." Anthony was to the point, assured, almost mechanical. Like a clock ticking away the time precisely the way it was supposed to. Precise, short, on time. Benedict had the keen feeling his brother was living his life out of some sort of secret handbook for lords. He could imagine it now, on page 267, when a viscount turned the age of thirty, one must finally submit to the shackles of marriage .

Anthony turned towards their mother again to continue, "I should simply like to be prepared when the opportunity presents itself."

"The opportunity…"

Violet actually looked affronted. As if her eldest son had insulted the Archbishop of the Church of England.

"I have already compiled an index of the season's eligible misses and have arranged interviews."

The very room stilled. Benedict could feel it in the air, the bewilderment of his entire family as they studied Anthony, as if he was addled in the head. Interviews?

Benedict's hand slipped and he cursed as his graphite nearly took out the faceless woman's round cheeks.

"Interviews?" Their mother's smile was forced, Benedict could tell. He was already predicting how he might do damage control to convince their mother that, no, the head of their family was not suffering a grievous brain injury. Hopefully. "Dearest, I shall be more than happy to give you my ring when you find someone with whom you are very much in love. Besides, it is in safe keeping at Aubrey Hall."

Violet slid down the back of the sofa as Anthony stuffed a finger sandwich into his mouth form the tea service. She leaned down and whispered none-too-quietly into Benedict's ear,

"See that he is quite well."

"Me?"

Benedict's question was half incredulous, half exasperated. Why was it always him that had to make sure Anthony hadn't been kicked in the head by a horse? Alright, yes, Anthony was his dearest friend and brother. But for pity's sake, Benedict had given up the title of nanny to all of his siblings years ago.

Or, at least, he thought he had.

But luckily, or unluckily, Anthony did not seem to be in the mood for being looked after.

"I am not in need of coddling," he snapped, swallowing his sandwich with such gusto, Benedict was shocked he did not choke. "I assure you all. Everything is in order."

With that Anthony checked their father's old watch before snapping it shut and briskly departing as suddenly as he had entered. Benedict shared a worried look with his mother and decided, quietly, that fine, he would check on Anthony later.

He was starting to worry that some horse really had kicked his brother in the head.

Rapscallion recognized the young miss from a mile off. He was well acquainted with the human his master called Eloise. Not only by her looks, but by her smell he could tell they were fellow foals, born from the same stallion and mare. It was uncanny how much they looked alike, but even small idiosyncrasies made themselves present between them: the tilt of their head when they were confused, how their voices raised to an impossibly higher pitch when they were stressed, or how their blue eyes shifted about if they feared to be caught.

As usual, the two siblings feared to be caught by their mother, which Rapscallion found a little preposterous. They were old enough now that surely the mare who birthed them no longer dictated their care or feeding schedule.

Humans were exhausting. Baffling, really. And Rapscallion missed Carrot Top keenly, the human mare who fed him sugar and that his master stared at when he thought she wasn't looking. It took a long while for Rapscallion to learn human names. They were often strange and not in any sound he could pronounce himself. But after much practice and exposure he could at least recognize them. But Carrot Top's name was still a little too hard to grasp, so he settled for what her hair reminded him of, one of his favorite treats.

He had almost called her Sugar Lump, but she did not resemble the delicacy she fed him most often in the slightest. That was fine. Carrots were just as well.

His master and his younger sister were persistently petting his snout, softly, affectionately. Rapscallion would usually not mind but he missed Carrot Top and the sugar she gave him. All his master Benedict had brought were oats and apples. While both were fine snacks, they were not his favorite.

Carrot Top knew his favorite.

So Rapscallion did what he usually did when frustrated over yet another meeting in which Carrot Top, his friend and quite obviously his master's mare, did not appear; he bit the sensitive flesh of his master's behind as soon as he wasn't looking.

"Ow!" his master exclaimed, jumping at least a foot before glaring at Rapscallion. Rapscallion simply whinnied exasperatedly.

"Brother, is that not the umpteenth time he has bitten you this month? And in very much the same place too."

"The equine beast seems to only do it when he has not seen Penelope on a regular basis."

"Oh! Well in that case, it's perfectly acceptable behavior."

"No, El, it is not! At this rate, I will no longer be able to sit on my bruised, delicate behind at any event. I will have to sleep on my stomach!"

"Not my problem."

"I thought I was your favorite brother."

"You are! But this is entertaining."

The two started their incessant arguing, though the great horse knew it would always end amicably. The pair of siblings could not stay mad at each other if they tried. It was admirable. But Rapscallion thought it was less entertaining than when Carrot Top got in a lively argument with his master. It was an interesting dynamic that distracted him from his regular schedule of feeding, riding, eating, and sleeping. Carrot Top had changed his routine significantly for many moons now, and he hoped to keep up that unusual life pattern.

"Speaking of," his master hedged, and Rapscallion let out a long, exhaustive breath through his nostrils. "You are seeing Nel at Market Day tomorrow, correct?"

"You are not invited."

"El!"

"What? I need time with my friend."

"She is our friend."

"But my best friend. Besides, did Mama not task you with the unfortunate business of checking in on our dear brother while he makes his ridiculous round of interviews?"

His master groaned and even the horse knew that was a sound of the utmost agony.

"Damn it all! I had forgotten."

"Never fear, Brother. You shall see Pen at Lady Danbury's ball that very evening."

His master buried his long, strong fingers in his white mane, his nose nose dipping to nuzzle the short hair along his neck. Rapscallion felt his master's heat radiate from the man's hairless cheeks and the horse almost felt bad for biting him.

Almost.

"But I want to see her now…"

"What was that, Brother?"

"Nothing."

Rapscallion snorted. At least he and his master had one thing in common.

Nel,

You conniving, vexing woman! To bilk me so, I am both deeply impressed and greatly cross.

Your timing of the pamphlet during the presentation was a stroke of genius, and Eloise will be singing your praises for the rest of the calendar year.

However, do not think we will not have words about how you delivered your column. Dear Nel, you know how I worry. Do not stoke my ire to a fever pitch that would cause me to do something rash.

If you're not careful I will chain you to my side.

However, I have been told in no uncertain terms I am not allowed to remain angry with you. At least over this particular incident. El forbids it.

I hope to see you soon, friend.

Your Irate Friend,

Ledger

The bright market bustled with the ton as always, filled with an array of spring pastels that attracted the rich like bees to flowers almost glaringly dazzling. Penelope could not have cared less though, as she had finally reunited with her best friend once again. The only thing that would have made the excursion better is if Benedict had accompanied them.

She tucked away the missive Eloise delivered to her from her brother, not even attempting to hide her small smile.

"Daphne provided me a list of recommendations for a successful season. Private advice regarding the top ten ways in which to entrap a man. I am telling you, Pen, the new season has barely begun and already I feel touched in the head."

Penelope could not help the giggle that escaped her lips as she plucked a new fat, white quill from a stand. Dropping the required payment into the marchant's waiting palm she turned to delight in her best friend's bemoaning of the season. While Penelope admitted she herself would not mind some advice on how to actually gain an eligible bachelor's attentions (she though briefly of Colin's bright smile though, strangely, it was pushed away as quickly as it came by a mind's roar of ocean blue waves), Eloise's commentary could always be counted on to make Penelope feel invigorated.

Eloise smirked knowingly as she eyed the quill Penelope had just obtained.

"Another quill? My, my, dear Pen. You do get through them at an extraordinary rate."

Penelope could not help but share in Eloise's barely concealed attempt at a covert grin. She winked before looping her free arm through Eloise's own.

"I have been busy with my correspondence, as you well know."

"Oh, yes, correspondence . Sweeping letters to the whole of London's finest, I gather?"

They both barely contained their giggles before pinching each other girlishly, shushing one another in only the way best friends could get away with. No one paid them any mind and Penelope had to admit, that was the beauty of it. To the rest of the haut ton, they were just silly debutantes with nary a worldly thought in their heads. It really was the perfect cover.

"To be fair, some of my quills and ink have been used in order to keep up with you and your brothers."

Penelope looked around the market catered exclusively for the rich. It was incredibly different from where she normally bought her writing supplies in the busy, no frill stalls outside of St James and Mayfair. But within the confines of their pretty, constructed world everything was made just so. It was strange that Penelope felt that she liked both, even though she knew that straddling the two separate realities could one day prove difficult. But for now she did it with ease, as the only people who truly saw her helped her do it. Her heart warmed as she gripped Eloise's arm a little tighter in her own.

"Yes, keeping both me and my brothers entertained must be a large task to take on," Eloise teased, adjusting the light blue hat on her head, squinting out at the world beyond the stalls as a hint of sun gleaned through the stone columns of the hall the market had set up in. "Benedict was rather put out he could not join us today, but Mama has him on a mission to make sure Anthony is right in the head. He had set up interviews amongst the eligible young ladies to find a suitable wife, if you can believe it?"

"Interviews?" Penelope felt her lungs constrict and her stomach hurt from how much laughing she'd done in the past hour. But this bit of news proved to be the most hilarious. "I guess I should not be surprised. He has always seemed very… particular?"

"That is a kind way to put it." Eloise glided through the stalls, picking up a small book at a stall that described the nation's local bird populations. She reached into her own reticule to pay for it, hugging the small tome happily to her chest. Penelope had heard all about the progression of the blue tit's nest of eggs in the garden and Eloise was convinced they would hatch any day now. "And if Whistledown just so happens to make fun of him for it, I would be most grateful."

"El!"

Eloise rolled her bright blue eyes playfully before leading Penelope out of the market and onto the stone steps outside. Spring was finally grabbing hold of London after a chilling winter and Penelope was delighted that the imported wisteria alongst the great houses, the cherry blossoms in the gardens, and the jasmine planted in nearly every square were finally in bloom. Despite a persistent bite to the wind, warmth permeated the air with more frequent bursts of the sun.

"Enough of Anthony. You have been writing Colin too, correct? I have stopped reading his letters. He rambles, does he not?"

"You say that every time we mention his letters," Penelope admonished lightly. "But he is not a bad writer, in fact. He is very descriptive when it comes to travels, especially about the sights and local customs."

"Yes, well, I must admit I am jealous he has in fact been somewhere." Eloise's face fell a fraction, and Penelope recognized the storm that flitted over her eyes. The Bridgerton siblings were similar in that way. They were painfully easily to read in many respects but it was truly their eyes that could tell a whole story in under a second. "Because he is a man, he may do so. Because he is a man, he may galavant off to any country he likes before he is thirty. He does not even have to consider marriage until he is forty or so, if he so wished. Oh, if I were a man…"

"You would eat his heart in the market place?" Penelope tried to joke and Eloise gave her a weak smile in return. "Just as fair Beatrice said in Much Ado About Nothing ?"

"Can you imagine that it has been, what, nearly two hundred years since that play was written and yet that sentiment still holds true." Eloise tapped the dimple in her chin thoughtfully. "Pen, why do you not write of this plight more often? You have considerable influence, power even. Why not use it for such an endeavor?"

Penelope squirmed a tad uncomfortably as they walked along the path to admire the green square ahead of them. She was all too aware of the persistent presence of their maids behind them.

"While I agree with you, El, that the state of our existence is unfair, that sort of writing can be considered politically radical. I must be careful how I say things. You remember the Queen's hunt for me last year?"

Eloise winced, coming to a halt at the edge of the green space. She threw a look back to their maids a few steps behind. Penelope pretended to stand on her toes to gain a better look at the light pink cherry blossoms hanging from the tree.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

Penelope snorted. From Eloise that was as close to an admittance of defeat one could have. But she had a sneaking suspicion Eloise would bring up the subject again.

"What of the new heir to your household? Is he here yet?"

"No. Mama is still convinced he is trying to torture us before he makes his appearance," Penelope chewed her bottom lip. She'd fallen back into the habit the past month, leaving the bit of flesh in tatters. "I am not sure what we will do if he is as bad as Mama says."

She felt Eloise lean her head on top of her own, the gentle pressure soothed her. It was something that, truly, only Eloise could do.

"No matter what happens, I will be here for you Pen."

Penelope smiled because it was truly one of the only things she believed to the marrow of her bones.

Benedict finally found an opening to accost his older brother at Gunter's at exactly 2:31 p.m. The blasted man had been conducting his interviews since bloody ten that morning and Benedict deeply regretted letting his mother rope him into this. One, because he could have slept for at least another two hours if he had not been dragged out of bed by a determined Violet Bridgerton, intent on her second child stalking her eldest across Mayfair for the day. Two, he also could have been with Eloise and Penelope right now at the market. While ton activities and events were not his favorite, he had not physically seen Penelope for going on a month and it felt like a literal hole in his chest had opened up the minute she'd disappeared from sight. He supposed this was what it was like to have a best friend for a long period of time.

Growing up, Benedict had always had friends. That was the type of man he was. Amiable, funny, and constantly willing to start conversation. He and Colin were similar in that manner. However, Benedict moved from circle to circle so much, trying to find his niche or his place that he had never been able to really have one close friend. Oh he had many friends and acquaintances, but no one he could truly bare his soul to.

No, that honor belonged to his siblings. At least, it had until last season.

It had until Penelope. Then Henry and Lucy. Even Andrew was becoming what Benedict suspected was a close friend and it was a new, wonderful feeling that Benedict never realized he was missing.

But now that he had it, he never wanted to relinquish it. Bridgertons were covetous creatures, they all knew it. Even if they would never admit it aloud; they were a family that refused to relinquish anything - or anyone - they claimed as their own.

So Penelope being gone for a full month when she was only across the street? It had nearly done him and Eloise in.

Except Eloise was now basking in Penelope's company and Benedict was stuck trying to ensure that Anthony hadn't contracted a disease of the brain.

When finally Anthony's two o'clock interview with Miss Goring had ended after exactly thirty minutes, Benedict slid into the chair across from his brother the young lady had previously occupied. Without preamble, Benedict took a hold of his brother's spoon, still planted into a half eaten scoop of creamy ice, and stole a bite.

He immediately regretted it.

"Ugh," Benedict groaned, making a face as he was forced to swallow the salty, foul concoction. "Parmesan ice? You absolute bastard!"

Anthony merely smirked, taking back his spoon and taking a large, satisfied bite.

"I quite enjoy it."

"Then you belong with the rest of the lunatics who claim to be gentlemen." Benedict smacked his mouth, his tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth as if that would somehow exorcize the flavor from his taste buds. "Speaking of lunacy, how is this absolute mockery of courting going?"

"Ah, that is the genius of it, little brother. It is not really courting, but a requirement to preclude any sort of courting that could take place."

Anthony sat back in his chair, crossing his arms as he let a look of smug satisfaction cross his face. Less than impressed, Benedict felt the lines of his face settle into something flat, only raising one eyebrow.

"Sure. And how is that going for you?"

Now Anthony scowled and Benedict let out an inward crow of victory.

"None of these young chits seem to be able to achieve balance or perfection," Anthony bit out, the seams of his jacket tightening as he tensed under Benedict's gaze. "If they have any smarts, they lack all grace. If they have social niceties, they appear to be missing a brain. How am I meant to find the next Viscountess Bridgerton if none of the available young ladies can measure up?"

"Why should perfection matter, Brother?" Benedict placed an elbow on the table so he could rest his chin on his palm. He could understand Anthony wanting a woman of both beauty and learning, but perfection? Anyone should know that perfection did not actually exist. Though, Benedict had to admit, he often sought the ever elusive perception when it came to his artwork.

Or, if one were to ask young Gregory, there was such a thing as an absolutely perfect vanilla custard.

"Perfection matters, Ben, because it is a new Viscountess Bridgerton that would take over all of Mother's duties. Not just parties or the running of the household, but the care of our younger siblings. Particularly our sisters." Anthony leveled an exacting stare at Benedict that actually made the younger man gulp. "I am no fool. You think I do not know how much Eloise despises the idea of being out? That you have promised both her and Francesca that if they decided to be spinsters, they could live with you?"

Benedict refused to flinch under Anthony's stare. He couldn't tell who he was talking to just then, his elder brother or the viscount. But no matter what, he would not apologize for the vow he gave to their sisters.

"If you think I will take back what I said then you are sorely mistaken."

Anthony held his glare for a moment before he sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Benedict, think on it. It is I who provides you with money to pursue what you want. We did not force you to join the military or the clergy. While, yes, you make your own financial investments and reap some rewards from that, it is still I that mostly supports you. It is definitely I that supports our sisters. You may offer them a place to live, but unless you find a stronger revenue stream it is still I that supports you all. And if you change your mind? If your future wife decides she does not want your sisters living with you? Then it will be me and my future wife that will play host to Eloise and possibly Francesca for the remainder of their lives."

Benedict could not help the guilt that stabbed his body, twisting his guts and making him fidget. He sat back in his chair, mirroring his brother's body language while he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

"I would not go back on my word to El or Fran."

"I do not believe you would do so intentionally," Anthony answered and Benedict could not help the well of hurt that filled up inside him. "But you can be flighty, Ben. Always trying to find what you are meant to do. I know what I am meant to do. I have known since I was nineteen years old." Anthony's face became stony then and Benedict knew the exact memory that was flashing across his brother's mind's eye. "I must protect my family. To do that, I must marry the perfect woman, one who can deal with the contradictory forces of Eloise and Francesca. One who can get along with Mother. One who, Heaven help us, will ensure Hyacinth safely debuts rather than turn to some sort of life of crime like we all secretly suspect she is capable of."

Benedict could not help the snort that escaped him at that, and even Anthony gave him a half-smile. Shifting in the small wooden chair, he peered around him, at all the young ladies with their maids and mamas, in bright pastels as they chittered over the marriage mart. For that was what they all talked about this time of year. Their very livelihood depended on it. Benedict hated it for many reasons, as the room of anxious debutants and ambitious mamas, frankly, did not interest him.

But was that truly their fault? Or were they exactly as they had been molded to be by their society, as Eloise and Penelope so often reminded him.

As he surveyed them all, he could not spot one he believed could actually match his domineering, stubborn, often cantankerous older brother. But more than that, he could not imagine that a single one of them could ever come to rival his brother's love for his family.

He wondered if Anthony even took that into the account. For whoever he married would not survive their family if they did not have a heart as strong and as capable of love as the rest of them.

With a sigh, Benedict shook his head and shrugged in defeat.

"Fine. I shall tell Mother you are not addled in the head but simply doing your best."

"I would appreciate it."

" If you buy me a vanilla ice."

"You absolute blaggard."

"You love me."

Twenty minutes later, Benedict had been shooed out of Gunter's for Anthony's three o'clock interview. With a slightly lighter conscience and a stomach full of vanilla ice and biscuits, he strolled along the street as he let himself digest. Anthony's words had not truly surprised Benedict. It all made sense, his brother's desire for absolute brilliance from a woman that would help him head their large family. But he could not help but feel that this would, at some point, bite Anthony in the arse harder than Rapscallion attacking Benedict's own derriere.

Unconsciously, he rubbed his bottom before realizing what he was doing in the middle of the street. He quickly withdrew his hand, though his thoughts now turned to Penelope. He would see her that night at Lady Danbury's ball and nothing thrilled him more in that moment. He had not realized how quickly one could forget the finer details of a friend's face until they were gone unexpectedly for a month, but there it was. He was not exactly sure on what side of her face the stray curl fell upon, the one that always escaped any hairstyle she wore, or if her nose twitched before or after she laughed. It felt traitorous to forget such small, important details. Any detail, every detail, was important to an artist and he loathed to admit that he could even forget one about his young friend.

The one thing he knew he never forgot was her hidden, close-mouthed smile. The one full of secrets. It was as he pictured it, coy and vivid in his mind, that he angled his body towards a shop window to avoid crashing into a gaggle of young women heading down the street. They made no signs of stopping or avoiding his path so he stepped inwards, his eyes now diverted to the merchandise on display.

He froze.

There within the window display, on a pretty tray filled with other jewelry and hair ornaments, was a silver butterfly no bigger than the palm of his hand. It was set upon a comb made to slide into a lady's hair, its intricate wings carved with delicate curves and circles beset with jewels. Tourmaline of the prettiest blues and greens dotted the silver wings and before Benedict knew it, he had entered the shop to enquire about the price.

Though he already knew that no matter what price it was, he would be purchasing it.

And he knew exactly who he would give it to.

Penelope's nerves grew further frayed the more her mother and Missus Varley talked as they had gotten ready for the ball. Besides the fact that some of their wardrobe was being repeated from the year before, and they were having boiled potatoes for dinner again (unfortunately, Benedict's last shipment of vegetables had run out two weeks ago), Missus Varley and the one maid they shared amongst them, the house was truly deserted.

Penelope's heart panged as she thought of Missus O'Carroll and of Evans. She missed them terribly.

Prudence's voice snapped her out of her longing and Penelope studied the conversation over the pages of her book.

"A season with no new dresses nor servants. Are we to empty our own chamber pots, too?"

"Mama, I cannot do that," Philippa piped up, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

It would have made Penelope chuckle if the possibility had not seemed very, very real. She knew, deep in her heart, that some of their worries were petty. Emptying their own chamber pots and eating potatoes were the least of their worries if they were to go on as they had been.

"Calm yourselves," Portia sighed, cradling her forehead with thumb and middle finger as if fighting off a headache. "As I have told you, once the new Lord Featherington arrives, we will be provided for."

"Well where is he? Why is he taking so long?" Prudence huffed as she pushed Penelope's feet off the chaise lounge so she could flop down, tying her robe across her breasts more firmly.

"Because he wishes to make us suffer." Portia huffed another long sigh and, although the dramatics may have seemed ridiculous to Penelope before, she was not amused now. No, her mother was truly worried, concerned for their welfare. And if her immaculate, put together mother were to crack, her sisters would topple after her like a house of cards. "I did not wish to burden you young ladies, but…well our estate has been left in some disrepair ever since your father... The new Lord Featherington is off somewhere delighting in our misfortune because the man is as cruel as can be. I hear he cast his only son out to the Americas for daring to question his word. I tremble to think where he will send the rest of us if he has a mind." Her mother whirled around in her tight floral skirt, a hand clasped to her bosom. "Cornwall, perhaps."

"Cornwall!" Prudence exclaimed and Penelope flinched.

"I suppose you may always visit Mister Finch and me," Philippa said, a dreamy smile floating upon her face.

Penelope did not feel so bad bursting her bubble just then.

"If there is nary a penny for new dresses or staff, there is certainly none for your dowry, sister." Penelope eyed her mother and as if she meant to challenge her words, Portia glared at her before the corners of her eyes gave way just a bit in silent acknowledgement.

That look was gone as soon as it appeared when Philippa asked incredulously, "He shall prevent me from marrying?"

Their mother shook her head, grasping Phillipa's shoulder in her hold to assure her. The purple feathers peaked through Portia's hold and Penelope imagined her mother holding a small bird a bit too tightly.

"Of course not." Portia smoothed out the feathers on Philippa's shoulders before pacing the small, dark room. "The man may be an old, bitter curmudgeon, but he is a gentleman and he will keep a gentleman's agreement. Which is why we must waste no time finding matches for the lot of you." Penelope's stomach sank like a stone, settling somewhere near her toes at her mother's words. "Unless you are all betrothed by the time our cousin arrives to claim the Featherington estate, we shall be at his mercy and then, heaven help us all!"

"We could always sell the silverware," Missus Varley contributed, wringing one of their old dresses in her fingers. "The dinner service should fetch a handsome price."

Penelope could feel her thoughts spiraling as her mother and Varley talked and her sisters worried amongst themselves. She had known, of course, of the dire situation her family was in. It had been the entire reason Benedict had squirreled away her money in a hidden bank account at Barclays. But with the new heir nowhere in sight and her own mother possibly willing to push Penelope into a marriage with just any eligible bachelor, they needed money and quickly.

The question was, did Penelope have the fortitude to use her own funds to support her mother and sisters? For the life of her, she didn't want her family discovering she was Lady Whistledown. And if Penelope revealed she had money, her mother's shrewd line of questioning would lead the woman to find out.

Portia Featherington was many things, but unintelligent was not one of them.

Penelope bit her bottom lip and softly cried out as she tore into the tender flesh again. It bled slightly but the taste of copper and iron on her tongue gave her resolve. She would focus on Lady Whistledown tonight, more money to fill her own coffers. She would hopefully see Benedict and obtain his help. If the heir did not appear within the next fortnight, then Penelope would contrive a scheme to lift her family out of potential poverty.

She wouldn't allow her mother to marry her to just anybody.

She couldn't.

Lady Danbury's ball, as usual, was flawless. Held in a dazzling conservatory, the greenery around the room added to the magnificence provided by the string quartet, the mountains of food, and the glittering jewels of the attending debutantes.

There was of course no shortage of gossip to overhear either.

The arrival of the Sharmas was the biggest talk of the night, centering mostly around Lady Mary Sharma nee Sheffield. It was a scandal to be sure as she made her reappearance with not only her own daughter, but the daughter of her late husband from a previous marriage. Penelope spied the two women from across the way and even she had to admit she was stunned by their beauty. The youngest girl in pretty pale pink was the quintessential debutant; bright smile, demure standing, and undoubtedly charming if the men coming to ask her to dance was any show if it.

But the elder Sharma daughter, dressed in sky blue, was a figure to behold. If the younger was a pretty as a doe, then the older Sharma sister was as regal, gorgeous, and terrifying as a lioness. The woman eyed the crowd with an assessing gaze before she gave her own sister subtle nods and hints as to who she may approach or assent to dance with.

Penelope could not help but admire the woman. If anything, she looked utterly assured of herself. Desperately, Penelope wanted to know more about them, to know of their characters. But she would bide her time. She could be patient, and while gossip was incredibly juicy, Penelope did not want to malign the sisters without getting a better assessment of them.

Lady Mary's old scandal was not news exactly, but it would feed the ton. Penelope gained much insight from watching the sisters command their corner of the room, especially as wards of Lady Danbury. But that was another reason to be cautious. Lady Danbury was the last woman Penelope would ever want to cross.

So she listened some more. She overheard her mother and her put-on hysterics to ward off the Finch family from asking about the dowry again. Not unusual, and for once, Penelope had no compulsion to even be embarrassed by her mother's show. Getting Philippa married at the very least was of the utmost importance and Albion Finch had been the only man to show any interest in a Featherington woman.

But as the ball continued and Penelope wandered along the outskirts, hiding behind plants and generally going unseen, she couldn't help but take longing glances at the front glass doors. She tucked the little bundle of flowers she'd brought from home into her hair hopefully.

Their entrance into Lady Danbury's ball was easy and nonchalant. It had to be in order to set Eloise at ease. She fidgeted constantly in her light blue dress, covered in floral appliques. Benedict pitied Eloise immensely; she looked so uncomfortable in her own skin when she was a girl usually bursting with confidence. It felt unnatural to see her distressed.

Benedict peered around the makeshift ballroom in the conservatory, his eyes seeking out a flash of autumn fire curls. This time last year at Lady Danbury's ball, his first thought would have been to find the alcohol or Lady Danbury herself. Old habits died hard, after all. But now, after over a month of not seeing each other, he ached to be in the company of his young friend.

"Stop fussing with your dress," Anthony hissed, bending down to scold their sister as she once again picked at her skirt.

"You look lovely, dear," Violet soothed, patting Eloise's arm looped through hers.

Eloise grimaced and Benedict wondered if their mother really thought that her second daughter was nervous about how she presented in a dress.

"I look like a prize calf, trussed up for auction." Eloise furiously threw down the bit of her dress she had been fussing with.

Sensing that Anthony was growing exasperated and their mother was about to issue some other platitude or correction, Benedict knew he had to jump into action. Quickly, he decided to do what he did best. Defuse the possibility of confrontation with humor.

He bent himself in half to reach Eloise's ear and did his best obnoxious impression of a cow's moo. Both Eloise and Violet swatted at him though he saw his sister's lips quirk upwards just a little. Satisfied, he stood at his full height and even Anthony cracked him a covert smile, which from Anthony was tantamount to a blessing from the archbishop.

"Even Daphne felt most apprehensive at her first official ball and look how well her season turned out," Violet tried to soothe again but Benedict knew by the instant fall of Eloise's face that any comparison to Daphne was the wrong thing to say.

Before his little sister could snap, as he felt she would do by the tensing of her jaw, the baby-faced Marquis Ashdown approached, his fly-away red-curls puffed around his face. He was barely out of leading strings, and although Benedict could not protect Eloise from dancing with gentlemen forever, he could save her from this one.

"Come, Sister," Benedict automatically looped his arm with Eloise's, dragging her away from their mother's hold. "The cakes at these occasions are surprisingly good."

Before either Violet or Anthony could utter a word, Benedict hastened Eloise away, practically diving into the surrounding greenery as if they could camouflage themselves into the natural decor. He thought he heard Anthony utter the words, "It truly is a sparse crop," and Benedict prayed for his brother to choose his words more wisely around their mother. He of all of their brood should know the dowager viscountess would take that as a challenge.

Benedict was proven right when the escaped duo heard their mother announce so loud the entire conservatory could hear,

"After all, this is the season the viscount intends to find a wife ."

Turning to watch the results of their mother feeding chum to the sharks that called themselves debutantes and mamas, they watched as Anthony was entirely surrounded by silk gloved arms holding out dance cards and a cloud of hope that his name would provide them entrance to the Kingdom of Heaven. Eloise snorted, placing one hand on her hip, raising her nose in the air like a royal about to watch a deserved execution.

"Serves him right."

Benedict sighed, squeezing her upper arm gently between his bicep and ribs.

"It is not Anthony's fault that you debuted this year, El. He will not force you to choose any man if you do not want to. He learned that much from Daph's season last year. He is already much more hands off with you than he was with her."

"But he could have told Mama no. " Eloise shot a glare of such fiery rage up at him that Benedict instantly knew she was masking her intense hurt. "And the reason he is so hands off with me is because he knows I could never be as perfect as Daphne. That I am a lost cause."

"Oh El. Do not disparage yourself, please. That is not it at all."

Benedict did not know how to fix the overwhelming sense of defeat that enveloped his sister. He could not admit that she was right, Anthony could have told their mother no, to hold off Eloise's debut another year. But Benedict also saw Anthony's point – had talked to their brother about it over the cold months.

"If we delay Eloise's entrance into society, Mother will simply grow more frantic in her efforts to marry her off," Anthony had said over glasses of port one long autumn night in his study. "I understand your concern for her, Ben. She does not aspire to be a wife and mother as Daph did."

"Then why not hold it off just one more year?" Benedict had asked, gripping his glass a little too hard. "She is so scared, Ant."

The conviction in Anthony's deep brown eyes wavered slightly, Benedict swore he saw it, but hardened again with resolve. But even Benedict could not deny the attempt at gentleness in his brother's voice.

"If we delayed it a year, she would debut at the same time as Fran. That would be incredibly stressful on both of them. The longer Eloise is out without any suitors she would accept, the sooner she will be labeled a spinster and put on the shelf."

Benedict hated to admit that Anthony's strategy was sound, that his logic made sense. But that still did not stop the helplessness he felt at being unable to make Eloise feel better.

"I will help you and Nel will too," he whispered. They were now at the opposite end of the dance floor hidden by a ficus or some other such plant. Its waxy green leaves hid their bodies well and the fresh, clean scent helped mask the oppressive stress and energy of the ball itself. "How about you go find Nel. I will track down some refreshments and keep an eye on Mother."

Eloise's whole countenance lit up at once and although Benedict also wished desperately to see their mutual friend, he knew he'd made the right choice. Eloise needed Penelope more than he did right now.

"You really are my most favorite brother, you know that?" she exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Before he could reply, she was off, dashing along the sides of the dance floor, probably to find the darkest corner Penelope could be gathering gossip from.

Benedict ran a gloved hand through his thick hair, watching as she disappeared in the crowd. A Bridgerton blue amongst the other pastel dresses and black suits. He couldn't help the conflicting emotions that overtook him in that moment. Eloise was his favorite sister, not that he would ever admit it. He loved all of his siblings in different, unique ways. But Eloise was the one he could call not only his sister, but his friend and confidant. Yet the need to protect her and his other siblings warred with that ever-growing sense of losing out on finding himself, discovering what could set him apart from being the spare of the Bridgerton family.

Balance, he discovered, was an incredibly tricky thing.

Penelope could not believe that, for once, her bright yellow dress actually helped her blend into the scenery rather than make her stand out like a beacon amongst the more calm pastels of the ton. Though she was invisible no matter what, at least her pineapple-colored dress actually helped her match some of the floral arrangements.

Standing in a dark hallway off the conservatory, not much but candle flames and moonlight lighting the way, she eavesdropped on two incredibly chatty footmen.

"...And they say Millerson has a whelp in the country. Spitting image of his father–"

Penelope grinned at the tidbit, though she would have to do a bit more digging about Mister Millerson before publishing that tasty morsel. Perhaps if she saw Benedict that night, she could inquire on Millerson's reputation and if he was truly awful, then she would expose it. Benedict was often her voice of reason, while Eloise encouraged her to be brash and bold. It was a balance, that was for sure.

She subconsciously tucked the small, cut sprigs of heather and freesia into the hair just above her left ear again. The heather Benedict would recognize as the symbol she needed his help delivering a column that night. She'd decided last minute to add freesia, a new addition to the bouquet.

A sign of implicit trust.

"There you are!"

Penelope startled as Eloise strode over, her face one of relief. Penelope smiled, large and open as a twinge of guilt settled into her stomach. She should have immediately sought out Eloise, she knew her dearest friend was nervous about her first official ball.

"Oh, Pen. I am so glad to see you!" Eloise gushed, grabbing Penelope's hands and squeezing. "Mama is already being insufferable."

"I am sorry, El. I should have sought you out immediately."

Eloise waved her gloved hand, her dance card nearly hitting Penelope's nose.

"Nonsense, Pen. I knew you had business to attend to."

Eloise wiggled her brows and Penelope could not help the giggle that bubbled from her lips. Eloise had the uncanny knack of always being able to make her laugh.

"At least your mama did not see fit to dress you as a sunflower." Penelope gestured to the glaring brightness of her yellow dress. "I declare a bee keeps mistaking me for the real thing."

Eloise opened her mouth to reply but Penelope saw from over her friend's shoulder the approach of two gentlemen and had to resist wrinkling her nose. Lord Stanley was not offensive by any means. He was polite enough but without a doubt one who silently followed a crowd. Lord Cho, on the other hand, quite flagrantly flaunted what he thought a woman's place was within the confines of marriage.

"Miss Bridgerton. May I request your next dance?"

"Or I might accompany you to fetch some lemonade? You seem parched."

Surging in her chest, a tide of simultaneous protectiveness and jealousy overwhelmed her. She didn't like it; it was awkward and painful all at once. She wanted to help shield Eloise from these men that she knew her friend did not like on principal. In fact, she was fairly certain that Eloise would rather break her own foot than dance with them. Penelope quickly decided she best not voice that aloud lest Eloise might really try to break her foot.

But the jealousy was there, too. Ugly and bitter. It was not that Penelope desired the attention of these two men in particular. In fact, they were probably the last men, besides Lord Fife, she would want to attract. But Eloise was a Bridgerton. Beautiful, bold, and with a bountiful dowry to match. Penelope had never, would never, attract positive attention from gentlemen.

"How can you tell, is she wilting?" Penelope murmured, and although she knew she was ignored, she was surprised at her own gall.

"Or punch if you prefer," Lord Cho tried again, nothing if not insistent.

"It was a plant pun if you were wondering…"

But she was invisible. As usual.

"Apologies, gentlemen, I regret to inform you that my dance card is already full." Eloise flaunted her dance card and Penelope noticed for the first time the scribblings of graphite upon it.

Her friend whisked her away, but before they got too far, Penelope grabbed the card and began to read.

"Byron? Wellington? Eloise, these names are false!"

"I am merely following my sister's valuable advice," Eloise replied haughtily, a triumphant smirk taking over her face. "She told me that it is of the utmost importance for a lady's dance card to be filled with all of the right names."

They both burst into laughter and Penelope tried desperately to school her face, though she failed utterly. How could she be jealous of Eloise? Truly, her best friend was too clever by half. But more than that, Eloise made her feel jubilant when otherwise she would not. Their glee was short-lived, however, at the unmistakable voice of the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

"Eloise?"

Eloise hid her dance card behind her back, pressing her side firmly against Penelope's own as if she could draw strength just through touch. Penelope pitied Eloise. Lady Bridgerton's motivations, Penelope knew, came from a place of love. But her overzealous conviction that all her children should fall in love and marry would push Eloise farther away rather than provide happiness.

"There you are, dear. Come, there is someone I would like you to meet." Violet made a grab for Eloise but before she could be pulled away, Penelope was seized by simultaneous inspiration and panic.

"Lady Bridgerton, excuse my rudeness. May I just tell Eloise something real quick? Some courage for her first ball."

Penelope tried to smile, though she feared her nerves may have shown. The matriarch blinked a moment and Penelope was struck by just how beautiful Violet Bridgerton was. Her bright blue eyes that matched half of her children's own, walnut brown hair elegantly pinned back. Regal and warm all at once. Penelope wished, not for the first time, that her own mother demonstrated half as much outward care. Violet may be overbearing but she was loving in the extreme.

"Alright, Penelope dear. Just for a moment."

Penelope nodded her thanks before pulling Eloise off to the side just far enough that Violet could not overhear if they whispered. Gingerly, Penelope took the heather and freesia from her hair and tucked it in Eloise's own.

"Give these to Benedict when you can." Penelope pulled a pin from her own curls to secure the flowers in Eloise's own. "I must make a delivery tonight."

Eloise rolled her eyes playfully.

"Yes, he was most displeased when you went out on your own to deliver the one that saved me from presentation."

"He wrote me as much in the missive you delivered to me." Penelope shook her head, the message he'd sent her still tucked in her bosom along with her Whistledown scribblings for the night. "But it was meant to be a surprise."

"And you succeeded."

Eloise closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. Penelope could imagine how everything here overwhelmed her best friend; the dancing couples, the smell of overly sweet cakes and lemonade, the orchestra playing song after song until everything blended together in one whirling cacophony.

Softly squeezing Eloise's wrist, Penelope tried to impart any bit of strength she possessed.

"You can do this, El."

Eloise bit her lip but nodded before returning to her mother. As Eloise was dragged off, to meet some gentleman no doubt, Penelope dropped back to the two gossiping footmen.

Benedict picked up his second ratafia of the night which, quite honestly, was very tame for him. He'd been determined to keep himself mostly sober for Eloise's sake and, he admitted, he did not want to be halfway sloshed when encountering Penelope for the first time in a month. Suddenly, a delicate hand picked up a glass of ratafia beside him and he turned, cocking his head to face his mother. Her brow was furrowed, pupils darting around the room. In the back of his mind, he noticed lines between the knuckles of his mother's hands.

"Have you seen your brother? Or your sister?"

Benedict smirked. He had actually seen Anthony a few minutes before, darting out for some fresh air outside. While it had been highly entertaining to watch his brother be passed from eligible young lady to eligible young lady like he was a prize to be won, he wouldn't betray his brother's peace. As for Eloise, he distinctly remembered seeing Violet drag her into conversation with some young lord or other, but by the time Benedict had been able to get near, Eloise had somehow slipped out of Violet's grasp.

"They managed to escape you?" he asked cheerfully and his mother shot him a look that could only be described as maternal vexation. "Good for them."

Benedict made to make his own escape but before he could, Lady Danbury approached in all of her glorious, draconic splendor. Truly, he would never be able to not admire the woman even as she struck fear into his heart.

"Mister Bridgerton. You have yet to take the dance floor once at my ball. Is there no young lady that piques your interest or are you letting your brother have the pick of the litter?"

As usual, the cunning woman's sharp wit hit its mark. Benedict wondered sometimes if she was omniscient, some Greek goddess in hiding, one of the Fates just counting the threads on each person's string of life.

"My brother certainly deserves the spotlight this year, Lady Danbury. I have no intention of interfering with that," Benedict remarked.

Lady Danbury passed by him, tapping her cane on the ground as she settled into place besides his mother.

"Or maybe you are repeating a pattern from last year," she volleyed. "Following the scent of certain other flowers."

Benedict felt a chill run down his spine and cast a glance towards his mother's expression. The last person he needed discovering his hidden friendship with Penelope was Violet Bridgerton. She would interrogate him with all of the deft skill rivaling the most experienced barrister. His mother's brow furrowed and he knew he needed to extricate himself from the conversation immediately.

"I have no idea what you could mean, Lady Danbury," he said lazily, raising his glass of ratafia in silent acknowledgement to her intelligence. "Unless you mean one of the many vintages that I am drawn to like a moth to a flame. I have been searching desperately for the elderflower wine you had last year."

With that, Benedict spun on his heel and strode off, desperate to put distance between him and the two shrewd women behind him. He had gotten about ten paces away before a slender arm shot out from the greenery and grabbed his arm. He jumped, splashing half of the blood red ratafia onto the polished floor.

"El!"

Eloise stood there, plucking a bundle of flowers from her hair and tucking them into the front of his waistcoat. Eloise did not have to say anything, the flowers spoke volumes, practically shouting at him.

Penelope needed him.

He couldn't explain the sudden sensation of his chest expanding, feeling as if he could practically float.

Wordlessly, she looped her arm with his and led him out into a dark side hall then a side door, exiting to a back gravel path lit precariously by moonlight. They walked until they made it to the quiet servant's entrance to see a familiar figure hidden by a blue lady's maid cloak. He felt his pulse thrum in his neck, pound with a rhythm more loud and excited than any drum.

"Nel!"

She turned and there she stood. Whatever she had been wearing to the ball was covered by the cloak, but even her face, shadowed by the eve's darkness glowed when she saw him. How that close-lipped smile he adored directed at him made the wait worth it.

"Benedict!"

She rushed forward, nearly toppling into him and Eloise in her haste. She tripped on the gravel and both he and Eloise, perfectly in-sync, steadied her.

"I have missed you," she breathed and he felt the truth of her words hover in the air before he breathed them in.

"As I have you," he admitted. But for some reason, he hurried to add, "As has Rapscallion. You cannot believe the damage he has wrecked upon my body since he last saw you."

"Yes, and it had provided myself and El no end of laughter."

"El should have kept her mouth shut on that score."

Eloise simply shrugged, removing her arm from Benedict's grasp and crossing it over her chest.

"What? It was simply providing Pen entertainment while she was cooped up in her house." Eloise suddenly pouted, sticking out her lower lip with such dramatic effect Benedict had to resist laughing at her. "I have made an appearance at my first ball and the pair of you still will not let me go with you on a Lady Whistledown mission."

"Oh El," Penelope tilted her head, completely sympathetic. "It is because it is your first ball that we cannot. Your mother has quite the eagle eye on you."

Eloise mumbled and grumbled and Benedict pinched her side, causing her to yelp. He chuckled and she punched his shoulder.

"Look El," Penelope started as she whacked Benedict's hand away from pinching his sister again. Benedict pouted at Penelope now, falling easily back into his role with her as if they hadn't been separated for a month. "You know how I constantly evade detection? Though I am a wallflower, there are rare occasions I must escape Mama and this trick always works."

"What?" Eloise inquired and Benedict bent forward, eager to hear the answer as well.

"Stay at least two feet behind Mister Whitstone at all times."

There was a beat of silence before the answer leapt to vivid life in Benedict's mind and he had to stifle a snort. He made a strange choking sound instead while Eloise appeared entirely befuddled.

"Mister Whitstone?"

"Yes," Penelope nodded, her cloak swaying a little in the cool, spring breeze. "Not only does he have manners so indecorous that no one engages him in conversation, but his cologne smells of rotten fruit. If you can stand that, you have a physical repellant."

Eloise gagged and Benedict caught Penelope's eye, both alight in humor. It was an intimate thing, he realized, to share in one's silent humor. But he adored it, especially with her.

"What if I do not want to hide behind him?" Eloise asked, her whole body shivering in disgust.

"Then you must pretend to be a potted plant, El," Penelope said seriously.

Benedict could no longer keep in his chuckles, his ribs aching with the effort as his lungs spasmed.

"Come along, Nel," he said before chucking Eloise under the chin. "Sneak back in carefully, El. I will return home and you can tell me all about the slights against you if you do not successfully escape Mother the rest of the time."

"I shall endeavor not to be caught," Eloise replied dryly.

Stepping forward, Eloise hugged Penelope fiercely before darting back off into the darkness. With ease, Benedict placed a hand around Penelope's shoulders to lead her away.

"Come, Rapscallion awaits."

There was something strangely natural about reading her latest column aloud on Rapscallion's back, cradled between Benedict's thighs as he steered them towards the direction of Chancery Lane Printers. Penelope had informed him of the change in printers, for the better price of parchment, the higher quality of ink, and a better pay out for all involved.

"I still wish you had taken me," Benedict grumbled, the satin of Penelope's cloak tugging the stubble on his chin. "It is dangerous, Nel. A woman on her own, even one disguised as a servant. I swore to–"

"To protect me, yes. But Benedict, surely you are not going to use our first meeting in a month to scold me?"

She grinned and she could feel his chest rumble in discontent. Men were funny creatures, and while she wished Benedict would give her a little more credit when it came to running some of her Whistledown business herself, another part delighted in his protectiveness of her.

"I suppose I can save my lecture for later."

"Wise choice, indeed."

Rapscallion whinnied in apparent agreement as he clopped along the dark street, carefully evading hacks and drunkards.

"Traitor," Benedict said and Penelope beamed. She wriggled a little in her place upon the saddle and Benedict stiffened slightly, the one arm banded around her waist tightening. "Nel, is everything going smoothly with your bank account? You have been able to make deposits successfully?"

"Oh, yes! They have been very discreet at Barclays. I am ever so grateful for you setting that up for me, Benedict!"

And she was. It was certainly less stressful to be able to hide away her growing sum of money in a bank rather than in hollowed out books under her floorboards.

"If I may ask, how much is your enterprise making for you?"

"Let's see," Penelope tapped her chin thoughtfully. "For last edition's takings? Eight hundred copies at five pence a piece, sold for eight pence each, minus the delivery boys' wages, I should have made eleven pounds two shillings here altogether."

Penelope felt Benedict's jaw drop, his chin hitting the crown of her head. She giggled, bending her neck so she could look up into his astonished face. For a moment she was stunned breathless as his ocean eyes glittered in the dark, his expression impossibly soft and full of awe. Something stirred and flipped in her stomach as she met his gaze.

"You are incredible, Penelope Featherington. Do you know that?"

She didn't say anything, just stared at him until her neck ached too much to hold the position. When she returned her vision to the street, she felt him pull her closer and, possibly, tug the reins. Rapscallion's walk slowed and Penelope let Benedict fold himself around her. He was protecting her against the chill, that was all.

Surely, that was all.

There is nothing quite like the sweet-scented smell of success. But after taking in the scene from last night's festivities, it is clear the season won't be quite so fragrant for everyone.

The Viscount Bridgerton's own mama may have loudly declared her eldest son's lofty intentions to marry. Yet, I cannot be the only one wondering if this former capital-R-Rake is indeed ready to flourish. Perhaps the Viscount, like the rest of us, is simply waiting for The Queen to finally name her diamond. Or perhaps This Author should take matters into her own hands. Though, of the many purportedly well-trained and bred hot-house flowers on display this year, This Author must wonder if a more surprising choice might still be in store.

Which ever darling miss receives such high esteem, let us hope there is a suitor available of only the sharpest wit, lest his dry musings leave a young lady wilting like a parched rose.

Penelope could not help but bask in the joy of her recent success. Not only had her latest Lady Whistledown issue been published without a hitch, she had been reunited with her dearest friends while giving them the gift of giving a spotlight to their brother's hapless courting attempts. She blushed, remembering the ride to and from the printers on Rapscallion's back. Benedict had held her close all night as if almost afraid to let her go. They'd talked so easily, of Whistledown, his latest sketches, of Anthony's hilarious misfortune. It had been so effortless to be lost in his embrace and his voice.

A snort from the corner table drew Penelope's attention and she turned to see Mister Albion Finch settled next to Philippa and perusing her scandal sheet.

"It is rather clever, the way she uses plant puns to belittle," he said and Penelope could not help the swell of pride that made her feel practically buoyant.

She knew she liked Mister Finch for a reason.

"Clever indeed!" she said, closing her book as she hopped up from her seat by the window to snatch a treat from the tea service. She picked a cucumber sandwich, made from the latest shipment of Benedict's own crop from his property. Penelope swore she could practically taste the Wiltshire air as she bit into the tasty morsel.

But her smile faded as she overheard her beleaguered mother, reclined upon the sofa, say to Missus Varley, "The candlesticks. See what they are worth."

The reality of the choice set before her came crashing down. If the new heir did not come soon, Penelope could have no choice but to use her funds to support them all.

And along with it, her secret identity could be revealed.

As she shuffled out of the room, Penelope pondered why freedom seemed to always flutter out of reach.

Benedict felt as if he could fly.

Truly. The sun was shining. His family was all together in the house. Rapscallion had not bitten his very bruised arse today.

He had finally seen Penelope last night.

He'd been filled with nothing but euphoric delight ever since and there was a small, rational part of him that was questioning why. Penelope was one of his dearest friends, that much was true. But why was he deriving such unbridled joy from the meeting? He couldn't explain it and, frankly, he did not want to.

Why try to rationalize away something happy?

So even when Benedict, sketchpad in hand, nearly ran smackdab into Genevieve Delacroix on her way out of the drawing room, it did not diminish his spirits.

"Madame Delacroix! Hard back at work, I see."

"Bien sûr! Who else could dress these delicate debutantes for the season?"

There it was, the well-practiced, false French accent. She truly could have been an actress if she had so desired. Benedict had not been entirely kind-hearted towards Genevieve the past few months, especially as she had appeared to be making advances towards Penelope. Genevieve's love life was none of his concern, and her rejection of him over the summer had not really smarted.

But to go after Penelope… Something about it irked him. He told himself it was because Penelope was innocent and if his young friend ever wanted to explore a relationship of a more sexual nature, it should be of her volition, her instigation, no one else's. But Genevieve flirted and poked until Benedict felt like an irate bear being bated in the pit.

However, the day was new and Benedict was excited there was a party that evening. He hoped to take Penelope, like they had over the autumn and winter months. He wanted to bask in her conversation as they drank and drew in the warmth of the Granville home.

And, he reminded himself, Genevieve was Penelope's friend. Maybe Genevieve's flirtation were all for naught.

"I hear there is a party tonight," he hedged carefully, lowering his voice to avoid his mother's attention. "Will you be attending?"

Genevieve's familiar, feline smirk slipped onto her face.

"That depends. Maybe if our sweet Nel is there, I will be sure to be in attendance."

The base of his spine grew taut and rigid. Before he knew it, Benedict stood once more at his full height, his eyes narrowed down at her accusingly.

"I have warned you before. Leave her out of your seductions–"

"Do not look so tense, Mister Bridgerton." She flipped her tight curls over her shoulder as she adjusted her sample book of fabrics in her arms. The smug look of satisfaction plastered on her face did not escape him. "I have much work to do. My art comes before all else… Even pretty redheads."

With that, she sidestepped him and swept out of the room, leaving him roiling with a fiery, furious emotion he could not immediately identify.

As he approached his elder brother at the table, the bastard had the audacity to smirk at him.

"Are you and the modiste still…making a stitch?"

Anthony took a sip of his tea, his dark brown eyes, the color of dry earth, twinkling at him with mischief. But Benedict felt as if he'd been doused in water straight from an icy lake. While his brother clearly thought relations were still friendly between him and the modiste, how much did his brother overhear? Could he tell that Benedict's possessiveness did not lay with the woman who dressed the ton but with another?

Panic seized him, causing him to splutter loudly, "N-no, Brother. How about you? Have you found a wife yet, or are you planning to offend every young lady until there are none left?" Benedict raised his voice even louder, desperately trying to put all attention away from him. "Is Mother aware?"

"Aware of what?"

Small victory but a victory nonetheless, for Violet Bridgerton's assessing stare was now firmly trained on Anthony. Benedict received a glower in thanks for his efforts as his brother stood, folding his broadsheet abruptly before placing it on the table. "I am off to deal with our solicitor." Anthony bent low as Benedict opened his sketchpad and said just loud enough for him to hear, "Have fun with your pretty pictures, Brother."

Benedict did not even wince at the biting remark as Anthony strode out of the room, their mother hot on his heels.

Just as the door nipped at their mother's skirts, Francesca slid into the chair Anthony had vacated. Benedict raised his brows in surprise but flinched as a loud screeching sound filled the room. Every sibling looked to watch Eloise drag the legs of an upholstered chair across the floor to place between him and Francesca. Trust Eloise to not give a damn about making noise or scuffing the floor. Benedict could already imagine poor Missus Wilson pulling out her hair when she discovered it.

"Well, go on, Brother. Give us some fresh gossip before it is printed in Whistledown."

Francesca's hazel eyes are actually slight with quiet mischief, twinkling at him like a rushing river under the sun. It struck him keenly in that moment that she would depart once more for Bath soon and it was softly devastating. He wondered if she was ever lonely, then was immediately filled with shame that he had not thought long on that before.

"What witch or god did I insult to be blighted with such nosey siblings?" He opened to a fresh page in his sketchbook before he reached across the table and tapped Francesca's nose. "You know, dear Fran, sometimes I think you are cleverer than the rest of us."

"Oi!" Eloise crossed her arms and attempted to kick his shin under the table but missed. "Just admit that every single one of your sisters are more intelligent than the lot of you males combined."

"Possibly," Benedict mused, taking out his graphite as he began to sketch the rough outline of a small butterfly. "I am forced to admit that the majority of women in my acquaintance could easily run Parliament a far sight better than the men I meet at White's."

"Oh, a boon for women," Eloise crowed sarcastically, meeting her sister's eyes with a knowing look. "That a man can actually admit that most of us have wit and measure! But would you say the same to those same men at the club?"

Francesca shrugged, her delicate shoulders rising and falling with measured perfection. The sixth Bridgerton sibling, out of all of them, was a thinker above all else. She cared about her musical skills, her family, and little else. Though she acted with perfect poise, Benedict had no doubt that she would never seek to be the center of attention when it was her turn to be introduced to society.

"Personally, I would leave Parliament to Eloise," Francesca turned to her sister and smiled sweetly. A little too sweetly. "Let her handle the men and run them ragged with her speeches. I, on the other hand, think I would be more apt at subterfuge. I would be a rather keen adviser."

"Hyacinth would be a war general," Eloise added, shivering at the thought.

They all turned just in time to watch Hyacinth cry in victory as she beat Gregory at marbles…again.

"Daph would quite obviously ascend the throne," Francesca continued. "I do not know how, but she would surely rule over us all."

Benedict chuckled, nodding in agreement. Briefly he wondered what role Penelope would have in this new version of government. He had no doubt she'd be valuable. Maybe she would be Daphne's spymaster? His chest rumbled with warm laughter at the idea. Yes, Penelope would be a most excellent spymaster in the new world order.

Glancing up, Benedict's chest tightened as he watched Eloise and Francesca chat more about this alternative universe where women ruled. It was endearing and it was with a bittersweet pang that he realized yet again that his imaginative, brilliant, witty sisters could come up with such grand plans and yet were not allowed to achieve them.

Quietly, he flipped again to a blank page and began to sketch his sisters' faces as they joyfully discussed this alternative life. A possible future. With every stroke of graphite that detailed Francesca's sharp eyes or Eloise's stubborn chin, Benedict fervently wished he could create such a reality for them.

Henry couldn't stop laughing.

The party was going splendidly, as they usually did. Henry had no problem admitting he was a proud man in many respects. He had pride in his art. Pride in his education and intelligence. Quite a bit of pride in his good looks. He had pride in his wife. His partner. And he most definitely had pride in his party-throwing skills.

But, more than anything, he had pride in his powers of prediction.

And currently, he reveled in the fact that he had predicted that Benedict Bridgerton was obsessed with Penelope Featherington. It was of his opinion (and Lucy's, and Gen's, Andrew's, Charlotte's, Marina's… The list went on) that Benedict had been unknowingly falling in love with the youngest Featherington girl for a year now.

But nothing could prove it more than when Benedict had come to the party that night in a foul mood because he'd received a last minute missive that his precious Nel could not join that evening.

"That wretched mother of hers," Benedict had growled, grabbing the closest alcoholic concoction that passed him by and downing it in one gulp. "She is apparently up all hours of the night fretting about the arrival of the new Lord Featherington, so Nel must be cautious. That harpy is ruining Nel's fun!"

"I admit to being shocked Penelope is letting her mother get in the way," Lucy admitted, hiding her smirk behind a dainty hand. "But if even Penelope, master of disguise that she is, feels nervous, she must have good reason."

"I suppose," Benedict grumbled.

Now the man sulked in a corner, not even entertaining the attentions of the passing women and men who tried to entice him. Instead, Henry, Lucy, and Andrew took turns sitting next to him and listening to his complaints that grew more slurred by the minute.

"By Jove," Andrew shook his head, amused as he and Henry watched Benedict show Lucy a tiny, silver hair clip in the shape of a butterfly. "He is entirely besotted. For such a smart man, how in the nine circles of Hell does he not know he is in love?"

"Because ignorance is bliss, my love." Henry languidly stroked his fingers along Andrew's waist, slowly stoking the passion in his lover's eyes. "If he acknowledges his feelings, that means taking on the realities with it. He will believe her to still be in love with his brother and that will be a barrier on its own. Then there is jealousy, whether to initiate courtship, that she is his sister's dearest friend… We humans create countless obstacles for ourselves when it comes to love."

Andrew sighed, leaning into Henry's side. It spoke volumes of the implicit trust between them and the people invited to the Granville home.

"Does this mean you want to change your bet?"

"Why no, my love. In fact, I will raise you another one hundred pounds. He shall realize he is in love with her this season, but will do nothing about it for another year."

"Gods above, I hope you are wrong. For Penelope's sake," Andrew groaned. "Marina is quite fond of her cousin and I must admit, I like her too. I would loathe to see the poor girl wait that long."

Henry chuckled before planting a kiss upon Andrew's shaved cheek, inhaling the strong scent of his orange blossom cologne.

"You, my love, clearly do not understand the absolute stubbornness of a Bridgerton."

Penelope sat at her desk, pink robe wrapped around her, tapping her fingers upon her parchment riddled desk. The fickle flickering of the candlelight cast light and heat upon her face as the spring chill seeped through her covered windows. She chewed her bottom lip and winced as she broke open the barely mended flesh, the taste of blood on her tongue.

There was no money.

Penelope had known that. Feared their destitution when Benedict had uncovered for certain the depths of her father's irresponsibility, the worst of her father's debts. It had felt nearly insurmountable then.

But now, it felt like one of those impossible tasks set by the gods. One that no mortal could actually pass without some herculean feat.

She thought of the money accumulating in her Barclays account, sitting there just for her. Should she swallow her pride, her fear, her very own freedom and give the money to her mother? Was there another solution? A bequest from some far-flung relative she could fabricate?

Zounds, all of the possibilities seemed to stack on top of each other until her mind was pressed down by such a weight that is physically hurt behind her eyes. Penelope massaged her temples, attempting to relieve the mounting pressure behind her forehead when she heard the echo of footsteps in the hall. Penelope sat up, grabbing one of her many books stacked upon the desk before flipping to a random page and pretending to read just as the door burst open.

It was only when Penelope peered down at the words that she noticed she'd taken out Lord Byron's Corsair and she had to fight back a twitch in her lips. Benedict would throw a fit if he knew.

"Why is it so quiet in here?"

Penelope could detect the quiet sneer in Prudence's voice as she made the comment, the wheedle at her youngest sister's reclusiveness.

Penelope would have begged for her sisters' attention as a child. Either of them. But they had never been interested in the same hobbies as Penelope, creating a natural barrier they seemed to sense. Yet Prudence, and Philippa at times, appeared to cock her head at Penelope, wondering why their sister never tried to join in with their conversations or wiles. Penelope did not know how to explain that she, now so used to being alone in her own household, simply did not know how.

"Because I am alone? Reading. As I always do."

Penelope knew her voice sounded more irritable than it perhaps should be and she curled in on herself. It was best not to provoke Prudence. Prudence was not nearly as sharp as their mother but what she lacked in wit she poured into viciousness. No one could say that any of the Featherington girls weren't hiding a set of claws.

"You are so boring," Prudence whined and Penelope could see her sister now out of the corner of her eye, creeping into her field of vision to tap her long fingers upon Penelope's stack of books. "I will be perfectly putrified if Philippa does manage to marry Finch."

Penelope rolled her eyes.

Truly, had no one but her actually completed her vocabulary lessons with their governess?

"Petrified." She couldn't help the correction, sharp and a tad arrogant. "The word is petrified."

She kept her pupils trained on the words in front of her, reciting the lines over and over even though they refused to stick.

That man of loneliness and mystery,

Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;

Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,

And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;

Still sways their souls with that commanding art

That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.

Quick as a flash, nails like talons came into view and snatched up the piece of parchment underneath her book.

"No!" Penelope yelped, jumping up, knocking her chair to the floor in shock.

No, no, not those missives. Not those, please not those…

"What are you writing here?" Prudence held the paper out of Penelope's reach, taunting her as Penelope circled her sister. But she could not reach the dangling paper, even if she jumped.

"I am not writing!"

"But you were!"

Prudence twirled around out of Penelope's stunted reach, raking her gaze over words that had been meant for Penelope's eyes and her eyes alone.

"Prudence! Do not... Hand it back!"

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her neck, a vein throbbing at her temple. Please, let it not be–

Penelope saw the moment her sister's eyes widened, her jaw going slightly slack.

"Oh my... You little devil-doll," Prudence cackled and Penelope felt her heart plummet to her feet like a stone. "This is what occupies your 'quiet' time?"

Penelope squirmed and fidgeted. Blood rushed up Penelope's chest, her breath coming in fast. It only worsened when she heard her mother enter the room.

"What are you ladies doing still up?"

"Penelope was writing," Prudence exclaimed, ensuring she clamored over anything Penelope might have to say. Here it was, the beginning of her demise… "To Colin Bridgerton!"

Frozen in place, Penelope suddenly did not know how to feel. She'd feared Prudence had snatched up one of her Whistledown rough drafts. Or, worse, one of her many missives from Ledger. For if Prudence had dug any deeper, had sunk her claws into the rest of the stack of papers, she would have pulled up at least eight letters from Benedict for every one of Colin's.

Embarrassment, rapid and hot, flooded her body. The flush made her body ache like a day old sunburn, a sting upon the flesh that could only be waited out. The look of exasperation her mother leveled her with did not help matters.

"Well that would explain the ink all over her fingers," Portia cradled her head in her hand again as if Penelope was giving her a migraine. "I declare, Penelope."

"Colin is my friend," Penelope proclaimed defensively.

But she knew that, at the very least, her sister suspected the truth. That Penelope had held a candle for Colin for years.

And that, of course, the handsome third son of the Bridgerton family had never noticed.

"As if he would ever waste his ink on someone like you," Prudence sniped, though Penelope didn't know exactly what her sister had to look down on her about. It was not as if any young man was lining up to court her either.

But Penelope was always underestimated. Always cast aside. Always deemed lesser.

It rankled her, festering like a vile thorn or cyst, determined to infect her body.

But Portia no longer listened, instead rifling through Penelope's stack of books. She picked up the cherished book of Robert Burns poetry, sniffing it cautiously.

"Are they worth anything?"

"What?" Penelope reeled back as if she had been slapped.

"Your books." Portia turned the book in her hand, lovingly worn across the spine and Penelope's heart leapt from her feet to her throat as she thought of the delicately pressed flowers she'd placed by her favorite poems. The ones she would discuss with Benedict on midnight rides upon Rapscallion. "Books can be worth something, can they not?"

"I– I do not think so, Mama."

The stutter was small but Penelope prayed she could move her mother's interest elsewhere. A part of Penelope realized it was selfish to want to keep hold of her precious books for as long as possible. To covet them as a dragon did its horde of gold. But she didn't care. Let her mother sell every painting, piece of silver, or braided cushion in her room before she even touched her books.

"Pity." Portia set the book back in place and Penelope silently thanked the heavens she had actually put it back with some care. "You must stop wasting your precious time on such pointless pursuits as writing silly letters. Colin Bridgerton is no more your friend than I am the next Catherine the Great." Penelope felt tears bite the back of her eyes and she bit her lower lip again. Copper kissed her tongue, but she blinked furiously. "Now wipe your hands lest someone think you a commoner."

Her mother swept out of the room with Prudence hot on her heels. Prudence shot Penelope a victorious grin before the door closed. Penelope clenched her fists. Her nails bit into her palms and she resisted the very real urge to scream until she lost her voice.

The bitterness rose inside her like a violent tidal wave. She wouldn't use her money to help her family. No. Not yet.

She'd rather starve first.

Filled with sorrow and, she knew, pettiness, she slumped once more at her desk and picked up Benedict's last written message.

Nel,

Remember to meet us after the Queen's Ball for your personal birthday celebration! El and I might be competing over who obtains the most thoughtful gift for you.

I shall win, of course. For I am not only the superior sibling but, clearly, the superior friend.

I missed you at the Granvilles' party last night. I hope the new Featherington heir comes soon, if only so you will obtain some modicum of the freedom you had before. It is not the same escaping into the night without you.

Besides, Rapscallion was clearly displeased. I may have held my hands over my, uh, backside, when going to tie him to the post.

Your Friend Who is Dying of Boredom,

Ledger

P.S. I will give you five pounds if you tell Eloise I gave you the better gift.

Penelope traced the inked words with her pointer finger, letting it soothe her. She had friends, friends who valued her. Even if that was impossible for her own mother to believe.

Penelope thought of the opening lines to her next column and grinned. Yes, the Queen's Ball would be quite interesting. It might not be just Penelope who could have something to celebrate.

Might our Queen finally extinguish the fevered speculation and bestow the highest of honors to a most fortunate young lady tonight? With so many futures at risk, I do suspect this author is not the only one waiting with bated breath.

Penelope delicately sipped her glass of champagne as she kept an ear out for gossip, peering out at the resplendent ball in her requisite place by the wall. Well, the windows this time. But it was all the same. She smoothed out the intricately embroidered sparkles of her star themed dress, a bright yellow gold that, for once, Penelope did not despise. It was certainly not the worst dress she had ever been forced in.

Just as she glanced up from her drink to spy the crowd once more, a frantic Eloise in a silver and cream dress all but barreled into her.

"We must leave!" Eloise was practically sweating, her voice high-pitched as she made to drag her friend away. "The Queen. I somehow managed to...charm her. She seems to in fact LIKE me."

Penelope stifled her amusement to adopt a placating countenance. She could respect Eloise wanting to avoid the spotlight.

"Eloise, you must calm–"

Most unpleasantly, she was interrupted by Cressida Cowper and her lackeys swanning into their space. Penelope couldn't ignore the instinct to look down and away in a vain attempt to avoid the blonde debutante's attention. For years, Penelope wondered why Cressida despised her so. Why she chose to focus much of her spite and cruelty on Penelope and her insufficiencies.

Penelope learned it was fruitless to wonder why some people did things. It would simply drive her mad.

"Eloise Bridgerton, the diamond." Cressida's voice was sharp, assessing Eloise like a fox that had just set its sights upon potential prey. One thing Penelope had vowed to never do was to underestimate Cressida's capacity for evaluating a situation and any attempts to turn it to her favor. "Perhaps now you might stop spending time with insipid wallflowers all evening and refine your circle of friends." Penelope tried to ignore the barb and took a sip of her drink, but it was like swill in her mouth. "I may have an opening–"

"I would rather die."

Penelope choked and spat her champagne at Eloise's words, and before she could even so much as squeak, Eloise took her hand and dragged her off. Eloise weaved them through gentlemen and ladies, servants, and even a runaway Pomeranian, not wavering once as she pushed through glass doors and onto the gravel. She led them through long grass and wood, the night air making gooseflesh erupt on Penelope's skin, but she couldn't care less about the cold.

Her chest was too busy swelling, as if it might burst from a delight so fierce it physically hurt.

Eloise defended her. Chose her.

It was not so much that she would ever doubt Eloise's friendship or loyalty, but Penelope sometimes could not help but be bowled over with surprise when it happened. When it kept happening.

Eloise had chosen her, again and again, since they were nine years old.

And it still amazed Penelope to the point of speechlessness.

They go further and further into the fields, yellow daffodils bright and cheery even surrounded by the dark, spring night.

"Eloise," Penelope finally croaked out. "Eloise, where are we–"

"Anywhere but in there."

They finally halt and Penelope studies her friend as she closes her eyes and breathes in the air. Crisp, cool, full of fresh flowers and wet earth. Something finally releases in Eloise's stature and Penelope sees her friend finally, physically relax.

"How you managed an entire season of these absurd events alongside people like Cressida Cowper is beyond me." Eloise slumped into the field of yellow flowers like it was a haven away from a world of chaos. And, in truth, it was. The space was quiet, serene in the dark night, hidden by the thicket of trees. "And it is not just her. It is all of them. Staring at me as if I were some china teapot." Eloise turned toward Penelope, cocking her head in disbelief, as if Penelope had triumphed over some godlike task. "How did you do it on your own, Pen?"

"I do not share your difficulties, El." The words slipped from Penelope's mouth so easily she barely noticed how bitter it was in her mouth. It was just an unfortunate truth. "Insipid wallflower. Remember?"

Eloise blinked before she took Penelope's hand, squeezing their satin gloved fingers together. The light scent of daffodils filled her nostrils and Penelope could feel dew cling to her skirts. It made her shiver but it wasn't unpleasant.

"That is not–" Eloise paused, rephrased. "Cressida is only incensed that even her new dress cannot hide her character."

Penelope could not help the wide smile that consumed her face. Eloise protectiveness of her was incredibly sweet, and while the kernel of jealousy and disappointment that accompanied Penelope to every social event remained, the sheer joy that Eloise's defense of her offered overpowered it.

"It is not so bad you know. The wallflower thing." Penelope knew she was trying to cheer herself up just as much as Eloise. But it also was not a lie. There were small comforts to being consigned to the corners of a room. "I always get the first taste of lemonade. I know who all the best dancers are just from watching. I can always tell when a suitor is serious about courtship just by how he looks when a young lady dances with another."

Eloise eyes glimmered for the first time that evening and she jostled Penelope's shoulder with her own.

"And helps with your enterprise. It helps hone your skills for spotting gossip!" Eloise tapped the dimple in her chin thoughtfully before her expression softened into a rare look of such care that Penelope knew her friend would be embarrassed if she saw it. "Pen, you do not have to pretend any longer. Even beyond Whistledown, you like all of this."

Penelope settled back into the field with Eloise, their hands clasped between them.

"Well, it can be amusing." Penelope thought of what she enjoyed about being in the background of balls and events. Uncovering truths, whether they be good or bad, watching couples dance and wondering if they are in love. She enjoyed watching Daphne and the Duke of Hastings last season. It had been such a whirlwind of emotions where she questioned love and all it was said to be, meant to be. And what it actually was. But she found, more than that, she cherished the moments she'd spent amongst friends. She enjoyed the time after the events in the Bridgertons' garden, where it was just her, Eloise, and Benedict in the bower of the tree.

She wished Benedict was there now.

"Do you think I should be doing more with Whistledown?"

Eloise pursed her lips, staring up at the stars through the overhanging branches.

"I– In some ways, I wish you would. I just think women are so much more than pretty, young things to be introduced then married off at the earliest convenience. Sometimes, I think the gossip simply pushes that idea. But… it is your column, Pen. And I know that idea is partially born of my own fears." Eloise sighed before continuing, her voice trembling. "I can feel people's eyes on me. Every time I walk into a ballroom, I know they are comparing me to Daphne. She was so good at being the diamond and it made my mother so happy. I can never live up to that. I do not want to live up to that. But it does not make it any easier to know you are constantly disappointing people just by walking into the room."

The stars twinkled down at them and Penelope wondered for a moment if the faraway, celestial objects looked at humans. Do they also make impossible wishes when peering down from the heavens?

"I never thought of it that way. No one truly notices me." Penelope shifted in the grass, the cool, green strands tickling her legs, arms, and neck. "I suppose that is what I like. Though, sometimes, I wonder if I simply tell myself that is what I like. But when you are invisible, you can have all the amusement you want without any of the expectations that popularity brings. It...frees you."

"That is why you remain anonymous?"

"In part. Another part is that it is practical. Mama would surely want me to share the money I make."

Eloise made a rude, guttural noise.

"Take it you mean?"

Penelope nodded, swallowing.

"I cannot lie, there is a certain amount of pride. That I am the one leading the ton along by dangling a carrot in front of their faces and they would never suspect it is me."

"You should be proud! Why should the sin of pride only be acceptable in men!"

Penelope raised Eloise's hand and held it to her heart.

"Thank you, El." Penelope looked over, her light blue eyes meeting Eloise's. Her eyes were lighter, clearer than Benedict's. But still so moving all the same. "You know, when we entered the ball, Mama told us to show our figures because diamonds are pointy."

Eloise gasped and choked on a laugh, the crooked set of her front teeth gleefully obvious as she snorted.

"No!"

"Yes, and when Prudence asked if she sparkled, Mama said, 'You did something.'"

They collapsed into a fit of unrestrained laughter, rolling in the flowers, and Penelope hoped the stars could hear them.

"My, my. What great joke did I miss?"

The Diamond Ball was, Benedict had to admit, as Eloise had put oh-so elegantly, "diamond-y."

Christ alive, he nearly strangled himself on his own spit trying not to burst into gut-wrenching laughter when she had said that. It would not do for two Bridgerton siblings to embarrass themselves in front of the Queen. And, yet, in a very Eloise fashion, she had somehow impressed the usually bored-looking monarch.

Benedict could not resist when he poked fun at Anthony, putting on a faint veil of amused disgust,

"If the Queen in fact names Eloise the diamond, whom will you marry then, brother?"

"Hush you."

Benedict smirked, all too happy to draw some of his pleasures from making fun of his brother. While he understood Anthony better after their conversation at Gunter's, even though it was miniscule, that would not exempt his older brother from many rounds of familial teasing.

Turning ahead in order to follow Eloise, for wherever Eloise went a certain redhead would be there as well, he gaped when he found Eloise had left him in the dust. She took off, her bound brown hair bouncing amongst the crowd as she fled to a corner of the room. There were too many people, many surprisingly tall lords milling around the young debutants as if they were hounds set loose upon a hunt. But Benedict could have sworn that he saw a flash of curls that glowed like coals in the fire.

Benedict made to follow but Anthony gripped his elbow, steering him to the opposite end of the room to grab champagne. Benedict's head swiveled around and he found that they'd even lost their mother, though Benedict had no doubt Violet was trying to find Eloise. Or, more likely, a potential suitor for their second sister.

Anthony picked up a delicate glass of bubbly champagne and frowned at it, as if insulted it was not whiskey or brandy in front of him. Benedict forced himself to keep his mouth shut as Anthony tossed back the glass in one gulp before picking up another. Benedict shot a reassuring smile to a passing elderly lord and lady whose names escaped him, though he was sure their judgmental stares would transform into biting words in no time.

"Brother, surely it is too early to need much in the way of libations."

Anthony sipped his second drink, though his brown eyes were already as hard as packed earth as he raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I will need some liquid motivation if I am to push out all of the dandies and rapscallions who will vie for the diamond's attention once she is announced."

"First, I take offense on behalf of my beloved horse," Benedict crossed his arms, shaking his head good-naturedly. "Second, if the diamond is not Eloise."

"While I dearly love our sister, and in her own bumbling way she managed to impress the Queen, I do not imagine her being given the title." Anthony shuddered. "Lord, I hope she is not named the diamond. It was more trouble than it was worth for Daphne last season."

A brief rush of guilt and the sort of sickness one acquired when they missed someone hit Benedict with a wave of melancholy. He still felt horrible for how neglectful he had been of his sister's plight the year before. But he'd sworn to Eloise and himself he would be a better brother this season, while somehow maintaining his own independence.

Easier said than done.

Benedict craned his head back to where Eloise had run off to and found that, of course, she and Penelope had disappeared.

He moaned as he took his own glass of champagne, unhinged his jaw, and let the liquid slide down his throat as if it was watered down beer.

Off to a great start.

"It seems our sister has pulled a vanishing act," Benedict mused and Anthony shook his head, gulping down his glass and peering around as if he could will a stronger spirit into existence.

"You best find her before Mother has a conniption," Anthony said. "You know how determined she is for Eloise to put her best foot forward in society."

Benedict frowned, the alcohol in his stomach curdling unpleasantly.

"You assured me you would allow Eloise to avoid marriage if she at least tolerated the season," he whispered, leaning towards his brother's ear as they surveyed the crowd around them. It was all bright lights, crystal glasses, diamonds, flowers, pageantry… And none of it moved Benedict. He also knew that Eloise felt the same. "You gave me your word. I gave El my word. Please do not make me have to trounce you at fencing, or on the pall mall field, to prove a point."

Anthony, the bastard, actually chuckled.

"Benedict, I will defeat you on any battlefield you name. All, except two." He held up two fingers and lowered them as he listed the apparent only times Benedict could defeat the viscount. "Art, obviously. I find no joy in it and, therefore, I choose not to excel at it." Anthony's leer gentled for just a flash, so fast Benedict would not have noticed if he did not know his brother so well. "And in the care of our younger siblings. At least, when it comes to their…feelings."

Benedict was taken aback by the compliment, so much so that he said nothing when Anthony patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Ben, I will not force Eloise into any union she does not desire. But Mother will not take our sister seriously until she's failed to pique Eloise's interest in any man she pushes her way." Anthony gripped Benedict's shoulder tightly, just for a moment. "You will be able to keep your promise to her. Now go find her, before the Queen makes her announcement. If Eloise is named the diamond, it would not do for her to miss her moment."

With that, Anthony slipped away, disappearing into the crowd.

Benedict rolled his eyes, taking the order for what it was. Find our sister now, before Mother worries herself to death. He had planned on retrieving Eloise anyway, for where his sister was, that was where Penelope would be. The thought sparked a flame of endearment, glowing within him. Their Whistledown outing after Lady Danbury's ball had not been near enough time with her, and the silver butterfly burned a hole in the hidden vest pocket tucked under his black jacket.

Running a gloved hand through his hair, he winced when his fingers caught in his thick, chestnut strands. He'd run them through too many times that night, tangling the ends until there were hidden snarls in his once perfectly styled locks.

He set off, mulling over Anthony's promise as he walked to where his sister and friend had been, just by the back window. Promises could be flimsy, breakable things. Too many times, Benedict had witnessed men break fervent vows to friends, lovers, political allies, even family. Hell, he had watched the fallout of Anthony being unable to keep a promise to his mistress last year, though he never obtained all of the details.

But the one thing Benedict felt like he could count on was anything sworn by Anthony in the name of his family. If their eldest brother claimed he would not force Eloise to marry, Benedict believed him.

He had to.

So he bit his cheek as he saw, from the corner of his eye, his brother assess the flock of young debutantes again. Perfection, for Benedict, did not exist amongst such a crowd. The young ladies there were all far too poised, practiced, a personification of perfection that only greater highlighted their…well, imperfections.

He only hoped Anthony would make the right choice for their family. The right choice for himself. Any woman bound to the young viscount for life would need a will that was as unbreakable as steel or, dare he say it, diamond.

Lawks, he really wanted to stop thinking about his brother's problems now.

With a new desperation to escape into the easy banter and calm Eloise and Penelope could give him, Benedict followed his instinct. He slipped outside into the chilly night air, a slight mist hanging over the vast expanse of gardens and woodlands hedging the property. If he knew anything about the young women who'd clearly made an escape attempt, it was that they felt most comfortable with their laughter and their secrets amongst the branches of the trees.

Padding forward, he felt his shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. He thought he heard the echo of girlish giggles and followed the noise until he stumbled upon a field of daffodils that reminded him of the yellow of Penelope's many citrus colored dresses. Yet, for some reason, he found the color did not irk him so much. The sound rose from the ground like steam from a cauldron or smoke from a fire, wispy and ethereal as it rose higher and higher until it evaporated in the night air. It was musical, though slightly out of tune. Benedict had never understood men who had written about a woman's laughter being like the tinkling of bells or some other rot. Real laughter was loud, sharp and uninhibited. Musical, yes, but pretty in how inherently unpretty it was.

All Benedict could think was that clearly, whatever women those men had encountered had been pretending to laugh at their jokes.

He trod carefully in the grass, trying to sidestep as many blooming flowers as possible until he hovered over two squirming, giggling silhouettes. It was dark and his eyes had not fully adjusted, a cloud had passed over the bright moon. There was a slight sparkle coming from a tiara embedded in a riot of curls, two small hands clasping each other in the grass.

"My, my. What great joke did I miss?"

The laughter halted abruptly but resumed full force when they appeared to recognize him.

"Brother!"

"Benedict!"

Ah, now that was music to his ears.

"I have come to retrieve the two fair maidens before they miss the Queen's announcement, and before our dear mother turns into a fire-breathing dragon."

"Oh hush!"

The shadow that was Eloise rose from the ground, but not before giving a rather loud moan of protest. Hand still held tightly to Penelope's, she tugged and the darkened figure of Penelope stood. Benedict blinked, trying to get a better look at her. His eyesight must be failing him in the dark, now, for the damned cloud that had blocked out the moon's light kept her from his view.

Something looming hung in the air, he could sense it. Impending, waiting to strike. But for the life of him he couldn't decipher the feeling or parse through the mist that had settled over him. It unsettled him and he stepped closer, reaching out to take a hand.

He grasped Penelope's gloved hand in his own, he knew by the size of her small palm and her short, dainty fingers, even under her satin glove. Now he was close enough to breathe her in and besides the scent of petrichor and daffodils, there still remained that heady smell of ginger that clung to her tresses and skin. Stepping even closer, he felt her arm brush his chest and his breath hitched.

In that moment, he could have cursed all of the clouds in the mercurial English sky for blocking his view of her.

"Come," he breathed, though it was more to Penelope then to his sister. "As much as I would love to hold court in a field of wildflowers, we must hasten back before Mother notices."

"Who says you would be the one to hold court?" Penelope teased, and hearing her speak was a strange kind of relief.

"Quite right. It is your birthday, after all. You shall be the one to hold court over us later tonight."

Penelope let out an exaggerated gasp.

"Me? Holding court over Bridgertons? Now that is more of a present than I ever thought to receive. Tell me, Benedict, will you play the role of my jester?"

Eloise snorted in her very Eloise way. There was no other way to describe it, but Benedict paid it no real heed.

"Your jester. Your servant. Your knight. Your prince. I will play whatever part my lady commands."

It was supposed to come out as a joke. The light and usual tease they were so accustomed to.

But there was something deep and rich, slightly rugged, in the way it had come out that Benedict could not fathom.

So he turned, leading the young ladies by the hand back to the festivities.

He could not tell whether the shiver he felt came from him or the woman at his back.

Upon re-entering the ballroom, Benedict had to blink to regain his sight. The terribly bright space in comparison to the near darkness of the field made everything that sparkled hurt his eyes. He could feel his pupils adjusting as everything, from the polished chandelier to the Queen's jewel encrusted dress, made his head pound. He did, however, spot Anthony motioning for him to join his side. Without looking back at his charges he said,

"I must attend Anthony for the announcement, but the pair of you best not wander off. I will be back after the Queen makes her decision and we shall…escape to fairer pastures."

"To safety from this carefully orchestrated madness, you mean?" Eloise muttered.

"To our most lovely bower," he heard Penelope chime in cheerfully.

He felt her squeeze his hand as he let go and he wanted to turn, to look at her, but Anthony made even more furious motions with his fingers which were, honestly, quite rude indeed. The only way to stop his brother from accidentally insulting some other young lady was to hurry to appease him. Benedict rolled his eyes before surrepticiously making a rather rude, two-finger salute at his brother. A colonel caught the gesture, however, and grumbled under his walrus-like mustache but, frankly, Benedict did not care one wit.

With just a few quick paces, Benedict was beside his brother as Brimsley tapped a champagne glass, the sound ringing around the room. The music abruptly stopped and the guests turned as Queen Charlotte took center stage on her raised platform. Even Benedict had to admit, she was a formidable woman. While he always had the impression the woman suffered from chronic boredom, if she could go toe-to-toe with Lady Danbury, then clearly she possessed wit.

"Your presence is noted and Your Queen most appreciative. Allow it to now be my honor to present to you, the season's diamond."

Benedict watched the crowd lean forward, eager for this anticipated, juicy morsel. He could practically hear the many ambitious mamas of the ton clacking their hidden talons together as they waited, hoping it would be one of their girls to snag the title. Even for the rich, there was always room to move farther up the ladder. His own mother had not spotted Eloise yet and kept trying to crane her neck over the heads of others. Benedict grimaced but felt it was for the best. No matter the announcement, he doubted very much it was their mother Eloise would want to have next to her at this juncture.

"Miss Edwina Sharma."

Benedict nearly missed the announcement, but soon he followed everyone's gazes to the young girl dressed in white. She was pretty, that was unquestionable, with dark brown skin, brown eyes that were friendly and inviting, and hair as dark and shining as obsidian. Next to her was the elder sister, a Miss Kathani Sharma who, Benedict had to admit, seemed less intimidating when she swelled with pride for her younger sister.

Benedict smiled softly. He could empathize with that.

Brimsley stepped forward to escort Miss Edwina to the Queen, a giddy nervousness hovering over the new debutante that was sweet in its own way. It reminded Benedict a little of Francesca when she would introduce a new musical piece she wrote to the family.

Benedict raised an amused eyebrow as his elder brother watched Miss Edwina with something akin to satisfaction. The look that filled his brother's dark, earth brown eyes was not rampant, wanton lust. No. Lust was entirely different from the expression furrowing Anthony's brow. It was as if that ridiculous list of attributes Anthony had created floated into life across the floor, pretty in white, shining floral appliques sparkling as she bowed before the Queen.

It was as if Anthony had solved a particularly hard math equation, or even–

"You look at her the way I look at a finished painting, brother."

Anthony's answering smirk, without tearing his stare from the young debutante, had almost been answer enough.

"Every man needs a muse, does he not?"

With that, Anthony, resolute and determined, practically pushed his way through the crowd of viable suitors now lining up for a dance with Miss Edwina Sharma.

The incessant urge to roll his eyes had to be resisted and finally Benedict allowed his own gaze to drift about the room.

Only to land on Eloise, clinging to Penelope's side.

Penelope.

He had not seen her, truly seen her since Henry's small soiree to honor Wetherby's return to London in early March. The other night, she'd been covered in her lady's maid cloak, and just ten minutes before she'd been hidden from him by the dark, velvet night. The pretty image of her at Henry's soiree in a month ago, cheeks flushed with wine as she giggled with her cousin, invaded his vision. But Penelope tonight, her blazing red curls atop her head, adorned with a tiara fit for any moon goddess, her yellow dress emblazoned with stars that merely added to her shine–

The beautiful picture she made seeped into every orifice, the sound of her far-away laughter as she conversed with Eloise like a siren song pouring into his ears, her countenance a feast for the eyes, every single solitary thing about her imprinted itself upon his brain.

Bruised his chest.

Air became trapped inside his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried, they burned for release, to say her name.

It was with sudden clarity that, though he had nearly written to her every day since their last visit, it had not been enough.

It could never be enough.

And, Devil take him, how had this happened?

It was like he had been standing in the middle of a thunderstorm for the past year, as it brewed in intensity, clouds darkening, electrical fire fizzing in the air, rippling across his skin— a warning. One he clearly didn't heed. For, as he saw Penelope again, fresh from the night air she'd taken with Eloise, her copper hair vibrant in the light, her sky eyes clear as they searched the room, and her face — the face of a woman — she looked up and met his gaze. The wind howled in his ears, lightning struck, and Benedict knew right then that he was in love with Penelope Featherington.

And the storm in his heart showed no signs of easing.

That terrified him more than anything.

For she loved Colin .

His younger brother.

Benedict was doomed to have his heart trampled beneath her pretty little feet. The worst part was, he knew she would never do such a thing on purpose.

Full of pride, she was. There was no denying it.

But not malice or ill-will. At least, not intentionally.

Lawks, how could he let this happen?

How could he have let himself fall in love with Penelope Featherington?

Something wriggled at the back of his mind, a memory. Henry Granville taking stock of him at a garden party, his wry smile filled with both amusement and pity.

"You are going to be one of those," his friend had chuckled. "It is going to strike you like lightning and you will be fucking paralyzed."

And fuck. He had been right.

Penelope waved at him, lighting up at the sight of him. She even jumped on the balls of her feet, jostling Eloise who harrumphed in response. And though Benedict moved blindly, weaving his way through the crowd to join her, he felt that electric current in the air again. It was a hum all around him and, as he joined their side, he swore he could still smell petrichor and daffodils.

As her sky blue irises met his own, that secret smile he adored tilting up her pretty lips, he felt that electric current fly up his spine.

"Benedict," she breathed. "I have missed you terribly."

It struck again. He swore he felt it, seeping down, down, down into his bones before becoming one with his marrow. The sound of her voice, the lightning that was drawn to where he was rooted, tearing him asunder, branding him, burning him until he was both full of new growth and ashes alike. That could be the only way to describe this torturous, beautiful, pinnacle moment.

He was hopelessly in love with Penelope Featherington.

And there had been no stopping it.

"You only just saw me outside," he teased, though his voice came out breathy and strained. "And the other night."

"What can I say?" She tilted her head and her red curls spilled over her shoulder. Suddenly the starry crown nestled in her tresses was not enough for him to proclaim her beauty, her loveliness. She'd clearly been fashioned to be some sort of gilded Selene, Goddess of the Moon. But Benedict knew in his very soul she was so much more. "I do very poorly without my friends, even for a day."

"They have a habit of making us better, I admit."

"I agree, heartily."

They stared at one another for a bright, shimmering moment. The ball moved around him, he could see his brother dancing with the new diamond out of the corner of his eye. But he could not tear his gaze away for all of the music, wine, and sibling shenanigans in the world.

Until one such sibling interrupted. The blight.

"Pen, let us all go gather gossip together! Then maybe dear Brother can sneak us out early?"

Benedict startled as Eloise leveled him with a glare as if challenging him to dare not to abscond with two young ladies out of the bloody Queen's Ball early.

"It would take a miracle," he said, obnoxiously pulling a chestnut strand from his sister's updo.

She swatted him. He was just about to swat her back when Penelope asked,

"A birthday miracle?"

Hell's bells.

How was he supposed to refuse that?

Unfortunately, Benedict had not been able to successfully sneak both women out of the party. Which had been all well and good, for Benedict had needed a moment in the carriage back to Bridgerton House to make his lungs work again. Penelope had unknowingly held a stranglehold on the bloody organs all night, unable to tear himself away from her until Penelope's own mother had announced it had been time for the Featheringtons to leave. God, how had he been so blind before?

She was beautiful.

Maybe it was because last year she had been a girl, not fully grown into her own skin. But her strength and resilience had been nurtured right in front of him and, even through her multiple bouts of heartbreak, she'd pushed through. She'd become that butterfly he'd been obsessed with over the months, hidden in plain sight until suddenly one saw just how tantalizing she was.

How could no one else see it? How did no one see what he could see?

Well, except for maybe Genevieve. But thinking on that filled him with gut twisting jealousy, so he put it out of his mind.

He replayed every moment since he discovered she was Whistledown in his head during the carriage ride, as Eloise retrieved her gift for Penelope from the kitchens, all the way to the swings where they awaited their friend to sneak out of her home. As they swung softly in the night, his feet rocking on the ground as Eloise's toes skidded through the grass, he smoked a second cigarillo and tried to concentrate on how the tobacco burned his lungs.

Or was it the very thought of Penelope that made his lungs feel like they were mere pieces of parchment, curling at the edges and burning to ash in the fire grate?

He didn't know anymore.

There was a small squeak beside him and he knew by the way Eloise jumped up that Penelope was there. Their friend dashed forward, having changed into a thick, cream colored robe. She'd forgotten to take out the tiara from her hair and Benedict was struck with the sudden urge to lay her out on the grass and sketch her under the moonlight.

Or… other things.

Carnal delights he had no right to think about. But how could he think of anything else when she floated to a sitting position in front of him like a Grecian goddess?

"Oh, the two of you will never guess what just happened! This truly may be the best birthday ever."

That grabbed his attention.

"What?" he asked slowly, lowering the cigarillo and carefully stamping out the burning edge onto the edge of the swing.

Eloise settled beside her friend, practically vibrating with anticipation.

"The new Lord Featherington has arrived!" Penelope could barely contain her excitement, bouncing up and down on her thighs. Even Eloise squealed and hugged Penelope tightly.

"Oh, Pen, such fantastic news! Will he pull your family from poverty?"

"He is already working on what I once thought was a Herculean effort," Penelope said, a tinge of pride for this relative in her voice. "He has already assured us that he has paid Philippa's dowry to Mister Finch's family, so they may finally be married! It turns out he's our cousin, Jack, from America. That is why it took so long for him to arrive. His father died and the estate passed to him, so it took awhile for him to get his affairs in order. He appears ever so pleasant and nice! Mama is a little dumbstruck, I think."

"Probably because someone other than her is now in charge," Eloise sniggered and Benedict flicked his sister's forehead.

"Manners, Sister."

"I only speak the truth, Brother."

Penelope bit her lip and, without thinking, Benedict reached forward to pry the pink skin from her teeth with his thumb. He frowned when he felt the rough scab on the moist inner bit of flesh, stroking it once before regaining control and letting go. If he was not careful, even Eloise would catch on to Benedict's newfound feelings.

And he was afraid that would become a matter of life and death. Best not take the risk.

He shifted in his swing, feeling himself melt like wax in the warm sun under the rays of her happiness.

"I am glad, Nel. I know you were worried."

Penelope directed her shine directly onto him and gods, how was he supposed to make it through a single day without acting like a fool in her presence now?

"It was a fortuitous birthday surprise."

"Oi! Benedict and I shall not be outdone by this cousin of yours!"

With that huff of indignation, Eloise retrieved the box she had placed carefully by the swing. With a flourish, Eloise opened the box and Penelope gasped, covering her mouth in surprise.

"Eclairs!"

"Your favorite from that bakery you like," Eloise said proudly, placing the box down between the three of them so they could all partake. "Happy birthday, Pen."

"Oh, El," Penelope whispered and Benedict knew that, once again, it was only Eloise, and now Benedict, who had acknowledged Penelope's birthday. Once again, her family had forgotten or simply ignored the event.

This little demonstration of friendship in the garden would be the only celebration she received.

It broke something tender inside Benedict. He realized with sudden anxious clarity that he had many such moments with Penelope and it was, frankly, terrifying.

Benedict slowly reached into the hidden pocket on the underside of his cream colored vest, his jacket long abandoned. The edges of the silver butterfly almost seemed to flutter under his touch as he removed it and gingerly, he presented it to Penelope. It sat in the center of his palm, it's carved wings spread out, the tourmaline sparkling under the dim light of the moon and stars.

Penelope's jaw could have hit the ground when she saw it, her fingers reaching for it, hovering in the air as if it would disappear in a puff of smoke.

"Benedict, this is too much. This must have been so expensive!"

Shaking his head, he slid down from the swing to his knees and gently took the accessory, settling it into her hair. He'd had much practice with his younger sisters, especially when Hyacinth loved to tear out her ribbons as much as she did. As his sisters had grown they'd needed help with their ribbons, hair baubles, and clips throughout the day. Sometimes, there had been no chance for a lady's maid or other servant to assist. Quickly, Benedict acclimated himself to fixing his younger sisters' hair at the park, in a corner at a ball, or even within the sanctity of their drawing room. Compared to Hyacinth's constant squirming and complaining, placing the silver butterfly amongst her autumn colored curls was seamless.

He sat back on his heels, admiring her. Just as he had suspected, it suited her perfectly. The blue and green tourmaline brought out the inherent brightness of her irises, the silver a beacon in her fiery hair. She was a dream, a pretty picture he wanted to create again and again; in graphite, charcoal, watercolors, and oils.

He was trapped again in that space, the thunderstorm only he could hear and feel surrounding him, roaring in his ears…

Until a small, weak chirp broke the moment.

Eloise drew in a great breath of surprise, leaping to her feet before she started climbing the tree in nothing but her flimsy nightgown.

"The birds! They have hatched!"

Benedict and Penelope looked at Eloise, then at each other, ocean and sky meeting in the middle until a warm understanding bloomed between them. Affection for Eloise and for each other, all rolled into one. Penelope stood, taking an eclair as she followed Eloise to the tree trunk. She took a bite and moaned, savoring the flavor as she licked a bit of cream from her lips.

Benedict bit his cheek, holding back a sound that most definitely would not be appropriate.

Busying himself, Benedict helped lift his sister to the opening in the tree where she could see the newly hatched birds, her shins digging into his shoulders as she made great exclamations on how they looked from their barely opened eyes to their practically bald little figures.

Benedict met Penelope's expression again and she gave him that smile. The one he adored. The one that made him want to part her lips and coax every one of her secrets from her.

God, he'd trade his soul for it.

"Happy birthday, Nel."

Reaching into his small waistcoat pocket, he fingered the stone he'd plucked from the ground outside the palace as they'd made their escape from the ball. It had been mixed amongst the gravel, a rare, shining piece of pink quartz big enough to feel a tad weighty in the middle of his palm. It glittered hopefully from the ground, as if winking at him. When he'd studied it under the blazing torches keeping the grounds lit, he'd marveled at its beauty, overlooked because of its simplicity, at how well it blended amongst a crowd.

A wallflower amongst gems.

Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew who he would think of whenever he looked upon this stone in his vast collection.

He just didn't know whether it would flood him with joy or sorrow yet.

Color. Clarity. Carat. Cut. At long last The Queen has named her most precious stone.

While This Author finds Miss Edwina Sharma to be an exceptional young lady, it is about time I used these pages of record for something else: a shift.

Is the entire practice of naming a diamond not, well, rather ridiculous? Should a woman not be valued for so much more than her dancing or comportment? Should we not value a woman instead for her candor, her character, her true accomplishments?

Perhaps, if The Queen abandoned this absurdity that is The Diamond, we would all see that a woman can be so much more.

That she can, truly, sparkle from within.

Chapter 11: The Starting Line

Summary:

The return of a certain Bridgerton brother ignites feelings Benedict is not too terribly familiar with. Penelope struggles with her own feelings, unsure of what to make of them. Meanwhile, our lovely cast of characters look on with their own thoughts on the matter.

Notes:

Hello all!

First off, unfortunately, we need to let everyone know something so our readers are informed. A very kind reader pointed out to us that someone else has taken this story, and several other stories of happilyinsane13 and other authors, and posted them under their name on other websites.

If you see these stories under these links, under this author, please know we have not authorized any re-post or translation of this story.

The profile of the person plagiarizing is HERE on wattpad and HERE on inkitt

One of happilyinsane13's other stories, no matter the years (my heart is yours) DOES have an authorized Spanish translation, here on AO3, called mi corazon es tuyo . However, it should not be reposted or translated ANYWHERE ELSE.

The plagiarized version of that story is here: Plagiarized Version

We only bring this up because, despite the fact this is fanfiction, no writer deserves to have the work they toiled over plagiarized. If it's not posted on AO3 under our official accounts, then we did not authorize it.

On to happier things! Once again, the beautiful graphic was done by itakethewords !

Historically, basilisks were mythical beasts catalogues in the Medieval period. They're not just from Harry Potter! A jack of limbs, a term I got from this book, was Regency slang for a tall person.

And yes... you get more Rapscallion in this chapter.

Chapter Text

Dearest Reader,

It has been said that competition is an opportunity for us to rise and stand ready before our greatest of challenges. Well, if what this author hears this morning is true, then a great challenge concerning this season's Diamond has been set forth, indeed. Any suitor wishing to gain an audience with Miss Edwina Sharma must first tame the rather prickly spinster of a beast otherwise known as her sister. Of course, the only competition that compels my attention is the game of courtship. So best of luck to this year's players. Do try not to stumble on the starting line.

Benedict had thought that starting the day with a shave with Anthony would be the perfect remedy for what plagued his thoughts. Surely it would be a calming distraction from how his heart seized and his mind tripped over itself when Penelope Featherington came to mind.

He had been half right. It did take his mind off what he was sure was unrequited love for a while.

But did it provide any slice of serenity?

Of course it didn't, souls be damned.

Because he'd made the mistake of getting a shave with Anthony of all people.

"Miss Sharma?" Benedict asked as he inquired once again into the ever-growing chaos that was Anthony's search for a bride.

They were reclined in their chairs, shaving cream smothered onto the lower halves of their faces, and the strong smell of lavender and oak moss flooding their nostrils. As Benedict's valet ran the sharp edge of the straight razor along the underside of his jaw, the thought of Anthony's race to the altar strangely conjured Penelope's bright blue eyes into his mind's eye even more.

Which inevitably summoned the all-consuming burst of emotion in his chest. It was too much at once and it pushed against its confines as if it would break the very cage that was his ribs in order to find an outlet. In order to seek out its target and lavish her in nothing but adoration.

Penelope…

"Miss Edwina Sharma. Not the sister. Miss Edwina will suffice."

"Ah, yes. Miss Edwina," Benedict fought the urge to shift in his chair, knowing through painful experience what would happen to his face if he squirmed while being shaved. He'd been very fidgety as a youth, unable to ever truly be still. He could feel the frustration he'd had for the past fifteen minutes on listening to Anthony's plight slip away like sand through his fingers as he recalled how a young Anthony had carefully wiped Benedict's chin of blood when he'd been ten and five. He'd squirmed in the chair and his poor valet had nicked his dimple on accident, and because his father had been on business, it had been Anthony who had gently cleaned him up.

There had been such softness in his elder brother's eyes back then, before their father's death. There were times that Benedict still mourned the loss of it.

"Miss Edwina seems lovely," Benedict said, the scrape of the cold blade across his warm skin a sensation that made him want to shiver. "She certainly checks all of your boxes. But should you truly be relying solely on your head? What of desire? Passion?"

Once the words slipped from his mouth, Benedict saw the image of Penelope cradled between his legs the night he had returned to London in the late summer. She fit so perfectly there, in nothing but her nightgown and robe, her backside flushed against him, her bosom rising and falling in the darkness, and that secret smile that he knew could bring him to his knees.

He had a delightful feeling she would have no problem with making him supplicate before her, her hips under his palms, her fingers tugging at his hair…

Snapped out of his suddenly lustful thoughts, Anthony's response brought him back to the dilemma at hand.

"It is only out of the greatest love of my family that I aim to choose a bride with my head and not my...heart."

Benedict didn't know whether to roll his eyes or grunt in sympathy. The reminder that the young viscount did everything out of love for the rest of his family made it nearly impossible for Benedict to tease him. He settled on meeting his brother's gaze as their valets made the final swipes with their blades, wiping away the remnants of the shaving cream.

Blue-green irises met dark brown and Benedict liked to believe that a moment of understanding passed between them. He wasn't their mother and wouldn't spend time wasting air trying to convince Anthony that he should be seeking out true love. While Benedict was more of a romantic than most, he was also well-acquainted to reality. His parents' love story had been an exception, not the rule. And Anthony Bridgerton had been burned by love and his own indecision a mere year ago.

Anthony had chosen now, and he'd chosen duty.

It filled Benedict with pity.

"Does Miss Edwina return your affection?" Benedict asked, trying to recall if there had been any signs at the Queen's Ball that the young debutante may be taken with his elder brother.

Anthony sighed as if he was beleaguered by the weight of the world.

"Not yet. She would have done if it were not for…"

"The sister," Benedict groaned in commiseration. Miss Kathani "Kate" Sharma was certainly intimidating. She might have been a spinster, but it was undoubtedly true that she was the true head of the Sharma family in lieu of a male protector or even her own mother. "She's rather thorny, I take it?"

"Indeed." Benedict welcomed the warm wrap of the towel against his face to soothe his skin, listening to his brother's confident statement. "Though she need not trouble me. Every rose does have its thorn, after all."

Benedict's muscles relaxed into the chair, the warm towel scented with bergamot doing its best to let him let go of his worries. But with the revelation about Penelope and worry for his brother's strategy gnawing at his gut, it became difficult for him to take his usual post-shave nap.

Any hope for peace was thoroughly decimated when Anthony asked,

"And Miss Featherington? Are you…close with her now?"

Benedict choked on his own spit.

Bolting up in his chair he hacked and coughed wildly, causing his valet to jump as the poor servant rushed to fetch him a drink.

"W-what?"

Anthony, the smug bastard, stayed perfectly still under his warm cloth, but Benedict could hear the deep chuckle that rumbled from his chest.

"I'm not as blind as you believe me to be. When you led our sister and her dear friend back into the ballroom for the Queen's announcement, you had quite the grip on Miss Featherington's hand."

"It was dark," Benedict spluttered, taking the glass of ale handed to him and gulping it down. The light, bitter brew slipped down his throat, coating his mouth in a thick, wheat heavy film. "I did not want anyone to get lost."

"You could have grabbed our sister's hand."

"Why are you picking apart the particulars?" Benedict nearly slammed the now empty glass back on the tray but paused, setting it down slowly. He didn't want to give his brother the satisfaction of catching all of his discomfort. "She is a close friend of the family. We have known her since she was all of nine years old. Why can I not be familiar with her in a time of need?"

Benedict refused to look at his brother when the man removed his own warm towel and sat up. Anthony, clearly, observed more than Benedict had ever given him credit for. If Anthony had noticed his attentions to Penelope at the ball… No, he could not risk it. Benedict quickly decided that allowing Anthony the opportunity to deduce more about his relationship with Penelope couldn't happen.

Heart thudding in his chest, Benedict thought of a scenario where Anthony learned the full extent of how he and Penelope were…familiar. He had no doubt the viscount would insist Benedict marry her and that did not send a bolt of fear, not like he once thought it would. The mere idea of Penelope being his bride some day filled him with incandescent joy.

But Penelope didn't love him. There was no universe in which Penelope would want to be trapped into marriage with him, Benedict thought sadly. And he would never condemn her to a fate she did not want.

He wanted her to want him. Desire him. Crave him. Love him.

Just as he did her.

Benedict darted his pupils towards Anthony only to see his brother still studying him, as if he was an equation given to him by a professor back at university.

"Alright, Brother," Anthony said calmly, his eyes glinting like polished mahogany under the sun. "Alright."

"Is that a copy of Lady Whistledown?" Penelope asked slyly, the addiction that was a hidden joke between friends bubbling between her and Eloise as they say at the table. A tea set sat between them in the incredibly active Bridgerton drawing room.

She flickered her eyes to Benedict who had dragged a chair to sit between his sister and friend, although "sit" was used loosely. Benedict reclined sideways in the chair, his legs dangling off the wooden arm and an embroidered robin's egg blue cushion settled behind his back as he chewed the edge of the metal container for his graphite. His sketchbook sat on his thighs, sketches of the new baby blue tits on the page, ones he'd promised to give Eloise.

He met her stare and grinned. Exasperatedly, Eloise rolled up the issue of Lady Whistledown she's been perusing and whacked Benedict over the head with it.

"Ow! Eloise! What was that for?"

"For being a cheeky dunderhead."

"Nel was also being cheeky!"

"I like her more than you."

Benedict stuck out his lower lip pathetically, actually quivering it deliberately as he looked between Penelope and Eloise. The second Bridgerton brother's choice of attire around Penelope, even amongst the company of his family, had grown more relaxed over the past year. He no longer bothered with the proper dress code for house calls when it was she who came to visit. His jacket was discarded and he wore a fine waistcoat of a deep burgundy with floral embroidery along the middle, topped off with his fashionable wayward teal cravat. Penelope swallowed as his forearms flexed, stretching out to try and return his sibling's attack.

Zounds, was she staring at Benedict's forearms? The heat was getting to her, that was unquestionable.

"Give me that issue. You have no need for that," Benedict grinned, trying to snag the scandal sheet from her fingers. "You know what it says familiarly, anyway."

Another knowing look shared between the three of them and they burst out laughing. Oh, Penelope knew again in that moment that it had actually been a blessing when Benedict had caught her that night a year ago.

"Benedict, do not discourage her. If she has taken an interest in Lady Whistledown again, perhaps she's interested in what she has to say about the season's available gentlemen too."

"I cannot think of any cleverer way to say this, but no," Eloise drawled, glaring at her mother's remark. Benedict flicked her nose in silent admonishment, though Penelope could tell there was not much force behind it. "Lady Whistledown writes about more than just the eligible gentleman. She exposes some of the wrongs that men wrought in our society. If anything, I have learned to avoid the male sex entirely thanks to Whistledown. I will find no one of merit here."

Eloise winked at her friend, and Penelope was torn between giggling and kicking her friend's shin under the table. If anything, Eloise was antagonizing Violet, poking at her anxieties rather than quitting them.

As if in answer, Violet hovered near them, wringing her hands together, her voice high and nervous.

"What you must find, my dear, is happiness," Violet turned towards her second eldest son and the youngest Featherington, her bright blue eyes searching. Penelope winced, knowing what was coming. "Benedict, Penelope, assist me here. Eloise could find that with someone else, could she not?"

Benedict lunged forward and snatched Eloise's cup of tea, bringing it to his lips. Penelope narrowed her eyes, she knew what he was doing. The traitor. Turning towards Violet's expectant stance, she tried to smile though she had a feeling it came out more of a grimace.

"I believe she could. And not Lady Whistledown, but someone more like…" Penelope blinked as a man walked into the room, short chestnut hair with matching scruff upon his cheeks and chin, tall and dashing in a tan traveling coat that reached his calves. He was nothing short of handsomely roguish. "Colin."

Benedict choked on his absconded tea and Eloise's nose pinched in disgust.

"My brother?"

"No, not Coli...Colin!" Penelope exclaimed, glued to the spot as she pointed a shaking finger to the doorway.

As was par the course in Bridgerton House, chaos erupted as the family took notice of their long absent son and sibling. Eloise spared a glance at Penelope before standing, following the herd to welcome Colin home.

"Glad to see things have not changed," Colin said brightly, his voice as warm as she remembered. "Could you set aside the latest family squabble and embrace me?"

Yet Penelope remained frozen in her seat, unsure of what to do or how to act. Seeing Colin filled her with an odd mix of heartbreak and affection, his unintended dismissal at the ball last year still a wound not completely healed over. But he still inspired a kernel of warmth within her heart that made her nervous. He appeared more grown up now, more worldly and attractive, that could not be denied.

And yet…

Resting her hands on her stomach, she pressed gently down, searching for the torrent of butterflies that should be rioting within. Instead, they were calm at the sight of him, certainly more so than last season.

What did that mean?

She tried to scan her body, searching for evidence of her long held tendre for the third Bridgerton son and she still found proof of it there. Excitement that he had returned, eagerness to know of some of his ventures abroad in more detail, and the slightest erratic hitch of her breaths in nervousness. But it wasn't so intense, so all-consuming as it had felt last year when all she could sometimes think about was Colin and how wonderful and unattainable he was.

Was this maturation, possibly? Or was it…was it…

"Nel?"

The softest whisper floated by her ear, warm breath heating her cheek. Turning her face towards the warmth and the sound of his voice, she found Benedict sitting upright, his sketchbook placed upon the table. His face etched in concern, mere inches away from hers. His fingers clenched the arms of his chair, corded muscle flexing as he squeezed the polished wood.

His scent enveloped her; cedar, leather, oak moss, and the faintest whiff of the graphite he'd been working with. Her heart thumped suddenly, picking up its pace.

What was the matter with her? Was she ill?

"Are you alright, Nel?" he whispered. "If you do not wish to see him, I shall escort you out."

Penelope startled and shook her head, her curls bouncing as she did so. She bit her lower lip, chewing absentmindedly as she thought. Benedict peered behind him to ensure the others were occupied before prying her lip from her teeth. Sometimes she thought she could memorize the unique swirls and patterns that made up his fingerprint just from this touch alone, so often it was repeated.

"No, I am quite alright. Last season is behind me. I assure you, Benedict, I am capable of grace, and there was really nothing to forgive Colin of."

Benedict frowned.

"I never meant to imply you are incapable. I, of all people, know how strong and relentless you truly are."

Benedict's face reddened and Penelope concluded it really must be an unseasonably hot day for the older man to be so affected. That must be what addled all of their senses.

"Thank you for fretting over me," she smiled, using her pink gloved hand to quickly clasp his wrist. The pulse she felt under her fingertips seemed to hammer into her skin. "But I am well."

"I know you are well," he murmured, standing up and taking her with him. Penelope noticed Eloise attempting to discreetly wave them over, her hand flapping against her skirt as she did. "But that does not mean I will stop fretting."

Penelope took Benedict's proffered arm without thought as they sauntered over to where the rest of the family stood, fawning and embracing Colin.

"Especially now that Theseus has returned."

Penelope barely heard it, it had been spoken in such a low tone. But when she made to inquire to the sudden hard set of Benedict's eyes despite the jovial smile upon his face, they were greeted with Colin's convivial smile,

"Brother! Pen!"

Benedict was very uncomfortable with jealousy.

It was not an emotion he was well-acquainted with. Oh, yes, when he had been a child there was the odd spell where he became upset because his father may have paid more attention to Anthony or when Colin got a new toy that Benedict had particularly favored. As he came of age, it became more of his own job to sort out the petty jealousies of his siblings and he'd simply had no time to partake. His wants and covetous desires became more complicated, more intricate. He was jealous that Anthony had purpose through the viscountcy, though Benedict never wanted it for himself, and he even was envious that Colin found some sense of surety through his travels.

But he'd never felt an envy so ugly and primally male until Colin walked back into the drawing room like a Grecian hero returned from battle. Penelope had clocked him immediately. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she'd spotted him before anyone else as if she was attuned to his presence, his place in her life.

And Benedict never knew how much he could despise and curse such a poetic thing.

Here he had been, enjoying an afternoon with his family and Penelope. God, though he'd been sketching the likeness of the baby blue tits now occupying the tree in the garden, it was Penelope he kept staring at, his fingers itching to draw her. She was so pretty it made him squirm and ache. He didn't know whether to sit still or to run off the energy her mere presence fed him, but all he knew was he never wanted to be denied the opportunity to look at her unabashedly.

While he knew that yellows and oranges were not the best colors on her, even in the lemon yellow and light pink ensemble she wore that day, to him she was perfection. He could see that the soft pink matched the highlight of her cheek bones, her bright curls like flickering embers whenever the sun shone through the window. It had been perfect, just bantering with her and Eloise as he took in her appearance, memorizing every detail so he could memorialize her in charcoal later.

But then Colin had returned.

It was a terrible feeling to be both gladdened to see the brother he loved returned but also wish to ship him back to the farthest reaches of the blasted Mediterranean as swiftly as possible. Benedict could barely handle the absolute whiplash that had been his relief for his brother's safety morph into a half-baked plan of stuffing the blastedly handsome jack of limbs into a crate and mailing him to Russia.

He could barely stand it when he checked in on Penelope, staying by her side as she sat frozen, her sky blue eyes locked onto Colin while he was surrounded by family. It was as if he was dragged back in time to the Granvilles the fateful night of the Hastings Ball, her sobbing between his thighs…

And he was helpless.

But he offered her an out and like the incredible woman he knew she was, who she was still growing into, she refused, standing with him and striding over to greet his brother.

He loved her all the more for it, even though it felt like someone was taking a knife to his gut.

Repeatedly.

"Brother! Pen!" Colin called cheerily, Hyacinth and Gregory glued to his side.

Benedict tried to return his brother's joy but he felt the corners of his lips twist. Benedict hated conflict, he tried his best to avoid it.

But sarcasm? Wit? They were beautiful assets to language, something one could use to disguise one's true meaning. What was playful banter to the room could be a challenge issued from the speaker, all wrapped up into supposed pleasantries. Words and tone were everything. Benedict knew that well, just as Penelope did beside him.

So Benedict would use words for now, until he could wrangle the feelings that tangled themselves like angry briars in his chest.

"I believe we must get you to the doctor post-haste," Benedict clutched Penelope's small knuckles over his arm. He knew in the back of his mind it could be seen as inappropriate but he was counting on how relaxed his mother was within their home, especially around Penelope. His tone was bright but he could hear the edge in his own voice. "This strange, fuzzy growth on your chin is some kind of disease."

It came off as the joke he wanted it to, so Violet simply slapped his arm lightly in admonishment while Penelope giggled at his side. Her laughter relinquished some of the pressure in his chest, the tangled mess of thorns lightening their hold upon his lungs. But he caught, from the corner of his eye, an odd look from Francesca.

The siblings naturally descended into squabbling over how Colin looked, who was now taller, and other silly matters only family found important. Yet, throughout, Benedict could not tear his eyes away from the young redhead beside him. She stayed on his arm even as Eloise backed away to flank her other side. While she was undoubtedly observing Colin, she didn't leave him. That softened the blow of envy slightly, though Benedict fervently wanted her to focus on him once again. Why was jealousy so ugly and bitter? Why was it so pervasive, spreading through his veins like venom from a basilisk's fang or a raging fire left unchecked?

He loved Colin fiercely. Would do anything the young man asked, as he had often done so when they were growing up. Colin had been the boy eager to help and follow his two older brothers' lead wherever they may go. Daphne may have been Colin's partner in crime, but Anthony and Benedict had been his role models and confidants. There'd been a time when Colin had come home from Eton, withdrawn and quiet. Benedict and Anthony had grown truly worried when Colin barely touched the food on his plate at dinner. Anthony had been convinced the young boy was dying when Colin actually refused dessert.

When they cornered their younger brother later in Anthony's office, he burst into tears. Anthony froze at first, having been spared handling the distraught antics of his siblings since their father died. It had become Benedict and Daphne's job while Anthony handled the estate. But Benedict had pushed Anthony forward and both stood on either side of Colin and pulled him into a hug.

"Shhhh, Col, shhhh. What's wrong?" Benedict asked.

"N-No one l-likes m-me," he hiccupped, burying his tear-stained face into Anthony's shoulder. "T-the o-other boys think I t-talk too much about b-b-books and n-nature."

"Oh, Col," Anthony sighed. "You are too kind by half."

It had been true. It had always been true. Colin's kind, affable good nature did not fit into the walls of Eton, where wealthy boys came to assess their peers and devour the weak. So Benedict and Anthony had sat Colin down and tried to instruct him on how to shield himself from the bullies and to blend in with the predators of the ton. To blend in with those who were powerful and cruel in order to survive.

Yet, amazingly, blessedly, Colin remained so incredibly good . Innocent even, to a painful point.

Benedict loathed himself. For being jealous of the man Colin was now was much like blaming the crying boy he once held in his arms for being too nice.

Benedict snapped out of his reverie, having missed half a conversation, when Anthony strode into the room, perfectly poised and, for all appearances, looking like a general ready to give his soldiers orders.

Oh dear.

"Colin! You are returned." Anthony lit up, hands clasped behind his back, ready to lay out some sort of plan. "Even better. Family, I should like you all to ready yourselves for the races today." Benedict's eyebrows shot up so far, he was sure they were nearly burrowed in his hairline. He met Eloise's own shocked countenance over Penelope's head. Anthony was a fan of the races, of horses in general, but very rarely did he invite his family along to his beloved hobby. "We will be attending, united as one."

Oh, this would be interesting. Benedict had to ponder what his brother was up to now.

Except now he had two brothers to worry about. One with his schemes to marry Miss Edwina and the other because now…

What if Penelope's attention was diverted away from him?

Benedict felt sick at the thought.

"Ah, well that shall be good fun," Colin said as Hyacinth and Gregory jumped up and down like jackrabbits beside him.

"Oh, Brother! Even me? Do I get to go?" Hyacinth exclaimed, latching onto Anthony's arm, causing the usually stoic viscount to smile as he lifted her briefly into the air before setting her down. "May I wear my new hair ribbons?"

"Yes, of course you may."

"If she gets to go, then I can as well!" Gregory huffed, not wanting to be left out.

"He was addressing all of us," Benedict said gently. "We are all going."

"Will the races be quite loud?" Francesca asked, looking poised but Benedict could see by how she began twisting her fingers that she was growing anxious. Benedict looked between the siblings in the room. Anthony now had his hands full with Hyacinth as Violet and Colin addressed Gregory. Eloise was attempting to pull Penelope from his side, desperate to show her the baby birds before both young ladies had to get ready for the races.

But it looked as if one wallflower could spot another. Penelope studied Francesca, tilting her head to the side even as Eloise tugged upon her arm, jostling her from side to side. Her curls fluttered around her head and Benedict caught a whiff of ginger that made his knees go weak. Through her thick lashes, she caught him and held his attention for a moment before she directed it to Francesca.

"Go," she breathed. "I will see you at the races."

She let go of his arm and followed Eloise and he felt incredibly bereft without her touch. It was as if he now missed some vital organ that kept him moving.

But Francesca continued to worry. She had gone unnoticed within her crowd of much louder, more boisterous siblings.

She needed him.

With a sigh, he padded over to where Francesca twisted her second knuckle so hard her fingers went white from lack of blood flow. Grasping her smaller fingers in his own, he applied pressure, gentle but tight, just like she needed.

Francesca had always been a bit of the odd one out. Within the confines of their family, she was clever beyond belief, even devilishly funny when she was relaxed. But she was most at home when she was lost in a piece of music, obsessing over chord progressions or motifs. Nothing put her more at peace than playing upon the pianoforte, as if it drowned out the cacophony of noise and took her to a sacred space no one else could reach.

But outside the home, noise and crowds could overwhelm Franny. When she had been small and the family hosted social events in London or if they'd gone to the local markets near Aubrey Hall, Francesca would eventually shut down. When she was tiny she would wail but as she got older, having been on the receiving end of her governess's admonishment too many times, she would go still and silent, unable to function. The elder siblings learned that it was best to tuck Francesca in and apply constant pressure as they absconded her out of what was her own personal viper's nest. Chaos was her enemy while silence, except for music, was her solace.

He could no longer lift her into his arms and squeeze her within an inch of her life as he acted the hero and rescued her from a world that did not always fit around her needs. That reality hurt him, but he also knew he could not rescue her every time they entered a crowd. He would not always be there, as he had his own life to live.

Did that make him horrible?

Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he applied more pressure to Francesca's hands until she began imitating his inhalations and exhalations.

He would not be there all the time. But he could assist her now.

"Fran," he said, tenderly moving her closer so his chin rested upon the top of her head. He had a feeling their siblings were deliberately ignoring them now, giving the space Francesca needed when a panic started to rise. "It will be loud, that cannot be avoided. Stick by Hyacinth and Gregory's side."

"But they are also loud," she murmured into his chest and he snorted.

"Yes, but they are the noise you are used to. Pretend the crowd is full of Gregorys and Hyacinths. Breathe like I have taught you, and if you need an escape, pat my knee three times and I will take you away. Maybe we can go to Gunter's for an ice? There would be no one there with the race and you so rarely get to enjoy it."

Francesca shifted, pensive for a moment before she nodded slowly.

"Alright. I… I will try my hardest, Brother."

"I know you will." He pressed a chaste kiss atop her chestnut brown tresses and prayed it would be enough.

Penelope was forced to admit that while Cousin Jack's gun display, along with all of the kills associated with it, was not the most handsome thing in the room, it was certainly intriguing. Cousin Jack had dropped into their household like a magician carried upon a whirlwind. Not only had he apparently solved their money problems, but he'd cinched Philippa's marriage to Mister Finch, struck her own mother into silence, and he'd even managed something only one other relative had succeeded at in the past.

He was kind to her.

Cousin Jack was incredibly amiable, full of stories about his time in the Americas that he was more than willing to share over the day's paper. When they broke fast together, he actually listened when Penelope put forth a tentative question, one that her father used to ignore or that Portia attempted to shut down. But the new baron said, "Oh, come now. Let her ask! There is nothing wrong with a curious mind."

In that instance, Cousin Jack had won her hesitant affection. The Featherington women so far did not have a very good track record with the men chosen to lord over them as their supposed protectors. She hoped desperately that this one would not disappoint.

"Is that Cousin Jack's?" Penelope asked her mother, who stood next to an equally dumbfounded Missus Varley, taking in the many antlers positioned alongside the hunting rifles. It was quite prominent in the hall and, while it was not to Penelope's taste, she had no doubt any lord Cousin Jack invited would take great interest.

"Cousin? Is that what he asked you to call him?"

Portia appeared troubled to say the least, her brow pinched in worry as she pursed her lips. Then again, Penelope had rarely seen her mother without such a look for about a year. But Cousin Jack seemed to perturb her mother more than he should. Penelope originally thought her mother would have been overjoyed to deal with this young man versus the crotchety old codger who'd stood to inherit before. But now…

"Are you bothered by him, Mama?"

"Of course not. The new Lord Featherington has come to shower us with many riches indeed." Portia nodded, though Penelope deduced it was more to herself than to anyone else. "If we must endure a few...dubious style choices in return, along with some rather questionable matters of breeding, then so be it."

"I also hear he wishes to convert the morning room into his own personal gaming hell," Varley muttered and Penelope saw the blood drain from her mother's face.

"Ah." Speak of the devil. "Now, that looks splendid. Livens up the place, yes?"

Cousin Jack beamed at the display cabinet, running a hand over the long barrel of the rifle nearest to him.

"It is a happy addition, my lord," Portia's false sense of cheer grated and Penelope wondered how her cousin could not pick it up. Then again, maybe he was just far too genial to care. "Though, perhaps happier in your own bedchamber."

"Have you shot them all, Cousin Jack?" Penelope asked, interest getting the better of her.

She wanted to know as much as she could about the man now in charge of her life. Digging and digging until she unearthed that he was truly as warm as he conveyed or if there was some sort of ploy or darkness she had missed. She didn't want to believe that, once again, they could be saddled with a man who did not truly have their interests at heart. It would be too much.

"Every weapon here has a splendid history and is worthy of interest, Penelope," Jack said kindly, a clear sense of pride oozing off him as he admired his collection. "I shall have to fill you in on all of my adventures one day. Now, ladies, run along and get dressed. We head to the Royal Races today."

Penelope controlled her excitement as she took the stairs two at a time to prepare for the races. It had been such a thrilling day already. Colin had returned and there would certainly be juicy gossip surrounding the Viscount Bridgerton and the youngest Sharma, if what had happened at the Queen's Ball was anything to go by. She'd retrieved some of this gossip from Benedict with his permission to publish, as long as he got to read it first. Though it appeared both Benedict and Eloise were much more relaxed when it came to criticizing their eldest brother than they had been about their sister last year.

"Anthony could always afford for his ego to be deflated by a good pen ," Eloise had jested. "We are not too worried about him."

Humming as she perused her closet for proper attire, her body buzzed with the thrill of the day. She would get to shop around with Eloise, collect gossip, and she could converse with Benedict some more on recent developments in her household with Cousin Jack and whether they could attend Henry Granville's next artist gathering together.

So absorbed in her carefree thoughts, Penelope never realized she did not think much on Colin at all.

Penelope craned her head over the crowd of people, on the look out for any fair Bridgertons she could find. The sun was, miraculously, shining in the sky as gentlemen and ladies milled about the pastel colored stalls buying souvenirs and making bets on that day's race. The image of her late father rose in her mind but she quickly tamped it down. Grief was not something she wanted to deal with today.

Standing on the tips of her slippered feet, she searched desperately for the famous Bridgerton head of chestnut hair but quickly cursed. Why exactly were hats the fashion when going to the races? They did nothing more than bring attention to either people's oddly shaped heads or their horrible tastes. Except the men, of course. They all simply wore top hats which was a curse in and of itself. How was she to distinguish a gaggle of Bridgerton men from the rest if they all blended in with the crowd?

She fingered her own frivolous headpiece, a bunch of yellow and pink bows she had no doubt made her look more like a pastry than a person.

In the background, she knew Philippa talked nonstop about her wedding, much to Prudence's annoyance. But she did not hear a word as she searched the grounds until–

"... Can you, Penelope?"

Yet, all Penelope could think to reply was, "Have you seen the Bridgertons?"

From the corner of her vision, she saw Prudence roll her eyes and Philippa pout. There were times she wondered if it was not just her sisters' behavior that put so much distance between them but her own as well. In truth, ever since she'd met Eloise and the rest of the Bridgerton family on that fateful day in the park, she'd abandoned much hope that she would ever find a single thread of familiarity with her own kin. Instead, she sought to implant herself as much as possible into a family so strangely warm and close.

And maybe by doing so, she'd sealed her fate as an outsider in both families. She would never be a Bridgerton, Penelope had no illusions about that. Though it was still a dear dream of hers. But she also ensured that she was forever looking in on her own blood family, never truly a part of its center.

It was maddening, being torn between familial love for a family that was not yours and familial loyalty to the strangers you belonged to. Oddly enough, she felt like one of Eloise's precious birds, except she was forever in the wrong nest.

She wandered off, knowing her mother and sisters would barely notice her absence. Though Cousin Jack was incredibly good to her, Penelope was too practiced at blending into a crowd unseen. Besides, he appeared too busy ingratiating himself with other circles of gentlemen to worry about her whereabouts.

The smell of fresh, sugary confections and savory morsels wafted across the breeze as she pushed through the crowd, but she ignored even the siren song of her beloved eclair on her pin money. She had to be careful with what she chose to buy and how much, as she could not afford for her mother to ever question how she had so much money to spare. Yet, in-between a stall selling dried flowers and another showing off the finest fleece-lined gloves, a stall sat full of porcelain objects. Crammed to bursting with wares, it carried everything from vases, fine china, decorative dancing couples and poised hunting dogs. Such things usually did not attract Penelope's notice, except for one miniature animal that sat in a place of pride at the front of the table.

She paused, gingerly picking it up to study it from all angles, her smile growing wider as she realized exactly whose twin it was.

She met the gaze of the eager merchant and asked, "How much?"

Benedict could not help but strain his neck over the crowd to try to catch a glimpse of Penelope. One would think it would not be so hard to spot a fire-headed beauty who always stuck out in cornea-searing yellow from a crowd, but apparently the crowds of the races decided to prove him wrong. He was a tall man but he had started to envy the creatures with the oddly long necks. He tried to remember what they were. Zebras? No, it was giraffes.

"Are you well, Brother?"

Benedict snapped back to attention and blushed. The last person he wanted to be caught out by was Colin at the moment. At the concerned tilt of his younger brother's head, shame washed over him like a sudden icy wave from the ocean. Here was Colin, a good brother who was merely concerned over Benedict's well-being and yet, the elder Bridgerton could not help but feel some bitter resentment towards him.

Lawks, he needed to attend to the knot of feelings soon or they would cause him agony.

It didn't help that Anthony appraised Benedict like he was some art piece, one that could reveal his brother's secrets and value to him.

Blasted siblings.

"I am quite well, Col. Nothing to fear. I simply am distracted by the, uh," he searched for something, anything to latch on. "The pastry selection. I am rather famished."

Anthony scoffed but Colin merely chuckled good-naturedly.

"You are beginning to sound like me. Are you sure you are alright?"

Benedict opened his mouth to reply, but in that moment, a voice called out to him, lightning traveled down his spine and his heart swelled so significantly, it felt as though it rattled against his ribcage.

"Benedict!"

Without heed to propriety, Penelope nearly slammed into his arm, his top hat knocked askew. She nearly bounced on the balls of her feet, the brightest smile and a tiny parcel held in one hand.

"Benedict, you will not believe what I jus–"

Abruptly, her voice died as her sky blue eyes darted from Anthony to Colin and she blushed furiously, letting go of Benedict's arm to straighten her skirts.

He hated it, her letting go of him. He could still feel her warmth linger on his jacket sleeve, where her shoulder had pressed against him. He wanted to entangle their fingers together and never let go, no matter how many people stared at them. And worst of all, he despised when she said,

"I am so sorry, Mister Bridgerton. I did not realize you were in conversation with your brothers."

Benedict cursed society and all of its rules and regulations. But he did not know how anything could be worse than this moment.

"Pen, there is no need to be so formal. You have known our family since you were all of nine," Colin said kindly, and Benedict cursed his brother for being faster to comfort her. "You must have found something quite rare to elicit such a reaction."

If possible, Penelope's face turned a deeper shade of red, and if it had just been him and Eloise, he had no doubt he would have teased her by now.

But nothing about the situation seemed to be funny to him. About how she blushed while Colin looked at her and she suddenly appeared tongue-tied in his very presence.

Irrationally, impulsively Benedict picked up Penelope's hand and placed it on his arm. Anthony raised one lone eyebrow, so the second Bridgerton cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, Miss Featherington," Lawks he detested using her formal address. "I would be delighted to see what you purchased. I am sure you were looking for Eloise as well and knew I possessed the requisite skills to sniff her out?"

Finally, she met his gaze again and it was a balm upon his soul to see the bright blues of her irises clear before him.

"Yes, of course. If there is any bloodhound who could trace Eloise's trail, it is most certainly you."

She said it with barely a stutter in her voice and Benedict's chest swelled with pride as the whole group, even Anthony, chuckled.

Before he could make his escape with the woman who had become the center of all his affections, a deep voice boomed out for them collectively, "Bridgertons!"

They all turned to see Mister and Missus Mondrich approaching from across the green, looking finer than they ever had. Benedict couldn't help but be exquisitely happy for Mister Mondrich and his wife's upward mobility. While money could not exactly grant them a title, it helped the pair open doors for themselves and their family that had been unavailable to them before.

"Mister Mondrich," Benedict used his free hand to reach forward and shake the burly man's own. "It appears retirement suits you well."

"If only he were retired," Missus Mondrich lamented though her breezy countenance revealed no ill will. Alice's soft, brown eyes drifted to take in Penelope. "Who is this young lady? Your intended, Mister Bridgerton?"

Heat crept up Benedict's chest and a strange tight feeling settled in his groin. The image of Penelope as his bride flooded his mind and he swore he felt Penelope's hold on his arm tighten. But Colin spoke before he could, "No, Pen is just a dear family friend."

Colin's tone was jolly but how Penelope shifted uncomfortably beside him spoke volumes. The reminder of her unrequited love for Colin punched him squarely in the gut. But he had to say something. For some reason, he could not let what Colin said stand.

"But any man able to actually capture Miss Featherington's attention would be a fortunate man indeed," Benedict said, looking down at Penelope to silently urge her to meet his eyes. She did and he put every ounce of truth and intention behind his smile.

He ignored the odd glances both of his brothers gave him. Missus Mondrich made as if to speak again but Colin, once again, reacted first.

"Are you planning another foray into the ring, Mister Mondrich?"

"Into business, in fact. I am opening a gentlemen's club." Mondrich exuded confidence as he said this, though not overly so. He had always been a man of charm, more so than anyone Benedict talked to in the ton, at least. "Set to rival even the select haunts on St. James's, if we are fortunate."

Brushing her shoulder beside him, he felt rather than saw how Penelope leaned in, standing slightly on her toes to hear better. This would be new, interesting gossip for her column, that was unquestionable. He would have to tell her to bless Mondrich with compliments. The man deserved nothing less.

"You do know we have all been members of White's since birth," Anthony commented haughtily and Benedict bit back a groan.

There were times that Benedict wished he was a worse man than he was. One of those times arrived at that moment, where he so longed to kick his eldest brother in the shin without fear of social repercussions.

Mondrich took it all with good humor though, as he proceeded as if Anthony had not just insulted his new business venture.

"Our grand opening is tomorrow night. You're all invited."

"Apologies," Anthony interrupted and Benedict followed his line of sight to find the Sharma sisters amongst the crowd, along with Lord Lumley and Mister Dorset. "If you will excuse me."

Anthony broke away, his tunnel vision leading him straight towards Miss Edwina and the apparent knight, sans armor, that was her elder sister. Beside him, Penelope watched the viscount go as well, shrewd and calculating in a way that made Benedict grin crookedly. But first, he needed to amend the slight his brother administered.

As usual.

"Tell me, Mister Mondrich," Benedict said kindly, ushering Penelope closer along with him, Colin flanking the former pugilist's other side. "I wouldn't mind some stimulation."

"I have extended invitations to titled lords, gentlemen, merchants working their way up the ranks, burgeoning young artists - truly anyone who is honorable and has the means to pay."

Penelope cocked her head and Benedict watched the cogs of her mind turn. Rather boldly she said, "I believe you mean any man, Mister Mondrich. My dear friend Eloise would have something to say about such a thing. I, however, have more of a penchant for semantics."

Benedict's jaw unhinged and fell open before he threw back his head in laughter. Colin appeared flabbergasted as well before he joined in. Luckily, Mondrich and his wife were still smiling. Missus Mondrich in particular appeared to approve of the comment as she sidled up to Penelope, her dark brown eyes alight with amusement.

"I do like a woman who can correct a man, especially one as mulish as my husband."

Penelope once again turned the color of tomato as if just realizing that her wit had slipped unbidden from her lips.

"My apologies–"

"Do not apologize," Missus Mondrich said firmly. "Too much of a woman's time is taken up by needless apologies that men insist we give simply for speaking our minds and taking up space. Your name again, Miss–?"

"Penelope Featherington."

"Well, Miss Penelope, I am Alice. I insist we use our Christian names with one another."

"Speaking freely comes rarely to me," Penelope admitted, and Benedict pressed his side closer to her, as if he could be her pillar. He wanted to be her pillar, more than anything. "But I was lucky enough to make good friends last season who have assisted in re-building what was a crumbling foundation for my confidence."

"That gladdens my heart," Alice said, nothing but honesty in her tone. "Perhaps you may introduce me to them, one day."

Penelope nodded happily, the ridiculous pink and yellow bows on her head flopping as she did. Benedict bit his lip with how adorable it was. Lawks, he was a goner.

"I would love to!"

Mister and Missus Mondrich gave their goodbyes before gliding off to tell more people of their newest venture. Benedict could not keep his eyes off Penelope as she practically glowed at the prospect of making a new friend. It endeared her to him all the more, how she gathered people around her who saw the real her - one who could be as biting and calculating as she was shy and sweet. She was a living dichotomy between controlling and pliant, wicked and kind, cutting and empathetic.

Her growth was a glorious thing to behold and he wanted to see it all.

"Brother." Benedict was cruelly thrust out of his thoughts as Colin's voice cut though the moment. "Shall we look for our family? We can escort Pen as we do, I am sure she wants to see Eloise."

Colin reached out to give Penelope's shoulder a friendly pat and Benedict had to resist the urge to pull her away from him. But the ember-haired writer graced his younger brother with a smile, her cheeks flushed and round, and the uncomfortable bite of jealousy returned, eating away at his stomach lining like rats in a trap.

She nodded her assent, but before they could move, she stretched out, up and up, her free fingers wiggling towards his head. On instinct, Benedict bent his knees, crouching down for her and, with a delighted huff, she adjusted his lopsided top hat.

"There," she said proudly, giving him that sly smile that he wanted all to himself. "Now we are ready."

Benedict was not a man of conflict, but he was starting to realize that he was a slightly different creature when he was in love. And he could not help but be a rapacious man for every little bit of attention she gave him.

Eloise half-heartedly perused the pamphlets, occasionally turning her attention to the crowd for Penelope as her mother went on in her hurried way to try to encourage Eloise about the marriage mart. Eloise knew that, in truth, the dowager viscountess was disquieted about her second daughter's complete lack of interest in any possible beau available to her. Eloise wrinkled her nose as she scanned a sheet about dog-grooming, barely hanging onto her mother's words.

"Just look at your brother. The social season frustrated him at first too, but now it seems this Miss Edwina has quickened his interest and pleasure in courtship." Violet placed a gentle, gloved hand upon Eloise's back but it was no longer a comfort. It felt ominous somehow, like not only her mother's expectations loomed behind her, but Daphne's perfect ghost. She could never live up to Daphne. She did not want to. Why couldn't her mother accept that? "I only mean to say, Eloise, that we must be willing to look to find the partner that will excite us."

Eloise rolled her eyes and couldn't help the sneer that escaped her, admittedly weak, self-control.

"So dance with a bevy of frogs and one of them might turn out to be a prince?"

Eloise traced the words of another dangling sheet of paper and her hand twitched. It was a new academic article on the introduction of foreign botanical species on English soil. With barely contained eagerness, she plucked the pamphlet from its hold in the stall, greedily devouring its contents. Sir Phillip would take a great interest in its contents, she knew. It also held the possibility of helping her with her own gardening endeavors…

"Are you listening to me?" Her mother interrupted her thoughts, soft even when she was indignant. "What do you have in your hand?"

Eloise dug out a few coins from her reticule and handed them to the merchant, pressing the parchment like a prized possession to her sternum.

"Nothing, Mama. It is only a pamphlet on various species of flowers." Eloise waved her one free hand dismissively, hoping her mother would not have too many questions. "Well, a lady is allowed her hobbies, is she not? I have become interested in…floral arranging. So it is best to know more about the flowers one must, uh, fashionably arrange. Would you not agree?"

"I-I suppose so." Violet's face lightened considerably and Eloise was torn between immense satisfaction for distracting her mother and shame for having lied in such a bald-faced manner. "It is an excellent skill, my dearest. As you would be in charge of such things when you have your own home."

Eloise bit back a groan, carefully folding the pamphlet and stuffing it into her reticule for safe-keeping. In earnest, she resumed her search for Penelope, desperate to put a halt to any conversation revolving around the shackles of marriage.

While Eloise may have accepted that such a fate was something Penelope ultimately desired, as it provided a sort of freedom living under her mother's roof could not, she was far from accepting such an outcome for herself. There was so much to learn and live for. Why consign herself to a life of flower arranging, organizing house parties, and damned needlework when there was so much else in the world to explore?

It didn't take long to spot the towering figure of two of her elder brothers, and a familiar, short woman hanging off Benedict's arm.

"Pen!" Eloise called, not heeding propriety as she dashed up to her best friend, yanking her from Benedict's hold to drag her away.

"El!"

"Eloise!"

Ignoring the disgruntled cries of her brother and mother, she absconded away with her best friend, her chest growing lighter and lighter the more distance she put between herself and talk of how to attract potential suitors. She only turned around to stick her tongue out at Benedict and Colin. Colin shook his head before turning to Violet, his hands clasping her arms as he no doubt took on the duty to please and distract her. Benedict jutted out his lower lip in a clear pout before mouthing, "Traitor."

Eloise practically skipped in the grass with her best friend on her arm, weaving their way through the spectators as they approached the stands.

"Pen! I finally found you!"

"You always do," Penelope giggled, leaning her head so their heads brushed together, unmindful of their chestnut and ginger tresses tangling together. "Needed an escape from your mother?"

"How could you guess?"

"You looked like me when trying to escape my own family." Penelope patted Eloise's arm sympathetically. "Remember, your mother is only acting out of love, even if it might be slightly misguided."

"Slightly? It is as if whenever I tell her that I am uncomfortable, that the marriage mart holds no appeal for me, she simply pretends I said nothing of the sort." Eloise blew a wisp of dark brown hair out of her face. "But let us not talk of something so tedious. Look!" Hastily she unclasped her reticule and pulled out the botany pamphlet. "Isn't it fascinating? The amount of study that must be done to acclimatize foreign plants to English soil and ensure they do not harm the natural habitat… I had never thought of it before. I cannot wait to write to Sir Phillip about it."

Penelope hummed agreeably but Eloise recognized her friend's astuteness.

"How is your correspondence with Sir Phillip?"

"Always informative. He is one of the only men who has ever treated my curiosity and thoughts seriously, besides Benedict or Colin."

"And you have been careful with your missives?"

"Of course," Eloise said primly, sticking her nose in the air before stiffening. "Oh Lord, Pen, you haven't told my brothers have you?"

Penelope bumped her hip with Eloise's, gasping dramatically.

"The audacity of such a statement does not merit an answer. I would never betray such a confidence." Penelope smirked, raising a delicate eyebrow. "No, my friend, you get that honor when the time comes."

Eloise groaned but pushed that thought aside. If she had her way, there was no way her brothers would ever have need to find out about her exchange of letters with Sir Phillip.

No. They need never know.

Penelope began before the race's official start sitting with her family, but as the animated atmosphere stroked itself to an anticipating fever pitch, she slipped away, her family none the wiser. Instinct stroked her senses, convincing her to move toward the seats behind the Sharmas, Viscount Bridgerton, Mister Dorset, and Lord Lumley. Even though Lady Danbury was only a few seats down from her as the Sharmas' chaperone, she was able to blend in easily with the other young ladies. Her invisibility was an asset here, letting her push herself through groups of people until she'd slotted herself into place behind the elder Miss Sharma and Anthony Bridgerton. Miss Edwina and Mister Dorset were there as well, on either side of the two bickering about what horse was more likely to win.

" You simply chose the horse everyone else has chosen. Quite a 'feeling.'" Kate was whip-sharp, Penelope could already tell, her ability to swiftly enter a verbal battle of wills impressive.

"I made a strategic bet." The Viscount Bridgerton, however, was not one to go down without a fight.

Even, she knew his siblings would argue, if it was a losing battle.

"So you've considered your horse's temperament, as well as the conditions of the track, in order to properly assess its true potential?"

Mister Dorset and Miss Edwina tried to intervene, the poor souls. But their interjections could not halt the volley of words between the two hot-headed opponents.

"Nectar is a prize steed."

"Nectar ran well at Doncaster, but that was a firmer course. The weather was much cooler. Thus his size was an advantage. Today the track is soft, and it is hot, meaning he will struggle to make headway, overheat, and slow down during the final leg, giving High Flyer, a much swifter, lighter, cooler horse, the victory."

"You think too much about it."

"And you, too little."

On and on it went, even when a baffled Lord Lumley returned with the highly sought out lemonade. It was like watching a tennis match where no one ceded even a point, the ball lobbed back and forth, back and forth, until one or the other would have to surrender simply from exhaustion. Except, the banter did not seem to tire them.

In fact, it only appeared to act as kindling to the fire, fuel to burn that blazed hot between them.

Penelope really, desperately wished she had more than a mere fan.

Even when the race started, the air simmered with their rivalry. Penelope stood, pretending to get a better look at the horses galloping around the track. Observations were Penelope's long game, something she continued to perfect as she watched and listened. Though, she had to admit, while her short stature helped her remain hidden, it sometimes was a hindrance when trying to overhear persons who had been blessed with height. She wished she'd asked Benedict to come with her, but he would have been too obvious. Besides, it appeared part of Viscount Bridgerton's ploy had been to present the family altogether.

Smirking, she clapped as the horses made their final lap around the track, listening to Kate's great, shrill whistle with something akin to glee. High Flyer won and Penelope had to admit, the victory of a fellow woman over a man was quite sweet. Before she moved, she observed Miss Edwina and Mister Dorset, following them off the stands, her steps quick and sure. Miss Edwina was certainly polite but she appeared to have forgotten all about Lord Lumley in favor of the dashing eldest Bridgerton. Mister Dorset followed behind and…

Penelope's eyes widened.

Oh, that was quite the slip.

She would have to ask Benedict and Eloise if she could publish that.

She dashed off to find the siblings, searching the crowd as it thickened in dispersal. It was claustrophobic to say the least, but she dodged people left and right as she spotted the disappearing figure of the back of Benedict's head, his top hat leading the way. She sped up as he walked quickly, heading to a deserted corner far from the track, one of the refreshment tents now vacant but for abandoned cakes and pies.

As she predicted, Eloise was by his side. But so was Francesca.

Francesca's eyes were squeezed shut, her nose squashed into Benedict's chest, his arms encircled her like a vice. She'd only seen this occurrence one other time, at the Frost Fair months ago when it had gotten late and the crowd grew more rowdy and uncouth. It had been Anthony that time who'd taken Francesca aside, off the ice and back onto the street of London. He'd squeezed Francesca so tight she'd thought the young girl might pop like a grape but Benedict and Eloise had assured her it was a comfort to Fran whenever it happened.

Heart tight with sympathy in her chest, Penelope slowed down, now unsure whether to approach. Luckily, Eloise spotted her and motioned with her gloved hand for her best friend to come forward.

Hesitantly she came forward, slowly and quietly, the only sound the rustle of her skirts along the grass. As she got closer, she could hear Benedict murmuring into his younger sister's brown hair.

"You are okay. You did so well, Fran. You were having fun with Greg and Hy until the end when the crowd rushed down. Phenomenal job."

Francesca rocked a little in his hold, her light, peony pink dress swaying. Her hazel eyes flashed toward Penelope for a moment and the youngest Featherington gave her a small smile. They stayed like that for a while with Benedict breathing placations and praise into his sister's hair as Eloise and Penelope hovered on the side. Francesca's breathing began to even out, her frantic eyes calming until they were simply tired. The people outside the tent were thinning out, the ton leaving after the excitement of the races.

Penelope bit her cheek. It didn't seem fair to ask Benedict and Eloise to help her deliver a column tonight. Clearly Francesca might need them. Penelope fingered the fabric of her tired reticule, thinking of the present wrapped neatly in brown paper within.

Once Francesca began to squirm, Benedict let go and the younger girl flushed, pivoting on her feet towards Penelope and Eloise.The poor girl was unable to look at them.

"Sorry."

"You did so well, Fran," Eloise soothed. "Do not be sorry for becoming overwhelmed."

"It is too much, sometimes," Penelope conceded kindly. "So many people. It is like their voices and bodies assault all of the senses until you feel bowled over, does it not?"

Francesca merely nodded, wringing her hands together.

Eloise took Francesca away, over the now nearly empty space to the waiting carriage. No doubt their mother wondered where they may be. Penelope hoped her own family actually remembered to wait for her.

"Thank you."

Benedict was beside her now, looking down at her, his posture more relaxed than she would have thought.

"It is no trouble." Penelope took his proffered arm as he led her away. "I was planning on going to the printers tonight but if you need to stay with Francesca–"

"Eloise can be with her, and Mother will watch over her once she sees her. I will not let you deliver a column alone."

"But–"

"None of that, Nel."

"How about we meet in my garden tonight?"

Benedict's eyebrows shot up and Penelope blushed, turning her gaze to the bright, golden patterns embroidered on his teal waistcoat.

"Your garden?"

"Your household is alight with energy and nerves, that is clear. What with Colin's return, Francesca, Anthony's methods at courting–"

"Oh, I absolutely must hear how my brother has dug another foot of his grave today." Benedict tweaked her nose, the ruffles on the cuffs of his shirt tickling her cheeks. "I will not miss it then."

"Meet at the usual time? There is a folly in our gardens that guarantees relative privacy. I shall wait for you there."

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened and Penelope couldn't understand why a pool of molten heat poured into her lower belly.

"I will be there, Nel."

Benedict snuck into the dark Featherington garden with relative ease. It was probably due to the lack of servants, to be honest. While the new baron had hired on staff again, the numbers were still relatively small, and it was always difficult to gain new, adequate staff when there was a history of being unable to pay. He'd never been in the gardens before. They were different from the Bridgerton's. Well manicured but somehow, there was a feeling of neglect. All of the plant life chosen were relatively easy to take care of and there was no sign of trodden grass that indicated the space was used often.

For some reason, it filled Benedict's chest with despondency.

As he delved deeper into the garden, he spotted the folly in the dark, the moon barely lighting the great, stone structure, its entrance shielded from the open space. He walked around and it was only when he stepped up and inside the space that a small, curvy figure moved within the shadows.

"Nel," he breathed and he cursed how his voice came out like a supplicant kneeling in front of a goddess's altar rather than just a friend.

"Benedict!"

She shuffled forward and even in the darkness, her bright eyes, ones that seemed to match every seasonal sky, shined up at him. Her hair was bound in a simple braid over one shoulder, her fine tresses always reminded him of autumn leaves or the beautiful heart of a bright, burning coal. Control wrangled him, stopped him from sweeping her up in his arms like he so wanted to. Instead, he tweaked her nose before pushing a stray curl behind her ear.

"Shall we go, Lady Whistledown?"

"Before that, there are two things I must run by you," Penelope said, whipping out the folded bit of parchment she kept tucked in the valley of her breasts. "Here."

Benedict unfolded the paper, still warm from her skin. He couldn't help the shiver that worked its way down his spine at the thought.

…The Lord Bridgerton appears to have set his eyes on a prize other than the winnings of the Royal Races. Miss Edwina Sharma, the season's Diamond, shines brightly as men fight to entertain her. But the powerful Viscount Bridgerton, who is certainly not used to being denied, battled the lioness that is the eldest Miss Sharma. Yet, instead of fighting her off with sword and shield, he chose to dangle a bit of meat before her eyes in the form of old Oxford friend, Mister Dorset. While Miss Sharma indeed circled the tasty morsel awhile, she was shrewd enough to recognize a poisoned offering when she saw one.

Lord Bridgerton will have to adjust his strategy if he seeks to appease Miss Kathani Sharma, who only seeks to look after her cub.

"Scathing," Benedict chuckled. "I should not be surprised that my brother employed such a method to get close to Miss Edwina. Yet, somehow, with every scheme he creates, I am still shocked to near speechlessness."

"Could you ever be speechless?" Penelope giggled and Benedict felt the blood in his body rush south.

"There are a few ways I would prefer to be," he muttered.

"Huh?"

"I do not mind the criticism of my brother. As usual, the pompous arse needs it." Benedict handed back the small stack of parchment, his finger brushing the soft, delicate skin of her own. "While I like the metaphor of the elder Miss Sharma as a lioness, if there is any way to soften it, I would."

Penelope nodded thoughtfully, licking her lips as she studied the words. Benedict was thankful for the darkness as he rubbed his thighs together, biting the inside of his cheek. God, her lips looked delectable…

Zounds, he was a rake.

"While interesting to watch his plan at work that was not… all I noticed."

"Oh?"

"His banter with Miss Kate was quite…enlightening. They were toe to toe during the race, equal in a battle of wits I would say. One in which the elder sister was victorious."

Benedict frowned, turning pensive. Anthony appeared to envision Miss Kate Sharma as the ultimate obstacle from checking another item off his extensive list on how to be a good viscount (Benedict personally thought the list could be re-titled 'How to Behave Like an Entitled, Pretentious Bastard'): Marry the Diamond. Although Benedict did not know Miss Edwina and had only gathered glimpses of her personality from Anthony and in passing at social events, he assumed she was a very sweet, demure person.

And Benedict was not sure that was what his brother needed.

No one in their family, except possibly Francesca, could be labeled as demure. Even their own mother, who arguably was the most prim and proper of them all, had a fire in her that could level them all to ash if she so chose. Oh, they had been taught to be kind. But there was a sharpness to their wit, honed upon a metaphorical whetstone that was verbal battles with seven other siblings nearly every day.

Quite frankly, he was not entirely sure Miss Edwina would be able to keep up.

Benedict shook his head, breathing in the cool night air scented heavily with the fragrance of the moss that climbed the folly's walls. The inside space was a little dusty but was tidy, absent of wayward leaves and dirt. Though he did notice there were cobwebs further up, exactly where his young friend couldn't reach.

"If my brother cannot fathom an elder sibling taking up the very mantle he himself took last year with Daphne, then he is a fool indeed," Benedict reached up to a stone space above Penelope's head to flick away a small web. As a result his chest pressed closer to her, the top of his abdomen brushing against her breasts in a way that left his knees weak. The smell of ginger wafted from her curls to his nose and he cursed himself. Other men would believe him to be a green boy for how he was reacting to her. "This is a lovely hiding spot."

Benedict was unsure but with the way Penelope ducked her head, he could've sworn she was blushing.

"No one else is very fond of the garden. I always loved to come here to get away from my family, not that they would come looking," she traced her knuckles on the stone behind her fondly. "So I keep it tidy."

Humming absently, Benedict leaned back, forcing a sliver of space between them. But only just. From the corner of his vision he spotted a small brown parcel sitting on the bench behind her.

"What is that?"

Face brightening so brilliantly Benedict was temporarily paralyzed, Penelope plucked up the brown package and handed it to him.

"I found this at the races today." She took his hand and carefully placed the gift in his own. "I thought you would enjoy it. It reminded me of someone."

Benedict's breath came in short pants as he cautiously tore apart the paper wrapping, revealing a small, white porcelain figurine of a Welsh cob. It had tiny brown reins and a saddle, but in all other respects it was the picture perfect copy of…

"Rapscallion."

"Yes!" She bounced on the balls of her feet like she had earlier that day, flooded with elation. He realized with the most glorious intake of air in his lungs and the sudden expanding in his chest was that this was what she'd meant to show him earlier.

She'd thought of him.

"It is the most perfect facsimile of the great beast I have ever seen," he said, turning the small figurine this way and that so he could see every detail in the dim light of the moon. "I shall cherish him always, Nel."

And he meant it. She probably could have given him one of her citrus colored ribbons and he would've been just as thrilled.

There was something special about being thought of. Of being remembered and considered above all else. In a family as large and wild as his own, sometimes it felt like a constant battle for space and acknowledgement. He wanted both his siblings' attention and for them to just back away and give him the ability to think on his own. But no matter what, their attention was constantly divided seven ways.

But Penelope had thought of him and only him. It was he she had gotten a present. Not Eloise. Not Francesca. Hell, not even Colin. Benedict knew the warped sense of triumph he felt over this was wrong but he didn't care less.

Nel had thought of him.

"Shall we get going?" she offered, taking his arm as he gingerly placed the tiny figurine into a hidden pocket on the inside of his jacket, nestled next to his ribcage.

"Certainly. I know Rapscallion will be thrilled to see himself in miniature."

Penelope's answering smile, the close-lipped one he adored, made his heart flutter. One day, he hoped to sip at her lips and extract every secret that felt meant for him.

The damp earth wedging itself under Eloise's fingernails was a solace in the night, one she had only discovered a few months ago. Discretely, she had found a corner of the Bridgerton garden that had just enough space for her to carve out as her own and, with help from a few bewildered staff members, she'd plotted her own special space where she would grow her own plants. She'd not been able to plant seeds until recently, the now slightly warmer climate better for the variety of flowers and herbs she attempted to grow. But when she'd packed the seed Sir Phillip had sent her into the earth she dug with her own hands, a brilliant sense of pride had overtaken her.

Instead of simply talking of doing something on her own, she had gone and done it. She'd taken the initiative and planted her garden, going out every night to eagerly record its progress, gently turning over fresh earth and supplying water when the mercurial London weather did not.

The seeds Sir Phillip had mailed to her were those of some hybridized flowers, as well as a few simple herbs. It was small, but with written instructions provided by the botanist, she was determined to garner some success from this venture. Even if she could not attend university like her brothers could, like any man could, she could teach herself. She would learn through trial and error and write of her findings, even if the only person who read them as of now was Sir Phillip.

A kernel of warmth and a tidal wave of gratification flared up, motivating Eloise more as she carefully plucked errant weeds from her small plot. She'd have to sneak back in and change her nightdress, as well as toss out her water basin once she scrubbed her hands. The dress itself was no matter, though. The maids now assumed any of Eloise's dresses would become messy with dirt, believing it to be a result of her midnight talks with her elder brother.

They were not completely wrong.

But as she took in the fragrance of tumbled soil, sweating lightly under her cotton nightgown, all her anxieties about the marriage mart melted away.

Just for an hour, she was at peace.

Philippa's wedding to Mister Albion Finch was a small, intimate affair. But, Penelope had to admit, quite lovely. Her elder sister certainly seemed incredibly happy on her wedding day and Mister Finch looked upon her like she was the only star in the sky. At once, Penelope experienced the contradictory emotions of joy and jealousy.

Despite the fact that Penelope did not necessarily agree with her sisters on any matter whatsoever, they were her family. That could never be altered, no matter what she fantasized. Safety and security for all of them was paramount and Penelope would never wish ill will upon them, even if both Philippa and Prudence were not the most caring creatures. At least when it came to her.

Penelope clapped as the newly wedded couple sealed their bond with a kiss, thinking on the little things that did prove there was some affection between the three of them. The way Prudence had gone to Penelope's room the day after their father's death was announced and just sat there upon her bed, holding her hand with a grip that was unexpectedly strong. How Philippa had often sat next to Penelope on the sofa overlooking the square with her during the summer, both staring out the window as summer sun beat upon their faces.

It wasn't much, but it was something. Intrinsic. Instinct. Something that bound them together whether they wanted it or not.

"Penelope?"

Knocked from her bittersweet musings, she looked up to see her sister, resplendent in her gown and veil, addressing her.

"Ah, yes, Philippa?"

"Could you retrieve my present for Albie for me? It is on my bedside table and I do not want to accidentally leave it behind."

Before Penelope could even respond, Prudence had clipped her with a hip, crowding their sister as they discussed where the newlyweds would go on their honeymoon. Sighing, Penelope wandered out of the room, vaguely noting that both her mother and Cousin Jack were missing. In fact, Cousin Jack had stayed locked away upstairs rather than attend the ceremony.

After ascending the stairs, Penelope made to turn left towards her sister's chambers but her well-trained ears perked up at the sound of voices coming from her father's old study. She would recognize her mother's thinly veiled exasperation anywhere. Slowly, she tread quietly down the hall and put her back to the wall so she could see if anyone came down the corridor, the voices loud enough to hear.

" Apparently I needed less skill to dig my American mines than I do to understand my late cousin's bookkeeping." Cousin Jack's voice was unruffled, though Penelope could sense an undercurrent of concern.

"Well, surely to a man of your wealth, settling the estate's affair shan't be of much concern?"

"It'll certainly make a difference to my immediate plans."

"Which would be?" There was an uptick in her mother's voice, an indication that she was unsettled and caught off guard. "It may serve you well to involve me in your plans, my lord. Perhaps we may act in concert in some way." Oh, Penelope could envision her mother subtly weaving a scenario where Cousin Jack needed her input, her expertise, her advice. "You are new to town, after all. You could use someone to keep you apprised of certain matters."

"Well, in that, you are correct, my lady."

"Excellent–"

Penelope heard footsteps down the hall and saw the swish of Missus Varley's skirts. But before she ran away to hide, she heard Cousin Jack say dismissively,

"Which is indeed why I plan on finding that someone sooner rather than later."

An ominous prickle worked its way across her skin, making her hair stand on end. Lady Portia Featherington would never take such disregard lying down, not after what happened when she left her late husband to his own devices. Penelope knew her mother would not risk a man ruining them again and although she could not blame the woman, it made her nervous. Cousin Jack seemed like he had his own plan at work and if Portia meddled…the situation could become worse.

Penelope thought of her money sitting at Barclay's and prayed she would have no need to use it. But she resolved she'd keep a wary eye on her mother.

Because Lady Portia Featherington took no dismissal lying down.

Benedict parried another swing of Anthony's foil, a violent dance across the grass that served as a way for the brothers to blow off steam for as long as Benedict could remember. While pall mall served as the sport of choice to settle the score amongst all of their siblings, fencing was a release just for them. One day, when he was old enough to handle their skill, they would invite Gregory along. But for now, it was a way for the first three brothers to vent their frustrations, using each other as punching bags or, more accurately, targets on an imaginary battlefield.

Colin had been supposed to go first in a face-off against their eldest brother. But Benedict had let his petty jealousy over Penelope get the best of him, insisting he take on a few rounds against Anthony himself.

Benedict started to regret his decision, especially as thorny, growing ire started to get the best of him.

"She is pompous and arrogant and quite sure she knows best in every situation," Anthony grunted, his swings increasing in force as he chased Benedict across the grass. The sun beat down upon them, unnaturally brutal for this time of April.

Colin lounged on the bench, refreshing lemonade at his tableside, while Benedict took the brunt of their elder brother's vexation. As usual.

"She sounds like a terrible nuisance," Colin commented and even in Benedict's current unsettled state, a hurricane of love, relief, envy, and discomfort that swirled and batted his organs around inside him, the second Bridgerton had to snort.

"Especially since you are the one who knows best in every situation," Benedict said.

Seamlessly, Anthony forced his blade up and under Benedict's own, tossing it aside and into the grass. Benedict scowled before retrieving his fallen weapon.

"And the victor of every match today," Colin chimed in.

Anthony's lips twitched in an arrogant smirk.

"Less talking, more fencing. Brother."

Benedict sighed heavily as he resumed the starting position, Colin mouthing, "Good luck."

"Do you know why I win every time?" Anthony asked haughtily, clearly already knowing the damnable, superior answer to his blasted question. Benedict scowled, not really in the mood for his elder brother's know-it-all answer.

"Because every time you lose, you claim we cheated!"

Benedict tapped his brother's posterior with his blade, jumping across the grass like a stag leaping over an obstacle. Anthony may win when he was particularly full of fury of petulance, but overall Benedict was the more skilled swordsman. He took quite a lot of pride in that and he couldn't help but let his mind wander to what Penelope may think if she witnessed his skill.

"Because I know my duties. What my purposes are and how to obtain them." Benedict beat his brother back, furrowing his eyebrows as Anthony unleashed his pent up energy. "Which I will do when I make Miss Edwina my viscountess."

Anthony grunted as Benedict struck a point before he returned his younger brother's skill with unmatched precision. Every quality he listed about Miss Edwina appeared to strengthen his mulish resolve. "Miss Edwina and I are well-suited. She is a lovely young lady. She wishes for children. She'll make a perfectly agreeable wife."

"What he means to say is that he has already dismissed every other young lady in town," Benedict said with savage glee, blocking another stab of the foil before resetting.

"You take too much upon yourself, Brother," Colin interjected, leaning back and soaking in the sun, the reddish brown of his sparse beard shining under the sun's rays. "Perhaps your life might be easier if you pursued someone with a less disagreeable sister."

Oh, that had been the wrong thing to say. Anthony's chagrin seemed to amplify tenfold and suddenly Benedict was parrying and blocking blows that were a bit too fierce to be friendly.

"Why should I be the one to admit defeat? Regardless of which young lady I have chosen to pursue, there would've always been some obstinate father or meddlesome aunt in the picture." Anthony stumbled slightly, but his competitive nature reared its ugly head as he pursued Benedict again. If he hadn't know any better, Benedict would have thought that Anthony was imagining Benedict was another enemy on the battlefield entirely. Perhaps the sister that was proving to be a mirror image of Anthony. "I shall certainly not let some sister, especially one younger than me, keep me from getting what it is I want."

Benedict bristled, coming at his brother with incredible force. Didn't the man remember this was someone's sister they spoke of? Anthony would never accept a suitor speaking of any of their own precious sisters that way, so it was no excuse for Anthony's own language.

"Whom you want, you mean?"

Benedict hit Anthony again with the flat of his foil with such exuberance that Colin raised his eyebrows, a tad tense as if he thought he may have to step into the ring. The sun beat down upon his neck and suddenly, Benedict was incredibly aware of how much he had sweated under his flowy, white shirt. The glove protecting his sword hand made him overly warm and damp, and he stuck his tongue out to wet his lips.

"Is this still a friendly match, or do we need to find some armor?" Colin asked cheekily, though Benedict could tell his brother's words were more serious than they otherwise could be.

"That is what you do not understand, Brother." Anthony grinned, raising his blade before starting again. Benedict underestimated Anthony's vigor and misstepped, failing to protect himself as his brother came at him. "Benedict honors me by holding nothing back. As I now honor him."

With Colin's laughter in the background, Anthony beat Benedict back and with no grace, the second Bridgerton brother fell back and right onto his back. He grunted, dropping his foil, his arms and bottom taking the weight of his fall. The still healing bruises from Rapscallion's persistent bites over the month of March smarted with the impact, and he winced. Looking up at his brother's triumphant expression, Benedict couldn't help the slight bitterness in his tone as Anthony extended a hand to help him up.

"What honor?"

"Thank you, gentlemen, for the bracing exertion," Anthony practically skipped away, waving to them as he went. "Now it is time for me to secure my final victory for the day. Wish me luck."

Colin had come forward as this happened and his gaze met Benedict's own. Despite Benedict's twisted, green-eyed monster prowling around in his belly, the knowing gaze between him and his younger brother was enough to make him smile slightly. Benedict slapped Colin's back, prompting him to assume Anthony's previous position.

But as Colin took up the starting position, Benedict did not necessarily see his playful, good-natured younger brother. Instead, he saw a rival in love, the man who Penelope had given her heart to at the age of nine. The beast in his body growled, pacing across his guts, clawing at his stomach until he nearly felt sick from the sensation. He hated this feeling. It was as if his previous feelings of inadequacy had amplified tenfold, the wound it caused only festering more with the knowledge that it was not him that possessed Penelope's affection.

As his brother struck at him, it was hard to remember the positives. That Penelope gave much of her time and energy to him, trusted him, gifted him with her smiles, her ideas, and a tiny porcelain horse that now took pride of place by his bedside in his bachelor lodgings. Instead, all he could see in his mind's eyes were her shy glances towards Colin, how her cheeks flushed and her voice grew high-pitched when she conversed with him. How she wrung her fingers nervously in the third Bridgerton brother's presence, how she had sobbed at his unknowing rejection of her last season.

Benedict tried to beat down his wrath. This wasn't him. He was the brother who was calm, level-headed, and avoided conflict. He was the sibling that used joviality and wit to push his way through problems, not fury or violence.

He was better than this.

But when Colin disarmed him a second time, Colin jeered. "What now, Brother? You are so distracted. If we were not in our own garden, I would imagine you would have gotten distracted by some pretty slip of a thing."

And suddenly a raging forest fire burned through Benedict's veins, boiling his blood and rendering all matter to ash in its wake. Though Colin had no idea as to what occupied Benedict's thoughts, all he could think of was that Penelope was not pretty, but beautiful. That she not some "little thing" but a woman to behold and cherish.

Benedict gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his brow, the hollow of his neck, and the planes of his chest. He put such force behind his next blow that Colin stumbled, but the younger man's heels dug into the earth. Colin pursed his lips.

"It seems you have your own troubles to work through, Benedict. What ails you?"

Benedict felt his molars squeak together in his head like nails on a chalkboard. It made his ears ring and his muscles screamed at him, his arms throbbed with effort as his legs became leaden.

But he couldn't admit this. He couldn't admit that every time his younger brother bested him in what was supposed to be a friendly round of fencing, he imagined Colin doing the same out in society. How his younger brother could outmaneuver him when it came to Penelope's heart, if the boy ever wised up. The fear ran rampant inside his chest, galloping and stomping over his heart until Benedict felt like his body and hopes had been trampled.

"It's nothing," Benedict ground out, unable to confess. "I– I do not like the way Anthony talks of Miss Edwina as if she is a prize to be won. Not a person."

If Benedict could freely pursue Penelope, if he was not paralyzed by dread and the possibility of rejection, he would use every second letting the youngest Featherington know that she was no object or plaything. That she was, instead, everything. That he held her in such esteem that he would make it his mission to dote upon her and laugh with her. That every day was a pursuit they could embark on together. That her ambition was something to be lauded, not to be hidden.

But Benedict didn't say anything else as he lunged. His mind was too preoccupied and Colin easily, too easily, disarmed him.

It made his terror spike and Benedict was lost to his spiral of thought, afraid that he could never be honest with Penelope.

Because her heart would always belong to Colin.

Rapscallion let out a tired huff as the newcomer settled into the stall beside him. His master argued with his brother beside him, an older stallion he believed had been christened Anthony.

"So you saved a whole bloody horse from the knackers yard to gift to Miss Edwina? Only to realize you apparently have the listening skills of a toddling babe when it turns out she was talking of a fictional horse?" Benedict's voice grew louder in clear annoyance, much like his tone whenever Rapscallion decided he simply did not feel like moving in the middle of the road or field. "And you decided, after this failed attempt at wooing, to saddle ME with the beast?"

The said beast's auburn ears flicked back and forth in annoyance.

Beast? That's incredibly rude, he commented, one large, brown orb connecting with Rapscallion's curious gaze. I was a prized race horse.

You were about to be made into glue, Rapscallion responded dryly. He snorted for good measure, causing Benedict to stride over to pet his long, snow white snout.

I said was , did I not? The new steed pawed the ground with one, powerful hoof and Anthony took a wary step back as he settled the former racehorse into the stall.

"It is alright, Rapscallion. He will not be staying long," Benedict cooed before shooting quite the glare his brother's way. Rapscallion had to admit he was impressed. His master was not at all quick to anger but it seemed the elder Bridgerton brother had greatly annoyed his human as of late.

Usually the appearance of Carrot Top greatly settled his gentle, good-natured caretaker. Yet, just the other night, Benedict had sat a little stiffly as Carrot Top relaxed in his hold on the saddle. Furthermore, the tall, lithe man took great care to walk behind the redheaded mare, adjusting his breeches often.

Well, it was mating season. It appeared his master was acting the fool and resisting his natural urges.

Humans were strange.

Benedict usually stared at Carrot Top like he was desperate for water when she wasn't looking.

And, quite frankly, Rapscallion was getting quite tired of watching a stallion pine when he should do what a stallion is supposed to do: make his claim.

But humans were odd creatures, so he did the only reasonable thing and kept a look out for his young mare's prospects. Carrot Top had to keep her options open.

"Nectar will remain here where he is taken care of until further notice," Anthony snapped, pouring oats into a trough for the dark auburn horse before stepping out and closing the heavy wooden gate.

"While I admit sometimes I think you greatly admire horses more than people, I also know it will be me who is taking care of the animal. As you have deliberately put him in a stall by Rapscallion, rather than by your own damnable steed."

"Adonis is easily spooked," Anthony shrugged, as if that explained away everything.

Nectar? That is your name? Rapscallion looked from Nectar, to his new neighbor's trough, to his own, before leveling his blue-eyed human with a look. He apparently got the point across because Benedict reached into the hidden, inner pocket of his jacket and presented the white cob with a few sugar lumps.

"Present from Nel," he whispered, holding his palm out flat and scratching behind Rapscallion's ears as the horse licked up the gift.

Beggars cannot be choosers, Nectar said, chewing on his oats. Oi, why did you get sugar?

Because my master has a mare that actually adores me. And him– maybe.

He is performing better than this oaf then, Nectar flicked his ears forward to Anthony, who was now asking after one of their other many siblings. One that had a name that started with that human letter 'F.'

Oh, do tell. I do so love hearing about how the men in this family make fools of themselves. If horses could chortle, Rapscallion very much would have at that moment, just as he had nearly done when Nectar had been escorted in, a ridiculous pink bow decorating his mane.

Well, the older stallion bought me so that he could seduce the young mare of another human household. Sharma, I think the word was? But the elder mare, sister to the younger, fought him off like a she-wolf. Baring her fangs and using her words until he was eviscerated.

Why does this not surprise me? Rapscallion asked, licking the granules of sugar from his lips before deciding to grace Benedict with a nuzzle.

He was in a benevolent mood.

"You see? Rapscallion fears Nectar shall steal my affection. I cannot possibly take on another horse, Ant!"

Your master is not too keen to take me on, Nectar observed, and Rapscallion perceived how it made the old racehorse back up nervously in his stall.

Do not be afraid. My caretaker simply is furious at his brother, but he is too soft to surrender any animal to the chop house.

You sound pleased by this, Nectar flicked his long, dark tail.

Why of course, Rapscallion replied, nuzzling Benedict's face again. It makes him so easy to manipulate and get treats from. You will learn.

When Benedict arrived at Mondrich's, he was in a surly mood. He did not wish to be, he wanted to support Will Mondrich in his new business endeavor. The man deserved it after career fighting for so long and investing his hard-won money into something that could pull him and his family up in society. Benedict never understood his brother's wariness of the growing, new business class as well as the working class. They kept the ton richly attired, fed, watered, and entertained. The upper echelon of society had no leg to stand on to sneer at those below.

Shaking his head, he entered the establishment, taking in the fresh, sage green paint, the carefully curated artwork depicting hunting scenes on the walls, and nicely lit tables, and the tidy bar. He wanted to enjoy this, not think about Anthony and how he'd saddled (no pun intended) him with an extra horse after a failed attempt to gain Miss Edwina's favor. Or how he had turned down an offer to go to Lady Danbury's soiree with Eloise and Colin.

Not that it was the soiree he longed for.

The already tangled feelings of envy snarled even more when he thought of Colin getting to enjoy Penelope's company in Lady Danbury's intimate sitting room. It was apparently some sort of poetry reading or talent show in order to impress the Diamond, but all Benedict thought about was how he wished to steal Penelope away. He desired to pour his own poetry into her ear. He imagined his words coated in sweetness, a potent, thick honey dripping from his lips to her ear. Each vowel and consonant sweetening her to him and bathing her in his adoration.

Lord, it was getting ridiculous. Was this how he was to be when in love? Obsessed?

The love he felt for Penelope was already more intense and fervent than what he had felt for Lady Danbury all those years ago, or what he had held for Genevieve last year. An annoying little pest, that's what he'd been when following Lady Danbury around like a dog begging for a treat or gram of attention.

But now?

The marrow of his bones, the blood in his veins, and the air in his lungs no longer sustained him.

It was a hateful day when he realized he was more like his mother than he ever would have thought. After his father's death, Violet had claimed that Edmund had been the air that she breathed; "And now there is no air."

He dreaded to think too closely what he would be like if anything were to…

"Mister Bridgerton!" Benedict's head snapped up to see Will Mondrich approached him, arms wide in welcome as he wore a well-tailored suit. "You honor me with your presence."

"The honor's all mine, Mister Mondrich. The place looks extraordinary." Benedict mustered up a bright smile with little effort. "Though, am I a little early?"

Turning his head this way and that, Benedict took in the very small crowd. Had Mondrich not told enough people?

Or were the ton dismissive enough to blow off the working man's attempt at a gentleman's club? Hell, his own brother had barely paid the former pugilist any mind, stating plainly how comfortable they were as members of White's. He could only imagine others like him, such as Lord Fife and Lord Cho, reacting similarly.

"The crowd will increase with time, naturally," Mondrich clapped Benedict on the shoulder, leading him over to the far side of the room with a crackling fireplace, a young man studying the portrait hanging above it. "I heard a rumor that you yourself are an artist."

A flush crept up his cheeks. Did Mondrich speak to the Granvilles? It sounded like something Henry would blatantly tell others, despite Benedict's own reservations on the matter. Even with as much practice as his patient mentor gave him, he never felt adequate enough to call himself an artist.

"Oh. I...dabble."

"Then, you must meet Mister Cruikshank. He's a talented illustrator with many connections amongst artists and patrons." Mondrich directly introduced Benedict to the young man who had been studying the portrait, a warm smile gracing his dark features. Benedict fought the little, unfamiliar swell of pride that Mondrich thought highly enough of him to introduce him to the man. "I'm always excited to meet talented people. This is precisely what makes my establishment different, Bridgerton. I know you and your brothers are comfortable at places like White's, but every honest man, regardless of his title, rank, or occupation, is welcome to be here."

The wide, crooked grin on Benedict's face was entirely honest. So much so, it made his jaw ache. Benedict adored having connections with people like Mondrich, Henry, Genevieve, along with other artists and businessmen. They put in so much tangible effort and faith into the world around them until they emerged with a glowing, wonderful product of their hard work.

Society was exhausting, simply because of how vapid it was and how the rules were created to keep its members in their prescribed boxes. But to put one's self wholly into a project that reaped rewards? To integrate one's self into an aspect of the world that was both entertaining, liberal, and encouraged free thinking and design?

It was something Benedict craved.

"I must say, Mister Mondrich, I'm quite overjoyed to see what a fine establishment you've built by the sweat of your own honest labor."

Mondrich shifted his weight beside him and Benedict would have said more, but he was quickly pulled into conversation with Mister Cruikshank, forgetting his mental wanderings awhile.

"I swear if I hear another man butcher Marlowe or see another one attempt a trick with hoops or fire," Eloise muttered, wincing as Mister Grimwell attempted to surreptitiously make a bunch of carnations disappear up his sleeve. "Why do men attempt to be peacocks when courting a woman? Do they believe women to be so vapid that we only care about the color of their plumage and not the size of their brain?"

"I have a sinking suspicion it is because they greatly underestimate the size of our own brains that they believe we can only be appeased by a pretty show and a few mating calls," Penelope whispered and the duo had to stifle their giggles.

They, like the rest of the female audience, observed the increasing absurdity of the men as they took their turns displaying various talents in order to impress Miss Edwina. Even Penelope had to admit, though she usually liked such ludicrous displays, it was great fodder for her column, this particular event had started to become more painful than a Smythe-Smith musicale.

And that was saying something.

Idly, she thought Benedict would have enjoyed this spectacle, but she also knew he'd promised to visit Mister Mondrich's new gentleman's club. It was a quality she'd never seek to change in her older friend, one in which he sought to uplift and support those he thought worked hard and were worthy of opportunity. But it didn't stop her wishing for him to be there, or even that she could go to Mondrich's herself. Dearly she hoped she might see the inside of a gentleman's club before she died, just to see what the fuss was about.

"At least it is the men who are making fools of themselves this time," Eloise directed the comment to Miss Kate Sharma and Penelope leaned in to listen. "Was this your idea?"

"I wish I could take credit, but no," Miss Kate said. Penelope had to admit, her rich, deep voice was lovely, her small smile one of amusement. "Lady Danbury encouraged a poetry reading. The men, thanks to their spirit and competition, concocted the rest of this farce on their own."

Eloise rolled her eyes and Penelope could practically feel the exasperated movement from here.

"Of course they did."

They clapped lightly as the man in front of them finished his pathetic farce of a talent. While Lady Danbury laughed, more at the men than with them, Eloise and Miss Kate continued their conversation. More and more, Penelope decided she quite liked the elder Sharma. While she portrayed the older woman as a protective lioness and a prickly spinster in her column, she was starting to think highly of her. Additionally, Penelope appreciated Miss Kate's claws. She often imagined that Eloise would be a similar woman when she reached the age of six-and-twenty, and it would be a glorious sight to behold.

Eventually a break was called for, and as they all dispersed to seek refreshment and attempt conversation that somehow did not veer into insulting the young men who had performed so far, the youngest Featherington spotted her chance at getting to know the younger Miss Sharma. She'd observed very little of Miss Edwina's personality, not when it was dwarfed so easily by her sister's more foreboding presence.

"A beautiful dress," Penelope indicated the lovely, cherry blossom pink dress the girl wore.

"Oh. Thank you," Miss Edwina's smile was dazzling but not overwhelming. She was most assuredly the picture of poise and grace. "I quite like yours as well."

Penelope looked down, knowing her cheeks were turning pink from embarrassment. The citrus yellow frock was just as much of an eyesore as all of her other ones. While her mother paid for her clothing and still saw her as marriageable, she had resisted Genevieve's attempts to make too many alterations to her dresses. Hot mortification pushed against the boundaries of her skin and she wondered if the Diamond was far more cutting than she originally thought.

"You have a sense of humor."

The words were more outwardly bitter than she'd meant but Miss Edwina's voice was faster and full of pained surprise and the kind of gentleness that made Penelope feel sore all over.

"No, I did not mean– I am being truthful." The dark, liquid brown irises of the young debutante betrayed nothing but earnest. "It is quite beautiful, indeed."

Understanding dawned on Penelope, just why Miss Kate would be so fiercely protective of her younger sister.

"Well, I seem to have grown weary of the color."

Chuckles softly erupted between them and the firm truth that this young girl was just good solidified in Penelope's mind.

"I can understand. Though, I suppose, in truth, it is not a matter of the color, but rather how one wears it. You wear it well, Miss–" Edwina leaned forward and her interest was clear, her body language open.

"Penelope Featherington." She meant to say more and engage with the Diamond that was, by the second, transforming into just another debutante. Another woman akin to her, a little exhausted by all the fuss around her. But the tall, stocky form of Colin Bridgerton crossed her vision.

His handsome visage with his red-brown stubble, his bright eyes, Bridgerton chestnut brown hair, and amiable smile beckoned her. But her belly felt strange. While she was no doubt excited to see him, to talk to him, she no longer felt a great swarm of butterflies attempting to turn her stomach upside down. It was rather calm in actuality, though her heartbeat picked up slightly. Curtsying to Miss Edwina, she excused herself and approached Colin in the corner.

"So, what will it be for you tonight?" she asked as Colin nodded in greeting, friendly and good-natured as always. "A song? A jig? Some hidden hoop-rolling talent you have yet to share with the world?"

Shaking his head, he let out a low chortle, looking around the room as if making his own quiet judgements about the crowd of men trying to steal Miss Edwina's attention.

"I'm afraid I'm just a spectator."

"So much interest shown in a young lady whom none of us really know."

It was the truth, even though Penelope thought she caught a glimmer of the woman underneath the glamor of being a shiny jewel. But she possessed the impression that the youngest Sharma was more a Diamond in the making, rather than a fully cut and finished gem, ready to be given to the highest bidder. Siblings, especially older ones, had a particularly nasty habit of dimming the true shine of their siblings when they sought to blindly protect them.

Viscount Bridgerton and Miss Kate had much more in common than they probably knew.

"Hmm. Not a devotee of mystery, Pen?"

Penelope remembered the last mystery (really, it was a comedy. But it had enough ludicrous twists and turns to count as a mystery) she had attempted to read. It had been a recommendation of Benedict's given to her over the autumn and she'd read it with Marina when she went to visit her and the babes. On the third such meeting, the two of them had lost all of their willpower and had skipped to the end. Benedict had been appalled.

"You cannot simply skip to the end of The Barber of Seville !" He'd been slack-jawed when Penelope and Marina had confessed the truth, with Andrew, Henry, and Lucy desperately trying to hide their giggles at the dinner table with glasses of ratafia. "You miss most of the insanity! The misunderstandings! How will you understand the next play if you do not know all that preceded it?"

"Well then, Mister Bridgerton," Marina had said primly, cutting into a bit of venison with all of the prim and proper manners Portia would've denied her having. "You should have brought dear Pen to see the play, instead? She'd be unable to skip to the end then."

They'd all had a good laugh after that as Benedict slumped in his seat, grumbling about cheating for the rest of the night.

With that in mind, her lips were stretched incredibly wide as she admitted, "Me? No. I am always turning to the final chapter first." There was a slight pause as Penelope decided what to say or ask next. While they had written over the summer, Penelope realized with a guilty pang that she'd not responded to his missives nearly as often as she had to Benedict, Eloise, or even the Granvilles, Marina and Genevieve. The passing seasons had been incredibly more full than they had in the past, it was as if she did not need Colin's attention or favor as much as she used to. But that did not mean she did not want some of it. "I must apologize, Colin. I did not respond to your letters as much as I meant to. I was…busier than I ever could have imagined."

Colin waved her concern away, the low-light of the room casting him in shadow. It was a bit claustrophobic with the burning logs in the fire, the melting wax, and the heady scent of imported incense Lady Danbury must've burned before guests had arrived.

"Do not trouble yourself, Pen. You still responded more than most of my siblings."

"Still, I cannot help but feel guilty. Were you…" Penelope bit her lip, feeling the sore skin sting. It was healing slowly and she remembered Benedict's quiet admonishment before releasing the tender flesh. "Were you lonely?" There was another beat of silence as Colin studied her closely, flicking his gaze between her and the floor. Had she overstepped? Sometimes she never knew the right course of action around him. "Forgive me. Never mind. Oh, look, there really is someone hoop-rolling–"

"I was not exactly lonely on my travels," Colin said suddenly, assured yet gentle. "I did begin a real conversation with someone. Someone I had known for a very long time." Penelope could feel her pulse drumming in her neck, pushing against the skin as it hit a furious fervor. Could he be– Was he speaking of–? "And yet, after everything that happened with Miss Thompson, I realized I never truly knew this person at all." Pride filled his features. Self-regard puffed out his chest. "Myself."

It was as if the rug had been pulled out from under her and she had fallen face-first into the ground, the butt of a great joke. In a way, it was much more cruel and hurtful.

"Yourself?"

"I have you to thank. Your letters were so encouraging. I thought, if Penelope can see me this way, then surely I can too." No, somehow, it had become even worse. She'd inspired him to find himself, that was all well and good. But it was not so much her companionship or friendship but himself? Why did this confuse her? Why did this damage her? "I was just so distracted by Miss Thompson. So I cleared my head, swore off women and love, and… Well, I only wanted to fully understand myself before stepping back into this world."

Gripping her left wrist to prevent herself from quivering, she suddenly realized that it was her ego that had been dealt a fatal blow. The ego, the sense of self, that had been built around Colin and his praise, attention, and affability. Maimed and partially dismembered, Penelope looked inward and discovered something unsettling…

It had changed, been dismantled, and been in the process of being rebuilt long before this moment. It had just taken his words for her to realize it.

"You've sworn off women, then?" she asked, her voice oddly flat.

"Well, for the time being."

"I am a woman."

In another world, another lifetime, those words would have flown from her mouth on the wings of desperate hope.

But now it was simply a statement of fact, in search of an answer she already knew.

"You are Pen. You do not count." It was an incredibly endearing statement in many respects. Truly, it was. But something light and fairytale-like dimmed within her chest. "You are my friend."

In that moment, Penelope couldn't explain why she wished a different Bridgerton entirely had been beside her to grip her hand as she faced this odd reckoning.

"I saw that Gérard painting. It was a marvel. A vision, in fact!" Benedict said excitedly, leaning in to better hear Mister Cruikshank. The man had been a wealth of knowledge and delight indeed; well-traveled and learned, and an illustrator with no shortage of connections. Benedict wanted to thank Mondrich for the introduction. "So you are telling me that he, Leighton, and Turner all studied in the same academy?"

"Indeed. And they have a vacancy, from what I hear," the man smiled as Benedict leaned eagerly across the table, putting ample weight on his elbows. "If you are serious about painting, I hear it is the place to be."

Benedict almost felt the need to blush, but then remembered Penelope's words after she had presented him with the miniature porcelain horse that had reminded her of Rapscallion.

"I hope one day to see you paint him. I know, with your immense talent, he would practically leap off the canvas."

Her indulgent smile had been so warm, the one he cherished because it contained multitudes: secrets, desires, and endless encouragements. The pulse in his neck tapped out a speedy rhythm, kissing his skin in a way he imagined her lips would feel…

Benedict snapped out of his imagining when the gruff, demanding voice of his elder brother cut through the space, "Brother. I need you."

A slow, hot something inflated inside his chest, forming a bubble delicate in its frustration. Anthony, once again demanded his time and just expected Benedict to follow. Anthony had already turned his back, beginning to stride away, not even thinking that Benedict could be doing anything but waddling behind him like a thoughtless duckling.

"I'm in the midst of a conversation," Benedict clenched his fingers briefly as he stared at his brother, exasperation making his shoulders stiff.

"Outside, straight away."

Anthony's command was final and Benedict hated himself as he apologized before straightening up to follow Anthony outside. They entered the warm night air, the stone hallway only illuminated by torches as life in Mondrich's club continued inside and the prim parties and dark debauchery of London went on beyond. Benedict nearly startled when Anthony whirled around and thrust a book with a page marked by his brother's fingers into his face.

"I need you to teach me how to read that out loud."

Benedict blinked rapidly between the book of poetry now in his grasp and his brother, who did not have an artistic bone in his body. Furthermore, Benedict glanced at the poet and grimaced.

"Byron? Did I strike you much harder than I realized earlier?"

Truly, why did no one understand just how nonsensical Lord Byron's poetry was? Not to mention, the man was an absolute tosspot…

"'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,'" Anthony began in a very poor attempt at inflection.

Benedict winced. Truly, he thought this would have been comical if not for the fact that the poem was by Lord Absolute-Twat Byron, and Anthony was so terribly bad at recitation it went past comical and straight into painful.

"Oh…"

"'There is a rapture on the lon…'" Anthony huffed, and Benedict had the distinct impression the usually mercurial man was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "How does one make that sound good?"

"I'm afraid that is not possible. That poem is the opposite of good. That poem's nonsense."

Benedict presented the book back to Anthony with a bit of a flourish and it was taken from him hesitantly. Curiously. Anthony, the Viscount and one of the most lovingly insufferable men Benedict had the distinct pleasure to be related to, was confused. It almost deflated the little bubble of anger still floating uncomfortably in his chest.

Almost.

"I thought this sort of thing was supposed to be your pleasure," Anthony said, furrowing his brows so deeply, his forehead could be likened to lines on a map or dry, cracked earth.

Benedict also resisted rolling his eyes, exasperated. Well, it appeared his brother did know something about his pleasures and pursuits, even if not the specifics.

"Poetry, yes. Byron, heavens, no."

Benedict scowled again thinking of Byron. He'd been an ass at school, from Eton to Cambridge, the man had proven to be a pompous scoundrel full of self-importance. Unfortunately, broader society was entranced by his broody good looks, flowery nonsense, and scandalous lifestyle. Penelope had been so excited to see Byron at a function a few nights ago and Benedict had made a proper fool of himself distracting Penelope by asking her for a dance he'd had no practice in for years. Penelope ended up leading, but it had been worth it to take her focus off of bloody Byron.

"Is not everyone supposed to love Byron?"

"Many in our year at Cambridge thought my poetry far superior to his."

He wasn't being self-important about that fact either. It helped greatly that Benedict had made an effort to be humble about his wealth, even though almost any man who was eligible to attend Cambridge came from some form of wealth. But Benedict had always been hyper aware that the Bridgerton fortune could rival that of some marquesses or dukes.

And, although not the medium he wished to explore and excel in, his poetry really wasn't bad.

"Does that mean yours is more or less deceitful?"

Anthony's question caused Benedict's eyes to narrow and the little bubble in his chest inflated, miniscule but dangerously. But Benedict could see that Anthony's question was genuine. It led Benedict's chest to feel heavy, whether with ire or guilt he wasn't sure.

Was his older brother truly so bitter?

"Deceitful?"

"Mmm."

"Poetry is the opposite, Brother." Benedict felt the strange way his voice raised and lowered, like galloping on a horse over a hill too fast, bouncing up and down, out of control. "It is the art of revealing precious truth with words."

Anthony snorted but Benedict kept his face placid, serious. He stared his older brother's incredulous expression down with all of the meaning and gravity he could muster.

"Quite right, Brother." Anthony's levity fell the minute he saw that Benedict wasn't joining in. "You... You're being serious?"

Benedict nodded, feeling that hot, little bubble in his chest inflate just a little bit more.

"Mm-hmm."

Anthony lost all control and rolled his eyes then, turning away from Benedict. For some reason this caused Benedict to feel slighted, that something so honest and true had been dismissed. Why was Anthony always so disdainful towards any pleasure or idea that wasn't his own?

"Good God. Goodnight."

"What is it to admire a woman?"

Anthony stopped to turn back to him, slowly, brow furrowed. Benedict almost gulped with the fierce attention back on him but he could not help the explosion of feeling. The words he had written at the tail end of winter, knowing and yet not knowing that it was about Penelope he spoke of, that the words bled with ink and adoration for her…

It was all incredibly vulnerable suddenly, but he'd been gripped by the need to show his brother what poetry could do, could be. That it was meant to honor people, women like her.

"To look at her and feel inspiration? To delight in her beauty. So much so, that all your defenses crumble. That you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her." Benedict felt like his heart was swelling so large that it just might pop in his chest. Yet he felt a smile curve his mouth upwards against his will as he imagined bright, ember curls and blue eyes as bright and as clear as the sky. "To honor her being, with your deeds and words."

Benedict paused for a moment to signal the poem's conclusion, the candlelight in the hallway flickered, lighting his brother's brooding face. "That is what the true poet describes." He watched as Anthony studied him as if truly seeing him for the first time, as someone other than his younger brother. As someone who was not just an extension of himself.

"You should apply yourself more often, Benedict," Anthony said, tipping his chin up as his dark, brown eyes assessed him. Then, suddenly, the persona that was his big brother the Viscount Bridgerton, and not his big brother the friend, emerged. "Write that down."

The bubble, fragile and intangible, burst and frustration caused Benedict's blood to boil. He crossed his arms and huffed, trying to push down his irateness with the cool he was known for. But it was all too much.

Benedict had been in agony ever since he had taken one look at Penelope at the Queen's ball, effervescent in her star-studded yellow dress– as if she was made to be a constellation in the sky. She had twinkled, glowed, burned even, and yet, like a star, it was so clear how far away she was.

Just last season she had loved Colin, his younger brother, with a devotion and fervor that had reminded him of Ariadne's devotion to Theseus. She'd been unwavering, risking much in the way of her reputation and future when she'd informed him of Marina's plan to trap Colin in marriage. Even when Colin broke her heart at the Hasting's Ball, Benedict had known then that it was only a stronger sign of her feelings for his brother.

And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't be her Dionysus. A god who came from the sky to hold her close and whisk her away to some sanctuary.

He was no god. Just a lonely man, desperately in love with his beautiful, clever, courageous friend. A friend who, he was convinced, would never return his adoration.

How could she, when he was nothing like Colin? When he was nothing like the type of man she deserved?

How could he, when yesterday morning Colin had come through the doors of the drawing room, every inch the man he had not been last season, and Penelope at Benedict's side had gone a pretty pink in the cheeks just seeing his brother back? Benedict had noticed how her small hand had instinctually clutched the back of Benedict's waistcoat as if to stop herself from trembling at the sight of Colin, returned as if from a quest. It had made Benedict run unbearably hot and cold all at once. His very chest had ached, and it'd only gotten worse when Penelope appeared at the races, a pretty picture even in the pink and yellow her mother forced her in. Even when she shadowed him or clung to Eloise, her eyes flickered to Colin as if she couldn't help herself. As if Colin just led her to him with an unraveling piece of golden thread, no matter how unintentional.

Benedict hated it.

Even as his own emotions were terribly tangled in his chest, so he did not know where they even began, it was still something…precious. Private. A knot he'd unwittingly created all on his own.

But something felt wrong about allowing Anthony to borrow, no, to steal his words about Penelope and use them for someone else. A girl that Anthony, for all intents and purposes, was not in love with. Those words had been wrenched from his heart and put to paper, though never sent. Knowing that Penelope would be in that room, listening to his words come from his brother's mouth as if they were meant for Miss Edwina… It felt vile. Wrong.

And it made Benedict burn. Once again, Anthony was asking another favor of Benedict. A tall order, even if Anthony thought it was a miniscule ask. Anthony always reasoned with himself that what he called upon Benedict to do was reasonable, expected even.

And Benedict was exhausted.

"No," Benedict snapped, his forearms tensing as his entire body went rigid.

Anthony took a bewildered step back as if he had been struck before narrowing his eyes.

"What?"

"No, Ant. I will not write down the poem for you," Benedict said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully as if his brother was a dullard. "I wrote that poem with…someone specific in mind. If I choose to recite or share it, it would be from my lips to their ears. I will not let you steal my words and use them to dishonorably seduce someone else."

"It is not a seduction, it is a wooing. There is a difference–"

"Oh, please. They are synonyms at best, except one might imply a longer game to achieve your end goal."

Benedict turned away from Anthony, his vocal chords tightening uncomfortably. He was tempted to follow Anthony to the soiree, to ensure his brother did not butcher the heartfelt words he'd written. To steal Penelope away and say it himself before any such thing could happen…

But he was tired and he knew in his bones that if he saw Penelope in his current state, he'd have no control over his actions. It already felt like his ribs were being pulled apart, bit by bit, trying to expose his bleeding insides before he was ready.

Christ, he really must be an artist. He did not realize he contained the capacity for such melodramatics.

"No, Anthony," Benedict croaked. "Just…no."

Lord Lumley had read "She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron well, it was clear the man truly held a love for the medium. Yet all Penelope could think on was the uncomfortable reality settling into her very sinew, one she wanted to not look too closely at. Instead, she thought of how Benedict would've scoffed at Lord Lumley's choice of poet to recite.

Which only made the unfamiliar settle further into her very being for unknown reasons.

Yet, naturally, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton strode in to provide her with an ample distraction.

"Pen, Pen, can you see Mama's face? Is she absolutely livid? Oh, I hope so," Eloise hissed, too absorbed with paying attention to whatever ridiculous plan her eldest brother was embarking upon to glance over her shoulder.

"I rather not be on the receiving end of your mother's rather petrifying glare, El."

"Oh, but–"

Eloise was interrupted as a scene worthy of any drama unfolded concerning the lord's lost invitation and the absolute quiet ferocity in which Kate Sharma faced him down. It appeared the elder Sharma sister and Lady Danbury would have easily won any battle if it had come to it, but the viscount won the war when he mentioned an original poem, and Miss Edwina's eyes shone.

Oh dear.

Penelope knew that look.

In fact, she was very much familiar with that exact, moon-eyed stare.

Viscount Bridgerton took up the space in front of the marble fireplace, his mere presence all-encompassing. He truly was larger than life when it came to his personality, his stout belief that things must fall into place around him, and his desire to be the most powerful in the room. Penelope had once wondered if this was all due to arrogance and a sense that the viscount truly assumed he deserved everything.

But it had been Eloise who had set her straight.

"It's all about control with Anthony," she'd said, not unkindly. "Brother thinks if he cannot control all that surrounds him, bend every variable to his will, then he has failed Father. Failed all of us."

And in that insane moment, Penelope could see it.

"What is it–" the lord cleared his throat, his earthy brown eyes studying the piece of paper he'd withdrawn. "...truly to admire a woman? To look at her and feel inspiration. To delight in her beauty." He coughed, and Penelope felt as if the words coming from his mouth were stilted, overly full, as if he tried to speak around a mouthful of ash. "So much that all your defenses crumble, that you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her. To honor–" He stopped, stumbled over the words like pebbles falling to the floor. The words could have been beautiful, should have been. But Penelope could sense they weren't his own. They didn't match what she knew of the viscount or what she'd gathered were his beliefs around love. It was agonizing to see him like this secondhand embarrassment rising in her throat with discomfort.

"My apologies. I cannot do this." Penelope heard Eloise gasp beside her at her brother's admission. "I cannot claim these words as my own. They are someone else's entirely. Truth be told, I'm not–" Anthony's sigh filled the room, his truth a burden he'd finally let free into the space. "I'm not a man of poetry. Words of flattery are beautiful and sweet, but they are also hollow unless accompanied by action." Penelope spotted that the Diamond was utterly, completely captivated by his honesty. The truth he admitted would have put the young lord out of favor with many women, but it seemed to draw the starry-eyed girl further into his orbit. "Miss Edwina, I could stand here and pretend to be someone I am not. I could pretend to want the very same things as you, but I'd be lying. I may not be able to...offer the display of passion that you truly deserve. But I assure you that when it comes to action and duty, I shall never be found lacking. And I hope that is what will speak louder than any pretty words ever can."

Soft murmuring filled the air as he finished, walking away to the far off refreshments table. Penelope met Eloise's glance before they turned their shared attention first to Lady Bridgerton and Lady Danbury's knowing looks. Penelope's sharp ears perked up at the furious whispers shared between the Sharma sisters and she knew with certainty that Anthony's ploy had worked. While it may not have been how he imagined it, the truth had set him free.

Or locked him down on his current path.

"Did you hear that, Bon? He cannot give you the love you deserve."

"Does that make him a bad man or an honest one? It is the mark of a true gentleman, just as Appa used to say. Yes?"

Eloise placed a gloved hand over her mouth as they listened to the exchange, both making an active effort not to look.

"Well, Pen," Eloise sniffed, nose twitching. "This will make for an interesting issue. Benedict will be interested to hear all about it."

Nodding, Penelope could not help but consider writing about Anthony quite favorably in the next column. She admired his honesty, though she pitied him. Anthony was practical in all respects, completely unwilling to even consider the possibility of love. The Sharma sisters seemed to believe in his antithesis as the elder sister clearly wanted a love match for Edwina. And Miss Edwina may be on the way to falling in love, or some fantastical version of it…

But she would be alone in that matter.

Penelope was no expert in the affairs of love, but she prided herself on being a fair observer. And she knew, she just knew, Anthony could never return those feelings in full.

Penelope felt ripped between the two sides, practicality and romance. As her yearning, her aspiration, to be the object of Colin's affections wilted, the understanding that came with choosing a partner based on convenience grew. But just as last year, when she felt torn between understanding Daphne's plight and wanting love to conquer all, she was stuck in a mire of emotions, not all of which were definable.

"I knew it," Henry said, holding out a flat palm towards Lucy and Andrew. "Pay up."

The pair grumbled good naturedly as they each reached into their coin purses to pull out a few shillings. Marina cleared her throat as well from Andrew's other side, and the two cursed some more as they pulled out more shillings to pay the young woman as she grinned.

Henry glowered at his earning before turning to his lover and his wife.

"This is not the whole of my warnings."

"Dearest," Andrew grumbled, "you shall get the full sum later. Now, so shush, so we may revel in Benedict's… What would one call this?"

"Languishing, my friend," Lucy supplied.

"Yes, his languishing."

The four were crammed onto the Granville's drawing room sofa, sniggering as Benedict Bridgerton languished in abject, forlorn, heartsick misery on the settee opposite them. With his jacket abandoned on the floor, the long, lanky man stretched out on the forest green upholstery, moaning about his lady love.

"Every moment with her is blissful torture. An unmitigated agony I cannot bear to give up!" Benedict flopped over onto his belly, clenching and unclenching the fists he'd thrust out in front of him. "She has been in love with my brother since she was all of nine! How am I meant to compete?"

"Which brother is this again?" Andrew asked, not even bothering to be quiet.

"Colin," the inhabitants of the room all said it once. Andrew nodded in grave understanding, though it was broken by how quickly he had to hide a chuckle.

"Then there is Anthony!" Benedict's brow furrowed and he vainly tried to reach his third glass of brandy on the floor. Henry stretched out his foot and carefully scooted the liquor away with his toe. Benedict glowered in response but continued. "He asks for my help to woo Miss Edwina with my words. Mine! The very poem I wrote for Nel."

"When was this?" Lucy asked.

"Winter, after the Frost Fair."

"You have known you were in love with Penelope for months and did not tell us?" Andrew asked, itching to reclaim his coins. Henry just shoved it further into his own pockets.

"No," Benedict confessed. "I told you. I saw her at the Queen's Ball and it was as if lightning had struck. I suddenly knew, and I was lost–"

"Vindication," Henry whispered, pumping his arms in a small show of victory.

"You truly do not believe she could return your affections?" Marina asked, ever the present, sharp-witted one in the group. Henry and Lucy had immediately taken a liking to her, as she was shrewd and blunt in a way that was respected within their small circle.

"She is in the grips of first love," Benedict wallowed, his chin pushing into the cushion. Henry was quite sure the grown man was pouting. "It may be years before her heart is ready to accept another. How am I to compete against my own brother?"

"Why do men talk of such skill in seduction every day and yet the minute they are thrust into the throes of love themselves, they lose all manner of obstinate confidence?" Marina asked, looking towards her companions as if they could truly answer the question.

Lucy shrugged.

"There is a very good reason it is Genevieve who has my heart."

"Do not look at us, dear," Andrew said, sharing a knowing look with his lover. "Henry and I were quite forward with each other, all things considered."

Marina shook her head, her tight, wild curls flying around her face, releasing the scent of orange blossoms into the air. She stood and approached Benedict before viciously poking him in the ribs.

"Ow!"

"Just because she does not return your ardor yet, that gives you no reason to give up!"

Henry marveled at how intimidating Marina appeared in that moment, hands firmly on her hips, a wise goddess of war, much like Athena.

"But Colin–"

"Is blind."

"But Nel–"

"Will realize what is in front of her if you simply give her the chance." Marina released the next of many sighs that evening, toeing the amber liquid on the floor further out of Benedict's reach. "And if, for some reason I cannot fathom, she does not requite your feelings, she would not be so terrible as to not inform you. But you must be patient. Pen is sensitive, for all she tries to be hard."

Seeing the moment Benedict's eyes softened, a faraway look growing in his eyes, Henry leaned his cheek upon Andrew's shoulder.

This would be quite the saga.

Pursing her lips, Penelope's fingers hovered over the metal blocks, perusing the various letter k's. That very morning, Eloise had stormed into Featherington House in a flurry, interrupting the breaking of fast. While Cousin Jack had been quite charming about it, wanting nothing more but to have good relations with the Bridgertons, her mother and Prudence could barely hide their scowls. But Eloise was a power that could not be fought when she chose, so she successfully pushed her best friend up to her room before thrusting a leaflet under her nose.

Penelope had taken it, scrunching her nose in confusion.

"A pamphlet on botany?"

"Not the point, Pen!" Eloise poked the paper so hard she caused a crease, before pulling a Lady Whistledown gossip sheet from her bosom. "Look! Your printer has a unique tell! The letter K's, they are slightly misshapen in the exact same way."

Throat thickening, Penelope blinked before meeting her friend's wide-eyed stare. Bile rose up her throat, acidic and tasting of terror.

"You mean–"

"Pen, if I can figure it out, it is only a matter of time before one of the Queen's men discover the same. You must fix this before meeting Ben to publish your next issue tonight."

So Penelope, once again, stood in Bloomsbury dressed as a lady's maid, alone. She could not bring Eloise with her, it would have been too risky. Eloise had harrumphed and grumbled about being barred from tagging along. Yet, Penelope had not been dissuaded and instead asked for her friend to inform Benedict that when he saw flowers in the window, to go to the Featherington garden that night. She had to swear to Eloise she would bring her spirited friend to Lucy's next ladies soiree as a result. Benedict was already going to be furious with her for doing this alone, but she couldn't risk the time it may take to retrieve the man before the tradesmen sold all their wares for the day.

Penelope hummed before turning her attention to the seller, an older, portly man with gray hair.

"A new letter 'K' for a Stanhope press." Her Irish accent imitated the strong, harsher sounds of Missus O'Carroll's native Dublin. A pang of loss hit Penelope square in the chest at the thought. While Cousin Jack had been able to hire back some staff, he was still unable to bring it to the number it used to be. And even then, many of the servants she knew had found employment elsewhere.

"That will be ten pence."

"I'll give you five."

"Five's a special rate for repeat customers."

"Trust me, friend, I'd exasperate you coming back any more than once," she smirked. Haggling, she'd discovered, was not only fun, but something she excelled at. Channeling this character, this secret part of her that wasn't a wallflower or a prim and proper lady, made her feel limitless at times. "Now give me the discount to keep me away, and we'll both be happier."

Acquiescing to her demand, the tradesman took her coin and she giddily tossed the letter into the air before catching it.

So of course she hadn't noticed, until it was too late, when the familiar husky voice of her friend said, "Penelope?"

Tripping slightly before catching herself so she didn't descend into the gravel, Penelope saw the wide eyes of Genevieve and Charlotte. They stood in front of a seller with bolts of fabric on display, though none of the bright colors and patterns could distract them from staring at her. Penelope stood frozen for just a moment before a word she was certain had not been a part of her vocabulary until late nights with Benedict and Eloise became a common occurrence slipped from her lips.

"Shite."

How could Genevieve be so surprised to see Penelope dressed as a lady's maid, alone in Bloomsbury?

Again?

Really, the actions Penelope took were far from a strange occurrence. But the modiste thought the girl had acquired a little more self-preservation. Or, at least, wanted to avoid being on the receiving end of Benedict's disappointed stare. Or fury. Great, fiery, incredibly seductive, protective fury.

Not that Penelope would catch on any part of Benedict's more amorous feelings for her. Even after learning the truth of sexual relations and writing constantly on the affairs of the heart, the young woman was incredibly oblivious when it came to any possibility that a man may be interested in her. Or a woman, frankly. Genevieve had implied interest in Penelope multiple times, only for the autumn haired lady to be unawares, giving that smile that was much more tempting than she could possibly understand.

No wonder the second Bridgerton son was going stark-raving mad for her.

Genevieve massaged her temples as Charlotte opened her bee-stung lips to ask, "What in the fuckin' blazes are ya' doin' here, sweet girl?"

"Not here," Genevieve said, voice low. Inclining her head to a decrepit, filthy side alley, the trio of women sauntered into the shadowed space. Genevieve wrinkled her nose, the pungent smell of manure, rat droppings, and rotting food rising in the narrow pathway.

"Charlotte, dear, meet Lady Whistledown," Genevieve said with absolutely no preamble. Charlotte's eyeballs nearly popped out of her head as Penelope scuffed one booted toe on the dirty ground.

An array of emotions crossed Charlotte's face until it landed on unbridled glee. The type of joy that led more to stealing someone's coin purse rather than charitable deeds.

"Oh, Pen, love, this is just marvelous." Charlotte rubbed her hands together in front of her face, as if she were relishing a diabolical plot. Genevieve was unsure why it made her think of great Shakespearean tricksters, like the fairy Puck, but Charlotte couldn't be described as anything else but naughty. "To know it is you that puts the lords and ladies undergarments in a twist? Oh, you must know so much–"

"You can ask questions at a later point," Genevieve placed her hands on her narrow hip and, curse it all, she could not believe this well-bred girl had managed to turn her into a mother hen. Did Benedict feel this way all of the time? "While I am in full support of your independence, Penelope, you know how this will upset Benedict."

"Oh, he'll be livid all righ'," Charlotte nodded sagely. "Especially after what I heard abou–"

Slapping a callused hand over the blonde woman's mouth, Genevieve worked hard to intensify her gaze.

Admittedly, she was proud when Penelope didn't crack under the pressure. Even as the younger woman shot her an apologetic smile, her tone held no regret.

"I could not risk calling him from his home twice today. I will need him tonight for a delivery. My disguise is quite good–"

"Even so, you know it will discomfort him. He only seeks to keep you safe. Your disguise may be excellent, but when you attend as many social events as you do, someone is bound to recognize you. And I do not mean your vapid society balls." The bridge of Penelope's nose wrinkled further and Genevieve knew it wasn't because of the alley stench. "When you attend parties hosted by me or the Granvilles, you integrate yourself more with our set who have freedom to wander about town. What if it had been someone other than me and Charlotte? Some man or woman who did not have your best interests at heart?"

Rolling her suddenly stiff neck, Genevieve arched one perfect brow at her friend. She could see her how her words slowly but surely seeped into the depths of her brain, hopefully harkening upon the lady's good sense. There were times when she feared that young Penelope's ambition was not the problem, but her desire to use that ambition to propel her column to a place in the spotlight that would be impossible for anyone to ignore. The problem that presented itself, then, would be that it'd be near impossible for Penelope to remain shrouded in shadows. Especially if she continued to thrust herself into tricky situations.

Stubborn young ladies…

To Genevieve's surprise, Charlotte bent down, her dark, rich blonde hair falling past her shoulders to hang in the air. Tipping Penelope's chin up, Charlotte added, "While I think a woman's secrets are her own, when there is a protector waiting for her at home, it becomes a different story." Charlotte tapped the bottom of Penelope's jaw rhythmically. "He's your friend. Your business partner. You cannot treat him as if he is still your best friend's brother, blind to your ventures. Has he not proved himself?"

This seemed to smooth out the worried wrinkles across Penelope's forehead, as understanding and contrition became obvious in the hunch in her shoulders and the shine of her eyes.

Genevieve could only dream that Penelope would remember this lesson. The debutante was clever beyond her years but she acted rashly when her ire was stoked or she was thrust into a state of despair.

Maybe it was time she had another conversation with Benedict…

A lone, flickering flame led Benedict into the towering, ivy covered stone structure, and the cleaned, hard bench Penelope waited for him on. He creeped into the folly, the damp smell of moss and petrichor flooding his nose. The old edifice loomed eerily like a mausoleum on a night like this, with dark, angry clouds hiding the celestial orbs from view.

On a clear night, in this very space, he thought she could be mistaken for Selene, Calliope, or Erato. But on this night, cloaked in bruised, midnight black, her lady's maid cloak nothing but a flowing shape in the darkness, she was Hecate, all-powerful.

And, at times like this where she called him to his side like the supplicant he was, he thought she knew it.

"Nel," he breathed, and he saw the cloak's hem flutter to he floor as she stood carefully with her candle, the flame flickering in the cool night air. "I can barely see you."

She held her tiny bit of fire aloft until her sweet, round face glowed with orange light. Her curls matched the very flame that valiantly waved in the small space, the glare making her wet eyes shine.

"And now?"

"Better, though I still cannot make all of you out. Let us head out. If I am unable to see you clearly, at least I can be reassured of your presence when we are both astride Rapscallion."

"Benedict, wait." He stopped mid-turn, an odd shiver of foreboding working its way through his limbs.

"Oh, I do not like that tone, Nel." He glared down at her illuminated face, already reaching forward to pull her abused lower lip from her teeth. "I have a plethora of sisters and a lifetime of intuition that informs me I am not going to like what I'm about to hear."

"Well, then it should be no surprise to you," she hedged, dragging the toe of her booted foot on the floor, the slow drag of dirt underfoot scraping across the stone. "That I may have…gonetoBloomsburyalonethisafternoontogetaletterforaprintingpressandGencaughtme."

Benedict blinked once. Twice. His well-trained mind parsed out the garbled rush of words, and he deciphered what she'd said at the same moment he discovered that, it appeared, women part of a pack of sisters spoke the same language when trying to hide their guilt.

Truly. If all the sisters of London gathered together they could create an uncrackable language.

If they did not have brothers who spent hours trying to decode their cryptic, spoken ciphers.

"You went to Bloomsbury alone to buy a letter for a printing press? Gen spotted you?" Indignation tightened his vocal chords, making his words gruffer than he intended. Before he realized it, he gripped her shoulders and the smell of her ginger perfume was stronger than the damp around them. The only thing that prevented Benedict from pulling her to him with a ferocity he barely understood was the candle she held.

"Benedict, please, I apologize for my rash actions. Gen and Charlotte–" she swallowed and the tears welling in her eyes made him feel terrible. "She scolded me for being out on my own. That I would surely worry you. That you are–" Benedict's heart pounded in his chest, like a boxer was pummeling him from the inside. It was a wonder it hadn't punched through his chest already. "My friend. A partner in my business… A partner in all things, really."

"Nel…"

"I am so sorry, Benedict. I did not truly, fully realize how much faith you put in me. Yet have failed to pay back your friendship with the trust you deserve."

Damn it. It appeared now he owed Genevieve and Charlotte a boon.

Running his long fingers through his thick mass of dark, chestnut hair, he inhaled slowly before releasing the breath in a slow, steady stream. With the hand left untangled in his hair, Benedict gripped one of Penelope's clothed shoulders tightly, the blue satin slipping on his palm.

"I cannot begin to deny how much it vexes me when you act so recklessly," he moved his hand upon her shoulder up languorously, selfishly relishing in the curve of her neck as he traced up to cradle her cheek. "You have a habit of writing or doing dangerous things when you panic."

She ducked her head, nuzzling into his palm while every drop of blood in his veins rushed south.

"Funny. Gen said the same."

"I guess if we must agree on something," he grumbled pettily. He hesitated a moment, licking a stripe on his top row of teeth before he continued. "You could have used my bachelor's lodgings, you know. To hide or fetch me. I stayed there last night. I–" Mouth suddenly dry, he coughed and persevered. "I had that doorknob made for a reason, you know. To give you a safe place to land when you're too tired to even think of how to fly."

Benedict was not sure if it was the candle's glow or a blush that flitted a pretty pink hue across Penelope's cheekbones but he would take it all the same.

Penelope cleared her throat and mentioned Rapscallion, so Benedict decided not to push too hard. More than anything, he did not wish to scare her away. It was already painful enough that he felt she was out of reach, even with her by his side. He'd be unable to bear any true separation between them. Not one in which she left him.

Benedict had become rather skilled at squinting at Penelope's tidy, hasty scrawl on the dark streets of London on horseback with only the occasional oil streetlamp to aid his eyesight.

"So my brother read at the poetry reading?"

Red hot wrath came to life beneath his sternum and Benedict was unsure where to put it. He'd specifically told his brother, begged even, for him not to read his poem. The poem that hadn't been meant for anyone's ears but Penelope's own. But Anthony had ignored him. Had just taken a flaming torch to his words and will and burned it to ashes like forest undergrowth in need of cut back.

Anthony had committed untold amounts of selfish acts in the past. He was a man of contradictory notions, one in which he was a man indelibly changed, possessed, by a sense of duty to his family but who also achieved his goals by pushing people down with his language, his wealth, and sometimes his fists. It was incredibly frustrating as the second son to have this knowledge because as much as he wished he could resent Anthony with every fiber of his being, he couldn't. He couldn't, wouldn't, berate Anthony like Daphne or Eloise, or rebel without word like Colin. With the knowledge Benedict held, the myriad of memories he'd kept buried, he was unable to verbally or physically assault his brother.

Critique felt impossible when you knew all that your older brother had done to keep your family clothed and fed, safe, and loved.

It was a burden Benedict wouldn't wish on anyone.

"Well, it was curious," Penelope mused, her soft body nestled against him as they swayed on a content Rapscallion's back. "The words themselves were beautiful but it came out all…wrong. He admitted it wasn't his poem and I despair I could not hear it in its entirety from the original writer's lips. I feel as though it would have been heartrendingly genuine if that had been a possibility."

The knot within him loosened and her plush body and ginger scent, a petrifying temptation before, now felt like when a book slotted into its proper place in the shelf. Just the recognition for his words, that she intrinsically knew they were meant to pour forth from someone else's heart was paramount to him.

He wasn't ready for her to know it was her own heart he wanted his poem to flow into. But in time, maybe…

Isn't that what Lady Wetherby had told him? To be patient?

Penelope deserved patience.

Subtly, he pressed his chest into her back and clicked his tongue softly as he led Rapscallion to the printers, Penelope a warm, gorgeous weight keeping him tethered to earth.

There are two things that lurk within the dark and shadowy places of our fair city. Vermin and secrets. I shall leave it to you, Dear Reader, as to which do the most harm. One has to wonder what secrets the season's Diamond is holding near and dear to her heart. And who shall she choose to share them with? The Viscount Bridgerton, perhaps? At least the elder Sharma's opinion on such a matter is certainly no secret at all. To be fair, one might call This Author the biggest secret-sharer of all. For who else could possibly keep all of you honest? When even the most well-kept of secrets must eventually come to light.

Chapter 12: A Buzzing in Your Ears

Summary:

While trauma and jealousy rear their ugly heads, Benedict and Penelope wrestle with the next steps they want to take... and ones they might be afraid to.

With pall mall, special tea, and awkward dinners... there's no shortage of emotions.

Also, Newton makes his own observations.

Notes:

Holy cannoli, guys, I am SO SORRY for the late post on this chapter.

I was on a two week trip and I'm afraid everything got away from me. BUT, this chapter is SUPER LONG to make up for the lateness. itakethewords is my literal anchor while doing this, thank goodness. I will try to make up for this and get chapter 13 posted on time!

LIFE. You know how it is.

Now, forewarned, there are a few flashbacks in this chapter. As we know in season 2, episode 3 was a special one that really dealt with Anthony's trauma over his father's death. It only felt right that trauma was also explored for Benedict, along with Penelope's own personal insecurities and traumas. So be warned in that regard.

Second, we're giving Colin some love. While, yes, Penelope is slowly falling for Benedict and realizing that he's a better fit for her in the context of this fic, she fell in love with Colin when she was young for a reason. That's explored here, along with Benedict's jealousy.

Remember to send all your love to itakethewords! Their editing and plotting with me keeps this ship afloat!

Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Love,

happilyinsane13

Thank you all for your support and patience! Chapters are getting larger and more complex and I know we're both excited to gift you each update. I've said it in the comments on occasion to people, but your mantra should be, "I'm going to suffer, but I'll be happy about it" whenever you remember this is a canon-compliant slow burn! Please make sure you're sending all your praise to happilyinsane13 and don't forget to give a kudos, bookmark, and tell us all your thoughts you had as you read. We LOVE it and love getting excited reading them, especially the long ones! Look forward to the next couple chapters, they'll leave you breathless! Itakethewords

Chapter Text

Gregory's hand had been so small.

Benedict didn't know why, but that was what held strong in his memory about the day his father died.

His mother's wails had pulled him and his younger sibling out into the back garden of Aubrey Hall, a banshee's shriek that one could not help but be drawn to. Gregory toddled next to him, his tiny little fist held in Benedict's own. Francesca had been just in front of him, Colin to her side, with Daphne and Eloise on the bottom steps.

Cradling his body to her chest, his mother wailed as Anthony stumbled towards them, his face drawn and ashen.

But it had been too late.

Benedict could never forget how still his father had been on the ground, his boots tilted outward from the limpness in his body, the thick, outstretched fingers in the grass paler than fresh snow. It had never occurred to him that grief was synonymous with horror. But the sight set to the dirge of his pregnant mother's sobs an image burned into his mind.

Anthony stuttered as he ushered them back inside. Too raw, too upset, too young. Francesca's face had scrunched up, Violet's laments causing her to go stiff and red in the face, ready to release a scream of her own. Quickly, Anthony lifted her up, squeezing her tightly just as Benedict scooped up Gregory. The toddler whined and squirmed in his hold, but he couldn't risk him running up to his mama and papa.

He'd never be able to run up to his papa again.

None of them would.

Colin grasped for Anthony's hunting coat, his chubby fingers slipping at first before finally pulling taut on the fabric. Daphne had put an arm around Eloise, following her two oldest brothers' lead and taking a younger sibling under her wing.

A state of numbness settled over Benedict, one that wrapped around him tightly, containing the rising grief so that he could care for his brothers and sisters. At least, he assumed that was what it was. In a way, it was terrifying to think that loss could cause him to become listless. Benedict buried his face in Gregory's hair, still the color of wheat before it would inevitably darken as he aged. He still smelled like soft, newborn skin, and he tried to take comfort in that. Tried to impart comfort. But as Anthony pushed them forward, a rush of servants streamed past them and Anthony was bombarded by questions from their father's steward. Francesca began to thrash, overwhelmed.

"Col," Benedict hissed, and young Colin snapped his head up, his grasp on Anthony's coat tightening. "Col, I know you are confused. But I need your help."

Benedict held out the fussing Gregory and Colin's vision cleared. Slowly, he let go of Anthony as the man struggled to still a now kicking Francesca, almost punting Colin's head. Colin stumbled forward, arms outstretched, and Benedict put their youngest brother in his hold. It was strange, a child holding a child.

Without another word, Benedict took Francesca from his older brother's arms, banding one strong arm around the back of her knees and the other around her shoulder blades, pressing her face to his shoulder. She was silently screaming, a shrill, haunting sound that vibrated her chest, bounced around her mouth but never left her lips.

Unsure of what else to do, Benedict stepped back against the wall before sliding to the floor, his younger siblings following his lead. Daphne held Eloise's hand in her own while Colin crossed his legs, trying to bounce the toddler in his lap.

A rising buzzing filled Benedict's ears along with his mother's growing sobs as Missus Wilson and another maid half-carried, half-dragged Violet from the garden. His mother collapsed at the bottom of the staircase and Benedict felt something incorporeal rip down the middle.

And then he saw it.

Four footmen huffed, their shoes clicking across the floor as they carried his father's body between them. His hunting coat dragged across the ground, head lolled back, the dark brown hair that matched his own and his wide open eyes vacant, glassy. His jaw hung down slightly, his now purple lips slightly parted and Benedict instinctively pushed Francesca's head further into his stiff shoulders, refusing her any movement. Smartly, Colin and Daphne did the same.

Benedict felt a sob build and build in his throat, as if someone piled tons of gravel in an unsteady pile up his esophagus until all he wanted to do was vomit or choke on it. Though his eyes were dry, the pressure in his head intensified, full of terrible hot air, pushing against his skin until a terrible cry escaped his throat.

Clutching Frannie to him, the fight finally leaving her, he used the applied pressure to keep any more sound escaping.

And all he could think about was how tiny and fragile, like a tiny bird, she was too. All his siblings were.

And if a man as strong and great as his father could be felled in one mid-morning, what could happen to such darlings so small?

Benedict lay in the dewy grass of the Bridgerton garden, clad in nothing but his shirt, suspenders, and breeches. His leather boots lay abandoned in the grass behind his head and he lazily used his feet to push the swings Eloise and Penelope sat on. They talked animatedly with each other as Benedict hummed, using the motion of his legs to bend his knees slightly before putting gentle force into his calves as he pushed the corners of the wooden swings. The sides of his feet caressed the heavy embroidery of their heavy dress robes, tickling his ankles as the fabric of his trousers fell back.

He attempted to push away the nerves surrounding his application to the Royal Academy, but just like how his sister and friend swung back and forth as a pendulum, the worry always returned. They departed to Aubrey Hall tomorrow to have family time before the ton descended upon their ancestral home for their mother's annual Hearts and Flowers Ball. However, Benedict's mind filled with worries, ones he'd avoided for sometime.

The effort it required to breathe and remember that Aubrey Hall was a place of more good memories than bad ones.

The anxiety that consumed him as he waited to find out whether the Royal Academy would accept him as a student of art.

And, of course, his unabating romantic feelings for Penelope Featherington.

Terribly befuddled, unsure, and afraid, Benedict waded in the sort of emotional turmoil he hadn't felt in years.

"What will you do as you wait for the ton to descend upon your household?" Penelope asked, her voice light and airy. It was one of the rare moments she appeared completely unfettered by the world around her and, from his supine position, he could make out every curve of her body – from one calf that poked out from her dressing robe, the white cotton of her nightdress draped over it perfectly, to the hidden swell of her breasts, the slope of her neck, and the roundness to her cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to explore every hill and valley so he could immortalize both in mind and paper.

"The usual. We shall have our traditional battle upon the pall mall field," Eloise smirked. "And I shall claim victory this year, I am certain."

"Ah, yes, the feared pall mall. I remember it well from two summers ago. I thought for certain your eldest brother would actually push Daphne into the lake."

"I was quite furious when she won, but I suppose it was better than one of our brothers winning."

"Oi!" Benedict called half-heartedly, pushing his sister's swing a little too hard with his foot. "I am a brilliant, magnanimous victor."

"On the rare occasion you win at all," Eloise sneered.

Benedict pushed her swing again with all of his strength, causing his sister to squeal as she was thrust back in the night air.

"In fact, Nel witnessed my victory once. The autumn of 1809!"

"Oh, yes. It was so long ago." Penelope's eyes twinkled in the splashes of moonlight that peered through the tree's boughs. "Was that the last time you won? Because all of your younger siblings were too small?"

Benedict clasped his hand to his chest and gasped dramatically, before using his strength to push Penelope's swing a little higher. Only a little though.

"There shall be other entertainment though," Benedict commented, blindly pulling the blades of grass under his fingers up from the ground, cool upon his skin. "Anthony invited the Sharmas to come a few days early for an intimate house party. No doubt he is using the opportunity not only to win Miss Edwina over, but the elder sister as well."

"Oh, now Miss Kate is quite intriguing!" Eloise bounced in her seat, her hands gripping the worn ropes excitedly, the tree branch creaking slightly. "She is a spinster who has chosen not to pursue marriage and supports her own family. Apparently it is she that manages the Sharma household. I want to delve into her mind."

"Be careful about rummaging around where you do not belong, Sister," Benedict warned. "Not everyone desires to be dissected within an inch of their life."

Penelope giggled as Eloise deliberately poked the underside of Benedict's knee with her toe, causing him to wince. Benedict couldn't help how his stomach fluttered at the sound.

"Miss Kate reminds me of your brother, actually," Penelope blinked, looking between the siblings. "She's not much different to how the viscount acted about Daphne last year."

Smiling crookedly, Benedict nodded, blades of dewy grass tickling his neck and head. It'd been clear to him that Miss Kathani Sharma acted as Miss Edwina's protector, possibly even their mother's. While Anthony had been given a gracious pass for his behavior by the men of their society because he was titled and a male protector, the elder Sharma sister was ridiculed for her protectiveness. It was certainly hypocritical, sadly, though it did not surprise him.

"Yes, he has certainly met a match in her," Benedict said unthinkingly.

There was a pause, a moment of silence that felt crackling with the type of energy that proceeded a storm or an odd revelation.

"You do not think–" Penelope started, tapping the dimple in her chin as she pondered.

"No, Miss Kate appears much too full of self-preservation to entangle herself with our brother," Eloise said emphatically.

"But if she is indeed like Anthony, then not only is she ruled by duty, but by passion." Benedict sat up, his hands supporting his weight as he let his long legs fall to the grass, the swings steadily slowing in its back and forth trance-like movement.

"Miss Edwina is incredibly sweet. I think she is growing quite fond of the viscount and I hope he will either return her affection or let her down gently."

"Would you report on it?" Benedict asked, curious as to the answer.

Penelope tilted her head and she seemed to be giving the question serious thought.

"I would, it would be strange for Lady Whistledown not to." She skirted her toes in the grass as she slowed in her momentum and Benedict resisted the urge to rub the arch of his foot long her calf. "But she was incredibly good to me at Lady Danbury's soiree. I would endeavor to not be so sharp towards her."

A strange sense of relief and pride filled Benedict as Penelope returned to chatting with Eloise, the friends talking of how they would miss each other for the next few days. Over the last year she'd grown so much, and although Benedict had no doubts that Penelope was incredibly ambitious, she put greater thought into how her words could affect others. There was power and pull behind her pseudonym, that was certain, and she was still prone to write more rash, hurtful words when she herself was in pain.

But she'd become better at pausing and mulling over the consequences or seeking out the advice of her friends. It made a world of difference and it was incredibly sweet to see.

Though Benedict would be lying to himself if he did not confess that the control she wielded, the independence she craved, and the cunning she displayed did not cause a stir in his belly and a twitch in his groin. Benedict had known from his first foray into love, his desperate infatuation with Lady Danbury, that he was attracted to women who could go toe to toe with him. That, in fact, he quite craved to be occasionally bested by them.

Dominating was all well and good.

But to be dominated? To feel an equal push and pull until one came out the victor?

It was arousing.

Benedict quickly dropped himself back into the grass, twisting so he lay on his stomach, his nose buried into the dirt. The fervent flush that had crept up his body at the thought of Penelope taking control over him made him hot and bothered and he needed to cool down. He breathed in the smell of earth and greenery, trying to press himself flat until the ground took the hint and swallowed him whole.

"Benedict? Are you alright?"

"Ignore him, Pen. It has finally occurred. I knew this day would come."

"What?"

"Insanity. All Bridgerton men possess it. And he's an artist, so he was doubly-doomed."

Penelope's full-belly laughter enticed him so, despite how much his whole body felt heavy and aching, he looked up to shoot a playful glare at the pair.

"The two of you are insufferable," he growled, though he knew it held no true anger behind it.

Penelope's normally sky blue eyes appeared like the watery reflection of a lake at midnight, full of life and mystery.

"Oh, Benedict. But you still adore us. What does that say about you?"

His heart skipped a beat, his lungs freezing in his chest. He could feel his lips part, a moment of weakness passed over him. He wanted to tell her, what was he waiting for? Why did Colin matter? Why did anything but his feelings matter? He could–

"Yes. In fact, he adores me so much, he shall lift me upon his shoulders so I may say farewell to the birds," Eloise sniffed, standing up to unceremoniously step upon his back as if he was a coat thrown over a puddle for her to tread upon.

Wheezing and spluttering as the air escaped his lungs like a squeezed bagpipe, he wiggled and bucked, trying to throw her off. She simply crowed in triumph, placing her hands upon her hips as she maintained balance. They used to play this game as children; for, instead of riding him as if he was a horse like many young siblings liked, she instead preferred to pretend she'd defeated him in battle and was showing off her mighty conquest.

"Cannot...breathe..."

"Oh, you have experienced worse, Brother."

"You…are… heavy."

"Excuse you?"

Penelope's laughter filled the midnight air in abundance, so much so she was clutching her sides, red in the face, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Benedict wriggled like a fish and her chortle increased. That vision he'd had in the winter returned to him. A future, a glowing possibility, of him, Penelope, and Eloise, maybe even Francesca, forever.

It was so bright and gorgeous that it hurt.

We all know the great lengths a young lady will go in pursuit of a proposal. And apparently, she will travel great distances too. Lord Anthony Bridgerton appears to be inching ever so closer to selecting his viscountess, and to that end has invited our diamond to join him for an excursion at his ancestral home, Aubrey Hall. Country air indeed clears the mind and invigorates the body. Might this be the final gust that pushes the viscount over the precipice of a proposal? Of course, the luckless souls remaining in town will have to find new diversions in the absence of their most precious of stones.

Penelope couldn't help the relentless pacing she performed like a ritual every day since the Bridgertons had left for Aubrey Hall. In front of the window that served as her cherished view of Bridgerton House, she attempted to absorb as much hope and goodwill from it as possible.

But with all that plagued her mind, even the warm deep red brick and the wistful, climbing wisteria across the square could not fully settle her heart.

Genevieve catching her in the act of performing her Lady Whistledown business was no issue, not in the way it could have been. With Genevieve already in on her secret and being her trusted friend, she knew she could rely upon Gen and Charlotte's silence.

No, it was the uncomfortable reality that, once again, Penelope let her riotous emotions rule her actions. Many times she'd been reckless and gone to perform business town without Benedict's assistance. While he'd been understanding, she also knew how much it angered, even hurt him that she undertook such risky tasks alone.

She couldn't always help it. Sometimes, when in a heightened state of panic, worry, or ire she simply could not think straight. It was why she'd turned to Benedict and Eloise last year when dealing with the situation with Marina – Penelope came to understand that there were some parts of her personality she was not fond of.

She'd never seen herself as capricious or mercurial before. But the more her friends forced her to study the actions she took when she did not take the time to discuss her feelings with another, the more she realized she was quite predictable in her unpredictability.

It was then she resolved she should come up with an alternative plan to deliver her columns, one she could use if Benedict proved unable to join in on one of her escapades. One she could employ in times of high pressure with another, trusted accomplice–

"For goodness' sake, Penelope. Stop your pacing before you give me indigestion."

Pausing in her steps, she wrung her hands as she forced out a meek response.

"Apologies, Mama."

"We have much to do before joining the Bridgertons in a few days. We will head to the modiste after breakfast."

Portia said this with all the nonchalance in the world, though it caused Penelope to frown. It was not that her mother desired new, flamboyant gowns to attire her two single daughters with for Lady Bridgerton's most-anticipated Hearts and Flowers Ball. No, instead it set the wheels of Penelope's mind turning. If she were to see Gen today, maybe, just maybe—

"The modiste? Today?"

But Penelope went ignored, which was usual, once Cousin Jack made to move from where he'd sat comfortably upon the sofa. Having folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, he began to remove himself, as he often did when her mother grew more tiresome.

Penelope envied him in that way. That if he chose, he could simply leave.

"Oh. Are you off to make calls this morning, my lord?" Portia picked at her skirts, feigning what Penelope thought was supposed to be a sweet, docile smile. "Anyone in particular?"

"I thought to pay a visit to White's," Cousin Jack replied, inching ever closer to the door.

"Excellent idea. I'm sure you'll find the gentlemen there very good company."

The attractive man (for Penelope could not deny that is what he was) gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before extracting himself from the situation. It was rather well done, and Penelope was inclined to ask him after his secrets in that particular talent.

Once, the week before after a particularly tiring scolding her mother had given her for sitting in the sun to read, he'd actually said, "Let Penelope be," he'd stood up and sat next to her on the settee, turning his face towards the rare sun slipping through the window as well. "In fact, I shall join her. Better light to read by."

Penelope had been struck a bit dumb but quietly thankful all the same.

As their cousin made his hasty retreat, Portia made a big show of sighing.

"I suppose I should be glad that he's not already out courting his future bride," her mother made a show of clutching at her temple as if being subjected a hideous torment. "It's only a matter of time before he brings home some young beauty to oust us out onto the streets."

"Perhaps it will be Miss Uxbridge. Now, there's a chickabiddy if ever I saw one," Missus Varley commented bluntly.

"Varley. Not helping." Portia massaged the corners of her temple, so hard Penelope could see red marks begin to form upon the pale skin. "What we need to find is someone malleable. Someone stupid enough not to know any better, and certainly not to know how to take on and manage a household. That would be in our best interest. The question is... where?"

As if a sign from God or, surely, the Prince of Hell himself, Prudence appeared like an unwelcomed gift, wrapped up and tied in obnoxious, brightly colored string.

"I want to move into Philippa's room. Why she always got the bigger one has never been fair." Prudence blinked as they all stared at her and Penelope saw the moment her mother crafted a new scheme… One involving her eldest daughter. "What?"

"We were just saying what an eligible match Lord Featherington would make," Portia beamed, so bright it could be nothing but false.

Dawning horror fell over Penelope like a slow, chilling shadow that fell over an unsuspecting room. No, sure not–

"For whom?"

"You."

"But he's our cousin," Penelope interjected, suddenly feeling as though the very room closed in upon its inhabitants.

"Oh, Penelope," Portia chided, waving away the concern.

"But he is our cousin," Prudence remarked, looking between Portia and Penelope with nothing short of bafflement.

Even Missus Varley appeared a tad thunderstruck, fidgeting with the house keys that dangled upon her gold chatelain.

"And since when has that ever created an issue? It is not odd to marry one's cousin. It is regal. Just look at the royal family," Portia insisted and Penelope fought the urge to snort. She'd dare argue that the royal family actually should not be upheld as an example of marrying relatives yielding exemplary results. "Besides, he's your fourth cousin, nonetheless. Do you not wish to be lady of this household, Prudence? Hosting dinners and balls, the envy of all your friends?"

Their eager, cunning mother had sunk her claws into Prudence's brain, Penelope could see it. If nothing else, Portia Featherington knew her two eldest daughters exceedingly well, as Prudence and Philippa were too guileless to even attempt to conceal an emotion or want. Puppets on strings, or pieces of clay to be molded however they needed to be. Penelope could see the reason in it, could even applaud her mother on picking the daughter who would go along with such an idea.

"Would I have such authority?" Prudence asked eagerly.

Penelope winced.

But, Lawks, it would be a hellish day if Prudence took over as lady of the house. While Penelope had no doubt her mother would be able to exert control over Prudence, she simply feared for her own status. The relationship between the three sisters did not exactly mirror that of the Bridgertons. They were petty, cutthroat, and Penelope did not wish to see how Prudence would aim to control Penelope's life.

It was not even the fact that her sister would marry their cousin. Their mother was right, it was a very common practice that was still widely accepted and, in many respects, encouraged.

But the idea of Prudence being legally in charge of Penelope's future?

It made her feel physically ill.

"If that is what you wish. You will charm him with some assistance." Portia appeared quite content again now that another plan of hers was set into motion. Prudence was not Marina. The firstborn Featherington girl could be easily swayed in whichever way Portia wanted. "You will need a new dress or two, to appear rather more tempting."

Resisting the urge to gag, Penelope made to gather her writing supplies. She would be informing Marina of this particular catastrophe immediately.

"Tempting for what?" Prudence asked and Penelope, once again, had to fight back a shudder.

"Never you mind."

April 14, 1814

Dearest Marina,

I send this message quickly before we head to the modiste. Mama is, once again, up to another scheme of hers to ensure she stays the figurative head of the Featherington Household. If she cannot sway Cousin Jack directly, she will do so through underhanded means. Even if it is through her own daughter.

She's employed Prudence to try and tempt Cousin Jack to an offer of marriage. I confide in you because I know you are all too aware how it feels to be at the receiving end of Mama's machinations.

You will be going to the Bridgertons' ball at Aubrey Hall, correct? It will be a boon to have you there. We may need to keep an eye on Prudence. And, if nothing else, at least you and Cousin Andrew are great wits.

Sincerely,

Penelope Featherington

Benedict was caught between two very strong, very confusing, very haphazard warring emotions.

The first of which, even though they'd barely been in the countryside all of four days, he missed Penelope terribly. His nocturnal habits did not much change out at Aubrey Hall, even without the various evening opportunities London offered. Instead, he missed the sanctity of the swings under the great tree at Bridgerton House or the intimate darkness of the folly in the Featherington garden. More than that, he missed inhabiting such comfortable spaces with her. Longing for her inquisitive nature, her touch upon his arm, the way her ember-painted tresses curled around her round cheeks, or how she wore flowers behind her ear to signify she needed him for another adventure… It drove him near to madness.

It was exquisite sort of torture, the physical sense of pining for someone. But it was tinged with dark bitterness, like accidentally cracking the pit of a cherry when attempting to only savor the flesh of the fruit within one's mouth.

The jealousy towards his brother Colin, and the not unnatural blanket of inadequacy, slowly smothered him.

Why would Penelope ever choose him? A second son who, as of yet, had not been accepted into art school and could be described as aimless, possessing no purpose. Colin, in comparison, at least had his travels and history with Penelope that clearly shone bright in her mind.

The anxiety over whether he'd been accepted into the Royal Academy of Art proved to be another pressing concern. The letter announcing his acceptance or rejection should be sent to their London residence any day now, and the thought of being told he wasn't good enough, could never even be deigned to be schooled…

It made him so low and sick. It became hard to eat much at the table, let alone keep on his jovial mask full of quips and smiles.

Yet, on the other hand, he'd been increasingly excited for this visit, as it meant the arrival of–

"Sister!" Francesca exclaimed as Daphne Basset, Duchess of Hastings, glided into the room with her baby boy cradled against her chest.

She was a vision, as always, in a dress of dreamy lavender that brought out a sparkle in her blue eyes. Benedict could remember when she was young being so thrilled that, despite her strawberry blonde hair, that her eyes matched his own. Anthony's were brown while Colin's were much darker, with playful green origins.

But Daphne, she'd been the first sibling that he felt as he marveled at the color of her irises, where he saw a reflection of himself.

Strange, the little things one held close to their breast.

"Oh, I am so pleased you were able to come," Violet exclaimed as the family spread out, encroaching upon Daphne and little Augie.

There was so much natural light in the drawing room that it conjured a beautiful image, one of familial glee at its finest. Benedict couldn't help the ascent of the corners of his mouth, especially as Francesca calmed somewhat in her eldest sister's presence. Daphne had been the one to teach Francesca her greatest coping mechanism against a loud, disorganized world; the pianoforte. It was a gift that the third sister prized above all else.

"As if I would allow dear Augie to miss out on watching his mother win this little family tradition," Daphne smirked, bouncing her little one with practiced grace. "Second year in a row, if I might add."

Benedict could not resist a gentle jab at his sister's haughty words.

"Charming words from a duchess."

She grinned at him, pretty as a picture, and Benedict felt that little corner of his heart that would always seek his first sister's affection melt.

"A duchess who is still a Bridgerton," she replied, letting Francesca stick a finger out for Augie to grasp.

"Oh, come and see the baby, Eloise," Francesca pleaded, turning towards their other sister, who remained on the other side of the room with her book and a pamphlet Benedict could not yet decipher. He imagined it was likely Penelope's edition of Whistledown she'd published before they left.

"Why?" Eloise inquired dryly. "Has he changed since I saw him last?"

Benedict fought the very real urge to roll his eyes and encourage Eloise to at least display a modicum of interest in their young nephew. They did not see Daphne nearly as often as anyone would like and he felt as the years passed that trend wouldn't change.

"He's grown at least an inch, haven't you?" Daphne cooed, caressing little Augie's nose with her own before handing him off to his waiting grandmother. "Who's that, then?"

Violet chuckled and Benedict couldn't deny that strange little pressure he felt in his heart whenever he saw his mother or one of his siblings happy.

"Oh, my lovely." Violet cuddled the baby to her chest, his white gown engulfing his tiny body. Anthony bent at the waist, giving his nephew a little wave and a scarce smile that Benedict saw too rarely. But Benedict's affection quickly transitioned to mirth when his mother handed Augie to a frankly aghast Eloise. "Here we go. Yes. There we are."

Eloise gaped as she suddenly held their nephew at arms length, the child dangling from her arms. The baby's little cries made themselves known immediately and Benedict could only guess how the little tyke immediately picked up on his aunt's discomfort. Daphne raised a hand, ready to step in when Colin swooped in to the rescue.

"Do not mind your Auntie Eloise," Colin teased, grinning as he bounced Augie gently in his arms. "She's too busy reading to notice anything else, as usual."

"Is it not nap time?" Eloise snapped. "Perhaps Uncle Colin will lull you to sleep with his many tales from his travels."

"Yes. I seem to be missing the peace and solitude of the Greek isles already."

While they all laughed, Benedict couldn't help but remember Eloise's words on how Penelope wanted children and once again that horrible creature that lurked in his belly sank its claws into his guts. Benedict wanted children one day, of course. But he was not ready yet, though he desired Penelope more than a sane thought.

Colin was so good, so easy with children. Would Penelope latch onto such a trait and continue to look his way?

Was he awful for thinking such a resentful sentiment?

Doubts buzzed, buzzed, buzzed in his ears until it was nearly unbearable.

With a shake of his head, he tracked Daphne's movement, resplendent and elegant in her lavender satin dress. Then he tracked Eloise, who was obviously annoyed at being picked on for her ineptitude with the baby. Mirroring his second sister from behind, he let her settle into the corner of the royal blue paisley sofa. He took a place kneeling behind her while Francesca settled in at Eloise's side. Faintly, he could catch the scent of the lavender and rose oils they used for their hair.

He and his two contrary sisters, united in this space. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"Enjoying your brief respite from the ferocious packs of marriage-minded young ladies, Brother?" Daphne asked Anthony, though Benedict knew she not-so-secretly wanted information from all her siblings on their eldest brother's disastrous attempts at courtship.

The duchess sat down in the chair opposite Anthony and, though she still maintained poise, the slight rounding of her spine and hunch to her shoulders demonstrated how at ease she became within their ancestral home. Glad to see it, Benedict observed them, taking turns to tug on Eloise and Francesca's walnut brown strands. Each sister made to shove his face away, but he remained persistent.

"Quite the opposite, Sister," Anthony said, rather smugly. "I have invited one such young lady and her family to join us today."

"Anthony has invited a young lady to Aubrey Hall?"

The look of delighted shock that took over her expression could spell nothing but trouble. Benedict knew his sister well, even if he should've been more attentive the year before. While not as meddlesome as their mother, she had a way of investigating the heart of the matter until she dug it up and thrust it into one's face. Colin used to say she was not unlike a truffle pig when it came to sniffing out any problem a sibling might have, though he stopped with that comparison when, at the age of ten and four, Daphne decided she did not like being compared to a farm animal.

"Yes and she is quite lovely," Violet said before continuing to coo over her grandson.

Hyacinth and Gregory flanked their mother, their youngest sister trying to gain Augie's attention and favor.

"My word! Well, I cannot wait to meet the woman who has captured your heart." By all accounts, Daphne meant it. Benedict thought again on how Anthony sorely owed Daphne an apology for last season. Daphne handled his courtship much better than he had any of hers. "Tell me, what is she like?"

"Miss Edwina is the picture of grace, beauty, and charm," Anthony said, relaxing in his midnight blue jacket, the gold buttons winking in the filtered sunlight.

But Benedict paid more attention to Daphne's face, wondering why he lips pursed. She appeared a tad displeased by this answer.

Had Benedict thought too soon that she would take Anthony's courtship in stride? Anthony's words about Miss Edwina were true. What could Daphne expect?

"Hmm."

Well, that did not bode well.

"Unfortunately, she has a most annoying sister who has styled herself as something of a gatekeeper," Anthony admitted. Daphne turned to her siblings for confirmation, to which they all gave her the look. The one they all shared when speaking silently. "I'm afraid you must all help me win over both sisters, if I am to find my bride."

He addressed them all with this directive and while Benedict and Francesca nodded, both Eloise and Colin appeared taken aback. It was a rare day that Anthony begged anything of them. Daphne, of course, was forever quick on the uptake.

"And now you appeal for help," she commented, dragging an assessing gaze across their usually stubborn brother. "My, you must be smitten by this miss."

"Or the sister is a formidable obstacle, indeed," Benedict could not help but chime in.

"Fear not, Anthony," Daphne leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, though nothing but what one might perceive as pure sarcasm dripped from her words. "Seeing as though you were such a help to me last season, it would only be fair of me to return the favor."

Benedict snickered at Daphne's not-so-subtle jab at Anthony's boorish behavior from the previous season. It could not be denied, their eldest brother deserved the criticism. More than that, both elder brothers were both aware that even a poor attempt at help from Daphne would be leagues above and beyond the aid that Anthony attempted to provide the year before.

"Is that a promise or a threat?" Anthony shot back, though there was no heat behind his tone.

Daphne hummed, wishing to appear mysterious. But all of the siblings could not help the shuffle of laughter that rose and fell like waves amongst them. It was too easy to fall back into such cheer and easiness amongst each other.

Daphne took a careful sip of her tea, savoring the taste of lemon on her tongue as she observed her artist brother over the rim of her teacup. They casually sat across from another, tea and a small platter of tiny cakes between them. The bit of sun fighting through the clouds gently lit their faces through the window and Daphne watched as Benedict sketched a tree that could be seen from the comfort of the drawing room, green and full of leaves.

Across the room, Colin and Eloise almost perfectly mirrored Daphne and Benedict's positions, except Francesca sat quietly between them, and Colin had an entire plate of cakes and biscuits to himself. On the floor, Violet, Anthony, Hyacinth, and Gregory sat in a small circle with Augie clapping in the middle of it, giving the baby letter blocks and a small wooden ball to play with. Daphne couldn't help the soft smile that overtook her face as she observed her family thoroughly enjoying and embracing her son. Her mother was simply alight at being a grandmother, even Anthony's face took on a gentler quality when he'd stack a small tower of blocks and let Augie knock them down. Daphne hadn't seen such an expression on her eldest brother's face in a long, long time.

But she snapped her focus back to her more free-spirited brother for the moment. Oh, Daphne would make it her mission to get to the bottom of Anthony's feelings and intentions towards the young Miss Edwina Sharma. But until Lady Danbury and her charges arrived later that afternoon, Daphne would use her time to investigate Benedict's inner workings, especially when it concerned the youngest Miss Featherington.

Daphne wasn't blind. In fact, she considered herself one of the most intuitive of her siblings, having always been laser-focused on her siblings and their needs since their father's death. The growing closeness between Benedict and Penelope, the young woman who had mostly been known as Eloise's best friend. There was certainly a friendship between Colin and the redhead as well, though Daphne knew that Penelope's adoration and affection for the third Bridgerton brother drove much of Penelope's interactions with him: sweet, attentive, but not as open as it could be.

But with Benedict, it was different. The body language that she'd spotted between Benedict and Penelope that day so long ago in the drawing room had proven an easiness between them; a clear demonstration of a friendship that was open, not always easy but definitely warm.

But if she knew her elder brothers like she thought she did, Benedict was probably cocking up the potential for anything more than friendship before it got started.

Oh, her brothers acted bold. In fact, they each encouraged boldness, courage, madness in their own ways. When giving advice to others, they always encouraged a brash approach that was inherited amongst most men. Because men had the luxury of being reckless.

But when Bridgerton men were actually caught in a situation that required them to interpret their feelings into meaningful action?

That was different entirely.

Simon had regaled Daphne of the sad tale that encompassed Anthony and the opera singer, Siena, from last season during the summer months. She'd been so concerned with Anthony's adamant opinion that love could not factor into a marriage along with his sudden reserve (well, more so than usual). After much begging, Simon had finally divulged the secret in confidence. Looking back on the season, Daphne was able to pinpoint Anthony's erratic behavior. His indecision between duty and, apparently, a life free of obligation.

It appeared that when love was involved, Anthony could not think straight. He was a man constantly at war with himself and as much as he masked it with arrogance, he was a self-sacrificing imbecile. The viscount acted on behalf of what he felt was best for his family, not himself. This led to decisions that were at times more harmful than good. For while Anthony made calculations and solutions with quill and ink, what appeared excellent on paper sometimes did not translate into real life.

Benedict was a different sort. Flighty, though never cruel, ever since he'd entered society he was always trying to find his place. At his core he despised society events. Oh he could fit in, wear any mask that suited him so he could glide easily through a ball or party without being singled out as an outsider. Out of all of her brothers, he made the most hasty, sometimes reckless, decisions in the name of finding his place. Yet he was slightly more discreet about it than Anthony had ever been, keeping him in good standing. He felt and cared deeply and Daphne sometimes wondered if he maybe threw himself into such wild behavior because he needed an outlet, because it hurt to feel so much.

Society would tolerate Benedict so long as he was careful about his peculiarities and dislike of the norm. While she had no doubt that Benedict would advise anyone else silently, unrequitedly obsessed with another person to take life by the horns and seize the day, when it came to himself—

Well, Benedict could be a self-sacrificing imbecile too. Especially when it came to his family.

"Are you practicing drawing nature, Brother?" she asked, setting her delicate china cup down with a small clatter.

"Usually whatever sits in front of me at the moment," Benedict smiled, though she noticed how his knee bounced under the table. A nervous habit he'd possessed as far back as she could remember. "I can attempt a drawing of you, if you like?"

She giggled before snorting and her brother's mouth widened, revealing his slightly crooked canines.

"I am not a subject of beauty for an artist like yourself. Now, my dear Augie, I would love a sketch of him."

Benedict gingerly set down his sketchbook and graphite onto the table, his tea forgotten at the side, His lips fell into a grim line as he reached forward to take one of her hands.

"You are a picture of beauty, Sister. Who would be so foolish to say otherwise? Was it Hastings? If you so desire it, I will throttle him for you."

The light blue of his eyes beat against the deep green ring around his pupil, like waves clashing in the sea. They glittered mischievously but Daphne knew enough about her brothers that if they offered a threat on her behalf, they would follow through.

"You have nothing to worry about, Benedict," Daphne squeezed his larger fingers, his skin warming her own. "My husband believes me to be a goddess among women."

Winking playfully, she relished in his quick lapse into discomfort. He rolled his eyes before letting go of her, sitting back to dig his palms into his eye sockets.

"I would rather not hear the details, please. Last season already took quite a few years off my lifespan, and I believe hearing of my brother-in-law's adoration for my sister would do the same."

Daphne hummed, letting her eyes flicker to the rest of their family. As suspected, they were all still greatly distracted. Francesca was in the midst of showing Colin and Eloise a bit of sheet music she'd been practicing, while those on the floor were taking turns entertaining Augie with funny faces. Nonchalantly, she took a small vanilla sponge covered in light pink fondant and nibbled the corner.

"Well, I just do not see myself as a classical subject for paintings. A muse, so to speak. Penelope has more of the face and figure for that, wouldn't you agree?"

Carefully, she observed how Benedict's entire body changed.

It was as if the man was at war with himself. At the mention of Penelope's name, he'd sat straighter, shoulders back, and he looked around the room as if the subject of their conversation would appear any moment. He grabbed his sketchbook again and held it close to his chest, his graphite knocked away and clattering to the carpeted floor with a soft thud. The jittering in his leg increased and Daphne saw the tell-tale flick of her brother's tongue as he licked his lower lip.

Benedict only licked his lower lip in two situations:

When he was incredibly excited and anticipating something.

Or, when he was nervous.

When they were younger, it had been an obvious tell of his when they played card games or when on the pall mall field. As they'd gotten older, he'd gotten much better at smoothly burying such hints to his state of mind, especially around his family.

But he hadn't hid it then. He couldn't help it.

"I– That is to say– I mean, of course she is lovely. She is gorgeous. " Benedict's voice was emphatic but all color drained from his cheeks when he realized his words. "But that does not signify anything untoward. It is simply an artist's observation. I mean, you have observed. One could say that you, Sister, put the thought in my head."

Daphne fought hard not to raise an eyebrow when Benedict pushed his sketchbook further into his sternum, as if he could bury it and all the secrets it contained within his chest like a casket in a graveyard.

"I meant nothing ill by the observation, Benedict." With her lithe fingers, she reached under the table and pressed down upon Benedict's bouncing knee. Hard. "She is your friend, is she not? She speaks of you as someone she trusts. I only meant to say she'd be better to practice your skills with than me."

"S-She spoke of me? Truly?" Despite himself, it appeared Benedict brightened at the prospect, the deep lines that crinkled whenever he smiled making their appearance. "I– Yes. I suppose so. We are…" He hesitated but Daphne waited. While Benedict was an excellent secret keeper if one asked, he liked to share. He liked to confide and needed it probably more than the rest of them, besides Anthony. The two eldest sons acted as their siblings confidantes for so long, they'd forgotten what it was like to share their own triumphs and troubles. "I would say we are good friends, now."

"Then you should ask if you could sketch her. A good friend will always help when another needs it."

"Yes, I suppose."

Benedict's knee under her firm hold still vibrated, longing to jump again. Daphne stared into her brother's eyes and followed his gaze when they landed upon Colin.

"Colin is not as selfish as you believe," Daphne said slowly, cautiously toeing the waters. "She can be both your friend and his. He is immature at times but he grew much while he was away."

"It is not him I worry about."

"Do you believe she values Col over you?"

A beat of heavy silence proved answer enough.

"Daph–"

"I will not even start to try and untangle that web of insecurity within your breast just yet." She sighed, sitting back to straighten and take another sip of tea, ever the duchess. "This weekend has many moving parts and soon I shall have to shift my focus to Anthony. But I cannot tell if you are selling your brother and friend short or yourself. Perhaps both?"

Benedict's sketchbook was now creasing around the edges in his tight grasp, the pages crinkling. But he let out a weak chuckle.

"When did you become so all-seeing, Daph?"

Daphne's lips twisted into a bittersweet smile though it felt more of a grimace.

"You know exactly when, Benedict. It was when we all changed."

Benedict released a long breath, finally releasing his sketchbook enough to look down at the page.

"She does not believe she is beautiful."

Daphne shook her head before looking out the window at the perfectly kept grounds that pervaded every memory of her childhood. If she concentrated hard enough, sometimes she could recall her father's faint laughter amongst the trees.

"If you believe she is worthy of art," Daphne said gently, "then she will too."

Numbness had descended.

No one had told him that grief in its infancy was a vicious tidal wave, a current that overcame and drowned him, tossing him around as he screamed until all the bubbles ran out, his lungs screaming from the brutality of the frigid waters that made him numb. Cruelly, it pulled back just as sudden, without warning, allowed him to see everything. To gasp and gulp mighty lungfuls of air and cry out until he was covered and drowning again.

It was torture.

The morning was gone and afternoon about to bleed into dusk and they all still sat motionless in the hall. Benedict kept his siblings close, Francesca cradled to his chest with Colin and Gregory on one side and Daphne and Eloise on the other. In his state of numbness, he ran his hands through their hair, trying to soothe, saying meaningless words and platitudes that he knew never truly reached their ears.

Then he could breathe again and he'd sob randomly, choking on his own measly breath as he tried to comprehend that his father was gone.

It didn't help that his mother hadn't moved, that she was beside herself on the foot of the marble stairs. Benedict knew he should help her, that it couldn't be good for the little sibling that grew in her swollen belly. But he couldn't bring himself to move. Couldn't bring himself to push his siblings away.

In the background, Benedict registered that the Steward, Nelson, was talking to Anthony at a rapid pace.

"My lord?" Nelson's voice was firm, no nonsense. It was what their father had admired about the man. "My lord, might we begin with the arrangements? The minister will need to be called, and the casket, of course. One will need to be built."

God, a fucking casket? Their father was to be buried in the earth, food for the worms?

Benedict's stomach turned and he had to swallow five times to keep bile down. From the look on Anthony's tired, red face, he wasn't faring much better.

"Forgive me, my lord. I have questions about the body. Should I move it from his chambers?"

Another footman spoke this time and Benedict's stomach rolled again.

"Also the business of the letters," Nelson began but Anthony spoke for the first time in half an hour.

"The letters?"

"To give notice of the death," Nelson informed him, stern but sympathetic. "Not just to the other family, but to the village too."

"We should send for the doctor," Missus Wilson butt in, expression wane, wrinkled hands clutched together. "She's still hysterical."

"I also must ask, my lord. Might you already have the keys to your father's office?" Nelson interrupted. "We've been searching."

"With the baby, this cannot be good," Missus Wilson insisted, demonstrating a fierceness she had to utilize often to be heard amongst the male servants.

Christ, what had become of them? Questions, questions, questions, all directed at Anthony. What was Anthony to do? It wasn't as if he was the viscount–

But then it dawned on Benedict with a rush of horror and this time he really thought he might be sick.

"I'll have your mother's things arranged, but I'll need to know which room you'd like her moved to."

"Why would Mother be moved?" Anthony asked, and Benedict saw the moment that his brother realized his life was over. That childhood was now all but a memory, cut short by a bee's tiny sting.

"Because those rooms belong to you, my lord," Nelson said, his voice softening slightly for the first time. "You are the viscount now."

The cacophony that was his mother's wails amplified, as if she'd heard and this was a truth she couldn't accept. Colin and Daphne beside him had stiffened, and while Colin was sniffling into Gregory's hair, Daphne valiantly attempted to wipe all silent tears from her face with her tiny hands. All while she petted Eloise's back, repeating that it would be alright.

Benedict watched his mother hold her protruding stomach as if she was in terrible pain, like every bit of muscle in her body was tearing itself apart over the loss. With terrible clarity, he realized he shouldn't have sat here so long with the children. They did not need to see this. To hear this. This day would already be seared into their memories for the rest of their lives.

Before another bout of terrible numbness could overwhelm him, he pushed to his feet, struggling to grapple with a limp, catatonic Francesca. Without saying a word, he gently pushed his feet against Daphne and Colin's thighs before angling his head to indicate they follow him. Together, Daphne and Colin wrangled Eloise and Gregory before following Benedict like ducklings. All of their most private rooms were upstairs but to get there would mean to pass their mother and he couldn't put them through that.

For the first time, Benedict realized he did not know where the servants' backstairs were and was ashamed of the fact. It would've helped right then. But he did know where the kitchens were.

Soon, he led his siblings to the kitchen, which sat empty except for Cook and one other maid. The others must've gone to see what the chaos was about, but the minute Cook latched her watery gray eyes onto the bedraggled six of them, Benedict knew that she'd already heard.

"Come," the plump woman said, coming behind Benedict to tenderly push and usher the smallest children into the corner where a rickety wooden table and stools were. "Warm milk for the lot of ya'. Let's see if I can scratch meself up some biscuits."

Benedict nodded gratefully, gulping loudly as he let himself be dragged into the corner as well. Adjusting Francesca in his lap, he watched as Cook heated up the milk, pouring it out for each of them, even himself. He didn't have the heart to protest that he was no longer a child, that he didn't need warm milk to feel better. Instead, he let himself take a sip as the other young maid helped Colin and Daphne with their younger siblings.

As the warm smell of yeast, dough, and expensive sugar filled the warm room, Benedict let the freezing numbness wash over him again. He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to allow himself such a luxury after today. Not for a very long time.

"Now, the only reason to endure such a journey is to see my great-godson," Lady Danbury exclaimed, taking Augie into her arms and lifting him into the air gently. The scarlet of her jacket and gloves stood in great contrast to the innocent white of the baby's gown. "Hello."

Benedict admitted to himself that it was quite the whiplash to see Lady Danbury so outwardly affectionate with a child. But he felt that familiar spark, just a hint, from when he'd so recklessly pursued her all those years ago. It was a very weak feeling, especially when compared to his feelings for Penelope. But he'd always feel a sort of tenderness towards his first foray into infatuation and love.

Daphne and Lady Danbury exchanged pleasantries as his mother went to greet Lady Mary Sharma. Benedict hung back, sandwiched between Eloise and Colin, waiting to be useful.

"Any bets on how long it will take for Anthony to show his true colors to Miss Edwina on the pall mall field?" Eloise ventured, elbowing her two elder brothers with as much subtlety as a bull in a china shop.

"El, I would not dare to make such an unbecoming gamble," Colin gasped, though his wily grin ruined the effect. "Especially when the three of us know you would lose. It would be an unfair bet to take, especially as I would come away with all of your pin money."

Eloise scoffed, so affronted that Benedict actively had to resist closing her mouth so flies wouldn't make their way in.

"Say that to me again on the field, Col! Better yet, what if we have a round of shooting?"

Benedict groaned, massaging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

"While I am usually amicable to any form of competition, and am the most graceful loser amongst us," Benedict ignored his siblings' chortles. "I refuse to be humiliated in front of our guests when our little sister outshoots us."

"Why? Your masculine pride cannot handle being defeated by a woman?"

"I did not say that."

"You implied–"

"Before this turns into a bloody brawl that will give Mother the excuse she needs to ship us to Wales, never to return," Colin drawled, crossing his arms as the Sharmas milled about their mother, Daphne, and Anthony. "Tell me truly, what are your impressions of the Sharmas? Will Anthony truly go through with a proposal?"

Benedict took a few serious moments to give the question the serious consideration it deserved. Truly, he was glad to be back on even ground with his brother, for no amount of jealousy could lessen his love for Colin. Colin was too good a person to ever despise.

Plus, it was fun to share gossip amongst themselves.

"The younger Miss Sharma truly does seem kind, demure… Everything one in society expects a lady to be."

Benedict wrinkled his nose at his own description. He admired Miss Edwina, truly he did. While he was not well-acquainted with her, what he'd seen and been described to him by Anthony, his mother, Penelope, and Eloise had all been glowing. But…

"But?" Colin queried.

"She just would not be the one for me," Benedict put forth cautiously.

"What Benedict means to say is he's surprised Anthony would choose a woman who proves to be his complete opposite," Eloise said bluntly.

Shots fired.

Benedict shifted uncomfortably and the trio turned their attention to where Miss Kate Sharma held the lead to a little gold and white corgi, the creature's fat little haunches waddling with every step.

"The elder Miss Sharma fights her sister's battles though," Eloise remarked, no hint of ill will in her voice. "Witty, independent, the head of her family despite being a woman. I would love the chance to pick her brain!"

Benedict and Colin shared a glance over their sister's head, eyes widening in alarm.

If Eloise were to join forces with Miss Kate Sharma, there would be no peace. No, surely the two fierce women would join forces and attempt to dominate the Empire.

As one, the trio of siblings descended the stairs to gather around Lady Danbury and the rest of their family. But their attention never wavered as they observed Anthony approach Miss Kate.

Benedict was gladdened he was not the only one eavesdropping on their eldest brother. It reassured him that he could not be accused of being the nosiest sibling, when the lot of them were terrible.

"Ah. You're smiling," Anthony said smugly and Miss Kate, smart woman that she was, gave an exasperated little sigh. Benedict couldn't help a crooked grin as he glanced between the two. "I see my plan to win you over is already working."

"I was smiling at the view, which you are now blocking," Kate shot back.

The little golden-orange and white furball that had been retrieved from the carriage barked on the gravel, and now both Eloise and Colin peered at the scene.

"Why were we never allowed a dog?" Eloise mumbled, peering at the furry creature with interest. "The little thing seems to have clocked in on Anthony."

"They do say dogs are an excellent judge of character," Colin commented.

"That's just what Miss Kate said," Eloise replied.

Benedict rolled his eyes and poked both of his siblings in the ribs viciously. Both moaned and Benedict dodged an elbow to the gut from his sister.

"Shhhh, you two! I am attempting to eavesdrop."

"What a cad," Eloise murmured, though she too leaned closer as if by simply getting a better view she could overhear Anthony and Miss Kate's conversation.

"For once, you and I are in perfect agreement," Colin said, copying Eloise's movements perfectly.

Benedict resisted the urge to pinch both their ears and lift them off the ground.

"And you must be Miss Edwina."

As the siblings had bickered, Daphne approached Anthony and Kate, offering her greetings. The snooping siblings froze, caught between mirth and horror at their sister's unintentional faux pas. But Benedict, in a way, couldn't be surprised. The rapport between Anthony and Miss Kate came off as more…honest and straightforward.

"No," Anthony said sharply, turning towards the gravel and take a tiny step away to put distance between himself and the elder sister. "This is her sister. Miss Kate Sharma."

The knowing glint in Daphne's face as she puzzled out the situation before her would be considered subtle for anyone else, but not for Benedict. Not for any of her siblings. Threads were being woven together in her mind, creating an image that only she could see. Often, Benedict marveled at how she put things together. She'd always been better at reading others rather than herself.

"Ah. Forgive me, Miss Sharma," Daphne gave a quick inclination of the head in apology, but every angular tilt of her body was purposeful.

Swiftly, as if out of nowhere, the younger Sharma sister materialized by Miss Kate's side. Pretty as a picture in a coral pink dress, the young miss once again fell into the role of the Queen's perfect diamond. Benedict frowned as he leaned closer again, knocking heads with Colin.

"Ow!"

"I knew you had a hard head, Col, but I was unaware you were sculpted from marble rather than born."

"Har har," Colin rubbed his aching skull.

"Eh hem," Lady Danbury cleared her throat, raising imperious eyebrows at the three of them as Eloise was still bent over at the waist, blatantly listening to the exchange of her eldest brother, sister, and the Sharmas.

"The three of you are not skilled in the art of delicacy or surveillance," she remarked dryly, tapping her intimidating cane on the pea rock.

"If only Pen were here," Eloise muttered, to which Benedict stepped on her foot.

Hard.

"Oh! Benedict–"

They missed the rest of the exchange as they were roped into escorting Lady Danbury up the stairs, not that it was a chore.

"Well, now, you must be weary from your travels," Violet commented, side by side with Miss Mary Sharma. "Mrs. Wilson. Please show our guests to their rooms so they might get refreshed."

"And ready for battle!" Eloise stated, anticipation clearly humming through her body.

Benedict shook his head fondly, looping his arm through Lady Danbury's on one side while Colin took the other.

"Mm, indeed," Daphne's practically radiated confidence as she ascended the stairs.

Miss Kate responded well to it as she asked, "What can you mean?"

Violet chuckled nervously and Benedict recognized the moment his mother felt the need to desperately smooth something over. He adored her greatly, but Violet's tendency to control and smooth out potential obstacles at times drove her actions. At times it could work in her favor, but it also meant their mother did not always handle surprises well.

"Do not mind Eloise," Violet said quickly. "She's always so spirited in the country."

Eloise scrunched her nose in distaste, and he felt he would be having a long discussion with his younger sister later.

"Then we have that in common," Miss Kate said brightly, making direct eye contact with Eloise.

Something, it seemed, unfurled in Eloise. Her smile brightened, her shoulders sat back straight, and there was a sudden lightness as she took the steps two at a time. Benedict felt like he should thank Miss Kate privately later. That one sentence from her had successfully prevented a blackening in Eloise's mood.

"Mother, I believe there is something I shall be needing now."

Benedict overheard Anthony's words, meant to be quiet and only for their mother's ears. But a low buzz vibrated under Benedict's skin.

Would there be a proposal?

And was his brother truly ready for it?

It was a horrid, awful day.

But then again, when one was three and ten, every day felt like an awful day.

For Penelope Featherington, it had truly been what she perceived to be one of the worst days of her life.

It was a muggy, hot summer and several of the bon ton's families had been invited to a week long house party at the Cowpers' country residence. Penelope and Cressida had never truly gotten along. Or rather, Cressida had decided that the two girls should never make merry together and the only place Penelope had within Cressida's social circle was stomped beneath her elegant silk slippers.

Much to Penelope's relief, the Bridgertons had not only been invited but actually accepted the invitation, so the youngest Featherington daughter happily clung to Eloise wherever she went across the gardens and dark halls of the estate. Despite Lady Cowper and her daughter's bright colors, the actual household seemed more befitting to a Gothic tale rather than a lord's summertime retreat.

Unfortunately, Eloise could not accompany Penelope all the time. And it was on one such day that Cressida found Penelope hiding in the back garden, between the two great, red rose bushes planted at the base of a great oak tree. She'd retreated from the lawn festivities, tattered book of Grimm's Fairy Tales in hand and like some horrible twist of fate, Cressida appeared like a villain from one of her stories.

Penelope didn't know why Cressida felt the need to be cruel to her. Didn't understand why the young girl singled her out.

She didn't know if knowing the reason would even make it hurt any less.

"I simply do not understand why the Bridgertons put up with you," Cressida laughed, loudly enough that if anyone heard from afar, her tinkling soprano would sound gleeful, rather than venomous. "You are of no real consequence and your father is only a baron. Too bookish, of course. Someone who merely clings to the edge of things.

"I– I am not–"

"They will wise up eventually. You are only a pitiful case to them." Cressida tossed her silky, white blonde hair over her shoulder in an effortless toss. "Eloise will soon see there are much better friends for her to have. If you disappeared, I doubt she would notice."

Nothing else Cressida could have said stung as horribly as those words, for they fed upon Penelope's very real fear. That she was easily forgettable, a nobody, and Eloise only befriended her out of pity rather than any real mutual feeling of companionship.

Before she knew it, she'd made a mad dash, ratty book in hand, to the side opening to the one thing of interest at the Cowper's country estate: the maze.

It was a gigantic thing. So large, in fact, that all children were actually forbidden to wander inside for fear they'd be lost for far longer than anyone could find them. Lord Cowper was the only one in possession of a map and usually, when using the maze for parties, had his very own steward supervise the proceedings, map and compass in hand, ready to shout instructions for anyone who might get lost. They even provided great balls of yarn so the more nervous players would inevitably find their way back.

But no logic or reason filled Penelope's brain. Consumed by embarrassment and wounded pride, she could barely see through her growing headache and the well of tears that wouldn't stop rising in her eyes. Blood pumped vigorously through her legs as she dashed past the hedges, hitting her arms on corners, scratching her skin and tearing her skirts on the twigs and leaves.

It felt like ages until she finally collapsed on the grass, sobbing, scrubbing at her face desperately as her book fell with a soft thump. The world felt distant as she let what seemed to be the most grievous insult to take drown her, overwhelm her tiny, awkward adolescent body until she was curled up on the ground. In the fetal position she sobbed for so long and so hard, her ribs physically ached and when she finally calmed down enough to look at the sky, she noticed it was just as bruised and battered as her insides.

Sniffling, she forced herself to sit up, unsure from which way she'd come from. Sorrow slowly faded into panic as she realized she had no idea where she was.

Neither did her family.

Neither did Eloise.

But something worse than the painful anxiety or gripping sadness spread through her limbs like a fast-acting disease, making her feel lethargic and heavy: Acceptance.

No one noticed she was gone. By the fading light in the sky, it had been hours since Cressida insulted her and yet she heard no shouts or calls for her name. She was utterly alone. The realization of her worst fear was more numbing and terrible than she first realized. She'd already known she didn't amount to much amongst her own family, but to be forgotten by Eloise, as if no more visible or important than a speck of dust on the breeze, ached more than she could say. She felt leaden, dragged down like an anchor at sea as she accepted no one would come looking for her, surely. Invisible, nothing, a barely perceptible wallflower…

"Pen!"

Penelope looked up again and flinched. Once again, she'd let time pass without her notice as she'd wallowed in despair. So much so that the light from the oil lamp that dangled in her face made her flinch in the darkness. Looking up, she couldn't help but owlishly blink at her savior.

"Colin?"

Colin beamed down at her. He'd grown a lot over the years, sprouting up and out until his height began to rival that of Benedict's. While one hand held the flickering light illuminating their forms, the other held the tail end of what appeared to be white spun yarn. A trail of it lay outstretched behind him, disappearing around a corner hedge.

"Well, yes! Better me than the Minotaur, do you not think? Or Lord Cowper for that matter."

"H-How did you find me?"

"Poor El was beside herself looking for you when you didn't appear for afternoon tea, and that wretched Cowper girl started spinning a terrible yarn about you. It took both Anthony and Benedict to drag El away before she could make a scene. But a kind lady's maid told us she saw you run in here, so Ben distracted the steward so I could sneak into Lord Cowper's office and find the map."

He angled his chin so that Penelope noticed a rolled up bit of parchment stuffed hurriedly in the band of his breeches. But Penelope could hardly pay attention to even that for she'd suddenly been filled with a glowing warmth that invigorated her bones, her muscles, her entire being.

Eloise noticed she was missing.

Her friend worried about her.

Overcome, fresh tears broke free from Penelope's eyes and slipped down her sticky, warm cheeks.

"Oh, Pen. It's alright," Colin soothed, bending down to brush away a few strands of ginger hair that clung to her wet cheeks. "Come now. Let's get you safe."

Penelope took his proffered arm, the one that held the string, and let him use his strength to lift her up and guide her through the ominous darkness, the string their guide.

"Thank you," Penelope murmured.

"What did that awful girl say to you that would prompt you to run into the Minotaur's lair?" Colin asked, his voice softer than she'd ever heard before.

Penelope bit her bottom lip, chewing it, wondering if she should answer…

"That…that Eloise was only my friend out of pity."

It wasn't everything Cressida had said but it'd been the comment that stung the most.

From the corner of her eye she saw Colin frown in the yellow, flickering light of the oil lamp.

"I can tell you with absolute certainty that is not true. Eloise is no fair-weather friend. She adores you. Has since the moment she met you. Trust me when I say El would never deign to waste her time with someone out of pity."

With a slight nod of her head, Penelope wiped again at her face. She was sure her complexion had grown ruddy and swollen from all of her crying. As they continued forward the string grew tauter, more sure. She caught Colin looking at her again and when she met his gaze she was graced by one of those smiles that made her heart skip a beat.

"Have I ever told you the story of Theseus and the Minotaur?"

Colin spent the rest of their time distracting Penelope with the tale of Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur. He even went on to tell her the myth of Psyche and Eros, though he focused much on the hero and heroine of each story and the daring choices they made to succeed.

"Mother is infatuated with great love stories like Eros and Psyche," he said happily. "And I am as well, but the daring feats of Theseus or other heroes like Odysseus are fascinating, are they not? All of the adventure! I want to have a life full of such challenges!"

Penelope couldn't help but giggle at his enthusiasm.

"Fighting minotaurs and sea monsters?"

Colin didn't even look bashful when he replied,

"Truthfully, yes!"

His zealous joy was infectious, so much so that Penelope was actually smiling when they at last returned to the entrance. And at the end, like a glorious prize from the Heavens, stood Eloise with a ball of yarn, blue eyes wide and frantic. The moment the other young girl caught sight of Penelope she dropped the yarn and leapt forward, seizing her friend in her arms.

"Pen! I was so worried!" Her grip was a vice around Penelope's neck but even as her breath was restricted, Penelope found she did not mind. "When Cressida wouldn't say where you were, I just about throttled her! I would have, I swear I would–"

"Alright, El, she needs to breathe."

Two taller figures joined them and Penelope glanced up to see Anthony and Benedict smiling softly down at them. They must've acted as lookouts.

"We are glad to see you unharmed," Benedict said.

"Yes," Viscount Bridgerton said, voice a tad firm but no less gentle. "Please, Miss Featherington. I highly recommend next time you encounter an unwelcome adversary, call upon my sister." The head of the Bridgerton household stepped forward and loosened his sister's hold around Penelope's neck. Colin was stifling a chuckle beside them. "I assure you, she's better than even the most highly trained guard dog."

Laughter erupted from the small group as Eloise made a vain attempt to step on her eldest brother's toe in retaliation. Penelope floated on air, filled with such effervescent reassurance that she didn't notice she'd left her book of fairy tales in the maze until days later.

"No, it should be lower in the bust. We must make the most of the young lady's figure," Portia said haughtily and Penelope couldn't help but wince. Genevieve had been doing her best all afternoon to make the ghastly orange monstrosity to Lady Featherington's liking, but Penelope feared there would be no pleasing her mother unless Prudence was half-exposed. "Lower!"

Portia's demand jarred the very air in the room, and Genevieve turned abruptly, hands in the air as if she was about to defend herself from a rabid dog. Or maybe a diseased peacock.

"Madame, I must protest."

"I don't pay you to protest."

"The line of–"

"I pay you to fashion the dresses as I see fit." Portia's hands moved from her hips to fondle the fabric, eyeing it in such an accusatory manner that Penelope was surprised the innocent bit of cloth did not quiver. "On second thought, perhaps it is this fabric. I hear there's a new modiste across the street, just arrived from Vienna. Perhaps she'll have something that will display your assets to their better advantage, Prudence. Let's get you dressed."

Penelope ducked her head in embarrassment as Portia herded Prudence away to change. Standing a little awkwardly as Genvieve sighed, picking up bits and bobs, she stepped forward to offer what comfort she could.

"I quite liked your design."

"Merci beaucoup, Miss Penelope."

But Penelope could see that her dear, usually vivacious friend, was unnaturally downtrodden. Stomach twisting in sympathy, Penelope bent down to pick up the scraps of ribbon and fabric that decorated the rickety wooden floor.

"Oh Gen," she whispered. "Is there nothing I can do to soothe you?"

Genevieve's rich, violet-scented perfume filled the space as the modiste passed her, putting away her scissors and pins. Fidgeting with her white gloved hands, Penelope desperately wished to embrace her friend. But with her mother and sister so close, she could not risk it.

"Unless you can perform some magic or ancient rite to secure myself a constant stream of business," Genevieve sighed, reaching out to squeeze Penelope's little fingers in her long, slender ones. "Then there is nothing to be done, my friend."

Penelope let the feeling of her friend's callused, scarred fingers against her soft ones soothe her, though it introduced a wave of melancholy into her bosom. More than anything, more than anyone, Genevieve deserved the respect and coin of the flighty ton. The beautiful woman's skills with needle and thread were unparalleled and, selfishly, Penelope could not imagine a life where Genevieve may be forced to leave her to seek employment elsewhere.

Genevieve understood her as no one else did. A woman with her own enterprise that prized it above all else. Who fought to make her own way, her own money, in a man's world.

She couldn't let Genevieve fail.

A delivery boy called from the back with a delivery of fabric, but Penelope's mind was whirring, the cogs clicking and turning unbelievably fast.

"Oh. You may leave them at the back," Genevieve tutted. "I only hope I may have use for them."

Moving towards the parcel, Genevieve began to make her exit but Penelope stopped her. Grasping her friend's elbow, she breathed,

"Gen, what if I can magic you customers?"

There was a pause, a moment in time where neither of them moved. There was a simmer of anticipation, and Penelope thought it might shimmer in the air, much like when a rare heatwave made the very space above the ground waver and ripple.

"You do not mean–"

"I am quite sure Lady Whistledown will have much to say in your honor."

The businesswoman blinked, her tight black curls framing the shocked "o" on her face perfectly. Penelope fought back the urge to giggle, especially when Genevieve gifted her with a rare, uninhibited smile.

"You would do that, dear Penelope?"

"Of course I would, Gen. It is the least I can do to thank you for your friendship and secrecy."

Genevieve stroked Penelope's cheek tenderly before she huffed a small laugh.

"Oh, Benedict would be quite cross with me if he saw us now."

Penelope tilted her head in confusion, a frown marring her features. What would Benedict have to be cross about? But before she could ask, her friend continued.

"You know, a few days ago he actually thanked me, quite begrudgingly, mind you, for helping you the other day." Tucking one of Penelope's ember curls behind her ear, Genevieve began to smooth out invisible wrinkles out of her younger friend's sleeves. "Well, while I shall take this thanks of yours, you must let me know if you need any aid yourself. Especially in the offices of romance."

Choking on her own spit, Penelope coughed, hitting the middle of her chest several times. All while Genevieve merely smirked. Oh, her friend was a devilish sort.

"R-romance?"

"Why yes," Genevieve murmured. "Often romance will appear when you're least suspecting it. And I am quite well-versed in what your stuffy class calls marital relations ."

"Gen!"

Furtively casting her eyes around to make sure her mother wasn't hiding behind a corner, she felt her skin heat up rapidly. Lawks, it was as if she'd been baking in the sun all day.

"What?"

Mischievousness and Genevieve were surely bedfellows, for Penelope could not garner any other reason the vixen was… Well, a vixen.

"Penelope, one day you will realize that there is someone who sets your very veins on fire." The light that streamed through the glass panes grew dimmer, but it highlighted Genevieve's dark skin, making it a shining bronze. "And, more than I can express, I am most keen that you are safe and can find your own…pleasure."

Penelope fanned herself with her hand, though it didn't make much difference. The sunlight combined with her discomfiture caused her to sweat under her breasts and she bit her lower lip nervously. Instantly, she thought of Benedict and how he would gingerly pull the tender flesh from her teeth. Reluctantly, she released the skin.

"Gen, I cannot imagine a circumstance in which I would be so fortunate. Or so wanted."

"Oh, Penelope." Genevieve kissed her cheek softly, lingering for only a moment. "I wish you would stop underestimating yourself."

Pall mall, usually, was the great equalizer amongst their family. It was an opportunity for any grievances to be ironed out, rivalries addressed, and alliances formed. The Bridgerton siblings loved nothing more than a good dose of competition and, in its own way, it allowed them all to show not just their strengths and weaknesses, but also to assess one another's states of mind. Many a time, a round of whist laid bare a sister's current mental struggle, or a game of marbles revealed two siblings' current squabble they had yet to settle. Pall mall trumped them all, as how they played revealed much for their current delights and ailments.

It was this truth that made Benedict fear that his siblings would soon sniff him out.

Not only about his feelings for Penelope, which would not abate, but for his ever growing distress that he may not be accepted by the Royal Academy.

With increasing difficulty, he put on a smile and an affable disposition for their guests. He performed his duty, along with Daphne, in soothing the ruffled feathers of Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth when they could not play due to the Sharmas participation in the game. He gathered the mallets and balls while Daphne and Eloise planted the wickets, hoping that his mask never once faltered.

When they finished up and gathered around the colorful mallets, upright and waiting in their stand. Colin spoke first, starting the traditional squabble.

"Let's toss a coin."

"Last year, we promised to let the youngest pick first," Eloise insisted, even more determined now that she was technically the youngest on the field, rather than Hyacinth.

"We pick based on alphabetical order," Anthony glared around at his siblings, apparently his chivalry melting in the face of competition.

"That is the precedent," Benedict sing-songed, having no qualms with taking any advantage he could.

"It's meant to be a game, is it not?" Edwina muttered to her sister, though Benedict heard her. He bit back a playful smirk.

If she thought they seemed intense now, the poor girl had no idea what was to come.

Overcast light tried to push its way through the wall of light gray clouds covering the sky. It made the air cool, though blissfully still so as to not chill anyone to the bone. Benedict could smell the oncoming rain that would no doubt arrive sometime in the next couple of days. The air brought forth the pervasive, clean scent of grass and woodland.

"Everyone, please, now," Daphne, ever the group mother, took charge swiftly. "The only fair thing to do is to let our invited guests choose their mallets and strike first."

"Please, take your pick, Miss Edwina," Anthony stepped back, ushering the debutante forward.

While he grinned, Benedict could not help but ponder whether this was simply a facet of his older brother he hadn't seen in over a decade…or if it was a mask he readily slipped on when needed.

Edwina picked the robin's egg blue mallet, which Anthony retrieved for her.

"An excellent choice."

But when Miss Kate picked the black mallet, as dark as a raven's wing, a mad sort of glee overtook Benedict, something he saw reflected in his siblings' faces. Well, all but Anthony's. Eloise gasped, hand to her heart as Anthony appeared as if he was fighting a losing battle with a particularly rotten bit of meat.

"The mallet of death," Eloise breathed, looking at Miss Kate as if she were an avenging goddess she would gladly pay homage and tithe to.

"Would you look at that, Brother?" Benedict knew he pushed his brother's limits for humor at times, but he couldn't help crossing his arms and smirking. He knew his crooked canines made him appear all the more jovially feral.

"Is this yours?" Kate asked, lifting the mallet of death as if it was no more than any other toy, but they all knew Anthony bristled over anyone else handling the precious object.

"Not at all," Anthony grunted, pressing a fist to his chin while rocking on his feet, as if physically stopping himself from launching himself forward to steal back the mallet. "You're welcome to it."

"You threatened to beat me last time I touched–" Colin started but Anthony interrupted with a bark.

"You exaggerate!"

"Are you the superstitious sort?" Kate's smile was wide and taunting, though not cruel. "I know some men cannot perform without their familiar tools. Like a child with a blanket."

All of them scoffed and chuckled, though Miss Edwina shifted uneasily. He noticed her nibble the corner of her lip and a sudden yearning for Penelope roared to life in his chest. Surprisingly, Eloise cleared her throat to move the conversation forward. Most likely so she could hurry up and pick her weapon of mass destruction.

"I can play perfectly well with any mallet. I wish you the best of luck."

"Are we to stand around deliberating all day, or shall we play?" Eloise declared.

There was a beat of silence.

Like a shot, hands and elbows flew out, knocking each other away as they attempted to grab their preferred colors of choice.

"No!" Benedict exclaimed as Daphne and Anthony tried to make a grab for his favorite.

Knocking Anthony back with his hip he slapped Daphne's hand away and took hold of the lavender mallet as his siblings scrabbled for the rest. Whipping it away, he almost hit Colin (it would've been accidental if he had… Truly). It was only as they began to saunter away across the green that he noticed belatedly that Miss Edwina lagged behind.

"To the field of combat!" Daphne cried gleefully, but he followed his sister's turn of the head to observe the timid diamond trailing behind.

The game persisted much like it did every time, with an overabundance of enthusiasm that found no equal. As they swung, cheered, and sabotaged one another, comments and motivation came from the small platform his mother, Lady Mary, Augie, and Lady Danbury sat upon. Lady Danbury went so far as to join them on the field, watering the sown seeds of sibling rivalry. She especially encouraged Eloise, who soaked in the attention and encouragement for bloodshed.

Benedict couldn't help but scold her for cheating though. He did so every game just to make her irate.

Kate fit in perfectly, knocking others balls as much as her own. She was an incredibly forward thinking player. While not as crafty as Colin, she chose her times to ruin someone else's game carefully, but she never made a secret of how brutally she played. In fact, she was defeating Anthony rather soundly.

But Miss Edwina…

If Benedict's own game hadn't been so affected by his personal worries, he would've made more of an effort to make her feel included. At least a little. Logically, he could see that the girl was deeply out of her element, uncomfortable in a way he'd not yet seen (not that he'd seen much of her at all). Much of the time, it was as if she observed the game blankly, as if her very soul was out of her body and seeing everything from outside the group. Even his brother's surprisingly patient instruction and encouragement did not appear to cheer her. Her shots grew weaker and the smile she'd plastered on her face at the start dimmed.

Kate, for once, did not appear attuned to her sister's needs, lost in the game. Soon, Benedict was also swept away, though more by his own anxieties than the game itself.

As a ball shot wide on the lawn, Colin sidled up to his side, eyeing him carefully.

Was his younger brother concerned?

Colin made a noise low in his throat, an attempt to clear it. As the breeze picked up, Benedict alternated between fiddling with his mallet and observing the swaying branches of the trees. An audible creak animated from the copse, their limbs groaning as they oscillated back and forth.

"Come on, Benedict," Colin encouraged, offering Benedict a close mouthed smile that contained nothing but goodwill.

Sometimes Colin's goodness made him feel horribly inadequate.

Benedict attempted to focus on his mallet hitting the matching lavender ball. However, his head was too full, too consumed with thoughts of the Royal Academy, Penelope, Lady Whistledown, and his elder brother's game of courting so much so that he couldn't concentrate. In defeat, he sighed and cracked the ball, letting it fly wide across the lawn.

"Huh."

"Your head is clearly elsewhere, Brother," Colin appeared surprised, his stance wide and open. With a prickle of guilt, Benedict realized his younger brother felt sympathetic and in his good-natured way, was about to inquire about him. "Otherwise, you never would have given me such an easy shot."

As he predicted, his affable, loving, kind brother was thinking of his well-being.

And Benedict had spent the past week practically sick with jealousy.

He felt like an awful older brother.

The game continued around them but as Benedict fiddled with his mallet, twisting it around and around until the cylindrical head started to burrow itself in the grass, Colin took his shot. It was an excellent go, the yellow ball bouncing straight through the wicket. But Colin immediately turned his attention back to his older brother and Benedict had the strange sense that he owed Colin some semblance of the truth.

"I will admit, my thoughts are far from the field." Benedict could barely meet his brother's concerned stare, feeling all the more embarrassed for his seemingly insignificant plight. "I have applied to become a student of art at the Royal Academy Schools."

"Have you? Congratulations!" Colin's congratulation on his behalf sounded so effervescent and light it hurt.

Colin's nature, surely, was what Penelope saw in him, loved in him. For Benedict saw it too, how willing his brother was to encourage his siblings towards their ambitions and dreams.

The ugly, twisted vine of envy snared and battled with his all-consuming love for his brother. It was so tangled, snarled, that he now could not completely separate the emotions.

"Well, do not celebrate yet. I await word of my acceptance." Benedict looked towards the grounds again, watching as Kate crowed in victory when she sent Eloise's ball across the field. "They only invite a select few to study there, it seems."

"But still, it is an exciting prospect."

"Well, it's hardly a grand tour, as you had with your travels. But, yes, I do hope to distinguish myself too."

Benedict made to walk away before his crippling discomposure and agitation revealed itself too clearly. As the second oldest, he'd always been the brother providing empathy and encouragement. To receive it from others, especially his younger siblings, made him writhe and squirm like a worm at the end of a fishing hook. Something deeply unsettling, something akin to failure, ate away at his insides as he tried to escape.

But Colin wouldn't let him.

"Brother, what ails you?" His little brother persisted, keeping to his side as they moved forward to join the others. Colin could easily keep up with older brother's long strides and, with a sudden ache that rang and reverberated throughout him like a bell being struck, Benedict realized Colin wasn't so little anymore. Where once a small boy who barely reached his hip practically skipped in order to keep up, now stood a man who could outpace Benedict if he truly wanted to.

When did Colin grow up?

"I–"

"Please do not make excuses, Ben," Colin said, placing a firm hand upon his shoulder. "You've always provided succor for our family, for all of us who came after you. Let me do the same."

Cocking his head, Benedict gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Thank you, Col." He slapped his brother's back good-naturedly and noticed with relief that his jealousy had shrunk down within his chest cavity. "Later, I shall speak of it privately. But for now, tell me, how does this game fare for our brother?"

"You mean in his courting efforts?"

Colin squinted towards their fellow players, now impatiently waiting on the pair of them.

"Yes. Be honest."

"Honest?"

"Blunt, if you must."

Colin raked a hand through his chestnut hair, making the strands stick stubbornly out to the sides.

"Miss Edwina is lovely, truly. But our family is loud, lovingly disruptive. She–"

"Is like a mouse amongst a pack of dogs."

Nodding sagely, they both lowered their voices as they approached. Miss Edwina's face was drawn, barely able to keep up as Anthony and Kate bickered over the position of his ball.

"Miss Kate seems to have no issue blending in with the rest of us."

"But it is not she who Ant is courting," Benedict reminded him. "How will she manage a household full of us if she cannot handle a game?"

"To be fair to her, we can be rather…intense. Even dear Fran needs a break, at times."

"Yes, but Fran is special. She's our sister, and she can join in with the rest of us when she needs to. She is not afraid to tear us down in a verbal sparring match."

"True."

They quit their conversation when they finally reached the group, though they met one another's eyes again. Benedict fretted and made extra effort to be kind and attentive to the youngest Sharma, pushing down his own concerns. But all he could think on was whether he would have a sister-in-law, the lady of the house, that would need constant support he no longer felt he could provide?

They continued with the game, an ebb and flow of chaos their constant companion. While his siblings and Kate settled, Miss Edwina grew increasingly wary. It all came to a head after Kate, in a move that was incredibly Bridgerton, knocked Anthony's ball into the thicket of trees.

"I knew I liked her," Eloise grinned, nudging Benedict and Daphne as she said it.

Benedict silently agreed, though he couldn't help but wince. Miss Edwina appeared even more sullen than before.

"Miss Edwina, it's your turn," Benedict said as gently as he could without drawing undue attention to her countenance.

In an odd way, Miss Edwina reminded him of Penelope when she'd been a child. Much of Penelope's comfort and game for competition flourished because of her long friendship with Eloise. While he had no doubt Penelope's ambition would've still grown under the rocky terrain her mother provided, he could not help but wonder whether his young, redheaded friend would've been more like the Queen's diamond if she'd been more sheltered without a friend like Eloise to bolster her.

Trudging over to her ball, Miss Edwina swung the mallet and the shot went wide, rolling into the clump of bushes.

Benedict couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips. This was not going well.

"Oh," Edwina muttered, utterly defeated. "I am bested, I see."

"You could still retrieve your ball if you wish to stay in the game," Daphne offered kindly.

"I think I shall cut out," Edwina said softly.

Miss Edwina began to walk away and as Anthony made to follow her, Benedict watched Daphne stare after them.

"Anything you wish to share, Sister?"

"I like to believe you are clever enough to see what I see, at least as far as this is concerned," Daphne replied quietly, her pupils darting to Miss Kate who conversed with Eloise. "But then again, you proved quite hapless to the goings on last season."

Benedict winced.

"You aimed, you fired, and you shot me dead center."

Daphne shook her head before gently swinging her mallet in his direction, indicating he should take his turn.

"I apologize. Some of my bitterness has not been burned out of me yet. But do you not agree that Miss Edwina does not appear to be enjoying herself?"

"She is young and sensitive," Benedict replied neutrally, crouching to line up his shot. He bent his knees once, twice, before swinging his mallet and hitting the ball with a mighty crack.

"Oh!"

"Ugh. I missed it," Benedict moaned as Eloise called for Colin's turn.

"Penelope is young. Some would argue sensitive," Daphne pushed forward as Anthony jogged back towards them, Colin taking aim. "But she never shrunk back from our competitive natures on the pall mall field in the past."

"Because Nel is secretly just as cutthroat as the rest of us," he said without thinking before his eyes widened and he slowly spun on his heel to face his sister's bemused expression. "Daph–"

"Nel?"

But they were quickly diverted when Colin used his shot to send Miss Kate's black ball clear into the trees, out of sight, straight towards Anthony's own ball.

"Oh, what a shot, Brother!" Anthony clapped delightedly as Miss Kate stared off into the distance a bit bewildered.

"Yes! What a shame," Colin's voice was almost saccharine in nature, his guilt non-existent. "You two better go fetch them. Unless you would like to quit, here and now?"

The gauntlet had been thrown.

Benedict saw Anthony and the beautiful woman make dead eye contact and he knew then and there that if these two had been allowed in a boxing ring, neither would give up until they were near death.

"Absolutely not," Miss Kate insisted.

"After you," Anthony nodded, his glare almost molten and Benedict...

Was not sure what to make of that.

He and Daphne watched as the odd couple stomped their way into the trees. With a mighty exhale, Daphne tossed her mallet handle in the air before catching it again.

"You are lucky I am determined to win, Benedict," she bumped her hip against his before she began following Eloise and Colin to their balls' location. "But we are not done with this conversation."

Yes, Benedict was afraid of that.

Much to their great chagrin, Daphne won. The infuriating duchess took no issue with lording her victory, for a second year in a row, over her siblings. Quietly, Benedict hoped that Daphne would apply her cunning to their elder brother's wreck of a life. Especially when they spotted Anthony dart out of the trees, heading straight to the house without sparing them a glance, covered in mud. Not a few minutes later, Kate followed close behind, sheepishly holding both the pink and black balls.

Together, the remaining four siblings exchanged glances that ranged from bafflement, shock, to suspicious.

There was a change, a storm, in the air. Benedict knew they could all sense it.

Even the loud crash of thunder could not drown out his mother's shrieking.

Benedict had been tasked with putting Francesca and Gregory to bed. Their mother had gone into labor earlier that day in the late morning, but she'd cried and sobbed for hours as it neared the next day.

Gregory and Francesca's rooms were too close to their mother's chambers, so Benedict settled them in his own bed, patting their backs and combing their hair until they drifted off to sleep. He'd made endless promises on how, by the morrow, they'd have a new sibling to play with.

Never in his mind had he ever had reason to question himself until now.

Daphne cradled Eloise in her lap, the poor girl unable to sleep, soothing her by singing Lavender's Blue over and over again. It was a desperate child's attempt to block out the terror of the night and it irrevocably shifted something inside Benedict's core to see his sister practically become a mother in one night.

Colin hunched on the floors, knees clasped to his chest, waiting as silent tears streamed down his face. Benedict moved towards him, sliding across the wood paneled wall to sit beside him. Tucking his brother into his side, he stared down the hall blankly as Anthony paced the room.

Something was wrong.

Doctor Lewis called Anthony into the birthing room, their father's chambers that Anthony had refused to kick their mother out of before the birth. All Benedict could hear were his mother's agonized screams. Lawks, how had she done this seven other times?

Squishing Colin's head against his chest, he covered the child's other ear with his hand. He didn't pray often, but he sent a silent plea to the Heavens that his younger siblings might never remember this moment. That they would never be able to equate a thunderstorm with their mama's grotesque howls.

There was the low mumbling of an argument but soon his mother's voice could be heard, a scream,

"It is not his decision!"

Ice threaded down his spine, like a frost working its way through every bone, freezing his marrow until he was filled with nothing but cold dread. Soon Anthony appeared again, his face drawn and pale. He made eye contact with Benedict, opened his mouth, glanced at the children, then swallowed.

"I'm sorry," he croaked before dashing down the dark hall.

It was only later after Hyacinth's delivery and his mother's seclusion that he learned the full truth. Anthony sobbed over little Hyacinth's head, clutching her to his chest as he relayed to Benedict the impossible decision he'd almost had to make.

"Do you know what mother chose?" Benedict whispered.

"No," Anthony kissed Hyacinth's squishy, bald head tenderly. "Nor do I want to."

Benedict found that neither did he.

Penelope was unsure what she'd done in a past life to deserve this very unique and exquisitely mortifying form of torture.

But she truly must have done something unforgivable (Murdered a saint? Defiled a church? Stole a helpless woman's child?) to suffer through this.

"Flutter it so, to draw his eyes to your bosom. There," Portia said, directing Prudence to imitate her motions with a fan, hovered just below the great ample of her bosom. "And remember to laugh at his jokes. Every man wishes to be thought a sharp wit."

Prudence, for all her inattention towards their governess growing up, tried to pay attention. The determined set of her shoulders and the way she pursed her lips told Penelope that her elder sister made an honest attempt at following her mother's instruction.

The execution, however? That would be an entirely different matter.

When the door opened and Cousin Jack walked in, greeting the room in his usual casual yet debonair manner, Penelope knew her mama's current plan wasn't going to work.

Not because Cousin Jack could spot her mother's intent, exactly. While he'd been nothing but exceedingly kind to Penelope, she wasn't fool enough not to understand that he was a typical man. Men always thought that the measure of their wit far outweighed a woman's. Therefore, Cousin Jack naturally underestimated her mother's cunning.

No, it simply wouldn't work because it appeared to be a Featherington trait to have a dogged, single-mindedness when they took up a goal. Cousin Jack would not give up his pursuit of Cressida Cowper unless he was physically forced to.

Penelope resisted the urge to groan in agony as her mother and sister attempted to draw attention to Prudence's bosom, though their cousin seemed not to notice. In a vain effort to disrupt the embarrassing event, and to escape, Penelope ventured, "Mama, might I return to the modiste? I need new ribbons…"

"Not now, Penelope," Portia chastised before desperately trying to search for a thread of conversation that would reel Cousin Jack into her snare. "Uh... Prudence was just asking about the Americas." Their mother nudged the baffled Prudence in the ribs. "Were you not, Prudence?"

Certainly, this was exactly how Penelope would die. From secondhand shame due to her mother's machinations and her sister's buffoonery.

Prudence continued to make a mockery of simulating flirtations, and Penelope recognized it was a very sad day indeed when it was she that recognized that. Always incredibly aware of her limitations, Penelope knew that while her natural self shined around those she considered friends, she was hopeless when it came to her fellow peers in society.

It was why Whistledown proved to be such a comfort, a solace to her. Lady Whistledown emboldened her tongue, lifted her spirits, and allowed her to embody the part of her that was much more clever and cutthroat in nature.

Call it avarice or pride, but Penelope found it a balm upon her rather pathetic sense of self-worth.

"Oh, I have invited the Cowpers to dinner this evening."

That one sentence plunged Penelope into darkness, immobilized her as if she were drowning in an icy lake.

Cressida Cowper possessed the uncanny ability to do that to Penelope. Rather than fight or flight, she froze while Cressida tossed bitter barbs that embedded themselves into her soul. Many an insecurity, doubt, and dark thought were due to the venomous tongue of Cressida.

"The Cowpers?" Portia asked, and Penelope only just noticed the subtle rise in her tone. "Uh, could this have anything to do with the necklace you gifted Miss Cowper, I believe it was?"

"Do I need a reason to enjoy their company?" Cousin Jack asked pointedly as he rose to stride out of the drawing room. He waved airily, his devil-may-care attitude seeping from action he made. "You'll make the arrangements? Venison, perhaps?"

They all watched as he left, and while Prudence bemoaned the lack of attention paid to her bosom, Penelope resisted the powerful urge to chew upon her lip or rip out strands of her hair. Fervently, she wished for Benedict and Eloise's company, care, and advice. They would reassure her, advise her how to act in the face of the very real possibility that Cressida, of all gorgons, may become the lady of the house.

She could imagine it now; Eloise advocating for all sorts of violence while Benedict playfully recommended more peaceful methods of escape.

Resolving to tell her dearest friends once she joined them at Aubrey Hall, she clenched her tiny fists and inhaled deeply, holding the breath in her lungs until it burned.

For now, maybe Genevieve or Marina could give her counsel.

Benedict hummed softly as he brushed another delicate stroke of paint to round out the enlarged butterfly's wing. He believed creating a portrait-sized version of the painted lady butterflies that graced his garden last summer might distract him from the cacophony of anxieties battling within his skull.

It was soothing, painting something just for the joy of it and not out of any need to impress. The work he'd submitted as a part of his application to the Royal Academy had, in his mind, only been passable at best. In the end he had no choice but to submit a few small pieces; a landscape, a miniature portrait, and a Classical or Biblical scene.

His submissions had been an altered scene of the Bridgerton garden, where he'd removed the red brick garden walls and made the background extended fields of green. The foreground consisted of the tree under which he sat with El and Nel at night, the swings swaying in an invisible breeze. The miniature portrait had been of his mother because, though he'd never admit it to her, she'd always proven to be striking.

While the Classical painting…

It wasn't a large canvas, the application only required smaller works that could be done in a short amount of time, but enough to evaluate the potential of possible students. So when he'd chosen the scene, he'd been aware it was ambitious.

But it didn't stop him from painting Ariadne abandoned on Naxos, eyes closed as Dionysus descended from the heavens.

A Rubenesque Ariadne with flaming red hair…

He'd submitted the trio of paintings as soon as they were dry and before he could second guess himself, but he'd felt as if ants crawled beneath his skin every time he gave himself a moment to think.

The obvious solution, he'd decided, was that he couldn't afford to allow himself much time to ponder and fret. Instead, he'd occupy himself with something he'd just enjoy, savor like fresh champagne.

Taking over the old nursery hadn't been hard. The worn, wooden crib that'd once been home to all eight Bridgerton siblings sat by the window, curtains drawn as light shone through the dainty, white cloth that still hung across aged, oak wood. An old rocking horse christened Honeycut, partially covered by a sheet, stood sentinel near the armoire. Buried in the trappings of childhood, Benedict found an odd sense of peace.

It was a room filled with hard, sorrowful memories. Hyacinth's time as a newborn within the four walls had been harrowing most days, but there were more that were happy. Ones in which he remembered toddling around with Anthony, their father taking a moment to indulge them with little tin soldiers. Colin had crawled for the first time within the room and Benedict had made it a game to see how fast the boy's chubby little appendages could make it from one side of the room to the other.

He held Daphne's leading strings as she learned to walk. Taught Eloise and Francesca how to sketch flowers. Even played marbles with Gregory, though that almost ended in disaster as the little boy swallowed one of the little glass spheres. Benedict had been so sure Anthony would murder him.

Almost three decades worth of laughter echoed all around the room, as if it was etched into the very bones of the house, reverberating whenever he entered, so he was reminded of what treasure lay in the hallowed halls.

It was enough to make a grown man cry if he let it.

So he painted in peace, finding tranquility as he blended the oils for the vibrant orange of the butterflies wings.

His focus didn't waver when the nursery door hinges creaked or when the soft, light steps of silk-slippered feet practically danced across the room. He didn't pause in his work even as Daphne tilted her head with the mask of an ingénue, for he knew his sister took stock of everything.

He didn't even twitch when she stood on tiptoe so her chin became level with his shoulder.

But he damn near dropped his palette full of paint when she asked,

"Do you have your eye on anyone, Brother?"

"W-What?" he spluttered, catching his palette and extremely grateful oil paints were so stodgy they barely slid on the smooth, wooden surface.

"I highly doubt you are ready for marriage," she continued as if he'd never said a word. "But do you have your eye set upon a specific debutante this year?"

Benedict's mind became filled with images of ember colored hair glowing in the dark, creamy skin dotted with a constellation of freckles, and eyes the color of bright, crisp sky.

He blushed furiously, dabbing the bristles of his horse hair brush with more force into the orange pain than need be.

"I fail to glean your meaning, Sister."

"Ben, we know I am no fool." Daphne clasped her hands behind her back in that way that always let on that she most certainly knew more than everyone else in the room, thank you very much. "And, frankly, you still owe me from last year. Speak plainly. How goes your friendship with Miss Penelope Featherington?"

If Benedict could, he would have gladly choked on his own paintbrush to avoid the question.

Or, better yet, force his sister to choke upon it. Yes, sororicide appeared more appealing by the second.

Or just some light maiming. Benedict would miss Daphne…eventually.

"I do not know why you think we are close enough to be—"

But Benedict's throat seized and closed up before he could even finish the thought. It was one thing to play down his friendship with Penelope to avoid scandal, to avoid his own tempest of emotions.

But to deny her completely, even while she was not present, especially while she was not present, felt cruel.

He swallowed, his esophagus unclenching.

"We have become friends, that is true," Benedict confessed, and something burned all the hotter in his chest for the admission. "But I know not what else you could be implying."

If possible, the look Daphne leveled at him could have made the Prime Minister crawl into a hole and wish to perish, ashamed of their own stupidity.

"Benedict," she said, adopting a patronizing tone that she learned at Anthony's knee. "Of all the siblings you choose to lie to, are you sure you wish that to be me? I am not as close to you as Eloise, but I know you. From years of studying you, wishing I could be as strong and carefree as my big brother. From years of parenting our siblings by your side."

She stepped forward and gently wrestled his palette and paintbrush from his grasp, not caring one wit that her fingers became stained in ink black and lemon yellow paint.

Benedict truly looked at her then. And there stood his sister, Daphne Bridgerton, who wished to lift every burden from his shoulders. The duchess was there among the many personas she carried, but it had been this one he needed.

He sighed.

"I…care for her. Deeply."

Daphne hummed and nodded for him to continue.

"But," Benedict hesitated only a moment before he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. "She loves Colin. She's always loved Colin. And I… I do not think I can be the man she deserves. I do not think I am ready."

The confession hung between them like an insect lost in flight, tired and desperate, drifting between them.

Benedict knew he could be flighty, restless, unsure of his purpose and unable to settle. He threw himself into helping others, into new discoveries and passions, and he feared slowing down. Of locking into place.

He didn't know who he was when he stood still.

And Penelope, beautiful, clever, vicious, kind Penelope… He knew she had the ability to cause him to pause. To stop. To reckon.

Whether from a broken heart or a full one, he wasn't sure yet.

"Oh, Benedict," Daphne breathed, setting aside his supplies in order to embrace him. He felt the paint on her fingers wet the back of his waistcoat but he couldn't care. "What are we to do with you?"

It was a horrid sort of day.

Benedict had no earthly idea how on earth they'd ended up at the bloody Cowpers' residence on the eve of the anniversary of their father's death.

Well, that was not true. He did know how they'd ended up in this godforsaken place. Because Anthony believed he could strategically distract their mother, and the rest of the family, from remembering. Clearly Anthony was addled in the head.

They planned to leave the very morning of the day it happened to return to Aubrey Hall. Anthony would never force them to miss the day, to not remember their father. Luckily, the Cowper estate was not far from their own.

But it had been a terrible mistake to attend this house party. They did not even like the Cowpers. Last year's house party had been an utter disaster as well, as Eloise's best friend, Miss Penelope Featherington, had been so gravely insulted by young Cressida Cowper that she'd run and gotten lost in the hedge maze.

One thing was for sure, little Cressida was being primed by her mother to be a viper hidden beneath a rose.

Benedict chose this day, the last day they'd be in this absolute hellscape of an estate, to mourn. All of his strength would be required on the actual anniversary in order to help pull his mother from her never-ending well of grief and to shoulder the tears of his younger siblings. Truly, that had been his job for two years after his father's untimely death. Now, he performed the duty twice a year upon his father's death day, and his birthday.

It was odd, really, how that worked out. He pondered it much over the years. His father had been born in December, during a season that was barren and so absent of life that people had created a holiday in order to bear with the aching cold and loneliness. And his father died in the early spring, a season praised for rebirth and new life.

God, he hated it.

With a sigh, he face the entrance to the Cowpers' ostentatious hedge maze. In his hand he carried a large ball of yarn dyed yellow. No one was out in the gardens at the moment. Instead, the majority of the house party had been divided into the cards room for the men and the drawing room for the women. Benedict slipped away, not really caring if anyone noticed his absence. They wouldn't suspect he'd go here, of that he was sure.

Bending down, he reached into the corner of a hedge to find a secure, rooted bit of branch. Finding one, he swiftly tied the tail end of the yarn in a knot around the wood. He yanked twice to be sure of its hold before tying another knot to be safe. With a steady breath and a careful hold on the itchy ball of yarn, he entered the maze.

He walked aimlessly for a long while, letting the emotions he kept at bay overtake him. It was like that day all over again, waves upon waves of numbness accompanied by searing, agonizing breaks of grief took over. He was unsure how long he walked until he finally settled into the damp grass, his bottom hitting the earth hard. Placing the yarn in his lap, now reduced to half its original size, he drew up his knees to lay his forehead upon them, letting long built up tears fall silently.

It wasn't until he shifted that he felt something knock against his lower back. With a small sniff he reached a hand back, his long fingers fumbling under the hedge until he grasped something wrinkled and damp. Pulling it out, he found a very damaged, worn, moist copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. The leather that had encased the pages was cracked, and the edge of the pages curled. Benedict opened the book to find much of the ink had bled and there were quite a few splotches of mildew in the corners. He scrunched his nose, feeling sorry for the poor thing. The only reasons it probably wasn't any worse off was because it had sat under the hedge itself.

Absently, he began to thumb through the pages and, even in its pitiful state, he could still make out where certain stories had been dog-earred, certain bits of the page darker than others where someone had traced the lines with the tip of their finger. Die Sterntaler , Rapunzel , and Die sechs Schwäne were apparent favorites of whoever lost the tome.

Settling in against the prickly hedge, he relished the bite of twigs and leaves as he fought to lose himself in what he could still decipher from the stories. His father had loved reading to them as children and even as they'd grown, he exchanged the English folklore of fae at midnight and King Arthur's table for the daring tales of The Iliad or The Odyssey.

It was with stunning clarity that as these memories floated through his mind he realized he couldn't remember the sound of his father's voice.

He cried anew, this time so loudly and with such earnestness, he was surprised he still had any breath in his lungs. His eyelids became swollen, the corners itchy, and his nose clogged as his throat became ragged. How horrible of a son was he if he couldn't remember his father's voice? What would he do if, one day, little Gregory or Hyacinth asked him what their Papa sounded like and he couldn't answer them? How would his mother look at him?

Would he forget his father's face too? Were the eyes that stared down at him from the portrait in Bridgerton House an accurate portrayal of the man he once looked up to with such reverence? Were they that blue? Or were they more green? Instantly he was filled with horrible doubts that his memories had been undeniably tainted, that he would never truly know his father again.

By the time a small, inquisitive voice called out his name, he was nothing but a whimpering mess.

Squinting he made out the figure of a ten and four year old Penelope Featherington. Gingerly clasped between thumb and forefinger was the yellow thread and, like him, her eyes were red-rimmed. He suspected that, once again, Cressida Cowper had hit her target.

Although he knew it was wrong, that it could be seen as improper, there was no other response he could think of but to open his arms to the young girl.

Wordlessly she joined him, settled into his side, temple upon his shoulder. He needed someone. She needed someone.

This he could do.

"How agreeable that you could all join us this evening, and on such little notice."

Penelope had heard her mother lie many times in her life. But no fib must have tasted as bitter than the one that just left her mother's stiff lips.

The evening already had been filled with false pleasantries that hung like circling albatrosses around their heads, ready for someone to shoot one out of the air and hang them about their necks.

Penelope valiantly attempted to ignore the dinner around her as politely as possible. She doubted very much that Cressida would be so blatant as to be rude to her in front of her own cousin, but it appeared prudent to remain as invisible as possible all the same.

Flinching as she cut a bit of meat, Penelope listened as her mother continued to make attempt after attempt to get Cousin Jack to notice Prudence. It was like watching one fisherman try to bait a great catch with a worm while another possessed a more tempting sardine.

Penelope grimaced at the imagery, shaking away the rather unappealing metaphor just as Cressida engaged Cousin Jack in conversation.

"Lord Featherington, I'm quite interested to hear more about your gemstone mines back in the Americas. They certainly do make for the most exquisite of necklaces, my lord."

"Why talk of rubies across the ocean when there is so much to discover just here?" Jack replied smoothly, smiling at Cressida in a way that made the pretty young woman's eyelashes flutter. "Tell me, Miss Cowper, do you have brothers, perchance?"

"Alas, I am an only child." Cressida adopted a slight pout that made Penelope want to gag. "But I consider myself particularly maternal."

Portia, suddenly gripped by a coughing fit, attempted to excuse herself but Penelope could not help but smirk as she took a sip of wine. For once, she and her mother were in total agreement. Cressida Cowper would not know what it was like to be maternal if a wet nurse smacked her with their bosom.

But Cressida, never one to quit, continued,

"Well, I would never dream of bragging," the vapid bully gave a small chuckle that caused Penelope to take a larger sip of wine than she should. A gulp, really. "But I have always been told I have a warm, affectionate disposition."

Jack continued to smile and, for the life of her, Penelope remained unsure whether her cousin truly believed Cressida's falsehoods or whether he, too, played the longer game. The marriage mart, as Penelope discovered the year before, was nothing more than a game of blind man's bluff with an ever revolving door of players.

The question was, was Jack the blindfolded fool? Or the one waiting to be found?

He certainly was not one of the many seeking to escape capture.

"You are a credit to your sеx, indeed," Jack complimented.

Penelope took a moment to spear a bite of venison, watching as the rare, gamey meat's juices ran along the plate. Instead of placing the bite in her mouth she set her fork down, suddenly not hungry.

This was a game she did not wish to play.

Cousin Jack marrying had always been in the cards, that was an unavoidable fact. But to marry Cressida Cowper, the girl who seemed to despise Penelope without reason throughout childhood…

It would be unbearable. With that viper as head of the house, Penelope would have no power if Cressida decided she no longer wished to see Penelope's face. It would only be her cousin's possible fondness for his relatives that could save her, and she felt as if her mother soured every possible avenue for sweet familiarity between them.

But Penelope would not want Prudence as his wife either. Not just because Prudence would, possibly, not treat Penelope well…

But, despite it all, Penelope truly did want to see her sister married to a man who actually wanted her. Even Prudence did not deserve a loveless match.

Her sister deserved a husband who looked at her the way Albion Finch looked at Philippa…and a good round of sharp cheddar.

"I am curious, my lord," Lady Cowper said, angling her head towards her golden haired daughter in clear indication. "All those years traveling, you have not been tempted to marry?"

Turning up her head, Penelope stared at her cousin just as everyone else. It certainly wasn't unheard of for a gentleman to wait years to marry. Truly, men had an easier time avoiding marriage for decades. While Penelope certainly wanted to marry, she did envy how men were simply allowed to wait until they were ready.

It was a luxury no woman was allowed.

"I wished to establish myself in the world first," Jack admitted, blinking in that charming way of his that made him appear a tad sheepish. "Uh, but now, as Lord Featherington, there comes a time in everyone's life when one needs a partner."

While Jack made eye contact with Cressida as he said the word partner, Penelope could not help but lean closer, hanging on to Jack's words. "Someone who sees you as you truly are to help ease the burdens of the day."

It was a lovely little speech and while Penelope could not be sure whether the new Lord Featherington truly meant the words, it struck an unsung chord within her.

If she were honest with herself, Penelope, even in her brightest fantasies where she became the wife of Colin Bridgerton, imagined herself in the traditional role of a wife. A woman who ran a household, gave birth to sons, and provided for her husband's needs.

But now…

Going into her second year as Lady Whistledown, her fantasy shifted, morphed into hopeful, even egalitarian. She didn't want to give up Whistledown, or the other dreams that were mere eggs waiting to hatch in the back of her mind.

No, she needed a partner. Someone who would let her pursue her own wants and needs, while she did her equal best to support theirs. Someone who put in just as much work to ease her burdens just as she laid rest to theirs.

It was an effervescent thought, one that made her feel oddly buoyant.

She couldn't wait to tell Benedict and Eloise about it.

April 21, 1814

Ledger,

I know I am to see you at Aubrey Hall in only a few days. But I could barely contain myself when sending this missive.

To be fair, I have gathered a bit more than a dram of liquid courage to send this out. Yet my revelation cannot be withheld!

First, to set the scene: Cousin Jack invited the Cowpers over for supper. It was truly horrible. It appears that my cousin may be looking to make Cressida the next Lady Featherington. Mama is having kittens over the whole affair and, quite frankly, so am I. You know as well as I do that there is no love lost between Cressida and I. She would be very happy to see me drowned in the nearest body of water and, honestly, I would not mind if someone were to push her from her high horse.

Both literally and metaphorically.

However, my little discovery came when my cousin mentioned why he wished to marry, how he sought a "partner."

It was this word that gripped me! A partner.

That is what I need, dear Ledger. A partner . One who will not only support my dreams but push me towards them!

Much like you, really. I mentioned to you not long ago that you were my friend. My partner. Partner in crime? In friendship? Both?

I need someone like that for life.

I do not want to be smothered under the oppressive, feathery wings of my mama anymore. She's always been the hen who has suppressed my desire to fly (though she does not know I wish to fly). She believes me to be a fellow, flightless creature while I…

I…

Oh, this metaphor is running away from me, is it not?

I wish someone would look at me and be brave enough not just to let me fall from the nest, to leave the coop.

I want someone who will hold my hand and jump with me.

You, of all my dear friends, surely understand?

Wishing for wings,

Nel

P.S.

If I am lucky enough to have forgotten I've written this in my drunken state, please, I beg of you. Take pity and do not remind me I ever wrote such a missive.

Suspiciously, Benedict eyed the little brown pouch Colin dangled between them.

The tea service had been laid out with precision and grace upon the little table in the nursery. Benedict's half finished painting of the painted lady butterflies sat on an easel in the corner, another layer of oil paint drying out before he could attempt another.

When Colin cheerfully cornered him earlier that afternoon, Benedict felt ashamed when he hesitated to accept his younger brother's company. While the green-eyed monster in his belly had quieted over the past few days, the occasional ominous tapping of claws low in his gut that manifested whenever Colin walked into a room filled him with unease.

Benedict hemmed and hawed before throwing himself into an interaction with another sibling and, once or twice, a decidedly amused Lady Danbury.

More than anything, Benedict wished to spare Colin any unintentional pettiness that could erupt from his lips. Colin was too good, in a way too pure, to truly understand the complexity of feelings rolling around inside Benedict's mind like a pig in the mire, twisting and turning until all original color and intention became covered in mud and perplexity.

Benedict was protective of Colin, just like he was of all of his siblings.

And for the past few days, he had thought he'd been protecting his affable, sweet brother from himself.

But when Colin had insisted to take tea with him and discuss Benedict's anxieties over his Royal Academy submission, he found he couldn't refuse. Colin's eager eyes shined, making him practically akin to a puppy looking to comfort their chosen human.

There had been a reason Colin was rarely punished as a child and the expression the young man wore was proof.

"If it is a clear mind you seek, Brother, I may know how to help," Colin said from across the table, handing Benedict the little brown pouch. "Worldly travelers use it as a way to open their minds and transcend ordinary anxieties."

Benedict opened the container and studied the contents. A rich purple powder came into view, appearing more like crushed amethyst than any powdered herb or root he'd seen before. Hesitantly, he took a whiff and immediately regretted it, swallowing a vicious gag.

"Smells rather foul, does it not?" he choked, his throat spasming as the lingering stench of dried, fermented mushroom, bitter herb, and rotten earth plugged his nostrils.

"It only takes the smallest of doses to feel the effects."

"Whatever is the point?" Benedict huffed, and he realized there was a rather unpleasant petulance coloring his voice. "I hardly think a tea will distract me from the momentous decision the proctors at the Royal Schools are making at this very moment. Or of how I cannot seem to think clearly about–"

Benedict stopped abruptly, growing hot under the collar as he realized he'd nearly said Penelope's name.

Colin cocked his head in concern, ever patient.

"About what, Brother?"

"Merely Anthony's supposed engagement. I'm sure if he were to marry it would be more responsibility for me."

The lie tasted more foul than whatever that powder must be like, Benedict was sure.

"Or perhaps it will allow you to escape the thoughts that have been plaguing your mind." Colin shifted in his seat, crossing his legs. As he spoke, Benedict had the odd feeling that while his brother addressed him, Colin did not truly speak to him. "The doubts, the questions that seem to linger, no matter how far you go to escape them."

And there it appeared, the vulnerability, the insecurity that so often plagued Colin no matter how much he attempted to shed such feelings. Benedict knew that, to an extent, all of the Bridgerton brothers suffered from some degree of inadequacy. Anthony never thought he'd be as good a man as their departed father, so forever lived in the man's shadow, hiding his fears with flares of temper and reach for control.

Benedict floundered for purpose. At times, it felt impossible to make even simple decisions, so he occupied himself with multiple interests and people. In his very soul he knew the worst part about himself; that he failed to make decisions often because he knew by making a choice, he would have to settle and live with the consequences.

Really, lately, the only concrete choice he'd made had been to keep Penelope's secret last year, aiding in her subterfuge and business ambitions. At the time, it had felt not so much like he'd made a choice about himself, but about someone else. It'd been for Penelope, after all. Not him.

Oh, but it'd become about him without even realizing.

But Colin's sense of failure came from the privileged burden that was being a third son. Colin wasn't the heir or even the spare. He was a rich, entitled young man who'd been blessed not to be forced to join the army or clergy. But as a result, he knew no real calling, no real purpose, and floundered for a role in which he could excel and be someone important. Even if it was just for one person.

It was with a little pang in his heart that Benedict finally understood. While Colin cherished Penelope's friendship, in many ways Colin saw Penelope as a woman who gave him a sense of importance, and maybe even understood that desire. The third Bridgerton son felt a kinship with Penelope that soothed his fears but her obvious adoration also stroked his ego.

Ego wasn't always a bad thing, Benedict knew people often misinterpreted its meaning. Ego, the sense of self, could become inflated with importance. But Benedict knew Colin wasn't one of those people.

Because often Colin struggled to believe he was important at all.

"Are you quite well, Brother?" Benedict held his temple gently in his hands, elbow propped up on the arm of the chair, studying his brother with mounting concern.

It felt wrong to be jealous of his sibling when Colin clearly had his own inner demons to wrestle with.

Colin shook his head and smiled.

"You will see. This tea is quite the elixir." Colin took a pinch of the purple powder and deposited it into his tea. He handed the leather bag to Benedict. "On one occasion, in Paxos, I found myself meditating for hours upon a single blade of grass."

Benedict, in an act of impulsiveness that he admitted was very like him, dumped the entirety of the powdered contents into his tea. Stirring quickly, he thought that, possibly, this could be a rather reckless decision.

But Colin did not disclose his troubles, and Benedict hadn't either. At least, not the conundrum that currently weighed most heavily on his conscience.

If this concoction could somehow free his frantic, caged mind and allow him some clarity, then why not indulge in as much as possible.

He heard a vague sound of caution from Colin before he downed what he could only describe as what witch's brew probably tasted like; wet, rotten leaves tinged with sharp bitterness. The texture in the tea nearly made him vomit, as wet clumps of powder congealed, clinging like filmy sand to his tongue and the tops of his gums.

But he forced it down and swallowed bile as he set the cup back down with a clatter.

"Hell and the devil," Colin chuckled, and the actual grin on the young traveler's face nearly made the riot going on in Benedict's stomach worth it.

Almost.

Benedict groaned, smacking his lips as he fought to keep down a rush of bile.

"That's bad," he shuddered, pointing at the offending object like it was Napoleon on the verge of invasion.

"I may live to regret this," Colin said, switching their cups and pouring Benedict a fresh cup of tea to chase down the horrid taste. "But oh what fun it will be!"

Using her book and perceived irritable nature as an excuse had been a good enough reason for Eloise to seek out Miss Kathani Sharma on the veranda. She had been lying to herself if she didn't admit how desperately she wanted to speak with the older woman, to seek her counsel. The bold, brash nature of Miss Kate was contrary to what she'd been informed about spinsters all of her life; that they were doddering, unsocial creatures who were not good for much except to be a governess or chaperone to their younger, more eligible relatives. But the stunning woman who made her own tea herself, something that smelled deliciously spicy and complex, appeared to hold more social graces and wit in her one little finger than ten young debutantes put together.

Even if she may be considered too forward by most, it only made Eloise admire her more.

Eloise wondered, as she tried to nonchalantly appear as if she just happened to wander outside to get some peace, if she could find the kind of advice and solace in the elder Sharma sister that she discovered in Sir Phillip.

It was not that Penelope wouldn't listen to her or that Benedict would not offer advice, but Eloise had started to become all too aware that sometimes she… Well, overpowered conversations.

Ever since learning that Penelope's true dream was to be a wife and mother while keeping hold of her writing aspirations, Eloise had felt less confident in confiding in all of her own fears. Penelope would lend an ear but she was no longer certain if her best friend would understand.

Fervently she desired the opinion of someone who lived the life that Eloise wanted. If she could find enough cases of other single women who were unmarried and content with their lot in life, maybe, just maybe, her mother would let her breathe.

Was that so much to ask?

"Hi," Eloise offered, book clutched in hand as she inclined her head at the spinster of six and twenty. Kate offered a small but seemingly genuine smile in return and Eloise felt emboldened to continue. "You must not let the game of pall mall dismay you. Antagonism is, I'm afraid, what you must expect."

Kate chuckled and Eloise noticed, not for the first time, the kindness in her dark brown eyes. The older woman set her teacup down, eyeing her all the while, as Eloise settled into the seat on the other side of the veranda. She'd opened her book but barely paid it much mind. As she thought of what to say, Kate did the work for her.

"Can I ask you something, Miss Eloise?"

"Did I purposely make the third wicket two inches narrower than last year?" Eloise knew she was being a tad impertinent but she was entirely possessed by the feeling that Kate would not mind. "Yes." They both chortled but Eloise saw the the serious set of Kate's shoulders and the shift of her brilliant teal skirt, so she decided to alleviate any confusion. "Anything."

"I fear I may have upset the viscount during our game."

It had not been what Eloise expected, but studying Kate's face, full of unexpected empathy for her idiot older brother, Eloise decided to be truthful. Honestly, Eloise found it hard to be anything less than truthful most days. But she decided she would also take greater care to be gentle, which did not come as easily.

Anthony was many things, and it was clear to Eloise that Kate did not approve of the many facets the viscount adopted. But he deserved understanding in this regard.

"Ah. You were near our father's grave?" She set the book spine down on her lap, and Kate nodded solemnly at her. "Well, then his mood was not on your account. He rarely goes near if he can help it." She barely opened her book again before closing it, inhaling deeply before gathering the courage to ask, "Can I ask you something?"

Eloise stood, walking closer to lean against a stone pillar. To Kate's credit, she set aside her small silk purse and gave Eloise her full attention, and Eloise thought again how much she'd like to be related to this woman. "Was it your choice you never married?" Kate's lips parted slightly in surprise, so Eloise carried on, wanting to explain her bluntness. "My brothers tell me I have a habit of being rather direct. But everyone tells me it is fate worse than death to end up a spinster." Eloise gestured one hand towards Kate and the woman gave her another soft upward tilt of her lips, endlessly understanding. It appeared she had much more patience for her than her eldest brother. "But you seem perfectly content with your situation."

Kate cocked her head, giving the question a moment of serious thought. The glow of the weak sun upon her brown cheeks only seemed to highlight the expression of knowing she wore, so much like an eldest sibling who made it seem they had all the time in the world for one's quandaries. Eloise could understand why Edwina admired her sister so and it brought to mind how Daphne had treated her when she was younger. Before their father's death, Anthony had been a much better listener but since then, Benedict and Daphne took upon that burden for their younger siblings. Still, maybe it was because Kate had the intelligence of a woman and tough skin built from years of having to run a household by herself that she still maintained a level of grace Anthony did not possess.

Another reason, Eloise thought bitterly, women were so much hardier than men gave them credit for.

"You must know, it is hardly ideal," Kate's tone was practical and honest. "The world is not exactly welcoming to an unmarried woman. There seems to be no place in society for us, except at the edge of things."

"That rather seems to be society's flaw, not a woman's."

Kate's smile grew and it was almost blinding as she nodded.

"Indeed, it does."

Eloise hesitated a moment, fingering the edge of her book.

"May I join you?" she asked. "If you sought serenity, I will stay quiet as I read. But I find your company very…companionable."

"I would love nothing more," Kate said, gesturing for Eloise to take the seat beside her.

Newton was a dog of many talents.

He was well-trained. He knew when to bark in order to get a human's attention and at what cadence in order to distinguish between three important needs; hunger, a need for affection, or a need to, as Mary would say, "make a mess."

But first and foremost, as his chosen human Kate had disclosed, he was indeed an excellent judge of character.

From the time he'd been a pup amongst his littermates, he'd been excellent at discerning good from bad, especially amongst humans. In fact, Kate had picked him specifically because, as she'd perused his brothers and sisters, another perspective buyer who'd sneered at the fact Kate had come without a chaperone, had reached out to Newton–

And Newton, with his white, gleaming puppy canines, had bit the man's paw.

Needless to say, Newton was swept away in a swirl of jewel-toned skirts and the promise of never-ending snacks and walks.

That was that.

Suffice to say, Newton had done his due diligence. He sniffed the heels of all of the residents of the large house his human had taken their family (and the admirably strict lady that had begun to smell like family). The humans who appeared to be in charge were a family of brown-furred humans, ranging from adults to pups.

The pups, he'd decided, were quite fun. They were willing to play with him until he tired and decided to nap upon one of their polished shoes. Leather smelled nice, it was not his fault that humans constantly left the things for the taking.

All of the female littermates from the family (he hadn't learned the name yet, human names could be tricky and needed much repetition to get right) gave him pets, possessed gentle attitudes with him, and properly complimented his fine, shiny coat. Every one of them, including their mother, fed him little scraps from the table which immediately raised their standing in his esteem.

He made sure to tell his human so on their walks across the grounds, yapping as he trotted along, sniffing grass and urinating on trees.

The eldest littermate, however, the male with the pointed face like that of a Doberman Newton had once seen at the park, did not appeal to him.

He smelled fine enough, like fine leather shoes that heated under the sunshine that blazed through a window. Those were Newton's favorite kind of shoes.

But the way he stared at his Kate, his chosen human, was simply not acceptable.

Did this sorry excuse for a pup honestly not know the rules? It was Newton's approval the man would need if he wished to mate long term with his human. Why did it seem that humans thought they owned dogs, rather than the other way around?

Preposterous.

(Newton was very proud he knew the word preposterous. But then again, he sat many hours as the feet of Kate and Edwina when the elder human taught her littermate her letters and words.)

So, the one man from the litter he did not like had been christened Arrogant Pup.

Newton also decided that once he did learn the name of this group of humans, this little pack, he'd still call that one Arrogant Pup.

Newton often marveled about how littermates could be so different from one another, for Arrogant Pup was nothing like the Man with the Cuddles and the Boy with Toys. These two littermates were most definitely related to Arrogant Pup, they all had similar scent profiles that betrayed their relation (Man with Cuddles smelled faintly of leather and paint, while Boy with Toys was more skin to leather with fresh sea salt clinging to the soles).

The names gifted to them by the fluffy corgi were gifts, truly. He only gave such nice names to people who deserved them, While he did not think the pair's faculties were completely intact, Newton reaped the benefits.

"He's so soft," Man with the Cuddles cooed, cradling Newton like a baby in his arms. "Little one, if our brother marries Miss Edwina pleaseeeeee come live with me."

Newton stared up into the blue eyes of the man, the corners of his eyes crinkling merrily. Newton could barely see the color of the man's eyes as the pupils were blown a bit wide, and they were glassy in a way that reminded the dog of a morning sparkle upon a puddle he was about to pounce upon.

But he would not pounce upon this human. Clearly he was impaired in some way.

Besides, he provided excellent cuddles.

Boy with Toys placed a fifth little rubber ball upon his belly, watching Newton expectantly as if he anticipated the dog to start playing with the objects while being held like a newborn.

"Mister Benedict, Mister Colin, I really must get you ready," a rather haggard looking man said, holding up two identical coats that Newton. "Your mother will be most displeased if you arrive late to supper."

"Radcliffe, look at how fluffy he is," Man with Cuddles exclaimed, thrusting Newton into the poor man's face. Newton blinked, wriggling his rather heavy bottom.

The man, to his credit, did not so much as sigh, simply replied dryly, "Yes, quite fluffy. Now, please. Mister Benedict, I must get you dressed."

Man with the Cuddles snatched Newton back, adjusting the dog so his white belly was against the man's chest. Newton's long chin now rested upon the man's shoulder and he was being bounced. He wasn't completely sure how to feel about it.

"How dare you dismiss Sir Newton!" Man with the Cuddles whined as Newton watched Boy with Toys scramble to pick up the now bouncing balls that had fallen to the floor. It was quite amusing watching such a large creature struggle to catch the bouncing rubber. So uncoordinated, humans were. "He might become a part of this family, Radcliffe! He must be treated as such."

Boy with Toys gave up, plopping down on his bottom as he nodded furiously in agreement.

"Our first ginger, Ben! We've never had a ginger!"

Man with the Cuddles caressed Newton's fur before planting a sloppy kiss to the top of his head. Newton, however, mulled over the word 'ginger.' He'd heard it often when referring to the colored patch of his fur, though personally he preferred the term 'gold.'

"We should start a whole collection of gingers for the family!" Man with the Cuddles exclaimed. "I want multiple ginger-haired Bridgertons!"

"More corgis?" Boy with Toys asked, barely moving as the tired looking man wrestled him into the black thing that Newton determined was possibly akin a human's version of a coat. The poor things were born naked, so he guessed they needed it to be warm. "A whole army of ginger corgis?"

"No," Man with the Cuddles whispered, though a bit loudly into Newton's pointed ear. But Boy with Toys seemed to have refocused his attention on the elbow stuck in his black coat and the water being shoved in his face. "I want one ginger woman who would give me an army of ginger babies and ohhhhhhh, their hair would glow like embers just like hers. Oh, Newton, I could give you so many cousins. Would you be their cousin? For are you not Kate's furry child? What is a dog to man if not an extension of the family, hm?"

Newton let him babble on and on.

These two littermates gained his seal of approval, though by the faint smell of their breath he had a feeling they'd be in much pain the next day.

Maybe he'd visit Man with the Cuddles while he hid in his bed the next day. It would be all but guaranteed he'd obtain cuddles then as well.

At some point, Snarky Girl (affectionately) came by and called her littermates idiots.

Ah, yes, very amusing indeed.

If Eloise had been placed any closer to Benedict, and if they were absent outside guests, she would've already smacked the strange, doe-eyed look off his face already.

What in the blazes was wrong with him?

Benedict wasn't normal, this was a well-known fact amongst the family. It just so happened his oddities were lovable in nature, so his impulsivities and absences to indulge in proclivities went ignored even by their mother.

But the behavior Benedict exuded at supper went beyond odd.

"This room is exceptionally well-lit. Have you noticed, Col?" Benedict said in wonder, pupils blown wide as he stared at the candles in their brass sconces upon the wall and the ones across the table. "The twinkle of the candles, it is as... It's as if…" Benedict made a grand gesture as he exclaimed, "we sit among the stars!"

"What is wrong with you?" Eloise asked, furrowing her eyebrows as she chewed a piece of roasted potato.

"I was just telling Benedict how brilliant the stars were in Greece," Colin said, clearly attempting to cover up whatever had their brother acting without thought.

Benedict had always been a bit impulsive, but he did know how to act accordingly in company, especially around their mother. But it was if any sieve that usually filtered out errant thoughts that trickled from her brother's mind to his mouth absented itself entirely.

Eloise only half-listened to the conversation between Daphne, Anthony, and Miss Edwina. Something about familial responsibility. But Eloise needed to puzzle out what caused Benedict's bout of madness, because how could she inform Penelope of this bout of hilarity if she did not have all the facts?

Benedict sighed and moaned as he chewed on a piece of beef. It was as if he'd never dined upon well-cooked meat before, or that he'd died and gone to Heaven. Colin attempted to distract other nearby with more stories of his travels, but when Benedict reached a shaking hand out, he knocked over his glass of red wine.

While Kate gasped softly, Benedict merely, of all things, giggled.

He giggled.

Eloise gaped as her second oldest brother slumped in his seat and clasped his cheeks while grinning, as if he were some blushing debutante who'd mistakenly bumped into an eligible suitor on the dance floor.

Eloise now suspected her brother had been possessed. By the ghost of some little chit of three and ten.

Or a demon.

Did the Church of England perform exorcisms?

"Benedict, dear, you alarm our guests," Violet admonished, glancing nervously up at the Sharmas and Lady Danbury.

For once, Eloise couldn't really blame her mother. While greatly humorous, Eloise could only imagine how this must look from the Sharmas' point of view.

But Kate dismissed her mother's apology gracefully, and once again Eloise's bosom filled with admiration for the older spinster. She had to admit, she'd be very happy indeed if she were anything like Kathani Sharma when she reached six and twenty.

"Your gowns this evening are as soft a color as the petals of the flowers I grow at My Cottage," Benedict said suddenly, looking from Kate to Edwina before giggling again. "Oh, I adore flowers, do you not? Oh! And I grow strawberries, and they make me think of–"

But Colin, bless him, stuffed a bread roll into Benedict's mouth.

But Eloise's attention turned from Benedict to Kate, then to Anthony as a toast was called for.

And though Eloise did not consider herself as astute when it came to matters of the heart, even she could see the disaster that unfolded in front of her.

Anthony stood, and it started off well enough. Gratitude for the Sharmas and humor about the pall mall match. But then…

"…And my special gratitude to Miss Edwina. It has certainly been a privilege to truly make your acquaintance these past days. In fact, I believe there is a question I would like to ask you. I should like to, uh…" Eloise felt the gazes of the entire table burrowing into Anthony, and she wondered vaguely if this is what a soldier felt when caught at the end of many rifles. Watching her eldest brother flounder for even a moment felt like the most uncomfortable eternity. Anthony usually held a tighter grip upon his emotions but something seemed to be interfering with his control. "I should like to ask you to please refrain from telling anyone back in London about yesterday's loss. I fear the harm to my reputation would simply be too great."

As Anthony held up an awkward glass and a cheer, Eloise took a page from Penelope's book; she observed everyone else in the room.

Miss Edwina's face had fallen, the poor girl looking as if someone had drowned a litter of kittens. Kate's own expression appeared solemn, immediately turning towards her sister. Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, and Eloise's own mother were a potent mix of shock and disappointment.

And Daphne, the ever astute Daphne, pursed her lips.

Well, Eloise thought as a very clueless Benedict and a baffled Colin cheered, she had two mysteries to solve.

She would need Penelope's keen mind for social cues, gossip, and people to work out the strange energy amongst the Sharmas and Anthony.

The tension at the table swelled until it was like a thick, sticky mist choking the previously congenial air around them.

Maybe, even in his strange state, Benedict sensed this for he blurted, "Did you know I paint painted ladies? The way her wings flap." He sighed happily and, once again, the table turned to him as if he were a chicken with its head cut off. All except poor Miss Edwina, who stared down into her lap forlornly.

Daphne's eyes narrowed.

"The butterfly, Brother?"

"A butterfly that camouflages. Hides in plain sight. Isn't it poetic, El? "

Before Eloise could conjure a reply, he stared off dreamily into space again before he waxed poetic about the wallpaper. She frowned.

Yes, she had two mysteries to solve. And the most immediate puzzle to put together would be why Benedict acted like a man who'd had his wits stamped out of him by a horse. She thought of the drying painting of butterflies in the nursery, and Benedict's obsession with the creatures all of last summer. Was there something more to it?

Sher let her eyes wander and they met Daphne's assessing stare.

It appeared she would not be the only Bridgerton snooping for answers.

Colors became nothing short of his vehicle to make sense of the world.

The feel of the wet paint on his fingers as he smudged them across the canvas became nothing short of glorious. The vibrant cornflower blue, emerald green, autumn orange, and buttercup yellow swirled and dipped in a strange dance that only made sense to him. Lines and curves took shape to form the abstract form of a woman's visage.

If others couldn't see it, then that was their problem.

The heavy knock that signaled one of his sibling's approach sounded and Benedict made another swipe across the canvas as Colin drew near him.

"Are you still up?" Colin wrinkled his nose but Benedict couldn't really care. Instead, he still found himself filled with a hazy sort of euphoria, an overabundance of emotion that burst out of him with little provocation. "Ugh. You may wish to bathe before you see Mother in the morning."

"It's magical, Brother. You were right." Benedict draped himself over Colin, panting a wet kiss upon his cheek. Even his brother's befuddled expression could not bring down his latest self-discovery. The powdered herb, truly, proved magical in providing inner clarity. "I've allowed my doubts to plague me for too long. The Royal Academy Schools are not the arbiters of taste. The world is!"

Colin scoffed as he attempted to push Benedict off him. However, Benedict felt no ounce of hurt or slight. He simply wished to snuggle and embrace the dear brother who'd opened his eyes. It did not matter if the Royal Academy thought well of him. Surely, he could refine and promote his vision himself.

"You are a fatwit."

Before Colin could expound on this point, Eloise wandered in, tapping a golden bit of parchment in her hand.

"Benedict, something has apparently arrived for you. A letter from London."

Suddenly Benedict's intense bliss blew away on a gust of wind, replaced by anxiety that rattled his bone. Snatching the letter up, he opened it, murmuring as he read.

Dear Mister Benedict Bridgerton,

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance…

His pupils roved over the words faster than he expected, absorbing the letters and phrases. The Royal Academy, the official rulers of the art world within their great empire, had accepted him! Yes, yes, he'd said they weren't the arbiters of taste but now that they'd accepted him…

Well, that just proved they actually had good tastes, after all, did it not?

"I have a place." He whooped out loud, boisterous and suddenly light and ecstatic again. The blood in his very vein hummed and everyone, everyone had to know of his success. His victory. This piece of self that proved victorious, useful, purposeful, even talented. "The Royal Schools have accepted me as a student. I got in!" He choked on a sob that turned into a shout, and he could've sworn that damned bunnies were jumping under his skin, causing him to hop and leap across the room.

No other feeling matched his glee.

Well, except perhaps his love for Penelope. But he felt she would forgive him, if she knew.

"I thought they were not the arbiters of taste?" Colin asked dubiously.

"They must see great promise in my work. Oh my!" With little preamble and a sudden conviction that the entire damned world must know of his victory, he ran to the window. He struggled for a moment to list it open, the painted, white wood stuck a little. But soon, the shudder and slide of the wood as it lifted and the rush of spring night air hit his face, invigorating him anew. The dark night greeted him and he imagined the thousands of people between here and London could hear him. Maybe Penelope would hear him. "You shall all bear witness to my talents!"

His roar was long and elongated. A dog barked, a horse from the far off stable whinnied (possibly Rapscallion), and the muffled laughter of Eloise filtered across the room. With a sudden rush of glorious, satisfied exhaustion and pride, he slumped on the window seat, imagining a crowd below ready to listen to his humble speech.

"Shh! It's the middle of the night!" Colin hissed.

"He will be as insufferable now as you," Eloise replied, but Benedict tuned the rest of their conversation out.

Honestly, he had trouble paying attention to more than one thing at a time. That little frog in his head that he suspected was his concentration was hopping at a manic pace. Or taking a nap. He really couldn't tell anymore.

Instead, he waved at his imagined admirers, including the Royal Academy school, and clasped a hand to his heart. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes.

"I am honored to accept your acceptance."

Eloise and Colin's conversation invaded his head again, they were closer than before.

"You think it will last much longer?"

"Well, devil if I know."

"Where did you get this powder again? Benedict was nowhere near lucid enough to inform me after supper."

"Greece and, no, I shall not give you any."

"I would not dare ask. I like to keep my faculties, thank you very much."

"Bully for you."

"Go, Colin, fetch him some more tea and biscuits. I shall look after him until you return."

The sound of Colin exiting the room flitted to Benedict's ears and it was strange how sounds at times became louder than they should be. He harrumphed and, instead, focused on how he would address his crowd of invisible admirers again.

"Oi! You daft fool, I have another letter. From Penelope."

Penelope's name lit some corner of his foggy brain alight, eating up all the oxygen within the haze until he turned towards his sister, another bit of parchment in her hand.

"Nel? What does it say?"

"Believe it or not, I am no heathen who reads other people's mail… Usually."

Benedict grabbed the letter, unfolding it with shaking fingers before devouring its contents. His mind tried to concentrate, but her scrawl was more untidy than usual. Nevertheless he parceled out the meaning.

Even if it might have taken thirty minutes. An hour? Two? He did not care.

Partner. Partner.

She needed a partner.

Folding the letter back up, he tucked it beneath his shirt, against his chest like he'd often seen Penelope do with her own missives. He did not have her…assets to keep the letter as firmly in place, but the tightness of his waistcoat held it fairly close.

"So, what did it say?" Eloise asked.

Benedict opened his mouth, raised one pointed finger in the air…

Then promptly turned, leaned so far out the window that Eloise and a newly returned Colin had to make a hasty grab for him as he vomited into the rose bushes below.

Barely, she suppressed the excited energy that filled her limbs with purpose, Penelope turned her head from her latest article to eye her packed trunk. They left for Aubrey Hall soon and she was filled to the brim with anticipation.

She thought she'd be able to handle the distance between herself and her friends easily enough, for they'd been parted all last summer and for all of March. But apparently she was greedy, for she missed the Bridgertons with a ferocity that would not abate. Longing was not a foreign feeling for Penelope and it was an acute sort of ache, a yearning for comfortable company would fill the hungry maw inside.

Lady Bridgerton's Hearts and Flowers Ball never disappointed. The promised house party at Aubrey Hall would be more entertaining than years past, simply because, for once, Penelope would have no shortage of friends to talk to. Eloise, Benedict, Colin, and even her cousin Marina and her husband Andrew would be there.

She turned back to her parchment, tapping the dimple on her chin as she contemplated the rough draft of the next Lady Whistledown issue in front of her. The thick, white feather tickled her flushed skin as the fire in her hearth crackled, warming the chill the spring night air provided.

More than anything, especially after her mother's rudeness, Penelope wished to assist her dear friend Gen. Genevieve could not be compared to in terms of talent, but the ton never ceased to be fickle creatures who panted after new, shiny objects. They never seemed to learn there was value in those who had experience and proved themselves reliable.

Though, Penelope mused, the opposite could be said as well. Much of the ton, in many matters, refused to ever consider change.

Fickle. Contradictory. Hypocrites.

The ton never ceased to both surprise and disappoint her.

Sighing, Penelope read over one of her paragraphs again.

An artist must be free to follow their muse. But it appears the ton has fallen prey to the fickleness of fashion. For how else might one explain the tawdry, dare I say vulgar, gowns sported lately by Miss Cressida Cowper? Mayfair's newest modiste has one thing, and one thing only, going for her.

She is new.

Whereas Madame Delacroix might be old, but at least she is capable. Of course, not everyone can always get things so right. Though I suppose, for some, it may be simply too late to change course and undo any damage.

Penelope giggled. Genevieve would, no doubt, bristle at being called old. But Penelope could not afford to let Whistledown's voice ever be too generous.

Nodding to herself and satisfied with her work, she sprinkled the wet ink with sand. As the wet parchment dried, she sat back and chewed her lip before remembering Benedict's silent admonishment whenever she did. She stopped, though she gritted her teeth together, her molars squawking in her mouth.

She needed to publish the article before their departure to Aubrey Hall but she recalled Benedict's disappointment and hurt the last time she'd delivered a column alone. While she hated the idea of anyone underestimating her ability to take care of herself, she knew in her heart that Benedict was well aware she was capable. He never doubted that.

He simply…worried.

Rubbing her temples, she tried to massage fresh ideas into her mind, letting the smell of her own ginger perfume and the drip of beeswax steady her.

Then, it came to her.

Nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement, she brushed off the sand and folded up her column.

She knew exactly who could assist her.

"You may leave the silks there," Genevieve called as she heard the door open. But when she turned she was greeted by the pretty visage of her young friend. "Penelope!"

Genevieve looked around Penelope to check that the little writer's harpy of a mother wasn't there and, when finding no gorgon, rushed forward gift an embrace. Penelope's soft, thick waves tickled her nose, their ginger scent enveloping Genevieve in spicy comfort. Penelope's hair had always reminded her of the most glowing, brightest taffeta she'd seen used in Paris.

Not for the first time, Genevieve admitted that Benedict was a lucky bastard, if he ever succeeded in removing his head from his arse. If Benedict did not clearly adore the girl and if Penelope showed more of an interest beyond friendship, Genevieve would have happily wooed the writer herself.

Penelope only pulled away slightly from the embrace, smiling brightly.

"Gen, how did you like my latest pamphlet?"

Genevieve snorted. She'd been reading the latest publication before Penelope's entrance, and while entertained had been slightly affronted.

"Did you have to call me old?"

Genevieve resisted pinching Penelope's cheeks when the girl gave her that little, secretive smile. The one that sent Benedict Bridgerton down a rabbit hole of want and affection. It had the power to do that to any man or woman, it had been why Lucy provided her playful warning the year before.

One day, others would realize what a gem the girl was. Penelope wasn't a diamond, no. More unique than that. Something colorful, but not less bright.

"I could not be so obvious in my flattery," she admitted. "But I assure you, you are the most beautiful older woman I call a friend."

Genevieve, once again, cursed Benedict. If the man did not hurry up, she may well have to follow through on her previously empty threats.

"I have come to ask for help, though feel free to refuse," Penelope leaned close, light blue eyes searching. "As you know, there are times where I cannot always rely on Benedict to assist me, but he abhors me delivering columns alone. You are also my dear friend, and understand me. In a world of men, you have built a thriving business, much like myself. My enterprise grows more difficult for me to maintain, even with the Bridgertons' help."

Genevieve raised one well-formed brow, chewing on the offer. No doubt, she wanted to assist her friend. There existed a kinship between the two of them, two single women who were passionate about their self-made businesses and did not wish to give them up. They had different means, were of different social classes, but their ambition was the same.

"I can help in cases of great emergency, my dear," Genevieve said, using her knuckles to sweep away invisible lint on Penelope's shoulder. "For I do understand the need to keep the castle one has built themselves from crumbling."

If possible, Penelope's beam burned brighter than before. The soft jingle echoed in the room and Genevieve turned to see three customers enter, demanding her services. All three held the latest copies of Whistledown.

Penelope stepped back but tilted her head, her expression adorably smug.

Genevieve shook her head and merely winked.

Penelope was six and ten when she learned of the Bridgertons' relationship with bees.

One thing Penelope loved about Eloise, most of the time, was how she talked incessantly. It was near impossible for the fifth Bridgerton child to run out of topics to converse about, no matter the location or hour. The latest books, her win and imagined slights on the pall mall field, the escapades of her brothers and sisters, the list went on and on.

The one topic that could not readily be broached was that of her father.

Penelope learned quickly through her years of friendship with Eloise and her acquaintance with the Bridgerton family that there were certain parts of the year in which gloom lingered in the air of their house like a shroud that was still floating and settling, even after so many years. She knew their father had died. Everyone knew, of course. But the how remained a mystery to her.

She'd been terribly curious, of course, but even so young she knew it was not a question one could ask. It was callous in the extreme.

But it was an unnaturally sunny day in the summer of 1811 that Penelope finally learned.

Invited by Eloise to spend a few days at Aubrey Hall in mid-July, Penelope couldn't help but be ecstatic by her surroundings. She had spent long, sweltering days lounging with Eloise on the terrace sipping lemonade as they read, been invited for a game of pall mall, and explored the grounds as the sun warmed her tresses and spread freckles across the bridge of her nose. It'd been nothing short of glorious; to be away from the Featherington household and surrounded by the contagious, bubbling affection that defined the Bridgerton family.

It was on one afternoon that Penelope perused the gardens alone, inhaling the scent of heady, blooming peonies, hydrangeas, and delphinium. It was an incredibly soft sea of color and Penelope felt gaudy in comparison. While she fought to bring her simpler dresses, her mother had inevitably had garish gowns packed that were as unavoidable as her mother's ire.

She wore a bright, lemon yellow dress with floral appliques across the bodice; an array of lurid pinks and glaringly vivid oranges. Avoiding wearing the dress hadn't worked, as her more simple choices had to be laundered.

Breathing deeply again, she stopped to admire the fat bumblebees hovering from flower to flower, their fat, fuzzy bodies bobbing up and down lazily. There had been a paper she'd read not long ago about the importance of pollination that, while not her usual fare for reading, had been interesting. She'd tried to say something about it to her mother the last time they'd been in St. James' Park before leaving for the country, but her mother had dismissed her.

"No man likes a woman who knows more than them, Penelope. And no woman enjoys another woman who lords their intelligence over them."

Penelope honestly did not know why she still tried.

Absorbed by the life of the bees, she nearly startled when she heard an eerily calm voice, as if the owner was putting much effort into the endeavor.

"Miss Featherington."

Spinning around slowly, she came face to face with Benedict Bridgerton.

But his normally jovial, easy-going expression was not in place. His lips were slightly parted, his blue-green eyes a storm of concern, and he had one hand lifted in the air between them.

If she had not mistaken it trembled slightly.

Furrowing her brow, she followed his line of sight and spotted two bumblebees sitting upon a pair of the floral appliques on her chest.

"Oh!" She grinned down at them, distracted slightly by how the creatures appeared to be trying to collect pollen from the fabric. "They seem to have mistaken me for a real flower!"

Tilting her head back up, she expected the second Bridgerton son to join in on the joke, but he remained stock still, nimble fingers twitching.

"Please."

Her body became pliant at his plea and, ever so slowly, she allowed him to take her small hand and slowly lead her away. It took several paces for the tiny, black-and-yellow creatures to discover Penelope, indeed, was not a flower. But soon they flew off back towards a cluster of powder blue hydrangeas.

The older man didn't release her hand as he pulled her further and further into the field of green until they were at the edge of a copse of trees. She wondered if he remembered how he'd held her in his arms when she was only nine, sobbing into his neck.

"You must take care in the garden," he croaked, as if his very cravat strangled him. He wrung his hands together, twisting the joints as each one popped and cracked under his ministrations. "It is undoubtedly beautiful but it hides unknown dangers."

"They were mere bumblebees."

Benedict wouldn't meet her eye, mouth set in a grimace.

"The little creatures have felled a man two times your size and strength."

Even at six and ten, Penelope had been intuitive, sometimes more than she should be. At that moment she imagined a man, who looked much like Benedict, coming to a most unexpected end. All because of one, unexpected bee.

Hesitantly, she reached out and clutched his forefinger between her middle and ring finger. Holding it there she felt the heat simmering beneath his skin and stepped closer, forcing him to stare at her.

"I am so very sorry," she emphasized sorry with a squeeze. "But you need not worry for me at least. I have been stung before with no ill effects."

"But–"

"You are one of the most fearless people I know, next to Eloise. If possible, do not let a bee take that away from you."

Benedict huffed a laugh, though it was a bitter sound.

"How may one do that when one sees such a common thing of nature, and then all they can think on is their father's limp corpse in the garden?"

She flinched, her grip along his second knuckle jerking.

"My apologies," he took a step closer, trapping their hands between them, resting on his sternum. "That was uncouth."

"You are often uncouth with your family. Do not be making exceptions for me now."

Her lips twitched, the corners twisting up. Dappled sunlight peered through the foliage above their heads, highlighting the mole just above Benedict's right eyebrow. It was these sort of details Penelope enjoyed to spot in another person at times, the little intricacies of one's features that made them unique from another.

"What do you suggest, little Miss Featherington? How may I reclaim my fear?"

"I am not the best to dispense advice, as I certainly fear much." Penelope shrugged, letting the spot of sunlight that lit upon their joined hands heat her fingers pleasantly. "But I suppose taking a part of one's self, one's history, and reclaiming it in some way may help achieve some sort of…peace."

He hummed quietly and it was such a strange moment. Penelope's experience with Benedict in the past when they were surrounded by others was one of a man who was ready with an odd quip, willing to toe the line, and incredibly nonchalant. But thrice in the many years she'd known the Bridgertons, Benedict had shown a side that was more thoughtful, contemplative, and on the outskirts in an entirely different way.

"Perhaps you are onto something."

They stood like that for a long while, soaking in the sun and quiet until they were filled to bursting with contentment. When she departed first at his insistence, she did not notice him bend down to pick up a rounded slate and white speckled stone from the grass.

Chapter 13: Forfeit

Summary:

A few reunions, a hunt, a ball, as well as some supposed wins and losses.

Notes:

itakethewords present to you the halfway point of season 2! Can y'all believe it??? It's also about the halfway point to the entire story!

There are no real historical notes for this chapter, as not much is reference outside of what's in the episode. However, if you want to read more about the Regency house party, you definitely should! I did also link to some articles for the Greek myth references if you wanted to read up on them.

There are some easter eggs for those who have read the Bridgerton books. If you want to know what they are but haven't read the books, comment and ask! We had fun with them, hehe.

Finally, during the ball, I write of a waltz and a quadrille. You'll see hyperlinks, these are the Vitamin String Quartet covers I chose for those two scenes. The songs have meaning, one even a bit of foreshadowing. Feel free to listen to the covers, which I linked, and look up the lyrics.

Finally, the scene between Marina and Colin was incredibly hard to write. It could not have been done without itakethewords structure of the scene, and the words they constructed for Marina and Andrew to say in the end. It was TOUGH, and a scene I wasn't looking forward to. But itakethewords, as usual, displayed their brilliance and made the scene SHINE.

Love y'all!

happilyinsane13 (writingwhilecaffeinated)

Hello!

Thank you all for the love we've seen shown on this lil journey we're on together! I hope you all enjoy some time out in the country; fresh air does one good, it can help fortify you! Keep you strong for the future

I wanna thank happilyinsane13 for the teamwork

Also, fun fact: if you haven't noticed, our chapter names are plays on the original episode titles! So tell us in your comments what you think about what we've used and what you think future chapters should be called. We have all of S2 already named!

Please enjoy and don't forget a little love in the form of kudos, subscribing, bookmarks, sharing, and comments!

Itakethewords (velvetcoveredbrick)

Chapter Text

If the Ancient Greeks were members of the ton, they might have added to their Olympic pentathlon one additional event. The hosting of a country visit. This, of course, is the week of Lady Bridgerton's annual Hearts and Flowers Ball, the year's most coveted invitation in the country, and no event better designed to show the might and mettle of its host.

Sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration, Benedict applied another layer of glistening red paint to the apple he tried to capture in oils. It offered a distraction from the letter burning a hole in his breeches, Penelope's words searing into his skin. The excitement and elation from his acceptance into the Royal Academy proved powerful, but nothing could compare to the nerves that set his veins alight at the thought of Penelope joining them later that day.

So he focused on his craft, attempting to get the shine on the apple just right…

A loud, obnoxious crunch filled the room and Benedict could've strangled his elder brother then and there. Anthony munched on the piece of apple lazily, slumped in the chair in thought as Benedict sighed, furiously dabbing at his palette.

"I was painting that."

But clearly, Anthony's mind drifted elsewhere, as it often had of late. Benedict knew his brother to be an intelligent man, as far from a dullard as humanly possible. But the viscount, when worried or concerned about a person or an issue, could not see beyond his own concern. He became like a hawk, so focused on his prey that he didn't always notice the fox hunting him or hear the chicks crying out back in the nest.

"Do you think all of this was a mistake?" Anthony asked, cocking his head as he palmed the piece of fruit lazily. "This business of inviting the Sharmas out early? It has made the whole affair so fraught with difficulty."

Shrugging his shoulders, Benedict tried to give his brother the benefit of the doubt. He knew Anthony sought to marry for the good of the family, and so the infuriating man grew obsessed with ironing out a way to woo Miss Edwina. But after the botched dinner, Benedict could not be sure how his brother might fix the problem.

Oh, Miss Edwina forgave him. There existed an absolute certainty that a young lady desperately in want of a decent husband, and one as young, naive, and inexperienced as Miss Edwina, would forgive most slights.

But Miss Kate?

That tigress no doubt intended to chew Anthony up and spit him back out, bones and all.

"The whole marriage-mart business seems entirely too difficult to me." Benedict winced at his own words. It had not been entirely a lie, the marriage mart was too difficult. But Penelope… When he thought of her, he believed that maybe he could have the courage to throw himself in it, one day. "But if one must participate in it, why not do it," Benedict hopped across the room before opening the window with a flourish and exasperatedly gesturing to the back lawn, "in the fresh air?"

Anthony pursed his lips at him, and Benedict straightened, hands on his hips. The cool air blew through the window, making the hair on his bare forearms stand up. His suspenders at his sides fluttered slightly and, once again, his mind's eye filled with an image of Penelope's ember colored curls floating in the gale.

Hell's bells, when had he become such a lovesick sap?

"You are rather tetchy today," Anthony remarked, taking another large bite of the apple.

Benedict gritted his teeth.

"And you are proving rather tedious."

Petulantly, he crossed his arms, turning his face to glare at the opposing wall rather than the right bastard in front of him. He loved and adored his brother and, usually, had an unending well of patience for him.

But it seemed that the well was near dry that day.

All his energy and focus split itself between the Royal Academy and Penelope. A future he'd begun to carve out for himself and another…

Another that seemed like a beautiful, agonizing fantasy. Wisps of tantalizing smoke before it disappeared and faded into the midnight air, into the stars above where no one but the gods could reach it.

The twinkling future he sometimes saw in his mind's eye seemed like just that at times. The one where he saw himself, Penelope, even Eloise and Francesca, at a table, growing old together.

Ethereal. Fantastical.

Impossible.

It shouldn't feel that way. Penelope had undoubtedly proved she was tangible and real. One of the many things he adored about her had been how wonderfully lovely and flawed she was. Penelope and Lady Whistledown were two faces of the same person, facades that, combined, made his Nel. Sweet, ferocious. Innocent, wicked.

Beautiful. Vengeful.

He loved it all.

Then why was he so fucking terrified?

"Brother."

Benedict snapped out of his musings to find Anthony stood in front of him, fruit forgotten on the side table. The eldest Bridgerton's dark brown eyes, as rich as the earth's soil, focused entirely on him.

"Benedict, I have not yet congratulated you on making it into the Academy."

Benedict blinked, unsure of what to do with the words.

"So… is that you congratulating me?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"Not really, no."

Anthony chortled briefly before he furrowed his brow in apparent concern.

"Could this have anything to do with Penelope?"

Flushing furiously, Benedict looked away, stuttering, "L-Lawks, not you as well."

"Ah, Daph cornered you also?"

Mulishly setting his mouth in a line, Benedict tightened his arms around his torso as if wrapping himself in the embrace of his favorite blanket from childhood.

Anthony let out a long, slow breath.

"Fine. Keep your secrets." Anthony clapped Benedict's shoulder before turning on his heel and striding out of the room. "But do be a sport and help me look impressive on the hunt? I need to win back Miss Edwina's confidence somehow."

As the door closed shut, Benedict shook his head before inhaling the smell of oil paints, petrichor, and wood polish. Peering around the old study, he tried to remember what his father had used it for.

It hurt that he couldn't remember.

Scowling, he set his eyes upon the half eaten apple on the table.

Maybe he'd paint a recreation of the trial of Paris instead, with Anthony as the model for young Paris.

At the moment, it seemed oddly fitting.

Penelope spent most of the carriage ride to Aubrey Hall stewing in a confounding mixture of excitement and nerves. While she felt nothing short of ecstatic to see her beloved friends again, she did worry what Benedict would say about her new…emergency arrangement.

Genevieve proved both her loyalty as a friend and her savviness as a fellow business woman. The last issue of Lady Whistledown had only been successfully published with Genevieve's help, sewing the handwritten draft within the skirts of a dress for the printers to cut open and use. The incredibly clever ruse filled Penelope with a sense of pride.

However, she feared Benedict may not like the bit of deception as much as she did.

Penelope could not be sure what exactly happened between Benedict and Genevieve that he tensed so much around the modiste. At first, she'd thought it'd been heartbreak, that her artist friend had held more tender feelings for Genevieve than Penelope had first believed.

The thought made Penelope's chest ache dully, and many times she had to rub at her chest as if easing away particularly vicious indigestion.

But Benedict dismissed Penelope's theory every time he came face to face with the businesswoman. While initially cordial, he always managed to come between herself and her dear friend, practically snarling like an animal. The nature of his ire was a mystery, and his agitation nothing like the dear Benedict Bridgerton Penelope trusted.

Chewing on her lip, she knew she had no choice but to tell Benedict. She'd promised to be honest with him in her ventures, in all things, really. But that did not mean it didn't make her stomach flip queasily to think on it.

Oh well, Penelope thought, at least Eloise would delight in the new form of subterfuge. No doubt Benedict's favorite sister could successfully smooth over any discomfited feelings.

She snorted at the image of Eloise being able to be a mediator in any regard. No, more than likely, Eloise took greater pride in stoking the fires of conflict.

The carriage jolted suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt. Penelope winced when she bit her lip too hard as a result, the taste of copper dripping on her tongue. The air was still and humid, no spring breeze to accompany the day's heat. The temperature would have been bearable if she had not been trapped in a small space with her incessant mother, whiny sister, and Cousin Jack. Jack proved quite pleasant on a long journey, it was simply a matter of his size as a man that overfilled the carriage with unwelcomed body heat.

"It is hotter than a pepper patch out here in the country," Prudence sniffed, fanning her bosom with more effort than she put into most daily tasks.

"I do not believe it is any hotter here than it is in London." Penelope rolled her shoulders back, trying to ignore the trickle of sweat rolling down her spine. "We are simply stuck."

"What is the delay?" Portia asked, exasperated.

"I'm sure someone lost an axle." Cousin Jack poked his head out of the carriage, using his height to see what the hold up might be. "Oh, there's the Cowper carriage just ahead of us."

Penelope's heart sank into the acid of her stomach as Jack waved, supposedly to Cressida. She resisted the urge to bash her brains out on the carriage door.

At the very least, maybe Benedict would prove distracted enough by this latest development with her family that he'd pay no heed to her alliance with Genevieve.

As the carriage finally set into motion again, she let her mind drift back to happy musings on seeing the Bridgertons. Briefly, she thought of Colin and how he might handle seeing Marina again. Her stomach twisted, only slightly. She didn't want anyone to feel unnecessary pain. Not Colin, yes, but not Marina either. Her dear cousin had no desire to revisit the past, only to focus on the future.

But as Penelope pondered this, anxiety transformed into a quiet sort of joy.

It would be fine. She knew Benedict and Eloise would help her.

For once not caring one wit that she lacked any sense of decorum, Penelope dashed down the small hill to join hands with her best friend in all of the world. She felt her looser curls fly out behind her, her light green dress attempted to restrain the pump of her legs, but she could not be held back. All seemed right with the world again.

Almost.

"Oh, Pen! Oh, you are finally here." Eloise clasped Penelope's gloved hands tight in her own, the two relishing the reunion. "With only my own family to speak to, I've begun talking to the trees."

"Is she calling me wooden?" Colin chuckled good-naturedly, appearing like a friendly apparition from nowhere.

Penelope was struck with a familiar warm feeling in her chest, something casual and reassuring.

But she frowned when her stomach didn't…

Well, it did not swoop as it usually did.

"I-I don't think so," Penelope stuttered, not from nerves but from how disconcerting it had been to look at Colin, handsome, wonderful Colin, and gif her insides to stay settled.

"I could call him worse." Eloise did not seem to pick up on Penelope's distress: it proved both a blessing and a curse. Though Eloise had now been aware of Penelope's feelings for her brother since the end of last season, they made quite the pointed effort to usually skirt around the subject.

She couldn't blame Eloise for willfully being ignorant. Zounds, she knew she herself had chosen to be blindly blissful rather than knowingly hurt before.

"Is there not another pamphlet on botany or some such nonsense to read somewhere?" Colin's attempt at a jab didn't quite land, his kindness not allowing it to hurt.

"There is no harm in botany," Penelope squeaked, knowing just exactly who her best friend had developed that passion from. She cleared her throat hastily when Eloise not-so-lightly tread upon her big toe. "That is to say, such an interest can only be useful. The growing of… green… things."

Mirth alighted Colin's face as he tried not to laugh.

"Green things? You mean those bits of nature called plants, Pen?"

The teasing had been light, casual and it was a strange realization when Penelope understood she enjoyed it for what it was. Friendly banter, something that didn't carry as much weight as before. It was as if the scales had tipped, what had once been out of her favor felt balanced.

Yet, it terrified her. If her feelings could not be relied upon to be constant… what did that say about her?

She gulped, searching desperately for butterflies. Some still existed, dormant, and she felt relieved to find her care for Colin flared to life as she listened to the siblings argue.

"Yes, yes if you are fine ridiculing women because we have interests and thoughts outside of embroidery," Eloise said, rolling her eyes. "You can be off now."

Colin fidgeted where he stood in the grass, his hands clasped behind his back. He rocked back and forth on his feet and Penelope saw Eloise narrow her eyes in suspicion.

"What, Brother?"

"Is Miss Thompson here?"

Penelope's heart did an odd little dip, part sorrow and part pity.

"Lady Wetherby, you mean?" Eloise reminded him pointedly.

Colin scratched the back of his head and Penelope couldn't be sure whether she wanted to help him. Yes, she wanted to help him, ease or break the hold Marina's memory had on him. But just as much, Penelope wanted to ensure her cousin and husband were comfortable. Unencumbered by shadows of the past.

And if Penelope knew her dear cousin like she believed she did… Marina would want nothing to do with visiting her mistakes with the Bridgerton son.

"Marina?" Penelope questioned.

"Do you not think you are getting into dangerous waters?" Eloise crossed her arms, tilting her nose into the air. "That maybe it is a matter best left alone?"

Penelope felt Eloise take her hand, squeezing it with such strength her knuckles rubbed together. But the nervous care behind that touch grounded her.

Colin opened his mouth, ready to answer, when Violet gracefully strode into their circle.

"Eloise, Penelope." Violet linked arms with her two children while smiling kindly at Penelope. She couldn't help but smile back. Lady Violet Bridgerton had always exuded the atypical sort of maternally exuberance Penelope had only read about. "I think you will find we have much to offer the young ladies today."

"Yes, well, Pen is a young lady, and we do have so much to catch up on, so…" Eloise attempted to extract herself from her mother's hold, but Violet's grip subtly tightened, the fabric of her blue dress creasing where she had a hold on Eloise's arm.

"Eloise... I hope you will behave yourself this week. We…" Violet searched desperately for the right words for a moment, and Penelope understood that the mother of eight was actually unsure how to approach Eloise without scaring her off. "We are hosts. Perhaps you and Penelope might like to spend some time with the other young ladies in attendance. Hmm?"

Colin, also held within his mother's grasp, seemed to decide to spare his sister a kindness.

"How about you show us around, Mother? Introduce me to whoever you like. Let El simply…observe."

By Eloise's glare this was not enough of a sacrifice on Colin's part, but Penelope felt a gentle current of warmth sweep across her body at the gesture. It wasn't a powerful tidal wave like it'd been in the past, but she tamped the questions that observation arose in her. Instead, she let herself be reminded of Colin's tenderness towards others, even when sometimes it proved to be more of a fumble than a help.

Maybe Penelope could help him and Marina.

As Violet started to drag her children away, Penelope said, "I fear I have another friend to find," Penelope ignored the knowing glare Eloise sent her way. "But Colin I…will help you arrange that meeting you'd like."

The siblings' eyes widened while Violet steeped in increasing confusion.

"Truly, Pen?"

"I make no promises, but I will try."

Colin grinned and, as she saw Violet begin to form the makings of a motherly interrogation, Penelope supplied, "Colin wanted to become acquainted with my cousin Jack, the new Lord Featherington. Since he traveled the Americas before arriving, Colin's been anxious to meet him."

Violet nodded, the clouds cleared from her eyes as she bade a sweet goodbye to Penelope before leading her children away.

"You are not thinking of going to the Americas now, are you dearest?"

"Mother…"

"If Colin gets to travel again, while I, as a woman, are forced to remain here, I swear I shall–"

Giggling, Penelope slipped away. A wild sort of excitement pumped through her veins in time with every beat of her heart as she set about her new search. Benedict waited for her somewhere, she just knew it in her bones.

The ton fell upon Aubrey Hall in droves, spread out amongst its luxurious rooms and luscious gardens. Benedict tolerated it, but if he chose to be honest, house parties were not his favorite pastime. But he craned his neck, his eyes searching the little clusters of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of autumn-hued hair…

"Benedict!"

Something, someone, slammed into his side and he turned, embracing the weight happily as glittering sky blue irises peered up at him. His heart stuttered before picking up a rapid pace, stomach swooping as, for once, he embraced her tightly without caring who saw.

"Nel," he breathed, bending over her so flyaways from her tresses tickled his nose. Ginger and spices came home to him again, and to his delight, he felt his short friend inhale where the tip of her nose rested, right on his sternum. "I missed you."

"Terribly?"

"Awfully."

She squeezed him tightly before she seemed to remember herself, letting go with a start before frantically looking around. No one paid them any mind but he couldn't blame her, even if he felt hollow without her touch. A woman's reputation had always been a fragile thing and he would hate to be the reason she would be forced to write something awful about herself.

"No one saw," he whispered, taking a moment to feast upon her image. The light, pastel green dress complimented Penelope's hair more than any of her other ensembles had, even with the bits of pink detailing. But even if she had been wearing one of her pineapple yellow monstrosities, he would've still thought her stunning. He furrowed his brow, spotting the swollen bit of her lip. "What have you done to yourself? Did you bite your lip too hard again?"

Unthinkingly, he reached forward to trace the delicate skin but she swatted his hand away. He didn't have time to be put out by the gesture, not when she gifted him with her languid, close-mouthed smile he coveted.

"Have I ever told you that you worry too much?" she teased.

He held out his arm and she took it. Reveling in her body next to his, he said easily, "I think you are the only person alive who would accuse me of such a crime."

"Is there a crime in worrying too much?"

"My siblings would believe that I would claim so."

"You fret over me all the time!"

"Yes, well," he patted her hand, her delicate fingers a marvel to him wrapped around the bend in his elbow. "That is you."

A faint pink bloomed on her cheeks and Benedict felt torn between overanalyzing the reaction and kissing the flush. He chose, sadly, the more appropriate option for the setting.

Damn society rules.

"I fear you must join me in finding my brothers, we have a hunt to go on," Benedict said.

"Ah, yes, speaking of your brothers…" Penelope paused and, even as they tread across the lawn, he could see the twitch in her free hand to tap her chin in thought. "I was hoping you might help me set up a meeting between Colin and Marina. With Andrew and myself there, of course."

Benedict nearly lost his stride but recovered quickly, cocking an eyebrow.

"Meddling, are we?" He swiveled his head around the grounds, trying to catch a glimpse of the Wetherbys. "Is that wise?"

"Colin will not fully move on from my cousin until he witnesses that she is content with her lot in life," she confided, and Benedict felt the horrible, tangled thorns of jealousy twist anew in his chest. "Truthfully, I think it would benefit Marina as well. Simply because she would no longer have the ghost of Colin's desire to save her hovering above her. I think she views it more as an albatross circling above her, rather than a gift."

Conflicting feelings warred within Benedict. A part of him wanted to ask her, bitterly, if she was attempting to orchestrate this meeting so that Colin could be ready for love again, ready for her. But he knew how that would sound; petty and cruel. He'd made that mistake before last season when he'd cornered her about her feelings for Colin when he'd become engaged to Marina. As much as it hurt him, as much as his envy felt like poison rotting away his muscles until he was nothing but a weak husk, he would not ask.

He needed to trust her. Yes, maybe she possessed some selfish reasons for wanting this. But it did not mean that her motivations were wholly personal.

It still did not mean it didn't hurt his heart.

"Of course," Benedict croaked before clearing his throat. "Whatever you need."

She beamed up at him and her smile alone felt worth the pain. Turning again, he spotted Anthony sitting at a table with the Sharma sisters. Steering them towards the group, he saw how the look on Penelope's face shifted, becoming astute and calculating within a moment. He grinned. There could be no denial about how he adored her shift from shy debutante to shrewd Whistledown.

As they approached, they heard the tail-end of a conversation.

"Did you know Kate is an excellent shot?" Miss Edwina said eagerly, her young face shining with pride.

"Of course she is," Anthony chuckled, and Benedict nearly coughed.

He had a feeling that his patronizing older brother would face consequences for that.

From the way Penelope's eyebrows rose into her hairline, and Miss Kate's dark eyes narrowed, his prediction proved fruitful.

"Are we all set for the hunt, Brother?"

"Indeed we are."

Anthony nodded at Benedict before doing a double take, taking in Penelope on his arm. Benedict felt more than saw his friend begin to shrink under his brother's assessing gaze, but he held her firm, rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles with his thumb.

Nodding, Anthony stood and bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

"Miss Featherington."

"Viscount Bridgerton."

She curtsied before aiming a tentative smile at the Sharmas. Miss Kate granted a kind nod while Miss Edwina's entire countenance lit up all the more.

"Miss Penelope! Oh, I'm so happy to see you!"

"You as well," Penelope replied, and Benedict felt that she meant it.

However, it seemed a debate of some kind needed to be settled, for the favored debutante turned towards her elder sister again, insisting fervently, "Kate, tell him how you used to shoot all the time."

"Miss Edwina…" Anthony chuckled again in that indulgently patronizing way that had landed him in hot water with his sisters and mother one too many times.

Benedict resisted the urge to laugh. He'd thought his elder brother would've learned by now, but apparently the numerous verbal tear downs and, often, physical beatings from his female relatives had not done their job.

Oh, he could not wait to tell his sisters about this.

"Kate is being modest." Edwina turned her doe eyes up to Anthony. Benedict almost gave in to give Edwina advice. The only women who could successfully pull such a pleading look off were Hyacinth and Francesca, and that was mainly due to the fact Anthony raised them more like daughters than sisters.

"Do you not think it true?" Kate asked, and Benedict met Penelope's gaze to see if they both saw the same thing from the woman; incredulity, anger, maybe even a little hurt.

Anthony gulped and Benedict not-so-subtly knocked his brother's hip with his own. Penelope stumbled into his side as a result and he could not help but smile like an idiot when she sent a playful glare his way.

"Perhaps your sister aims straight on the field, but surely she would have some trouble managing…" Anthony started pathetically, but Miss Kate cut him off.

"Why would you assume I had any trouble managing at all, my lord?"

"I only mean to say…"

"Because I am a woman?"

"No... No. I did not say that!"

"But you thought it."

Benedict chortled, licking his lips. When Anthony looked over he tried to smooth out his facial expression to one of matching exasperation, but he felt Penelope giggling silently beside him and he broke. Together, he and Penelope were consumed by silent laughter, holding each other up. Anthony glared at the pair of them before returning to his verbal spar with the eldest Sharma sister.

"Ladies do not hunt."

"Do not, or are not allowed to?" she countered, and Benedict knew she had his brother there.

Fascinated, the arguments between Anthony and Miss Kate reminded Benedict much of that odd French game. Tennis, he believed it was called. Their words were volleyed back and forth until someone scored a point.

"I find it hard to believe you would not allow Miss Kate to join you, my lord," Penelope piped up, her voice taking on a savage hint of sweet rebellion. "For is Eloise not the best shot amongst your siblings? Your own father indulged her often, did he not?"

More than ever, Benedict felt consumed with a fire to kiss the living daylights out of Penelope Featherington. The stunned look upon his brother's face, mouth agape, neck flushed, utterly flummoxed— Priceless. Benedict needed to mentally capture this moment so he could immortalize it in charcoal later.

"So your sisters are the only women in all of England who are allowed to bend the rules?" Miss Kate challenged and Miss Edwina pounced on the opportunity.

"I am certain Lady Danbury can spare a maid to act as chaperone." She nodded, her brilliant smile working to soften any lingering resistance her sister possessed. "Oh, what fun you will all have. Getting to know each other all the better."

"What an excellent idea, Miss Edwina," Benedict chimed in, slapping a hand on Anthony's back, knocking his brother forward. Anthony appeared ready to murder him, but Benedict returned his hold to Penelope. The young writer, to her credit, seemed very aware she acted as a shield between Benedict and the frustrated viscount. She stepped into his side a little more and Benedict very nearly melted. "Surely we can make an exception, just this one time," Benedict continued, grinning like an absolute madman. "We are on our private lands, after all. And who knows? Perhaps Miss Sharma can teach you a thing or two." Feeling bold, he reached forward and pinched his brother's cheek. "Hmmmmm?"

"I certainly hope so," Penelope said, shooting Anthony an oh-too-innocent smile before sharing a conspiratorial look with the Sharmas. "For I do not think El would take kindly to her own brother disparaging her and other womens' prowess on the field. Do you?"

Anthony paled and Benedict very nearly cheered.

Looking down at Penelope, he soaked in this moment of levity and light. Another memory for the pair of them.

If he felt three pairs of eyes analyzing them, he paid no heed.

Unnaturally cheerful, even for him, Benedict practically directed Rapscallion to prance across the forest floor. Dead leaves and twigs snapped underneath his hooves, the darkening sky making their surroundings appear like something out of the most dangerous part of a fairytale. But Benedict could hardly care about the ominous echo of thunder in the distance for two reasons:

One, Penelope had arrived and he could look forward to a few days with her under the same roof as he.

Two, Anthony fumed beside him, clearly irritated as he tossed glares over his shoulder to Miss Kate behind them. Benedict spared a glance as well. Miss Kate, he had to admit, looked practically regal in her peacock blue ensemble, especially when compared to the floundering lady's maid at her side, struggling to ride side-saddle.

"If this goes wrong, it will be your fault," Anthony huffed.

If looks could kill, Benedict would certainly be dead. But, frankly, it had been entirely worth it.

"You must play along, Brother," Benedict sighed as if agreeing with Anthony's sentiments before he let a feral grin slip loose. "Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to win her over."

Lord knew Anthony needed all of the help he could get. Benedict admired Miss Kate and believed her to fit in with their family quite well. But if the indomitable viscount wanted even a sliver of hope in gaining the woman to his side when it came to wooing Miss Edwina, the stubborn mule needed to figure out a strategy soon.

More than anything, Benedict didn't understand how Anthony did not see the similarities between himself and the elder Sharma sister. She behaved just as he had with Daphne, though admittedly she looked much better doing it.

"Or to be shot dead by her," Anthony moaned.

Benedict chuckled before taking pity on his brother. He imagined what Penelope would write about this little observation, now that she had a front row seat to the play.

The question was, would this story end as a comedy, in a marriage? Or as a tragedy?

"Ant, have you truly not pondered over why Miss Kate is so set against you?"

"Because she wishes to spite me at every turn?"

"Because she loves her sister and sometimes, that turns elder siblings into beasts."

Quiet for a moment, Anthony turned his gaze from his horse's mane up into Benedict's face. For the first time that day, Anthony's eyes seemed keenly aware of everything around him, visible or not.

"I know." Dragging a weary hand over his face, his elder brother groaned for good measure. "I know, Ben. The good Lord and all his angels know I was an absolute terror last year with Daphne. I have tried to be better this year with El. I know where Miss Kate is coming from but…" His grip on the reins of his steed tightened. If Benedict hadn't heard the squeak of leather he didn't think he would've noticed. "But every time I look her in the eyes, I entirely forget myself."

Benedict's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Opening his mouth to reply, he started to choke out a response before Baron Jack Featherington called, "To the right, gents!"

Obediently, Benedict steered Rapscallion to follow, patting his white-gray mane. The horse hadn't clopped but a foot or so away before he heard Miss Kate's voice behind him.

"Where are they going?" Her voice was curious but a little clipped.

"Toward our camp, I believe," Anthony replied.

"There are tracks going off to the left. Look. In the moss." Benedict imagined her pointing off the beaten path, emphatically showing his brother the evidence. From her tone, she thought all of the men on the hunt to be imbeciles. "You can see the cloven shape. If we go to our camp now, we may miss our quarry entirely."

Benedict found himself torn. He wanted desperately to eavesdrop on his brother and the female head of the Sharma household. But if he did, he'd lose his own quarry entirely.

Jack Featherington.

The man, so far, seemed to be an amiable fellow. Penelope hadn't alluded to any unsavory behavior or cruelty on his part. In some other life, one where Benedict had not stumbled upon Penelope on a dirty London street delivering one of her first Whistledown columns, he would've accepted the man's easy-going nature at face value and be done with it.

But that was not this life, this version of events.

Whether Penelope returned his affections or not, she was his friend first and foremost. She'd been burned by the male figureheads in her life too many times to count. Men whose sole job had been to take care of her, ensure her well-being, safeguard her future.

He wouldn't let another Featherington male betray her trust again.

So he moved along just as he thought he heard Miss Kate tell a story about her father. A pity he wouldn't know what she said. Maybe he'd ask Anthony at a later time what he'd learned. But for now, Benedict had someone else's favor to win.

Rapscallion snorted as Benedict gently dug his heels into his horse's sides.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Benedict murmured, leaning forward to whisper into his steed's ear. "But it is for dear Nel. You would do anything for her as well, right?"

As if the animal actually understood him, Rapscallion huffed once before quickening his pace, the pair catching up to the new Baron Featherington in no time.

"Lord Featherington, we have yet to be acquainted!"

The handsome young lord shot Benedict a grin that, by all accounts, seemed genuine.

"Mister Bridgerton! It is Benedict, correct? I have to say, it was orderly of your parents to name you in alphabetical order. Easier for the rest of us."

Taken aback slightly, Benedict studied the man for malice or deception. When most people commented on the Bridgerton siblings' names, it was done so in jest. Even Penelope had made fun of them before.

But the lord's face and tone were so…affable that he simply couldn't tell.

That revelation had to be an issue.

"You'd still be one of the first people to get my name right on the first try," Benedict conceded.

"It would be a small crime if I was wrong, as your family treats our Penelope so well," Jack said, his smile widening. "She is over at your house half the week for tea or to promenade with your sister. I would apologize and ask if it proves a burden to you, but Penelope is a smart young girl. I also do not think your family is one to suffer fools."

Benedict sat dumbfounded, unsure what to make of the interaction. Truly, the fastest way to his own heart would be for someone to recognize any of Penelope's good qualities. Cousin Jack, as Penelope called him, seemed to do so.

So why, oh why, could he not shake the feeling that something would inevitably go wrong?

Jack scanned the forest floor before he called the group of men and horses to a halt.

"Here we are!"

With too many thoughts that swirled ceaselessly around his skull, Benedict threw his voice over his shoulder, "Brother!" As Anthony approached, Benedict dismounted, patting Rapscallion's snout before facing his brother. "It seems our stag may be eluding us."

"The elusiveness is part of the fun," Jack said brightly, having also dismounted and taking a look at the gray sky peering through the canopy. "And you cannot fault the sunshine."

Benedict fought the urge to snort. The man certainly had to be a glass half-full kind of chap, for there was hardly any sunshine to speak of. Not with the oncoming storm. As Benedict crunched leaves beneath his feet, he inhaled the scent of wet earth, horse hair, and that distinctive smell the air took on as lightning approached.

"No, certainly not," Anthony said politely.

"The men out enjoying the sunshine" Miss Kate breathed, sarcasm clear. "A sign of a great hunt."

Benedict and Jack both turned to follow how Anthony might reply. It certainly proved nothing short of entertaining.

"I suppose you prefer the darkness, Miss Sharma?"

"What I would prefer is to be allowed to follow my own instincts on this hunt, instead of blindly following the guide."

Benedict stood stunned for a moment, though it was not the kind of paralysis that made him uncomfortable. Far from it. He shot Anthony a crooked smile, for he was forced to admit he admired Miss Kate's pluck. Hell, he'd gladly allow Miss Kate authority over the hunt if the other men would abide it. Jack's shock looked more incredulous, but upon meeting the new lord's eyes, they were both interested in Anthony and Miss Kate's battle of wills.

They stepped forward slightly but Benedict kept an eye on his brother as the viscount extended a hand to help Miss Kate over a large log.

"You are still convinced we have lost our prey?"

"I am convinced that deer prefer the edge of the forest." The woman shrugged, her dark brow crinkling as she raised her eyebrows, indicating the wooded edges of the forest path. Brazenly, she hiked up her skirt past her knee, revealing her stockings and a swath of the smooth, brown skin of her thigh as she stepped over the log, refusing to take Anthony's hand. "This is much too open out here."

Nearly choking, he heard a similar strangled sound from Jack and knew the man had seen the sight too. Hell's bells, the spinster was bold. But more than that, Benedict could not help the pleasure he derived from Anthony's face, completely glued on Miss Kate's leg like a starving man stranded in a wasteland.

Benedict stood enraptured by the back and forth. While Jack had moved a little farther ahead he could tell the older man seemed to have his head pointed in the direction of the conversation. Benedict often thought that if women had been allowed to sit in Parliament, his sisters would easily win every debate that came to them. It seemed Miss Kate Sharma would even have his own sisters' beat.

"Uh, yes, well, perhaps you are right, but we should carry on." Anthony shifted uncomfortably. Probably because he knew Miss Kate was right but didn't want to break form with the men. "Certainly there'll be other deer on other paths. They do not always keep together. And if there are not, then... Miss Sharma?"

Miss Kate had wandered off right under his brother's nose. Benedict watched it happen, not saying a word as the woman went off in her own attempt to find their target amongst the greenery and mist. Benedict had not been too concerned. The woman held a gun with the same brand of confidence Eloise possessed with handling a firearm. If Miss Kate had even half the ability their little sister did with a rifle, then she would be more than fine.

Besides, it'd been too much fun watching his brother twirl around, realizing he'd just lost the one woman he needed to win over in order to make any progress with Miss Edwina.

The viscount strode up to him, patting Benedict's shoulder before issuing one of those commands he hated, "keep her with you." Anthony tossed his head at the struggling lady's maid, who currently tripped simultaneously over her red cloak and a fallen tree limb. Benedict took one look at the matronly, frustrated woman and sighed.

Well, he supposed he and the lady's maid could commiserate over the current situation.

The hunt appeared to be turning up nothing. Not long after they'd begun their pursuit and Miss Kate's disappearance, the hunt had turned into more of a roving party of loose-lipped men. Benedict knew Penelope and Eloise would be amused. Truly, men were almost worse than women when it came to gossip. They simply didn't call is gossip.

Men called it business.

"Well, you know, I was advised by my wife to make trades in sugar, though you did not hear that from me–"

"Did you hear that Mister Reynolds has taken on yet another mistress–"

"Yesterday's broadsheet proved enlightening about the Prince Regent's current strategy with Napoleon. Did you hear how the man wept when–"

On and on it went, gossip disguised as simply trading information. Not for the first time, Benedict became all too aware of the hypocrisy of men when criticizing women for talking too much.

He wished Penelope was walking beside him…

"So, Lord Featherington," Benedict began, deciding to try and get more information while he could.

"Jack, please."

Benedict smiled, nodding as he pretended to look for track marks or scat amongst the soil.

"Jack, then. Before you took on the Featherington estate, what did you do?"

"I resided and did business in the former North American colonies." Jack's grin grew impossibly big, as if to cover up the bitterness in his next sentence. "My father thought me a useless wastrel, so he exiled me there. Best thing he could've done, really. I made a name for myself, bought up some ruby mines in Georgia and other parts of the southern colonies. That's how I made my independent fortune."

"Rubies?"

Benedict's interest piqued. A sudden fortune in gems proved unusual. While Jack certainly was not the first to find a fortune in the form of a gem mine, it seemed too good to be true. Benedict's own interest in geology had led to some reading about the new, geological formations in the Americas. Sadly, though Benedict loved rocks, appreciated their beauty and resilience, the science behind some of it eluded him. But Lord Andrew Wetherby shared his love for geology, in fact relished in the science behind it. Maybe Andrew could help.

Benedict had not been given the chance to catch up with Andrew yet. The Wetherbys had arrived late, having to leave their babies in the care of Andrew's mother and sisters. Penelope had supposed that Marina had also wished to avoid running into Lady Featherington directly. The married couple had arrived just as the men were leaving on the hunt and Andrew had made his excuses, saying he'd take a rejuvenating nap with his wife and he'd catch up with Benedict in the smoking room later.

Yes, Benedict thought. This could prove fruitful. He had to approach Andrew about orchestrating a meeting between Marina and Colin anyway. He'd be killing two birds with one stone.

With a placating smile, Benedict proceeded to ask Jack as many questions about his life in America as possible. The conversation was informative, enlightening even. Benedict couldn't deny that Jack Featherington was, blast it, seemingly nice.

By all accounts, he treated Penelope well. Actually acknowledged her, talked to her, spoke to her kindly.

It was a far sight more than Portia's blatant dismissal and her late father's disregard.

Did Benedict truly want to destroy that?

The thought agonized him as they walked, and he embraced the ready humor and distraction when a flushed and disheveled looking pair of humans emerged from the thick treeline.

Jack spotted Anthony and Miss Kate at the same time Benedict did, and the artist had to work hard not to waggle his eyebrows in question at his brother.

"This way, boys. I saw movement over here," Jack called.

"There the two of you are," Benedict said, motioning for the awkwardly solemn pair to follow. "Well, you better rejoin us before the rain ends our pursuits."

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Benedict huddled under his long, sky blue hunting coat. The light color reminded him a little of Penelope's eyes. His rifle sat heavy on his shoulder, the wood and medal digging into his muscles. Listening to the oncoming storm, he closed his eyes as the loud boom washed over him, enveloping him in God-given sound.

He didn't know whether the thunder tried to impart a blessing…or a warning.

"I cannot believe you are convincing me of this," Marina remarked dryly, absentmindedly twirling the large, wooden hoop she held in the grass. "Cousin, you are meddling again."

Penelope flushed furiously, rolling her own hoop in place.

The cousins stood on the lawn, shaded by the oaks that stood sentinel at the very edge of the vast space where most of the women congregated. The men and Miss Kate had returned from the hunt a half hour before, and Benedict had made a point to drag Andrew away from his wife. Penelope shot Benedict a grateful smile, sighing in relief. Andrew, undoubtedly, demonstrated he was a good man and a loyal husband. No romantic love blossomed between he and Marina, an impossibility they knew to be true. But they loved each other in their own way, as friends and companions in life. Whenever Penelope witnessed Andrew with Amanda and Oliver, she knew without a doubt that he loved and adored them as his own. He'd lay down his life and reputation for them if need be, and there could be nothing more that Marina would ever ask for.

Except Andrew strived to give Marina more of everything. Companionship, freedom, access to her favorite hobbies, opportunities to make and maintain friends. They were never simply husband and wife that passed like ships in the night, simply attempting to get through every day. Both had been denied access to their greatest loves in life, and through that, they reached a quiet, meaningful understanding.

But it also meant that their plan, executed to the best extent, could only be done if the couple was handled separately.

The Wetherbys protected each other, mulishly so. But Penelope knew her cousin well, so she also knew she stood a better chance of convincing Marina of meeting Colin alone. Just as Benedict's powers of persuasion also worked better on his friend when the two were on their own.

Penelope spun the hoop on the grass again, letting the smooth wood grain rub against her palms.

What did it say about her that everyone she knew and loved were incredibly stubborn?

"I cannot deny that I am quite meddlesome, even nosy, by nature," Penelope admitted, meeting Marina's dark, knowing stare. "But this time I have both of you in mind. Not just–"

The rest of her sentence stuck in her throat like a stale chunk of bread. She wasn't as naive as she once had been. An understanding of her baser self resided like an ugly pit within her center; her pride, avarice, ambition, even her belief that she knew best. Admitting all of that aloud proved difficult.

"Not just Colin, you mean?"

Flinching, Penelope nodded. She could always count on Marina to be blunt, even when she really wished she wouldn't be.

Yet Marina spoke the truth.

"Yes," Penelope murmured. She rolled the hoop away, watching it spin across the grass a few feet before it fell with a soft thump. "I think this meeting could convince him to let go, which would be best for both of you. You've moved on. He needs to as well."

"So he can finally find you?"

Penelope startled and shook her head vigorously before she even realized she was doing it. Her loose, ginger curls smacked her cheeks but she didn't care. The thought posed by Marina seem wrong somehow, off in the way slightly spoilt milk was.

It wasn't right.

But Penelope didn't know why.

"No! Lawks, no, Marina…" She bit her bottom lip, once again splitting the sore, causing her to taste copper on her tongue. "He just needs to understand that holding on to your memory… it's not fair to him or you."

"Why?" Marina pressed, letting her hoop fall to the ground beside her.

In her perfectly pressed mauve gown, Marina stepped forward. Her wild, tight curls were pinned in an elegant bun on her head, her expression somehow marrying softness and reproach. Marina had always possessed a power about her, something reminiscent of a long-lost warrior queen who would accept nothing less than absolute candor.

There existed a cruel part of Penelope that wanted to challenge her cousin for expecting honesty from her when Marina had used dishonesty to her advantage last season. Though she'd lied out of utter desperation the year before, Penelope knew her cousin would do it again if she or her family were at stake. Marina would do anything to survive. She needed no saving, no knight in shining armor.

So Penelope swallowed down the unfair words that tried to rise up her throat. Improvement, Benedict would tell her. Such improvement. She imagined the praise her friends, the Granvilles, Genevieve, Charlotte, Eloise, would heap upon her if they knew she'd stamped out the impulse. But it was Benedict's face that rose to her mind's eye when she inhaled the scent of petrichor the brief rainfall had washed in, letting it center her. She pined for the scent of oil paints and charcoal that usually clung to Benedict's fingertips, but she made do.

"Colin is my friend. But I fear if he believes he must save you, when you of all the people I know and cherish, Marina, can save herself…" She rose to her full height to meet her cousin's stare. While there was a good foot or two between them, she felt an answering respect in Marina's own posture at the gesture. "He'll continue to blunder. He must understand that you, Marina, are strong. You don't need him to save you, and he's better off continuing to find himself, rather than try and make his purpose saving someone else."

Marina cocked her head before granting Penelope with a wide, indulgent smile.

"I'm glad you have the measure of me, Pen," she said, lowering herself to softly kiss Penelope's cheek. "And it seems you finally have a good measure of Colin, as well." The corners of Marina's eyes crinkled sadly. "Your countenance at times reminds me of George. He was always the softest of the two of us. He made me want to be more gentle, more kind. Are your feelings for Colin changing?"

Penelope's mouth suddenly felt drier than she imagined the deserts of Egypt to be.

"I– I–" she gulped, suddenly hoping they'd be struck by a sudden thunderstorm again. "I… Change is…terrifying." Hanging her head, Penelope felt stretched too thin. As if someone had taken a rolling pin to her very purpose, smoothing and laying her out until she felt as translucent and vulnerable as parchment. "I do not do well with it."

Marina placed a hand on Penelope's shoulder, circling her thumb around the bit of skin that poked out from her spring green sleeve.

"The first step in accepting change," Marina said, brown eyes as warm and dark as a fresh cup of tea, "is when one is able to admit how utterly frightening it is."

While the rain had stopped an hour ago, the dark, looming mass of clouds refused to abate outside of the nursery window. Having just changed from his hunting attire into more formal dinnerware, he had invited his young friend into the space he'd briefly transformed into a studio. The smell of drying oil paints lingered and he couldn't help but momentarily study the abstract painting of a woman he had created while under the influence of the cursed tea Colin had given him. To anyone else, it would simply be a swirl of colors, luscious creams, blues, and fiery reds. But to him, he saw the nubile shape of Penelope.

Benedict turned back to the irritable, clipped pace of the young lord going back and forth across the space. With his young, thin face and full head of hair, one would never believe the man to run a vast estate, quite successfully. No one would suspect by his usual jovial smile and spry movements, that he used his youth both to work pleasure at the hands of his male lover but also to chase around the two babies he claimed as his own.

No one would suspect that the lord who usually acted of a very airy, unaffected nature would become at all angry.

Yet, Benedict thought, his blossoming friendship with Lord Andrew Wetherby might end with a nasty punch to the jaw.

Because Andrew hummed.

And Benedict had learned in the last year that when Andrew was truly annoyed or, heaven forbid, angry…

The man hummed like a mad man.

"May I suggest," Benedict said cheerfully as he carefully took a step back as Andrew paced by the nursery window, "that if you decide to deliver a right hook to my person, I would appreciate it if you avoided my face. I'm quite pretty and have a lady to impress."

Andrew hummed louder, a very slow, oddly menacing version of Greensleeves.

Benedict decided it would be wise to change tactics.

"My friend, you know Penelope loves her cousin. She would not suggest a meeting between your wife and my brother if she did not believe it to be beneficial."

"I have no doubts about Penelope's intentions," Andrew said waspishly. "But I do not wish for Marina to become…upset. She can defend herself. My wife is resilient, independent. But I do not wish to risk Marina's comfort just so your brother's conscience is clear."

Andrew's words felt like a punch to the gut. Benedict never thought himself to be the wisest man, but neither could it be claimed that he was blissfully ignorant. Any infatuation Colin held for Marina proved to be false in nature. Oh, Colin cared for Marina's well-being, Benedict had no doubt about that. But that care grew from a place where Colin, like many of the younger Bridgertons, unconsciously coveted a desperate desire to be needed. By someone, anyone. With so many siblings who fulfilled different roles and purposes, it could be easy to become lost amongst each other.

Colin had not felt as if his wish to see Marina was selfish, Benedict knew that truth with confidence.

But just because a person did not feel that their motivations were selfish, that did not mean the actions were selfless.

"I cannot claim that Colin's motivations are altruistic," Benedict said, carefully taking a step forward and placing what he hoped to be a comforting touch on Andrew's shoulder. "But I can affirm that your wife is the one who holds power in this situation. She can wrest herself free from my brother's mind and heart. I think it will grant them both peace."

Andrew humming stopped, and while he did not place his curling and uncurling fists in his pockets, his expression seemed a little less agitated.

"Very well," Andrew said, before heaving a great sigh. "Henry always said I had too large a heart for a mere mouse that could not take down a lion. But what I cannot make up for with brute strength, I do with sheer will."

"And money?" Benedict teased, clapping Andrew's arm once more before releasing him. Shuffling back, Benedict peered out of the large, nursery window onto the grounds. He glimpsed Penelope's shining, autumn-hued hair in the sun amongst a group of young ladies. There could be no doubt that the woman with her back to him with glinting chestnut hair and a rather stiff set to her shoulders to be Eloise.

"That goes without saying," Andrew said, following the line of his gaze. "So, when will you finally set to woo my cousin through marriage with your pretty face?"

"Oh shush, you." Benedict felt as if a battering ram had been taken to his very chest, where he could feel the doors shudder and groan under the forceful weight of the attempted intrusion. "Besides, I have some questions of geology for you."

"Geology?"

As Benedict had known it would, Andrew's focus shifted, entirely intent upon one of his favorite subjects. Chewing his bottom lip, he wondered if he should tell Andrew that this question could prove crucial in discovering whether his cousin, the woman Benedict found himself tripping over his feet for, was being duped. But he decided, for now, it would be better for Penelope if rumors about the new Lord Featherington were kept to a minimum.

"Yes. Tell me, friend, what do you know about mining in the southern United States?"

Penelope had half a mind to tartly inform Prudence that the observation made in the carriage had been wrong; the country proved to be much cooler than London. While the spring weather still endeavored to be unseasonably warm, the earlier rainstorm and the persistent overhang of clouds made it possible for Penelope to breathe. No sweat beaded on her skin, the lemonade she sipped a burst of relieving sour and sweet on her tongue. The breeze that softly blew through the clearing settled the nerves that fought to burrow under her skin.

Surrounded by their fellow debutantes, she and Eloise sat side-by-side, toying with their bright glasses of lemonade. Both as a distraction until they were called and so Eloise could appease her mother's constant chiding, they attempted to listen to the chatter around them. Penelope guessed she performed slightly better than Eloise at paying attention, though not by much. Her worry scrabbled at her guts like rats in a sinking ship.

"Ooh. I quite like Lord Westbridge," one debutante said, the nice but chatty Miss Harris. "Though his hands certainly do wander when he dances."

"At least he is young," Miss Howe said, shuddering. "My mama has fixed on Sir Derryworth for me. His breath is excruciating."

Eloise frowned and scoffed, "Why do you not just say no?"

"To our mamas?" Miss Howe blinked, as if Eloise's suggestion was something that had never crossed her mind.

And Penelope understood Miss Howe's sentiment perfectly.

"I do not think it is that simple, El," Penelope chided gently.

But she could see by the stubborn set of Eloise's chin that her best friend did not understand how telling a mother "No" could not be just that simple.

It was both the thing she loved and, she hated to admit, disliked about Eloise. Envied, in truth. Eloise had an unnatural freedom in her family, one that the privilege of having a doting mother and indulgent older brother bought. Eloise had the luxury to be stubborn because, though Violet Bridgerton undoubtedly put pressure on Eloise to "find love", it also could never be doubted that the dowager viscountess would never force marriage upon Eloise. Neither would Anthony for that matter, no matter how he growled about it. Short of Eloise running away to live with a man, nothing would ever force the elder Bridgertons to actually control Eloise's hand.

But one aspect in life the reigning matriarch and patriarch of the Bridgerton family had failed to teach the second daughter was that her voice in the household was a rarity. That everyone else were expected to blindly follow the beck and call of their parents.

Penelope almost gave into the urge to kick Miss Halloway when she admitted, "I do everything my mama says."

"Yet you still wonder why you're so miserable," Eloise chuckled, a tad cruelly.

Penelope did give into the urge to kick her friend's ankle.

"Ow!"

Eloise shot a glare at Penelope, though the secret writer simply took another sip of fresh lemonade.

"Oh, I," Miss Harris started, forcing out her own awkward laugh. "I know how to find my happiness, Miss Bridgerton. There is always Lady Whistledown."

The entire table giggled in agreement and Penelope had to admit, a rush of power flew through her, making her feel invincible. Undoubtedly, it had been she that grabbed these young womens' attentions, gave them distraction while their mamas forced them to dance and preen for men in ballrooms. In a way, Penelope thought herself as doing a good deed. She knew it to be incredibly vain of her to think so, she refused to deny it. But it felt…good.

"Though I doubt she'll publish anything of note this week," Miss Granger said, waving her fan pointedly across the table.

Penelope and Eloise shared a look.

"What can you mean?" Penelope asked, blinking her lashes in apparent confusion.

"We are all here, enjoying the countryside together," Miss Granger explained, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Anything she might print, surely we will already know."

"Is that so?" Penelope asked, taking another sip of lemonade as a wide grin that would split anyone else's face spread across Eloise's expression.

But, no sooner could the conversation move on, a slight clearing of the throat was heard. "Cousin?"

The anxious rats returned to gnaw at the inside of her belly as Penelope stood, curtsying to Marina, as her title demanded in front of others.

"Cousin. Is all well?"

"Yes." Marina feigned a smile, extending her hand. "Just wanted to catch up over a spot of tea. Are you available?"

"Certainly."

She turned to Eloise who subtly nodded, her earlier smile transformed into a solemn line.

"I'll see you later, Pen."

Nodding, eternally grateful for her friend's support, she took Marina's hand and followed her inside.

The tempest of emotions abated slightly when Penelope saw Andrew standing sentinel in front of a heavy oak door, his blank countenance softening in the face of them. He tapped her cheek affectionately before cradling Marina's arms with his own.

"You are under no obligation to talk to him if you do not want," he whispered, her elbows supported in his palms. "Or we may leave whenever you wish."

"It is best to not encourage affection where it has no chance to flourish." Marina smiled though it was slightly crooked. "Salted earth and all that."

No bitterness or resentment tinged her tone. If Penelope knew her cousin like she thought she did, Marina only stated the facts.

"My wife, even though I do not think young Mister Bridgerton's feelings should continue to hold…" He squeezed her arms and Penelope's own heart felt as if it had been gripped in a most tender vice. "You are far from 'salted earth,' as you claim. If that were true, you would not have the capacity to adore Amanda and Oliver as you do."

Marina's dark brown eyes sparkled and Penelope saw, not for the first time, how Andrew and Marina truly cared deeply for one another.

They may never have a romance, but the pair of them loved each other as the best of friends.

"I happen to quite like you too, as a matter of fact."

"Well, then I deem myself honored. In fact, give me a medal for earning such an achievement."

"Is it in Henry's skill set to cast one?"

"Dear Henry would do anything if we asked."

The bit of banter between them sweetened and warmed Penelope. An odd sense of hope filled her. Maybe, just maybe, if Colin realized that Marina was happy, then maybe he could find his own happiness.

A touch briefly startle her and she turned to see that Marina had relinked their arms.

"Let us move forward, Pen." Marina stepped forward and reached for the brass doorknob. One engraved with little flowers that had Penelope remembering the one Benedict had someone make for her. "The both of us."

Penelope never thought of a salient reply as the door opened and they stepped into the old nursery.

Benedict fidgeted again with the tea service laid out on the table, rotating the cups and saucers as if he had any eye for such a thing. Colin held his hands clasped behind his back, and Benedict had no doubt his brother tried to prevent them from shaking. As the heavy door creaked on its hinges, he stood up hurriedly to greet his friends.

"Ne–, um, Miss Penelope. Thank you."

Penelope and Marina stood arm in arm, Andrew flanking them. With quick steps, Benedict nodded kindly at Marina before using his hand to indicate she take a seat at the little table by the window. Andrew turned towards his wife and said, just loud enough for all to hear, "We will leave whenever you desire, my dear." He pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles, and Benedict observed his brother watch the movement with curiosity. Marina nodded before gingerly extracting herself and proceeded towards the table. Colin moved forward, hands outstretched as if he planned to pull out her seat but she beat him to it, settling herself down in a graceful flourish of skirts.

Penelope, Andrew, and Benedict exchanged glances as Colin stood awkwardly above Marina, hands hovering in the air. A silent conversation passed between the three of them, and Benedict was fairly confident of what each of them were saying.

Andrew's steady gaze most definitely said, I knew this was a horrible idea.

Penelope quite boldly stared back with her flashing, light blue eyes, as if she replied, I will thank you not to judge my methods until this entire situation is done.

While Benedict's own ocean blue-green irises simply pleaded, I beg the two of you, for the love of all that is holy, stay still. Maybe we'll turn invisible.

Sadly, that did not happen. Benedict further grew disappointed when he realized he chose a very small room to have this conversation in, meaning the three of them could hear every word of the exchange between Colin and Marina.

"Marina. Uh, Miss Thompson," Colin fumbled, for once unable to find the proper words. "Lady Wetherby. I'm so pleased to see you."

"Colin," she greeted, granting him a small, close-lipped smile. "Please, sit."

At least, Benedict thought as his brother finally sat down and proceeded to pour the tea, her smile had not resembled a grimace.

Colin began to stiltedly ask how Marina was enjoying Aubrey Hall so far, and Benedict took the chance to usher Andrew and Penelope to the cramped corner with the covered rocking horse. He'd had the servants bring in a second table, only a little larger than the first, with their own cups of tea, little plates with one slice of honey cake each. They sat in their chairs, Penelope practically squished between the two men. Benedict once again busied himself with the saucers and while his beloved writer patted his thigh sympathetically, Andrew gave him a quizzical and slightly judgmental look.

Benedict did not have enough time to let the little bolts of lightning that ran up his leg at Penelope's touch to properly make his blood run hot, as the conversation between his brother and Andrew's wife had the effect of plunging into an icy lake.

For a few minutes, Colin talked of his travels and Marina politely indulged him. It was Colin's way of attempting to find common ground, to let any tension settle and disappear into the ether. Benedict had observed how Colin watched Marina's entrance, and how Andrew checked in on his wife before she'd walked away. The cogs slowly turned in Colin's head, and Benedict watched as his brother slowly formulated conclusions.

But Marina always had little patience for dithering.

"Colin," Marina said firmly, interrupting Colin's little soliloquy to olive trees, "why did you wish to meet with me?

The silent conversation between Benedict and his two friends resumed with fervor.

Oh dear, Andrew seemed to say, sitting back and crossing his arms in wicked delight. She's going to tear him open if he's not careful.

She wouldn't, Benedict shifted, absentmindedly rubbing a bit of sticky honey cake between two fingers. The sponge stuck to his skin like glue. She's… a patient sort.

Both Andrew and Penelope stared at him like he was the king's jester and he'd just made a joke that would cost him his head.

Oh Benedict, Penelope poked him in the ribs. Remind me to ensure you never suffer my cousin's wrath.

"I-I–" Benedict heard his brother's stutter and the trio, resembling a little table of gossipy old biddies by the second, turned as one to witness the possible carriage wreck. "I came to apologize. Throughout my travels, I kept pondering how I left things between us. All of those terrible things I said to you. It wasn't right to say such horrid things."

"Colin, there is no need…"

"I want you to know that I am sorry. And that I forgive you as well."

Benedict's jaw dropped and Penelope buried her face in her hands. Benedict faintly reached out to grab one of her hands in reassurance, seeing the telltale dent in her cheek that she was biting the inside of her mouth. A low hum began to emit from Andrew's chest and Benedict really, really hoped his brother had written down somewhere how he'd like his funeral to be conducted.

He watched as Marina straightened her spine, shoulders back and looking thunderous. Full of dignity, she bit back, "I do not need your apology any more than I desire your forgiveness. All of this, you and I, is in the past."

Colin bristled and Benedict wanted to yell at his brother that, while he had every right to still feel hurt for Marina's deceit the year before, he really had no right to question a woman who'd done it for the sake of her unborn child. He also really just wanted his brother to get out of this without being pushed out a window.

"So it seems." Colin's voice sounded tight, as if the third Brodgerton brother had been twisted so much he could barely form words. "But do you not look at your life and wonder what may have been if we had conducted ourselves differently? If you had been honest with me, I would have still married you. I could have taken you away, proven myself–"

Benedict snapped his focus to Penelope, squeezing her hand in his. Her skin, usually pale, now seemed devoid of any color. Not surprised, but as if she had relived some horrid memory. Andrew shifted beside him, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor and Benedict didn't know whether to grab Andrew's collar or tuck the woman he loved into his chest.

But Lady Marina Wetherby proved, once again, that she took no nonsense.

"That is a fool's form of torture." She inhaled slowly as if attempting to find calm in the very air she breathed. "I have left the past behind. I have babies that are my whole world, that deserve my love and focus–"

"Babies?" Colin asked, momentarily shocked.

Marina nodded and Andrew's rather terrifying humming of Greensleeves stopped.

"Yes. Amanda and Oliver." Marina finally looked over at where the eavesdropping trio sat, though it was Andrew she made eye contact with. Without a word, Andrew stood. Though he took no step closer, an entire conversation seemed to pass between them, riding along the silence like a melody only they heard. "I now have a husband who sees me as I truly am. Accepts my independence, my temper, and encourages my interests. He does not treat me like a damsel to be swept off my feet. I am his equal in every way. My children are his children."

"Our children" Andrew said softly and Marina gave him a genuine, full-toothed grin.

She then turned her attention towards Benedict and Penelope and he had no doubt she'd zeroed in on how he grasped Penelope's hand under the table. Tempted to squirm under her assessment, he forced himself to relax. He stroked Penelope's wrist with his thumb.

Marina returned her attention to a gobsmacked Colin.

"You can only put your best foot forward if you are the best version of yourself you've been yet. And, Colin – Mister Bridgerton – you are not there yet. Seek out those in your life who care for you, be open to them and they'll open up to you. It's only when you can understand yourself that you can understand those around you."

A strange dam burst open inside Benedict at her words, emotions flooding out like a current held back for too long. While Benedict certainly sought out those he cared about, knew those people, cherished those people–

He pressed his side into Penelope, seeking assurance from her warmth. Sometimes, he wondered how aimless he'd be if he hadn't found an anchor in Penelope's friendship. Would he be adrift, floating from person to person, desperately looking for…something?

Would he even know what he searched for?

Colin's face reddened and he could tell his brother grew flustered, embarrassed. No matter how kind Marina's words were delivered, it still proved to be a dressing down.

"I have said I was sorry. Why can you not– why must I–"

Colin clutched at the air in front of his chest, his fingers curling up and in as if his very heart beated in his grasp. Sad, terrible, but as Colin's words continued to fail him, Andrew finally strode forward, grasping his wife's shoulders. Without even looking, Marina placed her palms over his knuckles, and Colin stared at where her delicate fingers rested. Benedict could not be sure whether his brother's heart broke or whether it just finally settled back into place.

"If you would stop living in a fantasy, you would see others around you as you should." Benedict and Penelope flinched as Andrew fired the unbidden truth, much in the way a cannonball shattered a room of fine china. "The marriage between my wife and I is not one of cold indifference or basic contentment. We are truly happy together. I treat Marina with every respect she deserves and in turn, she does the same. Our children are loved, happy, and we treasure every relationship we both share and have separate from one another."

Andrew never wavered and Benedict watched Colin straighten his spine. Not out of defiance, but out of respect. The best thing Andrew could have done was to stand up for himself and Marina. While Colin would never be privy to the truth of their nuptials, of the secret lives they led, he bore witness to the couple's devotion.

"One day you will have this, Mister Briderton," Andrew continued, suddenly gentle even as his next words served a smack no lighter than the butt of a rifle. "Whether it is in love or friendship or anything else. But you shall never find it in my wife."

Both Benedict and Penelope waited in silence in their seats, and it was only then that Benedict noticed with a poorly timed thrill that they now both clasped each other's hands. Selfishly, Benedict decided to take advantage of the situation and pull her closer. For his nerves.

Then Colin said, calm and, Benedict hoped, lighter than before, "Amanda and Oliver, you said? Tell me… tell me of your children."

And with the first open, beaming smiles they had given his brother, Andrew and Marina cheerfully did just that.

The spring storm that swirled like a harbinger, of doom or delight she'd been unsure, finally struck around three in the morning. It had been well and good for Penelope, as she couldn't sleep anyways. Though entertainment at house parties often did not conclude at night until around the early morning hours, the dowager viscountess had insisted that all go to bed around midnight, that they may revel all the later at the ball the following day.

Needless to say, Penelope had not succeeded in catching a wink of sleep after being told to rest. Especially when she shared a room with Prudence, who snored much like a baby seal, she'd decided to take a bit of graphite and parchment to search for some solitude. Donning her pink silk dressing gown, she tiptoed out of the room and into the dark hallway, parchment and graphite tucked into her pocket as she held a single-wick candle aloft, the tiny orange flame flickering tentatively. She wondered if she looked like a ghost or some other creature haunting the halls as she walked, her feet padding softly upon the rug-lined corridors.

She headed to the library first, it was her first instinct after all. But the second she'd reached the bend in the hallway, she heard two soft voices from that direction. Her first instinct had been to pause and listen but, for once, she decided on venturing to another spot. Something instinctual in that moment informed her she needed peace, not gossip, and she listened.

Swiveling on her feet, she walked the opposite direction and found herself at the entrance to the solarium, right next to the orangery. It was a beautiful space with a high-domed glass ceiling, rain pattering upon the panes in a way that created a waterfall effect as it slid down the glass. Lightning flashed, illuminating the space just enough for Penelope to follow the small pathway to a spot lined with earth. Only a small divide of decorative wrought iron, a few inches tall, separated it from the path. Penelope prided herself on being more accustomed to earth dirtying her night things, thanks to long meetings in the Bridgerton gardens. Easily, Penelope stepped over the divide to settle herself under the olive tree that sat there. It would have been incredibly expensive to import such a tree from the Mediterranean and she wondered if Colin had somehow slipped the order in at some point without Anthony's knowledge.

With a sigh, she carefully lowered her brass candle holder onto the more even pathway in front of her before she sat back against the smooth bark, pulling out her graphite and parchment. Letting the steady rhythm of the rain and the crack of thunder be her music, Penelope lost herself in her writing.

Ariadne stared forlornly out from the craggy bluff she sat upon. Her crown of gems that sat upon her head felt too heavy, too burdensome as she waited for the sun to rise, for Dionysus to return.

The first year of their marriage had been, unexpectedly, happy. The god had used the time to earn her trust, even the beginnings of her love. It'd been a time she had not known she would cherish so deeply until Dionysus suddenly wasn't there.

The god had grown increasingly obsessed with the desire, the fervent need, to be known, worshiped, more powerful. He'd only been considered a minor god, after all, the product of Zeus and a human woman Hera had swiftly destroyed. Being a minor god no longer seemed enough. The obsession of gaining more followers, more sacrifices, more satyrs and mainades to follow him…

It had grown terrifying. Suddenly she knew why he was not just the god of wine, revelry, and fertility… he was the god of madness. The single-minded devotion to finding a purpose made him blind. She knew the husband she'd come to love was somewhere within him, deep inside. Though, at times she wondered if all his good qualities had been transferred to the child that had begun to grow in her belly.

"Nel? Nel."

Startled, Penelope's piece of graphite slide across the page. She tried to scowl up at a grinning Benedict but found she couldn't, no matter how badly she wanted to.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, eyes darting around the space to see if anyone followed him.

His crow's feet crinkled, creating those lovely lines that filled her with a simultaneous sense of calm and unfettered joy.

"I should be asking you the same." He extended his bare foot, nudging her hip. "Budge up."

Raising an eyebrow, she considered refusing while she studied his bedraggled state. His loose, white shirt had a plunging v-neckline that showed off the pale plane of his chest. The sleeves of his shirt and the legs of his trousers were rolled up, displaying inches of flesh covered in light brown hair. Even from just the weak glow of the candle, she could make out freckles and moles dotted across his skin. Her stomach clenched, as if begging for sustenance. But that didn't make sense, she'd had plenty at dinner…

He nudged her again, wiggling his toe against her side. She pretended to grumble and scooted just enough so he could squeeze himself behind her, cradling her hips between his thighs. Something hot and needy rolled in mighty waves from her spasming lungs, through her nervous stomach, all the way to the space between her own legs she tried not to think about.

For the love of all that was good and holy, what the bloody hell could be happening to her?

Benedict's familiar, strong, safe arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close and all coherent thought escaped her brain. His breath ghosted across her wild waves, tickling her scalp. The sensation trickled down to her neck and spine, as if the rainwater outside had descended upon her, filling her with the need to arch her back against him. She thought he pressed his lips to the back of her head for the briefest of moments, as if sipping at her essence, pulling her into, the Lord knew, some sort of sacred space that did not feel at all religious–

"Highly inappropriate, you know," he murmured, and she had to make a mental effort to prevent her whole body from shuddering. Her breath started to feel heavy in her chest, and she attempted to subtly breathe deeply as he continued to speak. "The way we meet like this. You, here–"

Penelope panted slightly, skin growing hot and achy as her brows furrowed. Had Benedict just attempted to offer her an out? To complain about their lack of propriety? He'd never done so before. In a way, Penelope always believed this to be a sort of privilege, a level of comfort afforded during a special time of night, belonging only to them.

She wouldn't give it up for the world.

"You cannot be worried about propriety now, " she teased, settling against his chest as if to prove a point. "Since when have we cared about propriety during the witching hour?"

Benedict nuzzled his nose against the shell of her ear and the sigh that blew against the nape of her neck spoke volumes. A contented sigh, one that ignited the strange urge for her to arch her neck towards him.

"You're right, Nel." He pulled her impossibly closer and suddenly, she became very aware of where her backside touched. A place warm and inviting. All at once, Penelope recalled the various sexual positions Benedict had laid out for her and Eloise, the faceless men and women in charcoal pressed so intimately together, never to part. "During the witching hour, we need not heed propriety. It is simply us."

"Benedict and Nel?"

"Nel and Benedict, more like."

He kissed her temple and it felt like an indulgence, something she wanted to memorize and hold onto because she could not be sure when it would happen again. What were these feelings that sprouted to life inside her? Why did they feel so different, yet so inherently intertwined, in her friendship with him?

"Tell me what you're writing," he requested, placing his chin on her shoulder to eye the parchment in her lap.

And because she couldn't bear to think on the strange turn of inner turmoil for a second longer, she did.

Daphne really did not enjoy certain aspects of pregnancy. Truly, she did not know how her mother had gone through the process eight times. While Daphne entered her fourth month of pregnancy, she barely showed. Not even her own mother had suspected, and Daphne wished to keep it that way for another month or so. She'd been enjoying the privacy of sharing in the possibility of more little Bassets with just Simon thus far, and they intended to keep it that way just a little while longer.

However, that did not mean Daphne enjoyed being restless at night, constantly thirsty or hungry with mercurial moods that could send her crying at the drop of a hat. Honestly, Daphne threw herself so completely into Anthony's love life because she needed to try and steer the unique ways pregnancy affected her energy into something useful and, yes, meddlesome.

But what was the point of having seven siblings if you couldn't meddle a bit in their lives? For their own good, of course.

Daphne wrapped her heavy, robin's egg blue wool dressing gown around her tightly as she walked. She grew cold much more easily when she was pregnant and the thunderstorm raging outside had not helped matters. Even as the shadows swallowed her lithe, willowy frame whole, she could traverse Aubrey Hall without the aid of a candle. The depths of the large house were forever imprinted into her memory, every nook and cranny just another space she knew as places of adventure, spots to hide and wait until an errant sibling trudged along for her to pounce on.

She felt a little roll in her lower belly, undoubtedly her child making their presence known. It had been an incredibly quick turnaround, getting pregnant after Augie's birth. But many women did when one was unsure if the first child would live past their first month. Daphne felt her lips become thin at the thought. Nothing had happened to Augie, and she would ensure that no ill-will befell him. She'd use all her might to ensure it.

Damn it all, she still thought of herself as a Bridgerton.

And Bridgetons did not lose.

Wandering aimlessly, she began to walk into the entrance of the solarium, where the storm undoubtedly roared to vivid life. Everything echoed in the space and it felt as if one stood in the midst of the storm, protected by some unearthly power as the deluge fell around the extraordinary room in great waves of water. She took a few steps forward, wondering if any of the cultivated blackberry bushes yielded any fruit for her to eat. As her eyes roamed the space, she moved forward a foot before her gaze stopped as they landed upon two figures in the shallows of the olive grove. Daphne stifled a gasp and retraced her steps, hiding herself around the entrance as she scrutinized the barely lit figures of Benedict and Penelope.

The scene appeared so intimate, Daphne almost looked away but she couldn't tear her sight from the image they created. Benedict's cheek was nearly flushed with Penelope's own as he cradled her between his legs. The young woman pointed out something on a bit of parchment and Benedict's grin was nothing short of doting.

Daphne forced herself to walk away, though she closed the solarium doors quietly behind her. She decided to lecture Benedict in the morning. While a part of her sisterly heart wanted nothing more than for Benedict to nurture the love in his heart, and much of that meant showing Penelope he cared, she wouldn't let him risk the debutante's reputation. Unless he planned on seriously pursuing her soon, he couldn't take these risks.

Rubbing at her chest, Daphne recalled how she'd been forced into marriage, even though it was with the love of her life. To be caught in such a state of passion by a family member, then forced into matrimony out of necessity had been…unpleasant to say the least.

Resolved to talk Benedict's ear off as soon as Penelope would be a safe distance away, Daphne led herself into the adjacent orangery. From there she could keep an eye out, and maybe the orange trees would provide her with the late night snack she craved.

Benedict floated in a sea of absolute bliss. Penelope left the solarium at close to five in the morning and he gave her a ten minute head start in case any servants milled about the halls. But it almost didn't matter. He had held her in his arms for hours, relishing in the feeling of having her all to himself. A part of him acknowledged it had been risky, dangerous even. But he couldn't help himself when he'd seen her there alone, writing.

Through no fault of her own she'd been a temptation. Her pink silk dressing gown had rested on her upper arms, the thin white shift underneath nearly translucent on her skin. Under the burst of lightning that flashed above her head, an impossible white-blue that he'd never be able to capture in paints, she appeared to him like a vision from myth. She became his Ariadne, shielding herself from the storm as she stole away by candlelight. Once again he stood as Dionysus, meant to find her, keep her company and cherish every inch of her person.

The blood in his veins had run impossibly hot, as if the lightning in the sky had struck him, making the liquid under his skin boil with itching need. The days without her coupled with his jealousy of Colin, his anxiety over the Royal Academy, had taken a toll on him he never expected.

But, more simply than that, he had missed her.

Penelope, over the past year, transformed into a phantom limb of his. Some important facet of his being he could not properly function without.

Seeing Penelope alone in the solarium had brought to mind their countless nights in the safety of the Bridgerton garden or the Featherington folly. He integrally needed that closeness once again, that comfort of having her in his arms without there being any sort of strangeness. The fact that Aubrey Hall was full of hundreds of guests conveniently evaporated from his mind, his sole focus transformed from midnight wanderings to basking in her presence. She harnessed that power over him, one of alchemy causing all of his original intentions to melt and reshape themselves into matters that concerned her happiness.

It frightened him.

But she'd once again accepted his presence, his embrace, and maybe, just maybe, that had been a sign that she could be amenable to his feelings–

"Brother."

Freezing in place as he'd stepped out of the solarium, he turned to see the intimidating form of his younger sister, Daphne. Hands on her hips, lips set in a straight line, and chin raised high, she honestly scared him more than their own mother.

He gulped.

"Daph–"

"Oh no," she snarled, his beloved younger sister actually snarled. She pointed her forefinger at him, poking him harshly in the chest. "You do not get to make your excuses. Let me be clear, if you have every intention of stating you will be courting Penelope tomorrow, I do not care what you do, as long as she is a consenting participant. But if you have no intentions of admitting your feelings and trap the girl into marriage–"

"Daph," Benedict started, his sister's words like a knife to the chest. "I would never mean to–"

"It does not matter what you mean, " she snapped, eyes so similar to his own as fierce as the storm outside. "Do you remember last year? When it was I caught in a compromising position? By my own brother?"

Benedict winced at the memory, knowing it was not pleasant for Daphne to relive.

"It did not matter that I was caught with the man I loved, Ben." She poked him again, harder this time, and he could've sworn she could've cracked his sternum with a bit more force. "It was traumatic! My reputation could have been ruined, a decision I wanted to have power over had been stolen from me, and I was forced to marry before Simon ever admitted he cared for me."

Something in her voice broke and before she could continue, Benedict's brotherly instinct took over. He swept Daphne into his arms, even as she tried to beat his chest. Hurt radiated off her like heat from a bonfire and it killed him to ever see her in such a state.

"I'm sorry, Daph."

"I know you are." She shifted in his hold, arms against his chest and when he looked down at her again, her eyes swam with unshed tears. "Prove you love Penelope by doing right by her, Ben. Please. Do not put her into such a damning situation unless you are ready to give her everything."

Benedict nodded solemnly, tightening his hold on his sister's trembling form. Fear slithered between his ribs, coiling around him like a snake waiting to strike.

As suspected, the Hearts and Flowers Ball was an example of tasteful extravagance. Every flower picked based on how it represented love, every color a varying shade of blue, purple, and pink. The food and wine were exemplary, the musicians highly recommended, and the guest list exclusive. No one could ever, dared to ever, say Lady Violet Bridgerton did not know how to host a ball.

Penelope had already gathered much gossip to put in Lady Whistledown from the event. A part of her wished she could see the looks on her fellow debutantes faces from yesterday when they saw gossip that could only have been collected here, at this event, in her paper. Eloise and Benedict might stop her. They reined her in expertly when her pride and avarice took her in hand and refused to let go without an expert touch. But until that moment where they talked sense into her, she prized her little imagining of having published a piece of information that no one but another guest at the party could know.

Benedict had greeted Penelope as she'd entered the ballroom earlier that evening. She hadn't seen him since early that morning in the solarium, a memory that quickly sent a little twist of something that fluttered and kicked in her belly and reverberated throughout her entire body. Spending the whole day with Eloise had been preferable to putting up with Prudence, but she had not been able to resist turning her head towards Eloise's door, wondering if the lanky artist would stroll in with a kiss and a jest.

A kiss…

When Benedict bowed, winked, and kissed her gloved knuckles upon entering the ball, Penelope thought back to how his lips had met her hair last night. They'd been warm, impossibly tender, and her entire body made to feel molten from the feeling. It distracted her, confused her, spun her sound until she felt like a tight spool of wool needing to be used.

When he'd stood, he informed her that she should stick by Eloise's side for awhile and he would swoop in for a dance after he conversed with Lord Featherington.

Penelope cocked her head at that, bemused as to why.

"Cousin Jack?"

Benedict shot her that evasive smile, the one that told her that he knew something she didn't. At least for now.

"He informed me of some business of his and I simply wanted to…check in on it."

"Benedict, the ball might not be the right time."

She sighed, rubbing her arms to fight a sudden chill. The action pushed up her bosom slightly and she frowned. While the pink dress certainly had not been the most unflattering thing her mother ever chose, it nearly suffocated her with its tight hold across her chest. But when she looked up again to continue the conversation, Benedict's pupils were dilated, twin pools of black as he stared down at her. She swore his fingers twitched.

"Benedict?"

Swallowing, he shook his head and smiled, raising his hand to perform the now familiar action of plucking her bottom lip from between her teeth.

"Sorry, Nel. What do you mean it might not be the right time?"

"At the moment he is trying to woo Cressida Cowper. He wants to marry her."

Jaw unhinged, Benedict looked like a gaping dead fish at market and she swallowed back a giggle.

"No! Your tormentor? Truly?"

A familiar sense of dread overtook her body for a moment and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the smell of flowers of melting beeswax to reclaim her calm.

"Yes." Penelope reached for him. There was no one nearby, everyone too focused on the dance floor in the adjacent ballroom, the two of them hidden together in a little alcove at the entrance to the grand hallway. Servants passed them by, but no one of the bon ton took heed. Penelope wondered if her charm of invisibility rubbed off on whoever was near. "It kills me, Benedict. To think that she could rule over my life… But I fear my mother may try something rash to prevent it."

Benedict groaned but cupped Penelope's cheek before peeking around her to spy into the room.

"Why does it not surprise me that your mother would plan some form of subterfuge?" he muttered as sarcasm dripped from his words. "Well, I have double the reason to speak with him now." He leaned forward before rocking back on his heels, a flash of emotion crossing his face too quickly for her to recognize. "I must keep my Nel safe, after all."

My Nel.

His Nel.

Something about it left her floating around the room as she spied on others. She even felt light and airy in the face of no one asking her to dance. She chatted with Marina and Andrew amiably, all of them missing the Granvilles. It hardly phased her that Colin decided not to attend, emotionally drained from his conversation with Marina, he'd opted to spend the night alone in his room.

But poor Eloise had not been having as nearly as pleasant a time as Penelope.

"Lord." Eloise tugged on Penelope's arm, voice tight with strain. "She... She's coming towards me with a suitor."

Penelope's attention drew towards Lady Bridgerton, who escorted a tall young man with hair the color and shine of dark leather. His expression appeared a tad haughty but… Was it really Penelope's place to get in the way of Violet Bridgerton trying to find her daughter love? Yes, the woman's methods weren't at all subtle, to the point it proved painful.

But a part of Penelope envied that at least Violet Bridgerton had enough love and faith in her daughter that she tried to arrange a match.

"And what if you said yes?" Penelope asked before she stopped herself.

"To a dance?" Eloise asked incredulously, directing a baleful look at her.

"I only mean to say," Penelope started, hoping she wouldn't be skewered to death in the middle of the night by her best friend. "It'd entertain me so much for you to say yes to the dances you are offered so I might hear about them. Maybe even Sir Phillip would find it entertaining since he does not attend society functions much."

Eloise started at Sir Phillip's name, pursing her lips briefly before shaking her head furiously.

"No, no, no." Eloise tried to back away, desperate for escape. "Not even for your entertainment. Not even for dear Phillip. He'd rather hear about my progress planting an attempt at a hybrid between blackberries and bilberries–"

Before Penelope could ask exactly when Eloise started addressing Lord Crane as dear Phillip, the dowager viscountess successfully cornered them.

"Eloise," Violet chuckled, the man who resembled a skinny leather boot in tow. "I would like to introduce you to Lord Morrison."

"Miss Eloise." Lord Morrison bowed slightly, extending a gloved hand. "A pleasure. Might I have the honor?"

"Of what?" Eloise asked, purposefully obtuse.

Penelope nearly choked on her own spit at the cheek of the remark. While she claimed not to be surprised by anything Eloise did, her friend succeeded in surprising her nearly every day.

Violet chuckled again, though a nervous energy tinged the edges of the sound, as if someone had frayed a good piece of fabric.

"A dance, Eloise." Decision made, Violet turned between the lord, now looking more like a skinny stick bug, which seemed too generous a description. "Yes, I think you shall, Lord Morrison." Violet sent Eloise a look. "Remember, hosts?"

As Eloise dragged her feet across the floor, she glowered back at Penelope who giggled. Penelope couldn't help it. While she never wanted Eloise uncomfortable, seeing her friend dance could be called nothing less but entertainment. She imagined it to be the sort of dangerous show sending gladiators into the ring used to be.

"You wished to be entertained," Eloise snapped.

Penelope smiled and waved.

But everything quickly devolved into a heartbreaking chaos.

The dance started off normal enough. Eloise's clear distaste signified nothing wrong. But Penelope read her friend better than a book. The expressions Eloise made were ones Penelope had studied since she'd been nine years old, eager to keep the affections of her one and only friend.

Boredom. Shock. Outrage. Hurt.

The last emotion, Penelope convinced herself, no one could see. Not unless you truly knew Eloise.

The fifth Bridgerton child pushed herself away, dashing across the dance floor, past her mother and made an attempt to rush up the stairs.

Violet called after her daughter and Eloise bit back, like a wounded animal cornered in an alley. But the moment Violet said, "I invited Lord Morrison specifically for you. He is known to share your rebellious spirit", Penelope knew the older matron had made a mistake.

It had to be one of the hardest lessons Penelope learned, witnessed. That even a loving mother such as Violet, made horrendous mistakes.

"My rebellion is not some party dress I put on to play a part, Mama, and it's certainly not some accomplishment I've developed, like singing or painting to help me attract a suitor." Eloise choked on a sob, tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and Penelope wanted nothing more than to comfort her friend. Eloise vibrated on the stairs and Penelope thought of a little gosling who had not grown as quickly as its fellows. "I... know I am a disappointment to you. So just allow me to take my leave and go to bed."

Violet, stunned into silence, nodded mutely and Eloise turned to make a hasty exit.

Penelope vaulted forward, reached out to comfort–

"El!"

"I wish to be alone."

Hands grasped thin air and Penelope held them back to her chest. She turned to look out at the ball again, the guests with no idea that a young woman's heart had just been cracked by her mother's expectations. Penelope expected Eloise would find more kindred spirits if she were to talk to the same debutantes yesterday about her experience in that moment.

Amongst the indistinct chatter, the stringed instruments, and the sound of clinking glasses, the youngest Featherington spotted Benedict where he said he would be. Chatting amiably with Cousin Jack and Cressida Cowper, Penelope pondered how she would tell her friend what had just transpired. If anyone would be able to comfort Eloise, surely Benedict possessed that power.

As if he knew she stared at him, Benedict met her gaze. His pupils expanded again, something about his stare caused her to freeze in place. Holding his stare a moment longer, she thought she finally recognized the look on his face.

But it couldn't be…

For Benedict Bridgerton looked nothing short of ravenous.

His eyes were that of a predator, stalking its meal as it paced across the forest floor. Or, in this case, across the marble staircase.

No, no, she interpreted the gaze all wrong. She had to have misunderstood.

What would cause Benedict Bridgerton to stare at her with such intensity?

Either way, it didn't matter. She had to inform her friend of what had happened with Eloise. He loathed being out of the loop when it came to information on a regular day, but it would kill him if he didn't know about his sister when she needed him. She took one last look at Benedict, staring into his blue-green eyes, and nodded once before hurrying down the stairs.

Effortlessly, her older friend continued his conversation with Cousin Jack and Cressida, his charming smile never fading from his face. Penelope marveled at it, how easily he slipped on a mask in order to blend into society events. He didn't seem to loathe the balls and parties, not entirely, but she knew he much preferred more bohemian or free gatherings at the Granvilles' and other parties where who he was didn't matter.

Penelope enjoyed society events in the sense that she enjoyed watching people, observing how other people lived their every day existence. The gossip, wrapped into someone's everyday life, felt like opening a present and peaking into another person's little world. Eloise had been right, she enjoyed it all.

Though, she grew increasingly less nonchalant about never being asked to dance. At least, by anyone who wasn't a friendly Bridgerton or a relative, anyway.

As she descended, she noticed her mother speaking to a pouting Prudence, their eyes also locked on where Cousin Jack stood conversing with Benedict and Cressida. Some sort of instinct took hold of Penelope and, as quietly as she could, she circumnavigated to come up behind her mother, just far enough away to not be noticed. The only one who took quick notice of her was Benedict. She put a single finger to her lips when he raised a curious eyebrow. With a nearly imperceptible tilt of his head, he returned to listening to Jack.

"Cousin Jack has not looked twice at me all evening," Prudence whined and Penelope resisted the urge to snort.

"You are excited," Portia soothed, though Penelope recognized the tone well. It was one her mother used when attempting to sway a situation a certain way. "You need to calm yourself if you are to attract interest. Why do you not take a walk to the orangery? Breathe in the fragrant air. It has always helped me."

Once again, Penelope had to fight down a combination between snorting and choking on her own saliva. Of all the things in the world her mother had been, a lover of green things and 'fragrant air' certainly was not one of them.

Prudence pondered this for a second before replying, "Mmm. I am hungry. Perhaps I shall purloin an orange?"

"Yes, of course. Now, make haste, dear."

Penelope watched as her mother shooed Prudence away, waited a few moments, and then calmly approached the trio still conversing not too far away. She cursed. She could not approach behind her mother without Jack or Cressida saying something, even if Benedict stayed tight lipped. Portia talked for only a moment, fluttering her hands and rubbing her temple in that way that signaled to Penelope her mother was up to something.

And nothing her mother plotted could be any good. Not when it came to Prudence and Jack.

Once her family members disappeared, Cressida persisted with an attempt to engage Benedict in conversation. But, bless him, he sensed she needed him and he scurried over to Penelope's side. She felt tempted to shoot Cressida a triumphant grin.

"Benedict," she hissed. "What did my mother say?"

"Something or other about meeting Lord Fife in the orangery about business." She groaned and Benedict touched her elbow, concern radiating off him like heat from the sun. "Nel, is everything alright?"

"I think Mama is trying to entrap Jack with Prudence!" she squeaked, dragging him towards the orangery. "We must stop her!"

"But– But he's your cousin!"

"Trust me, we have gone over that particular tidbit many times with Mama, and it does not seem to matter." Benedict's long strides soon outpaced her, and he took charge, his hand taking hers as he led her out of the room, down an empty hallway and through a side garden. "She'll do anything to ensure Cressida does not become lady of the house!"

"I suppose we should be thankful she targeted your most vapid sister instead of yourself." Benedict's hand was hot in her own, making her fingers moist under her gloves. "If she had targeted you, I would have gone mad with worry."

"She knows I would ask too many questions," Penelope huffed as they both dashed through the wet grass, the glow of candlelight sparkling from inside the glass walls of the orangery ahead.

Even though he'd pulled slightly ahead of them in their chase, he shot a wide grin at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way she adored.

"My clever Nel."

Penelope's stomach swooped, though she blamed it on nearly tripping over an errant rock. They practically burst through the back glass doors of the orangery, the bright, heady smell of citrus swamping them where they stood. Prudence and Jack were just ahead of them by ten feet, inspecting a little orange tree, Cousin Jack a respectful foot apart.

Penelope opened her mouth to call, to yell, to do something…

But her mother's voice, loud and purposeful, filled the space. From the corner of her eye, she saw Portia waltz through the side entrance from Aubrey Hall, arms wide as if she regularly played the tour guide to the Bridgerton ancestral home.

"I took a tour earlier and you must see the orangery. The scent of the jasmine is absolutely ambrosial." Then her mother gasped dramatically, hand over heart, and Penelope groaned. They were too late. A white-gloved hand pressed gently over her mouth, Benedict's arm wrapped around her shoulders, pushing her back into his hard chest.

"Shhhh," he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. "Or we'll be caught too."

"Lord Featherington, what are you doing in a room with my unchaperoned daughter?" Her mother asked, looking for all the world like a woman affronted, positively indignant.

Then again, Penelope thought, her mother was indignant most of the time. It would not be too hard to act out.

"I found Prudence in here, and neither of us were…" Jack started, though Penelope already knew he would not be able to charm his way out of this predicament.

Honestly, she pitied him.

"Do not blame her," her mother continued, cheeks red with supposed fury. Penelope had to admit, her mother would have made an incredible actress in another life. "She is but an innocent girl, unknowing of the ways of an older gentleman."

The argument went on and Benedict, forgetting his own warning to be quiet, murmured, "I mean, is not your Cousin technically her guardian and he could act as chaperone? I feel as if there is some sort of loophole…"

Penelope rolled her eyes and, since he still had a hand over her mouth, stepped back on his toe.

"Ow! Nel…"

She shot him a look that clearly stated, Be quiet, you lanky buffoon.

Luckily, he understood as he mimed locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key.

Their attention was diverted when a lord asked, "Well, are you to marry the girl, then, Featherington?"

"What?" Jack sputtered and Penelope would have said the same thing if Benedict's hand hadn't stopped her.

Tempted to lick it just to see if he would remove the appendage, in the end she decided against it. Surely Benedict would reveal their location with a yelp of disgust. Really, he was one of her closest friends. However, if anyone stood to be caught in a sticky situation such as this, it had to be him, she thought fondly.

"As a man of honor," Lady Kinswick said, her beady stare challenging. "He is hers in honor, should she wish it."

Aghast, Penelope watched her sister begin to bounce with unrestrained excitement. She and Benedict shared a look of dawning horror when they realized they not only failed, but that Prudence had absolutely no idea she'd been used in her mother's scheme. All too aware her sister emulated their mother in all ways except cunning, Penelope grew devastated. Prudence had been nothing but a pawn. But, worse, in a way Penelope knew that Portia had done what she thought best for the family.

"Oh!" Prudence exclaimed, giggling excitedly. "Oh my! Oh, I would be delighted to marry you, Cousin Jack."

"Stop calling him that," Benedict moaned quietly, just as Penelope had the same thought.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Benedict backed them out the way they came, back through the garden and towards the ball, trudging through the dark. She didn't bat an eyelash when they returned to holding hands, though Benedict walked at an even pace with her.

"Why?" he asked, his voice oddly loud in the silence. Nothing but the occasional hoot of an owl, the rustling of trees, or faint, faraway laughter and music filled the night. "Why would your mother purposefully do that?"

"Because ceding control to any woman that is not herself is unbearable," Penelope replied automatically, having thought long and hard on the subject. "Even though we, separate from Jack, have no fortune to speak of, she had taken on being head of the household. She's known nothing but failure, I think, from my late father. And she hates the idea of letting anyone else run our lives."

"Yet she has no problem, no issue with controlling her daughters like pieces on a chessboard? As long as it is her and not someone else?"

Beautiful, bruising warmth filled Penelope at his words, at his frustration on her behalf. Even on her sister's behalf. To Penelope, it meant more, was valued more, than all the diamonds or platitudes in the world.

"Yes," she said simply, daring to look up at him. The shadow of night made his blue-green eyes appear like twin pools of darkness, a piece of the ocean where Scylla and Charybidis hid. "Your mother makes mistakes. In fact, she made one with Eloise earlier. One I shall tell you about. But Violet Bridgerton, I believe wholeheartedly, would never entrap any of you in a loveless marriage for gain."

His fingers tightened around hers, the expression on his face unreadable. She felt like she'd been tossed into a perilous position, but for the life of her, she had no idea why.

"Your mother is a rarity." Penelope craned her neck to look at the sky, still dotted with clouds, though she spotted a few twinkling stars come into view. "I think you Bridgertons forget how unique and wonderfully strange you are."

Benedict hadn't known what to say when Penelope pointed out a fact he already knew but seemed to constantly forget; the Bridgerton family proved terribly strange in how much they loved each other. They were odd, never fit the mold, because their mother and eldest brother actually cared about their happiness. They never sought to use them for more status or gain. The privilege of their wealth and title kept them fairly insulated from society's scorn over the peculiarity.

But most families, including the Featheringtons, weren't so lucky.

So, unsure what to do, Benedict changed the subject.

"You said something happened with El."

Penelope told him, every cringeworthy moment, of Eloise's humiliation. For it had been nothing short of an embarrassing situation for his sister, to be forced to constantly try to find something she wasn't ready for, to be shoved into a box that didn't fit her, and to be constantly compared to her elder sister.

He knew his mother never meant to hurt Eloise's feelings, to make her feel less than, but sometimes she didn't know when to stop pushing. After Edmund's death and when she'd gotten past her dark mourning period, the romance she'd shared with their father had been placed on a pedestal. Untouchable, unbreakable, the epitome of what marriage should be.

Sometimes he wondered, if his father was still alive, whether their mother would be as frenzied about finding them all love matches.

Together, he and Penelope made their way past the party again towards Eloise's bedroom. The door was shut, and he could hear quiet sniffling just beyond the wooden barrier.

"El?" he called out, wrapping his knuckles softly on the door. "Nel and I are here, if you want to talk. She– she told me what happened with Mother."

Nothing but sniffles, the screech of a chair across wood, and the shuffle of feet answered him.

"El, surely– Surely you know, you are not a disappointment," Benedict tried. Penelope nodded, encouraging him to continue. "I know it feels impossible, being compared to Daph. But Mother loves you, and she will understand this is not the right way to encourage you. You are different from Daph but in the best way. Intelligent, brave, and the best shooter." He stroked the grain of the wooden door with one, long forefinger, smiling at the memory of their father showing Eloise how to look down the end of a rifle for the first time. "Quite honestly, I confess I am glad you show no interest in the marriage mart. None of those dullards deserve you."

There was a pause and he thought he hear something heavy resting against the door, like a tiny body placing all of its leaden weight for support.

"Thank you," he heard, Eloise's voice crawling through the cracks. "But I wish to be alone."

Eloise waited until she heard her brother and best friend's footsteps fade away before returning to her desk. She plopped down as if filled with tons of sandbags. Everything felt heavy, her limbs hardly wished to move. She'd practically torn off her dress before replacing it with a well-worn dressing gown, heavy and made of cream-colored cotton. The skin around her eyes swelled with irritation, red and puffy.

While she did not doubt that, to Benedict and Penelope, she hadn't been a disappointment, when it came to her mother…

It felt like she could never measure up.

Daphne's season had not exactly gone according to plan, but the end result had been all of what their mother wanted; Daphne in a love match, starting a family.

What seemed even worse was that Eloise could hardly bear any ill-will towards Daphne herself. Her elder sister had been integral in raising her and even though they often disagreed, there was a solidarity between them that only sisters could have. Even when, sometimes, Eloise loved nothing more than the thought of pulling all of Daphne's perfect, strawberry-blonde hair out.

Pulling out the scrap of parchment she'd begun to write a letter on, she thought once again on how different the mother she knew was to the woman her maternal grandfather had portrayed when she had been small.

Her grandfather, Lord Ledger, had died only 5 months before her father. But she remembered sitting on his knee when they visited him, being told how all of them had gotten their mother's wit and curiosity. "Brains," he had called her, affectionately, which he alternated with "Beauty." As she'd grown older, she'd attempted to find the girl who had asked to take advanced mathematics within her mother's face, some version of herself that had taken joy in gaining knowledge and asking questions, not blathering on about true love and family.

Eloise loved her mother. She did. Which had been why it hurt all the more that the family matron kept thrusting Eloise into situations she just…did not want.

Eloise didn't necessarily find herself attracted or even liking many people. At times, she wondered whether something had been born wrong inside her, that she couldn't seem to form attachments like others. Because she'd been born so close in age to Francesca, she had wondered whether their otherness came from the same source. Eloise's difficulty with forming friendships seemed not all that different to Francesca's aversion of crowds and noise that wasn't music.

But, somehow, she knew she would never find the answer to that question.

With a sigh, she dipped her quill into her pot of ink to continue her letter. For some reason, she thought Sir Phillip may well understand her sentiments.

Benedict felt hopeless, useless. The most awful feeling in the world, he'd discovered young, had been when he failed to help a sibling. He knew for many years that not all problems could be solved with a little conversation and a firm embrace. But he had been hoping it would fix Eloise's distressed cries. At least a little.

Because short of challenging Lord Morrison to a duel, he had no idea how to cheer his sister up.

"Come, Benedict," Penelope muttered, pulling him away by his coat. "She needs some time to gather her thoughts. She will come to us."

So he followed the little love of his life down the stairs and back to the festivities. Without much fanfare, he asked for a dance. And with a quiet smile that made his heart beat like war drums in his chest, she accepted.

It had been by complete accident that they danced the close, intimate steps of a waltz .

But, to Benedict, it seemed a crime that the people around them didn't take one notice of them together on the floor. No heed given, no look askance. Penelope deemed invisible, unworthy of a Bridgerton's attentions even as he held her close, palm pressed to the base of her spine.

How had no one in attendance, except Daphne and the Wetherbys, noticed how lovestruck he'd been?

Being in love with Penelope felt akin to learning a new way to swim. He knew how, had known since his father had taught him as a boy in a nearby lake. Strong, powerful strokes, alternating where he took breaths – it had always been familiar, comfortable even. But he recalled his father teaching him a new stroke, one where he swam on his back, and suddenly the world he knew slipped upside down. The water had been the same, the familiar, cool embrace of a lake in summer, dappled light falling through the same familiar trees. But all of a sudden it was all topsy-turvy, and though in his head he knew what to do, the combination of old and new, habit and new skill, muddled his thoughts until it was an invigorating, terrifying, exciting mess.

Her friendship, loyalty, laughter, even her cunning – familiar, safe.

But the overpowering desire that threatened to overtake him, how her qualities now seemed amplified in their power over him, their sway over him, the more he knew of her frightened him excessively.

Yet the thought of anything else, of emptiness, hurt more.

The music swelled as they stepped, turned, spun. Neither said anything and yet, it wasn't uncomfortable. They stayed silent because after the solarium, after the revelation of Portia's successful trap to have Prudence marry Jack, after poor Eloise felt her most unloved and broken…

Silence spoke louder than anything else. They cherished the silence, gifted it to one another. Because this silence heralded that neither of them were alone. Their arms, the compassion that shone in their faces was enough.

As the music ended, Benedict opened his mouth to speak, words attempted to come to life as he straightened from his bow.

"Nel–"

"Ah, my friends, may we cut in?"

Benedict barely bit back a scowled he turned to face the Wetherbys.

"Apparently my wife and I have abysmal timing," Andrew drawled as he led Penelope through a quadrille . "I saw my life flash before my eyes. I was quite certain the most amicable Bridgerton brother would be arrested for my murder this night."

"Oh stop," Penelope admonished lightly, tapping his shoulder lightly with her fingers. "Benedict wouldn't hurt a soul. Well, unless they set out against his siblings. I believe they are his only exception for violence."

"Really? They are the only people in this world he would commit an act of violence for?"

"And against," Penelope quipped, stepping lightly across the floor. She really was quite a light footed dancer. "Oh, and his mother, of course."

"Of course," Andrew muttered, wondering how in the blazes this woman, his incredibly cunning cousin by marriage, remained so wholeheartedly blind to Benedict's ardor.

It baffled him, truly. Bowled him over with… Well, the stupidity of it.

When he'd fallen in love with Henry Granville, he'd dramatically banged upon the Granville's door at four in the morning during a terrible winter storm. It'd been like something out of a fairytale, until Lucy answered the door and he had to shyly ask his lover's wife if he could have alone time with Henry to stutter out a mad, romantic declaration.

Lucy, wonder that she was, had the servants warm him up the spiced and sweetened liquid chocolate from the Americas, dragged Henry into the drawing room, locked the door, and left to Gen's for several hours before coming home to let them out again.

The point had not been how outlandish Andrew's declaration of love had been. No. That had never been the point.

It was the fact that the moment Andrew knew Henry was the love of his life, he'd acted.

But everyone around the couple, all of the friends who had known Benedict and Penelope more closely than he until the past year, simply accepted that these two would be maddeningly slow about the whole rigamarole.

Even Marina, his darling wife, had patted his cheek in simple sympathy one evening as they sat up in bed discussing why it took so damn long for Benedict to admit his love.

"I think the Bridgertons are a tad slow, dear husband," had been all Marina said before proposing an idea about breeding one of their mares with a stallion some merchant had just put on the market.

They shared a bed at night for sleep and, although neither would ever feel anything sexual for the other, it proved a comfort to the both of them. Marina, at times, woke up with nightmares about George's peril on the battlefield and Andrew soothed her when they settled to sleep again. He didn't feel guilty about it. In fact, Henry and Lucy shared their own bed for sleep. At times, Andrew couldn't help but laugh that the relationship their little group of friends and lovers had was far more trusting and amicable then the traditional marriages that pervaded the ton.

But Andrew grasped vainly at the threads of reasoning as to why Benedict continued to wait. Marina had said something about Penelope once being in love with Colin Bridgerton, but as hard as Andrew tried to puzzle that connection out, he couldn't see it.

He saw how Penelope fell in love for a man like Colin Bridgerton. Despite the man's naivety, his need to be needed, he seemed a well-meaning, kind, affable man.

But for as long as Andrew had known Penelope, he had seen the way she looked at Benedict. He remembered that day in the Featherington drawing room vividly, the women still wrapped in the robes, hair frazzled and askew. Benedict beheld the youngest Featherington girl with a reverence usually reserved for the most beautifully rendered art piece, or even a place of worship.

It wasn't that Benedict seemed to hold Penelope up on a pedestal. No. If anything, the man loved the little writer partially because of her flaws.

And when Penelope gazed back?

Her sky blue eyes gave Benedict respect, trust, and affection. All of the things necessary to to entrust someone with your very life, your very soul.

Needless to say, ire drove him to the brink of madness that the clueless pair could not see what stood before them

"The pair of you may send me to the madhouse," Andrew muttered as they turned in time with the music.

Penelope's lips turned into a pout and Andrew chortled, seeing how Benedict gave into her so easily. Luckily for Andrew, the only ones who could trick him with a look were his children and dear Henry.

"What do you mean?"

Andrew hummed, deciding whether he should confess his thoughts. But he knew sometimes, not everyone was ready to hear the truth. Especially when they had little faith in themselves.

"You and my wife, of course. You both are incredibly…stubborn. Must be a family trait."

Penelope joined him in laughter and he wondered whether Marina's conversation would prove more fruitful than his own.

"It seems I am destined to parcel out advice to half of the Bridgerton brothers for free this weekend," Marina remarked as Benedict led her around the floor.

"What?"

The man startled like a hunting dog who had been caught lusting after a bone his master had already said he could not have.

Refusing to hide her exasperation, Marina rolled her eyes while Benedict attempted to return to staring at her cousin dancing in her husband's arms.

"I am remarking upon how the Bridgerton brothers are either rather thick-skulled or it is only your sisters who have been blessed with any semblance of intelligence."

The way Benedict's mouth opened and closed like a fish satisfied her greatly, even more so when he tripped just enough that she had to right him for a moment.

"You spare your barbs for no one, Marina."

"I do not suffer fools," she stated simply. "Though you would be less of one if you simply confessed to my cousin."

The tall man's answering flush would have been considered adorable by most women but Marina simply tucked how he flustered away for later. She had every intention, when the man finally did confess, of telling Penelope all the little moments the second Bridgerton had made himself look mad in his love for the young redhead.

"N-Not so loud!"

"Are you not proud to love her? Are you ashamed?" Marina smirked when she knew she hit her mark, as Benedict spun her a tad too quickly. "I tell you, I shall not abide anyone who does not intend to honor my cousin the way she deserves."

"Of course I take pride in her. I'm not ashamed. I–" The man actually looked at a loss for words, which certainly struck Marina as a particularly rare happenstance. Whether out in society, gatherings at the Granvilles', or invitations for tea at Wetherby House, Benedict always seemed to quite easily recover from embarrassment. Even when he stuttered, the man eventually found the right words to worm himself back into someone's good graces. It helped that he seemed to be an empathetic man.

But something about his love for Penelope left him a little lost, aimless, like a child lost in the woods. Marina recalled that feeling well with a nasty pang in her heart. For weeks she'd felt like she could barely navigate the everyday routines of her life until George had taken her hand in his and joined her on the path. His confession provided a road map. One that, undoubtedly, had been difficult to read and at times felt impossible to navigate. But two people had always been better than one.

"I cannot officially speak on my Pen's feelings, she is tight-lipped about them." Marina sighed, a bit melancholic by her next admission. "Even with me. She fears change. But you will never know unless you ask her. Say something to her and be patient."

"How can one be patient when seeking out love?"

"Because not every path to love is straight and narrow." She eyed Benedict warily for a moment. His grip upon waist was light, chaste even, and how he held her hand was warm as he led the dance. He wasn't as nimble as her husband, or her husband's lover Henry, but he felt secure. Someone one could trust to not let them fall. By that same token, the man before her had no idea what his potential was, his purpose. All Bridgerton men, except the eldest, seemed to be consumed with the idea of finding some calling just so they did not languish away upon their piles of money.

It was noble to try and find a passion. Something that fulfilled them. But Marina grew up on the lower rung of high society. She'd worked on her family's actual farm. The Bridgertons may try to find meaning in being an artist, a traveler, a poet, a writer… but she knew the idea of becoming farmers, merchants, doctors, or fishermen never crossed their minds.

When they were consumed by those thoughts, they couldn't seem to love properly. She'd seen signs of it in Colin. His desire to be a hero was not love, though he believed it to be. And she feared no matter how much Benedict loved Penelope, he could never truly honor her until he grew confident in himself, his path, and shucked off his own insecurities.

"Just because your path to falling in love was shorter, does not mean anyone else's will be. Including the object of your affections," Marina continued, hoping her words did not fall upon deaf ears. "You are older, more experienced. Pen must discover things in her own time."

"I would never rush her," Benedict insisted, agitated and pink around the ears.

"No," Marina conceded. "But that does not mean you would not rush yourself forward if you did not receive the answer you wanted."

And that you might not look back.

As the dance finished and Marina curtseyed, lifting her lavender skirts, she earnestly prayed to be wrong.

Penelope went up the marble staircase again, having already agreed to meet Benedict out in the grounds, a tree that stood tall not too far from the stables where they could talk alone. But on her way up to make it appear as if she headed to bed, she spotted Prudence. She gulped but decided to approach her sister. She had a right to know that she was being used as part of a wild plan to keep their mother in charge of the household.

"I cannot believe you are now betrothed, Sister." Penelope tried to smile but it felt brittle. "And to Cousin Jack."

"Do not be jealous," Prudence sniffed, lifting her nose in the air with all of the haughtiness she could muster.

"I am not jealous. Prudence," Penelope scoffed. Urgently, she grabbed her sister's elbow, willing her to understand. "Prudence, it would be a scandal if what happened were true, but even worse if Whilstledown found out it was due to Mama–"

"Oh, what a scandal. Do you think Whistledown will write about it?" Zounds, Prudence seemed thrilled by the prospect. "Of course she will. How could she not?"

Penelope followed her older sister as she turned to move up the stairs, trying to keep up with her long legs. Her pink skirts attempted to tangle around her thighs but Penelope pressed on, "If she does– Prudence, if Whistledown writes the full story, it's not some insult about our citrus dresses! It could ruin our family. It could ruin you. It could ruin Mama. We could be run out of town."

Spinning on her heel, Prudence turned her nose down on Penelope. In that moment, Penelope knew without a doubt that she hadn't gotten through to Prudence. She never stood a chance of getting through to her older sister. Vain, vapid, and all because she craved the love and attention every single Featherington sister needed.

"Oh my. You truly are jealous," Prudence scoffed, a cruel smirk overtaking her pretty face. "If this was Mama's doing, there is no way Whistledown could know. Now my name will appear in Whistledown, and you... You will be just as you are now."

"Prudence…"

"Ah-ah." Smoothing out the aide of her dark, auburn hair, Prudence gave one last parting shot before leaving Penelope on the steps. "I believe it is "Lady Featherington" now, to you."

Resisting the urge to scream, Penelope counted to ten, inhaling and exhaling, the smell of flowers slowly dying in the heat of the grand house filling her nostrils.

Benedict sat at the base of a great elm tree in the garden. It was far enough away that no one at the house could see them, but close enough that they could see the path that led to the rows of pretty hyacinths his mother had cultivated every spring and summer. Yet it hid the nearby stables where their steeds were kept. Rapscallion and Nectar, who he still needed to rename because, blast it, Nectar would not be the name of any of his horses, rested in the stables along with Anthony's own stallion.

Penelope, next to him on the ground, reclining against the tree's great trunk, had finished relaying her encounter with Prudence.

"She does not seem to care that our Mama manipulated her as long as she is married," she exclaimed, tearing little blades of grass to shreds. "Oh, it infuriates me!"

"I am sorry, Nel," Benedict said and he meant it. "I wish I could do something."

"Did you find out what you wish about my cousin?" Penelope asked.

Benedict frowned, trying to decide how to answer. He certainly refused to lie to Penelope, but by that same token, he didn't want to raise suspicion where there might be none. After his conversation with Andrew the day before, Benedict had more questions than answers.

Apparently, rubies could be mined in the United States, though only in one, specific spot in the state of North Carolina. Andrew admitted it could be possible there were more, but much of the Americas continued to be unexplored. Benedict swore that Jack had claimed his mines were in Georgia. So he'd set out to interrogate the new Lord Featherington more that night about his mining fortune.

The man had been… Well, suave. He answered every one of Benedict's probing questions with ease, plausible answers, and so much confidence that, if the stuff could be bottled, it would certainly fill at least a tavern full of tankards. Digging up more on Jack Featherington's past would be required, though he was unsure where to start.

"Rubies can be mined in the south of the United States," Benedict said carefully. "Though the only known mine is in North Carolina."

Penelope frowned and Benedict stamped out the impulse to smooth out the wrinkles in her brow. While he hadn't been following Daphne's advice to the letter, he was determined to do better. More secure locations and, unless absolutely sure they were alone, less touching.

But he could never stay away from her completely.

"I am so sorry, Benedict."

Head swiveling towards her so fast his brain rattled in his skull, Benedict immediately replied, "What for? Nel, you have nothing to apologize for."

"My family appears to always be causing a mess. And you have been dragged into it simply because, one day, you caught me as Whistledown and feel responsible for me."

"Nel," Benedict said sternly, fisting his fingers in the cool, damp grass so he could not give into temptation and pinch the dimple of her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I chose to keep your secret. I chose to be your friend. Do not mistake what I do for you as mere obligation I–" He swallowed. "I do all that I can for you because I care."

"But you should be focusing on your art!" Penelope exclaimed and Benedict suddenly remembered.

The Royal Academy acceptance. He'd forgotten to tell Penelope. How could he forget?

He knew, of course. He had forgotten because he'd been so exhilarated just to see her.

"Be careful what you wish for." He gave in and tweaked her nose. "I have been accepted into the Royal Academy to pursue art."

She blinked up at him for a moment before she squealed. Lurching forward with abandon, she embraced him around the middle and he exhaled a breath that he had not known he held. His heart sailed in his chest, frozen in stasis, a painful joy halting the organ's function until she released him again.

"Oh, Benedict, how wonderful! I'm so happy for you."

"Do not get too excited on my behalf, I could be awful."

"They must have seen promise in your work if they accepted you."

And there she had it, echoing his own words back to him. He may have been more off kilter than drunken fiddlers when he'd said it, but it was a hope he still kept close to his chest.

"I can only hope," he breathed.

He studied her for a moment, tracing an invisible line between the corner of her right eye, down the curve of her cheek and to her plump lips. Marina's words flew around in his brain and he knew he may come off mad, that Penelope may think he had bats in the belfry. But the words couldn't be choked down any longer. The past few days with her, pondering his feelings, Colin, what she may think, it weighed so heavily in his chest. Something had to come out. Anything. A single answer to a single question–

"Are you still in love with Colin?"

Later, much later that year, Benedict realized that had been the wrong question.

Nothing but her wide, sky blue eyes answered him, round like a doe caught at the end of a rifle's sight.

What was it Shakespeare said? Silence was the perfect herald of joy?

Well, Claudio had always been a fool, for Benedict took in Penelope's silence as dread admission, utter despair.

She was still in love with Colin.

The night air of Aubrey Hall grew thick around them in the garden, nothing but the hoot of an owl reaching them. He could either look at her stricken face or out to the spot where his father had been felled by nothing more than a tiny beast. It was heartbreak upon heartbreak.

He was the fool. To think that Penelope would simply get over Colin, even after last season, even after Colin continued to worry over her cousin's welfare instead of hers, and even after Benedict spent the evening of the ball by her side, basking in how beautiful she was and both livid and grateful no one else seemed to notice.

He should've known she'd not get over Colin so easily.

For even as his heart became battered and bruised by her continued silence, he loved her all the same.

He thought he'd known the pain that was a broken heart when Lady Danbury had rejected his suit all those years ago. He'd known nothing.

He hadn't even thrown his hat in the ring this time and yet he still felt rejected ten times over. It was agony, believing she might never feel the same.

He stood up suddenly, the threads on his fine waistcoat and shirt catching on the bark of the tree, tearing slightly, but he didn't care. He needed to drown himself in alcohol or sleep.

"We should retire. It's incredibly late."

"Benedict—"

"Come. To bed."

"But—"

"Let us go, Penelope."

He saw her flinch from the corner of his vision and he screwed his eyes shut in self-loathing. He hadn't called her that alone for a year now.

Cursing himself, he bent down to take her hand, hauling her up before leading her across the grounds.

They said nothing and it was incredibly ominous, almost final, and Benedict had to blink back the sting in his eyes. Selfishly, he refused to let go of her small, delicate hand until the very last moment, when they parted ways on the second floor hallway.

Benedict knew in that moment that, just like the bastard Claudio, he was too scared, too wrung to seek the truth with his own words. Too terrified that she might confirm his horrified musings aloud. So he held his bleeding heart close as she slipped her fingers from his.

He was a fool.

After he'd made sure Penelope made it safely to her room, Benedict found himself in the nursery alone, with nothing but a pilfered body of whiskey and the waning moon for company. He sat in the window seat, despairing over his own cowardice, his stupidity.

Penelope still loved Colin, he was sure of it. She'd stilled under the question, as if embarrassed that her unrequited love had been thrown in her face.

He knew the feeling well.

Marina's words about being patient surfaced but he recklessly pushed them away. He wanted nothing more than to wallow, to release all of his self-pity now so he could face Penelope tomorrow with a smile upon his face.

But as he thought upon her, taking sip after burning sip of alcohol, liquid fire cascading down his throat, another heat began to build in his lower belly.

She'd been radiant that night, her pink dress hugging her figure, pushing her breasts up and out. Her flaming, ember hair clashed with the color, but it didn't matter. She had been gorgeous to him, tinted cheeks and pink, plush lips that begged to be kissed…

With an agonized groan, he let his hand wander lower, lower until he took himself in hand at the thought of her. He imagined what it would have been like if, under the shaded branches of the elm tree, he had confessed his love and she'd reciprocated. If he had taken one of her lovely breasts in hand and squeezed, how his body would have lit up faster than a forest fire if he had pressed himself against her, body against his…

He knew what she felt like against him, back to his front. But he wanted nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, caress her head on…

With a shudder, he felt his release at the thought. As instantaneous as the pleasure had been, shame swamped him in the next awful moment.

That had to be the one and only time he allowed himself such a luxury, such a sinful bit of ecstasy.

She did not love him.

"I cannot have her like that," he whispered before choking on a pitiful sob. "I-I can never–"

Benedict drained the rest of the whiskey bottle before letting desolation rock him to sleep.

Penelope idled on the front steps of Aubrey Hall, the clouds in the sky refusing to abate. It felt ominous again, like another warning from the heavens that more was to come. She peered around, waiting for Benedict and Eloise to come and say goodbye. Most of the ton had departed already but Penelope deliberately slowed in her packing to delay as long as possible.

Chewing her lip she thought of last night. How she'd frozen when Benedict asked about her feelings for Colin, how he'd all but ran away from her when she couldn't answer.

The truth of the matter had been, simply put, Penelope hadn't known how to answer. She had spent the whole weekend in utter confusion, unable to ascertain why her feelings for Colin were so different from before. Similar, but different. While with Benedict, something new stirred to life inside her. It made no sense, but even more so, she could not make sense of Benedict's own reaction.

Was he insulted on behalf of Colin? That she took too long to answer and, therefore, saw it as meaning she did not care for Colin? Or had it been something else? Something more personal?

She had believed the most complicated issue for the season would be continuing Lady Whistledown. And yet, the strange swirl of emotions in her chest resembled that of gale force winds, ripping up everything in its path until one could not tell some bit of debris from another.

"Pen!"

Colin skipped down the steps to her side, much more jovial than he had been the past few days. Despite the war that raged within her, she couldn't help but smile.

"Colin," she said, unnervingly sure of herself. "We missed you at the ball last night."

And she meant it. While she had been preoccupied with all of the insanity of the evening, she had missed her friend.

Her friend.

"Yes. I fear I was not feeling up to it."

"After talking with Marina and Andrew?" Penelope bit the inside of her cheek then, though she spared a glance around the stairs and front gravel once more to see if Benedict or Eloise arrived. "I hope I did not push you too hard."

"No, not at all." Colin shrugged good-naturedly. "It helped, actually. I needed to move one. Marina was right. There is no use dwelling on the past. I am, indeed, thinking of the future."

A slight breeze ruffled their clothes but Penelope felt steady and sure in her interaction with Colin. For a moment, she had not understood what the easiness meant.

Until she realized that all of the clear, pure goodness she felt was that of friendship. And it made her breathe more easily.

"I am so glad to hear that, Col."

His answering smile could be described as nothing short of genial. He excused himself and, before Penelope could even turn, Benedict and Eloise took his place.

"I am sorry about last night," Eloise said, taking Penelope's arm and laying a cheek upon her shoulder. "I needed time on my own to gather my wits about me."

"I understand, El." Penelope laid her own cheek upon Eloise's head, a familiar gesture of love and trust between them. But she sought out Benedict, nervous, confused–

But Benedict shot her one of his usual smiles. Penelope blinked and, for a second, she could have sworn it had faltered a moment.

"Eloise will have to work on her communication skills, I fear," he teased.

Eloise's face remained carefully blank when she removed herself from Penelope's side just so she could kick Benedict's ankle.

"Ow! Now that is just–"

"Come, we have guests to say farewell and good riddance to," Eloise said, descending down the stairs in the most elegant huff Penelope had ever seen.

"Did you see how she attacked me?" Benedict whined. Pushing out his lower lip, he gave Penelope what she imagined he thought was an irresistible pout.

But she simply shook her head and said, quite flippantly, "I did not see a thing. Are you accusing El of violence? She would never. "

They both laughed boisterously the whole way down the stairs and, for a few minutes, the world seemed to right itself into its proper place again.

Penelope, Benedict, and Eloise were wishing the Wetherbys a safe journey home when everything went to hell in a handbasket.

It had not been bad, per say.

Just terribly intriguing.

They watched in shock and bewilderment as Anthony rushed down the steps, past a stunned Miss Kate Sharma, and to an even more surprised Miss Edwina. Dropping to one knee, the man proposed for everyone to see, and based on the expressions the people around her wore, no one had expected this.

Based on Miss Kate's face, as if something had fractured within her own person, she had expected this least of all. But Miss Edwina's joy could not be drowned out, and Anthony's answering stoic sort of satisfaction made the girl content.

But Penelope looked at her friends, one by one, until she stared at Benedict.

He knew what she thought, she was sure of it. Knew she would write about this in Whistledown and, in her own way, sought his permission, his guidance.

Benedict answered with a wink.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

While much occurred at the Bridgerton country visit, this author feels not all is fit to print. Especially when so much is already known by far too many members of the ton. But if you thought we would reach the end of this journey without this trusted author finding a truly delectable morsel of gossip, then you are sorely mistaken.

While Prudence Featherington seems to have secured her match, it was not the only occurrence of note.

Anthony Bridgerton is now betrothed to Miss Edwina Sharma.

Victory, indeed.

Chapter 14: Truth

Summary:

Some choose avoidance to solve their problems.

Some wallow...then react.

Mistakes are made by both Benedict and Penelope.

Sometimes it takes the observations and efforts of a dog, two horses, a modiste, a prostitute, some drunken artists, and the Granvilles to start getting this love story back on track.

Notes:

PLEASE READ FOR IMPORTANT INFO ON THIS CHAPTER PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...

Remember how itakethewords said you were gonna suffer, and you were gonna be happy about it?

This chapter is angst cut up with some comedy relief in the form of our favorite animals. BUT, that does not take away from the angst and inner turmoil.

Full disclosure, Benedict and Penelope make mistakes in this chapter. Benedict avoids his problems and disassociates. He uses alcohol and smoking as a crutch.

If this is triggering for you, wait until the next chapter. If you simply do not want to read angst on this day, that's okay. Wait until Chapter 16 comes out.

Yes, chapter 16. Because chapter 15 is the disaster of a wedding we all know and love. You KNOW there will be drama there.

But seriously, if you are not up for reading angst today, take care of yourself. Chapter 17 will make it all brighter, and it's all up from here!

There are some links I placed in the chapter for some historical notes from the time, specifically about a book and a play. Click on the links if you want to know more! It's quite interesting!

The Royal Academy used to be housed at Somerset House in London, on the north side of the Thames. In 1837 the academy was moved to a building in Trafalgar Square. But Benedict would have gone while it was still at Somerset House. (If you ever go to London, you should go. Beautiful building!)

Finally, I have to again thank itakethewords for her editing, graphics, but also her ability to bring angst to a scene. Penelope's depression in the scene in her drawing room was all them, that spiral of thoughts. Beautifully done!

Love y'all! And I'm sorry...

happilyinsane13 (writingwhilecaffeinated)

Hello, all.

I'd say sorry but I'm not. Just know this chapter is, to date, my favorite and I love the work we've put into this arc. Keep your cozy items handy, a comfort drink (or perhaps something stronger) next to you, and when you're done, come yell at us in the comments!

Itakethewords (velvetcoveredbrick)

Chapter Text

Humans are incredibly dumb, Nectar sighed, huffing irritably as he chewed upon his feed.

A cool spring breeze crept into the stable like a welcome surprise, cooling his legs and haunches, along with his fellows. Rapscallion pawed the ground while their new acquaintance, Newton the small dog, panted in front of their stalls, flopped onto his belly. Hay already clung to the white fur of his underbelly and Nectar wondered whether the creature's mistress would notice.

That is what I have come to discuss, Newton replied, his tongue lolling out as he gulped the night air. What we all witnessed out at your human's country house was terribly stupid.

Their country stable, Rapscallion snorted.

Humans call them houses, Newton corrected.

No matter what their homes are called, Nectar said, bending his head down over the stable wall to take a great sniff of the little hound's fur, They are all ignoring their instincts. It seems the only one they follow is fear.

I think the humans call it 'self-preservation', Rapscallion shook his white-gray mane as he grew more irritated. My human stallion made a blunder when he talked with Carrot Top, I could smell it.

It had been little Newton who had heard the conversation, using the advantage of his stubby legs to sneak behind the tree where the pair had been conversing. But Benedict and Carrot Top had been close enough to the stables that both Rapscallion and Nectar could smell the sweat that hinted at fear, anxiety, the overwhelming urge to bolt.

In short, Benedict quite clearly misinterpreted the filly's emotions before he all but galloped way. Nectar actually joined Rapscallion in biting the lanky human's rump quite a few times on the journey back to their city home.

It is not just the Man with the Cuddles and Lady Who Smells of Biscuits who are having trouble. Newton rolled onto his back and began to wriggle upon the hay and stray feed, never breaking eye contact with the large beasts of burden.

You know that humans live in a 'house' yet you cannot recall their names? It is Benedict and Carrot Top. Rapscallion stomped the ground with his hoof to make a point and Adonis, Anthony's chosen steed, glared from a few stalls over.

I like my names better, Newton replied, barking his enthusiasm. As I was saying, Arrogant Pup and my mistress Kate are blundering around like pups who don't know how to put their legs in front of them.

Anthony, Rapscallion said.

I quite like Arrogant Pup, that feels accurate, Nectar chimed in, and Rapscallion sighed resignedly. What on earth is happening between them?

Well, they are most certainly sniffing around each other as if they are interested in siring pups, but I think Arrogant Pup is technically trying to woo Kate's younger littermate.

Why does this not surprise me? Rapscallion turned in his stall, utterly exhausted. The affairs of humans were incredibly stupid. If one fancied another creature, one acted on it. Life was incredibly too short not to dive into procreating.

Maybe they would understand each other more clearly if they sniffed one another properly, like us dogs do. Newton wriggled again before rolling to flop upon his belly once more, tiny paws sticking front and backwards as if he belonged there. You really do get the measure of another dog by scenting each other's posteriors.

I have a feeling the humans would not be amenable to that particular…canine trait, Nectar offered as politely as possible. By the by, how did you get here? Your home is further afield.

I snuck out, of course, Newton barked as if that was obvious. Humans are incredibly foolish.

Rapscallion and Nectar couldn't help but sigh in agreement. Even Adonis, who'd been shamelessly eavesdropping muttered a tired, Tell me about it.

The frenzy of competition. The thrilling delight of hazarding your all. I am referring not to the lure of London's luxurious gaming halls but to a gamble with far higher stakes. Matrimony. For once that particular wager is placed, it cannot easily be undone. A fact which, I am sure, is met with both regret and sheer relief.

It had been a week since the ton returned to London from Aubrey Hall, and all that could and would be discussed were the upcoming nuptials of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Edwina Sharma. Penelope knew it would be so the minute the proposal happened. Though, in a way, she admired her older sister's efforts to make the gossip all about her own engagement.

Arm in arm, Penelope and Eloise walked through the green of Grosvenor Square. Starting from one side, they passed Prudence, who stood showing off her betrothal ring to a gaggle of fellow debutantes. Nothing could dim Prudence's pride and her fuschia pink gown somehow amplified the woman's need to show off.

Sedately walking by, Penelope practically felt the way Eloise rolled her eyes as Prudence held out her hand, flaunting the ruby ring Jack had given her.

"For goodness' sake," Eloise huffed, the powder blue satin of Eloise's dress swishing against Penelope's own daffodil yellow one. "Anyone would think our siblings had beaten Napoleon himself on the battlefield instead of finding someone with whom to dutifully march down an aisle."

Snorting before sending a sardonic smile up to the heavens, Penelope replied, "Indeed. With all the hubbub about Prudence's engagement, my mama has rather forgotten I exist." She frowned then as they continued their languid pace. "She is quite happy Cousin Jack has ensured our family's future. I must admit, so am I. But–"

"But?" Eloise questioned, raising an inquisitive eyebrow just as Prudence exclaimed, jovially, "Do not touch! You can look at it."

The two friends giggled at Prudence's antics, giving Penelope a moment of levity she hadn't felt in days. Two days ago, she'd set the flowers that operated as her signal to Benedict and Eloise that she had to deliver a column. Dutifully, Eloise had met her in the back garden but there had been no Benedict in sight.

"Duties of some kind," Eloise had muttered, rolling her eyes.

As a result, Penelope had been forced to use her new, alternative method to make a drop-off: Genevieve. With Eloise by her side, they took a hack to the modiste, much to Eloise's dastardly delight, and explained the situation to Gen.

The modiste's lips pursed upon hearing that Benedict had not accompanied them, but Penelope dismissed it. He must be busy, she'd told herself. Too nervous getting ready for his first day at the Royal Academy.

Surely that had to be why she hadn't seen him all week.

"Today is Benedict's first day at the Royal Academy. Is he well?" Penelope asked, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear.

Eloise scoffed, kicking at the pea gravel that made up their path, before turning to glare at her house across the square.

"I suppose. He had been at his bachelor's lodgings most of the week. However," Eloise squeezed the young writer's bicep between her own. "That's no excuse for not being there to help you this week!"

"It is alright. I'm sure once things are settled–"

"Do not go making excuses for my brother, Pen. Any of them." Eloise's scowl could petrify anyone on sight, Penelope was sure. She smartly decided not to point out that Eloise definitely inherited this trait from her mother. "Lord knows they make enough excuses for themselves."

Uneasily, Penelope looked around at the carefully maintained grass, the perfectly potted flowers, and the immaculate stone houses that surrounded the square. Amongst the sea of face, she kept hoping that Benedict's lanky frame, chestnut hair, and ocean-eyed smile would appear back at her. Yet, he never materialized. Something felt tenuous between them, she'd known it since the night of the Hearts and Flowers Ball. She feared, more than anything, she had somehow misstepped.

But how was she to correct a wrong if he was nowhere nearby to even inform her of her mistake?

The unbridled fear nipped at her heels during the day, while at night she was plagued by dreams. Dreams that left her body flushed and aching when she awoke, no real recollection of anything except hot breath upon her ear and calloused palms on her thighs.

It led to too much pondering and very little sleep, which Penelope knew to be a terrible combination for her moods.

"Now, forget about the imbeciles I call brothers. You were talking of your cousin?"

Penelope snapped her head out of the downward spiral her thoughts chose to take, though it did not provide as much of a distraction as she'd hoped.

"Well, I'm afraid this does involve one of your brothers." Penelope peered around and hastily pulled Eloise to an unoccupied bench. They sat, instinctively leaning their heads together. For a moment, Penelope thought that, if men were any smarter, they would learn to fear the clandestine moments of women putting their heads together.

"What has one of them done?"

"Benedict wanted to get to know Cousin Jack during the house party, so he asked some questions about Jack's time in America."

"Alright…"

"And he noticed a discrepancy." Penelope shifted uncomfortably, the cool day doing nothing to prevent the nervous beads of sweat that began to make a thin sheen upon her chest. "Cousin Jack claims his ruby mines are in Georgia. But Andrew affirmed that the only known ruby mines in the United States are in North Carolina."

Eloise crossed her leg, not giving one wit that she'd just exposed her ankle, as Penelope watched her friend furrow her brow in thought.

"Admittedly, that does not sound good. Could he simply be mixing up the… What do they call them? States?"

Shrugging, Penelope craned her neck to ensure Prudence still stood far enough away so they couldn't be overheard.

"I suppose he could have but… He resided in that part of America for so long. I cannot fathom how he would make that sort of mistake."

Suddenly, Eloise made a small fist and thumped it into the flat of her palm decisively. Which, really, only meant one thing. Penelope's best friend had made a decision for the both of them and it would be very difficult to get out of it. Extricating one's self from any plan Eloise devised usually proved fruitless. It was best to just submit.

"Well, while we take care of Whistledown, we will also have to make time to listen in on your cousin!"

"El–"

"No, Pen, listen." Eloise turned, taking Penelope's gloved hands in her own, gently but firmly. "We can take care of Whistledown and this mystery with your cousin ourselves. I am here for you, I can help you, even if others will not."

An odd combination of both warmth and dread spread through Penelope's veins like the sudden creeping of fire burning down a wick. For a moment, Penelope wondered if there was something Eloise knew that she didn't.

Wandering the brightly lit stone halls of Somerset House where the Royal Academy held its courses, Benedict felt, all at once, lost and found. Looking around for his assigned lecture hall, he tried not to appear completely green even as his eyes trailed on the various fellows sketching marble statues, holding lively debates about the superiority of oil painting over watercolor, or discussing the next show to be put on displaying student works. He felt as he imagined Colin did when he entered a new country or city; wide-eyed and full of wonder, eager to take in all that was new and enchanting.

He had to focus on this, on this new venture, purpose, or he feared he would be lost. A horrible, tight vice around his heart had been evident since that fateful night of the Hearts and Flowers Ball. If he sat too long with his own thoughts, the memory of Penelope's parted lips, the surprise on her face, the flush to her cheeks, and the insecurity in her eyes– It hurt his chest, as if a prized fighter had reached in, breaking through his ribs and unrelentingly gripping his most valued organ until it felt it might burst.

The more he kept his mind on other things, such as the Academy, the pain became a dull ache, as if a mere echo of the lovesickness that lurked within him.

It was cowardly. Deep, deep within himself he knew that.

But Benedict never claimed to be a warrior in the offices and affairs of love.

Apparently, he was more like Claudio from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing than he was his namesake. A pity.

Finally, he poked his head around a corner, spotting the studio in which he would partake in a course on sketching the human form from a live model. The courses with live models, especially female ones, were few and far between. Even at a prestigious school, propriety thrived, alive and well amongst the older artists who ran the academy, so most lessons on anatomy were done with marble statues.

Benedict inhaled deeply before stepping into the room. It was plush and mostly dark, with the platform where the model would recline lit by a well-placed skylight. Hurriedly and trying to appear like he knew what he was doing, he set up his tools at an easel next to a skinny young man who appeared like he hadn't had a good meal in days. The man had dark, dirty blonde hair that came just past his chin, and though Benedict had never seen him amongst the bon ton, his clothes were fine enough that he must've been a merchant's son.

Unrolling his set of graphite, charcoal, a vial of linseed oil, vials of pigment, and various tools to mix his paint, he grinned in brief satisfaction. As he made to remove his jacket he caught the man following his movements.

"You must be one of our new fellows," he stated plainly, as if Benedict's inexperience was a quality that could be easily sniffed out.

"Is it really so evident?" Benedict asked, a tad put-out as he folded his coat and set it down before taking his place at the easel. A stark, large bit of drawing paper had already been provided, ready for use.

"Conserve that youthful vigor. Soon you shall be just as jaded as the rest of us," his new companion replied before signaling to the front where the female model stood, shedding her robe. She made eye contact with Benedict, offering him a small smile, as if she could also sense how new he was, before settling upon the settee. "After all, one form is much like another, do you not think?"

"I do not know," Benedict said, for even as he began to sketch the woman, who was undoubtedly lovely, his mind flooded with images of Penelope's luscious curves. "I do not find that the human form from one person to another can be entirely comparable."

"I hope you are able to maintain such an outlook." His classmate never extended a hand but, instead, inclined his head towards Benedict as he continued his own work. "I'm Rupert Cartwright, by the way."

"Well, Mister Cartwright–"

Rupert coughed out a low laugh.

"Oh god, please spare me the niceties. You will soon know enough about me to make your hair curl."

The smirk that his new acquaintance sent Benedict's way told him that this was undoubtedly a fact.

"Well, then, Rupert, I'm Benedict Bridgerton."

A flash of something crossed Rupert's face. Recognition, maybe? Genevieve had often informed him blithely how his reputation preceded him. And not exactly in a positive way. At times, Benedict wondered whether it was truly his reputation or that of Anthony's. People often found them interchangeable in public, much to his chagrin.

But the moment passed and Rupert used his graphite to point to the model.

"That is Tessa. She's one of the preferred models, so you'll see much of her." Rupert drew the curved line of Tessa's body stretched out across the silk settee. "She's almost like another fellow. Shame she's not a man."

Benedict imagined the indignant retort Eloise would have if she'd heard Rupert's comment. But thinking of Eloise made him think of Nel, his Nel, and he felt as if he'd been attacked, tons of tiny lacerations stinging across his skin. Her ember-colored hair that took on the hue of the darkest autumn leaves when the shadows of night enveloped her, round cheeks inviting, the dimple in her chin the perfect place to plant his thumb–

Pinching his thigh, he threw himself into the assignment, hoping throwing himself into his art would act as a bandage upon a gaping wound.

He reached for her.

There was something incredibly tantalizing about the act of Benedict Bridgerton, hand outstretched, eager to touch her.

Penelope's breaths grew ragged and short as Benedict's hands, covered in charcoal, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, no waistcoat, cravat or any other frills in sight, reached for the hem of her dress. Kneeling before her, his ocean blue eyes glittered at her, the bits of green waving at her from the sea of pale blue. He cupped her ankles and, for some unfathomable reason, she wasn't wearing any stockings.

His hands slid up her calves, the hem of her pale yellow dress rising as he went. When he traced the backs with the pads of his fingertips before swirling circles at the back of her knee, she shivered in full-body delight.

It was as if someone had taken the sensation of chewing upon a sprig of mint, as if winter air had invaded her body and began its burn. Upon his hot hands reaching her thighs, his touch moved inward, squeezing at the thick, inner flesh, leaving smears of charcoal in his wake.

Penelope's heart stuttered in place, ready to burst as he did nothing to wipe away the black smudges. It was a sign of possession, want, and power and oh she wanted him to demonstrate it all with his touch.

That tell-tale languid smile spread across his lips, making the corners of his eyes crinkle in the way she adored. But his pupils dilated, liquid heat making the black space boil and before she knew what was happening, he pushed the fabric of her dress to tangle around her hips, his broad shoulders parted her legs, and his mouth drew forward. Licking his lips as if anticipating a luxurious meal, he leaned forward to kiss the molten core between her legs–

Penelope startled awake, breathing heavily as she peered around the depths of her light-filled room. She'd meant to use the time before the modiste to read or draft the next Whistledown, but she'd been so very tired. She laid down to take a short nap and–

Groaning in despair, she felt the evidence of her dream down below. If it had been possible, she was sure she'd just turn into a tomato with how red she had to be turning. It had been happening all week, these dreams that left her flush and full of want, though this was the first time she remembered the subject.

Benedict looked at her like she was a meal to be devoured in that dream. It was heady, intoxicating, and maybe it had been a good thing he'd been too busy this week to see her. She would hardly be able to face him in the wake of such imaginings.

But then she recalled how he stared up at her at the ball, as if he would perish from lack of having her. It caused her insides to liquify, pooling at her center.

What was happening to her?

Shaking her head emphatically, she straightened, determined to freshen up before she had to call upon her lady's maid to fix her hair before the modiste.

Maybe Gen could offer her some advice.

Benedict returned from his first day of courses at the Royal Academy in slightly higher spirits than before. Rupert, no doubt, proved to be an apathetic arse, but one which a person desired as a friend. In Benedict's experience, it always ended up fruitful to have a blunt bastard on one's side, rather than anyone else's.

Rather than go to his bachelor's lodgings where he'd been most of the week, Benedict strolled into Bridgerton House. He knew his mother would become anxious if he did not return and, though he would never admit it aloud, he missed his siblings. He loved living under the same roof as them, most of the time, because the familial chaos acted as an odd sort of talisman, something that centered him, buffered him, against the hardness of the world.

Though he was sure Eloise and Penelope would argue he did not have it that incredibly difficult.

That familiar pain lanced through his chest at the thought of his friend, the little writer that stole his heart. The cavern inside his chest seemed filled to the brim with briars, a thorny tangle of emotions that hurt too much to fight through. It hurt too terribly much.

So he locked it up, pushed it out of his mind, and walked up the steps, striding down the hall to the drawing room where he already heard the echo of familiar voices.

For a moment, Benedict stood at the threshold, simply staring into the room. No one noticed him at first. Anthony stood at the far end in front of a mirror, Violet fidgeting behind him, as a straight-laced tailor helped fit the viscount for his wedding ensemble. At the other end were various siblings. Eloise sat at the settee, reading a book with a bright, emerald cover, Gregory next to her. Across from them in an upholstered chair sat Colin, legs crossed, reclined, chewing on the unfortunate remains of a biscuit. Hyacinth, as usual, flitted around like a little bird before she settled, going this way and that before plucking a cake off the tea service.

Not for the first time, Benedict felt the urge to paint them, his family just as they were in all of their bright, blue, chaotic mess. Not one of the stuffy portraits they found themselves in, such as the ones of them that hung in the in the great hall by the marble staircase. No. He wanted to capture his family as they truly were, in their loving vortex of embraces, petty fights, sibling scheming, and silly rivalries.

"It is not yet right. See how the cuffs are an inch too short?" Anthony said, a meticulous arrogance, the need to be in control Benedict was well-acquainted with, reigning.

"Very well, sir," the tailor said, obediently, taking the coat Anthony shucked off.

Their mother hummed thoughtfully and Benedict knew that was not always a positive sign. It usually precluded some sort of lecture in which, inevitably, one had to realize that their mother was right and they, as usual, were wrong.

"There is plenty of time to adjust it to your liking," their mother said as she and her eldest son turned and walked toward the tea service. "The wedding is not for another month."

"There is still much to do," Anthony replied, beginning the process of fixing their mother her cup of tea just the way she liked it. A dash of milk with only half a teaspoon of sugar.

Benedict watched the scene carefully, making way as the tailor exited the room. Anthony's overwhelming need for everything to be in line, to be perfect, was nothing new. But over a wedding that was a month away seemed a bit extreme, even by his standards.

"Will Miss Edwina live with us?" Gregory asked from Eloise's side, leaning his head around her to ask just as Anthony handed their mother her tea.

"Indeed. After the wedding, she'll be the lady of the house and responsible for you all." Violet took a sip but Benedict couldn't help but notice the odd tone of his mother's voice. Could she be exasperated with the lot of them? Or less than eager to relinquish control then she might admit?

"Lord, help her," Colin commented and Benedict grinned, silently agreeing.

Miss Edwina, undoubtedly, had to be intelligent, organized, lovely, polished like the diamond she was. But also did not seem the type to be able to exert her will over a brood of rowdy Bridgertons, many of whom were older than her. Not for the first time, he pitied the young woman and wondered whether his brother's search for perfection led him to someone who, undoubtedly, seemed flawless… Except when it came to managing the unique household that was the Bridgertons.

"Which reminds me, our carriages must be polished to a shine, and the horses' manes braided. We should bring out the finest silver." Anthony stepped into the middle of the room, addressing his family a little like a general would order around his soldiers for battle. "The queen may be hosting everything at the palace, but we must be ready to entertain here."

Benedict chose this moment to walk into the room, stretching his arms up in a fantastic display of supposed idleness, yawning a bit before he teased, "And what of us, Brother? Should we also be polished and braided for the big day?"

He looked over at his other siblings and winked. Colin, Gregory, and Hyacinth all chuckled or smiled back at him, but for some reason Benedict could not fathom, Eloise scowled.

Not one of her many playful scowls either, but a truly vicious one, filled with nothing but disdain. Benedict cocked his head, wondering what to do, before Anthony called his attention back.

"We'll all be on display," Anthony said, glaring at him. "Perhaps you might even scrub your hands for the occasion?"

Waggling his charcoal coated fingers in his brother's face, Benedict replied, "I've been occupied at the academy."

Deciding to make his own cup of tea, Benedict strode to the tea service, pouring a cup though he raised his gaze when Hyacinth asked, "What about Miss Edwina's sister?"

Anthony answered too quickly, and Benedict furrowed his brow while he squeezed a bit of lemon into his black tea.

"What about her?"

"Will she come to live with us, too?"

"Oh, I do hope so." Eloise's entire countenance brightened, the page in her book saved by her thumb, her mouth opening into a wide smile. "It'll be a boon to have another intelligent woman in the house."

"Another?" Benedict pretended to think as he took a sip of tea, making a show of pretending to count in his head. "Mm. You're overcounting."

He expected a playful growl, a roll of her eyes, something that told him that Eloise understood his jape and accepted it. Something that would inform him that the pair of them were…okay.

But Eloise's face became wiped of all emotion, her posture rigid, and her blue eyes, so much like his own, became as hard as ice.

What in the nine circles of hell had happened over the past week for Eloise to look at him so?

"Eloise, I shall need your help today," their mother started, sitting in her chair. Eloise, seeing the look in the matriarch's eyes, already began to stand, making her escape. "There is the dinner to plan with Lady Danbury to welcome the Sharmas into the family. And then the engagement ball next week…"

Eloise made her own way to the tea service, bumping into Benedict's arm with a purposeful, hard push of her shoulder as she went. The unwelcome haze of confusion descended upon him. Despite his nonchalant attitude, Benedict did not enjoy any of his siblings being angry at him. He'd spent too long as their caretaker or as the funny, older brother they could confide in for that.

"I am sorry, Mama, but, uh, I am attending a lecture this afternoon. Flower arranging." Eloise chuckled nervously, while their mother's looked nothing short of stunned. "Penelope's mama is forcing her to go, and you've wanted me to find more ladylike pursuits."

With that, Eloise turned away and Benedict very much doubted that Lady Featherington cared either way whether Penelope went to a flower arranging lecture or marched into a Royal Society meeting.

"For how long have you cared about flower arranging?" Benedict goaded gently, giving Eloise his widest smile as she plucked a grape off the serving tower.

"For how long have you cared about anyone but yourself?" Eloise snapped back, quietly, viciously. The remark was so venomous Benedict reeled back.

"El," Benedict started slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "What wrong have I done to deserve your ire?"

"Really? You cannot think of anything?" Eloise turned to him, the glaciers that were her irises hardened to a fine point. "Really, Brother? You can think of nothing you did or did not do?"

Benedict attempted to wrack his brain for an answer but something small and cowardly prohibited him from digging too deep. Willful ignorance could be bliss but he hated his sister mad at him. But he took too long, for Eloise gave a derisive scoff.

"That's what I thought," she murmured before walking away, leaving him cold and alone.

Penelope fidgeted in the corner of the modiste shop, waiting for an opportunity to speak to Gen. The businesswoman was incredibly busy, with no small amount of that influx of business due to Penelope's efforts in Lady Whistledown. She was ecstatic for her friend, truly, but she couldn't deny the desperate need she felt at wanting just a moment to talk to her alone.

"I do not know why Miss Edwina's betrothal is so special," Prudence whined, fingering a bolt of garish pink silk. "She's quite overshadowed my happy news."

"A fact we may well be glad of," their mother replied tersely. "Put those silks down. Cotton will do for your trousseau."

The woman who had been conversing with Gen finally walked away and, with her mother and sister distracted, Penelope quickly scurried up to the modiste.

"Has my maid yet delivered that dress that needs altering, Madame Delacroix?" she asked, just loud enough for others to hear.

"Naturellement, Miss Penelope," Gen said with a soft chuckle, also just loud enough to be heard before lowering her voice to a near whisper. "I received your latest. It's been a busy week, has it not?"

Penelope tried to ignore the tinge of hurt that it had been Gen who received her latest Whistledown installment, rather than Benedict making a delivery with her. She swallowed, trying to put on a small smile.

"I-Indeed. The ton are quite ravenous for news of the upcoming nuptials."

Gen frowned, her dark eyes narrowing, tight curls framing her face, highlighting her shrewdness.

"I was going to ask if Lady Whistledown would include a bit on how I am making the ensemble for the bride of the season–" Gen started and Penelope jumped on her words, afraid of what her friend might say next.

"Tell me, are my musings not offering you sufficient business?"

"Indeed. But why should there be limits to a woman's ambitions?" Gen swatted at her hand lightly where no one could see. "But you know that was not what I was about to ask. Should I expect another delivery, rather than Monsieur Benedict assisting you?"

Penelope's felt herself wilt like a flower without enough sustenance in the hot sun under her friend's all-knowing stare.

"I– He has not– He has been busy–"

"Is that the excuse he gave you?"

"I have not seen him at all."

Penelope felt her dark thoughts spiral, reason after horrible reason presenting itself as to why Benedict had been avoiding her. For she realized that was what it was. Benedict had always made himself available to her in the past, or at least given her warning if he would be preoccupied. She thought of the notes they had exchanged from late last summer to the start of the season. Ledger and Nel had never had any problems between them.

But suddenly, between Benedict and Penelope, there was some insurmountable wall that had arisen between them.

Anger followed on the heels of sorrow. It had not been Penelope who had built this barrier, but Benedict. Why, oh why, should she suffer for whatever he had decided merited shutting her out? Why did he not just speak to her? Why was she being punished?

The familiar, horrible taste of bitterness fell upon her tongue, slipped down her throat, coating her insides like a fast-acting disease. She quite forgot to ask Gen about the erotic dream she had earlier that day, instead enveloped by something dark, hateful, but completely familiar.

Gen's subtle touch upon her wrist brought Penelope back to herself for a moment, and she could see her friend filled with worry.

At least someone beside Eloise worried for her. Apparently, she couldn't count on Benedict anymore…

"Come to Lucy's around five o'clock. Bring your friend Miss Bridgerton, if you want," Gen muttered, barely more than a breath. "It will be alright."

Gen squeezed her wrist before floating away, that practiced smile for customers pasted on her face. Penelope watched before turning her gaze upon a bolt of light blue fabric, one that always reminded her of Bridgerton House.

She tried and failed to prevail against the comfortable resentment that began to overtake her.

Genevieve Delacroix (born surname Rathwood) plotted the murder of Benedict Bridgerton.

She had a few reasons for her violent thoughts, altogether they were not wholly unreasonable. She was a businesswoman, one of sound mind and body and with a whole uninterest in the ludicrous folly of men. However, the second born Bridgerton had crossed a line, one that Genevieve considered entirely despicable.

One of the reasons Genevieve proved to be completely irritated with Benedict sat before her. Eloise Bridgerton exuded an eagerness to converse with the women at Lucy's soiree, for her uncensored point of view was commonplace amongst them. It seemed a criminal offense to keep the fifth Bridgerton child away from their ladies' gatherings. Eloise Bridgerton, it turned out, proved a delightful conversationalist when stimulated by like minds. Clearly, the young woman did best when she could exude her energy, express her thoughts freely, and could meet women who thought similarly to her.

This alone would have given Genevieve the idea of knocking out Benedict's kneecaps the way her older brother had taught her at the tender age of eight.

But no.

Another reason Benedict Bridgerton had been marked for death by not one, not two, but three ladies was because the useless bastard was cocking up his chances right as Penelope Featherington seemed to be finally turning a corner when it came to her feelings.

Genevieve had not been jesting when she had told the Granvilles, quite plainly, that if Benedict had not wised up within the next year, she would do her level best to seduce Penelope herself.

And the second Bridgerton appeared to be mucking up a fine chance to win her friend's heart.

Genevieve watched in amusement as Eloise chatted excitedly with Siena (they'd all decided not to inform the debutante of Siena's past relationship with the viscount) and a Miss Soo-hee Baek about the advantages and disadvantages of working women versus women of the ton. Siena proved blunt enough to answer the girl honestly while Soo-hee had the right, gentle touch to ensure Eloise never lost herself in ire.

It gave Genevieve, Lucy, and Charlotte just the distraction needed to hear Penelope's woe.

About the night in the solarium, and Penelope's confusion over her comfortable relationship with Benedict and her strangely, simply friendly feelings for Colin.

The night of the Hearts and Flowers Ball; how her sister had been thrust into marriage with their cousin by her mother' scheme, Benedict's supposedly random question about her love for Colin (Genevieve, Lucy, and Charlotte had all had to restrain themselves over the man's idiocy), and of the morning after, how he acted as if all were fine.

How Benedict had apparently ignored for a little over a week.

How she'd excused his lack of attention to being busy with preparing for entering the Royal Academy.

How she had begun to doubt her own excuses.

And, finally, how she'd had a dream about Benedict of a very… intimate nature.

"Are ya' telling me ya' ha' a wet dream, Penny?" Charlotte asked bluntly and Genvieve would have laughed it weren't for the look of utter befuddlement on Penelope's face.

"A what?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes good-naturedly, tossing the lot of thick, dark blonde hair over one shoulder.

"Men and women 'ave dreams of a sexual nature," Charlotte explained, winking saucily as Penlope began to slush brighter than any pink bolt of fabric Genevieve owned. "They call 'em wet dreams because of the state ya' find yourself in upon wakin'."

Penelope looked like she wanted to drown herself in the glass of wine she held and Genevieve couldn't exactly blame her. While she knew that Benedict had provided Penelope with a sexual education of sorts, she very much doubted he explained the occurrence of such night fantasies.

Another point against him in her book.

"Well, I suppose so. But why would I be having such dream about Benedict?"

They all blinked at her, too stunned to speak.

"You really cannot fathom why?" Lucy asked, placing a soothing palm upon Penelope's knee.

The younger woman shook her head, ginger tresses waving gently with the movement.

"I-I mean, of course he is handsome. All the Bridgerton men are," Penelope insisted, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her glass of wine even tighter. "But I am so–" She hesitated a moment and the devastation that consumed her face made it so Genevieve predicted what she would say next. "Confused. Hurt. He swore to be my friend, to always be there for me and now he is ignoring me with no explanation? If he could just send a note, anything to excuse himself but–" Genevieve tracked the way Penelope's throat bobbed with discomfort, the way her sky blue eyes welled with tears. "But I apparently do not even deserve the courtesy of being made aware of what I have done wrong."

"You have done nothing wrong," Genevieve answered immediately, pressing her thigh against Penelope's from next to her on the settee, combing her lithe, calloused fingers through Penelope's silken strands of hair. "Clearly, Bridgerton men are fools of the highest order. I assure you, it is him who has done something wrong, not you."

"I doubt he sees it as such," Charlotte murmured as she sipped a glass of gin. "Men rarely see their wrongs."

Lucy and Genevieve shared a look over Penelope's bowed head, silently agreeing. But loss of hope was not what Penelope needed. Genevieve could see the dark spiral of Penelope's thoughts, twisting her feelings of worthlessness, inadequacy, and abandonment into ugly bitterness and resentment. Both were useful tools, but Genevieve knew Penelope too well. The writer would regret, eventually, any ugly truth or biting remark she penned while ruled by her fury.

Even if Benedict might deserve it, there were others who might not.

"Well, I will help with your publication," Genevieve offered. "Ambitious women help each other, hm?"

"And my husband and I can talk to Benedict if you wish?" Lucy ventured.

"If he does not wish to speak to me, whatever is the point?" Penelope snapped and Lucy recoiled as if struck.

Recognizing her error, Penelope's eyes grew wide as a baby fawn's. Glistening and regretful.

"I am sorry, Lucy." Penelope took up the older woman's hand, stroking her knuckles softly. "My anger is not at you. Please. If Benedict wishes to speak to me, he must do so of his own accord."

Lucy did not nod her assent, simply kissed Penelope's cheek in an unspoken sign of forgiveness. But the look Gen, Lucy, and Charlotte shared conveyed the same fear: Penelope may not mean to hurt others in her sorrow, but her nature, untempered by Benedict's calm and stoked by Eloise's fire, would lead her to strike at innocents all the same.

In that moment, they knew they had to get ahold of Benedict Bridgerton somehow. If not to carve his heart out, then to shake him until he realized the grave he had dug for himself.

Henry Granville could count on one hand the few times he had been at a loss.

The first, when he had attended Eton and, for the first time, discovered he felt a way for his fellow men in the way he was supposed to feel for women.

The second, when he'd gone up against Lucy's disgusting rat of a second cousin for her hand in marriage, unsure whether he would leave the dueling field alive. Whether he would be able to rescue his best friend from a life of violence and hiding her true self.

The third, when he'd seen Lord Andrew Wetherby from across a room and felt positively unmoored.

But Benedict apparently decided to try his patience, for his wife and her ladies were actively plotting his young friend's grisly demise if he did not soon rectify his idiocy.

Or, more to Lucy's point, if Henry did not correct Benedict himself.

The opportunity to approach Benedict presented itself when Henry came as a scheduled guest lecturer at the Royal Academy, two weeks since the ton's return from the Bridgerton house party in the country. He'd spotted Benedict in the crowd almost instantly, just a few rows away from the lectern upon the dais, smiling up at Henry. The second Bridgerton sat next to a young man who seemed quite blasé, but Henry knew the type. Young artists who pretended to be jaded, indifferent so it did not hurt so much if they struggled in their careers.

As Henry taught, something he truly enjoyed doing, he kept glancing at his young friend, looking for any signs of discontent. What he found, in truth, was more worrisome.

Benedict Bridergton had to be one of the best actors he knew, for not only was the aspiring artist working to fool the people around him, but, apparently, he worked doubly hard to pull the wool over his own eyes.

With an painter's eye for detail and color, Henry noticed the subtle bruising under Benedict's eyes, how his pupils were ever-so-slightly blown, the bouncing of the young man's knee, and the way he would frown for a moment, unsettled, before directing his focus once more upon Henry's words.

Benedict wasn't sleeping, at least not well. Drink had become the his bedfellow, and Henry knew too well what caused that sort of destructive behavior.

Heartbreak.

A broken heart was no stranger to Henry. He had suffered many before finding Andrew. For awhile, Henry had almost preferred the suffering of a failed love affair or a broken relationship, it fueled many of his creative works. But he was too old for that now when, frankly he couldn't give a damn about his work production as long as Andrew, Lucy, Gen, and now Marina were safe and happy. His small circle, the family he worked hard to make, were all that mattered.

Penelope and Benedict had wormed their way into that inner circle, one way or another, and the pair of them were clearly hurting.

Henry couldn't force Benedict to see his errors, though it was terrifyingly sweet that Lucy believed him capable (truly, he'd won that duel with her cousin due to a fluke).

So when Benedict approached him after the lecture, Henry tried to be more tactful. Or, at least, start off that way.

"How go your studies, Benedict? Are you finding life at the Royal Academy enjoyable?"

Benedict's face truly brightened at the question, so at least he was happy in one aspect of his life.

"I'm finally talking with people of like minds, doing what I want to do," Benedict said, sweeping his arms out to gesture at his fellows and the hallowed halls around them. "I'm finally succeeding."

Pursing his lips, Henry indulged Benedict by looking at the great, gray Portland stone slabs that made up the room, the paintings from the founders that hung across the walls, and the groups of men who congregated discussing their courses. Henry supposed that, to the once aimless Benedict, this did appear awfully akin to success.

But didn't the boy realize he had found a like mind, already? Someone who stoked his curiosity, inspired his creative fervor, and shared his secrets?

"What do you mean by 'success'?"

Benedict knitted his brows in apparent confusion and Henry resisted smacking him upside the head. Really, if one had to think on the question too long, did that not say anything?

"Well, like I said." Benedict's words were slow, measured, as if he suspected he had been lured into some sort of moral quagmire. "I am finally at a prestigious art school, working to improve myself. My daily conversations are with like minds, people working towards the same goal."

"Admirable and needed, there is no doubt about that," Henry agreed. "But as I've grown older, I find my successes are of a more personal nature than professional."

Before Benedict could even open his mouth to reply, Henry decided to catch him off guard, "Have you talked to Miss Penelope lately?"

Henry and Penelope had long done away with formalities with each other, but there were too many people milling about. He did not wish to accidentally imply anything untoward by not giving the young woman a proper address.

Carefully, he studied Benedict's reaction. The way his pupils dilated then retracted, the shift in his stance, how he bit his bottom lip much like the writer in question, the way his shoulders curved inwards, and how he peered around as if planning an escape route.

"I have been occupied at the academy," Benedict said, as if it were a line he'd repeated many times before.

To others and to himself.

A terrible well of unease filled within the depth of Henry's conscience. Benedict had truly set himself on a path of self-destruction and if he wasn't careful, he would burn any bridge, any feasible path forward, between he and Penelope.

An understanding dawned on Henry as he pondered the man's reaction. Merely a year ago, Benedict had been an openly curious, cheerful, accepting, but flighty young man. Except his family, Henry had assumed that Benedict kept himself apart, in a way because he did not wish to be tied down. He was a genuine person, undoubtedly kind, genial, and caring. But he persisted in remaining unattached, especially romantically, so he could freely float along without being tied down or hurt.

But the second he had seen Benedict show up on his doorstep with a disguised Penelope Featherington, he knew that version of the second Bridgerton son was changing, evolving. Soon, the attachment Benedict had for the youngest Featherington chick was so evident, he didn't know how the duo were not bound at the hip by some invisible, golden thread tying them together.

Sometimes Henry wondered if it had been some twist of fate that Benedict discovered Penelope making a delivery one night. Whether he would have ever given the girl with the most beguiling, secretive smile a passing glance had it not been for one accident of fate.

But it had happened. And Henry had watched as Benedict fell hopelessly in love with a woman who was leagues smarter than him…but, unfortunately, completely clueless when it came to recognizing that she had fallen herself.

Something had take place at the Hearts and Flowers Ball, something that caused Benedict to run headlong in the other direction. Henry recognized when someone decided to blind themselves to the hurt they caused around them because they believed they saved themselves from agony.

"Benedict, Lucy and the other ladies are worr–"

"I-I have to go," Benedict stuttered, swiveling on his heel, stumbling away as if suffering a grievous injury.

In a way, Benedict was injured.

So much so, he could not see the damage he caused.

Henry let him go, knowing there was no use in cornering a frightened animal.

The May spring day was warm, the usual, moody London sky playing hide and seek with the sun. Penelope tried to enjoy the way sunlight made the dark, deep jade-like water sparkle, how the ducks and geese sidled up hoping for bread crumbs, or the various bits of gossip she surrounded herself with.

But nothing seemed to fulfill her.

Penelope alternated between a numbing kind of sorrow that paralyzed her body and mind, making it seem impossible to do anything, and self-righteous fury that propelled her to unleash the cruelest parts of her. She tried so hard to bury the vindictive instincts, the desire to maim using carefully coded barbs, but without Benedict to softly reason with her, it felt near impossible.

Benedict.

His name sent a flood of devastation and outrage through her body as inevitable as a wave that broke upon the sand. She'd heard nothing from him, and she'd given up trying to flag his attention. Penelope no longer cared if she had done something wrong, it was he who had decided to ignore her existence, rather than seek her out and talk.

It was he who had delegated her back to the position of invisible wallflower in his life.

At the very least, Eloise completely took Penelope's side. Eloise had been infuriated before Penelope had even thought of becoming angry at Benedict, fired up and ready to make his life a living hell. Penelope had, at first, tossed it up the nature of siblings.

But Eloise's wrath had reached unprecedented heights and Penelope was eternally grateful that hellfire was not directed at her.

Penelope clenched her gloved hands together, walking slowly, a few paces to the side of Lady Danbury and Miss Kate Sharma. Oh, she wished Eloise was here with her. But Eloise had said she wished to attend a lecture on flower arranging. Taken aback, Penelope could not fathom protesting. But she made a note to ask Eloise later whether this decision, which made Penelope consider seriously that her friend had been possessed by a demon, of throwing herself into the world of flora and fauna had anything to do with Sir Philip.

Ears pricked, the tell-tale sound of secrets being spilled filtered their way to Penelope's ears. She couldn't catch everything between Lady Danbury and Miss Kate, they were all walking to sedately and she knew she could not stop her own gait without being caught. From what she gathered, a dinner with the Sheffield family approached, and Lady Danbury warned Miss Kate about fools ruining a wedding.

Penelope scrunched her nose, wishing she could stop to listen, but the pair had paused and she could not stop walking or else it would be obvious she had attempted to listen. With a deep exhale, Penelope passed unobserved.

For a while, Penelope surveyed the world around her peacefully. Pretending to watch her sister Prudence as she was escorted onto a boat, she watched Miss Kate be taken aboard a boat by Mister Dorset. Miss Edwina and Lady Bridgerton conversed all while…

Well, all while Viscount Anthony Bridgerton followed Miss Kate's movements like some ravenous beast.

In fact, he resembled much like how Benedict had when he–

"Look at me!" Prudence's obnoxious call to the crow both startled and embarrassed Penelope.

She winced further when Colin appeared, boyishly handsome in a light, powder blue ensemble, remarked dryly, "Your sister seems...happy."

"That is one way of putting it."

Meeting his stare with her own, she couldn't help but smile. Colin's presence, rather than sending her into a nervous titter, relaxed her in the easy way that Eloise did. She recognized he was still handsome, still wonderful, still all of the things that had made him her first love, but…

Having him as her friend eased something in her she didn't know needed easing.

Colin inclined his head towards the water though, this time, not at her sister. Immediately, Penelope knew that he had spotted Cousin Jack. The poor man truly seemed miserable, rowing the boat at Prudence's behest. It made another twinge of guilt curl in her gut like a garden snake. She regretted not being able to stop her mother for entrapping Jack and Prudence in a loveless marriage. Jack tolerated Prudence but that barely seemed like the best foundation for a marriage.

Though Penelope knew most marriages were created from tolerance, some from barely concealed loathing.

Thinking of her own parents' marriage, she shuddered.

"The new Lord Featherington seems an interesting fellow," Colin commented, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "A man of commerce, is he not?"

Biting her lower lip, Penelope analyzed her cousin's bearing; handsome, pleasant, but clearly astute. Jack may have been duped by her mother but she very much doubted the man hadn't caught on to that fact.

And clearly, something was going on that could be suspicious. The information Bene– She gulped, thinking his name, then cleared it from her mind. The information about the ruby mines and where they may be located was concerning. But did she inform Colin?

"Yes. He has ruby mines in America," Penelope admitted cautiously, trying to communicate with the slight hitch in her voice. "He claims they are flourishing."

A light breeze caught up her skirts, the cool air tickling her ankles. Colin's shared an understanding with her, she could tell by the way he tilted his head towards her, breaking his study of Jack to focus on her.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself." Colin finally took his hands out from behind his back, revealing a palm coated with the remains of dried bread crumbs. "After all, everyone else is finding some purpose to their lives. Anthony is to be married. Benedict has his artistic pursuits. And, well, here I am...feeding the ducks."

The mention of Benedict's name stalled Penelope's brain, her heart painfully tight in her chest as if held in a vice grip. It must have shown on her face, because Colin softly gripped her elbow just as her world tilted.

"Pen, are you alright?"

Forcing herself to look out at the ducks, swans and geese, swimming merrily or stalking children with crusts of bread, she smiled wanly.

"I-I am fine. I just, uh, I am sure the ducks are most grateful to you." She fumbled over the words. For one of the first times in her life, she did not stutter because she felt nervous or fluttery in front of Colin. No, for once it had nothing to do with the man by her side. "You have a good deal of time and plentiful opportunities to make your mark."

She meant those words, truly. Colin deserved to know that he had ample opportunity to make something of himself. It was the privilege he had as a man.

"As Eloise would no doubt remind me," Colin said. But he leant forward, squeezing her elbow again. "Pen, are you sure you're quite well? You seem…pale. Out of sorts."

"Oh, well," Penelope hesitated but decided on divulging a crumb of truth. "I have not been sleeping well, I fear. Spat with a friend."

"El?"

"Oh no, thank Heavens," Penelope rushed out with a little chuckle. It did lighten her heart that at least ahe and Eloise were not at odds. She had no idea what she would do if that ever happened. "No, someone– someone else."

Colin let go of Penelope, but his worried expression never left his face. In that moment, Penelope was eternally grateful for his concern. But, by that same token, she could barely stand it.

For Benedict used to be the one to always grace her with his concern, his care, his protection.

And he'd abandoned her.

"Pen, you know you can always confide in me–"

"Mister Bridgerton," Lord Westerly called, a broad, stout man in a tan coat and top hat.

Colin gave her an apologetic look.

"Let us talk later, yes?" he asked before following the man.

Penelope watched him go, and although she felt incredibly touched by his words, she refused to take him up on the offer.

If she couldn't trust Benedict to stay by her side, what man could she place her faith in?

So Penelope continued to spy the goings-on of the ton, sticking not too far from Colin. His presence acted as a soothing balm. It did not heal her, but it helped ease the ache.

Time went on, and Penelope did her best to pick up snippets of gossip amongst the men and women, always strangely more careless when they were altogether. She wondered if it was because there was a false sense of security, sharing secrets in a crowd. For some reason when everyone around one's self chatted loudly about themselves, one thought their own secrets were safe.

A while after Jack and Prudence had emerged from their boat and rejoined the crowd, Penelope overheard her mother extract Jack from a particularly tense looking conversation with Mister Mondrich. Scrunching up her nose, she thought on why the wonderfully lovely Mister Mondrich appeared so stiff around her cousin.

If Benedict had been here, she would've asked–

No.

Penelope refused to ponder him again.

Instead, Penelope discreetly followed her mother and Jack, trying to appear invisible. It worked, except for the knowing gaze of Missus Alice Mondrich. But Alice merely grinned knowingly before taking her husband's arm and steering him away.

Penelope decided she must make Alice's acquaintance again. After their encounter at the races and the look now, Penelope harbored no doubts that the proprietress of Mondrich's was just as shrewd as she or Genevieve.

"Need I remind you that the answer to our family's predicament will not be found disporting yourself in places of public resort?" Penelope's mother hissed and Penelope stiffened.

She knew her mother disliked Jack, but the vehemence that laced her words seemed unnaturally loathsome.

"Nor will it be solved by running up yet more bills at the modiste," Jack snapped. "I just saw the latest accounts. You are supposed to be finding a way out of this mess, not drowning us even deeper in debt."

Forcing herself not to petulantly tear out her hair in frustration, Penelope swallowed a scream. Again? Her mother knew what her late husband's debts had cost them. Why did Portia have to spend every bit of money they owned trying to prove they were worthy of their titles?

Penelope knew her mother was intelligent, knew that her mother had always been better at maths than her own father. The issue was that, as a woman, she'd never trained herself in restraint when she had access to funds. Instead, she had been taught to use money as a symbol for wealth, power, and likeability.

As furious as Penelope was at Benedict, she couldn't help but be eternally pleased he had squirreled away her Whistledown earnings into her own bank account.

"Keep your voice down. Are you trying to ruin us all?"

"Not when you are already making such fine work of it yourself."

Jack's bitter words were the most foul she had ever heard escape his lips. It appeared that not even he was immune to her mother's horrid attempts at control. Her cousin did not seem like an irascible being but put within her mother's presence, all calm was lost.

Penelope knew that feeling all too well.

Waiting a few beats, Penelope followed her cousin, quickening her small steps so she eventually fell beside him.

He noticed her, giving her a weak smile.

There were times, when confronted by what she had been told, that Penelope grew convinced that her cousin may be a very skilled liar.

But in moments like these, she didn't care. Simply because he took notice of her, deigned to talk to her, and treated her nicely.

Maybe it was sad, to know that it took just a bit of kindness to win her over. Penelope recognized she could be manipulated in that way.

But a darker part of her also just accepted that like called to like.

Maybe it was a Featherington family trait to be cunning, to act, to trick.

It would certainly explain some things.

"Penelope, are you enjoying today's outing?" he asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

"I imagine no more than you after dealing with Prudence's lack of decorum and Mama's ire," she quipped.

Jack froze, gaping open-mouthed at her. She felt heat consume the apples of her cheeks. She'd spoken rashly, she had to correct herself.

"I'm sorry, Cousin Jack. I did not over hear your conversation with Mama, but it looked unpleasant. A lot of conversation with Mama can be unpleasant." Wincing, she realized that probably was not what a young lady should admit. "That is to say–"

But a great guffaw of laughter emitted itself from Jack, so boisterous and unexpected that many turned their heads.

"Oh, Penelope, I needed that." His smile felt more real this time as he looked down at her. "Thank you.

It really would be a shame, Penelope thought as they continued a more casual conversation about the weather, if he truly was as cunning as her. For if he proved to use his wits in the way she or her mother did, the results would be far more disastrous.

He was a man after all.

The hubbub of the outing came to a crescendo when a loud yelp sounded from the dock.

Colin had joined Penelope and Jack briefly, before another young lord called for his attention. The noise directed their attention just in time to see Viscount Bridgerton and Mister Dorset fall into the lake backwards with a definitive splash.

Penelope giggled as society around them either broke into laughter or sharp gasps. But as the two men broke the surface of the muddy water, dark brown hair plastered to their faces and soaked to the bone, Penelope's mouth dried up. Anthony Bridgerton untied and threw away his cravat, removing his jacket and waistcoat. As he hoisted himself out of the water, his white shirt translucent and clinging to his skin, every ripple and bit of hard muscle made itself available for all to see.

Swallowing several times to get some semblance of moisture again, Penelope could not help but be reminded of Benedict's own chest. How it was firm against her back whenever he had cradled her in his arms, the creamy sliver of his chest, dotted with a constellation of moles and freckles as they waved at her from beneath one of his thin nightshirts, or the the warmth between his thighs when he held her close–

Damn it all. Damned Bridgerton men and their impressive physiques.

Tugging on one of her ginger curls sharply to regain her focus, Penelope noticed she had not been the only woman to stare blatantly at the viscount.

For not only did Miss Edwina take in an eyeful of her betrothed, but so did her elder sister.

And Anthony Bridgerton stared right back at Miss Kate Sharma.

"Well, he is certainly drenched," Colin remarked lightly.

Penelope blushed, for she immediately thought that he probably was not the only one.

Eloise sat during the flower arranging course, dutifully pairing certain bits of greenery and florals by meaning and color. She ignored the other debutantes and merchants' daughters around her in favor of peppering the lecturer, a Mister Dogberry, with questions.

Eloise had chosen this course in particular had been for several reasons. She had not lied to her mother, it was a course on flower arranging. Eloise could easily inform the dowager viscountess of lilacs and their meanings or that it served best to pair periwinkle and acacia together to signify a desire for friendship.

Secretly, Eloise hoped she would learn how to send the silent message You are a raging, baboon-headed prick specifically to give to her second eldest brother. Maybe all of them. They were all entirely idiotic and useless.

But the other half of this lecture involved Mister Dogberry also explaining how to spot a poisonous plant from its innocent-looking counterpart. This was clearly meant to help the young ladies stay away from the dangerous plant life that existed in the woods and greenery outside of London. Many of the debutantes seemed to be ignoring this aspect of the lecture, preferring to play around with their arrangements. More of the merchants' daughters paid more mind, as it was more likely that they would need to find or cultivate their own plant life.

But Eloise listened with rapt attention, mentally taking notes as she carefully cataloged how the common bluebell and its toxic properties affected someone when touched, studied the beautiful fuchsia colored foxglove and how to avoid it in the wild, as well as remarked upon the beautiful monkshood with its purple flowers the same hue of as lavender.

Just as her little garden in Bridgerton garden filled her with a sense of utmost peace, so did the knowledge she gained from this lecture. Sir Phillip recommended several books on the subject, but she had wanted to see and practice that knowledge with her own actions.

A part of her wished Mister Dogberry was replaced by Sir Phillip, all shy smiles and indulgent gaze.

She had felt a little guilty for leaving Penelope to go to the lake without her but she knew Colin would be there. While Colin was her brother and, therefore, an imbecile, at least he had not mucked up quite so royally as Benedict had. Her formerly favorite brother now sat firmly on her shortlist for people she would send to prison if she were able to be a magistrate.

But, for a few hours, Eloise needed serenity, needed moments where she could calm her rage. The time she spent in her little garden, or learning about plant life, writing to Sir Phillip…

It centered her.

And Eloise acknowledged that the more at peace she could make herself, the better friend she could be for Penelope.

Because if Benedict continued down his path of ignorance and self-destruction, Eloise knew Penelope would need her more than ever.

I have never been so insulted in my life! Newton barked, indignation practically radiating from his orange fur as he waddled into the Bridgerton stables. Your Arrogant Pup had the audacity to trip over me, dirtying my pristine coat, after slobbering all over my Kate!

Which one is Arrogant Pup again? Nectar asked, taking a hefty drink from his trough.

The eldest stallion of their troop, Rapscallion replied.

Anthony! Adonis called from a few stalls down, as he lousily pretended not to eavesdrop.

My names for the male humans of your house is still far more fitting, Newton huffed, settling on his fluffy haunches. As usual, the canine panted, cocking his head, his large, triangular ears twitching as he eyed the horses' heads bent down over the stall door. Do the lot of you not wish to know how he came to trip over me?

Your strange, little round body got in the way? Rapscallion shook out his mane, already knowing he was correct.

Newton stamped one little paw. It barely made a sound amongst the straw strewn floor. How dare you insinuate such a thing! My body is perfection! It is his lumbering limbs that got in the way!

So him eyeing your mistress had nothing to do with it? Nectar asked innocently.

Growling low in his throat, the tiny beast turned in an agitated circle before settling again. He is to choose one pup and yet he looks at another as if it is mating season! I cannot abide by it.

You bring up a fair point, Rapscallion let out a long breath, his lips flapping as he stared at the wall of the table, as if he could see his master through the planks of wood and beyond. Benedict had not visited him in what felt like many moons, and he had a feeling the human avoided him because he knew that Rapscallion would properly chide him. There would be no saving his human's rump for ignoring him and not seeing Carrot Top.

Carrot Top visited me the other night, looking for Benedict, Rapscallion admitted, stomping a hoof loudly. I could not understand all she said, but she was incredibly lonely. She fed me sugar as she told me that the stallion has not seen her in many moons. Idiots, all of them.

Man with the Cuddles had done her wrong? Newton barked a few times, so obnoxiously it hurt the horses' ears. This is why human females are so much better than males. Next time I catch his scent, I shall urinate upon his shoes! I assure you!

Maybe you can just give him a name that reflects his folly? Nectar suggested.

Newton sniffed around, recalling suddenly that Rapscallion mentioned sugar and Newton did so love sweets. All he could scent was wet hay, manure, sawdust, and oats, but if he could get just a lick–

Newton!

What? Squirrel? Rabbit? A footman to chase?

Nectar and Rapscallion shared a look, both a tad piqued by the dog and their humans' antics. Adonis whinnied in a little facsimile of a laugh.

A new name for Benedict, since he had proven to be nothing more than a foal who cannot walk on his own? Rapscallion suggested.

Oh, huh. Maybe Idiotic Man?

Adonis let loose a bray that, to fellow animals, undoubtedly was a release of humor. To humans, it may have proved concerning.

If we were to call him that, Adonis said, shaking his beautiful, raven black mane. Then we would never know which human male we were referring to.

All of the animals present sighed in agreement.

The cool night air that flitted through the Bridgerton garden had not proved refreshing. Usually, the spring gale calmed, caressed. But nothing, even on an ideal spring evening, could cool the raging ire that burned through Eloise and Penelope.

They sat on the swings together, both clothed in hooded cloaks to ward off the chill and to use to disguise themselves when they went to deliver the issue to Genevieve. Somehow, Penelope swore she didn't know how exactly, Eloise had roped in the footman, John, into accompanying them. Eloise swore up and down that she had not informed John of what exactly their errand pertained to, and Penelope forced herself to trust him. After all, quite a few of her former household servants had been entrusted with her secret. John appeared unwaveringly loyal to Eloise, though a little exasperated.

With a pang that further fueled her indignation, she thought of Missus O'Carroll and the former coach driver, Evans. She missed them terribly, and with her sorrow came the terrifying, ugly, wrathful bitterness. It was her father's fault they had to let go of all of their servants, all of the people who had actually cared even a sliver about Penelope, noticed her when no one else in her family did.

It was the fault of men like him, powerful men in general, taught it was okay to pick up the attentions and affections of a woman at their whim then drop them whenever it suited them. That neglect of the supposedly finer, more delicate sex was acceptable.

Berbrooke and his assaults upon women.

Simon Bassett and his assumption that women need not have all of the facts.

Her own father for gambling away their futures.

Fife and his assumption that his leers were welcomed.

Cowper and the heavy hand he used to hold sway over his wife and daughter.

Anthony Bridgerton and his desire for the absence of love.

Colin and his expectation that he could swoop in and be the hero of any story.

Benedict for how easily he set her aside.

As she shifted her slippered feet in the damp grass, the dew seeping through the thin material making her toes ache with cold, she kept herself warm by feeding the flames. Eloise stoked them, letting her own displeasure at having no voice, not being able to receive an education, and her own hurt feelings over her favorite brother avoiding them bubble to the surface. Like a cauldron overflowing with feminine rage, they drafted, revised, and wrote again, each sentence more poisonous than the last.

"Last week you called Lord Kim a dunderhead and a lout for betting a sizeable bit of his portion on underground female boxing matches." Eloise squinted down at the parchment, the low light of the single candle at their feet barely enough to see by. "Can we follow up on such a revelation?"

Penelope smirked, nodding as she pointed to a fresh few lines of gossip. "I overheard him complaining to his cousin about his losses at St James' Park earlier today. The man had the audacity to beg his cousin for collateral so he could return to the ring and try to win back his money."

"Did his cousin give him what he wanted?"

"No, But Lord Kim is returning anyway. Frankly, I think his cousin desires his downfall."

Eloise snorted, rolling her eyes before tapping the written lines with a forefinger. "Not only is he carelessly gambling away his family's livelihood, but exploiting women. Do not get me wrong, I think women pugilists are grand! But I guarantee they do not make nearly as much money as male fighters because it's illegal and because of their sex."

Scribbling an addition, Penelope found she could not find fault with Eloise's reasoning. Besides, the injustice of it all fed her malcontent, as if stuffing a great beast so it might one day grow strong enough to cause havoc. She wasn't sure if she personally liked the idea of female boxers, but she could take issue with men using the sport for their own gain.

"Then last week you also criticized the tomfoolery of some debutante or other. Do they get a mention?"

"El, if you cannot even remember their name, then that is old hack. We move onto something better."

"Right!"

They continued to write for a while, rocking themselves gently on the swings occasionally when they needed to think.

So when Eloise asked a question, Penelope was quite taken aback.

"Will you write of my brother?"

Ignoring the real question, Penelope deflected, "You have four brothers El, three of which are in society. You will need to be more specific. Anthony's nuptials are certainly popular for discussion since they are being hosted by the Queen–"

"Pen." Eloise's eyes, so incredibly blue and clear, glowered at her. "You know who I mean."

Penelope sniffed, trying to feign indifference.

"He barely does anything of note. It is not as if he has deigned at see me." She choked on the words, betraying her wild, raw hurt. She didn't know it could hurt so bad, him ignoring her.

But she supposed it was made worse by the fact that he had promised to always be there for her.

"Then speak of that, write at length of his absence, his drunkenness, his lack of path," Eloise said viciously, clutching the hemp rope of the swing so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Rip him to shreds."

"El, he is your brother."

"And he has not only disregarded you, my best friend, but me as well!"

In that moment Penelope saw the depth of Eloise's hurt and felt guilty for not fully comprehending it before. Yes, Benedict had claimed to be Penelope's friend, but friendships did come and go. Eloise would always be Benedict's younger sister and he neglected their bond, leaving it to thin and weaken like a malnourished pet.

"You must think of your family's reputation, El," Penelope said, surprised by her control at that moment.

Eloise adjusted the midnight blue cloak where the satin fabric had bunched around her hips.

"Everyone knows all of that already about Ben. It's no secret." The violence in her voice would have frightened Penelope if she didn't feel it so keenly. "It is just that no one will say it to our faces."

Humming thoughtfully, Penelope craned her neck to see the dark windows of Bridgerton House. No shadowy figures peered out at them, no jovial laugh made its way across the lawn, no friendly japes came from beneath her feet. She hated the hoping most of all, that no matter how upset she was that she still prayed he would appear from thin air.

But all that met her was the witching hour that used to be theirs, with only the birds answering them for company.

Eloise's baby birds, when they had hatched, still had to be fed by their mother before they could fly. No longer could Benedict lift them upon his shoulders to see the tiny things. Instead, Penelope had actually acted as a step stool a few times (which had been entirely degrading, but Eloise's glee had been worth it). In return, Eloise had shown her the tiny garden she cultivated at night on her own. Penelope had gasped, taking in the herbs flowers, and a little patch she suspected might become tomatoes or cucumbers.

"You did this all yourself, El?"

"Well, Sir Phillip sent me some seedlings."

And there it sat between them, the knowledge of Eloise's correspondence with Sir Phillip. A part of Penelope felt responsible for it and it made her both joyful and guilty. But she couldn't reveal Eloise's secret, not when her dearest friend kept her own. Besides, the only person she would have dared tell now simply ignored her existence.

The blue tits above them in the tree undoubtedly slept, and Penelope liked to imagine that any little whistling noise in the branches could be their snores. It eased something within her, something horribly cruel, just a little.

But she didn't know how long that could last.

"I will not remark upon him this issue, it is full to bursting," Penelope said finitely. Eloise's face fell for a moment, so Penelope added, "His retribution will come."

Eloise's smile, malicious in intent, sang to the acrimonious well of bile within Penelope. The dark, dark place she tried so hard not to nourish.

But the malignant resentment within herself grew, like a tumor taking over her body. And, truly, she had no idea how to cut it out.

Benedict walked down the halls of Somerset House as the sun began its slow, downward descent outside. Another day in which he threw himself into the goings-on of the academy. He enjoyed it, truly. He adored learning and talking with like minds. There had been a steady improvement in his work and he felt like he was amongst like-minded people, similar to the Granvilles, but who were on his level. Just like him, they were apprentices, striving to make something of themselves simply so their art could possibly be remembered.

It proved to be another day in which he steadily ignored everything and everyone else connected to his life. A form of protection he knew might one day crush him, like an unsteady brick wall built too high that lost all structural integrity.

There was a yearning within him, a longing for his Nel. For nights under the tree in the Bridgerton garden or even in the dark folly on the Featherington grounds. But despite consequences nipping at his heels, he continued to run, run, run far away from duty, responsibility, and love.

Not many fellows were left at the school, so when Benedict saw the model Tessa sketching a marble statue of Hermes in one of the studios, he took up the distraction with the eagerness of a reckless youth.

He came up behind her, making sure his footsteps were loud enough to be heard. Never would he intend to scare an unsuspecting woman.

"I declare, that's rather good."

She raised an eyebrow at him, her two strands of walnut brown hair framing her face. But she replied sardonically, "I am skilled at more than simply standing naked, Mister…"

"Bridgerton," Benedict replied quickly. He smiled, knowing immediately Tessa would get along well with Nel, El, and the women of their acquaintance. With a pang he suppressed the thought. "I do not doubt it."

And it was true. Benedict never doubted that Tessa, like many women, were incredibly skilled in the arts and trade. He knew too many women who could and would rip out his throat for thinking otherwise.

"Then perhaps inform the academy." Tessa turned back to her sketch, perfecting the lines of Hermes toned arms and legs. The scratch of graphite against parchment was an oddly pleasing sound, a noise that Benedict found soothed him. "Although two of the founding members are women, we are still not yet allowed to enter the classroom. At least, not while we are clothed."

Crossing his arms, he wandered around, studying her drawing. Her tenacity and talent impressed him. "So you work as a model as a way of learning from the lectures?" Tessa nodded and he couldn't help but grace her with a smile. "Ingenious."

"Care to take a turn?" she asked, gesturing to the lit platform in the middle of the room. "It is harder than it looks."

Taking on the challenge, for it seemed to be a most excellent distraction, he leapt upon the platform playfully. "Mm," he pretended to ponder, before inhaling sharply and sitting, taking on a pose where his forehead leaned upon his fist, as if deep in existential thought. "Like so?"

Tessa gave a small huff of laughter and while he was pleased to have elicited the sound of mirth, a hollow part of him ached for Penelope's giggle. Lawks, how long would it take to purge his feelings? To be over how she may never love him, so that he could one day return as the friend he was meant to be?

No, zounds. Remaining focused on art, his new purpose, was the answer. He would put on this facade until it became real.

It had to become real.

Climbing the steps, Tessa took the opportunity to reposition his arm and face, carefully taking his chin in her grasp to position him. He caught her glowing eyes, alight with mischief and interest. Oh, he knew that gaze well. An ugly turn in his guts almost made him sick.

Should he?

Shouldn't he?

If his goal was to forget–

"How long must I stay like this?" he asked, his voice coming out strangled. He coughed.

She paused, looking more closely at him. The previous playfulness disappeared, replaced by an odd sense of melancholy understanding.

"There is something quite desolate about you," she murmured, the grip of her thumb on his chin unexpectedly strong. "Why is that?"

The respect he already held for the female artist grew tenfold. It appeared she zeroed in on his heartbreak, his self-imposed loneliness.

She held an interest in him, he could see that. For years, Benedict knew he wasn't like Anthony when it came to sexual entanglements and liaisons. Connections and respect were essential to Benedict. He couldn't just visit a brothel and fall into bed. His banter with Genevieve had been what had clinched the deal last season, and knowing Penelope's heart, everything good and everything bad, had caused him to fall for her so completely. He had been like a frog in slowly boiling water, unaware he was thoroughly cooked before it was too late.

In the past, Benedict had distracted himself with many fun women… and men. He thrust the few men he had kissed and dabbled with out of his mind. Honestly, he had thoroughly forgotten about them until he was reminded by Henry and Andrew that men who could only love each other existed. Once, in Cambridge, he had gotten roaringly drunk with a friend and, well…

His friend had kissed him.

It'd been wonderful, tantalizing in the moment, but upon waking up the next morning both had reminded themselves that such an action could send them to the gallows.

So the relationship strained and eventually faded into obscurity. There had been some drunken moments at discreet parties since, but nothing substantial.

But man or woman, falling into bed with someone wasn't as simple as drowning his good sense with a bottle of liquor.

A part of him felt as though he was betraying Penelope, even though she wasn't his. Would never be his. The thought tore him open like a vicious beast that played with its food.

"I was born for someone," Benedict admitted, the secret easier to convey to someone practically a stranger than anyone else. "She was not born for me."

It wasn't a surprise he had to become more drunk than a pair of fiddlers to fall into Tessa's arms later, but she accepted him anyway. Maybe she pitied him, for she was still kind to him as he retched into the chamber pot the next morning before seeking out the bottle again.

Charlotte adjusted her ample bosom in the confines of her low cut dress. It was an older style, with a cinched waist, wide skirts, and her breasts pushed up to high-heaven due to the support of her stays. While out of fashion, it was a well-kept, emerald satin that highlighted her eyes. Once she returned to Covent Garden for the evening rush, she had no doubt she wouldn't be short on customers tonight.

Smiling to herself, Charlotte crossed the muddy street towards the apothecary, on an errand to pick up some much needed powders and tincture for she and her fellow girls. But just as she was about to step inside she stopped, narrowing her eyes as she spotted two women, one in a blue lady's maid cloak and the other in a robin's egg ensemble too fine for this part of town, exiting a hack with a man far too clean to be anything but a servant in disguise.

A slight turn of their heads confirmed Charlotte's suspicions. Penelope stood, her fiery red curls barely contained by the hood over her head. Her dear friend Eloise stood with her. Both had been in regular attendance at Lucy's the past few weeks, and Charlotte had quickly grown fond of the spitfire that was little Miss Bridgerton much like dear Penelope.

However, the two of them were fools for coming here. At least Penelope was disguised, but Eloise's cloak was made of too fine of a material to be anything but a titled miss. She supposed Genevieve hadn't been available, so they had come to make a drop off themselves. Charlotte noticed the sign 'Chancery Lane Printers' above the shop door they headed to.

But more than that, Charlotte noticed the bulky man watching from an alley on the opposite end. He was about Charlotte's height, but stout with meaty arms that nearly bulged out of his jacket. He wore the dark navy jacket of a Bow Street Runner, brass buttons dirty along the coat, scarlet sash along the waist, and a black top hat tilted over his eyes. If the man thought he was being discreet, he needed to do a better job. But neither Penelope, Eloise, or the servant noticed the man watching them.

Pinpricks erupted across Charlotte's neck and back, the hairs on her arms standing on end. She had not decided on a life to walk the piazzas just to be caught by self-important men. Years of training made it so Charlotte knew when she was being watched, and there was a difference between a lascivious stare that could feed her belly the next day, and one that sought to throw her in the nearest gaol cell.

A careful look around revealed two more runners, one by the cabbage cart adjacent to the printers shop, though that man had been smart, removing his top hat and unbuttoning his jacket to appear more casual. The other actually stood sentinel in the apothecary shop Charlotte had been about to enter, visible from the paned glass window.

The amount of attention focused on the printer's shop did not bode well. If they were lucky, they might believe Penelope was simply a servant running an errand with her mistress. But depending on how often the two frequented the premises together, and how long the runners had been on alert…

None of it could lead to anything good.

Charlotte couldn't warn the girls here. It would be too obvious, too public a place. No, but she could at least distract one from his duty, and inform her young friends at Lucy's next gathering tomorrow. With a laborious sigh, Charlotte adjusted her breasts again, ensuring they were propped up just so. Tossing her thick, dark blonde hair over a shoulder, she pasted on a sultry smile before entering the apothecary, the bell jingling overhead. Confidently, she swayed her hips as she made her way over to the runner peering out the window. If she was lucky, she might actually get her first customer of the day.

The next day at Lucy's, settled in the drawing room, Charlotte abruptly cornered Penelope and Eloise. The two sipped their wine on the settee, surrounded by Lucy, and Gen. Charlotte had tasked dear Siena to distract the other ladies across the room with a presentation of the new aria she was set to perform. Siena had done so after making Charlotte promise to fill her in on the gossip later, though Charlotte would have to only partially tell Siena the truth. She knew that once she mentioned that Penelope had been broken-hearted by a Bridgerton, it would be enough to sate the opera singer. While Siena was over the viscount, it did not mean any mention of his family didn't sting.

"The pair of ya' is in trouble," Charlotte said bluntly, pointing an accusing finger at the two friends.

Eloise's eyes widened to the size of saucers and Penelope choked on a mouthful of wine. Charlotte couldn't help but notice the dark circles under the writer's eyes, the sunken quality of her cheeks, nor the general air of resignation that surrounded her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Eloise demanded, already on the defensive.

"What it sounds' like, little miss," Charlotte said brusquely. "I saw ya' yesterday near the printers and that shop's bein' watched by the runners."

"The Bow Street Runners?" Gen gasped, paling considerably. "Oh no, this will not due! Penelope, I cannot afford, we cannot afford to be caught!"

"I–" Penelope swallowed, setting down her wine glass with shaking fingers. She wiped her palms upon her bright, clementine colored skirts before continuing. "No, of course not, Gen I would never want you to risk yourself."

"She said 'we' Penelope," Lucy added, narrowing her eyes. "That includes yourself. You must not put yourself in danger. If there are runners watching the printers, that means the Queen sent them!"

"Is it terrible that I find this a little exciting?" Eloise asked.

"Yes!" several voices replied, including Charlotte.

"Penelope, I do not want to put a halt on your ambitions," Gen said, always the best at reasoning with the debutante when she was upset. "But it is essential you protect yourself so you may continue your work in the future." Gen never patronized Penelope, Charlotte knew that was what the clever girl appreciated most. But, they all knew none of them held a candle to what that Bridgerton rake had been able to do.

The fucking bastard.

"At the very least," Charlotte waved at Eloise's figure, and Eloise began to look down, turning and twisting as if looking for a stain she hadn't noticed. "Fix little miss's attire. It's too obvious she's of noble birth with 'er clothes."

Eloise grimaced while Penelope muttered, "I told you."

"Consider it done," Eloise said, then their little group refocused on Penelope.

Penelope merely shrank in on herself slightly, but the stubborn set of her chin betrayed her. Nerves settled into Charlotte's gut and once again she cursed the Bridgerton men. It seemed they had all the audacity in the world to break a woman's heart and send her on a self-destructive path with little regard.

Oh, if she ever got her hands on him or the elder one…

"I will endeavor to be more careful," Penelope said.

But they all knew it was an empty promise. For as much as they loved Penelope Featherington, there was no doubt she was impulsive, impetuous even, when hurt.

People often forgot the other half of the famous quote, Charlotte mused as they all silently fretted, the one about a woman scorned. Charlotte often frequented the theater, and the quote stood out to her in its entirety, from William Congreve's The Mourning Bride , "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned."

Charlotte almost pitied Benedict Bridgerton, for love turned to hatred often eviscerated its target.

The world became fuzzy. So damn, fucking fuzzy at the edges that Benedict could not fathom how time passed, at least not clearly.

He might know morning from day and day from night due to the amount of drink he had, tobacco he smoked, or whether he saw Tessa and Rupert by the light streaming through the academy windows or the glimmering shimmer of candlelight.

In the back of his mind, he knew his mother must have fretted and probably would have dragged him home by the ear if she hadn't been so distracted by his brother's upcoming nuptials. Furthermore, within the depths of his soul, something that once thrived now wilted, neglected and cold. Whenever he began to compare the flickering flame to Penelope's hair, or crushed lapis lazuli to the depths of her eyes, he found drink again.

Beyond that, more and more of Tessa's quips about her trials just to learn how to flourish as an artist reminded him of Eloise and Genevieve, and a deep crevice of shame grew wider and wider inside him he tried to hedonistically fill.

It was at two of Rupert's parties that Benedict began to realize that maybe he'd had his head buried in the sand for too long.

The first occurred while smoking a strange herb the bastard's merchant father had gotten abroad, one with similar properties to the powdered tea Colin had given him. Floating and distorted, the pair of them painted, as Benedict once did, with their fingers, attempting wilder and stranger shapes until they dissolved into peels of laughter. The people around them were in much the same shape, except for, funnily enough, the actors. Many of them had shows that week and did not indulge in anything stronger than drink.

The three L's hovered around them, staring at their attempts at the avant-garde in amusement. The three L's were actresses and no one quite knew whether they were sisters or lovers, for they were so alike and yet, not alike, it was impossible to tell. The women also had too much fun confusing everyone, and there were longstanding bets going on more than two years for when someone eventually found out the truth.

"Mmm, what do you see–" One began, though Benedict still hadn't grasped their names, a slender finger pointing so it nearly touched the wet, ochre paint on the canvas.

"This one, Lyra?" One of the others finished, this one with frizzier hair and darker skin.

So, Benedict thought, one of them was Lyra then. He giggled for no reason as he tried to retain the information.

"Sad," the one who he assumed was Lyra replied, tilting her head not much unlike a bird of prey, surveying its hunting ground. "Look at his colors, the curves of the lines. Clearly, he's haunted by–"

"A woman," the first one nodded sagely. "Always a woman."

"Not me, I hope," Tessa chuckled, drifting over with a fresh glass of ratafia.

"Not you," the second L said, not unkindly. "Certainly not you, dear Tessa. You're not the one with his heart."

Tessa stood stunned for a moment and if Benedict had been more in his right mind, he would have apologized. Something. While it seemed to be understood that what was between them did not quantify to anything serious, it wasn't kind for it to be said in such a way.

But Tessa smiled, before leveling him with a look he thought would come from the goddess Athena.

"I surmised as much," she said firmly. "Only broken hearts think alcohol is equated to medicine."

Rupert shot up suddenly, as if to defend Benedict's honor, his knight in a linseed stained shirt. "It–" Hiccup. "Is–" Another Hiccup. "Medicinal!"

The women tutted and laughed as if they truly knew better and Benedict started to feel a bit irate when, suddenly, his attention was called again.

"Oh look," one of the L's purred. "Another Whistledown. We have–"

"Enjoyed her lately, yes, Lucrezia?"

"Yes," the one, Lyra?, said. Oh shite, was she called Lyra? "More biting lately. It has helped dear Leda–"

"Get into character," the one that was apparently Leda chimed in. "Oh, yes, yes. Titania, I think, is a character who recognizes men's blind pettiness for most of the play."

"The woman really has been scathing lately," Tessa concurred, holding up the Whilstledown issue in question, her pupils roving over the words. "Mostly against men. While I cannot say that I mind, I wonder if she had been recently jilted."

"An old hag, jilted?" Rupert slurred, carelessly grabbing the issue with his paint-covered fingers. A part of Benedict, a hidden, protective bit of himself that sat trapped within, wanted to roar and rage against Rupert's touch. How he sullied Penelope's hard work with his fingers covered in vermillion paint. It looked like blood, smeared across the page and it nearly made him retch.

"J-jilted?" Benedict choked.

Tessa nodded, eyeing Benedict closely through her lashes. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as they say."

The topic moved on and Benedict almost forgot it entirely, until he woke up the next day sick as a dog, a red smeared copy of Whistledown in his grasp.

For the first time in days, he returned to Bridgerton House and looked out the window, realizing he hadn't even bothered looking out for her signs of help. He'd dived headfirst into a distraction he deemed important, pushing her out and away in an attempt to only save himself.

Over the next few days, he regularly checked the window, but no flowers ever appeared. Even the pretty cream vase she'd kept them in was gone.

As if she never expected to use it again.

As if she'd lost hope.

That thought alone felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. The realization that she had to be delivering the columns somehow without him, the very thought filled him with fear and shook his very bones.

He tried several times to corner Eloise about it, seeking her out in the morning before heading to the Royal Academy. But now she evaded him as if he had leprosy, dodging out of the breakfast room before he could catch her. He would follow her all the way to the door and watch her cross Grosvenor Square without him as if calling out his cowardice, daring him to take even one step in the direction where all his affection and conscience lay.

But he didn't.

Instead he attended another gathering at Rupert's one night, and although he drank rather heavily, he turned down the herb that left him unsure as to his own whereabouts. He'd let time get away from him for too long. It had to be time to regain some sense of self.

He knew in the back of his mind Anthony and their mother would attend some dinner at Lady Danbury's tonight. The Sharma mother's family, he believed. The Sheffields?

For the first time in weeks, he let Penelope's face hover in his mind as he sat, his canvas blank, unsure what to do. As her trusting visage, cheeks round and flushed, captured his imagination he began to sketch the beginning of a painting. Ariadne in the form of Penelope came to mind once again, the Ariadne Penelope had described on the eve of her wedding to Dionysus. Crown filled to the brim with sea stars in her hair, looking up at a god who swore not to abandon her, it was an act that felt like a spiritual flogging.

It was only as Tessa caressed the back of his neck that Benedict jolted, leaning away from her touch. She raised an eyebrow at him, incredibly even-keeled as she always was, and withdrew her fingers. Another rise of guilt ravaged his conscience. It was not just Penelope he had betrayed, but he had used Tessa to fill a void that only one person could fit in.

But he was still too scared to act.

"Oh!" Rupert chortled from beside him, leaning over with a bit of parchment clutched in his hand. "That's quite good, Bridgerton."

"What do you have there, Rupert?" But Benedict already knew what it was, he recognized it anywhere. Snatching it from his friend, he scanned the gossip column, feeling every drop of blood leave his face as he did so.

All of the words dripped with censure, criticism, as Beatrice would put it, 'unmitigated rancor.'

He knew this side of Penelope, had seen it rear its ugly head last year when she wrote the column she never ended up publishing about her cousin, Marina. He saw it in every instance where a desire to strike back at the society that ignored her could not be held back without sweet words of encouragement and redirection. While she had made great strides in reining herself in, she clearly had let the cruelty and harsh honesty she was capable of loose.

Benedict loved this side of Penelope, the part of her that was dark, with sharp jagged edges. He could not have loved her so much if he didn't think that part of her beautiful, too. But Benedict knew Penelope would suffer worse consequences if she left that side of her unchecked with Lady Whistledown. She would make too many people upset, poke the Queen's already fragile ego more, and put herself in danger.

No. Lawks, no. He couldn't let it happen.

But how could he correct his colossal fuck up?

He barely registered that he stumbled out of the party, Rupert and Tessa calling after him.

He needed to regain his wits, and in that moment he could only think of one place he could do it.

Benedict hadn't meant to be waiting on his brother in the viscount's office. Truly, he hadn't.

But the more he sobered up upon departing Rupert's lodgings, the more he couldn't stand the thought of being in his own bachelor's lodgings. The idea of drinking himself once more into a stupor just so he could block out the visage of fiery, ember curls and bright sky blue eyes suddenly hurt more than Penelope's memory.

Especially now that he knew, without a doubt, the damage he'd caused. The havoc Penelope would cause with her alternate persona if she could not be soothed.

And within the pit of his stomach, a kernel of guilt had begun to grow. He couldn't, maybe wouldn't, pinpoint the exact source. He just knew that, over the past few weeks, if he didn't drown himself in wine, spirits and tobacco, then the thought of either Tessa or Penelope made him want to punch himself in the face.

There was no love between him or Tessa. Not the all-consuming, steady, vivid warmth he carried for Penelope like a hearth within his chest. He respected Tessa, as a person and an artist. She knew that the carnal actions between them were not meant to ignite something long-lasting.

Then why did he feel so rotten on the inside?

He hadn't realized upon his entrance into Anthony's office that he still clutched the issue of Lady Whistledown he had stolen from Rupert. Benedict pored over the words with a slightly more lucid mind, sitting in the chair opposite Anthony's desk. Resisting the siren call of the scotch sitting on the desk, Benedict read the increasingly scathing, blazing review of society.

Lady Canterfell seems determined to sell off her twin daughters, Misses Elise and Grace, to the oldest bulldogs of the ton who have money in their purses. Perhaps she should think upon the weight she puts upon her daughters shoulders…preferably while she is taking on the weight of her footman at night, behind her husband's back.

Mister Farrell, a well-known Tory in Parliament, purports the need for a return to the values of the Church of England. Could that be why he reportedly bribes the vicar at his country seat for information on his fellow flock?

Miss Penelope Featherington, the last of the Featherington sisters without a husband or betrothed, should resign herself to the shelf sooner rather than later. Other than a measly four pitiful dances across her two seasons, all provided by a Bridgerton who did nothing but pity her, no prospects are bound to cross her path. Why, if it weren't for the lurid colors her mother forces her to wear, would the ton remember she even exists? One so alone and friendless is not meant to thrive in such a pack society.

It felt as if his heart crumpled like paper in his chest, just as the issue in his hand did. Penelope grew reckless, Benedict recognized the signs. Whenever the little writer felt lost, hurt, alone…

Abandoned…

She lashed out at everything and everyone in the only way she knew how. Never could she be as outwardly cruel like Cressida, and Penelope saw the people she targeted as those who deserved it. But the more loud she became, the more likely it would be that her prey would become her own hunters.

The door creaked on its hinges and Benedict jumped in his seat, ripping the issue in half as he startled. He looked up to find an exhausted Anthony, eyes narrowed in his direction with suspicion. Anthony's jacket had already been discarded somewhere, along with his cravat. Clearly he had meant to unwind in his private space before settling into bed.

"Good Lord, are you drunk again?" Anthony asked, exasperation clear in his tone.

"Sober as a judge." Benedict hiccupped. "Nearly."

Anthony scoffed before striding over to take his seat at the desk. Benedict studied the now ripped, crumpled halves of Whilstledown in his hands and balled them up. With as much precision as he could muster, he threw each wad of parchment into the crackling fireplace, not taking his eyes off until the bits of paper blackened and withered in the grate.

"You will be sober by the wedding, I hope. We all must look our best."

"Does looking our best mean we shall all look as miserable as you?" Benedict quipped, though it came out more biting than he meant.

His brother's dark brown eyes analyzed him, utilizing the power it always had over him; to read him utterly and completely. While Anthony could be obtuse about many things, in another life Benedict could have sworn they would have been twins, two halves of a whole that coaxed every little insecurity and imperfection from the other.

Anthony had always been Benedict's best friend, long before they had other brothers and sisters to mind.

"Do not fool yourself, Ben," Anthony said softly. "You are already miserable."

Reeling back as if his brother had slapped him across the face, Benedict felt his jaw unhinge in shock. The warmth from the fire suddenly felt like an infernal blaze, making him sweat, forcing him to shift uncomfortably as his exterior melted away to expose the raw, bruised truth beneath.

"Clearly the dinner with the Sheffields did not go well," Benedict deflected. He folded his hands upon Anthony's desk, desperate to keep his hands from trembling. God, he itched for a drink.

"No, it did not. The Sheffields are awful people, too absorbed in their own image to actually give a rat's arse about their own daughter and granddaughters. They insulted the Sharmas in front of me and I could not abide by it."

Benedict had the intrinsic feeling that there was more Anthony wasn't saying, possibly something that he felt would not be appropriate to divulge without the Sharmas permission. No matter. As long as Anthony chose not to further his interrogation–

"And I thought the Royal Academy was supposed to make you happy," Anthony remarked, pouring himself a glass of scotch and taking a sip. Benedict noticed he did not bother to offer him a drink. "Not send you into a drunken spiral of anguish."

"I am not–"

"While Mother is convinced I have the emotional width and depth of a thimble," Anthony said, shuffling in the confines of his desk drawer before pulling out a small bit of parchment covered front to back with the flowing, tidy scrawl Benedict now knew as if it had been scratched across his own skin. "I am not as unaware as people believe me to be."

He rotated the missive on the desk and pushed it toward Benedict. But Benedict did not have to look. He already knew what the letter said.

October 14, 1813

Ledger,

I have gotten a gift for Rapscallion in anticipation for our midnight ride. Autumn is one of my favorite seasons, as the apples are so much more ripe and flavorful upon their proper harvest. I went out to market today to buy a few with some of my pin money–

He dared not read more, and could only count his lucky stars that there had been no blatant mention of Lady Whistledown or one of Henry's parties. But was there more than one letter in Anthony's possession? He had been so careful, putting them in the same box as his rock collection–

"You look as if I am about to challenge you to a duel," Anthony said, not bothering to reach forward as Benedict snatched the missive away. "To my knowledge this is the only letter you misplaced. It fell out of your sketchbook as you walked from the drawing room. I picked it up to give it to you and, well–" Anthony shrugged, refocusing his gaze to the fire.

For the first time, Benedict noticed how Anthony's eyes appeared hollow, sunken, his cheeks thinner, and an air of despondency enveloped him, as he was a skeleton cloaked by despair.

"Brother," Benedict tried, scooting forward, reaching out, not knowing what to do. "Are you alright?"

Instead of answering, Anthony simply took Benedict's proffered hand and lowered it to the desk. For a moment, their fingers interlocked in a way that they had not done since they were mere children, clinging to one another as they explored the forest around Aubrey Hall.

"I cannot believe I am saying this," Anthony breathed, closing his eyes as if merely looking at the world around him caused him pain. "But Ben, do not ignore your heart, your passion. No matter how much it hurts. You are a second son." Benedict flinched but Anthony gave him a sad little smile, as if he was almost jealous of Benedict's status. "I have ensured you can afford to follow your passions, Ben. At least one of us should."

It was with sudden clarity that Benedict realized, even though Anthony had thrown himself into the chaos that had been his marriage to Miss Edwina, he paid attention to him. However vaguely or fleetingly, Anthony noticed him. It was his job and had always been his job. While the viscount had not always been the warmest brother, he made it his mission to know his siblings. He did not always succeed. The debacle with Daphne last season proved that and Anthony punished himself for it every day. He couldn't know everything, that was impossible, but Anthony tried.

And Benedict realized, with a horrid, overwhelming sense of remorse, that he had no idea how Anthony truly felt about his marriage. He did not know, nor had dug too deeply, into why Eloise remained furious with him, though he could hazard a guess. And, with a sick wave of shame, he realized Penelope hadn't even bothered putting flowers up in her window for him.

Benedict proved himself unreliable by simply being absent. For shutting himself away in order to protect himself.

All he had succeeded in doing was wounding others.

They sat in silence for the rest of the night, avoiding the stare of their father's portrait, warmth leeched from the room no matter how much the fire roared.

The darkness of the sitting room soothed something in Penelope's soul. The lack of invitations to social events, the wallowing in shadows, the resentment that plagued her like a disease… It all seemed terribly fitting.

"Must we sit around like statues?" Prudence groused, clearly not of the same mindset as her youngest sister. "I wish to be at a ball, showing off my new fiancé."

Penelope spared a glance from the book she was reading, a series of tales of doom and gloom from an anthology aptly titled Tales of the Dead , a translated, abridged version of the French Fantasmagoriana . Her mother sat up, setting aside her embroidery.

"Varley?" Portia called, and the resilient housekeeper came in, her chatelain with dozens of keys rattling as she approached. "Are you certain we've not received any invitations you may have overlooked for the evening?"

"No, ma'am," Varley replied, her mouth pinched grimly. "There's been nothing."

"Perhaps the circumstances of Prudence's engagement has us on the outs yet again," Penelope remarked dully, flipping another page, just waiting for the grisly end.

"So this is my fault?" Prudence huffed.

"I did not say that." Penelope's patience ran thin, as if one more misplaced word could tear her open, unleashing the foulness that had built inside her. "It's not as if you arranged to meet Cousin Jack in that orangery, did you?" She turned towards her mother, veiled criticism laced in every word. "We should merely be happy we still have a cook and a lady's maid each, yes, Mama?"

Her mother did not answer, simply rose from the sofa and padded away, no doubt towards Cousin Jack's office. For a moment, Penelope considered following her, pressing her ear against the study door to listen.

But the familiar numbness that traded places with her anger consumed her, making her sit back in her seat. Her thoughts swirled around her mother and the matriarch's relationship with the two heads of the Featherington household. There had never been a partnership with her father, Portia had been expected to obey so that she and her daughters would be provided for. That was the contract of a marriage, wasn't it? That a woman's servitude and compliance guaranteed them security and comfort. Yet, Penelope now knew how little that had meant to her father. Archibald Featherington had betrayed them, with little to no interest in how he harmed his girls as he gambled away their futures.

Cousin Jack was kinder, even smarter, but Penelope held no doubt that he saw women the same way. That women took part in an unwritten agreement as the supposedly weaker sex, that they would simply follow the lead of men in order to be provided for. Undoubtedly, that was the issue at hand. Men expected it, demanded it, took it. They took a woman's love, a woman's trust, a woman's ignorance, and a woman's faith, using and abusing such a beautiful, delicate thing until they felt no more need for the woman anymore. Fathers and brothers sold their daughters and sisters off, unwilling to support them their entire lives, even though it was men who claimed women could not possibly handle supporting themselves. Friends and lovers left women by the wayside once bored, letting them face the scrutiny and loneliness of society alone, only looking towards their own futures.

Men saw women as a blight and acted accordingly, even while they reached out for the next pretty, young thing for their amusement.

Penelope thought of Benedict then, how she had been tossed aside without so much as a word. She thought then of the main reason a man neglected all of the other women in his life. Why her father had left her mother's bed cold for years. Why the Viscount Bridgerton had been so blind to his sister's struggles last season. The thought twisted like a gnarled root in her gut, cumbersome, a deadweight that filled her with spite.

Another woman.

Penelope thought she must be such a piteous creature, to be set aside so easily. Benedict had grown bored of her, cast her upon the rocks along the angry waves. She did not want to admit to these thoughts, these feelings that had come to pass since her stay in the country. But it was hard to hide from her emotions. So hard. So very, very hard.

She had known of his dalliance with Gen, the brief situation between they and Lucy, and many other faceless ladies before them. But it was a different cut to know he must prefer the company of a different lady than that of poor Penelope Featherington. This cut was deeper, it burned her breathless.

Perhaps this mystery woman was someone he met at a party or from the academy. A lithe creature with wide eyes and a swan-like neck, delicate wrists and small, apple-sized breasts like art at the gallery. Her opposite in every way. Penelope ached knowing not even her friend (were they friends anymore? Were they ever?) found her enough to be around, to even give a farewell to.

Drained of energy to do much else but read about lives that were far more miserable than hers with characters far more dastardly and pathetic, Penelope fell into the world of Tale of the Dead again. The tale of The Death Bride, a female specter, luring men upon the eve of marriage to their deaths.

The short, morbid tale both stoked and soothed her sorrow. Both riled and hindered her savagery.

For Penelope was not dead.

And vengeance was not so swift.

Benedict spent the next two days attempting to figure out how one could grovel for forgiveness. Fuck his dignity and pride. He needed Penelope's grace more than anything in the world.

The doorknob at his bachelor's lodgings, the one just for her, the butterfly suspended in rest, taunted his inadequacy. Eloise still avoided him expertly, and though he had actually attended two society events the last couple of days when not at his lectures, he still hadn't seen his Nel.

A little drunk and running out of ideas, he had decided to walk from his flat to the printers, hoping he might glean some information out of them. He had been wondering how she had been making her deliveries, maybe he could catch whatever errand boy she'd paid off.

What Benedict hadn't expected as he nearly tripped over a pile of rotten cabbage in the dirty street, was to see the familiar sight of a cerulean lady's maid cloak swish out the door. One singular curl of January fire hair poked from the hood as she turned, running in the opposite direction. She never spotted him and he had been too shocked to yell, to run, to berate. Stumbling forward, he caught her flagging down a hired hack. A crack resounded in his jaw, like porcelain breaking, his jaw clenched tight.

Indignation he knew, somehow, he had no right to feel flared to life. How dare she go make deliveries without him? Without help? Without someone to protect her? Did she want to get caught? Want to be dragged in front of Queen Charlotte as a sacrifice?

Vision red, he walked again, the alcohol burning from his system the longer he trudged on. As quick as his discontent flared, remorse and self-reproach takes its place.

He blamed himself for Penelope's choices. In his own vile, craven way he had sought to protect himself. He had done the opposite of what Marina had suggested; he had refused to be patient. Instead, he decided to work on his own timeline, trying to shove her from his mind with excuses and a new purpose. But he'd been hollow, empty, and treated himself and those around him as disposable parts.

Zounds, Penelope probably thought he'd disposed of her completely.

And wasn't that what he had attempted to do? To cut her out like a cancer, not understanding that really, she was an organ he needed to survive?

Oh Christ.

How the fuck could he come back from this?

Without meaning to, his feet led him to Bloomsbury, to the one place where he knew he'd receive a verbal beating and comfort in equal measure.

Staring at the front steps of the Granvilles' home, he prayed they would listen to him, forgive him, help him.

Preferably before Lucy gutted him.

In a blur, Benedict knocked upon the door, was ushered inside by a female servant who barely spared him a glance, and soon found himself in the drawing room facing the Granvilles. Henry stood to greet him, an unusual solemnity about him. Lucy, however, did not stand.

No, she drummed her fingernails upon her scarlet muslin draped knee, eyes so dark they appeared black in the dim light, boiling and frothing, ready to spit and burn.

Benedict felt compelled to kneel before them and bare his throat in sacrifice but he knew it wouldn't be so easy. If anyone would dare to be brutally honest with him, it would be Lucy Granville, and the woman looked ready to flay him alive, slowly so that he suffered every bit of hurt he caused. But no amount of physical suffering, Benedict knew, truly equated to the bruising of the soul.

"I–" Benedict swallowed thickly, twisting his hands in front of him. "I am not successful, Henry, I–" There was really only one, honest way to say it. "I fucked up."

"Oh, so you admit there to be no excuse for your reckless profligacy as a desperate attempt to ignore your innermost feelings?" Lucy drawled and while Henry spared him a pityingly look, he did not object. "Or that your act of self-preservation left Penelope, who you swore to protect, long before you realized how in love you were with her, abandoned and adrift with no explanation?"

Henry's silent condemnation proved to be the most damning thing of all. The weight of how Benedict had acted finally fell upon his shoulders, causing his knees to quake. Without the forced levity, the spectral haze that drink and smoking brought him, the reality of his neglect sent him sprawling to the carpeted floor. Prostrated like a dog at the Granvilles' feet, he dug his fingers into the plush Persian rug, the blood red color mixed with his guilt making him nauseous.

"I did not– I did not mean–"

"It does not matter what you did or did not intend to do." Henry squatted next to him, his large, warm hand upon his back more the final strike of a gavel than a comfort. Benedict could not look up into the man's face, his mentor and friend. In some ways, he had failed him as much as he had failed Penelope. "What's done is done. You must recognize the irrevocable pain you have caused."

"If it is irrevocable how am I meant to be forgiven? I must beg for her grace, for her back."

"What if you do not deserve to be forgiven?" Lucy's question spread ominously, like a crack over a frozen lake, expanding dangerously, the victim never knowing when or how they would fall through the ice. "You shouldn't even focus on obtaining her forgiveness. Your only concern should be soothing that poor woman's hurt. You abandoned her to her own device without so much as an explanation."

"And we all know how her own devices can land her in hot water," Henry added. Benedict's gaze remained glued to the rug, his sight focusing and unfocusing on the herati pattern. His stomach tossed and turned and it refused to lessen, and he feared he'd be sick if he saw the disappointment in his friends' faces. "You have seen her writing lately? If she lets her passionate fury consume her, she may land in more trouble with the Queen than before."

"Charlotte has already spotted an increase in Bow Street Runners attempting to apprehend her." The sound of Lucy's rustling skirts met his ears and soon, her slippered feet, along with the hem of her dress came into his line of vision. "A woman scorned, especially by a man, is a dangerous, reckless thing. And women will simply encourage, stoke that anger in other women. Your sister is a marvel, Benedict. But she only pushes Penelope's brashness. You have hurt her, as well."

Fear infiltrated his veins, electrified his nerves, clenched his muscles, and settled into his bones. The very scenario he feared, that had prompted him to involve himself in Lady Whistledown over a year ago had occurred. If Queen Charlotte ever got a hold of Penelope, there was no way to predict what the excessively stultified monarch would do. The Queen's boredom, the tedious life she led, caused her to be mercurial. One day she could laud all of Penelope's achievements. On another, she may very well sentence Penelope to the gallows.

To make matters worse, if Eloise's involvement were discovered as well, Benedict's sister's own life and reputation would be on the line. But more than that, the entirety of the Bridgerton family's good standing in society would be threatened.

Benedict loathed the dictates of the bon ton. The rules that locked them in place, made it so women or good people like the Mondrichs could barely inch forward in a world built against progress.

But more than that, he felt as if his heart might burst because this other constraint could very well destroy the people he loved.

"N-No." Benedict shut his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, the scent of Lucy's rose oil and Henry's shoe polish invading his nostrils before he lifted his head. He sat back on his knees, finally facing the scorn. As expected both Henry and Lucy looked incredibly disappointed. Lucy still appeared as if she may rain unholy violence against him like the fabled erinyes of the Underworld. But both of them held a careful pity and unexpected patience that made Benedict's eyes well with tears. "I cannot let harm befall Nel or El. I will do anything to prevent it."

"Benedict, why did you not foresee this happening?" Henry asked, raising his arms in question, understandably dumbfounded. "You know her temperament. If you truly needed time to yourself, why did you not just tell her?"

Gritting his teeth, Benedict became filled with the strange, heavy, tight feeling inside when he either did not know how to answer or was unfathomably embarrassed by the truth. It was as if someone had taken two cast-iron plates on either side of his organs and began to push them together, squeezing air, blood, sense, and reasons from his being. Understanding dawned on the Granvilles' faces, and Lucy rolled her eyes while poor Henry massaged his temples as if a headache were coming on.

"You did not even think of it."

Benedict nearly gave into the urge to bow his head in shame but decided that the Granvilles already knew the depth of his chagrin.

"Christ," Benedict murmured. "How do I even begin to right this wrong?"

"No matter what, you must." Without hesitation, Lucy roughly gripped his chin, forcing him to meet her steely gaze. Vaguely, he heard the opening of a door, a whispered conversation, and the low crackling of the fire in the grate. Benedict felt sweat bead at his temple, though he did not think it because of the growing heat in the room. "But Benedict, I cannot in good conscience let my friend be hurt again. Do you plan on leaving her again? Will you give up so easily if it seems she does not return your affections?" She pressed upon the divot in his chin harder now, the tip of her fingernail biting his skin. "Will you forsake the friendship you promised to cherish if you do not gain what you desire?"

The thought of leaving Penelope again was almost too much to bear. It was only now, in this moment of terrifying clarity, that Benedict realized he had been wasting away without her. Yes, his art was important. The Royal Academy provided him with a sort of nourishment, impassioned activity that kept him fed and watered…but only just.

But art could not encourage him to be the best he could be, nor could it provide advice when he felt lost. The Royal Academy taught him many things, but it could not provide the sort of solace that a night at the swings with Nel and his sister provided. Rupert and Tessa were people he respected but they did not share the marrow-deep understanding that he and Nel shared, one where silence sufficed.

Even if it sliced him to the bone, he couldn't give Penelope up, not yet. He hadn't really tried at all, really, too scared to take any sort of actual leap to earn her affections.

God, if his mother knew, she would be so ashamed.

Benedict blinked up into Lucy's dark eyes, fully expecting them to dole out advice and vengeance in kind. "What do I do?"

A stronger hand took him by the arm, hoisted him up, and unceremoniously pushed him onto the sofa. Henry stood above him, shoving a plate of thick-sliced brown bread slathered in butter onto his lap before pointing at a vile concoction in a glass on the side table. Benedict gulped, knowing the disgusting potion was a hangover cure his own mother swore by. The brow, viscous liquid sat like sewer sludge, little bits of yellow egg yolk streaked throughout.

"Sober up," Henry commanded. "Stay the night. We shall strategize in the morning."

Benedict looked towards Lucy for approval and she gave a stern nod. Slightly more at ease, though no less wrecked by how thoroughly he had damaged his relationships, he ate in silence, gagged down the hangover cure, then dragged himself to bed.

Upon rising late the next morning, Benedict did not necessarily feel any lighter. He was reassured, however, that the Granvilles would help him in his efforts to make amends with Penelope. It was good he had come to the Granvilles, for he had no doubt it was due to Henry that Benedict had survived the night. If it had been just Lucy in residence or, worse yet, if Benedict had gone to Genevieve or Marina, Benedict knew he would have been castrated or dead before he crossed the threshold.

But once Benedict entered the breakfast room, he knew something was amiss.

For now not only Henry, but also Lucy, held nothing but pity in their gazes. Between them, Henry held the latest issue of Whistledown.

Wordlessly, Benedict held his hand out for it. After a few moments of hesitation, the older man gave it to him.

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Duty.

More than laws or faith, I have often thought it the bond that holds our fragile society together. Duty to rank and title. Fidelity to one's family name. It demands both utter obedience and total sacrifice.

But what happens when such duty is in conflict with the heart's true desire? Why, then, there is the potential for a considerable scandal, indeed. The only question is, will the parties in question heed my warning? Or is it already too late to turn back to duty and away from desire?

In the case of one Mister James Hollyrood, he must make a choice between spending his small fortune on the upkeep of his mistress or the future of his sister, Miss Patricia. The flaunting of not only the beauty of his mistress, but also how he dotes upon her with dresses, jewels, and a comfortable home in Brunswick Square has become garish. While it is clear his heart is aflame with desire, he flagrantly ignores his duty to his debutante sister. This Author advises that he return to his duty, and work for Miss Patricia's security. No respectable gentlemen would or should associate with Mister Hollyrood until he realigns his priorities.

And as for one Mister Benedict Bridgerton, it seems the spare to the viscount is using the distraction of his brother's upcoming nuptials for his own debaucherous purposes. It appears he is not the sibling anyone should rely upon, as when he is not supposedly devoted to his studies at the Royal Academy, he spends his time in the street or at home, far from sober. His indecorous actions have not only proven him a rake but a cad. While this Bridgerton may appear as fine and well-respected as the rest of his brood, it appears the fop does not take family, life, or personal relationships seriously. Much like a raven distracted by shiny objects, Mister Bridgerton hops from one pursuit to another, before discarding it completely. Dearest Reader, this Author advises to avoid such a man, for I fear that even the reminder of duty will simply not work on a man so self-obsessed.

The parchment trembled in his grasp, the rest of the articles mere blur in his vision. His Nel was vicious and brilliant, unmerciful. She had struck deep and true as if she'd strung an arrow directly over his heart. The tragedy of it being that she had not been incorrect.

But, more than anything, Benedict knew he had avoided her for too long. If Nel had written this and, undoubtedly with Eloise's support, he had pushed her too far. In his mind's eye, he saw her, back facing towards him, walking farther and farther away until she was forever out of reach.

"I believe we best discuss how on earth you are to come back from this," Henry said quietly, the plate of eggs before him barely touched.

"You might also want to practice kneeling." Lucy took a sip of black coffee, the robust fragrance drifting through the space. "I hope you are not too overly fond of your knees."

Hours later, Benedict arrived at his bachelor's lodgings just as the sun began its final descent. He had spent the whole day with the Granvilles, going over how Benedict could even start to apologize to Penelope. Most of their conversations led to the same conclusion: Benedict needed to be ready to admit his fault, apologize endlessly, and do quite a bit of prostrating.

"You are going to need patience," Henry had said over a cup of tea. In solidarity, none of them had touched a drop of alcohol that day, and the longer Benedict abstained, the more clear headed he became. Of course, this also meant he became more and more aware of how monumental a mistake he had made. "More patience than you had previously. You must give her time to speak, to make up her mind, to grow. You forget she is so much younger than you."

"Though women are undoubtedly more mature," Lucy said. "But Henry is right. I think what you must first do is re-establish your presence in her life. Pack up your belongings and return to Bridgerton House. That is the best vantage point to start your plan."

So Benedict went back to his bachelor's quarters to pack up some essentials and return to Bridgerton House for the foreseeable future. But upon arriving, he saw Tessa waiting for him outside his door. An odd, terrible sense of discordance emerged, seeing her next to the doorknob he had commissioned for Penelope. Furthermore, a fresh wave of guilt overtook him.

In Tessa's hands was a copy of Lady Whistledown. "I came to see how you were faring," she said simply.

"I can tell you I have no friendly jests today," Benedict admitted, unlocking the door before striding in, Tessa on his heels. "All good humor has been sapped from my person."

He heard the door shut softly behind him, a small hand grip his wrist. He turned and Tessa's kind, understanding gaze peered up at him, searching for the desolation she now knew so well.

She reached up on her tiptoes, angling for a kiss. "I can distract you."

With more swiftness than he had possessed in weeks, Benedict stepped back, out of her reach, gently disentangling himself from her grasp. "Tessa, I am so sorry, but–" Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his head, darting his gaze nervously between her and the scuffed floorboards. "I cannot continue anything physical with you. I think you know I am in love with someone else."

Tessa nodded slowly, no anger or hurt in her gaze, simply compassion. Which made him feel all the worse. "It has been fairly obvious, and you told me at the start. I knew what I was agreeing to." Keeping her distance, she held up the slightly wrinkled gossip column. "Is that why you have been acting the fool? You thought distancing yourself from your love would keep you safe?"

Strangled laughter burst from him unexpectedly. The sound tasted bitter on his tongue.

"The Royal Academy is full of loggerheads for not letting someone of your intelligence in as a student."

Cocking her head, she blithely raised an eyebrow.

"If the academy admits white livered men such as yourself, maybe it is a compliment that I was not given entrance."

Wincing, Benedict conceded he deserved that jibe.

"I must make apologies to her," Benedict admitted. "It will take much to earn her forgiveness, but I must also tell you how sorry I am. I have the utmost respect for you, Tessa, but I used you in order to forget Nel. It was wrong of me, unfair to you. I am so, so sorry."

Gracefully, Tessa glided to the corner of the space where he kept his works in progress propped up against the wall, covered by sheets. There were only two and, like magic, Tessa pulled off the stained, white fabric to reveal the painting he had started at Rupert's party, the wedding scene of Ariadne and Dionysus.

"Is this her?"

Mutely, Benedict nodded, though he could not help the small smile that he felt emerge on his face. He would never be able to display the painting, not so long as Penelope was an unwed debutante. She was too recognizable, anyone in high society would know it was her. But he didn't mind. There was a part of him that wished to covet this version of her all to himself.

"Your Nel?"

"My Nel."

Saying it aloud to someone else, someone who didn't know Penelope, or his sister, or any of their mutual friends made the confession all the more real. Even if Penelope never wanted to be his, he would always be hers. It was simply inevitable.

"My word," Tessa said, dry as a bone. "You really are a moon-eyed, mutton-headed bastard."

And Benedict laughed again, a little freer this time.

With Tessa's help, he packed up the belongings he needed, locked up his lodgings, and hired a hack to return to Grosvenor Square.

It was past time he begged for his love's friendship back.

Chapter 15: Consequences

Summary:

A riot of feelings.

A disaster of a wedding.

And many attempted apologies and conversations. None go according to plan.

Notes:

HEY! HEY HEY! OVER HERE! READ THIS FIRST PLEASE!

Hello friends!

So, if you read the warning last chapter, if you wish to wait on all the angst to be resolved, you will want to wait until we upload next chapter. However, we are proud of this one. Our characters DO talk. But, if you have ever tried to apologize to someone while your emotions are still running incredibly high (especially when your family is proving a disaster) it does not always go as planned.

For those who have siblings, you may understand how vicious fights can be with the people you were raised with. Fights with my younger brother always proved to be the most hurtful. But, at least with my brother, I regretted it most because I knew I had really struck where it hurt.

On a HISTORICAL note, do y'all know how freaking frustrating it is how to decide in your own head whether this wedding was hosted at/near Buckingham or Kew? Just based on a church being in walking distance? In the end, I never chose a palace name. While in Queen Charlotte, Charlotte and George live in separate palaces most of the time, in s2 George is in the same palace, explaining the scene with Edwina. So I think we have some leeway on which palace it is.

We hope you enjoy, though, remember, this is the disaster wedding episode. EVERYONE is going through it!

Sincerely,

happilyinsane13 (writingwhilecaffeinated)

Itakethewords (velvetcoveredbrick)

Chapter Text

A march down the aisle may very well be the longest walk any young lady ever takes. It does not simply cover the length of the church, but rather, countless floors for dancing, and meandering paths for every afternoon promenade too. It is a wonder, then, that feet do not tire or, heaven forbid, trip under the scrutiny of all those attentive eyes keeping close watch, indeed.

Shooting the cue ball wide, Benedict hit the group of billiard balls, missing his mark entirely as the colored spheres simply scattered across the table.

"Ooh." Benedict leaned on his cue stick, the dim light of the room making everything seem darker, more sinister. It was meant to be masculine, but the mood somehow seemed…off.

This room had been where their father entertained his friends and now it served as their own place of manly entertainment. Sconces hung on the wall, three burning candles each lighting the space. Before the billiards table were two tan leather chairs, between them a marble-topped table where a crystal decanter of fine scotch whiskey sat. Behind that, an even larger table with another decanter and glasses, a bronze statue of a stag looking above it all.

But Anthony's demeanor, on his own stag night, seemed depleted. The man had discarded his jacket hours ago, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his dark navy waistcoat, almost black like he was in mourning, with embroidered gold dots across the fabric. Anthony had abandoned his cue stick in favor of drink, knocking back yet another glass of scotch before pouring himself another.

Benedict frowned. He was the last person to criticize anyone for drinking heavily lately. Though in his desperate attempt to right himself and seek out Penelope's forgiveness, he had abandoned drink and smoking. However, with a clear head, it hurt all the more when his favorite sister evaded him every chance she got, refusing to help him seek an audience with Penelope. It had only been a week, but it felt like years of solitude.

Eyeing his own glass of amber liquid, he pretended to take a sip, the alcohol making his lips tingle before setting it back down. Colin chuckled, eyeing Anthony as he began to gulp down his glass. Was it the fifth? Sixth?

"It is meant to be a sipping spirit," Colin remarked, leaning on his own cue stick, his sky blue satin waistcoat straining slightly, his cravat a little askew.

"Have you not heard?" Benedict attempted a jovial, joking tone. Though by the way Anthony slumped into the leather chair before glaring darkly over the rim of his glass, he had not succeeded. "The viscount believes in hurrying things along these days. First the wedding, now his drink. I hope, for Edwina's sake, the tendency stops before the honeymoon."

Colin laughs at his quip, but Benedict immediately regrets it. Something is wrong, something important. Benedict may not have recognized it if it had not been for his and Anthony's conversation over a week ago. If it hadn't been for the fact that Benedict knew what wrong felt like, because he felt it so keenly within himself.

"Have you always been so vulgar, or has staring at naked models all day turned your brain to charcoal?" Anthony's rejoinder struck home, though not exactly where his brother may have intended. Benedict felt that quiver of shame, the one that brought to mind his neglect of Penelope and his use of Tessa.

He tried to smile but it felt false.

"Must he choose just one?" Colin, at least, remained bright and unaffected. Perhaps that was for the best, for Benedict had no idea how the young lad would be able to handle both Benedict's remorse and Anthony's… Whatever it was.

Anthony fingered his glass, eyes usually as warm as the earth hard like frost that had settled over soil. "That has always been the privilege of not being the firstborn. You both get to choose your passions and adventures, while I, on the other hand, must fulfill my…"

"Tell me, dear brother, once you marry, will your duty finally be fulfilled so you can stop reminding everyone of it?" Irritation popped across Benedict's skin, not unlike when his hairs of his arms stood upright just before a thunderstorm.

He knew it was unfair. Benedict would never want to be viscount himself and he knew the hardships Anthony faced on behalf of their family. But sometimes, he wished his brother would talk to them about it rationally, and not with the kind of resentment that made it feel like he regretted being in charge of them all.

"I believe the reminders are also my duty, so no."

Benedict scoffed in reply before sharing a look with Colin. Colin quirked a brow before taking his place to line up his shot. Benedict wandered over to the table, pretending to top off his glass.

"I am working on that issue we spoke of last week," he murmured.

Anthony didn't move, simply huffed in what Benedict thought was bemusement.

"Ah, you taking my advice? Now that is rare indeed."

Sticking out his lower lip in a pout, Benedict pondered that for a moment. Did he really ignore Anthony's advice often? The answer was yes, of course he did. Benedict himself was known for handing out sage advice to his siblings, a pillar of comfort. But the only people Benedict could really go to for counsel in his own family were Anthony and their mother. And, while he loved his mother dearly, there were quite a few things over the years he did not, under pain of death, want to ask her.

So, in lieu of his father, he went to Anthony. Hearing his elder brother's advice could range anywhere between soothing to extremely aggravating. While he appreciated his brother's efforts immensely, Benedict usually ended up doing what he had originally planned on anyway.

But with this, maybe he had decided to take Anthony's advice. Well, after also getting a kick in the pants from the Granvilles.

The crack of the cue stick against the ball echoed through the room, the sound of balls scattering, one thumping into its resting place followed.

"Fiddlesticks," Colin swore.

"Look, Anthony, are you quite alright? You seem down and it's your stag party."

"Believe it or not, matrimony is not as tireless an endeavor as Mother makes it out to be." Anthony waved him away and Benedict frowned before tugging on his own scarlet waistcoat, the golden, paisley embroidery winking up at him in the candlelight. "It is a change, a new life to prepare for. And, yes, another duty to fulfill."

"What does duty truly mean to you, Brother?"

"I thought that was rather obvious." Anthony sank further into the chair, the stretched leather squeaking beneath him. "To keep you safe and happy, it is that simple to me."

In Benedict's mind's eye that vision, one he had often in the past year, flashed through his mind's eye. Him, Penelope, Eloise, even Francesca, laughing around a table. Warm, content. Except, Benedict realized for the first time, it was only Benedict who could make the conjured image a reality. He'd never thought it through, how being the man meant he had a certain responsibility to make their security a reality.

"A change?" Colin frowned, circling back to Anthony's earlier comment, brow wrinkled in confusion. "I mean, I know Miss Edwina will take over much of the household functions from Mother. But all should be fine, correct?"

Benedict thought on that. Much would change, in actuality. Eventually, their mother and the rest of them, if Miss Edwina so chose, would be moved to a dower house. Miss Edwina would then become responsible for Francesca and Hyacinth's debuts in society, along with Gregory's education. Then there was the matter of when she would have children of her own.

He wondered if Anthony himself would be content with such changes. Their elder brother had acted more as a father to Gregory and Hyacinth than a brother. Even Francesca fell in a strange realm of in-between, part sister and part daughter. Could Miss Edwina handle or understand that unique dynamic? Benedict frowned further, remembering the girl at Aubrey Hall, practically defeated from the first swing of the pall mall mallet, fading in the background of their family's boisterousness.

"No need to worry." Anthony poured himself another glass of scotch and Benedict could tell he would reek of the stuff well into the morning. "Much will remain the same, apart from the fact that I shall finally have my viscountess, as is required."

Something about Anthony's words felt off, like tasting something charred on the tongue. Bitter, acrid, even though the words were supposed to be ones of victory.

Benedict eyed Colin again, trying to decide whether to joke or to take a more serious route. Maybe he really was a coward, or maybe he just couldn't let go of the jovial act he clung to, wanting to push, prod, make others laugh so that he could feel better about himself and the people he was with.

So he feigned a great sigh. "Indeed. Not much shall change at all." Sticking out his pinky finger, he waved it at his brothers, smirking. "Though, soon enough, we will have a tiny Anthony to contend with, running around, declaring all of his tiny duties too, no doubt."

Colin guffawed, rapping his stick lightly on the carpeted floor.

"Yes, he too shall be a tyrant."

Benedict took the nearly empty decanter and filled Anthony's glass once again, since the man seemed determined to wallow. Lifting his own glass, he cried, "A toast!"

"What is it we are drinking to if not the future?" Anthony queried, still slouched within the chair's embrace.

"To, well, the sister." Benedict analyzed his brother for any sign of change or awareness.

"The sister?"

As usual, his brother remained fairly stoic, though he could have sworn there was a twitch to his right eye. So Benedict pushed. "The gatekeeper."

"To besting her," Colin added, all for the fun.

Anthony stood, raising his glass so the three of them formed a little triangle, clinking their glasses together, the amber alcohol sloshing within the crystal confines.

"Hear! Hear!" Benedict tried to imbue levity into the toast, but it fell flat to his own ears. It came out more biting, as if his own self-loathing had to be directed at something. "You do love gloating about your victories, do you not, Brother?"

He and Colin laughed before Colin took two, big gulps of his drink before coughing. Once again, Benedict felt the burn of whiskey on his lips but refused to let more than a drop hit his tongue. Maybe it was the sudden quit of drinking making him so mercurial, all of his tangled emotions rising to the surface after a month of drunkenness. Temperance was now his bedfellow; he needed a clearer head if he were to get his brother through this wedding, win back Eloise's loyalty, and regain Nel's friendship. But apparently, his humors had been thrown off course by the sudden change from a liquid diet of wine and spirits to his sudden dry spell.

Every time in the past week Benedict had been tempted for a drink, he recalled Penelope's remarks, her stabs, about his alcoholism in Whistledown. With that one thought alone, how his behavior made her think so little of him, he stayed his hand.

But he watched from the corner of his eye as Anthony stared at the liquid forgetfulness for a moment before downing it.

Worry blossomed within him, and several hours later as Benedict and Anthony carried a slumped Colin between them, their younger brother's arms slung over each other their shoulders, Benedict asked again, "Ant, are you truly well?"

Anthony paused, adjusting his grip on Colin's arm, making it so he took most of their brother's weight. After months of traveling, the brother they once thought no more than a boy had grown, filled out, became more of the man he wanted to be.

"Ben, last year when I challenged Simon to a duel and informed you that, no matter the outcome, you would become head of this family…" Anthony inhaled sharply, shutting his eyes for a moment before opening them again, making eye contact with Benedict over Colin's mess of chestnut hair. "I am sorry for that."

Benedict nearly dropped Colin to the floor. Of all the things he had expected Anthony to say, an apology in any capacity was not one of them.

"Why bring that up now, Brother?"

Anthony took a moment and watched as Colin's head lolled on his shoulders, mumbling something about baklava and tea cakes before lightly snoring.

"Because you must understand, I can never put you, or any other member of our family in that situation again. You are all my responsibility. I can never–" His brother's Adam's apple bobbed before he started to move them forward again, Colin stumbling between them. "I cannot be selfish like that again, you understand? Too many people rely upon me, too many reputations are being held up by this marriage."

"Anthony, what–"

"I know I often disregard your passions, your work," Anthony admitted. "I do not know if it is my jealousy or I am just too comfortable with you. Maybe both." He grumbled as Colin's dead weight continued to make them trip down the hall. They could have called upon the servants, but the house had been in such an uproar over the wedding, they had decided to let them sleep. Besides, Humboldt would have given them such a look of exasperation it simply would not be worth it.

"I mean, if there should be any sibling to be jealous of, it should be me," Benedict teased. "I am the most handsome, talented, and if I really try, I can sing better than Daphne."

Anthony actually chuckled then, the first bit of good humor appearing on his face in well over a month.

"That is only because Daph sounds like a dying chicken."

"Do not let her hear you say that!"

"I have no intention to. If I play my cards right, I am sure El or Greg will say it for me."

For a few moments as they hauled Colin towards his bedroom, rattling the handle until the door opened and dropping their brother unceremoniously on the bed, all was warm and light between them.

"My point is the same as before, Ben," Anthony said, clasping his shoulder as he made to depart to his own chambers. "Follow your passions. Do not let them go for anything. I have done all in my power to ensure that you can. At least one of us should have the luxury of following our heart, like Mother says." The viscount snorted, though it was slightly derisive. "As ridiculous as that may be."

He left and suddenly the world around Benedict dimmed again, levity sucked away, leaving only a sense of foreboding behind.

Descending the stairs with slightly more vigor than she had the past few days, Penelope smiled to see Genevieve waiting for her at the bottom of the marble steps, a dress box perched on the table in the middle of the foyer. As usual, the modiste was a vision of mysterious beauty, fitted in a fine blue-black ensemble the color of a raven's wing. A simple sapphire necklace sat along her bronze neck and a brief flash of envy struck Penelope. Looking down at her pale yellow gown, Penelope wished her mother would relinquish control of her wardrobe. Genevieve did what she could, resulting in the more pastel-like colors Penelope had been allowed to wear that season, but they were still all shades that clashed with her hair.

Tracing a finger along one of the white daisy appliques along her bodice, she skipped over the last step before shuffling to Genevieve's side like an eager puppy awaiting a new game to play. It proved to be her only joy now, plotting with Eloise or Genevieve about Whistledown, for everything else seemed to remind her about how alone she felt, how completely abandoned.

So much else reminded her of him.

"Mademoiselle Penelope, I have made the alterations you requested," Genevieve said, loud enough for any nearby servant to overhear.

Penelope responded in kind, sidling close to her friend so that their hips grazed one another. "Thank you, Madame Delacroix."

Genevieve's slightly crooked smile came to the surface and, after examining the room for servants, reached out to slightly adjust Penelope's necklace, a dainty, dark gold chain of flowers studded with blood red garnets. Even though she had not received one of Jack's necklaces, and had originally no intent on matching her sister, she'd found the piece of jewelry oddly fitting for some reason.

"It is a great risk for me to meet you here," Genevieve admonished, gentle but refusing to mince her words. It was one of the qualities Penelope admired most about the woman. "Your mama will certainly know you do not have a dress in need of repair."

"This could not wait any longer," Penelope replied, pulling out a folded bit of parchment from her bosom and handing it to her friend. "I wanted to ensure a publication today, during the wedding, to try to encourage the Queen to believe Whistledown could not be anybody in attendance. It is a gamble. She may not fall for it or believe it for long, but it's imperative we try."

Clucking her tongue, Genevieve took the handwritten column and tucked it into her own bodice. Curiously, Genevieve stared at her, studying her acutely, so much so that Penelope thought she must have something on her face.

"Is something the matter, Gen?"

"You wear a yellow rose in your hair." Gen pointed to the delicate flower tucked into her ginger tresses, and Penelope patted the place they had been tucked in, where her lady's maid had swept back and pinned her mane of curls. "And you wear garnets on your throat. Are you attempting to remind a certain Bridgerton of all the ways he has failed?"

Penelope flushed, biting her bottom lip, which, in the past month, had returned to it's tender, ruined state. Often, when she chewed upon it, tasting blood and resentment on her tongue, she thought the bit of flesh could have symbolized the whole of her; bruised, raw, and ripped open. "I do not know of whom you speak."

Oh, Penelope, do not even attempt to pull the wool over my eyes. You are like me more than you know." Genevieve's eyes glinted with fierce, feline predatoriness. "You wish to make him hurt, no matter how small. You may not confront him physically, but you have used your written word and now your actions to convey your pain, your disappointment, and your anger."

The silence in the hall seemed deafening, the space too open and exposed. Penelope sensed that Genevieve was proud of her in the way only other females could be for females; that they had used their wiles to, even in a small way, exact revenge upon a man. Thinking back to the column she had published, there was the tiniest niggle of guilt that sat in the far recesses of her brain. But Eloise had encouraged her, pushed for it even, as her own act of vengeance against her formerly favorite brother's neglect. Not just of Penelope, but of her. That had been what smarted Eloise most, that the one sibling she confided in did not return her sentiments.

So Penelope had published the column, and Eloise had gleefully informed her that Benedict had returned home that very night, sullen and contrite. He'd willfully sat through a lecture from their mother before trying to get Eloise's attention.

According to Eloise, she had blithely slammed her door in Benedict's face.

Penelope felt conflicted. A part of her felt horribly for publishing the column, for highlighting Benedict's drunkenness, for it embarrassed the family as a whole.

But the other part of her? The dark, shadowy bits of her that wanted Benedict to hurt the way he had hurt her?

That part of her relished it.

Tucking one of her midnight black curls behind an ear, Genevieve suddenly became solemn. "My dear, you know I will endeavor to assist you. But I must be cautious. There's trouble on the horizon, I can feel it in my bones. I cannot be associated directly with your enterprise. My business is too important…"

"As is mine." Penelope took Genevieve's gloved hands in her own, and she felt the heat of her friend's hands between her own. "I will take care of this, Gen. I can do my runs like I used to. I will be more cautious."

When Gen shook her head again, the scent of her rose hair oil hit Penelope's nose, a comfort.

"You look so tired," Genevieve said, leaning forward a little before pulling back. "As much as I wish him to suffer, I also hope that fool rectifies his errors soon. He may repent by running every little errand of yours."

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, a denial that tasted sour on the tip of her tongue, when Portia's voice sounded from the stairs, "Madame Delacroix? I was not expecting you. If this is about our bill…"

Swiftly, they dropped each other's hands. They turned to look up and saw the matron descend, taking one step at a time in her tight turquoise dress, the gold embroidery glimmering in the sunlight that shone from the window above.

"Ah, no, madame," Genevieve chuckled warily, hastily picking up the dress box. "I was just saying I seem to have lost my head. This delivery is for the Bridgertons, you see." Genevieve curtseyed as Portia met them in the foyer, joined by Prudence who looked twin to a tangerine. "I came here by mistake. Good day."

Portia watched Genevieve all but flee out of the house and Penelope saw a surprising mix of pity and disdain on her mother's face. Prudence, on the other hand, just appeared dumbfounded, fingering the cumbersome ruby necklace Jack, or rather their mother, had given her to wear.

"Can you imagine? A woman reduced to running her own business," her mother sighed. "No wonder her mind is so scattered. Make haste. We can't be late."

As her mother shuffled away, Prudence on her heels, Penelope wondered for the first time in a long time what her mother would think of her youngest daughter running a lucrative business. She found that she wasn't sure if she wanted the answer.

Chaos usually reigned in the Bridgerton household, but there was something about the breed of chaos that had descended upon them that morning, as if it held everyone in an uncomfortable stranglehold. Benedict had thrived on sibling squabbles and worries growing up. In a way, they had been his bread and butter. He knew how to instigate them, defuse them, or just poke at them until one of his siblings did something so monumentally stupid that he was called into take care of it. Today should have been no different.

As usual, Gregory and Hyacinth were fighting but it seemed louder, Colin's horrible hangover appeared more painful, their mother's constant worrying and nagging more pointed, and Eloise's complete refusal to engage in any conversation with who more like a slap to the face.

In short, it felt like Benedict had been transported to some special level of Hell and he didn't even have the excuse of being drunk to ignore it.

Hyacinth zoomed past, chasing down an obnoxiously cackling Gregory, her fluffy white dress with all its frills fanning out behind her. "He has taken my ribbon!"

"I have done you a service," Gregory mocked, waving the bit of satin ribbon in the air as he hopped across the floor to evade Hyacinth's outstretched hands.

It was all for the best, Benedict thought as he eyed them, for he had no doubt Hyacinth would strangle him if she actually caught him. Eloise, who sat next to him on the ivory settee, refused to acknowledge him, even when he turned to try and make fun of the spectacle. Mulishly, her arms were crossed, lips pursed, and she glared at the flower arrangement in front of them as if it had personally offended her.

"Mama did not pick those," she muttered, still scowling at the flora. "The meaning makes no sense."

Benedict nearly reeled back, shocked by her apparent knowledge of floriography when their mother's voice rang out, "Do not chase each other! Or, well, perhaps do not catch each other." Their mother wore a powder blue gown, a more demure choice while Eloise wore a bright seafoam satin that glistened in the light. "You must look presentable. Why does no one truly seem ready for this wedding?" Her exasperation echoed through the room, permeated his skin, until he felt that itchy, familiar feeling that made him think he had somehow disappointed her. "Missus Wilson!"

"Oh, Mother," Colin groaned, popping up from where he had laid across the settee opposite Benedict and Eloise. He held his head as if battle drums were beating within its confines, his eyes screwed shut. His suit was a mirror image of Benedict's own, ink black jacket and trousers, with cream waistcoats and cravats. Little silver boutonnieres were pinned on their lapels, a tiny white rose for each of them. "Please, not so loud."

Glowering with all of her maternally might, Violet bent to command in Benedict's ear, "Whatever you have done to your brother, undo it."

Benedict gaped.

"Mother! For once, it was not me!"

"I do not care if it was you, Anthony, your brother or God himself," Violet snapped, hands on her hips. "You will fix it, immediately."

Grumbling, Benedict sidled over to where Colin still sat, elbows on his knees, cradling his head in pain.

"I may never reach your capacity for drink, Brother," Colin muttered.

Benedict winced, feeling a tad like an imposter. He hadn't swallowed more than a drop of liquor the night before, too aware that he was going to see Penelope that day. She couldn't avoid him any longer, and he could no longer delay the inevitable. Nerves made the insides of his stomach curdle like spoiled milk and he wondered just how he would get her alone at a wedding the Queen had invited the entirety of the ton to.

In an attempt to regain some levity, Benedict pulled out the metal flask he had filled with brandy for Anthony, in case their elder brother's nerves got the better of him. But, it appeared, his brother needed the hair of the dog more.

"It's a simple remedy." Jiggling the flask, the contents sloshed around audibly. He handed it to Colin, his brother peering at it dubiously. "If you continue to drink, there can be no after-effects."

Eloise snorted derisively, snide and casually callous, "If only you would use your powers for good."

Wilting slightly under her remark, he searched for something, anything to say. Anything to diffuse the tension between them, to beg for Eloise's forgiveness and aid in order to regain Penelope's favor. Penelope, his Nel– he needed her friendship back like a plant needed water to thrive. More than that, knowing that Penelope's deliveries grew dangerous again, he could not allow their estrangement to continue. He adored Penelope's bite, but her clear upset with him now tainted all that she wrote, making her writing a threat to her own well-being. Benedict could never forgive himself if anything were to befall Penelope or Eloise because he had spent too long dwelling in his self-pity instead of actually confiding in them.

Just as he began to speak, his mother interrupted, "Has anyone seen Anthony?" Before waiting for a reply she turned, once again, to him. He recognized the expectant look in her blue eyes and he held back a weary sigh. "Benedict, see that he is well. I am sure the emotions of the day have somewhat confused him."

With an act of fatigued familiarity, Benedict rose and began to exit to search for his elder brother when the man himself marched in. Benedict held his hands out as if to say, "Job done," but he tilted his head, studying Anthony closely. The man looked like he had prepared to go off to war, with his black suit and dower expression, rather than his own wedding.

"Mother," Anthony said, hands clasped behind his back, the heels of his polished boots clicking together as he stopped.

"Anthony." Benedict noticed, truly for the first time, the concern in his mother's voice. As if she were approaching a wild horse, afraid it would bolt. "You are ready?"

Anthony did not exactly smirk, but he quirked his lips in a way that made Benedict feel queasy.

"Of course I am. Born ready, in fact. Shall we?"

As all of his siblings rose and followed their mother and eldest brother obediently out the door, Benedict's mind reeled. What was he missing? What in the blue blazes were they all walking into with this wedding?

The thoughts were wholly unwelcomed. Benedict had enough on his mind, playing and replaying what he would say to Penelope when he finally managed to get a moment alone with her. How he would apologize, beg for forgiveness, and how he ardently hoped to worm his way back to her side so he could protect her like he promised.

More than anything, he desired to be the man she had thought him to be; steadfast, loyal, kind, and courageous.

For he knew the crux of the issue was he had not been very brave at all the past few months. He'd dug his head in the sand, refusing to see past his own insecurities and all of the worst-case scenarios he could devise that would prevent Penelope from being his.

But he knew by the apprehension that hung in the air like nooses at the gallows, that Anthony's wedding day might prove a more difficult day to win back his friend than he first believed.

Hurrying along as they exited the front doors and began descending the steps to the waiting carriages, Benedict carefully pulled upon the sleeve of Eloise's dress.

"What?" she demanded, barely sparing him a glance. Her dark, mahogany hair pinned in an elegant updo made her already fierce expression more severe.

"Please, El," Benedict began, using his longer legs to keep up with her swift pace. The others were ahead, already ambling into the carriages. "The wedding will be utter mayhem. Help me seek a private audience with Nel–"

Eloise whipped around so fast on the bottom step that Benedict almost lost his balance, teetering on the edge as she came to an abrupt stop.

"Why on God's green earth would I assist you in an attempt to converse with my friend who you have so profoundly, unthinkingly tossed aside?"

Flinching, Benedict nearly stepped back. Hearing her rebuke hurt far worse than imagining it. The air outside was muggy, still with no breeze to be found. Already, he began to sweat under his layers of clothes, though the heat rising up his chest had nothing to do with the weather.

"Please, El. I must apologize to her, make amends–"

He saw Eloise's hands clenched into fists, heard something crack as if she'd bitten down too hard, but the words that came next felt like venom spraying his skin.

"Go to Hell, Benedict."

Spinning on her heel, she stomped off, purposefully throwing herself into a carriage and slamming the door before he could even consider following.

Staring at his feet, he wished desperately he could see the shattered remains of the relationships he had apparently broken. Maybe then it would be easier to glue back together.

After getting Anthony settled into the room that had been designated for his family's use at the palace, Benedict hurried to the adjacent church. Queen Charlotte had spared absolutely no expense, the wooden pews decorated with a tower that held a grand bouquet white roses and accompanying greenery. Garlands of white flowers and fresh spring leaves hung above them on the walls, just below the balconies. At the front of the church, a beautiful stained glass window stared down at the pulpit and the accompanying platform where his brother would finally be married. To the right, the stringed quartet and a harpist sat, playing music, to the left a seating arrangement of gilded, gold chairs sat waiting for the Queen and her entourage.

But all Benedict sought was a head of curls the color of glowing coals in a hearth at winter. As he angled himself to peer down the aisle, he thought he saw a glimpse of the Featheringtons, but before he could proceed, he found himself caught behind an oddly contrite Lady Danbury and his very frosty mother. Benedict stepped back, attempting to become invisible, though it did not prevent him from hearing the exchange.

"Lady Danbury."

His mother's tone was one he had heard before, one that he tried incredibly hard to never be on the receiving end of.

Lady Danbury faced his mother head on, though even in her usual blood red ensemble with gold filigree, colors fit for a lioness, she practically bared her neck to his mother at her icy demeanor.

"Lady Bridgerton. It seems the two of us have not spoken since our dinner with the Sheffields."

"Yes, it seems so." Violet's smile was undoubtedly meant to maim, and even Benedict could not help but shiver at the sight. "Though why would we? It is not as if you have even more private information you wish at last to share with me, do you?"

"You must know…" Lady Danbury hesitated a moment, and in all his time knowing her, Benedict had never seen the powerful woman appear so lost.

"Enjoy the wedding, Lady Danbury."

Violet stalked off and though Benedict had heard about the awfulness of the Sheffield dinner, it did not lessen his pity for the woman he believed to be his first love. He knew within the depths of his heart that she cherished her friendship with his mother dearly. It was an interesting parallel, to know they were both on the outs with people they held dear.

"It appears we both have forgiveness to win."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think and that familiar, heart-racing panic set in when Lady Danbury turned her dark, calculating eyes on him.

He flicked his eyes to Penelope up at the front of the church, conversing with her cousin Jack. Eloise was coming up behind, ready to steal her away. As if sensing him, Eloise turned and her once enthusiastic expression turned sour.

To his chagrin, Lady Danbury caught the whole micro-interaction. For a moment, she looked tired, wiped of all emotion as she studied the scene. But then she stepped towards him, cane tapping against the marble flow.

"Yes, we may both have apologies to dole out," she said, tapping the end of her cane upon his toe. He tried not to yelp, gritting his teeth. "But I fear you have erred worse than I. For if your favorite sister is furious with you, and the youngest Featherington girl is as despondent as she has seemed the past month…"

"I aim to fix it," Benedict said. He didn't know why he suddenly felt so desperate to explain himself, he knew it would do no good. Yet, he wanted someone, anyone, to just listen. "I have done her a great wrong. I know it. But if I apologize, surely everything will come to rights?"

The lioness, the tigress, the dragoness – every name of power he had ever called her in his head came to mind as she looked well and truly through him, as if she was the beast people claimed her to be, scouring his insides, picking apart his guts until she plucked out every last one of his secrets and faults.

"I told you to follow that Featherington, because I thought you would be the most empathetic, the most capable of helping and caring for that poor, clever girl." Disappointment emanated from her, twisting the knife Eloise had already stuck between his ribs, tearing his pride and dignity away like weak flesh. "But, apparently, even a woman such as myself can be proven incorrect. Did I pick the wrong man, Mister Bridgerton?"

Walking past him, she slowly made her way out. Before he could decide what to do, his mother reappeared, making the decision for him.

"Benedict, dear, you must go help Anthony. It is nearly time!"

Hustled away, Benedict felt eyes on his back and, for once, he prayed it wasn't Penelope watching him walk away. A part of him could not bear for her to see him as shame shadowed his every step.

The baby hairs on the back of her neck prickled and Penelope craned her head behind her, wondering if–

But all she saw were a myriad of guests milling about church, discussing the sheer grandeur around them. Penelope would have to make note of the spectacle in Lady Whistledown. She tried to catalog every flower used, every garland placement, any every note struck by the stringed instruments. But even putting away what usually qualified as simple information in the back of her mind proved difficult as every tall, lithe, brown-headed man could be him. She didn't know, in truth, whether she wanted to see Benedict face to face. At first it felt incredibly important, dire even, that she show herself fine, aloof even, in his presence.

But now, she couldn't help but feel the need to cower every time she thought she spotted him.

"Pen?" Snapped out of her reverie, Penelope looked up into the concerned face of Colin. She had just walked up to him and Eloise, opened her mouth to speak, before the sense of being watched distracted her. "Are you alright?"

Shaking her head in order to clear it, Penelope put on her best smile, lilting her voice to a higher pitch. "Yes, of course. It is a wonder I have found the two of you in the midst of all this opulence, is it not?"

"Quite," Eloise commented, crossing her arms and all but rolling her eyes as she took in the signs of expense. "Her Majesty's fondness for the diamond exceeds even what Lady Whistledown suggests. Daphne's wedding was not nearly as extraordinary, and she married a duke."

Penelope felt a quirk in her lip. "Perhaps the queen requires our attention in new ways. The weight of the Crown is quite heavy." Sharing a secret smile with Eloise, Penelope could not help but feel a tad rebellious whenever she spoke of Queen Charlotte and ploys for excitement. "Perhaps she seeks to prove herself still significant and equal to the task."

"Is that not the plight of all mankind?" Colin asked, eyeing a metal flask in his hand warily, holding it to his ear and shaking the contents as if unsure whether it held his salvation or downfall.

"I believe it is," Penelope replied, exchanging a wholly different smile with her other friend.

It felt unbelievably good to call Colin a friend, to share in his ideas, his victories, or woes. It felt both warm and comfortable, and she was all the more confident in his presence for it. There still existed a tiny part of her that mourned the butterflies she used to get around him, that shed a tear for the fantasy of them as a couple. It was hard to let go of things like that, the limerence that caught one up and spun a person around until they did not know which way they should be going.

But more than anything, it simply felt good to trust at least one Bridgerton man with her friendship.

Eloise huffed, elbowing Colin's arm before addressing Penelope, "Do not indulge him. He has been insufferable since returning from Greece. Or since your talk with Lady Wetherby?"

"The cause does not matter nearly as much as the truth. One must make a name for oneself if this life is to mean anything at all."

"A noble pursuit," Penelope said cheerfully, actually meaning it.

"Thank you, Pen." His eyes flickered from Penelope to Eloise before he shook his head as if in comical disbelief. "It is surprising that you and Eloise remain so familiar when you could not be less alike."

"What can you mean?"

"Well," Colin drawled before winking, "You have sense."

They all chuckled, even Eloise as she simultaneously tried and failed to step on Colin's foot. Colin hopped away, taking a swig from the flask at last before he wandered off.

"Speaking of Lady Wetherby, I have not seen your cousin or her husband," Eloise remarked, looping her arm through Penelope's as they slowly walked up the aisle, towards the front two rows of pews. "Were they invited?"

"Yes, but sadly little Amanda appears to have a head cold." Penelope frowned, thinking of the short missive she had received from Marina the day before. "She did not want to leave Amanda's side, understandably. According to her, Andrew insisted on staying home with them so he may look after Oliver in a separate room."

"They are very hands on with their children," Eloise remarked, and for the first time in a long time, Penelope saw her friend's face take on a wistful quality. "My parents were much the same, you know, when we were small. I had no idea that usually nursemaids and nannies looked after young children most of the time until after I met you."

"You were very lucky, I think," Penelope said quietly. Their steps slowed a moment, taking on a more languid quality as they sought to delay taking their separate seats.

"Have you seen him yet?" Eloise whispered, squeezing the top of the hand Penelope had looped through hers.

Thoughts of ocean eyes promising her the world caused her chest to constrict. A strange blend of fury, resentment, and helplessness weighed her down, filling her up like sand at the bottom of the hourglass until her mouth felt dry and gritty.

"No. You?" Shutting her eyes in embarrassment, she groaned. "That was a silly query. Of course you have, he's your brother."

"I've made an effort to avoid the lout." Penelope caught Eloise as she stuck her lace covered thumbnail in her mouth, biting it roughly. "Though… I must be honest with you. He has sought me several times in the past week to try and orchestrate a meeting with you."

Shock, quickly consumed by trepidation, filled her.

"Did he say why?"

"To apologize, I gather." A dark shadow fell over her best friend's face before guilt took its place. "To be honest, Pen, I never really let him finish his sentences. I spat at him like a viper before fleeing the room. I realize now I should have let you make that choice for yourself. I am also just so angry at him. On your behalf, as well as myself."

The tiny flash of annoyance that had come to life within Penelope died as fast as it had come. She knew Benedict's neglect had injured Eloise just as much as her.

"You are correct, it is my decision." Penelope pulled away before grasping both of Eloise's hands in her own, and it felt as if only the pair of them existed just then. Amongst the strong scent of roses, various perfumes, oils, and the cacophony of noise – For just a moment, all was quiet. "But I know you only sought to protect me. Rest assured, even if he is ready to suddenly speak to me, the feelings are not reciprocated."

A relieved smile brightened Eloise immediately, making her appear to glow in her seafoam gown.

"Excellent!"

"But, you owe me some information," Penelope teased gently. "How often do you and Sir Phillip correspond?"

Eloise's cheeks turned a ruddy pink before shaking her shoulders as if throwing off a chill. Penelope knew the action on her friend well. She certainly was attempting to appear nonchalant.

"Simply one to two times a week." Eloise shrugged, as if that was not very much at all. But Penelope's eyes widened to the size of a barn owl's, she was sure.

She opened her mouth to warn, to rebuke, but stopped herself short. Penelope had not been very good at pulling back, at reining in her vicious emotions the past few weeks. She wasn't blind or unaware of how that affected Lady Whistledown. She bit the inside of her cheek, her lower lip too sore. She needed to make the effort with Eloise, to attempt a softer approach.

"It was easy for me and Bene–" Penelope swallowed, his name like glass in her mouth. "Your brother and I to exchange unfettered correspondence last summer. But you must be careful, El. There are more watchful eyes during the season."

Eloise opened her mouth to reply but Penelope simply shot her a look.

"I am just saying to be cautious, El."

For more reasons than one, she thought as they took their seat in the opposite pews. On the bride's side, Penelope sat in the second row with her family, right behind Lady Danbury. On the opposite side, Eloise sat in the front with her own family, Violet already seated.

Penelope knew, intimately, what it had been like to trust in a man completely…

Only for them to leave, without sparing a glance back.

Using the horse hair brush provided by Queen Charlotte's staff, Benedict roughly brushed off invisible specks of dust from Anthony's shoulders. As Anthony studied himself in the mirror provided, Benedict took another glance at the room their family had been given to get ready. It was entirely done in scarlet and gold, vibrant red rug the color of fresh blood beneath their feet, the same color as the upholstered chairs, the wood painted a glittering gold. Behind them was a large, round table with both a tea service and a decanter of brandy with accompanying crystal glasses. Opposite the chairs on the other side of the room closest to the windows, was a settee that matched the rest of the furniture.

Ignoring the alcohol that sat upon the table behind him, Benedict took a deep breath, trying to focus on his duties as best man.

"Nervous, Anthony?"

"As I told Mother, I am more than ready."

Yet Benedict could not help but observe the grim determination on his elder brother's face. It was the same expression he wore before a meeting with his steward about the estate's tenants or when he had no choice but to help their mother make arrangements for a party. It was a chore, a task to check off a list, a duty.

If he had been in another haze of drunkenness, would he have noticed such signs?

Wondering if he should ask, if he should take on another burden other than his own, he took too long to decide just as their first sister entered the room.

"Sister," Benedict said fondly, grinning at Daphne through the mirror's reflection. Yet his jovial grin faded once he glimpsed her expression.

Daphne's expressive mouth was set in a straight line, her lips withdrawn, the skin pulled taut. A vision in lavender, a careful marriage between Bridgerton blue and her husband's signature red, despite the vision she made, her clear nerves offset the effect. She glided forward, even as her shoulders remained stiff. Her white gloved hands picked up a small snuff box from the table, rotating it in her delicate hands. Benedict thought he saw movement behind his sister, beyond the doors, but came up with nothing.

"You are late," Anthony remarked in typical Anthony fashion.

"Well, in truth," Daphne said blithely, running her thumb over the sleek surface of the round, black box, her sleek strawberry blonde hair swinging in the elegant, twisted ponytail she had put it in. "I was delayed by doubts about whether the festivities of this day might or might not take place."

The air became thick with unspoken accusations, one that Benedict recalled from many years with seven siblings. It was dense, persistent, and more suffocating than if one was smothered by a fat feather pillow. It was the atmosphere that had surrounded accusations of cheating during pall mall, pointing fingers over the dinner table if a dessert was pilfered, and the mist that fell over them when someone stood crying because another carelessly broke a prized possession.

And yet it felt so much worse, so much heavier, so much more terrifying and finite than that.

For a brief moment, Benedict thought to make a joke. It was his first instinct in an attempt to diffuse the horrid, oppressive atmosphere in the room. Some jape about their duchess of a sister not caring for the bride…

But sobriety brought on his more cautious nature. The kind of touch required more akin to how he handled wailing fits from Hyacinth as a babe or if he had to take hold of Francesca in a crowded place.

"What is afoot?" Benedict turned between his siblings, tendrils of dread creeping up his spine. "Is there something the matter with Miss Edwina? Something unsavory?"

He despised the words as soon as they left his mouth. The poor girl was nothing but sweet, but she did not appear to have much hardiness to her. In all honesty, Benedict feared that one good rainstorm would cause the girl to dissolve into the earth like granules of sugar.

Daphne set down the box she had been fiddling with, the wooden surface clacking harshly upon the silver tea set. "I find Miss Edwina to be quite lovely and deserving of the truth, which we must not deny her."

By all accounts, Daphne's words proved steady but there was an underlying wound there, tender flesh preserved under a puckered scar that refused to fully heal.

"I'm confused." Benedict's rapid head movements, as he pivoted between Anthony and Daphne, began to rattle his brain. Even amongst his bewilderments, that horrible sense of apprehension continued to crawl up his back, wrapping him up in a blanket of trepidation that felt thin and moth-eaten. "Who is denying what to whom?"

Anthony finally spoke, though he simply worked on the cuffs of his jacket, never taking his gaze off the looking glass before him. Benedict thought he saw his eldest sibling toss Daphne a loaded glare, but before he knew it, Anthony was shooing him away. "Benedict, you must excuse us. It seems the duchess has opinions."

It felt a little like being a rat or some other pest found under a shoe, kicked away without so much as a by your leave. It made Benedict's skin itch irritably. He used to be the brother his siblings would come to for comfort and advice. In the past, he'd always been reliable, an emotional pillar within the family, forever on standby to take care of the family's needs.

But…

That had not exactly been his character as of late.

It wasn't just the fact that Benedict had grossly neglected Nel over the past month but his family, as well. It could be argued that, over the past year, he'd been more flighty, less attentive. Benedict knew he'd blundered badly with Daphne last year, but now…

His apparent inadequacy seemed to stare him in the face. He'd never achieved balance between being independent and performing his familial duties. Instead he had flipped between one and the other depending on his moods, choosing to be active in one part of his life and a voyeur in the other until he felt some sense of self-preservation that would cause him to flip.

Benedict hadn't meant to, but his next words came out as a petulant whine, a scrambling to reassert his place in the family dynamic. "But I wish to know…"

"The best man listens to the groom," Anthony said, his tone brooking no argument. "Go."

With a great sigh, Benedict gripped the horsehair brush tightly, his knuckles white from the effort. In a few long strides he retreated to the front of the room, setting the brush down with a heavy clack upon the round table. Leaning forward, he stared at his sister, attempting to glean whatever he could from her look. She had used to be so easy to read, an open book for his perusal.

But her bright, blue eyes were shuttered, iced over and cloudy like a lake frozen in winter.

Fingers twitching, he almost gave into temptation to pour himself a glass of brandy. But he resisted the urge.

He had to keep a clear head in order to talk to Nel. If nothing else during that damnable day went right, he needed that to.

So Benedict strode out of the room, barely managing to not slam the great oak door behind him.

Once Benedict emerged on the other side, he leaned against the solid wood, rubbing his face with his palms. The muffled voices of his two siblings could barely be heard, so it would do no good to attempt any eavesdropping.

What was he coming to?

"My, my. I see the Bridgerton inclination for dramatics and cloak and dagger meetings has not changed."

The rich baritone made Benedict's head snap up and he came face to face with Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, dressed in a brilliant scarlet dress coat, his fine black shirt complimented by a matching waistcoat embroidered with gold. But his brother-in law's face was cracked open by a wide, genuine smile.

"Brother!"

Before Benedict could think much about it, he'd thrown him arms around Simon in a welcoming embrace. The duke laughed, deep and throaty, clapping Benedict twice on the back before stepping out of his arms.

"Well, I cannot fault the welcome."

"I thought you were on dignitary work in France or some such nonsense!"

"Well, it being France and Napoleon's forces being a wily bunch, whether the man is there or not…" Simon shrugged. "I figured it would be a much safer affair to attend my best friend's wedding. Imagine my surprise when I arrived in London last night to join my wife at Hastings House, and she had all the appearance of a cloud of thunder storming about our home."

Wincing, Benedict gripped Simon's elbow and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

"A female family trait, I fear."

For a sharp, piercing moment that felt almost too sharp to acknowledge, Benedict noticed how Simon assessed him. The man's dark, brown eyes reminded Benedict a bit of Anthony, during the rare moments that the viscount let his guard down; soft, unnaturally understanding, and with the kind of pity that made one shy away. When the duke next spoke, he lost his previous alacrity, "Daphne seemed very worried over her brothers. She adores the pair of you with the kind of ferocity that leaves me a little speechless at times."

Any response Benedict could have possibly planned dried up in his throat like a summer drought.

Brothers.

He knew Daphne was too intelligent, too nosy for her own good.

That irritating, high-strung, haughty, wonderful, caring, beautiful little sister of his.

How annoying.

Swallowing, he felt his Adam's apple bob in his throat while Simon continued to study him. Letting out a long exhale that spoke of experience dealing with exasperating Bridgertons, Simon placed a comforting arm around Benedict's shoulder. He led him down the gilded hall in the direction of the church, though he maintained their gait at a steady amble.

"You know, I am just as English as you and your family. My father, may he rot, was English. So was my mother. But my mother's family came from the same group of people as Lady Danbury on the west coast of Africa. My father, as far as I am aware, came from people one the opposite end of that vast continent. So my mother's sisterly connection to my godmother was, in its own way, an attempt for connection, of sisterhood through a shared lineage."

Benedict's brow furrowed and he nodded though he wasn't sure where his brother-in-law's story was going.

As if the older man could read his thoughts, Simon shook his head with a smile. The portraits on the wall watched them as they walked, members of the royal family, past and present, and followed them with their painted eyes.

"Benedict, what I am trying to say is you are fortunate." A soft smile took over the man's features that Benedict could not remember seeing over the many years he'd been acquainted with Simon. He wondered if it was Daphne's influence, whether love commonly made one squishy and malleable like wet clay under skilled hands. "You did not have to forge familial bonds with people outside of your family out of necessity. Many displaced people had no choice, searching for the comfort only home could provide. But you have a home, even in England oh so rare, that is vast in its love, acceptance, and security. Do not squander such affection, take aid when it is offered."

For the first time in many moons, Benedict felt a seed of warmth sprout and unfurl within his belly.

"Did Daphne put you up to this?"

Simon's smile grew wider, his brilliantly white teeth gleaming as he chuckled.

"Oh, she most definitely asked. But I could not leave one of my brothers floundering, and Anthony is much more likely to heed a warning from Daph than me. Though not by much." He shrugged, gripping Benedict's shoulder tightly as they approached the exit that would lead them back to the church. "Now, in truth, what ails you?

The question was left open ended, hanging in the air. Benedict did not know how much Daphne had divined during her time at Aubrey Hall with the family, though his shrewd sister probably had gathered a great deal of information. Eloise was an invaluable source of information, reading book after book until she could claim to be an expert on a subject. But Daphne had learned from a young age how to read people like a scholar or a traveling fortune teller. There was no doubt that Daphne would have told her husband any and all of her suspicions but he appreciated Simon leaving it up to him what to divulge.

"I quite…mucked up a dear friendship of mine."

"How so?"

"I… I found myself to have feelings for this person." Benedict did not know why he told Simon any of this. While he quite liked the man, he wasn't as close to his brother-in-law as Anthony was. Hell, even Hyacinth and Gregory had a slightly more intimate relationship with the man. But maybe that was why. Benedict could somehow trust him, could spill the darkness leaking out of his guts to an in-law far more easily than a sibling. The four he would usually confide in were with directly involved with the problem, refusing to speak to him, or involved in their own issues. And the youngest three… He could not place that burden upon them. "But I thought they would never return my affections. So I pushed them away… By the time I realized the mistake I made, they drifted too far for me to reach."

Simon flinched at his side, pausing before the great doors that would lead them outside. The cavernous hall was strangely empty, yet Benedict felt incredibly claustrophobic as Simon let him go, turning to face him head on.

"Have you apologized?"

"She has avoided me… But I intend to do so today."

That wretched, piteous look returned to the duke's face, but so did a nod that conveyed a sense of understanding.

"I think I know of who you speak," Simon sighed, running a large hand through his dark, tight curls. "And if it is who I believe it to be, you have much work ahead of you. She never learned to trust people at face value, men especially."

Benedict stiffened, assessing Simon with newfound suspicion. How would his brother-in-law be aware of Penelope's inner struggles, the trials and tribulations she had to overcome?

"Wipe that look off your face, Brother. You appear like a dog growling over its prized bone."

"Ne–" Benedict cleared his throat. "Penelope is not a possession."

"I am glad you realize that." Simon waved his free hand airily before granting him an explanation. "I observe more than people believe I do, from Miss Penelope's loneliness last season at the corner of ballrooms, or the mistakes of her late father. Besides," the older man gave Benedict a brief, playful shake. "Your sister tells me everything."

Benedict harrumphed in order to hide his settling hackles. It made sense that a man like Simon would be intelligent enough to glean some of Penelope's troubles, and with a nosey informant like his first sister, he had no doubt the duke had been able to paint a nearly accurate portrait of the youngest Featherington.

"What do I do?" Benedict asked, the words splintering wood in the fire.

"You apologize, of course."

"Yes, but how?"

Simon froze him to the spot with a firm look then, his gaze like dark, molten umber.

"You listen," he said simply. "By God, man, you will get nowhere if you do not listen. "

Daphne exerted an expert amount of control as she fought not to fidget nervously in her seat. Sat between her mother and her husband, with Colin on Simon's other side, and Eloise, along with Gregory and Hyacinth on their mother's other side, Daphne tried not to let the swelling apprehension she felt show on her face. She could only be thankful that Francesca, similarly to Lord and Lady Wetherby's young daughter, was trapped in Bath with a head cold.

Much like Daphne, Francesca had a way of knowing things about her siblings. While the sixth Bridgerton sibling had trouble with crowds and groups of people outside of their family abode, the young woman was incredibly intuitive when it came to her sibling. But Daphne could imagine Francesca seated next to her, squirming in discomfort at the scene set to play out before them.

Especially since Benedict kept trying to catch the eye of Penelope Featherington, who seemed to be using Lady Danbury's quintessential top hat as a shield.

Anthony looked similarly miserable. When their family had left the eldest brother by the church doors before the ceremony, the man had looked identical to an animal about to be put down.

The conversation between her and her eldest brother had not gone particularly well. The stubborn ass of a man had made it quite clear he would go through with this sham of a marriage or die trying.

Well, he had certainly looked as if he was on his way to an early grave.

Beside her, Simon took one of her gloved hands in his own, gently applying pressure. She turned towards him and gave the best smile she could muster, though it wavered at the edges. She could only be grateful he sat beside her that day, a wall of unwavering support that held her upright.

Before words could pass between them, the music began, signaling the start to what Daphne felt would undoubtedly be a disaster.

How that disaster would manifest, however, remained a mystery.

Anthony proceeded first down the aisle, stopping at the front right before the stone steps where the archbishop stood. He bowed to Queen Charlotte, who sat proud and regal in the chair set up for her and her entourage of ladies-in-waiting at the front. Brimsley stood beside her, looking just as triumphant as though the wedding were a shared victory.

When Anthony made it up to the stone platform, Benedict shot his brother a half-hearted wink.

But Daphne couldn't help but notice that, immediately afterwards, her second eldest brother's gaze returned to the redhead in the second row.

And Anthony's pinched face appeared as if he might soon be sick upon his polished shoes.

Daphne could practically feel the anticipation within the church, all for different reasons. While those like the Cowpers' right behind her, and other members of the ton, were excited to see what surely would be the most talked about wedding in the last decade, Daphne knew others were more trepidatious. She could sense her mother beside her shifting with unease, while Lady Danbury sat ramrod straight, body as taut as a bowstring.

The church doors opened and in walked Miss Kathani Sharma, approaching slowly down the aisle in a satin dress the color of pale lilacs. Golden bangles shimmered on her wrists, adorned with emerald stones that glittered in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. In her gloved hands, the older woman carried a small bouquet of white roses. Daphne could never, would never, deny that the elder Sharma sister was an absolute goddess.

But she wasn't the one her elder brother was supposed to be worshiping, she strode closer to where he stood, his gaze held her with reverence. Daphne knew that hungry look Anthony gave Miss Kate. She saw that look many times on the face of her own husband.

Daphne desperately resisted the powerful urge to sink into her seat when Anthony and Miss Kate's eyes met, the two turning towards each other as if there was a rope tethered between them, tightening its hold even as they resisted. Peering around, Daphne wondered how on earth could no one else see the palpable tension, the attraction, the passion between the two. Sparks practically flew from their eyes and crackled on their skin, and yet everyone in the church fully expected the viscount to marry the younger sister in only a few minutes time.

Well, maybe not everyone. She felt her mother fidget beside her, the matriarch's hands fidgeting with her silk dress. Simon turned to her, raising both of his eyebrows. If anyone knew Anthony as well as her, it was Simon. And she knew at that moment that her husband agreed with her assessment.

Anthony was most definitely in love with the right sister, even as he insisted on marrying the wrong one.

The music continued and soon Miss Edwina entered, a darling in white as her mother Lady Mary, wearing a lilac dress that matched Miss Kate's, escorted her towards the front of the church. The congregation stood watching, enraptured as the star of their little comedy that day waltzed down the aisle. The elegant dress the bride wore touted big, flowing skirts that trailed behind her along with her wispy, cathedral veil, clouds upon the ground. A gold choker adorned her slender neck, and her raven's wing hair was done up with gold ornamentation. She held a bouquet of white roses in her grasp, a white satin ribbon tying it neatly together.

She was gorgeous, staring up at Anthony with hope that gleamed like gems in her eyes.

Daphne couldn't watch.

Yet when she returned her focus onto Benedict, the sight before her was just as disheartening. The man was not subtle in his efforts to maneuver his head, twisting his neck this way and that to try and make eye contact with Penelope Featherington. But the young woman, now firmly hidden behind not only Lady Danbury but a sitting Lady Mary, stared stoically ahead, unwilling to give Benedict even a modicum of attention.

It was like Daphne stood on the street, watching two carriages headed toward each other in an oncoming collision while a house burned down behind her.

So Daphne kept watching, a disaster she couldn't pull away from, as Anthony gave Miss Edwina a faint smile when she joined him. Faintly, she could hear the words spoken between them.

" Miss Edwina, you look lovely."

"Thank you, my lord. I am happy you are pleased."

Daphne inwardly curled in on herself at the words. No other phrase could have proven to her just how ill-suited a match this was.

Anthony's smile diminished, even as Miss Kate glowed looking at her beautiful sister. Though that sisterly pride only shone when she kept her vision firmly on Miss Edwina.

"Please be seated." Obediently, the audience sat and Daphne let the words of the archbishop drone on as she watched her two eldest brothers carefully. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony. And therefore, it is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, and wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding…"

It was a spectacle, though Daphne wondered if she were the only one to see it. While Anthony's focus seemed to fade, his eyes going hazy, unfocused, his stare peering beyond Miss Edwina's head, Benedict's expression grew forlorn, bereft, still desperately trying to force Penelope to meet his eyes from the other side of the room. Simon clutched her knee and for the first time in a long time she realized her husband was actually nervous.

Anthony's focus continued to fade as the archbishop moved forward, asking her eldest brother to recite his vows. It became so obvious that the viscount wasn't listening that even Benedict pulled himself from his fruitless mission to stare at his brother with concern. Daphne wanted to hide, to scream, to signal to Anthony that his farce was cracking at the seams just like she knew it would. But she couldn't, not with Queen Charlotte and all of society to see.

"My lord," the archbishop huffed, clearly not used to being ignored. "My lord."

Anthony finally seemed to come back to himself, startled. Daphne heard the deafening, awkward cough of someone in the back. The air shifted. For the first time, parts of the crowd seemed to notice something amiss, though the duchess surmised they probably couldn't put their finger on it.

Noticing how Miss Kate twirled one of her bangles nervously, she watched, her guts roiling, as Miss Edwina followed Anthony's gaze to her elder sister briefly.

"The archbishop would like you to repeat, my lord, after him," Miss Edwina said softly, perplexity muddling her once radiant features.

Anthony looked between his supposed bride and the archbishop, as if coming out of a dream. "Yes, of course."

The archbishop began again, laying out the words that would be the beginning of the end to any chance at happiness Daphne was convinced her brother could have. "I, Lord Anthony Bridgerton…"

A clatter upon the flagon floor echoed throughout the room as the bangle Miss Kate fidgeted with fell. It rang through the church like a bell, calling people towards the sound. The sound was not muffled even as it fell upon Miss Edwina's veil. Yet Daphne could not keep her eyes off her brothers. Anthony immediately clocked the happenstance with the kind of focus a hunting dog trained to catch only one kind of prey did, while Benedict watched their brother with a new clarity working its way across his face.

For a moment, Benedict sought out Daphne's gaze, sudden and terrified. And in that one moment, from the corner of her eye, she saw Penelope actually look up at Benedict and the scene before her, mouth slightly agape.

They all recognized the impending disaster, even though they could do nothing to stop it. Daphne felt her mother move at her side, as if to stand, to do something–

"Allow me." Anthony practically fell to his knees upon the floor just as Miss Kate did, retrieving the bangle and placing it in her hand, gently, tenderly caressing the side of the woman's palm.

Daphne had no choice as she watched in horror the moment Miss Edwina started putting the pieces together.

Intimately familiar with the thought process of pulling back a veil, tearing down a lie and piecing the terrible reality of a situation piece by piece, the young girl's once joyful expression faltered. The hope that had lighted her eyes died right before them all as Anthony stood.

"Might I continue?" The archbishop asked peevishly, but Daphne already knew there would be no need to continue.

Even as Anthony and Miss Kate apologized, even as the archbishop went on, she saw Miss Edwina's breaths grow shorter, her chest began to heave, and her pupils darted around the room as if she could find no shelter anywhere.

Daphne had once said that it would have been best to have been apprised of all of one's betrothed's faults and secrets before a marriage. She stood by that.

But she also knew how agonizing the pain was when blissful ignorance was ripped away unexpectedly, like the fateful day when one's parents decided that a security blanket or a favorite toy was no longer needed.

Except, when it came to love and betrayal, it felt as if some villain had taken ahold of one's heart, squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, yet refused to grant mercy by just popping the bloody organ.

"Miss Edwina, are you…" Anthony finally seemed to realize something was wrong but it was too little too late. Daphne never wanted the Queen's chosen favorite to find out like this. She had tried, tried to relay to Anthony that Miss Edwina deserved the truth, to decide what kind of marriage she would like to enter and how.

While Daphne loved her husband, she had not been granted that choice.

And as awful, terrible, and embarrassing as it all was…

Daphne could not help but be grateful that the girl had figured it out, even if it was there upon the altar.

"I need a moment!" Edwina shouted, untethered, all good graces gone. With a heartbroken gasp, she picked up her skirts and ran, abandoning the church as if the very Devil were upon her heels.

Without a second thought, Lady Mary ran after her daughter as everyone began to murmur, stunned at the Diamond's flight from her own wedding.

From Queen Charlotte's wedding.

Daphne spared one more look towards her brother, just in time to notice Miss Kate exchange a look of something unreadable at the havoc just wrought, before she ran down the aisle after her mother and sister.

Turning towards Simon, she saw her husband's usual composure completely shattered. He gaped at the wake of the chaos, looking between her, his scandalized mother-in-law, his stunned best friend, and his gobsmacked godmother.

Queen Charlotte stood abruptly, clearly irate, her fitted, pale thistle gown swishing on the floor, the pearls at her neck practically quivering along with her anger. "What has happened to my wedding?"

Unhelpfully, Brimsley said, "The bride seems to have run away, ma'am."

Fireworks went off outside, no doubt what had been supposed to be the grand finale to the Queen's masterpiece. It distracted part of the ton, but Daphne returned to look upon her two eldest brothers. She had no doubt that her own look was probably accusing, a scathing combination between disapproval and the Bridgerton "I told you so" as Anthony floundered at the front of the church. The heat of her mother's and the Queen's disapproval almost made the usually intimidating man wither.

Daphne returned her attention to Benedict, who appeared torn. He reached out to his brother even as his eyes searched out Penelope again, finally meeting them. Penelope appeared to be analyzing the scene, biting her bottom lip as she met Benedict's stare for a moment before tearing her attention away.

Once again, stuck as the poised, perfect daughter who had to maintain an image in public, Daphne resisted braining herself upon the pew in front of her. She reasoned that she could not leave Augie in the hands of just his father, for as loving as the man was, he would be hopeless on his own.

Instead, she thought on how this wedding had been no ending to a Shakespearean comedy. No. This disaster was simply a happenstance just before the pivotal scene in a tragedy unfolded.

She just hoped they would be lucky enough to survive it.

The family stormed into their assigned waiting room, Anthony in the lead, clutching his head as if it might explode, or as if a battering ram hammered inside his brother's skull. Benedict could not begin to fathom the entirety of the situation, the enormity of a runaway bride at a Bridgerton wedding hosted by the bloody Queen of the British Empire.

But, as usual, his family was handling the situation with their normal aplomb for chaos.

Benedict and Colin hastened to Anthony's side as he paced in front of the gold-gilded mirror. The viscount rubbed at his face, pulled at his hair, and Benedict hadn't seen the man so unseated, so at a loss in years. Even last year, when Anthony had shot a bullet at his own best friend, he had been conflicted but determined.

This, however, was another thing entirely.

Their mother flanked Anthony's other side, a mess of maternal frustration and confusion that came out in a mass of anxious, shaking words and limbs, not unlike when one felt the vibrations of horses charging upon a race track.

Directly behind them stood Daphne, Simon, Gregory, and Hyacinth, while Eloise chose to recline on the scarlet settee. Benedict saw how his second sister chose to remove herself slightly, holding herself in a place separate from the dire situation. He could not tell if she felt removed or above it all, whether her mind was elsewhere, or if she simply did not much care.

It was frustrating in the extreme, not being able to understand her like he normally could.

On top of it all, Benedict felt a surge of guilt. Even as he worried over this newest development, his brother's sanity, the possible scandal, finding and apologizing to Nel still occupied the majority of the space in his brain. Like the lovesick fool he was, he had wretchedly attempted to capture her gaze during the ceremony, begging silently for her sky blue eyes just to acknowledge his existence.

She only did so when the upheaval happened, when Miss Edwina ran like a bat out of Hell. Penelope granted him her attention for only a moment, and he knew the sympathy he saw there, the small relent in her wrath, was more for his family as a whole and not for him.

But he was greedy, a kicked hound clawing at scraps. He would take what he could get.

Their mother wrung her hands together, getting to the point while skirting the issue, as was her usual strategy. "Does this have anything to do with our dinner with the Sheffields the other evening? Or perhaps some even greater issue has come to pass that we must discuss, Anthony?"

"Miss Edwina is merely agitated," Benedict claimed though he barely believed himself. Maybe he would have been more convinced had he been as soused as he'd been the past month, but there had been no denying the palpable, beating feeling that existed between Anthony and Miss Kate. So he spoke more for his siblings rather than himself, though he knew Daphne and Simon were even more aware of what had taken place then himself. "She needs time to breathe, adjust herself. She will come to her senses."

What those senses were was an entirely different question.

"Oh, so you choose to display some modicum of sensitivity now?" Eloise groused and Benedict did not even have to look at her to feel that she rolled her eyes.

"El…"

"Miss Edwina does seem to have a delicate constitution," Colin interrupted, and Benedict noticed that his younger brother appeared more aware than before, as if he had deciphered some of the cracks within the family. "Perhaps fresh air will be just the thing."

"Flask." Benedict hit Colin's side, a bit more roughly than he'd meant, palming at the metal flask he knew Colin had kept on his person. Exasperated, Colin handed him the item and Benedict began to wordlessly offer it to Anthony, who still cradled his temple as he was attempting to hold together an eggshell that had already been split.

"Perhaps the archbishop's talk of lifelong covenants overwhelmed her." Eloise leaned further into the settee, her feet dangling slightly off the side. With her elbow propped upon the back, she appeared even more imperious than usual. "Perhaps she realized that marriage is, in fact, a prison for women."

Benedict tried to offer Anthony the flask of brandy again, unsure of what else to do. Especially with almost the entirety of the family in the room, he felt like he couldn't at all broach the topic in a kindly manner.

That was the problem of such a large family. As much as they all loved each other, when they were all together, they fed off each other's nerves and agitation until everything became scrambled in a cacophony of sound conflict.

Colin wrinkled his nose, turning towards Eloise. "Ugh. Must you always be so...you?"

"How else should I be? Married and silent?"

"Perhaps she decided she must change into a different dress," Gregory suggested, sweetly but unhelpfully.

Simon grinned and ruffled Gregory's light brown curls affectionately just as Hyacinth snootily replied, "Absurd. She looked beautiful."

"No matter the reason, we should allow Miss Edwina her privacy. Speculation does not help," Simon suggested, tipping Gregory's chin before stilling Hyacinth's twitchy energy with a hand upon her upper back.

Benedict could not help but notice how his brother, the unshakeable viscount, still looked as if he was in physical pain. He knew from experience that, sometimes, everything was just too loud when they were together and Anthony, as the eldest, could not always handle it. It was not that he did not love them in all of their energy and rambunctiousness, but as the head of their family he consistently made the most potentially life-altering decisions…for all of them.

Head bowed, eyelids squeezed shut, Benedict could not imagine the struggle within his brother. And Benedict had a sneaking suspicion that the same internal grapple was occurring with the Sharmas as well.

Benedict wanted to ask– He wanted to ask so badly for his brother to let him in. For the Anthony who could, in one breath, be obtuse about a sibling's hurt and simultaneously know and want to push that same brother or sister's passions, curate their comfort…

He hated seeing Anthony like this.

To see him so alone, even in a room full of people who loved him.

But Benedict also knew his brother, even if it wasn't as well as he'd previously thought.

"Perhaps we should allow Anthony a little respite," Benedict said, loudly and firmly for all of the family to hear, stilling the room. "Brother, is that what you need?"

Anthony straightened, inhaling deeply before he raised his head to make meaningful eye contact not with Benedict but with Daphne. Benedict saw it happen and their mother, ever astute, saw it too.

Anthony turned to Benedict, hard and stiff with frustration. "Precisely."

Anthony stormed out of the room and as soon as their eldest brother rounded the corner, Violet cornered Daphne. Even with Simon, stoutly beside her, Benedict recognized the moment where all of his siblings knew there was no escape for the eldest sister.

"What?" Daphne said, trying to keep her sights on anyone but their mother.

"You know something," Violet said, hands on her hips, the perfect picture of maternal fury.

"I do not," Daphne replied weakly, and the rest of them cringed.

Daphne's sibling loyalty was admirable but it stood no chance when the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton decided to unleash her full might.

"Daphne, you may be a duchess, but you are still my daughter." Their mother's blue-gray eyes, a foundation for so many of her children's, flashed dangerously. "Tell me what you know."

And so the truth spilled forth in terrible, appalling, heart-rending clarity.

The clear misalignment between Miss Edwina's and Anthony's personalities, the way Miss Kate seamlessly fit in with their family's dynamic, the chemistry between Miss Kate and Anthony, what Daphne had seen at the Hearts and Flowers Ball, the clear passion between them…

Benedict could only be thankful that their mother was not interrogating Daphne about him, or what happened between him and Nel would make Anthony's near fumble pale in comparison.

"You know he never intended to marry for love, Mama," Daphne muttered as she finished, blindly grasping for her husband's hand. "And before he even knew it, he sabotaged himself. Trapping himself in the engagement because he thought it would be less painful for him, and that he could give Miss Edwina what she wanted, even if it was based on lies."

It was Violet's turn to massage her temples, their mother seeming to fight off a faint.

"I thought…" Their mother took in a deep shuddering breath, shoulders quivering. "I hoped…"

But she never finished the sentence as they all stood a few moments more in silence, staring at the wreckage between them.

It quickly became apparent that even a runaway bride could not halt the progression of Queen Charlotte's extravagant version of a wedding breakfast.

The palace gardens were decorated with more clusters of white roses, and the gravel pathways led to refreshment tents bedecked with towers of food that appeared more for fantastical displays than eating. Beastly male peacocks stalked the grounds, their brilliant blue feathers a brief distraction before one or five of them would attempt to peck at some unsuspecting lord or lady's ankles. The hedge maze to the right looked freshly trimmed, and servants walked around with plenty of champagne and hors d'oeuvres that sought to placate and distract. What at first looked like golden statues across the grounds would suddenly move, slowly, precisely into new positions in order to awe the small crowds that gathered to watch. Benedict recognized some of the acrobats that had been hired, covered in shimmering gold paint, from past parties.

But as he dodged people and peeked around the finery, he could hardly pay attention to the grand disaster that fed the ton's need for dramatics. Once Anthony had disappeared and Violet had extracted Daphne's knowledge of the situation, their mother had swept away herself. He had no doubt that she needed time to plot how to fix the mess they found themselves in.

Benedict wanted to help his brother, but he was torn. Anthony desired to be alone, as usual, and solve his problem on his own. That was Anthony's overarching problem; he was not very good at asking for help. But Benedict did not want to stand idle either, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for directives from Anthony or their mother when he could be making progress on his other mission.

Gaining his Nel's forgiveness.

Though if he could not find her amongst the tittle-tattle of society, then he had no idea where she could be.

He's assumed that Penelope would still need to gather gossip for Lady Whistledown since she continued to publish. Bristling, he tried to tamp down his temper over that little fact. It had been he that pushed her away, he could not expect her to give up her enterprise just because he decided to be a bloody fatwit and try to ignore her existence for a month.

Yet, it still felt like rubbing salt in the wound. Very grainy, rough, horrid amounts of salt.

Sighing, he paused beside one of the golden statues, shielding his eyes with a hand in order to peer better into the vast space. It should not have been so damnably hard to spot a Featherington in the crowd, not with their flaming red hair. But, he reminded himself, Penelope was impossibly good at being invisible when she wanted to be. The statue moved, a pear shaped woman in a dress with a Georgian silhouette, her petticoats and skirts fluffed out over what must have been a large hooped cage. He vaguely remembered his mother swearing to be grateful that the fashion was now out of style then shook his head, intent on his search. The statue at his side continued to move towards him from its little platform and it wasn't until he was suddenly under a swath of shadow that he realized the woman held an umbrella over his head, just a gold and glaringly shiny as the rest of her.

He squinted up into the woman's face, then smiled.

"Thank you, Leda."

The actress's lips twitched.

"Lyra?"

An imperceptible nod.

"Well, thank you."

With his newfound shade he searched the crowd again, hoping to see a bright yellow dress amongst the crowd. He fidgeted, twirling his deep red garnet-studded signet ring that sat upon his pinky, a gift from his father before departing to Eton.

"You admire stones like you admire people, Benedict," his father had said, cupping his second son's cheeks as Benedict fought back a sudden wave of equal parts love and embarrassment. "Turn them over, study every facet, every surface. And do not let a little dirt get in the way of seeing the entirety of their beauty."

It was as he fiddled with the ring, his father's words, though the voice was slightly vague, echoing in his ears he finally spotted her. Shadowing Lady Cowper, Cressida Cowper, and two other women. He recognized the look on her face, the one where she could not help but smile secretly to herself because she'd heard a tasty morsel and hadn't been caught.

She was never caught.

With a certain grace and ease that came with being unseen, Penelope smoothly came up behind Lady Keswick and Lady Hanbury, listened to them for a beat before she slipped behind Lord Fife and Lord Cho as they ambled around the garden path.

A pit of unease opened wide in his stomach as he watched her follow two men of the ton that he wouldn't want his Nel within ten leagues of. So with an absent wave to Lyra, Benedict hastened away. His long strides helped him catch up to Penelope, ensuring he was only a few steps behind her. She tilted her head, obviously keen on what the young lords were saying. A wash of affection came over him, just from that one, miniscule habit of hers. It was with an acute sense of regret that he recognized how much he had missed her, ached for her, tried to plug up the gaping hole her absence left with drink and distraction that never seemed to satisfy.

But just as he wanted to reach out, to call her name, he overheard Lady Featherington addressing the new Lord Featherington. Pausing, he tilted his own head slightly, stepping back and to the left, away from Jack Featherington's line of sight.

"A rather fortuitous turn of events, my lord," Lady Featherington said, and though Benedict could not see her face, he thought she sounded rather too excited. "Nothing makes the ton come alive like a fresh scandal."

Benedict watched forlornly as Penelope drew farther and farther away, her yellow skirts disappearing amongst the throngs of revelers. But he knew that he had to prove himself in more ways than one, and he couldn't stand by if something suspicious was happening with Penelope's cousin like he feared.

"All eyes and ears seem to be open for the freshest detail." Jack grinned down at the widowed mother of three…a little too warmly in Benedict's opinion. "I suppose all we must do now is redirect their attention."

His spine stiffening, Benedict resisted the urge to interrogate the older man. What could that mean? Redirect their attention? It was, all at once, dreadfully ominous while relaying no real hint of wrongdoing.

Benedict enjoyed being vague in order to irritate his siblings. But he quickly realized he really did not appreciate the barest hints of information while trying to eavesdrop. How Penelope managed was beyond him.

But the pair were distracted when Jack chuckled, and Benedict stepped back again to follow his gaze. Prudence was imitating the movements of one of the golden statues, raising her arms in a ridiculous pose he supposed was supposed to be amusing.

Lady Featherington huffed, picking up her skirts in order to go scold her eldest daughter. Benedict had just turned on his heel when he overheard the woman's very indiscreet admonishment, "Prudence. Do you wish to insult Lord Featherington by not showing off this beautiful necklace?"

"I do not understand why he should care whether I cherish it so," Prudence groused. "We are already engaged, and he barely speaks to me. What sort of engagement is born of silence?"

"Do as I say, child. Or would you rather be without any prospects, like Penelope?"

Hackles raised, Benedict forced himself to stay still, even as Penelope's own sister responded in a horrified tone, "Heaven forbid."

Gritting his teeth so hard he swore he heard his jaw crack with the force of it, Benedict clenched his hands and began his search anew. How dare the two women who were supposed to be on Penelope's side, be her greatest show of support and love, drag her down and paint her as undesirable.

He could not stand it. It was no wonder Penelope found it so hard to put her trust in people, to believe anyone when they actually complimented her on her accomplishments and beauty. As Lady Whistledown, she stood tall, full of the knowledge that people salivated over the work she slaved over, the entertainment and retribution she provided.

But as Penelope Featherington, she could not accept the loving or conciliatory words of others. Not when for nine and ten years of her life, she'd had poison poured into her ears.

And he had not helped by ripping away his presence, his friendship.

If he could have her forgiveness, win back his place, he would do it properly this time. He would show her that she was worth so much more than her mother said she was.

With or without Lady Whistledown.

The soles of his leather shoes crunched across the pea gravel as he sought out Penelope again. He almost missed her but, he should have known, he saw her duck into one of the creamy yellow food tents with none other than his sister. Increasing the speed of his pace, Benedict entered the space behind the pair, arm and arm as they observed the spread before them. An ice sculpture took pride of place in the middle of towers of seafood were laid out amongst the table, arranged crustaceans that were meant to look enticing, but not enough to eat. Prawns, octopus tentacles, crabs, and even lobster. Benedict wrinkled his nose, the smell a tad overbearing, so instead he focused on the bits of conversation between his sister and their friend.

"I thought of what you said about my correspondence."

Benedict's ears perked up, his sister's words setting off alarm bells in his head. Correspondence? What correspondence could his sister be having?

And she didn't tell him?

A flash of petulant hurt hit him before he squashed it. He knew, of course, it was likely his own fault Eloise had not confided in him as of late.

"With Sir Phillip?"

That made him stop in his tracks, suddenly less eager for the duo to know he was there. A man? Eloise was corresponding with a man?

Wracking his brain for the name Sir Phillip (a knight? A baronet?) Benedict held his breath.

"Yes, I will take your advice. I shall endeavor to be more…discreet with our letters."

Discreet?

Discreet?

For what means would Eloise need to be discreet?

Nothing good.

Hot, red fury made his blood boil. If some man had decided to target his sister to take advantage of her, he would rip them limb from limb.

Benedict hated being angry, he loathed the feeling of being absolutely consumed with irrational thoughts, ones that made him feel as though he could burst out of his skin. That was more Anthony's terrain, the kind of wrath that would cause one to storm a castle.

But Benedict, without a doubt, would storm an estate, a castle, a whole other country if something untoward happened to any one of his sisters.

Benedict gained on the two women just as they entered another tent, this one mercifully set up with actually edible fruit. Eloise was already popping green grapes into her mouth, speaking around a mouthful of food that reminded him more of Colin.

"Mind you, Pen, it will be difficult. I am currently trying to pick his brain for advice on pollination–"

"And why, pray tell," Benedict said, towering behind them, his voice a growl that was unwholly like him. "Would you need to pick a man's mind about pollination? "

In the back of his mind he knew he was overreacting. This was not what Benedict did. He asked gentle, probing questions. He listened with a sympathetic ear and let his siblings speak without interruption.

But he wasn't himself, he realized. The whole month he had deprived himself of any contact with the friends, the siblings, the people that kept him sane, good.

And it seemed his sister was the same. He saw it in her face, the emergence of a snarling beast, ready to claw his eyes out.

"None of your damn business," Eloise snarled.

Benedict turned to Penelope, prepared to demand what the hell his sister had gotten into but…

His Nel's entire countenance was frozen, and icy demeanor overtaking the woman who, last month, melted like warm butter in his embrace. Upon seeing him, she used to light up, to run to him with a million tiny discoveries upon the tip of her tongue…

Until he had fucked everything up.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he inhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again.

"I will ask you later, El," Benedict said, a promise, not a question. "But for now, Nel, may I please speak to you?"

As the endearment he'd given her escaped his lips, her eyes widened, just a fraction. She appeared shaken, somewhat, until winter fell over her again. There were no cracks to see below the icy surface of her facade, frigid and steely in her resolve.

"I do not wish to speak to you, Mister Bridgerton," she said, and her voice was deeper, distressed in a way that speared him through. "I do not know what you could say, besides. You have had nothing at all to say for a month."

He saw the right side of her cheek hollow out, a sure sign she was biting it. On careful inspection, he noticed her bottom lip to be red, scabbed, as if she had bitten through the flesh so many times it would bleed with a simple tug.

"Oh, Nel…"

On instinct he reached for her, however she backed away from him while his sister moved between them, a stalwart soldier blocking him from his goal.

Those few moments, their reactions, wrought agony upon his soul more than any words could.

"She said she doesn't want to hear you out," Eloise said. "Leave."

Benedict's hand still hovered in the air as he stared at the pair of them, Penelope now looking anywhere other than him.

"I cannot."

"You will."

"Please El, Nel, let me explain–"

But Penelope had spun around and all but ran away from him, Eloise blocking his path, moving this way and that until they were stuck in a horrible pantomime of a dance. Penelope faded from view, now lost again amongst the throngs of people and Benedict barely resisted the urge to stamp his foot in frustration.

"Eloise, please stop this childishness!"

"Oh." His sister looked as if she were about the breathe fire, hands on her hips, her seafoam dress crinkling where she clutched it, her carefully placed strands of hair falling out of place. "I am being childish? What of your completely infantile display ignoring the pair of us all the month?

"I–" He swallowed. "I did neglect Nel, it is what I must apologize for. I can explain. But I have not ignored you."

Her nostrils flared and in a move wholly unexpected, she roughly pushed her gloved hands against his chest. He stumbled, his hip knocking into the corner of the table, a tower of artfully arranged pears shaking from the impact.

"If you ignore Pen, then you ignore me!" She hissed, though he had no doubt she really desired to scream like a banshee. "You did not just neglect my best friend, our friend, who relies upon you for protection and support! But in the process you neglected me. I came to you, I confided in you, I trusted you with not only my joys, my secrets, but my dearest friend. And you abandoned us both!"

A chasm opened up between them but they weren't just standing on opposite sides. Instead, as the earth's maw tore open, it was as if Eloise grabbed his arm and tossed him into the abyss.

"You're my favorite brother. This past year, you have made it so I depend on you for everything. You have been my pillar, and all of a sudden, this past month, I would lean back and my pillar was gone, crumbled." When Eloise's voice came out strangled, full of shaken resentment and heartbreak, he felt like the world's biggest failure. "You collapsed, into minuscule fragments I could only parse through, until I had nowhere to turn but my friend, who also leaned on you for strength and rest. You left us in the rubble holding one another."

"Please, El." Benedict didn't dare reach for her, could not bear the thought of her rejection if he went to grasp her hand. "I– I am so sorry. I can do nothing but apologize, that I chose to turn a blind eye towards you. At least let me try to explain."

"You may certainly try," she sneered, arms now crossed over her chest like a shield, even as she wielded her words like daggers. "But I am confident I shall prove every supposedly logical point you provide is built upon sand."

A sliver of fear shot through Benedict, already knowing she might poke holes into every justification he had come up with for his actions.

It was what he got for hurting her, for tearing the faith his sister had in him asunder. Even though he knew, deep, deep within himself that he deserved every bit of her ferocity, her violence, it still caused a growth of frustration to make it as if his skin was stretched too thin.

"My courses at the Royal Academy started up–"

"And there was plenty of time outside your coursework where you could have come home, gone to at least one social event, or sent a missive."

Clenching his fists, Benedict felt his body grow so rigid his damn hips ached. He glanced around, assessing that no one, as of yet, had attempted to enter the tent before speaking again.

"I was not about to use that as an excuse."

"You brought it up, so clearly you were hoping I would use that parcel of information and store it for your favor later. So, yes, Brother, you were using it as an excuse."

Filled with the irrational urge to kick something as that horrible sensation of his skin stretching, pulling against him grew, he ground his heel into the grass underfoot.

"I– At Aubrey Hall, I grew…" Benedict hesitated. He knew Eloise would accept nothing less than the truth. But the last thing Eloise would want to hear was how he languished away at the mere thought of Penelope's heart belonging to anyone else but him. She might even laugh. But he had to give her some parcel of honesty. "I grew jealous of Penelope's friendship with Colin. Selfishly, I wanted her to myself. I grew scared that she would reject my friendship in favor of his, so I extricated myself from the situation entirely."

If possible, Eloise's expression grew even more coldly indifferent. Her wrath had faded, and in its place sat the ever more terrifying state of callousness.

"I was jealous when you became Pen's friend. All I could think was that she had been mine first," she responded, flat and dull. "But I realized our friendships with her are completely individual, unique, our own. If you felt that way, you should have talked with her about the matter first."

"I tried," Benedict said, recalling Penelope's shocked expression in the garden of Aubrey Hall, beautiful in her pink dress in the moonlight, unable to answer his question. "But she did not respond."

"Did not or could not because you hastily jumped to conclusions?"

Flinching, Benedict took a step back. She was not just poking holes into his arguments, but taking a dagger and slashing great, gaping cavities of space.

"I admit," Eloise continued, her fingers fluttering near her throat, as if wanting to use them but unsure how. "Us Bridegrton are of the 'act now, talk later' variety, but you know Pen needs time to think, to process when she is caught off guard. If she is not allowed that moment, she will act in self-defense."

" I was acting in self-defense." He grasped at his chest, clawing at his jacket as if he could break through cloth and skin to reach his heart and calm its frantic rhythm. "Protecting myself from hurt."

"But you swore to protect us!" Eloise snapped, composure gone again in a flash. "By guarding your own heart and not communicating about it, you lashed out. Silently, swiftly, nearly deadly. You are more than well-aware how Pen is treated by her family, has always been treated. Left to fend for herself against the likes of Cressida, trapped in a cruel maze she cannot exit. She trusted you, I trusted you, and you broke your promises to us in the span of a month!"

She stepped forward and he stepped back until she had cornered him against the table, poking him in the chest.

"You failed as a friend, failed as a brother, failed as a member of our family." The sneer on her face was more vicious, venomous, vile than any fanged creature. "Do you know what you have missed in the past month? Pen now gains help from Gen to publish. I have gone to Lucy's soirees. Fran wrote to inform us she was ill and could not make the wedding. Daphne announced another pregnancy. Gregory attempted to climb the roof. Did you know of any of these things in your drunken haze?"

His silence was answer enough, and even though he knew she was right, knew he deserved every ounce of her vitriol, he lashed out. The hurt, the shame – knowing it and it being thrown back in face caused him to react with teeth and claws, more akin to a cornered bear or dog in a fight. Violence, hate– none of it was in his nature. But his own self-hatred, the recrimination, emerged, directed at the wrong person.

"Your criticism is rich, considering you have let Nel throw herself into more danger." He used his height to loom over her, to make her feel small. He could not remember the last time he had ever fought with Eloise like this. Anthony, yes. Colin, yes. Even Daphne. But never Eloise. Never any of the four little ones he had sworn to take care of. But as he spoke in a low, noxious hiss, it was his wounded pride that led him. "You encourage the worst in her. Egg her on to write truths in a way that bite and tears. But all you are doing is inviting the wolves to surround her, for the Queen bitch to grab her by the throat and strike. You think you are so much better a friend by gleefully encouraging her recklessness? You are at fault as well if anything happens to her!"

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, both of their eyes widening in horror when his tirade finished. Eloise started to tremble, her eyes filling with glassy tears he had no hope of stopping.

"God– Lawks– No, El. I am so sorry, I did not mean–"

But she had ran away, farther and farther as she wove through the guests, unheeding when she knocked a few servants and a group of ladies aside. Running, running, running and it was him who'd done it. Him who hurt her.

He stood alone, resisting the urge to stand still until he simply crumbled and fell away, much like the weak pillar Eloise had compared him to.

Out of breath, chest heaving as she tried to inflate her lungs with air, Penelope checked to be sure she was well shod of Benedict. Eloise had done her a favor, acting as a shield while Penelope escaped.

For she could not even handle the idea of conversing with Benedict at the moment, especially not in a manner that was synonymously or adjacent to the word calm.

Why now, after a whole bloody month, did Benedict suddenly seek her out? Seek the pair of them out, she corrected, fanning her cheeks with a hand as she rejoined the busy gravel path, she could not discount Eloise. Her best friend had been snubbed by her brother as well, for Eloise was often in her company. It demonstrated how little the artist-in-training had been paying attention; if he had bothered to return to Bridgerton House even a modicum amount more, he may have noticed Eloise had been off at flower arranging courses or afternoons 'out' with Penelope.

Zounds, if the idiot had simply checked in with his own friends, the Granvilles, he would have found out where his sister now spent many of her late tea times.

For a moment, Penelope stood overwhelmed, unsure of what to do. Paralyzed with indecision simply because there were too many decisions to consider. It was an odd feeling, as if her body wanted to twist and writhe like a fish out of water, desperate for relief, desperate for life.

Instead she felt twitchy, as if her very muscles were attempting to expand and burst from her skin, everything too tight, too uncomfortable.

As she stood there, seeing everything and nothing at once, a voice of concern somehow pierced the buzzing in her ears.

"Pen? By Jove, are you quite well?" Colin's face appeared out of nowhere, his tall figure bent in half to get a better look at her. "You look a bit peaky. Here, have a sip of this. Get some color."

Shoving a metal flask into her gloved grasp, he helped her lift the rim to her lips and she took a great swig without thinking. Immediately, she felt the cool burn of liquor hit her tongue and slide down her throat, creating a strange, curl of warmth in her belly. The brandy heat circled once, twice in her stomach like a cat before lying down to keep her insides warm, all while her mouth was on fire and she coughed and spluttered.

"C-Col," she gasped, while he raised an amused eyebrow. "That is not a lady's drink!"

"No one saw, and if someone asked, I shall just say you choked on a fly." He grinned heartily and she knew that he hoped to make her laugh, to help her look a little less miserable. It eased her anxiety a little, made her feel secure in a way she had not felt in a month. So she granted him with a small, wobbly smile as he took several gulps from the flask himself.

"A celebratory drink? Have you a success to celebrate, Colin?" Coughing again as the burn of the alcohol sat in the back of her throat, she attempted a playful push of his forearm. "Besides reviving my spirits."

Colin sighed, peering down the narrow rim of the flask as if he could spot long-lost treasure within. "Only if whatever I am looking for, if some sort of purpose, can be found at the bottom of this flask."

"I am certain you will find your purpose one day. Everyone must eventually."

Penelope believed that. It was one of the few things she had any faith in anymore. Whether it be through hardship, talent, luck, or some mix of all three, she heartily put stock into the idea that everyone in life would eventually find their purpose, something in life that fulfilled them in a deeply personal way.

The problem was balancing that purpose with the life that existed outside of it.

She thought of Benedict then, how once he had started his courses at the Royal Academy, she had become nothing but a speck of dust on the wind, indiscernible to him. It rankled, the warmth the brandy provided curdling.

"Have you found yours?" Colin asked, and he seemed genuinely curious, leaning forward, gemstone eyes bright and welcoming.

She turned slightly, the monstrosity that was a wedding cake in her field of vision. Colin mirrored her movements and they both observed the footmen who had been tasked with carrying the behemoth of vanilla sponge and buttercream to a table outside. It was odd, being served cake without what were supposed to have been the bride and groom present. Penelope felt it had to be some sort of sign of bad luck.

Staring at it, she tried to conjure the fantasy that used to come so easily, so readily to her mind. An image of herself, wed happily to Colin with a fuzzy number of children. Yet it refused to materialize.

In its place were the vivid dreams that had plagued her all the month. Benedict's face as he hovered above her in only a night shift or a thin, muslin gown, his lips ghosting over her body until they reached her center…

With a determined tenacity, she shut that image out, and noticed Colin staring intently, waiting patiently for her answer.

So Penelope chuckled, trying to infuse some hope into her truth, "Of course not. But I imagine it to be something both animating and satisfying. The type of venture that speaks not to who I am but rather who I am to be." She thought of Lady Whistledown then and all it provided her. The strength it gave her to speak her mind, to grab people's attention, their respect, and hold onto it even as she loomed as a shadowy figure in their minds' eyes. She thought of the money accumulating in a hidden bank account, she thought of her friends, women who had found ways to fund, live, and thrive in an independent lifestyle. If she could not have love… At least she had the means to have that. "My purpose will challenge me to be brave and witty. My purpose will propel me far beyond the watchful glare of my mama. My purpose shall set me free."

Drifting her pensive gaze from the cake, she looked towards the sky instead. Overcast and gray, but it still felt so much wider, so much more open than the ground below. Penelope did not want to just thrive, she wanted to soar, and she knew that there was a part of her, a ruthless, ambitious piece of her soul, that would do anything to do it.

Colin chuckled and diverted her attention back to her friend. Kindness radiated off him in waves, along with a sense that led Penelope to believe he envied her vision. "What could possibly measure up to all that? Your dreams are grander than you let on, Pen."

"Yes, they are mere fantasies, but I do believe we must allow ourselves those private moments so we may face reality armed with our reveries."

That could not have been more true. Clinging to her fantasy of independence lately, along with her rage, had been one of the only things that helped her drag herself through the mire of rejection she felt stuck in. Everything ached, pulsed, hurt, but it was the few fanciful imaginings of a life outside of her family's roof that pushed her to continue.

"I wish I could discover a purpose, a drive so meaningful," Colin admitted, and there it was again, the note of envy, It was not bitter, per say. Rather more wistful.

"Maybe your purpose does not have to be big and immediate. Maybe it's a bunch of small ones, and one of them is being a good friend to me, right now, in this moment. With your horrible brandy and your listening ear." Penelope smiled and, for once that day, it was a true, brilliant smile. "I'm grateful for that."

Colin cocked his head, his dark chestnut hair perfectly in place, and he unconsciously readjusted his suit jacket as he tucked the flask away in a hidden pocket, artfully sowed within the jacket's breast.

"You are kind, Pen. You are–" He hesitated a moment before ruffling his own hair in what appeared to be bashfulness. "You are my best friend, I think. I know Eloise has held that title longer and with more ferocity than I. But it's true."

Penelope flushed at the compliment, a small spark of happiness jumping behind her breastbone.

She felt him study her a moment longer, before he continued, "And I believe my friend needs cheering up. I do not know why, but I hope you will tell me. In your own time." The sounds of delighted gasps filled the space around them, popping their little bubble. As one, they turned to see the scarlet-clad footmen finally cutting into the cake. "It appears we had better nab a piece of cake before it's all gone. I shall fetch us some" He winked. "Sugar has always cured my woes."

He sauntered off, using his tall figure to gently wade through the crowd so he was one of the first in line to procure slices of the decadent confection. Penelope felt an odd hurricane of joy and sorrow, comfort and anger, battered around her ribcage, tossing organs, emotions, memories, and everything in-between around with no care to what it hit.

For some inexplicable reason, she thought of the silver butterfly hair adornment Benedict had gifted her for her birthday not long ago. She'd looked at it this morning, tucked away at the back of her vanity drawer, the tourmaline jewels shining dully up at her. She hadn't worn it all season, not because she had not wanted to, but because it simply did not match anything she owned.

Vaguely, she had wondered, yet again, if Benedict had even cared about that little fact.

The sound of boots crunching the gravel caught her attention and there was Colin, triumphantly holding two plates of thick, crumbly vanilla sponge in his hands. He exuded the energy of a soldier coming home with war trophies and it made her giggle, just a small exhalation of mirth.

She was glad Colin Bridgerton was her friend.

But she still could not help how she yearned for another, even while she wanted to push him away.

Benedict observed the way Penelope smiled softly up at Colin as she finished the slice of wedding cake he offered her. He thought he had gotten over his petty jealousy, the terrible thorns that circled around his internal organs and squeezed, biting into him until he nearly writhed from the pain. From his vantage point back by the tents where he and Eloise had just fought, all he could see was how his Nel bestowed kindness, generosity, her very spirit up to his brother while he was left wanting, starving for her.

Viciously shoving the bruised pride Eloise had left him with, along with the horrible guilt knowing he'd given his sister much the same, Benedict tried again. He strode forward just as Penelope wandered off, having handed her clean plate to a servant and made her way to the entrance of the hedge maze. So intent on his goal, he barely noticed the tug at the elbow of his jacket.

"Brother–"

Registering Colin's voice, already raw and flayed open, Benedict blindly pushed his younger brother's gentle grasp away.

"Not now, Col."

"Brother, you look–" A deep breath, as if his brother, of all people, needed to exude patience. "Ben, I do not think–"

"Excellent." Benedict breezed past him, his steps cracking along the pea gravel. "Then continue not to think on this."

He barely had time to register Colin's stunned face, the way his brother's dark eyes followed him, or process the other layer of guilt he piled onto himself. Colin didn't deserve his cruelty or cutting remarks. But all Benedict could see in his desperation was Penelope – his Nel – getting further away from him.

So he followed her fleeting form, a vision even in pale yellow, the autumn rust of her hair flared out behind her. The deeper and deeper into the maze they went, the more entrenched he became in memories. The fight they had last year over her feelings for Colin, the time she found him sobbing in the Cowper's maze all those years ago, the time before that when it had been Colin who had found her and led her from the maze like Theseus performing a rescue.

Finally, finally she stopped between two great, stone planters, raised like Grecian columns before opening into wide, ridged basins that carried two different bouquets. She fingered the petals pensively, he could see how her eyes traced the wide, open petals of pale petunias, the white trumpet column of daturas, the little buds of tansy and thistle before caressing the wormwood. She did the same for the next bouquet, a collection of asphodel, azalea, snowdrop, rue, and willow. He knew the flowers but couldn't derive their meaning. But he knew Penelope could, she saw the inner meaning and workings of everything and everyone.

In his trance, he took a heavy step forward and the thud upon the gravel caught her attention. The thoughtful look wiped itself away, replaced with such a cold expression of disdain that, somehow, he felt like she towered over him.

"You snuck past El, then?" Shifting under her scrutiny, he decided now was not the time to inform her that he had actually dissolved his sister into angry tears. Not his finest moment, and he doubted Penelope would listen to him if he told her now. "I told you, I do not have any inclination to speak to you."

"Please, Nel, I just–" Sheepishly he rubbed the back of his head, shrugging before his shoulders slumped. "I want to make amends. Please, I miss you."

A harsh bark of laughter escaped her lips and it grated against his skin, perforated his eardrum worse than any antagonistic attack.

"Oh, now you miss me? I longed for your presence for weeks, but you had no trouble discounting my entire existence." Her feet across the gravel seemed louder, the crunching of the rocks beneath her echoing between them until she only stood a foot away. The hedges of the maze closed in on him, green, leafy structures that worked to suffocate him here, facing his failure. "I daresay you will have no trouble forgetting me again. Do you not think?"

Her smile was sharp around the edges, fine and lethal like a saber's point.

"It was because I could not forget you that I ran from you," he blurted, though he wasn't sure what the point of it was. He could not, would not, admit he was in love with her. Not like this when it would just appear as a way to shirk his fault, a ploy to win her encouraging words, her delicate touch, and that secret smile back. He wouldn't use his love for her like a weapon.

At least, he would try not to.

"Oh? Is that supposed to make me feel better?" That bitter laugh again, harsher than a winter wind. "You were apparently so repulsed by me, that you had to run from my visage just to find solace?"

"No!" Benedict shouted, and he knew he shouldn't have. But it was going wrong, going sideways, then upside down, up and up and up until he was no longer breathing, trapped under a lake with nowhere to go. "No, Nel. Damn it, that's not what I mean. You are putting intentions to my words without listening–"

"What else am I supposed to do after a month of silence?"

Trying to breathe, it felt as if there were little puncture wounds in Benedict's lungs, for every breath seemed to escape him, his chest not inflating with the air it needed.

"I– After the ball–" Benedict shook his head, trying to clear it, but suddenly his temples hurt. Nothing about this day had gone according to plan. Not the wedding, not Daphne, not Eloise, not Colin, and now not this godforsaken apology. He decided on a partial truth, for he knew she would not tolerate a lie. "I became stuck in my head, worrying about your…feelings for Colin. I remembered last year, how hurt you were when he nearly married Marina, when he left to travel. It was frustrating, knowing you still cared for him, that you may become hurt again–"

"So you decided to hurt me first? That was your grand plan?"

Every word she uttered was a lance to his body, piercing him roughly, with absolutely no remorse. So many people would never guess that Penelope Featherington wielded words as weapons as expertly as any soldier in the King's army. That Lady Whistledown could not just eviscerate someone on the page, but in conversation. He loved this part of her, but when it was directed at him he felt off-kilter, like he was at a direct disadvantage. He made to grab her, but she violently pulled her hand away, practically snarling.

"Nel, please, I– It's no excuse, but I worried about Colin hurting you again. I– As your friend, in a way, I feared you would get hurt, that your focus would shift from–" From me, was what he wanted to say. But the words caught in his throat. "Then I got caught up at the Royal Academy. I threw myself into it, feeling like I found purpose–"

"You Bridgerton men and your purpose." She spat the word like it was vitriol on her tongue. "When you are men and can so easily obtain it. Not like women, not like me." She threw her hands in the air before she began to pace in front of him, kicking up dust as she stomped from one hedge to the other. "This all feels like an excuse, Benedict. Because you think you are sparing me from the truth. That you no longer desire my friendship. That Colin could never love me, that you could never–"

Heart stalling in his chest, everything burned quicker than a wildfire through him before leaving smoldering ash in its wake. How was he getting everything so wrong?

"That's not what I mean!" The words came out harsher than he meant them to and fuck all of their mutual friends would murder him on the spots for mucking this up so horrendously. He could fix this, maybe he could fix all of this with three little words. But one look at her as she stopped her mad pacing, resting her head against the hedges, her forehead buried in the foliage, he knew she wouldn't even believe him. "Penelope, Nel, please. I treated you poorly, I just want to apologize–"

"Am I really so hard to love?" Her question was soft, wobbly, and it felt as if someone had plunged two hands right into his chest and started ripping him open by the rib cage. "You know as well as I do that my family does not care for me. My father made me a mere afterthought, Mama seems to hold nothing but contempt for me. Even my sisters, since childhood, have no room for me in their hearts. I'm not meant to be loved…" Her voice broke, wavered, like tendrils of thread that had been carelessly ripped apart. He saw tears glide down her round cheeks and it felt like a candle being snuffed out. "Not the way I long for. I make due with the sisterly affection Eloise grants me. At least until the day, despite her obstinate opinion on the matter, she also weds and leaves me behind."

He witnessed the moment something that had been bent, twisted until it was incredibly brittle, broke.

And as something, maybe her last bit of faith, disintegrated and fell, she decided to take him down with her.

"You really desire to know how you treated me? Treated our friendship?" With all of the ferocity and vigor he always knew she possessed deep within herself, she tore the precious yellow rose from her hair. Strands of autumn fire came loose from their confines, a beautiful mess upon her head, before throwing the helpless flower to the ground and grinding it under her heel.

A strangled noise, pitiful and pathetic, sounded in his ears and it took him a moment to realize that he had made such a terrible sound.

"I only wish to recover what we had–"

"You wish to revive our friendship? You wish to pick up where you conveniently left me, alone?" Penelope scoffed. "Fine. As soon as this flower's petals are no longer bruised, once it is again pristine, then we can go back to how it was, Benedict."

"Nel..."

"Mister Bridgerton."

Nothing could have prepared him for the agony he felt at those two words. The year of work to build their friendship crumbled, sliding through his fingers like sand.

"Do not call me that," he ground out, a gruff plea. "I will never, can never, go back to being Mister Bridgerton to you. I cannot accept that."

"It is how strangers address each other and we have been strangers the past month."

Another blow. Another stab. Another push.

He was tired now, so very tired. Exhausted. They were both breathing heavily, as if they had come to blows like pugilists in the ring. Every last syllable she had uttered landed, splitting his skin open until he bled. But he couldn't give up. He wouldn't give up. He refused to exist without her. He had tried and failed miserably.

"I did this all wrong." Wiping his hands over his face, he took a moment to look down at the tan and brown bits of stone at his feet. He knew he would not be taking one pebble today, this was not a rock he wanted to collect. Not a moment he wanted to remember. "I hunted you down like a dog after a fox. I should have just told you I wanted to speak to you and waited for you to come to me." He took a chance glancing up at her. She was still huddled by the hedge wall, as if it could protect her. But her watery, sky blue eyes stared back, arresting him. "Please, I want to apologize. Explain myself properly." Gulping, he raised his hands, palms up, in supplication. "I'll wait by the tree in the garden tonight for you to come and let me explain myself. I will wait under that tree at night, every night, for the rest of my life if that is how long it takes."

She followed his movements and a cool breeze ruffled his hair, tossed the shorn, blemished rose petals on the ground.

"What makes you so sure I will come?"

Benedict shrugged, bending down to rescue one of the yellow rose petals, frayed a bit at the edges, a bruise having blossomed across it.

"I am not sure at all." Pocketing the petal, he faced her again, hoping his vulnerability was enough. "But I am willing to take any risk, if it means I may start earning your trust again."

Penelope wandered outside of the hedge maze first. It would be unwise to exit with Benedict, as the two of them had most definitely been alone within its green walls. But, more than that, she did not know if she could stand next to him at the moment.

Confusion swamped her, making her feel leaden as she took heavy steps back into the wedding breakfast that had turned more into one whole gossip session on what now seemed to be a failure of a matrimonial ceremony.

Benedict speaking to her had been, simultaneously, a torture and a thrill. While their conversation – no, their argument – was undoubtedly heated, she could not help but trust that he was truly sorry.

She hated it.

Her instinct was to trust him, to take his apology at face value and forgive him.

But he'd hurt her so much, dismantled what she had thought was a solid friendship until nothing was left but the very foundation. Even that seemed cracked, unsteady. It felt like an echo of their argument from last year, one in which she felt like he still saw her as a child who could not understand the ways of the world, how it worked, and thought he knew best as the more experienced man.

He may care for her. In the pit of her heart, she felt that to be true in some capacity. But he needed to trust her, to communicate with her like the woman she was.

She was no child, not anymore.

Especially not with how she dreamt of him.

Despite her frustration, her bitterness, the dreams had persisted the whole of the month. Ones in which Benedict placed his hands and mouth in places she barely dared to touch herself.

She despised how much pleasure she took in them, for waking up became a reminder that if Benedict did not even want her as a friend, he would never want her as…

She couldn't even think of it.

Because thinking it would be admitting to something too fragile to admit.

"Penelope?"

How were Bridgertons always finding her?

The Duke and Duchess of Hastings were before her, brows furrowed and, unmistakably, concerned. Daphne's husband had his hands clasped behind his back, his red jacket bright in the daylight, his dark brown eyes sad and understanding. The eldest Bridgerton daughter herself stepped closer and reached for Penelope, clasping her hand.

"Your Graces! I must be a sore sight–"

"As I said last year, Penelope, you must call me by my Christian name."

Penelope opened her mouth, whether to consent or object, she was not sure. But the married couple had swiftly ushered her off the path, to the back of the gardens and away from the party until they spotted a bridge that overlooked a small, man-made lake for the queen's enjoyment. Daphne sat upon the slope of the stone bridge wall, pulling Penelope to sit beside her. Self-conscious, Penelope began to pat down her wild hair, strands flying around where she had ripped the yellow rose from her hair. Simon stood only a foot across from them, peering around before he shot a rather nasty glare at a stray, male peacock who casted his beady-eyed gaze at them from the other side of the bridge.

The scene was so ridiculous, so incredibly far-fetched, that a strangled burst of laughter erupted from her mouth. Laughter that quickly transformed into unmitigated sobbing. Now that she was away from society, away from her family, away from Colin and Eloise and Benedict, and sat vulnerable in front of two people who, frankly, barely knew her, for some reason, she could hold nothing back.

"Bugger it all," the Duke of Hastings muttered, and though she could not see him through the blur of tears, she felt his pity. "So it is not just Anthony who needs a round in the boxing ring, but Benedict as well? My love, what ever shall we do with these brothers of yours?"

"I am starting to feel less magnanimous and more inclined to a good drawing and quartering," Daphne replied dryly as she wrapped an arm around Penelope's shaking shoulders. "Or, at least, a thorough castration."

Another wave of hideous, wailing laughter came forth from Penelope and Lord she was so tired, exhausted, done with it all. The contradicting feelings that warred inside her sapped all of her strength, both physically and mentally. She felt naked, stripped bare and left shivering, unable to cover herself from everyone's assessing gaze.

Or, as of now, that of Daphne Basset née Bridgerton and Simon Basset.

"I must apologize on behalf of my brother, Penelope." Daphne hugged Penelope into her side, and even though the duchess was more willowy than Penelope, that half-embrace felt all-encompassing and safe. "I do not know exactly what transpired between the pair of you, but apparently all of my older brothers are incredibly thick-headed."

"Just wait until young Gregory is of age," Simon chimed in. "He will either be the best of them because he learned from their mistakes, or the worst because he followed their example."

Penelope's laugh was more subdued this time, though it still sounded like the kind of blubbering she suspected a whale with congestion would emit.

"W-Why are y-you h-helping me?" The question, small and painful in its bewilderment, came out before she could reel it back in.

"You helped me last year, was a listening ear when I least expected it but when I most needed it," Daphne replied easily. "You are Eloise's best friend. And, though you must never tell her this, I will always side with one of my sisters over my brothers."

"More simply than that, you are a good person to the Bridgerton family, to my wife." Simon bowed his head slightly. "That is more than enough reason."

For the first time, Penelope felt a slight pang of guilt on how she had written about Benedict not long ago. Not because she no longer felt aggrieved, but because hurting him would wound his family in turn, no matter how Eloise had goaded her.

"I am not a very decent person in reality," Penelope confessed, the admission feeling like a weighted, leaden cannonball being lifted off her chest. "I react poorly when I am furious or cornered. I can be…cruel."

"We all have the capacity to be cruel when we have been hurt by someone we care ardently about."

A few moments passed in which they all were still in the silence, all except for Penelope's sobs which they waited to peter out until it faded in the late spring air.

"May I offer some advice based on personal experience?" Daphne gently attempted to tame Penelope's curls, now frizzy and wild due to their release from their carefully placed pins and the frustrated, heated flush that had consumed Penelope's body, causing her hairline to sweat.

"Of course Your Gr–" Daphne leveled her with a look, and Penelope sniffled. "Daphne."

"Relationships change often because of secrets withheld, fights had, misplaced frustration taken out in the wrong ways," Daphne said, as if confiding a precious secret. "No matter what is decided, to continue or end a relationship, no closure, no peace for your soul, can be achieved until you have heard the other party out in their entirety. Until you have ascertained the truth, discovered why someone did what they did, you will be restless and lacking in clarity."

"But– But what if that leads to the end of things?" Penelope's insides iced over, cold unease overtaking her.

"Miss Penelope," the Duke of Hasting's shook his head, stance sure, full of lived experience. "If you do nothing, it will have already ended."

It is a distinctly human act to marry. Animals require no contracts or dowries. The hen and the rooster make no vows.

Leave it to people to complicate matters with their ceremonies and their cakes. Is it not a wonder that anyone marries at all?

Indeed, some may call a wedding the ultimate act of faith. While others would venture that it is the ultimate act of fools.

Eagerly awaiting two words. "I do." Bride and groom declare intention alone, with no guarantee of happiness.

Marriage amounts to little more than human ritual. We may not force the rooster or hen, yet we continue to collect eggs. Does that make us more complicated, or simply too stubborn to believe that we must orchestrate what nature has already ordained?

The dream had become a nightmare.

It was a familiar dream, a castle-in-the-sky sort of imagining that made him feel like a pup, belly up, absorbing the weight of the sun on a rare, clear day.

He was in a kitchen, the one at My Cottage he so often invaded and made his place of rest. Bright and airy, he stood in the doorway, watching Penelope, flanked by Eloise and Francesca, giggling like children at the table. Sometimes they cut vegetable or kneaded dough for supper, Missus and Mister Crabtree flitting behind them as they were taught the basics of the kitchen. At other times, it was just the trio of girls with the earthly delights spread before them. Francesca would work on a bit of sheet music, Eloise cradled a book in her hands, while Penelope fingered the wet tip of a quill over parchment, poised to write.

It was a beautiful vision, one he cherished beyond all measure.

But that night it was wracked by darkness. The humble, domestic scene became swarmed with violent shadows, ones that swallowed the women one by one until no remnants of their existence sat at the table.

Around him the walls began to close in, crush him, suffocate him, until all he heard were whispered, vile recriminations, "You did this. You ruined this. You chose this."

It took what felt like an eternity to realize the screams, the voice full of dripping contempt and abuse was his own.

He woke with a start, a guttural yell locked in his throat, pounding at the gates, begging to be released. Convulsing, he grunted and his head harshly smacked the tree trunk that he'd been leaning against. He had drifted off as he waited for Penelope to come.

There had been no finding Eloise when the family had finally returned to Bridgerton House in shame and shambles. It was probably for the best, he needed to give her time to scream and rage at him privately before he attempted another conversation.

But he desperately hoped Penelope would appear, like a specter in a Gothic novel. If not tonight, then the next, or the next, or one of the many thousands nexts.

Glancing at the sky through the great tree in the garden, he noticed it was velvety black with tinges of indigo sweeping into the color palette. It had to be very early morning.

The back of his head throbbing in pain, Benedict carefully settled himself once again, his tailbone complaining upon being in such a position for so long. Eyelids fluttering closed, he breathed in the night gale, ever-present petrichor, hyacinths, lilacs, late-blooming lily of the valley.

"Benedict?"

His heart leaped in time with his eyes snapping open.

Chapter 16: Peace

Summary:

Benedict walks the long road to forgiveness, the animals make observations, Violet attempts to save their reputations, Eloise and Penelope begin to heal, and Colin hatches a plan. All while Anthony is Anthony.

In short:

A reconciliation, an awakening, much groveling, and two parties.

Notes:

itakethewords and I finally did it. We apologize for the delay, life stuff happened that couldn't be helped and slowed some things down. You know how it can beeeeeee.

First, in our signatures below this author's note I've linked our tumblr pages. I highly recommend either following us on tumblr for updates when we may have to release a chapter late, or at least bookmarking it so you can check. That is where we post when writing is delayed because of all the real life shenanigans.

Second, YAY FOR RECONCILIATION!! If you've been waiting to rejoin us and for the angsty seas to part, it has happened!

That does not mean there isn't still some turmoil. This is still the slowest burn to ever burn, BUT we have PROGRESS in this chapter, friends! Real, lovely, tangible progress! And groveling. Lots of groveling.

Some historical notes (I have linked to informative pages on these subjects in the chapter but still):

Shrewsbury cakes - a common dessert/treat at the time. The link in the chapter leads to historical explanation and a recipe!

Fortnight and Sennight - A fortnight is two weeks, a sennight is one week.

The Linnean Society - Unfortunately, the Royal Botanical Society was not founded until 1839. But the Linnean Society has been around since 1788 and devoted to all things natural history (the scientific study of animals or plants).

Blotting paper - It's been around a long time, thank goodness, and used to press flowers.

Sappho and broccoli - This is actually a popular historical myth, that Sappho referenced/used the vegetable as a covert signal for her female lovers. However, this would have been a popular misconception not just now but 200 years ago as well. We found it comical for a scene, but I have linked an article about who Sappho was and actual signs of love, want, and devotion between her and many women throughout time. Lavender, in particular, is a wonderful one.

Gentleman's Clubs - It wasn't just White's! There was Brook's and Boodle's, to name a few, and often men were members because of their families but also frequented the ones more closely associated with their family's political party. Many of these clubs exist today, though Boodle's is the only one I found with a front-facing website, though you need to be a member to login. Haha.

Love y'all!

happilyinsane13 (writingwhilecaffeinated)

and

Itakethewords (velvetcoveredbrick)

Chapter Text

A jilted groom. A broken-hearted bride-to-be. A royal wedding in shambles. Sensational? Quite. But true? This author may traffic in chatter and speculation, dear reader, but misinformation? Never. Explanations of why Miss Edwina absconded from the altar may be greater in number than anyone could possibly fathom. But we must not forget, it was Her Majesty the Queen who placed the young miss on that special stage so that she could make her grand exit. Allow this author to hope for Her Majesty's sake, as well as both the Sharmas and Bridgertons, that an official explanation emerges swiftly, lest the ton are run away by their tawdry imaginings.

Wringing her hands nervously, Penelope looked down at Benedict where she found him, asleep against the great tree trunk. He was still in the attire he wore to his brother's failed nuptials, though everything was slightly askew. Both his cravat and his jacket were missing, leaving him in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up haphazardly to his elbows. The fine waistcoat was unbuttoned and the boots he still wore were scuffed and covered in dew. The heavy scent of oncoming rain thickened the air and she wondered if the warm, woody smell of him had been overtaken by the smell of damp earth and tree bark. Despite the still simmering anger and hurt just beneath her skin, he seemed distressed when she first began her approach. He whimpered brokenly, as if his mind had trapped him, holding back a scream, and that had stoked the familiar concern, the ever-present care she possessed for him.

Even after all he had put her through.

So she came closer, calling out his name, hoping to bring him back into the waking world despite how much she did not look forward to their dreaded conversation.

When his eyes opened, chipped turquoise in the midst of shadow, her breath caught in her throat.

He peered up at her like a man dying of thirst spotting an oasis in the desert or, and she felt sacrilegious for the fleeting thought, like a man finding religion.

He stared at her for a few heavy moments, during which her heartbeat sped up, her breaths short and the rise and fall of her chest quick. She realized that, unthinkingly, she'd dressed in her plain white nightgown, wrapped only in a cloak to disguise herself while she'd crossed the square. Even after a month, it had come to her easily, too easily.

But before she could squirm, before she could second guess her choice or Benedict's gleaming gaze, he rose on his knees, leaned forward–

And collapsed against her, buried his face in her soft belly, his large, lithe artist hands gripped the flesh on her sides. Frozen in shock, Penelope couldn't move, for she wasn't stunned by his actions but by her own inaction. His touch was so familiar, even after weeks without it, yet there was a new understanding, a sense of realization at the impropriety of it all. It enticed her more, so much so, she felt she understood why Eve had found the forbidden fruit appetizing. The hot, moist breath of his mouth caressed her belly, making the cloth damp. Liquid warmth licked its way from the center of her stomach to her core and outer limbs, her very blood turned to wine. She couldn't, in that moment, no matter how angry she was at him, push away this desire, this solace.

And then the man pleaded.

Begged.

Apologized.

Benedict Bridgerton supplicated himself before her in a way that reminded her of that night at the Granvilles', where he'd knelt before her in order to comfort. But this time, it was so much more vulnerable, so much more intimate–

Shivering, she realized with a simultaneous thrill and a fright, all he sought now was her.

"I am sorry," he choked out and that alone nearly broke her resolve. He was so close, so terribly close that every word he uttered rumbled along her skin, as if miniature lightning bolts hopped and skipped from where his breath touched her. "I am so, so sorry. I know I must earn back your friendship, your trust, your care. I know I am overstepping the bounds of propriety, but I have not held you in–"

He did not finish, it appeared he could not finish. Penelope tentatively, as if his very body would scald her skin, placed one small hand on the back of his neck. An unexpected well of compassion sprung to life inside her, one she thought all but dried up. Shuffling a half-step forward, she pushed them closer, mingling their heat together.

"It's the witching hour," she murmured. "We've never cared during this time of night, remember?"

He nodded and she could feel the point of his nose tracing a vertical line across her stomach, up and down, up and down. He had all but buried in her belly, his fingers gripping her hips and she wondered idly if there would be bruises. His hot breath whispered things she could not hear.

Indulging them both in this missed comfort, she let him stay there for a few, all-too-short minutes before firmly, but gently, pushing his shoulders so he sat back on his heels. However, she kept him on his knees.

"You hurt me, Benedict." There was no plainer way to state the truth. "I waited and waited… Maybe I should have confronted you about it. But what am I in the eyes of an older man who can do whatever he pleases? I could not even send a missive, not without someone acting between us, not with all the eyes of Mayfair upon us during the marriage mart season. Summer, even autumn and winter, are akin to other worlds where only we exist. But I could not risk calling upon you, not with the attention of the cut-throat ton upon your family."

"You did not feel you could ask?" Benedict sounded smaller, like a child being scolded, more so than she'd ever heard him, but it stoked her ire. He wiggled under her hardening stare and he winced. As well he should , she thought as she beat back her guilt with a stick, embracing her righteous indignation. How could he feel pained by her statement of fact? Did he truly not understand?

"You made it fairly impossible to seek an audience with you." Everything coming out of her mouth felt as if it was dragged out of her, the frustration, the anger. It clawed its way out like a beast held too long behind the cage of her ribs. She didn't touch him in that moment as he sat on his knees, looking up at her, pleading with her. She hoped that maybe from this angle, one in which no man was used to, he'd finally understand. But it was as if hornets buzzed beneath the thin surface of her flesh, leaving her itchy, irritated, making her feel violent.

Her voice came out sarcastic, cold, like frost bite setting in as she continued, "I do not comprehend why it is so difficult for men to grasp. Obstinance, maybe? But a young, unmarried woman can not simply look for a man they thought was their friend when they make their main haunts places in which a lady cannot be unchaperoned." Clutching at her arms, she dug her nails into the sleeves of her robes, viciously pinching her skin to resist the sudden, horrific urge to lash out, to strike him. The tiny sliver of violence called to her, beckoned her with honeyed steel. She'd seen it often growing up, her mother or, rarely, her father lashing out, using their hands to beat someone down when their words could not. She couldn't be that person, she wouldn't. Penelope knew how to use her words expertly to hurt a person, she did not need her fists. "Unknowingly you used the advantage of your sex, secluding yourself in places I could never follow. You ignored all signals I sent…"

Nodding slowly, Benedict looked down, hands now grasped in his lap. Exhaustion was written all over his features, even in the darkness she could make out the shadows under his eyes. Bitterly, she questioned how a man such as him could appear so wrecked, so adrift, when it was his own actions that put him there. What right did he have to be sad? Even then, her dark thoughts questioned his words, his motives. How could a man as free as Benedict miss her and Eloise, mere children in his eyes? She was sure he'd grown bored of them, tired of constantly looking after them like a beleaguered governess.

"Nel… I do not wish to lie to you." She could see a great rise in his chest, a brief grimace as if he prepared himself for a mighty blow. "As I told you, I grew jealous of your friendship with Colin upon his return. I became scared that you would prefer his company over mine. I… I did not even give you a chance to explain. My fear gripped me, so I preemptively pushed you away in anticipation that you would do the same."

Oxygen seemed to freeze in Penelope's lungs, making them burn and vibrate in momentary, stunned stasis. Confusion swamped her, sticking her in place as if she'd sunk into a mud-filled sinkhole, suffocating her slowly, unable to pull free. What nonsense did Benedict spew? She wanted to yell, to curse him, to use words completely unfit for the lady she had been bred to be. Many illustrative, vivid, grotesque uses of the English language came to mind, all taught to her by Charlotte and Genevieve.

"That is why you asked if I still had feelings for Colin? You thought if I did, I would set you aside?"

Keeping his gaze downward, completely shamefaced, he breathed, "Yes."

"Benedict, I was in love with your brother last season. Yet, did that ever detract with my time with you?"

With a power she didn't know she possessed, she took his chin between her thumb and forefinger and lifted his face to meet her stare. She felt heat flood under his skin, the slight stubble along his jaw scratching her fingers. He appeared to be…blushing?

"No, you did not," he admitted. "I realize I've been a fool. I used the Royal Academy and the friends I made there, Rupert, Tessa, my other classmates, as excuses."

A sharp pain slid between her ribs like a hot knife at the mention of another woman's name. She had suspected that he may have filled his time away from her with another affair but…

Her imagination ran wild, conjuring images of a woman rife with lust life, the opposite of Penelope in every way: willowy, spry, graceful– a woman who probably broke the mold in a braver way than she did. One who stood out in a crowd, whose beauty could be spotted a mile off. This woman, this Tessa, would never be ignored in a public setting. No, she probably handled social situations with easy humor and unparalleled poise.

Jealousy ate away at her, stinging, burning like lemon juice on a papercut. It was entirely self-destructive and all she wanted to do was cleanse the wound, render it pure, clean so it could heal over properly.

This Tessa could also be no more than a friend.

Did she truly want to know? Why did the thought make her want to keel over in pain.

Sometimes, ignorance was bliss.

Swallowing, she gripped his chin harder, a fire bursting, flaring within her before sputtering out just as quickly. Unbidden, a tear slipped down her face and she could not pinpoint its origin, rage or hurt. But she let him see it and she felt him move, one of his hands moving upward. She applied pressure to his chin as a warning, a punishment. He did not deserve the right to comfort her now.

"Our relationship feels tarnished somehow," she whispered, and she felt him flinch at the words. "Maybe that's the wrong word but… It's like we had been building or sculpting something, and now the design is all wrong, the colors inaccurate." Letting go of his chin, she began to pull away but he clutched at her cloak, keeping her firmly rooted in front of him. "Like we must–"

"Start from scratch," he croaked. She was shocked to hear a slight wobble in his voice, as if he was on the verge of tears. The storm of emotions inside her billowed and howled, but she listened even amongst the cacophony inside her head. "Nel, you must know, I will do all within my power to rectify my wrongs. Just as I was prepared to wait under this tree every night for the rest of my life for you, I will endeavor to build our relationship anew again, to earn your forgiveness."

The storm spat, it sputtered, and then it died. The offer to start anew, to build something fresh from their emotional rubble and begin again sparked beautiful, life-saving warmth within her. If he was willing to put in the work, the effort, rather than expecting them to fall back in line with how they used to be… It patched a hole in her bosom, one that had been raw and festering.

"You do not have it yet," Penelope confessed, a warble she hated to hear come from her mouth. She couldn't help it. Lawks, she wanted to give him another chance. Her heart was weak against him like this, near to weeping and begging for her time. It felt like a reversal of roles, as if, finally, some god had decided it was a man's turn to beg for once. It was vindictive, Penelope could admit that. She had never been a saint. There had always been a kernel of dissatisfaction inside her, one that craved love and attention. But she forced herself to harden her voice like the steel that worked its way up to encase her spine.

"Benedict, you know who I am, why I am the way that I am. I want to give you another chance, but I fear the consequences." Even as she said it, she felt the tremble in her voice, the fear. Simply pondering the idea of giving him another chance to let her down pained her. More than that, she despised that she let her facade crumble to tell him this truth even though it may hurt him. The pain, however, was worse tenfold to hide her trepidation.

The wind shifted and Penelope could have sworn she heard a baby bird cry from the tree branches swaying above their heads. With a flash of guilt, she remembered dear Eloise. Eloise, whose favorite brother had also ignored her for an entire month. While Benedict's absence had forced Penelope to relive a terrible feeling that haunted her throughout her life, Eloise was not conditioned by abandonment. For her dear friend, it had been a new, horrible, devastating feeling – to wait under a tree for a man to arrive and then to never show. Eloise's father had been ripped away from their family not because he chose to, but by unfortunate circumstances.

It was another sensation entirely to realize that someone you loved and admired, someone you implicitly trusted, chose not to be with you.

"If you truly mean what you say," she said, setting her shoulders back and trying to summon a firm countenance she wasn't sure was successful. "Then you will have to work on my timeline as well as El's. You wounded her as well and I will not consider accepting your apology in full until you proffer one to her. At the very least, you must mend the bridges you burned, rebuild your relationship with her."

Surprisingly, he smiled at her. That little, crooked smile that made the corners of his eyes crease and now, she realized, made her heart skip a beat.

"One of the reasons I adore you, Nel," he said softly, leaning forward so that he rested against her belly again, as if it was the spot he wished to nest in. Languidly, almost luxuriously, his hands parted the seam of her cloak, delving his fingers underneath the fabric to glide over her cotton night rail, clasping her wide hips under his hands. The heat of his skin felt as if he was branding her with the very lines of his palms, the whorls on every fingertip, searing them into her skin until they were unmistakable. His thumbs traced a dizzying circle around the jut of her hipbones, and she thought she might fall forward from the sensation. "Your devotion to my sister." He stayed silent for a moment and she realized, he was breathing her in. A curl of liquid heat pooled in her core and she vividly recalled how his mouth rested not but a few inches away from the spot she dreamed about him caressing. The moist air that was his breath ghosted over the thin cotton that covered her core kept her modest by only a thin thread. His rumbling voice sent a delicious throb to her center and she could feel herself grow uncomfortably yet tantalizingly wet. It was as if someone stoked a fire within her, he stoked a blaze in her, and it grew white hot under his touch, his attention… "I swear I will devote myself to earning yours and El's trust and friendship back. Everything you wrote about me in Whistledown was true and I have realized I cannot even forgive myself until I fix it."

The mention of how he had to earn his sister's trust back and not just Penelope's doused the flame that built within her quickly like a bucket of water. Yet, though dampened, the flame sputtered to rekindle itself as Benedict never moved away from her. He was close, so incredibly close, and every instinct in her body screamed to pull him into her soft warmth, meld him into her flesh until they were one and the same. But she breathed through it, attempting to keep a level head. She would not put the cart before the horse.

Hesitating for only a moment, she scratched the tips of her nails along the side of his scalp until they again cupped the back of his neck. He shivered and she wondered if it was due to the midnight breeze. But then he let out a breathy moan, one that could have been mistaken for a rough exhalation if she hadn't clocked the way he tracked the shift in her thighs, and at that movement under his fingertips, his pupils dilated.

She dared not put a name to the action, though a part of her craved nothing more. A small, rational bit of her soul knew they weren't ready for…whatever this was.

But, Lord forgive her, she wanted the hungry look in his eyes to track her in the darkness every night, to follow her down every path she tread until he opened his jaws wide and devoured her.

Her voice came out more husky, heady when she asked, "And how will you execute the first step in your plan to earn our forgiveness?"

For the first time in a month, she saw how his ocean eyes twinkled up at her, like the waves of the sea moving and saying hello. She's missed it like how she imagined someone might yearn for a lost limb and that terrified and excited her in equal measure.

"I think I know just where to start. Nel, I have someone to formally introduce you to."

Rapscallion whinnied softly as Carrot Top petted his snout before moving to give Nectar the same attention. She had fed them, and even Adonis, some lumps of sugar, which had put them all in a fairly pleasant mood – particularly good news for his human's rump, as it had received quite a few nasty nips over the last moon cycle.

Benedict stood behind Carrot Top, wringing his hands – Rapscallion had been quite proud to learn that word, as the strange, wormy appendages were not hooves – nervously. It appeared his human had finally started to bridge the gap as wide as a ravine between them, though it was clear that not all had been resolved.

But it was a start. And Rapscallion knew, more than anything, that if one did not start a journey, there would be no gratifying end.

"Nel, this is Nectar. You may recall him from the start of the season. Nectar, this is Nel."

"Firstly, my name is Penelope, though Benedict does call me Nel. And second," Carrot Top turned her head to look at their human, stroking a gentle line down Nectar's snout. "Nectar does not suit this horse at all. Observe, he barely responds to it!"

Benedict scoffed, quite insolently in Rapscallion's opinion. "This horse is trouble. He bit my arse multiple times over the past month. Between Rapscallion and this chaotic beast, it was mayhem on my behind!" His human shuddered, no doubt, Rapscallion thought, remembering how tender his flesh had been until he started avoiding the stables a few weeks before. If his human was not careful, Rapscallion would happily take chunks out of the flesh again.

Why do I feel he is about to get a scolding? Nectar asked dryly.

Because he is. The mare is always right, Rapscallion responded.

"Well, Anthony saddled him on you. He's yours now," Carrot Top said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You must give him a new name that fits him! Nectar is… Well, I do not think it is very you, is it boy?"

She addressed Nectar now, and the former racehorse cocked his head slightly, his dark mane falling over the edge of his stall.

If you say so, Nectar said with a snort at the young woman.

Rapscallion swished his tail, eyeing his human who still stood behind Carrot Top, even as he addressed his companion. You took that well.

Eh. A different name may be amusing.

"I do not possess a firm grasp on his personality," Benedict said with what looked like grim amusement. "Only that the circumstances surrounding him, as I told you, were complete mayhem."

Carrot Top suddenly spun around, jumping on the balls of her feet, her mane, bright and coppery like spitting flames, bounced.

"Mayhem!"

"What?"

"You must call him Mayhem! It will pair well with Rapscallion as a companion and give him license to always be a bit mischievous on his own terms."

Does that mean I can kick whoever I want?" Nectar asked.

Most definitely not, Rapscallion snorted. But you may increase the force behind your bite if our human proves to be an idiot again.

Fair enough!

From the far stall, Adonis shook his head, though Rapscallion knew the older midnight-black stallion was simply hiding his amusement.

Rapscallion watched as Carrot Top stared up at Benedict, clearly excited to name his horse. He recognized the moment Benedict softened, his hands loosening, though they trembled as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out to her, hold her in his grasp. His mouth slightly parted, and he stared at her so warmly, Rapscallion was reminded of summer days, when the sun made everything soft and pliable.

"Mayhem it is, then, Nel."

Squealing in delight, Carrot Top hugged Benedict's middle tightly. His human capitalized on the moment, wrapping his long arms around her shoulders and holding her there for just a second too long.

May I bite his posterior now? The newly christened Mayhem asked.

No, both Rapscallion and Adonis responded.

For even (most) horses knew not to ruin a tender moment.

The day after the complete disaster of a wedding was incredibly tense. For the first time in a long while, Eloise's brother Benedict had stayed at home rather than avoid the usual family struggle and strife. Although there had been a silent agreement to let Anthony wallow in bed for the day, life didn't stop for the rest of them. Eloise watched from a distance, hoping the expression on her face resembled a scowl, as Benedict helped instruct Gregory and Hyacinth on what not to say in front of Anthony–if he ever arose–before leading them to their governess.

"The pair of you must wait at least a fortnight before making any jibes toward your eldest brother," Benedict said over a full plate of eggs and kippers, downing the expensive coffee brew like a fish in need of water.

"So, does that mean you shall also withhold any jokes at his expense for just as long?" Hyacinth asked, placing her chin upon the back of one hand, grinning innocently.

"All siblings who are out in society only need to wait a sennight," Benedict claimed cheerfully.

Eloise watched as Colin, sitting beside their brother, snorted while their mother at the head of the table began to rub her sinuses, clearly in discomfort.

"Unfair," Gregory whined, crossing his arms indignantly as he glared at his plate of half-eaten blood sausage. "I am nearly out!"

"You have not even attended Eton yet," Eloise grumbled, biting ferociously into a pear. Gregory glared at her, but she continued to munch on the sticky, sweet fruit, ignoring him completely.

"We should only have to wait a sennight too." Hyacinth primly set her napkin upon the table, and Eloise recognized that look on her devious face. Their youngest sister was about to bargain. "And if you allow it, I shall donate all of my desserts during that time to Colin."

Colin, cheeks full like a chipmunk with great helpings of bacon, sat up straight.

"Sennight it is then," Colin said, words muffled. Zounds, what had life come to if Eloise could fluently understand Colin's speech when he had a mouthful of food?

"No," Benedict interjected, slapping Colin lightly in the chest before turning back to Hyacinth. "You are not just negotiating with Col, young lady. It is myself, Mother, and El you must also please."

Eloise shot him a dirty look, one that said Do not pull me into this or I will murder you while you sleep. He pointedly ignored it. Their mother, the poor woman, merely began to massage her temples. Missus Wilson at the dowager viscountess' side quickly pulled one of her signature hangover cures off a nearby tray and handed it to her.

"That's akin to begging lions not to eat us," Gregory pouted.

Hyacinth was quick to correct him. "Lionesses." She held her nose high as she often did around Gregory. Even as the youngest, Eloise wondered how Hyacinth felt so entitled. She blamed Anthony, naturally. He'd spoiled Hy rotten from birth. "Lady Danbury informed me that it is the females who hunt for all the food. The males are practically useless. Reminds me of other males I know."

"I knew we weren't inclined to have a peaceful breakfast." Colin took a sip of tea before sighing dramatically. "I should have gone to Hastings House to break my fast with Daph and Simon."

Everyone ignored that comment, for they all knew their sister on this day was as peaceable as a hyena, just like the lot of them.

"A sennight," Hyacinth and Gregory said in unison.

"Promise, Greg, to do your Latin without complaint this week, and you Hy, to not sneak another frog onto your governess's desk, and I will make it a sennight and a half," Benedict insisted, sticking out a hand across the table for them to shake. Eloise should have warned him that his elbow was dangerously close to the butter dish, but she savored her small joys.

"You drive a hard bargain," Greg said magnanimously, but both he and Hyacinth reached forward to shake Benedict's hand.

"Excellent!" Benedict grinned widely, and Eloise realized she hadn't seen such an expression on his face on a long while. A month, she told herself bitterly. Because the absolute lackwit had been avoiding them all for a whole, bloody month.

Putrid, rotten resentment sluggishly worked its way through her veins. She despised how it made her feel, almost as if she were a snake, ready to spit venom and bile at anyone who dared look at her wrong.

She didn't realize that her mother was calling her until Gregory pinched her elbow.

"Ow!"

"Eloise," Violet started, taking a sip of the thick brown liquid she'd been given and wrinkling her nose. "Help Benedict deliver the littles to the schoolroom."

"But Mama–" Eloise started, Benedict being the absolute last sibling, the last person, she wanted to be in company with.

"Do not fight me, Eloise. Not today."

And what could Eloise say to that? She knew that the failed matrimony would not only have consequences upon Anthony but her mother. As the female head of the family, she would face a certain amount of disapproval from society, as if it was her fault the match did not work. Eloise couldn't defy her mother, at least not today.

But she could be terribly cross about it.

With a grumble, Eloise pushed her chair back so it deliberately created a great screech across the floor, one that made Missus Wilson and Humboldt physically wince in pain. Then, she shot another nasty glare at Benedict, crossing her arms petulantly as if he was holding her up.

Without a word, they scurried out of the breakfast room, hurrying Gregory and Hyacinth along up to the makeshift schoolroom where they met their governess for lessons.

Darting away had always been quite easy but unfortunately, even with her quick steps to extricate herself from Benedict's presence, the infuriating man's long stride easily equated to two of her own.

"Eloise, please, we should talk."

Pointedly ignoring him, Eloise picked up her pace, dashing down the cream colored halls and straight to the stairs. She pondered where to go to escape him. Her rooms or her makeshift garden? But Benedict acted like a bloodhound chasing after a scent, relentless.

"El, please. I am sorry for how I spoke to you yesterday." She heard Benedict huffing beside her as she began to leap down the stairs two at a time. "I am sorry for avoiding you the past month. Please, I apologized to Nel last night. I wish to make amends with you too."

"Oh, do you now?" The words slithered out with every intention to strike, to maim. "How charitable of such a busy man to grace us with his presence, his words. But I wonder, will your vow turn as hollow as the last?"

Refusing to look at him, she heard Benedict stumble beside her, his misstep leaden as it thumped on the landing below. Eloise kept walking, too full of frantic, pent-up fury begging for release. It propelled her forward with a force she'd thought nearly impossible – out, out, out – into the garden.

"El, let me prove myself to you. I know that I am asking you to take a risk to trust me–"

Her feet led them past the tree with the swings – it felt wrong, somehow, to sully it with her frustration – and towards the back wall where her tiny garden awaited her. All she wanted was to stick her hands in the cool soil, let the dirt beneath her fingernails ground her in a way nothing else could. She wanted her only thoughts to be of the rosemary and thyme that grew beautifully, stick her nose in their fragrance to calm the shaking of her shoulders, and to take note of her efforts at cross-breeding flowers for Sir Phillip.

But something about his words irked her, made her rise and answer to the rage boiling over in her chest.

"That is precisely the problem!" she shrieked, her feeble, cold facade breaking like a weak spot on a frozen lake in winter. The fissure had splintered and spread with ominous, painful accuracy since their argument yesterday until, finally, it split open with a deafening crack only she could hear. "You should have never put me in the position of having to learn to trust you again!" Unbidden tears bit at her eyes but she refused to let them fall. The overcast sky reflected her very mood, baleful and dark. All was utterly still, no wind to soothe the encroaching summer heat nor rain to quench her anger. "You are my brother. We are Bridgertons! We do not–" Despite her best attempt her voice broke horribly, ending on a higher more pathetic pitch then she'd intended. "We do not turn our backs on one another. I thought that was what set our family apart."

Finally she whirled on her feet to glower up at her older brother, to finally meet his blue-green gaze with her own. She knew what he'd see when he looked at her, for she had been told countless times by Daphne that her irises closely resembled that of their late father's.

And she was just vindictive enough to use that to her advantage.

As she predicted, Benedict shrunk back for a moment. She willed him to pull away, willed him to turn his back and never speak to her again as long as it meant she would not have to risk being so distraught, being so disappointed again.

But he didn't.

No, instead he settled himself, his hands clasped sheepishly in front of her. He let down his own mask, the one of nonchalance and levity he so often employed…

It fell away like rust flakes off iron or tarnish off silver to reveal the state underneath, but what was left was not something shiny and new. Instead, Benedict Bridgerton seemed to be consumed with the kind of guilt she had not seen since he'd first left for Cambridge after their father's death.

She remembered crying on the steps of Aubrey Hall the day he was supposed to depart. Anthony had practically pushed him out the door, trying to pry baby Hyacinth from his embrace. Daphne already had her hands up, ready to take on the responsibility. Colin held the hands of Francesca and Gregory while Eloise wailed into the leg of his breeches. All she had thought at the time was why was her brother leaving them? She hadn't understood that this was the path he had to embark to ensure his future.

As she'd grown older, she realized Benedict had probably, at least partially, been relieved to leave. To take a respite from his despondent mother and dependent siblings. But she recalled, even through a haze of tears, the slump of his shoulders, the white of his knuckles, the way he kissed her head goodbye, and the furrow in his brow – he'd felt guilty, even if a part of him had wished to escape.

She wasn't sure if that made it much better. It did not fix things between them.

But it made her pause.

Even though her hands itched to work, to sow seeds and water flora, she crossed her arms instead. She stood still and began to tap her foot impatiently.

"You have five minutes."

"Who is Sir Phillip?"

Eloise nearly gave into the urge to pick up a rock and throw it at his head. Let him add that to his precious collection.

"Best if you not waste your time with inquiries I shall not answer, Brother."

Benedict narrowed his eyes, but she stood firm in her resolve. Knowledge of Sir Phillip would most certainly have to be earned. Though, if she were truthful with herself, she planned on keeping that information private from her brothers for as long as possible. It felt sacred somehow, private in a way none of her other correspondence or friendships were.

After a twenty second stare off in which she counted every bit of time he wasted, he sighed and ran a hand through his chestnut locks.

"I betrayed your trust in a way no sibling should do." He shifted his weight, the leather of his boots now covered in the remnants of morning dew and he tugged on his crooked, royal purple cravat. "Even if I did not immediately feel like confiding my sentiments, my…struggles with Nel, I should have told you of my mindset. I left you and our entire family in the lurch. Maybe if I had been around more often, not only could I have maintained our relationship, but perhaps I could have spotted Anthony's dilemma before the utter catastrophe that was yesterday."

They both shared a knowing grimace. Neither could deny that, while the spiteful words they had lobbed at each other like weapons of war still sat embedded in their skin, eager for removal, it could be nothing compared to devastation and humiliation Anthony and the Sharmas faced.

"Poor Miss Edwina," Eloise remarked, recalling the dawning horror on the young girl's face before she sprinted down the aisle. "She will be burdened with the ton's scorn."

"It is unfair," Benedict agreed, soft and remorseful. "She's a sweet soul. Undeserving of society's fickle nature."

Oddly, that one bit of mutual agreement helped to put together a broken plank between them. But Eloise was still all too aware there still existed an entire bridge to mend.

So Eloise turned her back on her brother, fighting her greatest instinct to use sarcasm as both her weapon and shield.

"If I am to take a chance on you, your work begins today." She dared not spare him a glance, fearful that if she saw hope alight his eyes that it would break her resolve, the armor she carefully adorned around her heart so as to forgo disappointment. Instead, she watched what appeared to be a butterfly in the distance grace the purple blooms upon the rosemary in her tiny garden. "Pen is sneaking over for tea at four in the morning room we barely use. You are to ensure we are left alone and no one who would grow agitated or attempt to extract a bribe for their silence finds out."

Benedict whistled and she had to fight an answering grin at the lighthearted sound. She could not let her guard down only to be crushed later by disappointment.

"So, no one in our family then?"

"Precisely."

She continued to watch the fluttering blue wings of the butterfly as it gently flitted from bloom to bloom, doing the ever important work of pollination. She forced her ever-thinking brain, which often felt like it was in a full on sprint that caused her to stumble and trip often yet never stop, to focus on ideas Sir Phillip worked upon such as artificial and cross-pollination.

Yet, she felt the tenderness in Benedict's voice when he quietly agreed to her terms, "Anything for the pair of you, Sister."

And she so desperately wanted to believe him.

Penelope sipped her tea while taking her tenth furtive glance around the room. Sneaking out of Featherington House had not been terribly difficult. Her family slept late on a regular basis but even more so after Cousin Jack and her mother stayed up even later drinking in the parlor as if in celebration. Penelope had been too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to question it, only grateful that the alcohol had put the pair of them into such a stupor that even when Penelope's ill-timed, terribly loud sneeze echoed across the hall as she had returned last night, not even a mouse stirred in response.

But when she had received Eloise's missive early that morning, delivered promptly to her by a footman since she was the only person to break fast in the early light of day, she'd nearly spat her bit of strawberry out. She could not imagine the dowager viscountess or the viscount would want visitors of any sort but she couldn't ignore her best friend's plea. She hadn't been able to find Eloise the day before after her screaming match with Benedict followed by the unexpected comfort the Duke and Duchess of Hastings provided. Without a doubt Penelope suspected that Eloise had met a similar confrontation with Benedict, and the pair of them needed to debrief.

She prayed Benedict had taken her seriously and apologized to Eloise since she departed the stables early that morning. The high of that brief respite amongst the horses, that return of joy had provided succor when she had felt depleted of all that was whole and good. Yet, though there was a sense of the beginning to some sense of normalcy, Penelope was also incredibly aware that there was something incredibly new about what existed between herself and the second Bridgerton sibling.

She was just too afraid to label it quite yet.

"Do not fret, Pen," Eloise said, taking a rather large bite out of a cucumber sandwich. "It appears that imbecile brother of mine is upholding his end of the bargain and distracting Mama by forcing the littles to recount their recent lesson on sums and figures. He may have bribed them to pretend they struggled more than they do to compel Mama to help them."

Penelope arched an eyebrow and she couldn't help the amusement that flared to life. "Oh? And how is he distracting Colin?"

"With food, of course." Eloise waved the half-eaten finger sandwich around and Penelope saw a cucumber shift between the slices of bread, wary it might hit her in the eye. "He had his favorite shrewsbury cakes made and sent up three dozen to ensure Colin stayed in one place."

A giggle erupted out of Penelope and, for the first time in weeks, it felt good.

They chatted for a few moments on how to cover the failed wedding between Anthony and Edwina in Lady Whistledown. There was no possible way to avoid mentioning it, nor could they risk being too terribly sympathetic. But much of the vindictive nature that had fueled Penelope's writing for a month had dimmed, grown smaller, more controlled in the wake of the past twelve hours. She could see Eloise struggled to tame her own desire to bite and nip at people's heels, not because she necessarily wanted to be cruel but because she too had been driven by a sense of abandonment, of being cut loose and left to ramble until she inevitably lashed out.

Eloise had only briefly told Penelope that Benedict had apologized to her as well, and while Eloise had not forgiven him, she'd given him his first task to prove himself; provide Penelope and Eloise this bit of privacy.

Even though the man was across the house, distracting his other family members while the eldest sibling still hid in his chambers, it was strangely as if Benedict sat in the room with them. His presence, his influence, settled over them again, sinking slowly into their pores, encouraging them to look again, to find a way to say what needed to be said without being overly harsh or cruel.

"Have you forgiven him?" Penelope asked. She knew if she did not bring it up first, Eloise would touch the subject herself later. And, depending on Eloise's mood, it could feel like an interrogation. Penelope was in no mood for feeling harried.

"No." Penelope watched as Eloise looked around the morning room, decorated simply in creams and lighter shades of purples. It faced the back of the house so that they could clearly see the back garden, where the great tree that Penelope knew housed a set of swings stood proudly. "A large part of me wants to. Wants him to prove to be honest and sincere so I may trust him again. Yet, another part of me wishes to be cross with him forever." Eloise chuckled humorlessly and Penelope had nothing to offer but a sad smile. "Does that make me monstrous?"

"No, El," Penelope sighed, shifting in her seat. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the warmth of the pale light that shone through the windows upon her hair. How it warmed her scalp and made her feel cocooned and safe in a way that encouraged her to be honest.

"Because that would make me monstrous, too."

It had been five days since the disaster of the non-wedding took place. Apologetically, Simon and Daphne had to return to the country to take care of some problems that had arisen on the estate. They received no callers nor invitations, and although Penelope's Lady Whistledown issue had been as tactful as possible, there had been no way to not fan the flames of gossip and scandal around the botched nuptials.

Benedict had insisted on delivering the issue and had even had to fight hard for the honor over Gen. He couldn't help the jealous bile that rose in his throat over the image of Genevieve taking his place, both in concerns to Penelope's work and in her life. While Benedict had firmly pushed away his infantile envy towards his brother, the modiste was an entirely different manner. He knew for a fact that if he had not expressly told the Granvilles and their lovers about his love for Penelope (or, according to them, if he hadn't been so obvious) Gen would have no issue seeking out Penelope to warm her bed.

A part of him thought, guiltily, that he would deserve to face such heartbreak. It was a terrible double standard amongst their set that men should sow their wild oats while women were expected to remain chaste until marriage. If Penelope wanted to take a lover, and Gen would be an excellent choice, she would have every right. Yet their breeding, her debutante status, and his absolute greed to covet her for himself invaded his every thought, wanting to horde her like a dragon did its treasure.

Yet, for Penelope to choose someone over him, even just for a tryst, he would deserve such a punishment. And Penelope would deserve such a release. Had he not sought escape in Tessa? It had been horrible and cruel to both women. He'd thought momentarily that he should confess to Penelope his brief affair with the model, but it had actually been Tessa to convince him otherwise when he'd gone to the academy briefly to collect some of his supplies.

"If you tell that poor woman of our quite meaningless rendezvous, I will castrate you myself," Tessa had all but snarled menacingly, pointing a palette knife at said appendage. "There are some things a woman never wants to know. One of those things is about her beau's previous lovers. Ignorance is bliss in this case, Benedict. The only time you would be obliged to inform her of such a mistake is if you were unfaithful during marriage." Tessa had waved the palette knife again and Benedict took a hesitant step back. "Although, from what I hear, there are quite a few who would murder you in your sleep if you were ever to perform such a transgression."

Tessa was correct on that score. Benedict would never, if Penelope became his, be unfaithful to her. He couldn't imagine such a thing, especially with his parents' relationship as an example. But if for some reason he lost all sense and made such an egregious error, he had no doubt several women would work together to murder him and hide the body…

And Henry and Andrew, damn them, would provide the alibis.

Benedict had to be patient, to perform acts of service to prove to both Penelope and Eloise he would not leave them again. That he meant to fulfill his vow and prove to himself that he was worthy of that beautiful future he so often imagined. Himself, Penelope, Eloise, even Francesca, around a little table together and laughing.

Hell, he'd add on young Hyacinth to the mix if that's what she wanted. If that would prove to everyone and himself that he loved his Nel and his family above all else. That he could be loyal and brave and true.

So he sketched a little haphazardly in the drawing room, his mother pacing the room, Colin and Eloise seated, with Gregory and Hyacinth playing chess at the small table by the window. Benedict had checked the window almost every hour for the past few days, praying there would once again be flowers in the windowsill signifying that she wanted to meet, that she needed him.

But no flowers came and he concluded he needed to earn that privilege back as well.

Their mother continued to pace, nervously wringing her hands. "Where is your brother? He should be here by now."

"Perhaps he is still waiting at the altar for Miss Edwina," Colin joked, and Benedict and Eloise couldn't help but snort in laughter.

Laughing in time with Eloise felt at once like a triumphant victory, an incredibly small one. She still wasn't speaking to him as often as she used to, but she allowed him near her most of the time, which he supposed was better than nothing.

"There will be no mockery today," their mother scolded, her glare only partially cowing Colin.

"She mocks me incessantly," Gregory noted, pointing to Hyacinth who contemplated her next move upon the board. "And Brother, you said we could not make fun of Anthony until after a sennight had passed!"

"Different rules for your elders," Benedict said smoothly.

"But you informed us that rule applied to you as well."

"Yes, well, since you must now wait a sennight and not a fortnight, we are now allowed to jest about Anthony sooner."

Eloise rolled her eyes before interrupting, "Are we not overlooking the benefit of this...tragedy?"

"Leftover cake?" Gregory quipped, and Benedict nearly bit his tongue in laughter when Hyacinth replied dryly, "You wonder why I mock you?"

Suddenly there were tempered footsteps and they all turned as one to watch as Anthony stepped in, looking somehow both incredibly reserved and glum all at once. In other words, Benedict believed the proverbial stick up his brother's posterior had gotten worse. But he would not say that to his brother's face. As much as he talked about making fun of Anthony with his siblings, for he thought good humor could solve a number of ills, his older brother needed to know they still desired his presence. That no matter how badly he had fumbled, he was still their brother.

"Brother!" Ben exclaimed, extending his arms in welcome, sketchbook still clasped in one hand. "How good of you to join us."

Benedict was eternally grateful that his brain had decided to begin sketching butterflies again, for he had briefly contemplated attempting the curve of Penelope's lips earlier.

"Have you all eaten?" Anthony asked absently, reaching for a grape off the tea service that sat in the room.

"You will need to break your fast later," their mother commanded, moving to Anthony's side like the mother hen she was. Benedict couldn't help but frown, though. He had a feeling none of them were going to like whatever directive they received. "For now, it is of the utmost importance that we act swiftly to limit the damaging consequences of the unfortunate events of your…"

"Bungled nuptials?" Colin supplied slyly, and Benedict was caught between slapping his brother upside the head and grinning in amusement.

Eloise struck her arms out wide in bewilderment, the question that came from her lips was both valid and a tad heartbreaking, "Is all of this truly happening because a woman merely changed her mind?"

"Unfortunately so, Eloise. Yet, I suppose the reason does not signify." The air around their mother crackled with anxious energy. Benedict knew this would happen, for Violet Bridgerton always seemed anxious to fix perceived problems, to present an image of unity, even perfection. Though, he realized suddenly, he'd never bothered to ask why. "We simply must deal with the consequences. Now, I think it a pleasant morning for promenade." At once they all groaned in unison. Benedict stuck his head back in complaint, closing his eyes and pouting along with the rest of his siblings. "Together, united, as the most respectable family that we still very much are."

Nothing, in Benedict's opinion, was worse than this. He didn't know what a promenade as a family could do for their reputation or their connections with other families. If no one had bothered to contact them yet, he very much doubted anyone would talk to them in public. He shifted in his seat, fearing the only thing his mother would feel is disappointment. Benedict had no qualms with being snubbed, but he had no wish for his youngest siblings to be direct victims of the cut direct.

Anthony finally spoke, sharp, cutting like a knife with his incredulity, "Respectable? A respectable family is headed by a gentleman, is it not?"

Anthony sauntered over, a scowl that appeared to carry more self-loathing than anything else upon his face. He finished swallowing a bit of scone and Benedict called his brother over with an obnoxious pssssst.

"Brother...Is there something more we should know?" He leaned over the back of his seat, raising his sketchbook to block the movement of his mouth, he saw Eloise roll her eyes at the secrecy, as he whispered., "Or, perhaps, more that just I should know?"

But Anthony, in a perfect facsimile of Eloise, rolled his own eyes, brown irises dark with ennui and resignation.

Their eldest brother sighed, spinning on his heel to face their mother with a pained look of platitude. "Forgive me. If a promenade is what you feel is wise, Mother, then we shall leave within the hour."

At this Eloise cleared her throat, closing her book and marking the place she'd stopped with her thumb. "I shall be a little late. Another flower arranging lecture. If I am to be the respectable lady you want me to be, Mama, I should not skip it." She chuckled nervously and Benedict's vision narrowed upon her, studying his sister as she attempted to make a hasty exit from the room. Swiftly, he stood, following her out and to the hallway as she beelined for her room.

"El," he hissed though she did not slow in her gait, her lilac skirts flaring behind her. " El , what is this fib about flower arranging?"

Halting in her tracks so suddenly that Benedict nearly barreled into her, she slowly turned, the glare she'd used to stare him down for the past few days plastered on her face.

"Believe it or not, Brother, it is no fib." The apples of Eloise's cheeks flushed with color and for a moment she appeared…embarrassed?

His sister? His Eloise?

Embarrassed?

The world made no sense.

"I then repeat my question from over a month before, but in all earnest now." Benedict crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow in what he hoped was with the authority of an elder brother and not at all sardonic. "Since when have you been interested in flower arranging?"

Eloise huffed and puffed for a moment, but he did not cease his silent battle. Yes, he had much to atone for with his sister as well as Nel. But he could not prove himself if she did not give him some semblance, some little piece, of the truth.

"It is not your business."

"It is my business if I am to cover for you to Mother and Anthony in some form or fashion," Benedict insisted. Slowly and with care, he reached forward to clasp his sister's shoulder, wanting to give the comfort she used to so readily accept from him. "You do not have to tell me everything. Just enough to reassure me you are safe. I would do much for you, Eloise, but I could not abide standing by if you were in a dangerous situation."

Again Eloise grumbled indignantly but he did not remove his touch which he celebrated as a small victory.

"I speak truly when I say I am going to a lecture on flower arranging," Eloise confessed, twitching as if she could crawl out of her own skin. "There just so happen to be an accompanying lecture about the medicinal properties of some plants afterwards, including how one can cultivate them best in a controlled environment."

Furrowing his brow, Benedict thought on how that made infinitely more sense. Eloise had loved everything academic since she had been small, asking their father to take advanced mathematics and science courses from a male tutor. Benedict had been surprised when their own mother had indulgently approved of them as well, though it was a pity Eloise could not do much with her knowledge except force her brothers to engage in conversations about them. When their maternal grandfather, Lord Ledger, had been alive, he'd indulged Eloise often, letting her sit beside him in his old age and regale him with all she had learned.

"I suppose that second lecture is originally for scholars?"

Eloise waved his concern aside.

"The Linnean Society hold the lecture on flower arranging and plant properties for women as if they're performing some sort of charity." Eloise wrinkled her nose in disgust. "But the scholar who lectures, Mister Simmeon, is kind enough, I suppose. He lets those women who are interested listen to his scholarly lecture in the accompanying hour, as long as we sit quietly in the back."

Benedict squeezed her shoulder sympathetically, knowing without words that it was sad that Mister Simmeon's actions were considered oddly forward-thinking and kind, especially when he knew Eloise would want to pepper the man with as many questions as possible.

"What sparked such interest in botany?"

The rose-colored blush appeared once again on Eloise's cheeks, suffusing her neck and collarbones. He couldn't think of what could cause it except…

Could this have anything to do with that Sir Phillip mentioned at the wedding?

"El–"

"Recommended reading from a friend," Eloise snapped. Stepping back and turning towards her bedchamber quicker than a cutpurse on the run. "Now, fulfill your promise and make excuses to Mama for me."

With that she escaped, slamming her door shut behind her. Benedict ran a hand through his hair, wondering when or if he could entice the information out of Eloise or Nel, for he knew there was no doubt his sister's best friend knew all of what was happening.

But he supposed he had more trust to gain, though he had to do it soon. If any man had caught Eloise's attention, Benedict had to assess him. He would not make the same mistake he had with Daphne and, furthermore, he refused to let some mad happenstance befall her.

He only hoped this Sir Phillip lived close by. With how impulsive Eloise could be, he wouldn't want there to be any reason for Eloise to be tempted to run off and leave.

Benedict imagined this promenade had to be similar to Dante's descent into Hell. Except there was no kind guide named Virgil to lead the way past the liars, snakes, and two-faced blaggards. They walked along the length of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, the sky gloomy, full of foreboding clouds despite the oncoming summer warmth. Benedict maintained a steady pace at Colin's side behind Anthony, their mother, and Hyacinth. Gregory had been forced to stay at home to practice his dratted Latin, but Benedict thought it a boon the young boy hadn't joined them. He'd never say it aloud, but Hyacinth had far tougher skin when it came to facing judgment and scorn than the youngest Bridgerton brother.

Anthony's face throughout the entire walk seemed altogether both forlorn and distracted. As if his mind floated amongst them, out of body, elsewhere, while his corporeal form simply went through the motions. Studying his brother, he clenched and unclenched his fists, for once unsure what to do or say. There seemed no way to reassure Anthony, though that had always been a problem growing up. As the eldest, Anthony held himself to impossible standards, harsher upon himself than anyone else. In the past, Benedict had known how to cheer his brother up with good humor or distraction.

But in this task, he failed. Words he did not even know how to form stuck in his throat. As they came upon Lady Patridge, her husband, and their daughter on a bench on the path, Benedict felt Colin peer behind him. Quickly, Colin elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ow! Col–"

"Pen and her family are behind us," Colin whispered furtively and, far too quickly, Benedict hurt his neck whirling it around to catch a glimpse of Nel. There she stood, walking sedately along the path, gaze slightly downcast. Beside her, Lady Featherington, Lord Jack Featherington, and Miss Prudence walked with far more energy than Benedict liked. Lady Featherington in particular was the cat that got the cream as she eyed his family.

His stare lingered, and as if sensing him, Penelope raised her head and caught his gaze. For just a second, his heart stilled completely in his chest, aching and sore, wanting fulfillment–

She graced him with a small smile and he could have sworn his heart burst from his ribcage with the force in which it began to beat again.

"Please tell me that means the pair of you have resolved whatever issues existed between you," Colin hissed, moving his mouth closer to Benedict's ear. "Because if so, there is a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you."

Attention snapping back to his younger brother, a rising panic ballooned in his chest.

"Concerning Ne– Penelope? Wha–"

But he was quickly shushed when their mother cleared their throat in front of the rather stiff Lady Patridge. A quiet but audible "Don't look," directed towards her daughter leaving the side of her mouth.

"Miss Patridge," Anthony said, and Benedict saw how his mother tightened her grip on his brother's bicep. "Such a pleasant afternoon, is it not?"

It certainly, absolutely, had not been a pleasant afternoon unless Benedict counted being graced with a smile from Penelope. But he refused to say that aloud.

To the debutante's credit, she was the epitome of politeness, though as she spoke she rose as one with her mother to join her father in a quick escape. "Yes, indeed, my lord."

"My dear," Lady Patridge said, taking hold of her child's elbow and barely sparing them a glance. "I believe we will be late for the Gorings. Make haste."

In a flash, the mother and daughter's rose and purple silks fluttered behind their swift steps, the father walking stoically behind them. The snub could not go unnoticed by them or anyone in the vicinity.

Benedict tried to keep an amiable smile on his face but it proved impossible the longer he watched family after family walk by his own without so much as a by-your-leave. He caught Anthony look farther ahead and saw that the Sharmas and Lady Danbury apparently had the same idea as they, but they were just as ignored. Analyzing Anthony's stare, Benedict was struck by how the intensity of his gaze settled upon Miss Kate Sharma and–

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Benedict watched as the pieces clicked together, broken glass fragments finally finding their partners to create a clear window in which to see through. At once, Benedict understood the unique, thinly veiled agony on his brother's face as his pupils dilated, unable to let Miss Kate from his sight.

Because Benedict knew somehow, deep down, that he gazed upon Penelope in the exact same way.

He began to open his mouth to say something, anything, when the voice of the most insolent harpy that the Lord sent to walk the earth spoke, "Is this not a surprise, to see you out in public, Lady Bridgerton, so soon?"

The dowager baroness Portia Featherington had come up behind them and, as one, his family turned to create a barrier of perceived strength. Yet he couldn't help but notice how his mother clung to Anthony as if to the edge of a lifeboat at sea or how Penelope bit her bottom lip, already so incredibly swollen and red with irritation. He wanted to comfort his mother, he wanted to confront Anthony, he wanted to reach forward and tug his Nel's lip from her teeth and soothe the wound with his tongue–

He sunk his heels into the gravel, desperately trying to get ahold of himself. But he was torn into too many different directions, his head spinning like a top in confusion.

"Lady Featherington, it is not as though we are in mourning," Violet said adamantly, even as she pasted a smile upon her face. Hyacinth at her side attempted to emulate her while Anthony seemed to wish for the earth to swallow him whole.

"No one understands the pain of a broken engagement better than myself." Portia did not even look at them as she spoke, but off in the distance as if she were some Gothic heroine who had won a trial. "I never thought we would recover after Mister Bridgerton and Miss Thompson's falling out, and yet here we are. Miss Thompson now Lady Wetherby, Philippa now Missus Finch, and Prudence now engaged." She heaved a great, self-satisfied sigh. "All of my girls finally settled!"

Benedict placed his hands on his hips, fighting not to strike the woman. Once again, the damnable woman had completely forgotten her youngest daughter. Forgotten her presence, her aptitude, her worth. It enraged him so acutely he physically fought to keep his arms glued to his sides. Instead, he kept his focus on Penelope who looked just as pained and mortified at her mother's words as he felt. Her head was down again, but the moment her mother mentioned Marina, she rose to make eye contact with Colin, a weighty apology dripping off her expression. A tiny thread of jealousy attempted to work its way around Benedict's spine and squeeze, but he fought it off. He had to trust Penelope and her words. Colin was and would always be her friend and Benedict had to be patient.

Instead, Benedict focused on the yellow roses once again adorning her hair and the front of her bodice. He wanted so badly to pluck one of the fresh buds from her ginger locks and claim it as his own, as if it would be that easy to take the entirety of their friendship back. As it was, he had taken the little bruised petal from the day of the wedding and pressed it carefully between two small pieces of blotting paper before setting it into the same box as his precious rocks.

Their mother kept her composure, though the force at which she nodded her head alluded to her distress. "Yes. It is rather amusing how things work themselves out, is it not?"

"Indeed. I do wish you good fortune with all of your things , Lady Bridgerton." Lady Featherington's half-hearted well-wishes would have pushed Benedict to laughter if it hadn't been directed at his mother. He bit his lip, sure his skepticism showed upon his face and his middle finger began to agitatedly play with the gold chain of his chatelain.

Benedict saw Anthony's face strangely sag as if in defeat, while Colin tightened his clasped hands in front of him. As the Featheringtons began to move along the path once again, Penelope paused in front of the dowager viscountess.

"We are truly sorry, Lady Bridgerton," she said, sincerity wrapping her words like honey coating around bitter medicine. Benedict could have sworn he melted and his mother's one true smile of the day, brought about by Penelope's kindness, made him all the more sure that his Nel was, well, his.

For she contained multitudes. The power to tear the world asunder with the written word…

And the power to put him together with a spoken one.

Lady Featherington called for her youngest daughter to come along, but instead of veering right, the simpler way around Hyacinth along the path, Penelope stepped to the left. She went as if to squeeze her way through Anthony and Benedict's broad forms and, as they made way for her, she reached out and grazed her fingers along Benedict's. As she did, she caught onto his pinky, pinching the digit gently, circling her thumb around the red garnet of his ring before continuing her walk to catch up with her family.

It was the touch of a moment, but all at once, Benedict felt both incredibly reassured and terribly frightened. For if it had been night, if they had been alone, it would have sent him to his knees again.

Christ, he wanted her. Somehow more than he had before their argument. Life without her and the possibility of never recovering the trust she'd had in him had sent him over a cliff's edge, falling, falling, falling until he hit the waves and the current dragged him under. If there had been any escape, any turning back before, there was none now.

He loved her, irrevocably so. And he would do anything to earn hers in return.

He hoped that the Featherington family wouldn't keep Penelope from visiting them for too long. Though, of course, if Penelope couldn't come to him, he would find his way to her.

Feeling a presence, he saw Anthony watch the path Penelope took as well before turning his attention back to Benedict. Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Benedict distracted himself by ushering Hyacinth to his side to check on her instead. After a few moments of awkwardly and unnecessarily fussing over Hyacinth, they set off again.

And, as predicted, it was an utter disaster.

Every attempt at gaining another member of the ton's attention or acknowledgement was met by silence. People evaded them as if they were lepers, from the vile Cowpers to the usually nicer Halls.

Benedict had never been quick to anger, but he increasingly became annoyed, even flustered. None of these vile people knew the true circumstance around the broken engagement but were perfectly happy to cast stones no matter what the reason could be. This was the type of behavior he hated about society, hated about their life, hated about the rich of London.

Suddenly, he was grateful, even if temporarily, that he'd volunteered weeks ago to host a party for his fellow artists that night. He knew none of them would give an actual shite about his family's situation, if they even knew about it at all.

Though in his heart, who he really wanted to spend time with were Nel and the Granvilles.

He shook his head, biting back a scowl as yet another lord ignored his mother's greeting. The Granvilles had seen much of him when he planned on apologizing to Penelope, he further treasured their presence in their lives. This party would be his last to throw, the appeal having lost its luster. Instead, he would arrange an artist's night at Henry's with Penelope, the two of them working on their art side by side. It had been far too long since they'd sat in comfortable silence, sharing and critiquing their work. It was long overdue.

At the thought, Benedict sucked in a breath, remembering Colin's earlier comment. Snatching his younger brother's elbow he held him back slightly, Colin nearly falling back on his heels.

"Oof! Ben–"

"Col," Benedict said sternly. "What is it you have to tell me concerning Penelope?"

Colin raised a knowing eyebrow, the smug bastard.

"Oh, so the pair of you are friends?"

"Col…"

"No, wait, let me enjoy the silence of a theory proven correct." Colin closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, as if savoring a victory.

"When did you get such a big head?"

"Clearly when yours and Anthony's brains decided to up and find new lodgings in the night."

Benedict nearly smacked the insolent whelp but refrained, knowing if he wanted to get anything out of his wily younger brother, he had to be patient.

"Yes, yes you're now the smartest brother. Now, please explain what may be wrong with our mutual friend?"

Colin's face sobered for a moment and, as they crossed the bridge along the Serpentine to begin their walk back up the other side, he tugged upon Benedict's dark blue jacket as if they were to look upon the water fowl skimming the mud green surface.

"I cannot reveal all out in the open," Colin said, low enough just for Benedict to hear. "I promise to explain later, in private. But what you must know is Jack Featherington is not as he seems. As a result, the ladies Featherington may be in peril."

Benedict gulped, a chill crawling up and down his limbs like a frost consuming dead flesh.

"What kind of peril?"

"The worst amongst our kind," Colin stated plainly. "Financial ruin."

The lecture had gone exceedingly well and instead of attempting to find her family at Hyde Park, Eloise had decided to head straight home. She was due to have another secret tea with Penelope that very afternoon and, if she were lucky, the family would still be out when Penelope arrived. Humming to herself she looked out the carriage window, ready to observe the Bloomsbury streets with the keen eye needed to survey the area around her. She'd ordered John to take the carriage by the printer's shop without stopping.

Ever since Genevieve and Charlotte's warnings about Queen Charlotte's increased watch on the establishment, she decided she needed to see for herself exactly how high the danger was.

And what she had seen had not been promising.

At least five Bow Street Runners in their uniforms wandered around the block in which the printer's shop was housed, and Eloise had no doubt there may be more in disguise. Paling considerably, she wondered if there had been any nearby when Penelope and Benedict had delivered the report on the wedding a few nights ago. Possibly, but with Benedict by her side and wearing a ridiculous top hat and coat, he may have gone unrecognized.

Invisible spiders crawled up her back, paranoia taking hold as she leaned back in the carriage seat, away from the window. She hoped the Bow Street Runners would pay no attention to a Bridgerton carriage going through without stopping, but she couldn't be sure. The most important issue at hand would be to warn her best friend.

Eloise was relieved when she found Penelope waiting for her in the sitting room of her bedchamber, none of the other family members home except Gregory, who was trapped with his Latin tutor a floor away.

Penelope's face lightened upon seeing her and Eloise felt a twinge of guilt that this meeting would start with such bad news.

"El–"

"The Queen had Bow Street Runners surrounding the printer's shop."

Blanching, Penelope's hands began to shake so hard she had to clutch at her elbows to stop the movement. Eloise watched her begin to bite her lower lip again before she winced, instead hollowing out one cheek.

"That is…not good."

"Not good?" Eloise exclaimed. "Pen, it could be disastrous! You turned in a column early this morning, did you not? Did Benedict go with you?"

Penelope shook her head.

"While he accompanied me for the last issue because he insisted, I still do not feel…ready to ask for his help so willingly again. I had asked Gen. She helped, but–"

"Genevieve has expressed she does not want to risk the Queen's ire."

Eloise rubbed her face with her hands, absentmindedly walking away from her sitting room and towards her bed. Without looking, she flopped down upon the cushioned surface, bouncing slightly as she racked her brain about what to do. Soon she felt a new weight dip the bed beside her, another warm, soft arm brush up against her own. Eloise peeked up from her position face down into her duvet, meeting Penelope's sigh with her own.

"El, I fear your ride may have also drawn attention to yourself."

"What do you mean?"

Penelope turned on her side to face Eloise directly, ruffling her bright buttercup dress. The yellow rose petals in her hair slightly askew from where she'd landed upon the bed. "I mean, Eloise, if the Queen is on such high alert, even though you did not stop, the Bow Street Runners might still report a Bridgerton carriage passing by."

Trepidation slithered between her ribs, wrapping itself firmly around organ and bone to squeeze any security out of her.

"I thought of that possibility but am unsure how to address it."

Eloise saw how Penelope pursed her lips and knew, without a doubt, that her closest friend held her tongue on the matter. That alone reminded Eloise that she had a bad habit of being impulsive, driven by curiosity and emotion to the point where she could only think of the end result for herself and no one else.

"I have an idea," Penelope said softly before grimacing. "You may not like it."

"Well let me hear of it and be the judge of that."

"I could write something about you in order to throw suspicion off of you. An addendum to the column I turned in." Eloise opened her mouth to protest angrily, but Penelope hurriedly continued. "Nothing terribly scandalous! I could write vaguely about your fight with Benedict at the wedding, how the Bridgertons appear to be having a hard time after the failed nuptials. Your family was snubbed by every eligible family at the park today, Eloise. It is no secret, just a statement of fact."

Eloise shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to proceed. She knew it was wise to take the precaution to protect her family, and reporting on an internal fight with her own brother in the wake of the failed wedding was not so scandalous as to ruin either of their reputations. It would simply lend credence to the story that both the Bridgertons and the Sharmas were suffering internal and external fallout from the event. But it did not make her comfortable.

Penelope must have seen her hesitation. "I will not add such a paragraph, El, if you do not wish me to."

Something about that knowledge, that it was her choice, that Penelope asked whether she wanted to take the risk assuaged some of her fears.

"What will you say we argued about?"

"I would not deem to clarify on the subject of the argument," Penelope said, a faint hint of color suffusing her cheeks. "I will simply allude that sources report the pair of you got into a rather heated disagreement along with the fact that your family and the Sharmas were blatantly ignored at Hyde Park today, as if broken engagements are somehow a catching disease."

Eloise nodded though she immediately felt sorry the Sharmas, in particular Miss Edwina. All she had done was change her mind, probably for the better. Eloise had never wished to express it too ardently, but Miss Edwina was, altogether, too mild and sweet to manage their family dynamics. She imagined the young woman attempting to wrangle in Gregory's impulses or managing Hyacinth's debut and she cringed.

"Is there nothing you can do for Miss Edwina?" Eloise asked. "All she did was change her mind. Admittedly, at the worst possible moment. But she should not be shunned for this."

Somberly, Penelope fiddled with the lace atop the bedspread, deeply pensive.

"I shall do my best," she replied and hope fluttered in Eloise's chest like one of her baby bird's. "It shall be a slow narrative over the next few issues, but I believe I can try and put Miss Edwina in a more sympathetic light."

"That is better than nothing." Eloise grasped the fingers her friend dug into the duvet, intertwining them together like yarn in a cat's cradle. "Be safe tonight. Promise me."

Penelope gave her a small smile, one that said everything but revealed nothing.

"I promise."

Benedict's heart twisted as he sent his valet off with missives both for Eloise and Penelope. He wanted to inform them, in these early days of restoring their relationships, if he would not be at Bridgerton House for the evening. As it stood, he felt absolutely sick for not being at home where he felt like he was most needed. He'd almost canceled the party, claimed to be ill. But just enough of his fellow students were members of society who would have heard about or seen him on promenade with his family that day.

Weeks ago, before the wedding, before he'd been confronted with his idiocy and begged the Granvilles for help, he'd promised to host this little event for his fellow students, models, and other artists he'd become acquainted with. Frankly, he'd forgotten all about it until two days before when Rupert had reminded him as he'd come to classes. He'd agonized on whether to invite Penelope, but thought it too early and he feared her rejection even to something as small as this. He'd also been terrified about her crossing paths with Tessa. Even though he'd ended the affair, and Tessa greatly supported his decision, it still made him nervous. On the other hand, he felt terrible for at least not telling her about the damned thing.

He took a deep breath as he set out bottles of wine along with snacks he'd had a servant bring from Bridgerton House. Benedict did not like many servants around at his bachelor's lodgings, even his valet, Radcliffe. He forewent them all together whenever he went to My Cottage, only the Crabtrees a welcome sight at his country property. In a strange way, it helped him feel set a part from the rest of society, more independent and self-reliant. Though, in truth, he knew that was simply a self-indulgent illusion he provided for himself to make him feel like a better person. It was money that allowed him to do all of those things, while many others below his station scraped by.

Telling himself repeatedly it would be alright, that he had sent missives to both El and his Nel that he would be at his bachelor's lodgings that evening but would return first thing in the morning and that would be enough. There could not be too much that happened that night, surely. Penelope had published earlier that week and he'd insisted on accompanying her. Surely she would have put flowers out that morning if she needed him…

He repeated it over and over like a mantra in his head. But he still couldn't shake off the cloak of dread that trailed in his wake.

Penelope knocked frantically at the door to Genevieve's home, behind and above the shop to which she worked. A young maid answered the door, looking bewildered. "I must speak with Madame Delacroix."

Like magic, Genevieve appeared, looking exhausted after a long day. Swiftly, Genevieve ushered her in, eyes wide. Penelope knew her friend would take her in, no matter the issue, but she must have been able to see the situation was dire since Penelope had come with no warning. Just before she'd left, she'd received a missive from Benedict, informing her if she needed him to send word to his bachelor's lodgings, for he'd be there for just one night before returning to Bridgerton House. She'd only had a moment to ponder why before she forced herself to refocus on the matter at hand.

She needed to push suspicion off of Eloise, off of all the Bridgertons, before Her Majesty even had a chance to suspect them.

So she found herself sitting in a well-loved armchair in Genevieve's tiny sitting room, only a small blaze lighting their faces. Genevieve's designs were posted across the wall behind where her dear friend sat, trying to grasp Penelope's latest news.

"Her Majesty the Queen is now more involved than before?" Genevieve cradled the side of her head in one hand, the heat of the small room not enough to bring color back to her plaid face.

"She always has been, I suppose," Penelope admitted. Blood tasted salty and raw upon her lips and inner cheeks, so she turned to mutilating the cuticles of her thumb with nerves. She thought idly how Benedict would gently scold her for it but pushed it aside. "I gather she has felt threatened by Whistledown for quite some time. I have questioned Her Majesty's taste, challenged her judgment."

"I have always admired you for it," Genevieve said. "But I told you from the start that, as much as I cherish you, I cannot risk the integrity of my business."

Penelope moaned, sinking back into the soft fabric of her seat. "I know, Gen. But I do not know what else to do."

"You are making an addendum to deliver tonight," the modiste stated plainly, pouring a glass of red wine into a crystal glass. "You have no one else to ask?"

Penelope crossed one ankle over the other, biting her thumb again. She felt agitated, her skin too tight to contain her anxiety. She wanted to slough it off, burst forth anew like a snake shedding its skin, but there was no way to be rid of the horrible, leaden weight in her chest but to solve the problem.

"I am reconciling with Benedict," Penelope confessed and she saw Genevieve' eyebrows shoot into her curly hairline. "But it is an ongoing process. I do not feel ready to ask him for help on this. Besides, he is not at Bridgerton House tonight."

Genevieve clicked her nails across the stem of her glass, the clack-clack sounds filling the small space with Genevieve's judgment. Whether it was good or bad, Penelope refused in that moment to discern.

"So, you plan to make this drop off alone?"

"I shall be careful," Penelope said firmly, though she knew it was more to convince herself than anyone else. "Just this one thing… It should be fine. Right?"

Genevieve only sighed deeply in response, taking a sip of her drink.

Penelope's gaze focused behind her friend's head, studying the beautiful, fashion-forward designs. There were gowns with tightly fitted bodices and skirts that flared. Cool color palettes that ventured into darker colors rather than the popular pastels. One looked to be inspired by ancient Greek peplos while others appeared more Parisian, with lace and ruffles artfully placed.

"They are quite beautiful."

"Hmm?

"Your designs."

Genevieve turned around, her face softening as she looked upon her work like a doting mother upon her children. "Ah. I was hoping to submit them to a revered house of dressmakers in France." Genevieve tilted her head, a forlorn sense of pride leeching from her. "Take my business to a higher rank. Though, now I may be aiding and abetting the most notorious gossip writer in London."

Guilt consumed Penelope and she bowed her head. She knew her own business aspirations had endangered those she cared about. Benedict and Eloise entered her enterprise willingly, though forced their way in seemed more appropriate, Genevieve, however, had only volunteered to occasionally assist a friend. She did not want her friend to face repercussions because of her. "I will ensure your name remains unsullied. You have my word." Penelope stood, dusting off her obnoxious skirts. "I should go. I am sorry I disturbed you."

Setting down her wine, Genevieve rose as well. Coming forward, she embraced Penelope, petting her curls before drawing back to kiss both of her cheeks.

"Do not set aside people willing to prove themselves to you," she said cryptically, dark eyes flickering in the firelight. "They will move mountains for you, my dear girl."

Penelope ran.

Breathing heavily under the borrowed and patched, black woolen cloak, her slippered feet simply not made for this amount of movement on the dirty streets of London, she ran as if her life depended on it.

If she were honest with herself, her life depended on it greatly.

Penelope had been to confident that she could accomplish this delivery and get away unseen. She had been too cocky, too used to her usual success. When she entered the printers shop to submit the edit and haggle on price, she'd looked out the dirty window and blanched.

Bow Street Runners stationed by the corners, watching the shop with hungry eyes. Oh, they thought they were incognito, but the funny thing about Bow Street Runners was they were entirely too obvious. From their too casual stances as they surveyed a location, their standard clubs, and their lean, eager faces just ready for a chase. And a well-to-do lady's maid would simply be too obvious.

She turned to the printer then, eyes wide, as she quavered in her fake Irish lilt, "How long 'ave those Bow Street Runners been hangin' around 'ere?"

The burly man turned, narrowing his eyes and cursed as he observed the men lingering on the street.

"I shoulda' known earlier. Been there too long," he muttered, glancing up at her, immediately recognizing the stakes. For her, possibly jail if the Queen so wished it. For him, a loss of income. "Probably ov'er an hour."

"Bloody hell," Penelope cursed. She looked around, desperate to find something to aid her, before pausing. She spotted outside a working woman, a little taller than Penelope but just about her size propositioning the men on the corner. In fact, it looked like…

"Charlotte!" Penelope gasped, forgetting herself a moment. She turned back to her business associate and said, "I'll double y'er pay next issue if you ask that woman there to come in 'ere to trade clothes with me." She pointed at Charlotte, and to Mister Harris it was an obvious choice. He got one of the print shop boys, a young man named Theo, to fetch Charlotte with a promise of payment if she did some light work around the shop.

Charlotte came and just as she entered, Penelope rushed to her in an embrace. Charlotte gasped, her doe-like hazel eyes even wider in her shock.

"Pen–"

"Shhhh," Penelope whispered, just low enough so only the two of them could hear. "Listen, I need you to trade clothes with me. I promise to explain everything next I see you, but you can take my dress and cloak. Keep it or sell it, I don't care, but I promise to return your dress when I can. See those men there?" Penelope flickered her eyes to the bloodthirsty men on the street corner. "Those are Bow Street Runners. Wear my clothes, stay in here as long as possible. I will pay you for the night, then leave the back way. I'll exit with your clothes on. Can you do that for me Charlotte?"

Penelope pulled back, desperate and afraid. But she never should've doubted, for Charlotte set her shoulders and nodded, her trussed up, dark blonde hair bobbing.

There Penelope was, running in what had to be the most revealing dress she had ever worn, only covered by the shoddy cloak. Though, she had to admit, the dark burgundy color was at least more flattering than the citruses her mother made her wear. She went to the only place she could think of, and as she ascended the stairs to the one-room bachelor's lodgings near the Royal Academy after having run off and on for twenty minutes, she breathed heavily. Sweating profusely, she had to pause and take the cloak off, using it to wipe the sweat from the tops of her breasts and her temple. She slung the cloak over one arm before retrieving the hidden key from in between her bosom, held there by the little blue ribbon that attached the key to a strap of her stays.

She could faintly hear the sounds of music through the gaps of the door, but before she could think too much about it, she swung it open on its hinges. The sight she was greeted with did not really surprise her, but she was always slightly stunned when happening in on an artists' party. It was like stepping over the threshold to another world, one where frilly gowns, vouchers at Almack's, and the marriage mart played no part.

She wondered, briefly, why Benedict had not invited her, slightly hurt, but shook it off. Benedict had no obligation. He had a life completely separate from her. That was fine, that was normal. But still…she felt a small sting.

She peered at the room. Directly in front of her was a beautiful black model, half-naked, wrapped in white. To the immediate left, behind a flimsy yellow curtain was a couple deep in an amorous embrace on the sofa, and to the immediate right was another sofa, moved in front of a cabinet and by a long table set with wine. To the right and around the room artists with their easels were drawing the gorgeous model, surrounded by their paramours. Off to the back, near a thin, white gauze of fabric, was a plush bed with white sheets where several ladies were conversing, wine in their hands. At one of the easels sat Benedict drawing as a lovely woman, lithe and fair, handed him a cigarillo with her pretty, long fingers.

This must be Tessa.

Penelope, against her will, felt a surge of jealousy that she fought to bite down. She had learned her lesson with Marina, she could not let that emotion control her moods. So she practiced what she had told herself she would do.

Look at her eyes, she told herself. Look at her eyes.

And as she suspected, Tessa's hooded eyes were kind, open, the type of ethereal in nature that the Greeks wrote poetry on. That Byron would probably be entranced by. And with that, Penelope could not hate her. It was of no fault of the woman's own that she was the very definition of beauty and Penelope was not.

It was as she stared, a little brokenhearted but not torn asunder, that Benedict suddenly noticed her.

Benedict thought he heard the creak of the door. As he finished inhaling the tobacco into his lungs that Tessa offered him, he nearly choked when he caught sight of Penelope, staring at him with wide, autumn sky eyes. He always marveled how the blue color of the sky reflected and changed in her eyes depending on her moods, and how they seemed to reflect everything in the way a seasonal sky would.

And it was autumn in her eyes right now, a sky temporal and melancholy in its beauty.

He did not know if the blood had drained from his face or if he was cherry red, for he felt hot and cold all at once. Dread for being caught in such a position with Tessa by the woman he adored. Even though he had ended the sexual affair between himself and the model, she still provided a solid friendship and comfort that was easy to step into. But having Penelope stare at them so openly made him want to desperately shout, to assure her that nothing was going on between himself and Tessa. That he was completely, wholeheartedly, brokenly Penelope's.

Even if she wasn't his.

He had vowed to regain her trust, to do all in his power not to hurt her again. Yet he always seemed to fumble. Though this was the last party he had promised to host or planned to attend without her, as was her way, she caught him out, even without meaning to.

Innocent, wicked perfection standing a few feet over his threshold, a butterfly come to rest.

And yet, the way she was dressed…

He knew in an instant that this dress was certainly not Penelope's. It was a darker color, a deep, alluring burgundy, one that Lady Featherington would never approve of. It was also incredibly tight. It was clearly a bit too long for her, as the hem dragged on the floor, dirty from the muck of the London streets. The bodice had a natural waist, hugging her every curve, pushing her bosom up from the daringly low cut. No gloves to be seen, no shawl at all. Her arms and shoulders were completely bare but for the very thin decorative straps hanging off the shoulders. Her hair was unbound, he'd never seen it like this before by any decent source of light; loose, wild, and blazing in the soft candlelight. Her hair had always spilled on his lap in the dark of the garden, and the mere thought of it made him ache terribly.

He had thought she was beautiful every day and she was. Love did that to him, he found, made it so every time he saw her, she grew higher in his esteem.

But this was almost too much. Was this a test? To make her as incredibly tempting as possible and throw her in his path? Why were the Heavens being so incredibly cruel? Was this his punishment for falling in love with a woman whose heart would never be his? Was this his retribution for injuring her so?

Tessa followed his gaze to see Penelope and she raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Is that–"

But before Tessa could finish, he was up and out of his chair, stalking over to Penelope with lightning speed, even as he swayed slightly from the haze of smoke making his eyes water. Within mere seconds he had clasped her arms, as close to her as he dared allow himself, and he noticed her flushed cheeks, her heaving breasts, and a bright, moist sheen to her eyes.

"Penelope, what are you doing here?"

"You gave me a key," she squeaked, looking for all the world like she thought she was about to be taken over his knee.

Oh, no, he had to pivot that thought quickly.

"Penelope, you are always welcome here, but I gave you that key for emergencies. What–" He stopped, finally putting the puzzle pieces together. She was breathing hard, in a dress that most certainly wasn't her own, a quite revealing– "Penelope," he growled, lowering his face so they were nearly nose to nose, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his chin. "What in the bloody hell happened?"

Penelope gulped, unable to look at him. She was suddenly finding the buttons of his waistcoat quite interesting.

"I had to make an addendum to my column." She shifted from foot to foot, and Benedict's grip on her arms tightened.

"A column? You delivered a column without me?" he asked, his voice a little too calm.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyelashes fluttering. God, he could smell the ginger in her hair this close and he'd be damned if he lost control now. "I swear it was most urgent! It had to be in tomorrow's Whistledown and poor Gen– I could not ask her to make the delivery, after she has done so much for me. With the Queen–"

"You went to Bloomsbury unchaperoned? Without me?" Benedict hissed, and he had to resist the sudden urge to shake her. "Penelope, we have talked about this!"

"I know! I'm not a fool, Benedict," she said. She snapped her eyes to meet his own, flaring up suddenly like a lit firework. "But it was important to keep the Queen off my scent. Off our scent. I could not bear it if you and Eloise were implicated–" She took a deep breath, settling herself, and some of Benedict's ire died down from a roiling boil to a simmer. He didn't wish to fight, not when they were still rebuilding their relationship from the very foundation.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean–" Benedict began, licked his lips, then tried again. "I'm sorry. I– I keep ruining these apologies. But just as you could not bear something happening to me or Eloise… Nel, if anything happened to you, I–"

"Nothing happened, luckily." Penelope tried to smooth out the worn, satin skirts but only succeeded in pulling her dress down further. Benedict bit back a groan, his hands itching to move, to caress. She was all that defined soft curves and desire and he wanted her beneath him. "But there were Bow Street Runners stationed outside the printer's. I had to trade clothes with Charlotte who, by mere luck, was there, and I– Benedict, I did not know where else to go."

Tears filled her eyes, and Benedict could only assume how frustrated and terrified she had been. He had so many questions. He wanted to rage, wanted to yell and, more importantly, wanted to hunt down the men looking for her and–

Well, Benedict was not a violent man. He knew he didn't actually have the necessary skill or compunction to fulfill the sudden, grisly fantasies dancing in his head.

But he could do one thing. He could protect her. She had finally taken him up on his offer for sanctuary in his own home. She had come to him after all, and an impossibly large piece of Benedict's heart soared at the thought that she had come to him.

Not Colin.

Not the Granvilles or Genevieve.

Not even Eloise.

But him.

So, boldly, Benedict took her into his embrace, just for one blissful moment, and held her. He tucked her forehead into the crook of his neck, buried his nose in her frizzy curls, and placed a chaste kiss on her head. If it lingered a little long, she did not say anything.

"We have much to discuss," he murmured, placing his cheek atop her head and seeping in the warmth of her, letting his body absorb such a rare, tender moment. "But for now, I'm just glad you're safe. Stay, I'll look out for you."

"But your party–"

"It's a party, and you're dressed the part."

He, slowly, achingly, stepped back from her. Giving her a wide, wolfish smile, he took her hand and twirled her around, the burgundy skirts flaring out. He obtained the melodic giggle he desired and he felt his pulse thrum in his throat.

Lawks, she was beautiful. Everyone else who did not see it were fools.

"Come, Penelope. I know just who you should talk to."

Intertwining their fingers, he led Penelope to the very back of the room, barely registering Tessa's knowing stare. It was with a flourish he brought her to the bed, sitting her down amongst three women. All of them had some shade of brown hair, though the texture varied from light and silky to thick, frizzy curls. Their skin tones varied as well, from pale to dark brown. Their eyes were welcoming, following Penelope's movements as if the three moved in-sync, different yet the same.

"Penelope, may I introduce you to Lucrezia, Leda, and Lyra," Benedict said. He would have mentioned that one of them had been employed as one of the statues at the botched wedding. But then he would have to admit, seeing the trio together, that he could not remember which one had come to his aid.

"Are you sisters?" Penelope asked, before covering her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was–"

"Presumptuous? Not at all, dear," one of them said, her dark hazel eyes glinting in the candlelight. "The three of us are."

"And are not," another quipped, her smile bright with slightly crooked teeth. "But we are often confused for sisters or–"

"Lovers," the third chimed in, running her forefinger down Penelope's neck, causing Penelope to shiver slightly. "They're neither right nor wrong."

Benedict rolled his eyes, pulling up a nearby, rickety stool to sit on. He was about to say something when the annoying voice of Rupert Cartwright, his classmate and begrudging friend, joined in.

"You'll have to forgive them. These three are from the theater! I'm sure you could tell." Rupert rolled his eyes, bending down to offer Penelope a glass of red wine and a flirtatious wink. Benedict scowled. "I am Rupert Cartwright. I do not believe we've been introduced, Miss–?"

"Just Penelope is fine," Penelope said, accepting the glass offered to her. There was a faint flush to her breasts that left Benedict confused of the reasoning. Her dash to his flat or the attention she was suddenly attracting.

"You'll also have to forgive this cad, Nel," Benedict said, eyeing Rupert warningly. "He'll do anything short of barking like a dog to get a pretty woman's attention."

Rupert was not deterred.

"Woof, woof," he replied flatly, turning to Penelope again with a rather devilish grin.

And Penelope was blushing again, looking at Benedict in a way that was…new. Was she asking for help? Or was she just overwhelmed with the sudden attention she was getting? He would've said something but one of the women, Leda, he believed, stepped in.

"Tell me, Penelope, what do you think of Shakespeare's works versus Marlowe? I am to be Titania in an upcoming performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream ."

"While I," one of the others said. Lyra? They were all so at one with each other he could barely tell them apart. "Will be playing Dido in Dido, Queen of Carthage ."

Penelope's whole countenance lit up, and something like warm spring water unfurled and flowed in Benedict's chest. All he had to do was listen as Penelope excitedly engaged in conversation on the merits of Marlowe and Shakespeare, the power of the two titular queen characters, and the nature of the downfall or suppression of powerful women in both works. Even Rupert listened with some interest, having sat down by Penelope on the bed. While Benedict was not thrilled with how close Rupert's thigh was to Penelope's, he was pleased she was calm, happy even.

Within her chosen element.

Benedict just sat, entranced for a while as she talked with the three actresses and Rupert, taking bigger and bigger sips of her wine. In this room, at this party, the wiles and whimsies of the ton didn't matter. None of the people in here knew or cared that Benedict's brother had been jilted at the altar. It did not change Benedict in their esteem. No one here pondered Penelope's status as a supposed wallflower, and surely amongst this set, she'd be lauded for Whistledown rather than feared or reviled. They were not 'Mister Bridgerton' or 'Miss Featherington.' They were simply 'Benedict' and 'Penelope.'

He had nearly forgotten about his drawing, of Tessa observing everything from his easel, until there was a gust of wind from the front entrance. Benedict turned his head, hearing footsteps at the door, and blanched when he saw Anthony enter through the open doorway.

"Brother!" he exclaimed loudly and heard rather than saw Penelope spit her wine all over Rupert's face. "I did not know you'd be stopping by tonight!"

He stood hastily, using his tall frame to block Penelope and, swiveling his head quickly, he nearly sighed in relief to see the three women surrounding Penelope were already angling their bodies to block her from view. They turned her on the bed to face the back of the flat, one of them moving so she was now at Penelope's back, draping her arms over Penelope like a cat over the back of an armchair. Benedict was sure it was Lucrezia, and knowing her, she had absolutely no problem pressing into Penelope's backside. Even Rupert, the thick sod he usually was, actually stood to block the now tangled group of women, subtly pushing on the small of Benedict's back. Apparently, spraying wine in his face was enough to gain his loyalty.

"Neither did I," Anthony said, barely a foot over the threshold and looked around at the display with clear dismay, wrinkling his nose. Rich, coming from his brother, Benedict thought, knowing just the kind of places Anthony used to occupy his time at. "The Royal Schools seem to be providing a different sort of education than what I had pictured." Anthony peered around the room again, seeing the model reclining, people smoking, drinking, kissing lazily across various pieces of furniture. Benedict just prayed he would not see a shocking blaze of curly red hair. "Or perhaps, exactly as I had pictured."

Benedict sauntered over, hands hovering over the wine bottles and crystal glasses on his cluttered side table. He'd not touched the stuff since his month of drunken debauchery before the wedding, merely pretending when he had to so he could fit into the scenery. But he was not above lubricating his brother's tongue and relaxing the stick up his arse with alcohol if he had no choice.

"Can I– Can I get you a drink?"

Benedict prayed Anthony would say no. As much as he knew Lucrezia, Leda, and Lyra would adore hanging themselves over Penelope all night long, Benedict didn't know if he had the stamina to distract his brother from one area of the room for hours on end. He had already been growing tired when Penelope arrived, and though seeing his Nel had given him a shot of adrenaline, he was not faring much better now.

"Is there somewhere we can go that is quieter?" Anthony asked, still hovering by the door, tweaking his hand by his ear as if every little thing within the tiny space was making his ears ache.

Benedict rolled his eyes, pouring a glass of red wine despite himself, deciding to play into the role of the wastrel brother Anthony apparently believed him to be.

"It is a party, Brother."

"It is something," Anthony said, glancing around again and Benedict bit his lip. Anthony suddenly gripped Benedict's chin as if he were still a child, peering into his eyes as if searching for evidence of the foulest of hedonistic pursuits. "Do you do this every night?"

Benedict did actually groan at that, already feeling the lecture on familial duty his brother was about to give him. He knew that being the viscount was akin to an albatross around his brother's neck, and it was quite unfair that Anthony had to shoulder so much alone. But Benedict had done his part after their father died. He had taken care, he had provided, he had stopped fights between the children and persuaded his mother to eat. Even now, as an adult, Benedict still did what he thought was his part, even if it was behind the scenes. He aided and abetted bloody Lady Whistledown, assuaged her darker impulses, and reigned in Eloise when she grew too excited. Well, alright, he had failed in that respect in recent weeks. But he was back in Penelope and Eloise's good graces, or working to it, and he had no intent to fail again. He asked his brothers if they were alright, if they needed help. Was it his bloody fault if no one took him up on that offer?

"Are you here to admonish me?" he said instead, whining a bit and sticking his lower lip out pathetically. If his brother thought him ridiculous, let him think that then.

"I only mean to say, you may be a second son, Brother, but that does not exempt you from familial duty altogether." Anthony's disapproving scowl would've possibly cut Benedict to the quick if he possessed an ounce of patience at the moment. Possibly. "It merely makes you second."

"Does this have to do with whatever is truly going on with you and the Sharmas?" Benedict asked, recognizing his brother's ability to evade the very topic he wished to discuss, even if it was with painful half-truths. "Particularly the eldest? Mother is not the only one who sees the way you look at her."

Although, Benedict had to admit, he'd been a bit late on the uptake. Penelope had tried to warn him, but Benedict had been too focused on his own thoughts and feelings to care. The Royal Academy, Penelope, Tessa, his all-encompassing feelings for Penelope, breaking things off with Tessa, diving into life for his art, comforting Eloise, Penelope, Penelope, Penelope…

Okay, yes. He had been clueless until Daphne had barged in and demanded to speak to Anthony alone. And maybe continued to be clueless until the utter disaster that was Edwina running down the aisle in tears. But to be fair, his attention and heart had been completely occupied.

"How long do you plan on punishing yourself for and wallowing in such misery ?" Benedict asked, losing patience with sympathetically pandering to his brother. Moving closer to Anthony now, he reached towards his brother as if to shake sense into him. Anthony always had been, always would be, someone who blamed himself for every little thing that went wrong in his life. Did that mean Anthony wasn't to blame? No, not exactly. But Anthony had a problem with letting things go.

Anthony's dark, hickory brown eyes shuttered, a wall going up inside him and Benedict wanted to scream at him to bloody stop shutting people out. Especially when they were only trying to help.

"Forget I came. Have a good night, Benedict."

Benedict moved quickly, but the adrenaline from having to hide Penelope made him stumble as he advanced on Anthony.

"Look, no. Things may seem bleak now, Brother," Benedict started, raising his voice louder than needed. His frustration really was affecting him but, lawks, why couldn't his brother see? He was torturing himself for no good reason. And, as much as Anthony did not think so, Benedict cared if his brother hurt. "But if I'm learning anything from my art studies, it's that it is almost always a matter of…perspective." Benedict closed an eyelid, raising one hand to move his fingers into an 'o' as if putting a magnifier over his eye. "I look at my art," Benedict gestured towards the expanse of the room and he caught the briefest glimpse of an ember curl amongst clustered heads of brown tresses on his bed and his mouth went a little dry. "A-And if I do not like what I see, I may always alter the color palette, but I certainly do not toss the entire design aside. Perhaps you, too, could do the same in your own life. Brother, you cannot give up."

Was Benedict a hypocrite? He thought of Penelope and of Tessa, how he had so desperately tried to bury his feelings for one by drowning in the body of another, pursuing it until the guilt ate away at him like rats upon a carcass. Even if Penelope did not know of his feelings, she did not deserve that. And Tessa certainly had not deserved to only ever have part of him, even if their affair was never designed to last long.

Could Benedict even follow his own advice? When he had so readily accepted that he would be trapped in unrequited love with Penelope Featherington for what felt like the rest of his days?

Benedict had changed the color palette, that is true. From the cool tones of Tessa, which were beautiful but felt dishonest to himself, to the warm hues that were all Penelope. And yet, he had not found the courage to actually pick up his brush and use them.

He was startled out of his reverie, his face incredibly close to his brother's when Anthony said, coldly, cruelly, "Back to taking the tea, are we?"

Benedict sighed as his brother made his way out the door.

"At least just shave, will you?" Benedict called out.

Placing his hands on his hips with a sigh, he retrieved another two wine glasses and returned to Penelope.

Penelope accepted the glass he offered with a smile before continuing her conversation. The women, or the Three L's, as Benedict remembered them in his own mind, were draped all over her. They had seemed quite delighted in using their bodies to hide Penelope, now wrapped all over her as they lay amongst his sheets. Benedict saw one of them, Lucrezia, he thought, rustle within her skirts to pull out a– small head of broccoli?

It was then that Benedict blanched, lunging forward and taking the vegetable matter from her hands. Penelope turned suddenly as his shoulders had brushed against her chest at the movement, something he was trying quite hard to ignore.

"Benedict, what–"

But Benedict was already chewing the raw piece of broccoli, and he just gave a little, unintelligible "Mmph." Penelope raised her eyebrows before shrugging, no doubt attributing his actions to odd artist behavior or his strange sense of humor, and resumed talking to Lyra (Leda?). Lucrezia, he was sure, stuck her tongue out at him.

"You're no fun!" she admonished, pouting prettily. He merely swallowed the dratted vegetable and glared at her.

Two hands pulled him up and he was beside Rupert again, who grinned wolfishly at him.

"If only I could echo lovely Sappho and give her a head of broccoli in her honor," Rupert purred, eyeing Penelope like a wolf did a lamb. "You think she would accept the head of an aubergine instead? I think I have one tucked away in my breeches."

It took all of a few seconds for Benedict to push Rupert away behind one of the gauzy curtains, poking his chest with the kind of ferocity that usually came from his brother Anthony.

"Stay away from her," Benedict snarled. "She's not to be tupped by you or anyone else here."

"Except you, you mean?" Rupert asked, all too innocently, and he let out a bark of laughter when Benedict spluttered. "I cannot blame you, Bridgerton. She is quite beguiling. You'd think the wine she spat on my face was a love potion."

Benedict recovered and utilized his full height to tower over Rupert again.

"I mean it, Cartwright. Do not touch her."

"Oh come now, can I not even ask her to model for me? She seems genial enough to agree. She would make a seducing siren, do you not think?"

"She is a genteel lady–"

"Well, she does not look or appear to act like one to me. And, quite frankly, I always think it best to honor how someone chooses to purport themselves. To do anything less would be an insult, would it not?"

And with that, Rupert slipped around him and returned to Penelope and her small group of women, lying at the head of them. Benedict had to inhale slowly through his nostrils and exhale through his mouth a few times to calm the roar of blood in his ears. Rupert was poking and prodding at him, he knew this. The man loved nothing more than to push at people's insecurities to see what would irritate them, and when he found it, he would attack it over and over again like a little boy pulling a little girl's braids. And, through a combination of anxiety, desire, and an emotional reckoning all his own, Benedict had blindly let him.

Turning around, Benedict decided he needed to calm his ire. It was going to be a long night. So he set off in search of water, already determined to have his wits about him by early morning. He would need to sneak Penelope home, after all.

The hours passed and Penelope never left his bed, though the people who milled around the party each took a turn to introduce themselves to her. One by one they came into her orbit, and one by one she proved herself to be another planet in their solar system, exactly where she was supposed to be, pulling moons and stars around her, soaking in their light. She was seamless, exactly where she belonged and Benedict adored her for it. Oh, she made herself fit into the ton's ridiculous rules and expectations, but it was not comfortable– like being forced into a dress one size too small. But there, in a space with artists of all kinds, middle and working class people alike, she was a tailored fit.

Benedict barely noticed as it grew closer to three in the morning, guests leaving, drifting out of his home one by one until it was just him, and a mass of five people enwrapped in Morpheus' cloak upon his bed.

Benedict gazed at Penelope's sleeping form, curled up like the lone ginger kitten amongst its litter in the middle of his bed. She was embraced in slumber, cuddled amongst the three other women, their billowing skirts tangled in a jewel toned rainbow of silks and satin. Her blazing hair, flickering like embers in the dim candlelight, fanned out behind her as she slept, curled in on her side. She fit perfectly amongst these women from all walks of life, moving seamlessly from the uptight restrictions of the ton to the bohemian, intellectual, freer life of the artist and working class set. Penelope was gorgeous like this, she and the other young women's heads nestled on Rupert's long but soft body. His snores should've ruined the image, yet somehow it was all the more warm for it. More than anything, he loved her body resting on his sheets, and he desperately hoped the smell of ginger in her hair and ink on her fingers would seep into his covers and curl into the thread count like yarn being spun.

Her small, cupid's bow mouth was parted slightly, pink and inviting. Her round cheeks and pert nose were simultaneously innocent and womanly. She was Ariadne upon Naxos, unknowingly waiting for Dionysus to scoop her up and make her his. Or even Ariadne post-marriage, asleep in her god husband's bed, flushed to perfection from his ambrosial wine and drunk off his kisses. Christ, he wanted to kiss her, to let her sip from his lips until she was intoxicated, addicted only to him as he was to her.

"I see it now."

Benedict startled, spinning on his heel to meet Tessa's kind gaze. He felt a little bad, he had basically ignored her from the second he had met Penelope's autumn irises from across the room hours earlier. As usual, she was perfect in every regard, from her cut jaw, high cheekbones, and hooded eyes. She was what he used to imagine a woodland nymph could be, graceful and tempting.

But…

Benedict unknowingly returned his gaze to Penelope in slumber. He could hear her soft breath, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and he wanted nothing more than to burrow himself within her arms and make it home. No nymph could compare to Psyche or Ariadne. What was lithe grace compared to the soul? What was temptation compared to comfort?

"It is her, is it not? The woman you love?"

Benedict nodded dumbly, unable to tear his gaze away. "Have you not told her?"

"She loves another."

Tessa, for some reason, looked quite incredulous. It was the exact same expression she had given him upon their first meeting, when she had put him in his place as she told him, "I am capable of more than standing naked."

He should probably not doubt whatever was about to come from her mouth.

"Do you– do you honestly not see?"

Benedict stared at her blankly, and she sighed as if he was quite literally embarrassing her.

"Benedict," she stated calmly, as if talking to a child. "Are you sure she's in love with this other person? From what I saw tonight, the way you gravitated towards each other– Benedict, the moment she entered the room, no one else existed! Think, really think. Even if she may not believe herself in love with you, compare how she is around you to this other person you speak of. How does she act around them compared to you?"

Benedict paused. He'd never thought to consider such a question before. To him, Penelope's love for Colin was as constant as–

"A star," he said suddenly. "Her love for him. It has always been thus, as constant as a star."

Tessa actually snorted.

"You melancholy, male artists and your metaphors." She shook her head. "Stars die, Benedict. Eventually they go out. Even if they didn't you cannot make such assumptions. Once again, I ask you, have you observed her? Asked her of late how she feels about this person? Benedict, if we are going to use trite metaphors," she turned to him now, placing a gentle palm on his chest. "If her previous love was a star, you are most certainly true north. I've seen a fair bit of happy and unhappy couples. And the two of you appear undoubtedly drawn to the other."

With that she left, shutting the door to his flat behind him.

Benedict pondered her words, thinking over the past few months. Ever since the last social season, Benedict had been convinced that despite the heartbreak Colin had caused her, Penelope was still steadfast in her love for him. Yet, as he thought on it, there had been a shift from the last year to the present. Colin had said Penelope's letters had petered off over his travels, while hers to Benedict's had remained lengthy and constant. When Colin had returned home from the Continent, instead of rushing to Colin's side, Penelope had sauntered over to Benedict, staying next to him throughout the encounter. At the races, she had plenty of opportunities to gain a moment alone with his younger brother. Instead, she'd taken his arm ecstatically, eager to converse with him. She'd even bought him the little horse figurine that reminded her of Rapscallion, one that he kept in pride of place on his bedside table. She'd danced with him at the Hearts and Flowers Ball, and every other ball they'd attended together. She'd changed the flowers that were their signal for Lady Whistledown activities to a bouquet that signified trust and undying devotion.

She'd come here when she needed help. When she needed him.

For the first time, he felt a little kindle of hope spark.

Going over to grab his easel, he transported it, parchment, and charcoal to the stool in front of the bed. Sitting down, he drew the scene in front of him. He would paint it later, so he could immortalize her body on his sheets, and he prayed it would not be the last time. But if it was, he'd have the image to keep close to his bedside.

Another hour passed before he finished the sketch, and he knew in another the cock would crow. Servants were probably already rising. So, with regret, he laid his charcoal down and used his arms to scoop Penelope from the cuddle pile and settle her on his chest. She wrinkled her nose cutely, and he once again took the liberty to inhale her scent, ginger, ink, and now the linen of his sheets and red wine from his table. It was a heady mixture, and he wanted nothing more but to keep her there forever.

But time would not stand still for him.

"Nel," he whispered, planting butterfly kisses in her hair. He was playing a dangerous game, but he couldn't help himself. "Nel, I must get you home before anyone discovers you gone."

She snuggled into his chest, her nose caressing his neck, her lips grazing his breastbone, and he stifled a moan.

"Five more minutes," she murmured, her breath ghosting and settling over his chest.

He gave her ten.

Penelope awoke late the next day, tender-headed and sore, brain fuzzy with latent alcohol and sleep. She knew Benedict had successfully been able to sneak her through the servant's door of her home early in the morning. Like how she imagined a bear would move from its hovel after hibernation, Penelope slowly got ready, calling in her lady's maid to help her dress. Her mind was filled with images of Benedict holding her, her nose buried in his chest as she inhaled his musk, the scent of oil paint lingering on his waistcoat, and how his strong arms felt like home and safety.

A part of her hated to admit that, once again, she grew to rely on him to be her safe harbor. It happened so quickly even though some resentment still lingered. But she couldn't help but feel like a butterfly come to rest upon the comfort he offered, giving her sustenance until she could fly away again.

When she'd finally dressed she went downstairs, desperate for tea and toast when her still relatively new lady's maid, Rae, stopped her.

"This came for you, Miss. I thought you'd prefer to receive it when no one else was around."

Rae shuffled into a hidden servant's area, secreted away by a discrete wall panel. When she reemerged, she held a bouquet of flowers, columbine, rue, anemone, forget-me-nots, and rosemary. Penelope was struck dumb for a moment as she accepted the arrangement, beautifully heartfelt and fragrant. The soft petals of the pink and white columbines caressed her hands like a lovers touch while the scent of rosemary unloosened a knot on her chest she hadn't known existed.

It was an apology for missing out, for forgotten obligations, and for failing to meet expectations. Before she'd even opened the accompanying card she knew who it was from.

Nel,

I realize one should simply not apologize with words but with actions. After you came to me last night seeking safety, I was reminded how our gestures can prove so much. Though you did not trust me to deliver your column with you, you turned to me in a time of need. I was both humbled and grateful.

I will do all in my power to regain your trust in all walks of life. Accept these flowers as proof that I am learning.

Yours,

Ledger

P.S. I may have woken a very grumpy Lucy for help on this arrangement. I have been told I can make up the offense by bringing you over soon.

Holding the flowers close to her chest, as if she could incorporate the blooms into her very being, Penelope smiled. Closing her eyes, she felt the warmth of the sun through the high windows along her scalp, the scent of the bouquet invading her nostrils, and liquid gold run through her very veins.

Lord knows, she loved him.

She. Loved. Him.

Benedict had been pondering in the sitting room of his chambers when to send Penelope another bouquet of flowers, of which he had consulted Lucy about heartfelt meanings, when a knock sounded at the door. Setting down the graphite he'd been using to sketch the flower arrangement he thought he might send, he placed a spare bit of parchment over the work in case his visitor was Eloise. Instinct informed him that Eloise may read too much into Benedict sending Penelope multiple bouquets and decided it would be safer for his bodily person not to consult her.

"Come in!"

Much to his surprise, Colin strode into the room, carefully shutting and locking the door behind him. Benedict raised a curious brow.

"Any reason in particular you locked us into my sitting room?"

Rubbing the back of his head bashfully, Colin admitted, "I do not wish anyone, even the servants, to overhear the information I must impart to you, Brother. It could prove devastating if it got out."

Benedict sat up straighter, tugging upon the edge of his midnight blue satin waistcoat. His bare forearms, exposed since he'd rolled his sleeves up earlier in order to leave his shirt unmarred by graphite, brushed against the table as he gestured for his brother to sit across from him.

"Devastating to Penelope?"

"Yes, and the Featherington women as a whole."

The world turned cold around him, as if the Thames had frozen over again and paralyzed his vocal chords as Colin sat to tell his tale.

"I've had some suspicions about Lord Jack Featherington for some time now." Colin placed his elbows on the table, supporting his chin with the backs of his knuckles. It struck Benedict in that moment that Colin seemed a little more grown in that moment, in a way he'd never seen before. "As you know, I've done a lot of traveling. I wish to see the Americas one day, so I read whatever I could find on its geography. And it turns out ruby mines–"

"Are not found in the state of Georgia, but in North Carolina."

Colin looked taken aback and Benedict couldn't help the small ounce of humor he felt at the sight. He offered his younger brother a sly smile, crooked, mischievous, and, he'd been informed by many a sibling, quite infuriating.

"How–"

"I did not have the same suspicions as you, at first." Benedict bit his lower lip and in doing so, he thought of the state of Penelope's, how bruised it had become, how tender and swollen, and he longed to kiss it better. "But they have been bamboozled by a male member of their family before, taken advantage of by the one who was supposed to protect them. So I also asked about his mines and then inquired with a friend who is familiar with geology."

Shock slid off Colin's face leaving behind a mix of respect and a spark of curiosity before settling with a solemnity that was altogether foreign for his younger brother.

"Then we are of the same mind, Brother."

For the first time in a long while, Benedict felt truly aligned with Colin, one in mind and pursuit. Colin may not be in love with Penelope, as far as Benedict could tell, but he loved her ardently, as once did for their dearest friend. In this way, Colin and Eloise were the same, eager to do anything to protect and preserve the person who held their dreams and secrets within the vault of her mind.

Colin pulled out a small notebook from an inner breast pocket, opening it to a page and flattening it between them so Benedict could read.

"I've talked to and taken notes of people who have invested in Lord Featherington's mines," Colin said, drawing Benedict's attention to a list of names.

Lord Cowper

Lord Partridge

Mister Rodriguez

Mister Rattlesbrook

Sir Evans

Lord Fife

Mister Kim

Sir Gobvhel

The list went on, naming many male representatives of the various families of the ton, both new and old money, along with a few family names of rising merchant households. Beside each name was a given sum that had been invested and Benedict's eyes nearly popped out. While the money listed would not bankrupt any of the families, as far as Benedict knew without knowing their personal accounts, in no way were the investments not significant.

"If the ruby mines do not exist–" Benedict started, terrible nausea causing hot, acidic bile up his throat.

"Then Lord Featherington is robbing the ton blind," Colin concluded. "And if he were to be caught, it will not just be him that suffers the consequences."

What was left unsaid hung in the air like a hangman's noose, swinging to and fro from the weight of guilt. If Lord Featherington were discovered to be a charlatan, then not only would he most likely be stripped of all money and title, but the Featherington women would be forced out of the home they'd known all their lives, spurned by society and forced to make a living with whatever means they had at their disposal. Not even the lonely occupation of a governess, the most often sought occupation by high-born women with dowries and therefore no marriage prospects, would be available. For who would hire the daughters of a disgraced, murdered gambler and the nieces of a mountebank?

There would only be one method at the Featherington ladies disposal to earn any sort of coin and benedict almost vomited at the thought.

"We cannot let that happen to Penelope, Colin," he breathed. Colin watched him, tilting his head like a bird studying a new, shiny object. Something Benedict didn't recognize flashed across Colin's face before it settled into grim determination. "Then help me, Benedict. Help me save Pen."

Benedict merely nodded and asked for Colin to relay his own scheme. While at times Colin's need to be a hero, one who proved useful by rescuing others, could be shortsighted, in this case Benedict would go along with any plan his brother had devised. For Nel, he would shrug off petty jealousy and prove to her that he cared about her above all else.

For Nel, he'd do anything.

It turned out Colin had been quite clever, tracking down Lord Featherington's unsuspecting victims and also making note of the man's habits and routines. After relaying his plan, Colin dragged Benedict to Mondrich's, informed by his valet who he'd employed to keep an eye on the villain, that the man would head there soon.

"You suspect he is making more deals there?" Benedict asked as they hurried off, employing their own horses for the journey. Benedict ushered Rapscallion from his stall, his steed not attempting to take a chunk out of his bum since he'd seen Penelope recently.

"You know how the club's are," Colin said, pulling along his own horse, Atlas. "White's, Mondrich's, Brook's, Boodle's … Does not matter which. They are all a hub for illicit deals and information. If Lady Whistledown was a man, she'd have a field day."

His brother's words gave Benedict pause, stopping in his tracks, the hay beneath his feet shuffling slightly as Rapscallion stomped an impatient hoof. Mayhem, his great mahogany head reaching from beyond his stall, attempted to stick out his tongue and lick Benedict's face. He waved the retired racehorse away, pulling an apple he'd stuck in the messenger bag that hung from his shoulder and feeding the beast. Rapscallion, the bastard, then attempted to bite his bum. Benedict was prepared though, jumping to face his horse and thrust a pile of sugar lumps under his nose.

As Rapscallion munched happily, Benedict prepared his saddle and contemplated Colin's words. Maybe he could prove to Nel, in more ways than one, with more deeds, that she could trust him if he gathered information for her from the men's clubs? While he only had access to White's and Mondrich's, it was sufficient enough to overhear choice bits of information, information that the pompous men within would never reveal outside those sacrosanct walls. If those pieces of gossip were sprinkled into Whistledown every so often, there would be just enough doubt over Whistledown's sex to create confusion and protect Penelope for a little while longer…

"Yes," Benedict said absentmindedly. "Yes, quite right Col."

They reached Mondrich's a few minutes before Lord Featherington, settling into a table in a corner by the fireplace with small beers. Mondrich seemed genuinely pleased to see them and Benedict felt awful for using the man's establishment for a reconnaissance mission. He hoped, one day, he and Mondrich could be called friends. The former boxer and his wife worked incredibly hard to open the club despite the competition from more traditional establishments. Though it was a struggling enterprise, Benedict desperately wanted them to succeed.

They'd only had a couple of sips of their drinks when Lord Jack Featherington appeared, all smiles that suddenly felt smarmy rather than charming.

"Mister Mondrich," Lord Featherington greeted brightly, but Mondrich's expression instantly shuttered, cold and unreadable.

"Featherington."

The icy tone to Mondrich's voice gave the lord pause. "I'll, uh, take a brandy." He sank into a table and both Colin and Benedict leaned back in the corner, praying they wouldn't be noticed. "Um, not exactly the kind of welcome I was expecting."

As if remembering himself, Mondrich rearranged his expression to one of careful neutrality as he poured the man a brandy. "Forgive me, my lord?"

"I was hoping for the owner of this fine establishment to regale me with many stories, indeed. Of his boxing days, perhaps?" Lord Featherington leaned back in his chair as if he owned every piece of furniture and space he inhabited, too relaxed despite the tense atmosphere. "Truth be told, I never really enjoyed the sport myself."

"Boxing is not for all to enjoy," Mondrich said, straightening up, stiffly clasping his hands behind his back. "It requires a strong stomach and an even stronger jaw."

Benedict observed how Lord Featherington studied Mondrich, his general interest transforming into predatory assessment. Benedict didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

"Hmm." The self-confident baron tapped his fingertips across the oak tabletop in ominous contemplation. "A rather interesting assertion. My cousin had neither, but Lord Featherington, may God rest his soul, was quite an admirer of yours, I've heard."

Swiveling his head to look at his brother, Benedict noticed the way Colin's jaw tensed. In a flash, Benedict was taken back to the day of one of Mondrich's boxing matches, to when the late Lord Featherington seemed to make an unsavory deal with an even more unsavory bunch of characters.

Probably the ones who murdered him.

A shiver ran up Benedict's spine and he felt a pain of regret. Logically he knew there was nothing he could have done for the foolish man, and very likely he would have simply brought more pain and ruin upon Penelope's family. But it didn't stop him from wondering if he could have done something to prevent the man's untimely death.

Mondrich, stoic as ever, replied, "I am honored. Though his regard was unknown to me."

"Surely, your paths must have crossed." The lord leaned forward now, calculating, sharp. Where had the man that Benedict thought actually saw Penelope's worth go? Could he be both people at once? Or was he constantly flipping through the many masks he wore faster than an actor? "He attended many bouts."

"Yes, well, I likely was preoccupied with the fight at hand." Mondrich shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Benedict did not know why Lord Featherington interrogated him so. He supposed it was because since Mondrich had been a fighter at the time of Archibald Featherington's many irresponsible bets, that maybe Jack thought Mondrich knew something salacious. "It is dangerous to become distracted in the ring."

"Of course. Dangerous in your occupation. But my cousin did keep meticulous records of all debts, and…" The handsome young baron paused meaningfully and Benedict felt as if a stone sunk in his stomach. "Wagers. I just came across a rather significant one myself."

"I do not wish to defend myself against baseless accusations, my lord."

Colin began poking Benedict's ribs as if Benedict was not already listening to the exact same conversation he was. Benedict swatted him away quietly, tempted to shush him, but he knew that would probably draw attention to them. Instead, he settled, perfectly still for a moment…before jabbing Colin in the stomach under the table then crossing his arms as if nothing happened. Colin clutched at his belly, glaring at Benedict as his face went red from holding in an exclamation.

Their petty, fraternal fight would have continued if not for Lord Featherington's next words.

"And I do not wish you to do so. I respect a self-made man, no matter what means he uses to make himself. I will ask no more questions of you than you ask of me. Baseless accusations, I cannot imagine, would be good for either of our businesses." Benedict saw how Lord Featherington sneered, downing his drink before he rose to leave. "And, from the looks of it, you might need all the help you can get with yours."

The brothers exchanged looks, thankfully unnoticed as Jack Featherington made his exit. What was the man implying about Mondrich? And why was Mondrich so uncomfortable with the new lord? Furthermore, how did they prove that the baron did not have his family's best interest at heart?

Putting their heads together, Benedict and Colin began to formulate a plan.

Huffing with frustration, Penelope crumpled up yet another rough draft for the latest Whistledown issue, tossing it into the crackling fireplace. The flames sputtered and flared as they accepted the offering, the parchment turned black as it curled and shrank in on itself, crumbling slowly to ash.

It had been increasingly hard to concentrate ever since her personal revelation about her feelings for Benedict. They'd come unbidden and even though she knew they had been growing over the course of a year, somehow they'd still taken her completely by surprise. A small part of her, one that sat next to her childhood memories, rebelled against it, furious that she could so easily switch from one Bridgerton brother to the other.

But another part of her fought back, arguing ferociously. It had not been easy. Her emotions surrounding Benedict felt hard-won, deserved, even mature no matter how much they also hurt. Some of the same insecurities still twisted knots inside her. How could Benedict ever fall in love with her? She was one out of many women he could choose from, and Benedict did not limit himself to the women of the ton.

But even as she battled with her crippling self-doubt, another part of her believed that there was a chance. With Benedict, there existed a foundation between them. He knew her greatest secret and she never had to fear that he would reject her because of it. At least, even if he could never love her, she knew without a doubt it would never be because he did not admire her ambition.

She sighed, giving up on the column for now. Deciding to stretch her legs, she stood and made her way to the drawing room, wondering if she could read a book by the window to clear her mind. At least from there she could look upon Bridgerton House, wondering what the family was doing before she joined Eloise and Benedict for tea later that day.

As she approached, she noticed the drawing room door ajar, and from within she heard chuckling and two familiar voices drifting towards her.

"You truly are a Jack of all trades."

"When one is in such wild country, one sometimes must do wild things." Deep laughter echoed through the space and Penelope poked her head in to see Colin and Jack, both sipping glasses of amber liquid. "But if I'd not gone on that hunting expedition, I'd never have discovered my mines."

Colin turned to her as she entered, albeit unsure with the strange scene of her good friend and her cousin in lively discussion. "Ah. The lady of the hour."

Penelope granted Colin a small smile before greeting them both, hands clasped at her front. "Colin. Cousin Jack."

"I was just telling Lord Featherington that my interest in his mines was sparked quite naturally when I viewed that exquisite necklace you wore to my brother's wedding."

Penelope furrowed her eyebrows, though she dared not to correct him, not in front of her cousin. It seemed Jack had not bothered to correct him either. While Prudence had worn one of Cousin Jack's ample collection of ruby necklaces, Penelope had worn one of her own garnet ones to match. For some reason, even at the height of her anger with Benedict, his suspicion about the source of Jack's mines had sounded like a warning bell in her ears. As a result, she'd opted for her garnet necklace and earrings, though admittedly part of her reasoning had been petty as she'd wanted to taunt Benedict with his failure to maintain their friendship.

At least that was being mended.

"Was it?" Penelope asked, trying to swallow her nerves. Her throat had dried up. Constricting uncomfortably.

"You make a compelling case, Bridgerton," Jack said, lifting a silent toast to Colin with his crystal glass. "Allow me to give it some consideration."

"I shall eagerly await your response. The rest of the ton is dazzled by your exploits. I only wish to be too." Colin gave one of his dazzling smiles, the one that used to make her stomach flip but now simply gave her a warm glow, like that of a candle. Her friend then addressed her, "Would you see me out?"

Penelope acquiesced, walking him to the main entryway, heading towards the stairs. She failed to resist the urge to bite her lower lip, the pain radiating from her mouth to her jawline. Did she inform Colin of Benedict's suspicions? What should she do?

"I did not know you fancied yourself an investor," she finally said as they took careful steps down the staircase.

"No. Even I did not. Yet, I am beginning to think differently." Colin shrugged nonchalantly with an easy confidence she found rather new. "I know it is a large sum to risk, but I am sorely tempted. It is a chance to make a name for myself, as your cousin has done. And once our profits come, both our families will benefit, which is just what makes it so enticing."

As they reached the ground floor, Penelope couldn't help the question that slipped from her mouth, tinged with doubt, "You think highly of my family?"

"I am not in the habit of consorting with those I hold in low esteem."

"I never thought of it like that."

"I understand. Our relationship has taken shape so naturally over the years, one could take it for granted. You have always been so constant and loyal, Pen."

Penelope preened at the praise. It felt good to receive such a compliment from a friend. Even as her heart wrestled with the fact that her first love seemed to have died off, she realized she still loved Colin. Just not in the way she had always expected.

"Thank you, Colin. That means more to me than you know."

"And has your…uh, argument with my brother been resolved?"

Penelope fought a surge of warmth that crawled up her neck and face but it was no use. Colin seemed to be grinning at her, as if he knew something she didn't, and absently she began to fan herself with one hand.

"Y-yes. I-I believe the misunderstanding is resolved, and he has c-continued to apologize."

"Excellent to hear!" Colin leaned forward as if to confide a trade secret. "Oh. I almost forgot. Perhaps I might rely on your loyalty one last time. Until this agreement with your cousin is confirmed, I do not wish for word to get back to Anthony. Could you avoid telling anyone? I–"

"Mister Bridgerton." Her mother's surprised voice nearly gave Penelope an apoplectic attack. Both she and Colin stepped away from each other smoothly out of practice, though she hoped her mother could not see the nerves on her face. "I did not know we had a caller today."

Colin gave a slight bow, mask of unerring good-naturedness fixed into place. "Miss Penelope was just seeing me out. While I have been talking her to death about matters so foolish I'd have blushed to share them with anyone else." He bowed to Penelope in farewell before exiting as she and her mother watched him leave, both perplexed.

Unfortunately, Penelope knew she could not keep the promise Colin wanted her to make. For she would most definitely inform Benedict and Eloise of this strange occurrence.

Benedict contemplated the chessboard in front of him, mulling over his next move. Eloise sat, quite smugly he thought, across from him, arms crossed, practically salivating over his potential defeat.

"Well? Do you forfeit?" she taunted, proud of herself beyond all measure.

Benedict rolled his eyes, warming the pawn he held in his palm, rolling it across his skin. The smooth, polished wood felt like a small weight, a tether to the world around him. His leg bounced nervously under the table and he kept risking a glance to the drawing room door. He was supposed to finally, finally, help Penelope with a delivery today and she was coming to visit to arrange the drop-off. He'd last seen her a few days ago when he'd returned her from the party and that already felt like too long an interval. It was a distinct, almost feral need inside him, to see her, hear her voice, touch whatever inch of skin she'd allow him.

Eloise kicked his shin and he yelped, now contemplating whether to let her win like he'd originally planned to.

"Why, you little–"

"Benedict, I do not believe you were about to call your sister a foul name, were you?" his mother called, and the frosty command of her voice made him freeze in place.

"Of course not, Mother," he said calmly, glaring at Eloise all while she stuck her tongue out at him. "Merely to call her a nuisance."

"Oi!"

"Benedict Ledger Bridgerton!"

"It is not a foul name if it is the truth!" Benedict shrugged his shoulders before setting his pawn into place, Eloise scowling all the while.

"Then why can I not call Hyacinth a nuisance if it is true?" Gregory called from his studies at the table, Anthony bent beside him helping him with his numbers.

"Because you're not old enough," Benedict and Anthony said in unison and the eldest brothers shared a small smile.

Hyacinth purposefully, Benedict surmised, played a discordant note before saying, "I am only a nuisance to you, Greg. Towards everyone else, I am quite angelic."

Everyone stopped mid-motion to look at her then, expressions ranging from incredulity to downright disapproval. Hyacinth blinked.

"What?"

"Children, my dears, please," their mother pleaded, looking towards the Heavens as if God would actually intervene in the siblings' squabble. "I beg of you, I must concentrate."

"Apologies, Mother," Anthony and Benedict once again said at the same time, as the rest mumbled and grumbled their own expressions of regret. Though no one, at all, regretted a good Bridgerton brood quarrel.

Their mother turned back to a sympathetic Missus Wilson and while Benedict watched Eloise contemplate her next move, he listened with one ear.

"The invitations are ready to be distributed, ma'am," Missus Wilson said.

"Oh, excellent, Mrs. Wilson. Oh, dear little Augie is still suffering from his cough, so the duchess will naturally not be able to attend. But that is precisely why it is so important that the rest of us embrace this theme of harmony…"

Hyacinth's lively, if not ear-splitting, practice stopped. As one, the Bridgerton siblings looked up and Benedict did not have the heart to send a meaningful glare at Hyacinth as she stifled her laughter, for, in his own soul, he did not think this ball and its theme would accomplish much. But, as usual, their mother sensed their skepticism like a bloodhound on a trail.

So she continued, more vehemently than before, " ...and work together to impress our guests. If we garner enough support, the queen may even be swayed to forget all about this wedding business."

Hyacinth resumed her playing and Benedict caught Anthony rolling his eyes before bending his head down with Gregory, teaching the boy how to better find a solution to some equation or other. At the mention of the queen, Eloise's face paled and Benedict felt his guts twist into knots. Their eyes connected, bright blue on blue-green, and he knew that they were one in their concern. While Her Majesty had been appeased for now, there was no telling what other methods she would employ to catch Whistledown. Benedict hoped his new idea of collecting information at gentleman's clubs to feed Penelope the information would turn Queen Charlotte away from the women of the ton for a while, but it would never fully solve the problem.

Her Majesty's obsession proved that she would never give up on her search. A bored monarch was a dangerous one.

Eloise started fanning herself, gasping for air before she shot up and began to try and open the window beside them. "It is positively suffocating in here."

Their mother furrowed her brow in concern. "Eloise, dear? Are you feeling unwell?"

"Here, El, let me assist you," Benedict said, rising to help her open the window. He stuck his head out before placing a firm hand between his sister's shoulder blades and shoving her head out the window as well. "Breathe the fresh air, Sister," he cried loudly for their family to hear before hissing, "Get yourself together, El. Our mother is like a bloodhound with a scent."

"I cannot help it," she grumbled back, taking in great lungfuls of air as Grosvenor Square and all its activity still kept happening below. "I feel as if our friend keeps narrowly escaping the blade of the guillotine."

"Well," Benedict said, eyeing a flash of bright, ember hued curls bouncing in the sunlight made its way across the square. Everything within him, blood, organs, muscle, marrow, even his eternal soul became molten as he saw, even in the distance, the curve of Penelope's round cheeks and the adorable way she dashed about when she was excited. "We can soon discuss matters of her safety, she is almost here." He pointed her out to Eloise and he saw the way his sister's own expression gentle with relief. "But for now, we must maintain our composure. Agreed?"

"Agreed," she said before ducking her head back in and turning towards their worried mother. "The fresh air is most invigorating. Do not fret, Mama. I'll still be in attendance at your ball."

As Benedict returned to his seat his mother wandered closely to inspect Eloise's face, but the matriarch's expression fell further as Anthony remarked, rather rudely, "Participating in this farce along with the rest of us."

"I am doing this for all of us!" The dowager exclaimed, whipping around to face the head of the house. A tiny flash of guilt passed over Anthony's face but he still remained incredibly rigid, almost resentful. Benedict watched how Gregory observed the brother he most admired fall into despondency and further how their mother became swept up in a tangled web of hurt and confusion.

Tenderly, Benedict took hold of his mother's elbow, deflecting with soft humor, "Perhaps there is still time to change your theme."

She looked caught between a laugh and a scolding at his words but it was an improvement over the one of hurt she'd sported before. Benedict had noticed an increased sort of hostility from Anthony towards their mother, similar to the one Daphne had possessed last season. He couldn't pinpoint the exact reason, though he had a feeling it was directly tied towards his elder brother's relations, or lack thereof, with the Sharma sisters.

It was a rift Benedict did not know how to solve or whether he should even try to solve. The fine line between being the brother, the son, that gave others solace and leaving room for his own wants and desires still remained a mystery.

Before anyone could say another word, a light, lilting voice made Benedict feel like he floated on air.

"Good day, Bridgertons!"

Turning, he saw her effervescent smile, the way she peered around the room as if it was the best, most beautiful place in the world. It made him ache in sympathy and longing, and it was only when he felt the air leave his lungs in contentment did he hear that Eloise had done the same.

Without thinking, he followed Eloise as she advanced on Penelope, taking her hand and, at first, steering her towards the hallway. Benedict frowned, knowing that, as much as their mother was incredibly used to Penelope having free reign of the house with her fourth daughter, it would be slightly more suspicious if Benedict followed them out into a spot of seclusion. At least without a proper excuse. Benedict felt Anthony's knowing gaze on the back of his neck as he gently steered the two women instead to the opposite side of the drawing room to sit upon the settee farthest away from the family.

Strangely, Anthony began to engage Hyacinth in a loud, boisterous conversation about her progress on the pianoforte, praising her enough to take on the challenge of beginning a new piece. It was loud, rambunctious, and covered his mother's resumed preparation planning with Missus Wilson that he knew whatever their little trio discussed would not be overheard.

"Have you heard anymore about the Bow Street Runners?" Eloise asked settling in the corner with Penelope squished between her and Benedict

Penelope sighed, sinking into the powder blue upholstery as if the very world weighed her down.

"I have visited Gen to ask if she or Charlotte saw them, and apparently they are still watching the premises."

Tentatively, Benedict reached his arm around Penelope's shoulders, the tips of his fingers draping down far enough to discreetly brush where her dress kissed her shoulder. He thought he saw her shudder under his touch, but he must have imagined it as she peered up at him through sooty eyelashes, waiting patiently for his thoughts.

"Perhaps that is a boon," he offered. "It indicates that they have not solved the mystery of Whistledown yet."

"Perhaps," she conceded, and he reveled in how she leaned into his light touch, their thighs pressed together, her attention on him, filling him with giddy energy. "But we shall have to be cautious when we deliver the column before your mother's ball."

"Why not after?" Eloise asked. "There will be much gossip at the event, to be sure."

"I am trying to vary the timing of my deliveries. It appears there is a heavier presence of Runners after significant events." Huffing, Penelope bit her lip before wincing.

Unable to stand it any longer, Benedict tossed a glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the rest of the family paid them any heed. Then, carefully, he withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it against her lower lip. A bloom of bright, red blood sprung upon the pristine fabric and he frowned. "You must stop unless you plan to change the color of my favorite handkerchief," he admonished. She raised a hand to grasp the cloth to her lip and he swept his thumb across the fabric to the corner of her lips before releasing her. Just as he thought he saw a faint, rosy color light her cheeks, he saw Eloise staring at him, eyebrows disappearing into her fringe.

Coughing, he leant back just enough so that his face wasn't mere inches from Penelope's anymore.

"Yes, uh," Penelope started, lowering his handkerchief to her lap. "What was I speaking of?"

"That you are varying your delivery times," Eloise said dryly, her pupils flickering between Penelope and Benedict with compounding bewilderment.

"Y-Yes, precisely. Hopefully it will throw them off."

"I also thought I could start collecting gossip for you," Benedict said hurriedly. "From the gentlemen's clubs. That way, Her Majesty may believe Whistledown to be a man instead. At least for a time."

"Oh!" Penelope turned to him again, excitement making her practically vibrate in her seat. "Are you sure, Benedict? You would do that for me?"

"Of course, Nel." His finger twitched with the need to touch her again. Instead, he kept the arm behind her shoulders still, putting the one that had handed her the handkerchief and caressed her plump flesh under his thigh. "Anything for you."

Realizing he'd once again been far too vulnerable in front of his sister, he searched for another subject. "Will your family be attending the so-called Harmony ball?"

At the word harmony, Eloise snorted, distracted by the ridiculousness of it all, and Penelope giggled sympathetically. "I believe so. Mother said it was appropriate to pity your family and grace you with our presence."

"How generous," Eloise drawled.

Crossing his legs, Benedict wrestled with himself. Should he tell Penelope of his and Colin's plan? Of their suspicions? Penelope already knew that Benedict suspected her cousin of lying, for he had informed her about the origins of rubies in the Americas as told by Andrew Wetherby. But would he be risking her safety if he told her about the money scheme they suspected Jack of performing?

Penelope was an excellent liar, a fantastic secret keeper. But she lived with a potential villain.

"Nel," he started slowly. "Have you seen anything…strange involving your cousin?"

Nose scrunching up in the way he found so adorable, he saw Penelope think about his question with the concern it deserved. Eloise, however, appeared greatly befuddled before donning a glare that threatened violence if Benedict did not spill his guts. Benedict assumed, accurately he hoped, that Penelope had informed Eloise about the nature of his previous suspicions as well as Lady Featherington's hand in Jack's less than welcome betrothal to Prudence.

"I… I overheard a conversation between Cousin Jack and Colin about investing in his mines, just a few hours ago." He saw the moment she reflexively went to bite her lip and Benedict quickly placed his thumb in the way and she gently bit the tip of his thumbnail. She flushed furiously, turning redder than a tomato and Eloise's suspicious gaze returned. Benedict merely nodded encouragingly, removing his thumb. "I r-remember what you intuited about the mines…"

Distracted again, Eloise nodded emphatically and Benedict was inwardly relieved that Penelope had kept his sister so informed.

"I need you to stay away from him," he said, leaning so far in his chest pressed against her shoulder.

"That is near impossible, Brother, as she lives with the man," Eloise pointed out and Benedict bit back the childish urge to stick his tongue out at her.

"Just do not be alone with him," Benedict insisted. "Something about Jack does not sit well with me. He may have…over inflated his assets and worth. But I am not certain and need proof of possible indiscretions."

He watched as a flash of irritation crossed Penelope's face though she hid it more quickly than Eloise. Benedict winced. He hated keeping information from the pair of them, especially after they had embarked on this new stage of their relationship and how he still endeavored to earn back their trust. But, unfortunately, cornering Jack Featherington's treachery involved actions that only a man could perform and he couldn't risk either of them in the pursuit of that truth.

"Benedict…" She stuck her forefinger into his face, so dainty and cute he almost reached out to bite it. "What is happening?"

"Why can we not help gather evidence?" Eloise whined, crossing her arms in defiance.

"The places I need to go in order to extract evidence are places only a man can enter."

"But I can search his office–"

"No, Nel."

Fear pressed on his chest, a great boulder growing heavier in weight until he nearly couldn't breathe. How did he impart that he knew his intelligent, clever, ruthless Nel could do it…but he needed her not to.

Both Eloise and Penelope open their mouths to complain, object, or call him a bastard. But he beat them to it, "I know the pair of you are perfectly capable of gathering information. I know that the two of you could run circles around any man." It took all of his power to remember he was still in a public room, that his mother was discussing seating arrangements for dinner just feet away from him, that he felt Anthony's gaze scorching the hair at the back of his head. "But please, it is so much more dangerous when you inhabit the same living space as a possible villain. I beg you, Nel, let me do this for you. If I cannot gather the evidence required within a fortnight, I swear on my honor–"

"Questionable," Eloise coughed.

"My life?"

"Better," his sister conceded and Penelope giggled, the sound more precious, more beautiful to him than Francesca's greatest compositions. Not that he would ever tell his third sister that.

"I swear on my life I will let you lead this investigation if I cannot deduce what he is up to in a fortnight."

Penelope and Eloise turned toward each other, an entirely silent conversation happening between them. Benedict stifled a laugh at much of the eyebrow waggling, hand waving, and pointed glances. It reminded him how his sisters communicated amongst each other, a language all their own they had developed to keep their secrets and irritate their brothers. It wasn't until that moment he understood how unique and special that connection was.

After exactly ninety-six seconds, the duo reached an accord, turning back towards him with matching looks of determination. Benedict refused to be the one to tell them it was more akin to watching two adorable woodland creatures try to appear stern. He had no desire to die that night.

"Shake on it," Penelope said, sticking out her gloved hand while Eloise sniffed.

Grinning, Benedict took her tiny palm in his own, shook it once, before bringing it to his lips to brush his lips across her knuckles. The pulse of her wrist, right under his middle finger, sped up and it was as if his heart had to match her in return, speeding up so it hammered a tattoo against his ribcage.

"You have a deal."

Ignoring the way Eloise studied him as if trying to solve a particularly difficult equation, Benedict straightened, cherishing the way Penelope fit so well against him.

Something shifted, something new and colorful burst behind his eyelids, malleable clay spinning like the world upon a pottery wheel. He didn't know what it would become, but he felt desperate to see it through.

What is it about betrayal that excites us so? The ton itself has certainly felt its peculiar kind of frenzy after the promise of the wedding to end all weddings was broken. Yet this author has it on very good authority that the viscount's failed nuptials may not be the only betrayal that is afoot.

Betrayal comes through many means: failed romance, a friend's trust, a well-sculpted lie about one's wealth or lack thereof…

And yet, even as it unapologetically fells the people around us, like a sword slicing one's Achilles heel, we cannot seem to turn our eyes away.

Penelope inhaled deeply as she followed her family up the steps of the Bridgerton household, trying to take any relief possible from the cooler night air. She had barely returned on time two hours ago from making her delivery with Benedict and it still felt like her blood was ablaze. Ever since Benedict had molded himself into her space that afternoon, caressing her lip, kissing her hand, coming so close she breathed the very air he exhaled, she felt as if she was going mad.

Even though they had been able to engage in banter upon Rapscallion's back that afternoon, suddenly being against his hard chest, nestled between his legs as Rapscallion's movements across the cobblestones or dirt paths rocked her behind against his groin, it kept reigniting the fire in her veins, the liquid in her core, whenever she thought she had finally cooled off.

It had thoroughly distracted her, almost causing her to fumble the Dublin-area accent she employed whenever disguised as Whistledown's lady's maid. She prayed to high heaven that Benedict hadn't noticed. Her pride and still sore feelings would not allow the humiliation. Even though she knew he cared for her, that he made an active effort to repair their relationship, the month-long rejection still smarted.

No, she thought as she entered the grand entranceway, a delicate design painted on the wooden floor, musicians playing a sumptuous tune from the second floor balcony. She could not risk her heart, her very self right now, not when whatever grew between them was still new, fresh, and green–

"Nel!"

Whipping her head up so fast she swore she heard a faint crack, Penelope saw Benedict towering in front of her, the rest of her family nowhere in sight.

"Abandoned so soon?" Penelope joked, the faint sting whenever her family forgot her no longer the vicious lash of the whip it used to be. "I believe this is a new record for my family."

The corners of his eyes creased, and not for the first time, she wondered how many emotions could be conveyed with just those precious wrinkles alone. Nothing but kindness and a sympathy that nearly bowled her over were mapped like little ravines from his ocean eyes to the chestnut forest of his hairline.

Like the empathetic man he was, he offered her the crook of his arm as a pillar to lean on. "Come, Nel," he muttered softly. "Let me be your family tonight."

For a moment, even as she settled her hand in the crook of his elbow, when he complimented how pretty she looked in pink, and even as he began to inform her about what gossip he'd heard from the gentlemen already gathered in the smoking room, the world slowed down. Almost lazily, it tilted on its axis but instead of making everything upside down, she realized that, amazingly, everything began to look right-side up.

After a few minutes he said, softly, without looking at her, "You are wearing your birthday gift."

She lifted a hand to stroke one silver wing of the butterfly hair ornament. It didn't at all match the rest of her ensemble but putting it on that night felt…right.

"Yes. Do you like it?"

Eyes shimmering like molten jewels, he replied, "I love it."

A flock of birds took flight beneath her skin.

So they took a turn around the ballroom and when she'd finally regained control of her mental faculties, she took a proper look at the crowd. Undoubtedly, there were a decent amount of members of the ton in attendance, but she couldn't help but notice some families to be missing. The Patridges, Fifes, thankfully the Cowpers, the Bingleys, and a few others had decided not to attend. As Penelope thought about it, it wasn't exactly a surprise. She hoped neither Violet Bridgerton nor any of the Sharmas took it to heart.

"Oh, Nel, look!" Benedict said, pointing to a far corner near a refreshments table. "Is that not the strangest sight you have ever seen?"

Craning her neck to see over the bodies crowding the room, she saw what was indeed the most unusual sight she ever thought she would see. Anthony, making a valiant effort to ignore the presence of Kate Sharma in the opposite corner, looked to be conversing with the Granvilles and the Wetherbys. Or, more accurately, he stood like a constipated statue next to a line of champagne, listening as the Granvilles and Wetherbys chatter merrily around him.

"I…I must say I am flabbergasted!"

"We simply must investigate," Benedict said, gently dragging her along, placing his palm over her knuckles resting on his arm. "I would be remiss to not watch the strange clash of two different worlds colliding."

Penelope thought he put it perfectly as they approached their friends, who spotted them and waved with wide smiles upon their faces, all while Anthony appeared like a stag, frozen and unsure whether to camouflage or bolt. The Granvilles and Wetherbys represented the part of she and Benedict that was more untethered, creative, and held their ever-growing desire to be free of societal restrictions and simply focus on their inner selves.

But Anthony, even though she knew that he was the best of brothers despite his flaws, represented the rigid expectations and rules society held over them, how their class restrictions exiled them to a life that appeared as nothing better than a pretty, gilded cage.

"Cousin!" Marina greeted, the first to lean forward and kiss her cheeks before Andrew mirrored her actions. "It has been too long!"

"I saw you last week, Marina," Penelope laughed good-naturedly as Andrew traded places with Lucy, who had finished greeting Benedict.

"Yes, and you spent nearly the entire time spoiling my babies," Marina teased.

"To be fair, our babies are undoubtedly too precious to resist," Andrew put in.

"Ah, well you never saw Hyacinth as a babe then," Benedict chortled. "She was so small I could hold her with just the palm of my hand, Remember, Ant?"

Anthony grunted, though Penelope thought she saw the muscles in the viscount's face loosen just slightly.

"Yes, though you scared me half to death when you attempted to rock her with only the one appendage."

"He did not!" Henry exclaimed, shoving Benedict's shoulder playfully.

"She liked it!" Benedict said, a gleam in his eyes as he glanced up at the balcony above them, two sets of curious eyes peering over the rails. "Didn't you, Hyacinth?"

One of the pairs of eyes ducked down while Gregory's head popped up, a bright grin upon his face. "She did!"

The group laughed together, even Anthony cracking a smile. As Penelope was pulled into conversation with the Wetherbys and Granvilles, she overheard Benedict as he ducked into his brother's space, a friendly shadow.

Picking up a glass of champagne and taking a sip to keep her mouth busy, she let the bubbles pop and fizz on her tongue, the bright tartness of the sparkling wine dancing in her mouth.

"Anthony, you appear diminished. It is not like you to hide in the corner."

"I believe it to be for the best to let Mother and Lady Danbury to handle this illusion that all is well."

She heard Benedict sigh heavily, could practically feel the pity for his brother's state of mind in every wisp of his breath.

"Brother, while I admit I think Mother's vision is a bit too…far-fetched, too obvious a ploy, the idea behind it is not entirely without merit."

There was a pause and, as Penelope smiled at the description of Henry's latest work, she heard the heavy sense of uncertainty in Anthony's silence.

"What do you mean?"

"Anthony, the tension with the Sharma sisters is unfortunate. Everything that happened is unfortunate." From the corner of her eye she saw Benedict clap his brother's shoulder, a gesture she imagined was quite common between them. "But we have survived. They have survived. You cannot give up on forging something new. Looking at things from another angle."

Anthony's lips twitched and, surprisingly, he set his champagne down and lifted his head back up to the wide, fascinated eyes staring down from above.

"A new perspective, yes?" Anthony asks, winking at Benedict before calling up, loud enough for people around to turn and hear. "Hyacinth!"

Lady Bridgerton's brow wrinkles in confusion from the opposite corner of the ballroom where it appeared she'd been attempting to make polite conversation with the Sharmas. She began striding over. "Anthony?"

"Hyacinth!"

Hyacinth leaned over the railing, her peony pink dress bunching at the bodice where she put her weight on the railing. "Yes, Brother?"

"Come down here and do me the honor."

The youngest Bridgerton's whole face lit up with unfettered excitement, a delighted gasp escaping both her and Gregory's lips. People were staring now but, for once, it appeared the viscount didn't care. Benedict stepped back to her side, briefly pressing their hips together in a way that sent a flurry of butterflies to fly around her stomach.

"If she gets to dance, so do I!" Gregory and Hyacinth dashed down the stairs, Hyacinth jumping into Anthony's waiting embrace. Gregory, to Penelope's surprise, came right up to her and offered his hand.

"My lady?"

"Oh, do not bother my best friend!" Eloise's voice called and Penelope saw the young woman push her way through the crowd before joining her side.

"Where have you been hiding?"

"In the morning room until Colin betrayed my location."

The small group of women erupted into barely contained giggles while Gregory frowned, even as Benedict shook his head.

"You are just jealous that Miss Penelope will not tread upon my toes like you do," Gregory proclaimed.

Eloise scoffed and Penelope couldn't help but indulgently take the young boy's hand.

"It would be an honor to dance with you, Mister Bridgerton," she said, taking Gregory's hand and heading to the floor for the country reel Anthony had the quartet strike up.

Benedict pushed his bottom lip out in a pout before taking Eloise's hand, while the Granvilles and Wetherbys stepped to the floor as well. The country dance begins and it's a drop of joy in a sea of tension but, for a few short minutes, its glorious. A total of four dance circles form and even Miss Edwina and her mother join the adjacent circle with Benedict and Eloise, while Penelope and Gregory dance in the circle with Anthony and Hyacinth. But even as she danced, lighter than she had been in days, weeks even, she couldn't help but notice Miss Kate watching from the corner, forlorn and incredibly sad.

Penelope knew better than most what it was to be weighed down by sorrow.

Once the dance ended and Penelope curtseyed to Gregory's flourish of a bow, she flickered her eyes between Miss Kate and Edwina, deciphering the atmosphere that existed in the vast space between them. Remembering Edwina's compassion when they'd met two months ago at Lady Danbury's soiree, the girl's genuine nature, her naivety, Penelope's course was clear. As she passed Benedict and Eloise she grabbed their wrists and squeezed reassuringly before continuing her journey to the youngest Sharma's side.

"Edwina," Penelope greeted with a smile as the debutante stood alone by the wall, as if the former diamond seemed too desperate to dull her shine. Her mother appeared to be talking to Miss Kate ten feet away.

"Oh, Penelope," Edwina said as if shocked she was being addressed at all. "How– How good to see you."

Joining her against the wall, Penelope surveyed the glitter and glamor before them, all designed to hide the fissures and cracks just underneath the surface. Benedict now danced with Hyacinth while Eloise purposefully trod on Gregory's toes. The artist's careful handling of his youngest sister, the way he spun her around indulgently regardless of the steps, made her core flare and clench unexpectedly. How would he be one day with his own daughter? Surely he would be just as loving, doting, utterly enamored–

Wrapping her arms around her belly, Penelope forced herself back to Edwina, a pretty picture except for the misery that simmered under the young woman's skin.

"It is alright," Penelope offered tentatively. "If it is not so good."

Edwina's rigid shoulders relaxed slightly and, for a moment, they stood in comfortable silence simply observing the ball around them. Benedict's dance with Hyacinth ended and, with an overdramatic flourish, he spun the youngest Bridgerton around to her exceeding delight. People stared, it could not be helped, the adoration and affection the Bridgerton siblings encouraged amongst themselves simply was never done. That light, that warmth, like the glare of the sun, either enticed people in with its beauty or made people pull away, jealous and lacking.

"I suppose it is fortunate that at least two people are enjoying the theme of this ball," Edwina said, following Penelope's eyes to where Benedict escorted Hyacinth off the dance floor.

"I am of the impression that the Bridgertons believe the theme of 'harmony' to be as much of a pasquinade as you," Penelope admitted. "But they cannot help making merry with one another, even when angry."

"Maybe it's simply because none of them have yet committed a transgression they cannot come back from," Edwina remarked bitterly. "Except the viscount, of course. Though his mistake did not wound one of his siblings."

Startled, Penelope turned, attempting to maintain a neutral expression. It was not her place to pass judgment of Edwina's enmity, especially after what happened to her. Inwardly, she fought with herself, knowing she certainly could not publish any bit of this conversation or feelings in Whistledown. It would make good gossip, possibly elevate Edwina in the eyes of a fickle ton, but it would hurt more people than do good.

As she studied Edwina, recalling how the young woman's discontent so closely mirrored that of Penelope's own, the feelings that made her insides rot and decay when she's been furious with Benedict, the diamond seemed to remember herself. A flush painted her bronze cheeks and she shuffled her feet nervously.

"Forgive me, Penelope, that was uncouth of me."

"Not at all," Penelope said and she was surprised at how soothing she'd made her voice, how she now came off as the older, more experienced debutante. That she actually had the ability to comfort another, it was refreshingly lovely. "I recently wanted the throttle a Bridgerton myself."

Edwina caught herself between a gasp and a giggle, a small, indelicate snort escaping. For a moment, she appeared utterly mortified but Penelope gave her the brightest smile she could offer and she relaxed once again.

"Surely not Eloise, with how close the two of you are."

"Not Eloise," Penelope confessed. "No, one of the men. Bridgerton men, as I'm sure you now know, are positively infuriating. I have deduced that they share a hive mind, much like bees, and unfortunately seem incapable of not making at least one devastating mistake every season."

For a moment, Penelope feared she'd gone to far but the tinkling sound that bubbled from Edwina's lips reassured her.

"I must concur, Penelope. We will need to gather more data, though."

"Oh yes, I have no doubt the Royal Society could conduct an entire experiment on the matter."

They reveled in their humor for a few more moments before settling into comfortable silence again. Penelope watched Eloise be dragged by her mother to the far corner, no doubt to be introduced to some eligible man or perhaps a fellow debutante. She saw Colin walk in the direction of the smoking room, catching his eye, and he offered her a little wave which she returned. But she kept searching for Benedict, waiting for the moment she'd see him and her heartbeat would undoubtedly pick up—

Just as she predicted, she spotted Benedict in a corner, idly conversing with Henry and Andrew, and her pulse beat an erratic rhythm. The thick, dark chestnut locks of his hair, the straight line of his nose, the crow's feet that betrayed whatever he felt at any given moment, and the crooked tilt of his smile. All of it pulled to her, called to her, and it was no doubt that she was hopelessly in love with him. A part of her feared that word, that emotion, because before it had only brought her heartbreak, the shattering of a childish fantasy. How could she be sure that this love was any better, any truer, any less likely to lead to devastation?

She was thrust out of her spiral of thoughts when she saw Benedict pardon himself from their friends to head to the refreshments table, where her mother and cousin stood just a foot or two in front of. He appeared to be making quite the effort to sneak behind them, to remain unnoticed, and while he successfully evaded her guardians' notice, she would have to teach him how to better blend into the crowd. If that was even possible for a Bridgerton, they seemed born to simply stand out.

A heavy huff of irritation called Penelope back to Edwina at her side, who glared openly at her sister striding towards them.

"Have your sisters ever done something simply unforgivable, Penelope? Edwina asked, more harsh than any winter gale.

Penelope hesitated, unsure of what to say as Miss Kate grew closer.

"If I am honest, I have never been close enough to my sisters that any offense against me has…has…"

She struggled with what to say. Yes, her sister's comments and neglect throughout her life had stung, especially as a child. But Penelope had grown a tough skin from being lacerated with time, as if her very outer shell was nothing but scar tissue, thick and tough in a way that she now barely felt it when her sisters struck a new blow.

"Made you feel raw and bleeding?" Edwina supplied. "As if you were nothing but a fool, a puppet on strings that had been cut?"

Penelope nodded just as Miss Kate stepped into earshot. At that moment, she wanted nothing more to sink into the floor as Edwina said, tight, venomous, and aimed to hurt, "Well, then, I am thankful that at least one of us does not know the pain of discovering how duplicitous family can be."

It was tempting to argue that Penelope, in fact, did know exactly what that was like– the discovery of a lack of a father's care and attention, so much so he gambled away one's dowry. Or how she was often forgotten by her mother in favor of her more vapid but beautiful sisters, or how her own sisters had long ago deemed Penelope too bookish, too quiet to merit attention. But she didn't. She knew, possibly better than anyone, how anger, how betrayal, made one lash out in self-defense.

So she blended into the background as Miss Kate's complexion became pallid, though to the older woman's credit she tried to shake it off.

"Perhaps we should return home, Bon? Clearly this ball is proving overtaxing."

"As if you truly care what I would like to do," Edwina spat, quiet venom dripping from every word. "Perhaps I would like to continue to converse. Perhaps I would like to continue to stand here against the wall, ignored by society despite everything because of your actions."

Miss Kate's expression was consumed with sorrow, guilt, inescapable and tragic. Penelope watched, frozen to the spot, for it was as if she did not exist. A normal occurrence for her at society events but this was different. This was because once these two sisters inhabited the same space, nothing existed but the agony between them.

"That is cruel, Edwina."

"Do not dare," Edwina started, her voice rising slightly before she took a breath, exhaled slowly, then continued. It was cool, measured, the anger simmering beneath the surface calculated. "Try to make me out to be the cruel one. I may not know who I truly am, but at least I know I am kinder-hearted than you."

With that parting blow, Edwina stormed off in a random direction, disappearing in a flurry of pastel skirts and shining jewels. Penelope could only describe the spinster's entire demeanor to be consumed with devastation and, with tears welling on her dark eyes, she picked up her lavender skirts to hurry out of the room.

A hand clasped her elbow and Penelope jumped, looking up to see Benedict beside her, eyebrows met together with concern.

"Nel? I must tell you–"

"In a bit," Penelope said, placing her hand once again in the familiar crook of his elbow. "But first, we must follow Miss Kate Sharma!"

And with that, she successfully dragged a startled, speechless Bridgerton son, a rare occurrence indeed, out the back and into the garden.

All things considered, the night was not going as disastrously as Benedict first predicted. The ton came, not as many as his mother had hoped, but enough for the ball to be considered a passable success. Whether driven by morbid curiosity or because their scandal had been deemed old news, it didn't matter. Society had come and maybe, just maybe, his mother could relax.

When Penelope had entered the ball, even so distracted that her family had left her behind, her allure brought him up short. She wore a similar gown to what she had put on for his mother's Hearts and Flowers ball, a pretty, dusky pink with a tight bodice that could barely contain her curves. It matched the blush that painted the apples of her cheeks and for a moment all he could think about was how he desired to kiss a trail from the curve of her face to the valley of her breasts.

Lord, he was going to Hell.

And with the birthday gift he'd given her nestled amongst her glorious ember tresses, he nearly combusted with pride and joy.

All had been right with the world with her on his arm as they greeted their friends. It even was oddly joyful, adorable even, when Gregory asked Penelope to dance and she accepted, just as indulgent of his younger siblings as he and Anthony were. Even when he twirled Eloise, then Hyacinth in his arms, he kept one eye on her, forever gorgeous, forever vibrant even if the rest of the idiots in the room, barring the Granvilles and Wetherbys, didn't see it.

She fluttered as he buzzed, a butterfly and a bee hovering around each other, looking for a mutual spot, an open, fragrant flower on which to rest their tired wings. All he wanted in that moment was to reach night's end and hurry her and Eloise to the garden, though he admitted he would probably commit a petty crime to get his Nel alone, and relax. But he saw her engaged in conversation with Miss Edwina, so he decided to join the Granvilles and Wetherbys while he waited for Nel to be free once again.

They discussed the Granvilles hosting an artist get-together or a friends-only dinner soon, but from the corner of Benedict's vision, he saw Lord Featherington and the dowager baroness deep in conversation near the refreshments table. Prudence was nowhere in sight, so perhaps they could reveal useful information. As he began to excuse himself for a drink, a dainty hand tugged upon the hem of his dinner jacket. Turning slightly he saw Marina, her lips pressed in a serious, white line.

"Be wary," she said, her dark brown eyes lingering upon the matriarch of the Featherington household. "Lady Featherington purports an air of brainless superficiality, but if she were a man, the household would not be in the state it fell to. Do not underestimate her but instead, give her the same proportion of caution as you would give Jack."

"Did you ever meet him?" Benedict asked, feeling like a true lackwit for not putting the pieces together. If Jack was Penelope's cousin on her paternal side, then Marina was undoubtedly related to him too.

"A handful of times when I was a girl," Marina admitted, full of disdain as she studied the man in question. "He was never directly cruel, in fact I think he's pleasant enough because he likes to be liked. But he uses his charm to his advantage and feels no remorse if casualties pile up because of his actions, even if he genuinely likes a person." Marina let go of him but her gaze grew unfocused for a moment as if recalling a far off memory. "He had a sister, you know. One he was quite close to. But when she tried to run off with the local blacksmith he still told their father because he knew it would possibly put him in better standing with the old miser."

A chill ran down his spine as he thought on that. How could someone betray a sister they claimed to hold dear like that? If his sisters decided to run away for the sake of love, would he tell Anthony or his mother? Maybe, if he thought they were in danger or being duped by a reckless rake. But not to gain favor or for any selfish gain.

Benedict nodded solemnly. "I will keep all of that in mind, Marina."

She returned his nod and he strode off, using his long legs to propel him through the crowd, taking a longer route so that he circled behind Jack and Portia. He didn't want them to see him, in case they altered the course of their conversation.

As he reached the table and pretended to ponder the merits of ratafia or champagne, he heard the two guardians of the Featherington household speak.

"You seem happy, my lady," Lord Featherington remarked, taking a sip of his own glass of ratafia.

"Of course, look at this crowd. It is sparse compared to events the Bridgertons have held in the past. It seems our neighbors are to remain afflicted for quite some time." While he couldn't see Lady Featherington's face, he could feel the self-satisfied smirk in her words. "Colin Bridgerton, go ahead. Seal the agreement with him."

Benedict nearly knocked over several glasses as his hand spasmed. If they spoke of Colin, it meant their plan was working, they were taking the bait. Though it seemed only because of their family's dip in popularity, possibly making them an easier target.

"With great pleasure, my lady," Jack purred and Benedict decided he did not like the sound of that. He knew a play on seduction when he heard one and he had no intention to observe the strange, sexual undercurrent between Penelope's paternal cousin and her mother. No, he would much rather dunk his head in a cart of manure then be graced with that image.

Once again taking the long way around, he hastened to Penelope's side, where she now stood alone, staring at one of the hallways that led to the back of the house.

He clasped her elbow and she jumped, startled, and he felt a twinge of guilt for frightening her.

"Nel? I must tell you–"

"In a bit," Penelope shushed him, placing her hand at the base of his bicep. "But first, we must follow Miss Kate Sharma!"

Unceremoniously, he was hauled off, Penelope much stronger than people assumed, off and away until they entered the sanctuary of the back garden. The woman he adored peered around as if assessing the scene before pulling him along in the direction of the gazebo.

"Nel, what in the blazes are you doing?"

"You mean what we are doing." Despite her small strides she was incredibly quick on her feet, causing Benedict to stumble slightly. It was in moments like these that he saw the clever, determined, independent woman she was underneath the wallflower armor. He would never say it was a facade, for Penelope truly was shy and nervous around others she did not know well. She contained multitudes and he rejoiced in it. "I'm afraid Miss Kate was on the receiving end of Edwina's ire. I simply want to check–"

But as they came closer to the gazebo, now visible with its pristine white pillars, draped in the last bits of blooming wisteria and jasmine of the season, they saw not only Miss Kate, but Anthony. They appeared to be having a tense argument and on instinct, both Benedict and Penelope ducked as one to hide behind a well-placed bush (Benedict would have to see that the head groundskeeper received a raise). Penelope dropped his arm but the emptiness only fell over him a moment before her gloved hand was nestled in his.

"It is maddening, how much you consume my very being," Anthony said, voice low, husky, and he breathed deeply as if barely holding onto the last threads of his control. "My family is on the brink of ruin. I am nearly certain every last one of my brothers and sisters secretly despise me. My own mother, at that. Despite the fact I have lived the better part of my life for them."

A corner of Benedict's heart withered at the words, shrinking in on itself until it was a crinkled, dry, gluey mass of blood and organ. He felt Penelope squeeze his hand, felt her sympathetic stare analyze his reaction, but a painful, terrible wave of remorse washed over him and he was pulled by the undertow of regret. Anthony thought they all despised him? That even their own mother hated him? Benedict had known that Anthony carried the weight of the world on his shoulder, knew it to be true that Anthony, for the most part, had lived the better part of his life for all of them.

Wracking his brain, Benedict tried to remember the last time he'd told his brother thank you, that he loved him, or that Anthony was imply doing a great job. With another stab of guilt, like a rusted knife thrust into his guts and twisting, he realized that he hadn't. Yes, he offered advice. Yes, Anthony had been irritable, made mistakes, which caused the rest of them to lash out.

But zounds, none of them hated him.

If there was one thing Benedict knew about his elder brother, it was how unconditionally he loved. It seemed otherwise, for the viscount had high expectations, but he never doubted that even if Benedict were to fall so low he were trapped in a quagmire, Anthony would jump into the muck to lift him out. He'd get a scolding, an earful of "I told you so's"... But Anthony would never abandon him, unlike many other lords of the ton.

So how, how could Anthony think Benedict and the rest of their family would abandon him ?

"And yet still, all I find myself thinking about, all I find myself being able to breathe for…is you." Anthony paused, his eyes darkened with heat as he stared down an increasingly overwhelmed Kate Sharma. "Do you think that I want to be in this position? Contending with these thoughts of wanting to be nowhere except with you." Anthony sighed then, and Benedict and Penelope watched, utterly captivated, as the older man drew closer to the object of all of his agony and focus. "Wanting to run away with you. Of acting on the most impure, forbidden desires, no matter... how much I must remind myself I am a gentleman, and you are a lady. Of that…" Anthony inhaled as he ran his nose up along the column of Kate's neck and Benedict had to look away in that moment. Instead he directed his sight at Penelope who, Lord help her, was growing redder than a tomato, her chest heaving. " ...of that scent. It has remained imprinted on my mind ever since the night of the conservatory ball on that terrace. Lilies. You have to stop."

At that, Benedict whirled his head back around and smacked his nose into a twig sticking out from the bush. It scratched him and he gritted his teeth and he tried to focus on the pain rather than his first impulse to run up to his brother and smack him.

Penelope actually smacked her forehead with her free hand, as if embarrassed for Anthony, and he couldn't help but agree.

"I have to stop?" Kate asked incredulously, stepping closer as if to issue a challenge.

"There is no other course of action to be concluded. You must stop!"

"It has been you. It has been you this entire time. Spinning my world off its axis, making me reconsider everything I have ever told myself." Kate inhaled deeply as if one of her lungs were punctured and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't get enough air. Benedict sympathized for she looked to be in pain. "I came here resolved... to save my family. Everything I have ever done…"

"Has been for them," Anthony finished for her, quietly with the sort of knowing only kindred spirits shared.

"Had been for them," Kate said, voice wavering.

"Yeah."

There is a beat, one in which Benedict could see everything, in which all snapped into place. He understood the chemistry, the attraction that boiled and overflowed between Anthony and Kate, passion that splashed and burned anyone who got too close. But beyond the mutual competitiveness, high energy, love of horses, and their mutual knack for torturing themselves… What threaded them together was a mutual understanding of everything and all they had sacrificed for familial love.

And the revelation proved both enlightening and incredibly painful for Benedict.

"You are the one who must stop," Kate uttered softly, like a plea, a prayer. "You are the one who must stop. Before…"

"Before what? Before we both finally do something for ourselves?" Anthony exhaled, long and deep, before pointing back toward the house, toward escape, towards a path that could still be tod. "Please go inside." He enunciated every word, slowly, perfectly, popping the consonants like warning shots. "Go in...side"

The tension grew to an all time high and Benedict had the sneaking suspicion that maybe he and Penelope should make their escape.

"What did I tell you about you and your orders?" Kate snapped. Then–

They were kissing.

Christ Almighty, his brother and Kathani Sharma were passionately kissing in the middle of the gazebo, unwittingly watched by both Benedict and Penelope.

More words were exchanged, offers of an out, repeated consent, and the embrace transformed to one of fervent carnality. Benedict and Penelope turned as one to each other, avoiding the scene as sounds of moans and the rustle of fabric began. Silently their eyes met and they seemed to both be debating the best pathway away from the gazebo and to the swings where they'd sworn to meet Eloise when the ball was done earlier that day.

Except…

Except…

Benedict's neck grew hot and he used his one free hand to pull frantically at his collar before attempting to untie his cravat. It was then they both seemed to notice they still held hands and Penelope dropped the hold first before turning to him. Silently, so as not to attract attention (though the amorous couple in the gazebo seemed suitably diverted) she began to untie his white cravat, unpinning the gold clasp that kept it in place.

As she did so, he felt every brush of her covered fingertips, every lift of her chest against his own, her bountiful breasts brushing his lower sternum, how the butterfly ornament he gave her, silver and blue, completely out of place with her dress and yet still utterly captivating, glinted in the dim light of the moon. Her soft, round stomach briefly pressed against his groin as she unwrapped the long strip of cloth that suddenly felt like a noose around his neck and gods, he wanted to grasp her by the hips and pull her completely flush against him. To bend down and pulls up her skirts, glide fingertips against her stockinged legs until they grazed the flesh of her thighs, pressed into the dimples he imagined there, going beneath the chemise to cup her heat–

It was as the last of his cravat slipped off and fell into her hands that he woke from his trance, noticing how Penelope's pupils dilated, how she lingered against his broad chest, how her plush lips had parted as she stared up at him like he was the only oasis within miles of desert.

Could– Could she–

But a loud moan hit him like a slap, and it was most certainly not the one he desired to hear. Taking a brief glance over he quickly placed a hand over Penelope's eyes. She squawked, quite loudly, but luckily Anthony and Kate were too…involved to notice.

"Benedict!"

"I am saving you from future nightmares," he hissed as he all but carried her away from the scene, pulling them through bushes they thoroughly trampled to escape unseen.

"I have seen lewd acts. In fact, remember, you drew them for me! I saw you in an embrace with Gen and Lucy–"

"Shhhhhh. Yes, yes, but that was me. " With one hand still over her eyes as his other arm supported her weight wrapped around her waist, he noticed she still clutched his creamy cravat, but that the gold pin had been lost in the shuffle. He'd have to retrieve it later. "Do you really desire to see my brother's…uh, appendage?"

Penelope nearly choked on air as she coughed and he grinned, finally uncovering her eyes as they finally approached their sanctuary, the swings swaying in the breeze as if greeting them.

"Certainly not!"

"Then I have saved you from utter humiliation."

He settled her on the swing, brushing errant strands of her autumnal hair back from her face, making sure the butterfly was still in place. He grinned before striding behind the large trunk to retrieve two bouquets, nearly identical. The larger of the two he presented to her while he gingerly set the other on the empty swing. Penelope gaped at the arrangement, one filled with hyacinths for forgiveness, bluebells for humility, peonies for bashfulness, and an olive branch for peace. Amongst the purplish-blue bluebells the color of dusk were a smattering of pink bluebells representing his everlasting love.

His love hidden within an apology, undying and true. The smaller bouquet he'd gotten for Eloise was absent of the little pink bluebells, strategic on his part.

"Benedict."

It was all she said, but his name on her lips felt at once like a benediction and a sin. It was perfection, it was comfort, honey that dripped from her tongue. How he longed to sip at that sweetness, to consume her in a way that was inescapable.

"I will not stop apologizing until you can say with zero doubt that you trust me, body and soul," Benedict whispered, slowly bending to his knees on the grass, the night dew soaking through his britches. He cupped the sides of her thighs, circling his thumb across the muslin that draped her skin, wishing he could burn away the fabric and sear himself into her flesh. "And you, of all the women I know, deserve to be given flowers. I want to learn your language, Nel, not just because it might help me win back your favor but because I want to understand every word, spoken and unspoken, that passes between us."

Clutching the flowers to her chest almost like a shield she looked down at him in a mixture of cute embarrassment and awe. He wished she wouldn't turn that look to him, for it made him want to do things he shouldn't.

"I– I am at a loss for words, Benedict." She traced a forefinger along the delicate petal of a peony and Benedict could smell the flowers between them, a mixture of a light perfume and an earthy aroma, similar to the smell of his garden in summer. "Thank you. You have been truly making the most of your apology."

"And I cannot, will not stop," he said forcefully, pushing his chest up so her knees parted and he settled between her thighs. It was like opening the gates of Heaven and glimpsing paradise from beyond a veil. "You must not be easy on me, Nel. For I have a long way to go to earn back your implicit trust."

With one shaking hand, she reached out and carded her gloved fingers through the side of his hair. He resisted a moan, biting his lower lip as she spoke. If he hadn't already been on his knees, supported by her supple body, the words alone would have caused him to collapse in a puddle of wounded relief.

"For what it is worth," she breathed, so close he could taste the lingering champagne on her breath. "You have, at least, earned my forgiveness."

The last few weeks were a sea being tossed around, no port of safety until they came to dock, beaten by the waters and wind. This moment in the garden was the first steps on dry land, a type of peace that washed through them safely while acknowledging there was some work to do on their ship.

Her forgiveness felt like that first step on solid ground, a plank extended so he could return to earth.

The night moved on as if he were swimming through thick, cloudy rapture. Even when Eloise joined and he had to remove himself from Penelope's legs, settling in the cool grass as if he'd been there all along. Even when Eloise took the bouquet he gave her with curious eyes, the rapid fire movement of her pupils betraying how she analyzed every small difference between the two bunches of flowers. Even when Benedict informed the two women that he thought he heard Jack and Portia discussing closing a financial deal (though he did not reveal it was Colin they spoke of) and that he would investigate further.

Even when storm clouds rolled in at the early hours of the morning, lightning illuminating the clouds like bright blue fireflies trapped in jars.

It felt like nothing in that moment could erase the triumph of the moment when Penelope forgave him. And nothing, not even reason, could dampen the hope that flickered to life in his chest.