Summary:

Left behind in London by her family, Penelope finds that being out from beneath her mother's thumb for the off season may not be all it's cracked up to be.

That is until she discovers she is not the only inhabitant left in Grosvenor Square and he is determined to uncover all of her secrets...

Chapter Text

The drawing room of Featherington House is a buzz with activity, as the few staff still within the ill reputed family's employ work to pack up their Mistress' and her eldest daughter's belongings for the journey ahead.

Penelope Featherington sits upon her favoured window seat, for once glad to be wearing an ostentatiously yellow dress as it allows her to blend fairly seemlessly into their equally garish curtains. Her mother is currently making quite the show of marching between the rooms of the house with an increasing air of impatience, reminding Mrs Varley - who in turn informs their two other maids, butler and footman - about the fast approaching deadline of their departure, one they must meet should they have any hope of reaching the docks in time.

Since the sudden and, one must be inclined to suggest, mysterious passing of the Baron Featherington, as well as the discovery of the weighty debt he had left behind for his family, tensions within the household had grown from bad to worse with each passing day.

However, and most fortunately, the family had been receiving weekly checks in the post from a distant relative, along with notes offering their continued condolences and support, as well as subtle suggestions as to how the money should best be put to use in both keeping the family afloat and maintaining outward appearances.

Portia Featherington continues to make the wise decision not to comment on the fact that she has never heard of any relative going by the name printed at the bottom of each of these correspondences, nor that she has been unable to find any record of their existence. Never let it be said that this ever scheming Mama is one to look a gift horse in the mouth, a fact her youngest daughter is all too aware of.

All of this plays particularly nicely into the newest plot being devised by the Dowager Baroness, fueled by some particularly interesting information she was able to acquire, at her own husband's funeral, no less.

Whilst standing amongst a group of fellow ladies of the Ton, Portia was able to learn that some of the families were choosing to go further afield than their usual country seats for the off season, and were instead making the journey to Ireland. There, it was said, there would be continued opportunity for socialisation, away from the prying eyes of the London's most elite, and Portia knew she was certainly not the only Mama within the group who recognised the opportunity to engineer marriages for their unwed children, particularly as the usually stifling rules they all adhered to could most likely be relaxed and bent away from the city season.

As soon as she had returned home that day, still in her Mourning wears, Portia had penned a letter to her Aunt Margaret, imploring her to allow them room and board in her modest country estate accross the Irish Sea. The reply had come quickly, opening the sought after invitation - though, even through paper, the reluctance was clear - whilst stating that Portia would be expected to bring her own staff and secure all of the necessary travel for her party.

Certainly, old Peggy had not expected for her niece to be able to come up with the funds, as word of the late Baron's gambling debts had reached even her ears, but she was not to know of the stipend Portia haf been receiving or that she would be forward thinking enough to set aside a chunk of money from each check as the last few weeks of the season played out.

This time crunch, however, and the need to transport not only themselves but the Help as well, left Portia with the none to difficult decision of whether she would be bringing both or her unwed daughters along or using a portion of the savings to acquire new dresses for the one child she believed could stand a chance of enticing a gentleman, however unsuspecting, into a mach. Again, this was not a difficult decision for her to make.

Which is what brings us to the here and now, back into the chaos of Featherington House as their overbearing Matriarch casts a calculating eye over the servants loading the last of the necessary luggage into the waiting carriage. One by one, the staff pass sympathetic glances over their youngest Miss as they each make their final trip from the drawing room out to the street, and even Mrs Varley stops to give a light squeeze to her shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of affection.

"That's the last of it, Ma'am," their butler announces, his hands clasped behind his back where he stands in the doorway to the drawing room.

"Yes, yes, good, we will be along just now," Portia replies, then turns to look upon her youngest daughter, for what must be the first time that day, and gives her a dismissive wave of her hand, "Penelope, do make yourself useful and go upstairs to hurry your sister along, and be sure to impress upon her how deeply, deeply, disappointed I will be should we be too late to board our passage because of her laziness."

"Of course, Mama," she replies, meekly, bobbing her head before moving from the room to complete her task, pretending not to notice the continued, pitying stares of the maids waiting in the hallway for their departure.

"Prudence," she calls, knocking twice on the door across from her own before pushing it open, "the carriages are ready to leave and I am beginning to fear what shall become of the vein in Mama's neck should you keep her waiting a moment longer."

Their is an answering scoff as her first reply, then Prudence waltzes out from behind her dressing screen to appraise her sister with a none too kind stare.

"Have you perhaps considered, Penelope, that it is your choice to continuing making comments like that which has cemented out Mother's decision to leave you behind here, all on your own," the elder started, an ugly snarl marring her face "that as well as your general outward appearance and frankly tiresome personality, of course. It truly is no wonder that you have never received a gentlemen caller."

Before Penelope has the chance to retort and remind her sister that she, too , has never had any suitors to call upon her, there is a cry from the doorway.

" Penelope! " their mother seethes, "I am certain I instructed you to hasten your sister along, not delay her even further. We can not afford to wait a moment longer to depart! Down the stairs, quickly!"

Prudence throws a final snide smirk in her sisters direction before both girls go to trail their mother down to the front steps of their home.

"Now Penelope," Portia turns sharply on her youngest, "whilst you are well aware that it is not typical for a young lady such as yourself to be left unattended to for a period of this length, I'm sure you understand why it is necessary. Cook will be along at least every other day to prepare meals for you, but otherwise you are to keep yourself out of trouble and try not to embarrass our good name whilst we are gone.

"Fortunately, there will be so few members of the Ton remaining here in the City following the coming days, that there should not be anyone around to witness you attending to market runs and other such menial tasks for yourself, but do still try not to make a spectacle. After the mess of your Father's passing and Miss Thompson's foolishness with that Bridgerton boy, we can not afford to have any further whispers surrounding our family. I hope I have made my expectations for you clear enough, Penelope."

Then, with not even a wave to the daughter she is as good as abandoning in their townhouse, Portia Featherington turns away and ushers Prudence into their awaiting vehicle. Mrs Varley, however, stalls for a moment, finally showing a moment of hesitance in following through with the latest of her Mistress' hairbrained schemes when it means leaving Penelope behind to fend for herself. Before her conscience can win out, however, Lady Featherington gives a sharp shout of her name from her seat in the carriage, and just like that, Penelope is alone.

Deciding she should at least wave her family off, even if she knows none of them will be turning back to see if, Penelope descends a few steps down from the front door, watching as the carriages roll away.

As she is about to turn to go back inside, Penelope catches sight of two of the three Bridgerton Carriages also setting off along their street and remembers Eloise telling her they would be setting off for Aubrey Hall today. Penelope laments not having been able to spend more time that morning in wishing her dearest friend farewell and safe travels, and decides then that she will dedicate most of her extended isolation to maintaining a constant correspondence between them - as well, perhaps, as penning a letter or two to Colin, should she be able to figure out exactly which worldly destinations she would be addressing them to.

Once all of the carriages have finally left her field of vision, Penelope turns her head to cast a glance over Bridgerton House, which is certain to have undergone an even more chaotic overhall than that of her own, and is surprised when instead of the brass knocker of their front door she instead meets a pair of brown eyes from across the square.

Anthony Bridgerton holds her curious gaze for what can only be a few passing moments before he must deem his assessment of her complete and retreats into his family home. Standing under the unusually warm spring sun, Penelope can think of no reason to explain the shiver that racks her body before she steps back inside and closes the door.

Chapter Text

"GREGORY!" the cry is followed by the sound of pounding footsteps, most certainly not befitting of a genteel young lady, "get back here, brother!"

Anthony Bridgertons head forward, his left hand raising to pinch the bridge of his nose whilst the other sets his quill down on the hard wood of his desk. It seems he will be getting no further work done for the time being.

By the time he reaches the door to his study, Hyacinth's voice has been joined by that of his brother, Benedict, who soon comes racing around the corner in hot pursuit of the two youngest Bridgerton siblings. It is their mother, Violet, however, who intercepts them at the end of the corridor, needing to do nothing more than place a hand on each hip and carefully arch one brow to have both of her children skidding to a halt before her.

Seeing that the situation is well in hand - meaning, a well deserved lecture is being delivered not ten steps ahead of him - Benedict slows to a stop beside his elder brother, and the two share a fond look, both likely reminiscing on days long since past where it would have been the pair of them, instead, with their shoulders slumped whilst their father tried to maintain a serious expression throughout his scolding of them.

"I was on my way to inquire as to whether you had changed your mind about staying behind, brother," Benedict starts, head tilting to the side with his signature lazy grin, "when I happened upon our young Gregory making off with a rather striking pink ribbon; I'm sure you can infer as to the events that unfolded between then and now."

"Yes, well, in answer to your curiosity, I find that, if anything, this little display has only cemented the fact that I must remain here whilst you all head off to the country. Perhaps I shall even stay an extra few days following the completion of my remaining tasks, if only to relish in both the peace and quiet, which will certainly made all the sweeter by the knowledge that you will be surrounded by much of the opposite."

Benedict huffs then and both his smile and his shoulders drop as he turns to face his elder brother more fully. "Two weeks is what we agreed upon, Anthony," he reminds him, "for I refuse to play the responsible adult for even a moment longer than that. You must remember that I am the spare and not the heir, and I find I rather like it that way."

"Benedict, you are a man of seven and twenty, please do try to refrain from huffing like one of those prized pigs that the Duke and our dear sister seem so fond of these days," Anthony intones, adopting his very best Viscount Voice, "and as a man of seven and twenty, I am sure you are more than capable of keeping our family from committing fratricide for fourteen days, especially seeing as Francesca will not be making the trip down from Scotland for at least another week and Daphne has still yet to provide any inclination as to whether she and Simon will be visiting for the off season."

"You both seem to forget that all of you are my children," their Mother's voice cuts in, the same chastising look she had just bestowed upon G through H marring her features as she walks towards her eldest, "and that I am more than capable of managing all eight of you perfectly well, and thusly will certainly have no trouble spending the next two weeks with only the four who have decided to grace me with their presence at Aubrey Hall."

At this, she turns her disapproving glare upon Anthony, and Benedict makes no effort to hide his snickering as the ever ineffable Lord Bridgerton positively squirms under his Mother's stern gaze. Before that same look can be turned back in his direction, he takes the opportunity to begin edging backwards towards the stairs, making vague claims about seeing to Eloise's packing progress.

Which leaves Anthony and Violet standing together in the study's open doorway.

"My son," Violet starts, her voice taking on an almost wistful note and her eyes softening, one hand reaching up to cup her eldest boys cheek. Anthony takes a moment to marvel her ability to switch so quickly from stern matriarch to doting mother, "are you sure you can not be convinced to join us today? Most of your things have already been packed away to be taken along with us, it shall not be too arduous of a task to have the staff compile the rest into our trunks, and we can send word ahead to ensure your study there is prepared to your liking upon our arrival so you might complete anything particularly pressing whilst we are there."

"Mother, you know why I am staying, that there is important work here which I have allowed myself to overlook whilst instead allowing my focus to be consumed by Daphne's debut and subsequent marriage this season, a task I now understand would have been better left in your capable hands."

Violet tsks at her son's self deprecating tone, moving her hand down to brush along his shoulder, as if she could remove the ever present weight that seems to reside there.

"Daphne knows your efforts were meant with only good intent, as much as we all know the burden you bear in maintaining our family affairs. Oh, how I wish you had been afforded more time before these responsibilities were thrust upon you."

Even the vaguest mention of his father's passing is enough to cause Anthony's back to straighten, slipping back and away from his Mother's tender grasp. He stares straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze when he speaks, "whilst I do not claim to relish in my responsibilities or that they now keep me from spending time with you at Aubrey Hall, that does not change the fact that these responsibilities are mine, and I will see them completed before I join you all in the country. That is my duty and my word on the matter is final. Now, if you would excuse me, Mother, I believe I have already delayed enough for today."

Watching him turn away from her now, Violet feels that the distance he is creating between them is more than simply physical, that it is not just the fabric of his jacket slipping through her fingers.

"Anthony, I-"

"My word is final. I will be along in an hour to see you all off in the carriages and then, in two weeks, we will be reunited at Aubrey Hall," he takes two steps into his study, still refusing to meet his mother's imploring gaze, "in the meantime, please call for me only if there is an emergency."

The door closes with a click.

Violet takes a step forward, intent not to allow the conversation to end as it has, when an outraged cry sounds from further into the house and she instead finds her feet leading her towards the sound of what she can already guess is Hyacinth enacting her revenge upon Gregory.

"Sister, how you manage to find anything in this room is beyond me" Benedict teases, leaning back on one elbow atop the rumpled bed sheets, observing the second miss Bridgerton as she kneels on the floor, haphazardly throwing various items over her sboulder, "and the fact it is able to become this messy in the first place when we have so many maids under our employ is certainly an even greater mystery than that of Lady Whistledown's identity."

The pillow hits his face with a dull smack.

"Thank you, brother, for your oh so helpful commentary, but if you are not going to assist me in locating this blasted shoe then I see no reason that you should not go and seek entertainment else. where." If questioned, Eloise will vehemently deny stomping her foot, here.

"Ah, well, perhaps if that is truly how you feel I shall go and wait in the carriages - for, I have been ready to leave for hours, you should know - and instead send along Mother or Anthony to oversee your progress," with that, Benedict makes a show of slowly rising from to his feet and inching towards the door, knowing already that his sister will latch onto the bait he has cast out.

"NO!" she cries, causing Benedict to turn back to face her (barely concealing his smug grin in time), "no, you may stay. Just, please, Ben, if you truly are to remain my favourite brother you will help me find my other shoe! It is the very last thing I need before I, too, am ready to depart!"

Eloise's frustration wanes as she watches her brother quirk his eyebrows at her, then swagger back to his place on the bed and reach behind her pillow.

"Oh, you mean this shoe?"

"BENEDICT!"

Before he can be met with any further projectiles, ones that he suspects would hold much more solidity than the cushion he had received before, Benedict raises both of his hands and fights to surpress his laughter.

"Alright, alright," there is obvious mirth in his voice, especially as he takes his handkerchief from his pocket and begins to wave it around above his head, "see, I am waving the white flag of surrender."

Less than impressed with his display, Eloise stomps over to snatch her shoe from where it dangles from the hand that is not still engaged with flapping around a square of cotton. Perhaps the effect of her disdain is somewhat tampered by the fact she is still only wearing one shoe, but that is quickly rectified.

"I do not know why I continue to humour you and your inane company," she huffs, dropping down beside him on the bed rather gracelessly.

"Perhaps because if you did not, then you would not be able to partake in our shared enjoyment of tobacco?"

"Yes, well, that is at night, in the gardens, not at just past noon in what are supposed to be my private chambers," the gentle shoulder bump Eloise delivers to her takes the heat out of her words, and Benedict returns the gesture in kind, knowing it marks a temporary truce between them.

"Enlighten me, then, dear sister, as to why it is me who has risen to the task of wrangling you today and not your usual red-haired shadow? I am certain I have never heard you complain of her company in such a manner, and I must admit she has an enviable knack for keeping you on track."

"Penelope, for she does have a name and we both know you are able to use it, came by this morning to wish me farewell," Eloise sighs, clearly lamenting her friends current absence.

"And she did not wish to stay and greet the rest of the family during her visit?" Benedict asks, placing a hand over his heart whilst donning an exaggerated - yet, still somewhat sincere - look of disappointment, "I know it is yourself and Colin to whom she gravitates the most, but it certainly would not have been the first time the young Miss Featherington graced our breakfast table to share her delightfully witty presence with the rest of the family."

"You will find it is I alone that Penelope holds in her highest esteem, brother, and she simply holds too much good grace to prevent Colin from trailing along behind us," here, Benedict bites his tongue to keep himself from correcting her, certain that it is not a path of conversation he would like to find himself on with his sister, "and I will have you know that I had extended my invitation to her in the hopes that she would stay to see us off this afternoon, but she insisted her presence was required at home, though she was not particulary forthcoming as to what exactly for."

"Perhaps she simply wished to spend some quality time with Lady Featherington and dear Prudence before they, too, depart to their country seat for the summer."

Both siblings look at each other, a handful of moments passing between them in shared silence, before tipping their heads back in laughter.

"The day Penelope actively and independently decides to spend time with her Mother and sister will certainly be a most upside down day indeed!" Eloise jests, hands crossed over her stomach as she recovers from their excuberent bout of chortling, "in fact, the only thing I could find more surprising than such a turn in her behaviour would be for her to turn around and reveal herself to us as Lady Whistledown!"

"And perhaps such unconfounded behaviour is catching, and Anthony shall arrive at Aubrey Hall in two weeks time and declare to us all his intentions to take a Featherington as his wife and Viscountess!"

The pairs renewed laughter is cut short by the sound of their Mother's voice approaching the door, informing them it is time to leave and that any items they have not been able to put together already will simply have to be left behind until the next season.

Benedict and Eloise share a look as the footsteps draw nearer, then both turn their gazes to the complete disarray that is the younger's bedroom, then make a mad dash for the hallway.

If they are to agree on one thing today, it is certainly that they should choose to meet their dear Mama in the hallway rather than allowing her to see the carnage left behind the closed door.

If you had asked Penelope of a month ago whether she would enjoy finding herself with an overabundance of completely free time, no judgemental Mamas or teasing sisters or hovering chaperones at her shoulders, she would have bitten your hand off for the opportunity.

But the Penelope of a month ago was not the Penelope of today. For a start, that Penelope could have taken advantage of the freedom to complete her tasks as an anonymous gossip columner with ease, but now the season is over and their is no gossip to be columnised, nor anyone left in town to read it.

That Penelope had not watched her cousin nearly entrap the man she herself had thought she was in love with, nor had she had to ruin her own family in order to prevent their midnight elopement.

She had not watched her Philipa's marriage almost fall through, uncovering along the way that all three of their dowries had seeming vanished.

That Penelope had not lost her father. She had not been mourning for a man who had barely shown her an ounce of affection in recent years, even if she still thought him to have been the most amenable member of their household.

That Penelope, perhaps, did not truly understand the difference between independence and isolation, for it is certainly the latter of which she finds herself in abundance of.

In the lead up to their departure, Portia Featherington had instilled a list of rules into her youngest daughter that she was to adhere to throughout her time alone in the house for the off season. That list looked like this;

The front door is to remain closed and locked at all times. Scheduled deliveries of food and post will be made to the servants entrance at the rear of the estate, and Penelope, too, must use only this exit when coming and going from the home.

No more than three short outings in a week, and only for essentials.

During these outings, Penelope must don nondescript clothing and conceal her hair with a hood so as not to draw notice from anyone who may recognise her.

The following places, in particular, are strictly off limits (though there should be no need to venture out at all if not to collect essentials from the market)

- Hyde Park

- Madame Delecroix's Modiste

- Bridgerton House

No candles may be lit in windowed rooms and all curtains must remain drawn.

No one can know you are here, and most certainly not that you are here alone.

Penelope had been forced to memorise and recite these rules countless times, to the point that having the written list at all seems redundant now, but she hangs onto it anyway. A physical reminder, perhaps, for when the situation she finds herself in seems too far fetched for even her to believe.

Making her way to her late father's study, wherein is housed the family's modest collection of books, Penelope once again laments that she had not been able to spend a little more time with Eloise this morning, not least of all because she has always been granted open access to their extensive library from which to borrow any novel of her choosing. She settles herself into one of the leather wingbacks in the corner of the room closest to the windows, taking advantage of what is left of the afternoon sun filtering through the rooms gauzy net curtains, resigning herself to an afternoon of once again rifling through the pages of Pride and Prejudice.

She just about lasts through the first two chapters of the story before she comes to the conclusion that continuing to feign interest in the words she could likely recite blindfolded is rather futile when there is no one around to see her doing it. If she is to survive the next two months, the young miss is going to need to acquire further materials to entertain herself with, lest she simply expire from boredom.

Rising to her feet, Penelope abandons the book on her vacated seat, then hastens from the room, a clear plan forming in her head.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Anthony drops his papers to his desk and leans back in his seat, arms stretching out behind him in a futile attempt to release some of the tight knots forming in his shoulders.

He lifts his right hand to rub at his tired eyes, strained from the two hours he has spent pouring over documents under the pitiful light cast from the single lit candle on his work surface. Not for the first time, he laments that his office space is so central to the house, which, whilst affording him the ability to be ever aware of the going ons around his home, does not allow for the natural light a window would provide him.

A light knock sounds at his door, then, and he gives the call for his visitor to enter, pleased for the excuse to extend his break.

"Lord Bridgerton," Humboldt gives the cursory bow of his head from his position in the doorway, ever the diligent butler, "Mrs Wilson is enquiring as to whether you should like an afternoon meal preparing, sir. What shall I advise her?"

"Right, thank you, Humboldt. Have something brought here, will you; I still have much to do before I retire from my desk for the evening, and I should like to keep disturbances to a minimum."

The older man nods his head dutifully, however Anthony does not fail to notice how his step falters as he turns from the room, as if hesitant to comply with his Master's orders.

"If you have something further you wish to share with me," Anthony calls, stopping his butler's retreat and forcing him to instead turn and face the raised eyebrow being levied in his direction, "then I suggest you take this opportunity to do so."

Whilst the Viscount prides himself on being a fair and fairly well liked Master to the many staff under his employ, he does secretly enjoy seeing Humboldt's throat bob in a gulp when finally he meets his steely gaze head on. It strokes a corner of his ego that he tends to keep tucked away in polite company, the part of him that relishes being a gentleman of his station, bending the wills of those beneath him to best suit his own desires with the power he yields.

"Well, sir" Humboldt squeaks out, then seems to collect himself and clears his throat, his back straightening to give the impression of confidence, "sir, before the families departure earlier today, your mother imposed upon the staff that you should not be allowed to, well, to-"

"Oh, do spit it out!" Anthony interrupts, his patience wearing thin.

"I believe her exact words were that we should, 'ensure the Viscount does not spend more time brooding in his study than is absolutely necessary, and that he consumes at least an hour of sunlight each day'," Humbold recites, then seems to remember himself all to quickly, adding on a hasty, "sir."

Anthony takes a moment to appraise the man standing before him. On the one hand, he should dismiss his impertinent butler back to his normal duties, with a none too gentle that whilst his mother holds the title of Dowager Vicountess, she is not the head of this household any longer. Another part of him, the part that loves his family deeply and feels an undeniable warmth spreading through his chest at this sign of his Mother's cares and worries for him, can not help but feel a sort of respect for Humboldt's bravery in ensuring her wishes were relayed to him.

"Is that so?" Anthony asks, for even if he has already decided to give into his absent Mamas whim, he can surely still have a little bit of fun whilst doing so.

"Yes, sir." Humboldt replies.

"Right then," the Viscount allows the other fellow to squirm whilst he gathers a few papers from the top of the pile on his desk before him for a few more moments before brushing past him into the hallway with the echo of an amused smile upon his lips, "have John collect my coat, then, and tell Mrs Wilson that I shall be eating in town this evening. No need to prepare anything further until tomorrow's usual breakfast service," he pauses then, taming his face back into its usual stern countenance and arches one brow, "a meal which I shall be taking in my study, something of which I am sure you have no opinions to share."

The dismissal is clear, as well as the message that this show of acquiescence from the Viscount should not be expected to become a regular occurrence. Humboldt turns to head down to the kitchens, releasing a deep breath as he goes.

Penelope pulls the pink hood of her cloak forward to further conceal her hair as she makes to exit Hatchard's Booksellers, two new novels tucked under her arm.

She spares a brief thought for the list tucked into her reticle, unsure as to why she felt it pertinent to bring it along with her, before quickly banishing any thoughts of it. There is no point in dwelling on it now, after all.

Whilst her Mother would surely be incensed to discover that her daughter has disregarded her instructions within only the first few hours of her departure, Penelope believes that there will be no better time for her to undertake her task.

And truly, she had taken some time - a whole five minutes! - to consider her decision to absonced from the relative safety of her home. Besides, it is not as though any members of the few remaining society families have reason to take any more notice of her now than they have at any of this seasons events (that being, decidedly, no notice at all).

Penelope had donned one of her usual day dresses beneath her traveling cloak, in the mildest shade she could find tucked away in her wardrobe, on the off chance that she is recognised making her way along the highstreet. For any future trips out, she knows, she will have to attire herself in the get up befitting of a simple maid, something she has become rather accustomed to on her bi-weekly runs to the printers shop in Bloomsbury.

So consumed is she in her musings, eyes downcast to where she is still returning her remaining funds into her bag even as she pushed through the door and back into the highstreet, Penelope has no chance of seeing the broad chest she is about to connect with before it is already too late.

"Oh!" She yelps, watching helplessly as both her books and reticule slip from her hands, feeling her own body following their path down to the ground.

That is, of course, before she is lurched to a sudden stop mid-fall. Penelope's mind is rushing far too fast for her to keep up, though she is able to catch briefly onto the rather disturbing thought that she is about to be grabbed from the streets and tried as a witch, for certainly their must be passerbys who have noticed her unexplainable mid air suspension right there in the middle of Oxford Street.

Just as she is beginning to debate whether or not she is to face a drowning or, perhaps, the slightly more outdated sentence of a trial by fire, Penelope finds herself moving again, though this time it seems she is headed upwards.

Once righted, Penelope's senses alert her to three things, in this order:

There is a strikingly familiar voice calling her name,

There is the unmistakable yet strikingly unfamiliar weight of two hands upon her back, attached to two arms which bracket her waist on either side,

There are two brown eyes staring into her own blues, yet striking does not seem strong enough a descriptor for them.

"Miss Featherington," the voice says again, and finally Penelope is able to escape her stupor just enough to recognise the Viscount stood before her, "are you quite alright? I do not believe you to be injured, but perhaps I should call upon a doctor to come and assess you?"

His words are finally enough to bring Penelope crashing back into herself, and she leaps a step back from him as if she had been burnt, leaving his hands hovering awkwardly in the air between them. She coughs in an attempt to recover herself, smoothing a hand down over her skirts and the other comes up to tuck an unruly curl behind her ear.

"Lord Bridgerton!" She exclaims, "goodness, my apologies, sir! What must you think of me, colliding with you so, and, oh!" Penelope looks down to see where her own belongings have gotten to, only to find that the entire, if meagre, contents of her bag has spilled out over the cobblestones, along with what she can tell are various accountancy papers clearly belonging to the gentleman before her, "I have caused you to drop your documents in my clumsiness. Please, allow me to collect them for you."

Before Penelope can begin her descent to the ground - hoping this one will be more graceful than the last - she is halted by a hand landing gently on her covered arm.

"Please, there is no harm done, take a moment to steady yourself. I am a man of nine and twenty, I am certain I can manage to regather my own papers. Assuredly, if my head had not been so buried in them, we would not find ourselves in this position." Anthony says in a way Penelope is certain he means to be reassuring but the maintained neutrality of his expression makes it impossible for her to read his true feelings on the matter.

Then he is bending down before her, grabbing at any scrap of paper he can find - though he is mindful to separate Penelope's pin money from his gatherings. It is only another moment before she joins him, entering into what as ladylike of a squat as one could hope to expect from a young lady, and she starts hastily stuffing her own belongings into the opening of her bag, ensuring it is securely closed this time.

Anthony gets to his feet first, then extends a hand to help her rise.

"I can not imagine this is quite what my Mother had in mind in her insistence that I get out of the house," Anthony begins, the slight upward quirk at the corner of his mouth belaying his fondness for said mother, "and I hope I can rely on your not mentioning this unfortunate meeting in your next missive to my sister, for I can only imagine the scolding I would receive from - well, perhaps from any member of my family, were they to learn of the harm which almost befell you by my hand this afternoon."

"Oh, no, my Lord, the fault lies entirely with me. Please trust that I will find myself engulfed by far too much shame when I come to recall this encounter that I believe I would find myself unable to commit the retelling to paper, even if I had want to. Which I don't! Just, in case that wasn't clear." Penelope coughs into her hand again, hoping to stop the utter ridiculousness that seems to be spilling past her lips.

She lifts her eyes then, intent on meeting the Viscounts gaze, if only to show the sincerity behind her words, and then promptly wishes she hadn't. For the second time that day, Penelope Featherington finds herself under Anthony Bridgerton's assessing stare, as though there is something about her he can not quite figure out. Perhaps he is wondering how a debutante such as herself has possibly survived a whole season whilst being so woefully lacking in social tact and graces, she thinks.

Finally, Anthony straightens and turns his gaze to cast a glance at the people moving around them, none of whom, fortunately, seem particularly interested in the odd pairing standing outside the bookstore.

"We shall agree to take equal shares of the blame in our collision and, seeing as it appears no damage has been done to either of our persons, that shall be the end of it." He tilts his head to her in the customary nod a gentleman is expected to bestow upon a young lady when bidding them farewell, and waits to receive her bow in return, before remembering that, despite the spring colours she has been dressed in for the day, Penelope is a woman in mourning.

"I must apologise before we part as it seems that in the chaos I have forgotten to extend to you my most heartfelt condolences for the recent passing of your Father. I do not claim to have known him well, but I am familiar with the heartache that comes with losing one's patriarch."

"Thank you, Lord Bridgerton," Penelope responds, certain now that there interaction has come to a close as he finally seems ready to continue on his way, yet he surprises her again when his eyebrows furrow and he asks,

"Where is your ladies maid, Miss Featherington?" He appears to be looking to the empty space behind her, where one would expect to find the young lady's chaperone.

"Oh, she is around here somewhere, I am certain! I sent her to one of the market stalls to fetch me some new ink, perhaps she has found herself in a queue."

"Ah, then would you like me to wait with you until she-"

"NO!" Penelope interjects, just on the wrong side of too loud, "I mean, no, thank you, sir, but I have kept you from your business for long enough already. I'm certain that is her gray hood I can see now, in fact, so I shall make my way to her. Good day, Lord Bridgerton!"

Her farewells are called over her shoulder as Penelope hastens into the bustling crowds surrounding the market stalls, weaving her way through the patrons trying to barter for better deals on their wares as the trading day comes to a close. She does not risk a look back, though she is confident that the Viscount will have moved on already and there would be nothing there for her to see even if she did.

Now, away from his prying gaze and free from the confusing mix of feelings it had stirred within her, it is all too easy for Penelope to lift her hood back over her head and slip down the side street that will lead her around to The Modiste.

Anthony Bridgerton has long considered himself to be a rather unflappable man. As he was only a lad of nineteen when his Father passed and the Viscouncy was rather hastily thrust upon him, Anthony was forced to adopt a more serious nature and show himself to be a man of unimpeachable honour and strength, lest anyone attempt to take advantage of his age and inexperience. Whilst his siblings wept through their mourning, clinging to their equally distraught and heavily pregnant mother, there could be no allowances for outward displays of grief from the newly minted Lord Anthony Bridgerton, Ninth of the Bridgerton Viscounts.

He knows, however, that his reputation amongst the Ton is not exactly squeaky clean - no thanks to a certain author dubbing him a 'Capital R Rake' - in the same way he knows that he can easily abscond himself from any trouble said reputation lands him in by simply flashing one of his rare, charming smiles. That, though, he supposes, he can not truly claim it as a trait of his own as, much to the behest of their poor mother, this seems to be an ability that all Bridgerton children are simply born with.

Reminding himself that he is supposed to be said unflappable gentleman does absolutely nothing to assuage his increasing alarm as he rather suddenly finds himself holding onto Penelope Featherington, having come to his senses following their collision just in time to stop her pretty face from meeting with the pavement.

It does not help that she is seemingly in some sort of daze, muttering nonsense about lakes and barrels that he has no hope of following. It also does nothing for him to realise he has just described her as pretty, even if in the safety of his own mind. It is not a term he has thought to apply to her before, though looking down at her now he can not imagine why.

A quick shake of his head dismisses those thoughts and finally he is able to rouse a response from the young lady in his arms. After that, he makes quick work of collecting his papers from the ground, then finds himself embroiled in an exchange most curious.

Their conversation begins, of course, with the expected niceties they have shared through the handful of one-on-one interactions they have shared up to this point, but Anthony finds his curiosity peeking as they continue to talk.

He had always known that Penelope was unlike the other ladies of the Ton. There was the obvious differences, her fiery hair and ample figure at the top of the list, and he had of course noticed that the only person who had danced with her throughout any of the season's balls had been his own brother, and only after he had been needled by their Mother to do so.

There was also, however, the grace with which she accepted her place at the edge of the room, never kicking up a fuss over her empty dance card or attempting to weasel gentlemen into taking her to the floor in the way that other debutantes such as Miss Cowper were often want to do.

And of course, there must also be much to say for the friendship she maintains with Eloise, allowing his sister to express all of her raging thoughts with a good natured smile whilst still being able to keep her on track and insert opinions of her own, something he and his siblings often fail to do. From the seemingly endless stories that Eloise shares with the family featuring the young red head, it is clear she holds Miss Featherington in high esteem, often remarking on her wit and intellect.

Perhaps this is why he finds it so curious, watching as Penelope turns so quickly from a temporary bout of mutism, to perfectly polite conversation and then veers into tongue tied rambling, all before beating a hasty retreat from his presence when he attempts to enquire after the whereabouts of her chaperone.

Deciding he has had enough excitement for one day, and has most certainly absorbed enough fresh air to see his Mother's concerns assuaged, Anthony turns back in the direction he had come from, intent on returning to his study.

He resituates his papers, making sure to maintain a tighter grip on them as he makes the short journey home. It is only when he goes to lay said papers out on his desk that he notices the smaller sheet that does not belong there. Anthony considers calling for a footman to deliver the note over to Featherington house, for surely the most likely explanation for it now being in his possession is that he had simply collected it from the ground with his own papers before Penelope had had the chance to snatch it up herself. He certainly isn't going to read it, as that would be terribly inappropriate and behaviour certainly not befitting of a gentleman of his station.

He glances down at it again, noting that it appears to be some sort of list - perhaps of the items she had been intending to buy whilst in town today.

Although, he reasons, perhaps the supposed list does not belong to Penelope at all! It could have just as easily been blown out of the hand of any person passing them by that afternoon (never mind that there was no breeze to be had in the air that day) and reading its contents would be the only way to ensure he could have it returned to the correct party.

Really, in this instance, it is the right thing to do.

With that train of thought firmly locked into his brain, Anthony settles comfortably into his chair, feet kicked up on his desk, and lifts the handwritten note to begin reading.

"I must say, Penelope, I am so glad to finally be designing gowns for you that actual tailor to you and not to your mother's… more diverse tastes" Genevieve laughs, enjoying the freedom of speaking plainly to one of her clients without the need for faux accents and flowery language.

The two women are lounging together on the chaise in the Modiste's backroom, each with a glass in hand as they pour over the sketches that the designer claims to have had tucked away for a while, hoping that a day such as this one would eventually arrive.

"Oh, please, Gen, there is no need to be kind about it. I, myself, have written of my own decidedly citrus like appearance all throughout this last season," Penelope replies, taking a sip from her drink before setting it down on the table, "I believe you would be doing the whole Ton a service if you were to stop stocking fabrics in the 'happy colours' my Mama favours so much. I do worry that should a light hit upon any one of us from the wrong direction, it could reflect back and blind an unsuspecting onlooker! Surely, even the Queen herself would be inclined to reward you for preventing such an occurrence."

Both women dissolve into shared laughter again, basking in the glow of their ever growing friendship. Ever since Penelope had unearthed the truth about Madame Delecroix's choice to create and present a false version of herself to her clientele, combined with her own unveiling of herself to the other woman as Lady Whistledown, the two had begun to form a sort of bond. Both were business women, hiding behind masks of their own choosing in order to make their way in the unforgiving corner of the world they had found themselves in, so it was only natural that a mutual respect would be shared between the pair, as well as the relief that came with sharing their burdens with one another.

It also makes situations like this, wherein Penelope has decided to show up unannounced and unaccompanied to place an order for three new day dresses and two ball gowns for herself, much easier to navigate. She does not have to try and explain where the money to fund these dresses will be coming from, as Genevieve is well aware of her steady stream of income, and she can be completely confident in her friend's care and abilities when she grants her full creative freedom to choose the colours and styles of the dresses being commissioned.

She is glad to have found friendship with the Modiste as it provides her with a sense of ease she does not find in any other place or with any other person. There is Eloise, of course, but she can't allow herself to relax completely even around her, not when her work as Lady Whistledown looms ever present over Penelope's head, coupled with her tenacious friend's seemingly endless pursuits to unmask her.

For a while, she had harboured a secret, burning hope that Colin might one day be that person for her; that he would become her most trusted confidante, someone who could accept every part of her, could love every part of her. Now she knows herself to be a fool for ever having humoured such hopeless ideals. She had watched on as he had attempted to elope with her pregnant cousin, for goodness sakes! And then been the one to callously expose the scandal to the entirety of their throat cut society.

Safe to say, Penelope Featherington had firmly closed and locked the door on any thoughts of ever walking down a church aisle to Colin Bridgerton, then allowed her once tender feelings for the boy to sail away with him on his great Grecian tour. She felt confident, now, that when he returned, he would not be bringing them back with him.

"Penelope!" Gen calls, and seemingly not for the first time, "my dear, I hope I am not boring you!"

The red head offers a sheepish smile, mentally chastising herself for once again allowing her mind to run away rather than contributing in conversation. It is a habit she has practiced in her Mother's stifling drawing room, but now struggles to not slip into when in the company of those actually interested in engaging with her.

"My apologies, I do not know what has come over me today, I find my mind is all aflutter and I can not seem to conduct myself properly. First it was before the Viscount and now again when I should be enjoying the fine company of a good friend," she says, reaching over to squeeze the Modiste's hand, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to repeat what you were just saying."

"Oh ho, no, I fear my drivel was not near as interesting as the story you have clearly been holding onto!" Genevieve turns on the chaise, raising one of her legs to be tucked beneath her so that she may better face the other woman, raising on impressively arched brow.

Penelope's brow, however, furrows, "I'm sorry, Gen, but it seems I have lost track of the conversation even further than I had thought as I can not even presume to guess where we have ended up."

Genevieve rolls her eyes, leaning forward to give a playful swat to the red heads arm, "the Viscount, you said? I know you are close with a handful of the Bridgertons, but I had not thought the eldest son a man you often converse with?"

"Oh, which is what makes it all the more embarrassing!" Penelope gasps, finally feeling somewhat caught up with her friend, "the poor gentleman was simply trying to go about his business in town this afternoon when I near enough bowled him over, forcing him to lose grasp of his own belongings in order to catch me. Goodness, I can not even imagine the things he must have thought of me, nor how I shall ever endeavor to meet his eyes again." Both hands come up to cover her face, knowing from the heat she feels there that her cheeks must be reaching a hue bright enough to rival even her own fiery locks.

"Catch you? It sounds to me, mon cherrie, " both ladies giggle as Genevieve dips into her well practiced French accent, causing Penelope to open her fingers and peak up at her, "that he was the one to have bowled you over, should you have needed any kind of catching from him. Tell me, Miss Featherington, did your cheeks flush as prettily as this whilst Anthony Bridgerton's hands were upon you?"

" Gen! " Penelope yelps, prompting her friend into a deep fit of laughter as she gains the desired reaction from her teasing, "as a gently bred lady, I am going to act as though I have no idea what you are insinuating and move us swiftly on from here!"

It had only been during her last clandestine visit to the Modiste's Shop that Penelope had managed to convince the older woman to explain to her exactly how it is that a lady comes to be with child (that is to say that it took absolutely no convincing whatsoever, she had simply had to pose the question). This had led to some startlingly detailed descriptions of the marital act, complete even with quick sketches drawn up by the designer's clever hand, but also a discussion of the feelings that came along with it, both before and during the act itself.

It made for a much lovelier image than the one her mother had painted in the frank discussion Penelope had overheard her having with Phillipa the night before her wedding. Through the crack in the doorway, she had just been able to see her sister's gaping mouth and wide eyes as she had been instructed to 'lie back, open her legs and brace for impact when the time comes.'

Though their relationship has certainly never been perfect, and she definitely does not wish to dwell on thoughts of her sister in any of the compromising positions that Genevieve had firmly implanted into her mind, Penelope does hope that her sister has been able to find at least comfort, if not enjoyment in her marital bed.

"It appears I have scandalised you enough for one evening, Lady W," her friend says, finally curbing her laughter, "and it seems the sun is just about set. I should hate to keep you any longer and have your mother come to notice your absence from home, especially now that the season's events have come to an end."

Penelope glances to the net curtains blocking the view through the back room's only small window and has to concede that what little light has been able to filter through them before has steadily dwindled as the two ladies talked. Genevieve was correct that she would have to take her leave shortly if she hoped to see herself home safely, though more so because she would not be quickly missed were she not to turn up there, rather than her friend's concerns towards the opposite.

Both women rise from their seats, sharing a brief embrace and rather exaggerated kisses to each others' cheeks. They exchange fond farewells, with Penelope allowing Genevieve to give the street outside a cursory glance for any possible onlookers who may see fit to take issue upon witnessing the soon to be twenty-one year old exiting the store unaccompanied and past its opening hours. She steps out into the street before turning to complete their final goodbye for the evening.

"I suppose this will be the last time I see you until the next season, yes? Except, perhaps, if I am able to deliver your new dresses in time."

The question catches Penelope off guard, and she can not help but to refute it with an inquiry of her own, "oh, I had not realised you would not be around for the off season; where are you headed to?"

This time it is the Modiste's turn to appear confused, now also taking the step down from her front stoop to be at as level standing as she can be with her short companion.

"I am going nowhere, but rather it is your travels I refer to, of course! I had assumed yourself and your family would be following your usual routine of leaving the city limits for the off season," Genevieve explained, tilting her head, "I will of course be glad to continue receiving your company if I have been mistaken; I am sure we have barely begun to crack into the surface of the most entertaining exchanges we have had and are still yet to share with one another."

Fighting to keep her expression pleasant, Penelope mentally kicks herself. How on earth is she to upkeep the charade in which she has found herself for the next three months when she is already making so many mistakes on the first day? A part of her considers that perhaps she could disclose her situation to her friend, for certainly it would be a much needed soothing balm to her fried nerves to know there was someone nearby who might be concerned enough for her wellbeing to check in with her on occasion.

At this point, she has already broken at least two of the rules on her Mother's list, surely she could break one more if it resulted in having an ally in her corner . Then again, the waters she finds herself in are decidedly murky and she has no desire to pull her unsuspecting friend into them with her, no idea yet whether she is to sink or swim.

"Oh, yes, yes of course! Forgive me, I forgot myself for a moment. We are departing a little later this year, taking time to make sure all of our affairs are in order here before we go, what with the many… trials that have surrounded our family these last weeks," Penelope rushes through her explanation, knowing everything she's saying makes sense in theory if only her friend is able to ignore her inability to maintain eye contact or the way she bounces from foot to foot. Hopefully the allusion to her Father's recent passing (as well as to Marina Thompson, with whom they had both had their issues) will prevent Genevieve from questioning any strange behaviour she has taken notice of.

"Ah, I see, well in that case, please feel free to stop by whenever you find yourself able to slip away. In the meantime, I will put your dresses on a rush and try to have them all ready for you before you leave the city, give you time to get used to the new cut whilst you are off in the country."

"Oh, thank you, but please don't trouble yourself," Penelope insists, though she knows it will fall on deaf ears, so she adds, "though perhaps when they are ready, you could send word and I shall come and collect them myself, saving my having to make excuses for a visit and an unnecessary trip for you."

Genevieve nods, satisfied with Penelope's reasoning and the younger releases a breath - that should solve any concerns of her friend arriving to her house and discovering it's rather glaring lack of occupancy.

"Take this with you then, make sure that insipid Mother of yours has no reason to cast doubt upon you." The Modiste hands her a small slip of paper which Penelope recognises quickly as the receipt for her order.

With a nod of her head and one final farewell, Penelope finally turns to begin her journey home, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her red locks.

She reaches for her reticule to tuck away the receipt, but feels a tugging in the back of her head as she looks down at the slip of paper now tucked into her bag, a feeling that something is amiss overtaking her.

A sudden, warm glow from across the street pulls her attention away and Penelope takes note of the several lamp lighters beginning to start their evening's work, reminding her of how late the hour grows. She quickens her step toward Grosvenor Square, sure that her unease will quell the sooner she finds herself behind the locked door of her family home.

A knock sounds at the door of his study, causing Anthony to set down the paper in his hand before he has been able to ascertain any further information from it than that it is, indeed, a list, made clear by the numbers he can see spacing out each line upon the page. For the best, perhaps, he thinks, for surely nought good would have come from reading another's private writings.

"Enter," he calls, not even attempting to assuage the bite in his voice when he adds, "though I'd implore you to remember that it has been not even half a day since I requested no further interruptions and consider whether or not you are choosing to disobey my orders with good enough reason."

The door swings inward tentatively to reveal a clearly uncomfortable Humboldt, despite his best efforts to appear unphased by his master's sharp tone.

"Forgive me, sir, but Mrs Wilson insisted," the butler begins, "when she heard that you had not even been gone from the house for an hour after having insisted that you would be eating out, she thought it best that I come to once again inquire as to whether you should like a meal to be prepared?"

Though still annoyed by the intrusion, Anthony can not help but feel a sense of amusement that this visit has clearly been born from his housekeeper's needling as opposed to any desire from the butler to find himself once again gracing the Viscount's doorway.

"It seems that the women of this household have forgotten that I am the one in charge here and are instead intent on bending us all to their whims. First my mother and now Mrs Wilson - tell me, Humboldt, have they perhaps uncovered some sordid piece of gossip with which to blackmail you into completing their bidding?"

"No, sir, though in my many years as a married man I have found it is best not to question a woman's judgement," the butler supplies, "for, as imposing as you are, sir, I find I fear the psychological repercussions that only a most displeased lady is able to deliver."

Even Anthony is surprised when this response draws a single, barking laugh from him, and he pats the other man's shoulder good naturedly.

"A wise man you are, indeed," he says, beginning to pass him in the doorway, "I knew there must be a reason I continue to keep you around. Fear no longer, Humboldt, for I shall go and face the terrible trials of Mrs Wilson's kitchen myself."

He does not miss the Butler's sigh of relief, nor the way his shoulders finally sag from their previous position up around his ears. Anthony thinks himself a most kind and benevolent Master for not speaking this observation aloud.

"Oh, while you are here," Anthony starts, not breaking in his stride (he finds that he is, in fact, rather hungry after all now that the thought has been put in his head), "there is a list on my desk, I was about to look over it myself and see if I could ascertain who it might belong to, having collected it mistakenly after dropping some of my own papers in town today. Take a read for yourself and if there is any indication as to it's owner, please have it returned to them in the morning, along with my apologies for my accidental bout of thievery."

"Certainly, my Lord."

"Very good, thank you. Once I have eaten, I am going to retire for the night, so unless one of the maids happens to come across a fire catching in the ballroom, please do ignore any further feminine insistence that my peace be disturbed tonight."

Anthony does not wait for a response, allowing his grumbling stomach to guide him deeper into the house. Perhaps if he had, he would have seen the rather startled expression upon his butler's face, the mysterious document clutched tightly in his hand.

When first she awakes, Penelope is immediately sent into a state of disorientation as she opens her eyes to face the new day.

Whilst she is relieved to have been able to find rest through her first night all alone in the house, despite her initial trepidation, waking up in relative darkness and complete silence is not a sensation she is particularly accustomed to. Usually, she is awoken by one of the maids, who would have pushed open her curtains first and perhaps laid out a dress for her. At one point, they would have helped her into her clothing, as well as seeing to the taming of her curls, but as their families purse strings tightened and the workload on their few staff became heavier, Penelope had taken to completing such tasks for herself whilst insisting that whichever of the maids had been sent to her chambers that morning use the time to instead break their fast in the kitchens.

Even in the time before her Father's passing, when their house had still been bustling with a multitude of aids going about their daily tasks, Penelope had sought refuge amongst them, particularly in the kitchens where their head chef, Ida, had been kind enough to conduct lessons for her in preparing simple meals.

Suffice to say, whether she had noticed it or not, Penelope was held in the highest esteem amongst her family's servants, something that could not be said for her mother or elder sisters.

Thinking of them now comes with a twinge of bittersweetness, for remembering the kindness they had shown her means also remembering the abruptness with which her mother had dismissed them from her employ. Penelope had used her own funds to ensure each had left with a generous severance pay, along with glowing letters of recommendation, hoping it would be enough for them to keep their own family's afloat whilst they seemed new employment. She had also insisted upon them that they were not to hesitate to reach out to her should they find themselves in dire straits, though of course this would have to be done discreetly for they were all to aware of the fit Portia Featherington would throw if she discovered her daughter's actions.

Deciding she has spent long enough dwelling in her chambers, and it's no way to discern the time of day with neither sunlight nor a clock gracing her bedroom, Penelope dons a robe over her nightdress to venture downstairs. If nothing else, she shall take advantage of her time alone here to forgo the unforgiving corsets her mother tends to have fashioned for her in at least one size too small for her ample waist. Perhaps she could grow to appreciate the sight of her own figure in the mirror a little more when it is not marked with harsh red lines and occasional bruising along her sides from the offensive garments.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Penelope is glad again to have not yet donned her attire for the day, as she would have simply had to change again immediately after sweeping the old ash out from their oven. Once that is completed, she sets to work lighting a fire beneath the stove, then leaves it to warm as she sets off in search of some eggs and bread, certain in her ability to craft herself a simple meal.

Penelope has just taken her plate up to the informal dining room at the rear of the house - one of the only rooms where she has allowed for the curtains to remain open as the windows look only into their own garden and pose little risk of exposing her to any onlookers - when there is the unmistakable sound of tapping upon wood.

Startled, she scans her surroundings but sees nothing out of place, but then the noise picks up again, louder this time, and Penelope realises there is someone knocking upon her front door. She holds her breath, as if even the sound of air leaving her lips will give her away, and prays whoever it is will tire and l take their leave.

None such luck, it seems, as the next round of knocking is accompanied by the rather stern - though, somewhat unintelligible from this distance - sound of Anthony Bridgerton's voice.

Anthony isn't sure exactly what the feeling overtaking him is as he storms across Grosvenor Square, but when he looks back upon it later he will be glad of both the early hour and the season's end that there is no one but the milkman out to bear witness.

And he had been having such a pleasant morning up until then.

…

Having woken, for once, without the aid of his valet knocking on his door, the Viscount had allowed himself to revel for a few minutes the peace and quiet surrounding him. Whilst it may never be said that Anthony Bridgerton is not a man who loves his family, who takes quiet delight in hearing their daily scuffles and boisterous laughter bouncing around the walls of his home, it is rare that he is ever able to find a moment for himself amongst their chaos that isn't spent locked away behind his study door.

He had checked the time on his pocket watch and, knowing that breakfast would likely be ready for serving any moment, he had dressed himself quickly and meandered down the stairs, glad to see the day's newspaper already resting beside only his own favoured breakfast foods at the dining table.

Yes, it had been a fine start to his morning indeed.

Right up until that moment that his butler had walked into the room, clearing his throat in order to garner Anthony's attention.

From his seat at the head of the table, Anthony had sighed behind his paper, then allowed for the top half to fold down so that he may peer over top of it at Humboldt. "As I'm sure you can ascertain from your vantage point, I am willingly consuming my morning meal, and in a windowed room no less!" He waved a hand behind him, gesturing to said windows, but lay his readings down beside his half emptied plate nonetheless, offering the other man his full attention.

"Of course, sir, and I do apologise for the interruption, but it is with regards to the document you entrusted me with last night. I know you had instructed me to simply return it, but I believe you may want to avail yourself of its contents before deciding how best to proceed, My Lord."

Despite having been happy to disregard the sheet from his thoughts, Anthony was immediately intrigued and he leant forward with an outstretched hand. Ever the diligent butler, Humboldt rushed forth and presented the list to him - folded neatly atop a silver tray, of course - without need for verbal instruction.

Anthony could not say for sure how many times he read and reread the contents of the sheet, trying to fit the information he was receiving into a shape that made sense to him before he decided his questions would be best answered directly from the source. Fortunately, he had recognised the penmanship immediately and knew exactly who it was he would be seeking out.

When he had finally looked back up, it was to find Humboldt standing exactly where he had last seen him, though now he was holding Anthony's coat out to him. As he had steamed past him, snatching the jacket along the way, he made a mental note to include an increase in his butler's wages in his next financial assessments.

…

"Lady Featherington!" He calls, a hair too loudly for any time of day, really, but particularly for this early an hour. He spares a glance around him, ensuring there is still no one of particular importance around to witness his strange display, and fortunately finds the Square is still as empty as it had been when he started his knocking five minutes ago.

For a moment, he considers calling off his endeavour, that perhaps there is no one home to heed his relentless attack upon their front door. Looking up at the building, he can see that all of the drapes are still drawn tight across the windows, but it seems he has timed his assessment just right as Anthony catches movement in a window just over to his right, as if a curtain was being hastily pushed back into place.

"I see you there!" He cries, then makes the ungodly decision to leap down from the stoop and approach said window directly, rapping his knuckles against it (and almost certainly bringing a swift end to the life of the newly flourished daffodils beneath his boots), "I am prepared to stand out here making a ruckus for as long as it may take, so I implore whoever is there to come and open the door at once!"

That seems to do the trick as, in the next moment, the front door is swinging open and Penelope Featherington's head pokes out and around to assess where he is standing in her front garden.

"Lord Bridgerton!" She exclaims, a cheery smile on her face as if she has not just been caught ignoring him moments ago, "how can I help you this morning? I apologise for the wait, but we are not yet in calling hours and are thus not prepared for company."

Anthony steers himself back around to stand before her at the door, but finds himself stopping short on the last step up as he is finally able to take her in properly. The young debutante makes quite the sight, bathed in the low glow of the early morning light wearing a near floor length, green dressing gown, the tie of which has come loose enough to allow the two sides to have pulled apart at the front, affording a rather generous view of the top portion of her silk nightgown and its rather ahem low cut neckline. Quite the sight indeed .

Shaking himself, Anthony diverts his gaze away from her décolletage, which allows him to take in, instead, the stains of what appears to be some kind of black powder smeared over the sleeves of her robe. The confusing sight is enough to jar him back to himself, and Anthony crosses the distance between then until he stands but two paces away from her and meets her eyes (and only her eyes, despite being all to aware of the view that this new height advantage above her would certainly provide were he to glance any further down).

"Miss Featherington, I apologise for the hour but I had hoped to seek an audience with you and I'm afraid the matter I wish to attend to is rather pressing." Anthony clears his throat, hands clasped behind his rigid back and charming smile fixed in place in just the way he has learnt is impossible to refuse.

"Oh, right, erm," Penelope glances back over her shoulder, appearing increasingly on edge, "like I said, My Lord, I am not certain now is the best time, perhaps another time?"

Anthony can hardly believe his eyes as the redhead starts to slowly edge the door shut, as if he has not already made it perfectly clear through both word and action that he will not be so easily deterred.

Reaching his hand up, Anthony places a palm flat on the wood of the door, halting its progress easily as he leans a little further forward, "it seems I have not made myself clear enough, Miss Featherington, but I will simply not be taking no for an answer, and I'm most certain that your mother would not be pleased to hear you were attempting to shun away a gentleman caller. I believe it would be best now that you should fetch a footman to see me through to the drawing room whilst you, ahem, have your lady's maid help you dress," at this, Penelope glances down at herself and barely conceals her yelp as she re-ties her dressing gown so she is better covered. Anthony tries not to feel disappointed.

Still, however, Anthony can see that she is hesitant to allow him entry to her home, and so he pulls out his ace, as it were, and holds up the piece of paper he has been clutching throughout their interaction. "That is, of course, unless you should like to discuss the contents of this list right here on your front doorstep."

He has shocked her, he can tell, but she quickly surprises him right back when she takes a hold of his lapel and yanks him in through the front door, promptly slamming it shut behind him.

Oh I am going to be in so much trouble , Penelope thinks, trying her best to calm her shaking hands enough that she might be able to finish tying the strings at the back of her day dress - an unfortunately cut - though not horrendously embellished - peach dress with the ever fashionable empire waistline favoured by the other debutantes, but certainly not by Penelope Featherington.

She can barely believe the mess she has found herself in, having just dragged a gentleman, a Viscount , through her house in a manner most unladylike and then promptly deposited him in a chair at the very same table as her poor, abandoned plate of eggs. She is mostly surprised that he had allowed her manhandling of him, though if the rather fishlike gaping she had seen on his face before she had scurried out of the room was anything to go by, it was likely that he had simply been taken so off guard he had not had been able to spare a thought to interfere.

There is another thought niggling in her head, though. When he had been at her door, Anthony had made multiple references to both her mother and their usual household staff, something he should have no reason to do unless he has somehow misunderstood the context of the list.

Taking a final look in her mirror, Penelope uses one hand to smooth out any wrinkles in her skirts whilst the other comes up to try and flatten out her hair. Usually, she might have at least made an attempt to pin some of it back, knowing it is improper to be in the presence of a man whilst it all hangs loose, but she fears she has likely kept the viscount waiting for long enough already.

As she heads down the stairs, Penelope takes a fortifying breath and tries to remember she is not actually walking into the gallows, despite what her racing heart seems to think.

When her mother hears about this… no , she thinks, not worth thinking about right now. One problem at a time.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Lord Bridgerton," she begins, proud of herself for keeping the shake out of her voice as she dips into a polite curtsey, "I hope you can understand it takes me a little bit longer to get ready by myself."

She is in no way prepared for the confused furrowing of his brow that her words elicits. "By yourself, what…?" He asks, and now she is the one left in befuddlement, though he steams along anyway, "It is of no matter, you are here now and I should like to get onto discussing the matter at hand immediately. Though I'm not sure how it is that you have managed to orchestrate for this conversation to take place without a chaperone, I am grateful for your efforts and relieved that I will be able to speak plainly on the subject."

"Without a chaperone?" Penelope asks, feeling more and more as though she is standing out in the dark somehow despite how the light pouring into the room grows brighter with every passing moment. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but I am confused. You have come upon and read the contents of my list, and that is what you wish to discuss with me, correct?"

"Yes, Miss Featherington," he huffs, clearly becoming impatient with her lack of understanding. Anthony would be beginning to suspect her to be acting purposefully obtuse, if not for the ever present crease between her brow and her steady maintenance of eye contact with him, leading him to believe her genuine.

"I assure you, I am not making efforts to be tiring, sir," she begins, clearly having somehow read his thoughts, "but you seem to say one thing and then immediately contradicting it with another. I am simply hoping to get us both on the same page. Perhaps you could tell me exactly which part of the list you seek to confer over?"

"Which part?!" He barks, finally growing exasperated, "why, the whole thing, of course!"

A beat of silence passes between them and Penelope can see the very moment that his patience snaps completely. Anthony closes the remaining space between them and all but thrusts the list into her hold.

Looking down at it, Penelope releases a sharp gasp. This is certainly not what she had expected to see, and she can not quite decide if the predicament she now finds herself in is better or worse than the one she had thought herself to be just a moment ago; the one where he had uncovered that she had been left to fend for herself in this empty house and had come to somehow take charge of the situation.

"So explain to me what you think is happening here," Anthony all but growls , "because from where I'm standing, it seems I have mistakenly uncovered rather damning evidence about your recent endeavours, written out in your own hand, Miss Featherington, or would you prefer I call you Lady Whistledown?"

And she had just been starting to have such a lovely morning.

Maybe he's got this all wrong, because judging by the waves of sheer bewilderment rolling off of the young woman, it seems that Penelope may not know anything about this damned list after all.

Perhaps he has mistaken the penmanship, though he has certainly seen enough correspondence arrive to the house from her to his sister that he knows it to be a close match. However, having finally taken a breath to assess the situation, it all does seem rather far fetched.

She is still staring down at the sheet, now, eyes moving over it quick as she takes in what he has already read. Maybe she, too, is trying to work out why the list of printers shops is numbered in the way it is, or perhaps she has also come to the same startling conclusion that the mentioned delivery boys seem to be making a collective profit greater than that of 'LW', as she is marked, going by the smaller scratchings in the corner showing a second list containing a financial breakdown of sorts.

Penelope's eyes flick back and forth between the slip and his own, giving away absolutely nothing to him. Surely, by now, she would be attempting to make some kind of grand denial were she to believe herself found out. Maybe she is trying to work out the most polite way to ask a Viscount whether or not he has recently misplaced his marbles.

"Okay," she breathes finally, "what do you want to know?"

Or maybe he was right on the money.

Penelope goes over and over the possibilities in her head as Anthony watches her assess the list, trying to figure out the best course of action she can take from here.

She could act the innocent fool, shocked and confused by his accusation, or lean into her status as a wallflower and make it seem that the infamous gossip columnist could not possibly be someone as inconsequential as her.

Each time she looks up, however, she finds herself still the focus of his unwavering scrutiny, and knows the decision to give in has already been made.

"Well, I think I should like to hear you say it, first," Anthony says, running a hand back through his chestnut hair, "so that we might stop talking ourselves in circles."

He witnesses her metamorphosis right before his eyes as she straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and meets his gaze wearing a cool mask of clever indifference. Anthony can not claim to have spent many thoughts on the youngest Featherington in the past, but he is certain that he has never pictured her in the context of the poised, intelligent, confident woman standing before him now.

"Yes, I suppose that would be for the best, My Lord. It is as you suspect, I am Lady Whistledown."

"Right, well, yes, very good," he replies, feeling somewhat put out by the calm way Penelope seems to be approaching her unmasking when he had come over here ready to either fight for his answers or have to wait patiently as she bumbled through them, "I'm sure you understand that I have further questions."

"And I will answer them to the best of my ability," she gives a deferential nod to emphasise her co-operation, "perhaps we should sit down."

Penelope gestures towards the dining table, already brushing past him to reclaim her abandoned breakfast seat. She eyes the eggs for a moment but finds that where she had been starving before, the sight of them now only causes her stomach to twist uncomfortably.

Anthony follows her lead and she has to hide a giggle when she realises he has automatically diverted towards the head of the table, settling back into the seat diagonally to her left. Ever the patriarch , she thinks.

"I suppose I shall get right into it, if you are amenable, and you can interrupt me when you see fit to pose questions," Penelope suggests, trying to subtly slide her full plate further down the table without breaking eye contact, "unless you might like me to start anywhere in particular?"

The viscount shakes his head and indicates for her to begin with a wave of his hand, then leans back more comfortably into his seat. If Penelope is intimidated by his somewhat prolonged silence, she does well not to show it to him outwardly (of course, he can not see the way her leg bounces beneath the table).

"The writings started last year, long before I took on the Whistledown moniker. I found myself growing tired of needlework tutoring and my mothers endless lectures in all the many ways a lady may hold her fan. I was restless and seeking something more challenging to occupy my mind, tired of filling my head with lessons in wooing a gentleman that I knew, even then, I would likely never get to use,

"I was fairly isolated from the other girls I took study with - aside from your sister, of course, but though Eloise shared in my preference for intellectual pursuits, she was still far more favoured than I for her the effortless charm, beauty and respect that seems to befall anyone holding the surname Bridgerton."

Penelope stops short as she remembers who she is talking to, then offers the viscount an awkward, sheepish smile, her head tilting to the side, "by which I mean-"

"I understand perfectly, Miss Featherington," he interrupts, maintaining an unreadably straight expression, "you think me both exceedingly charming and handsome. Don't worry, you are not the first young lady who has been so overcome with the urge to disclose these facts to me, though you have forgotten to include my humbleness in your assessment."

Anthony isn't sure what came over him to say such a thing - if Simon or his brothers had been present, he likely would have been accused of flirting with the girl! - but he could sense her nerves beginning to rise again and had felt the urge to put her back to ease. It seems to have worked well, though, as Penelope only allows a beat of silence to pass before she releases a giggle, which in turn causes Anthony to allow for the uptick of his own lips into the ghost of a smile.

Whatever it was that caused him to respond to her in such a way, he is grateful for it as he can physically feel the tension bleeding out of the shared space. Not gone entirely, but reducing steadily to put them at a much more comfortable standing than where they had begun.

Anthony wonders what else he might allow himself to blurt out to her if it means being rewarded with the musical sound of her laughter or the way her eyelashes flutter so prettily against her porcelain cheeks.

Perhaps he has, in fact, misplaced a marble or two this morning.

"Humble indeed," Penelope laughs, "I include this description in my account only to help you better understand the distance between our standings, and not just in terms of power or title, but also as people. The Featherington name has never held an awful lot of weight to the Ton, even before this last season and with Father having being a Baron in his own right. Now, attach that name to the rather displeasing image I present as a plump and pale, garishly embellished spectacle, holding not even half of the social graces the other ladies seem to have in abundance, then I'm sure you can imagine why the whispers surrounding me have never been particularly kind."

Somewhere throughout her speech, Penelope eyes had lowered and she found herself now looking down at her own fingers fiddling with the loose thread of a napkin. She clears her throats and rights herself again, holding up a hand when it appears Anthony is about to cut in again, and she does not want to lose sight of the track now that she is on it,

"I do not say this because I expect your pity, nor would I hope for insincere flatteries. I know what I am and where I am expected to stand in the world, and thusly I know that the opinions I hold on our society at large would be ignored at best and trampled on at worse if they were to come from my own mouth."

Penelope pauses for a moment, seeking and finding indication that Anthony is still following her recount, if seemingly somewhat confused by its' current direction. The Viscount is a man who deals in absolutes, she knows, so she might have to cut out some of the more emotional details going forward and start speaking the facts plainly if she hopes to reach the end of this encounter with what little she holds in dignity and reputation at least partially intact. The context is important though , she thinks, and she will not allow for her character to be assassinated by a man who has never known social hardship.

"I started to write things down, making little notes in my journal whilst the tutors were pouring their efforts and attentions into the more accomplished ladies. At first it was just little quips, rebuttals I had thought of to their scathing remarks that I did not dare to say aloud but needed to be released nonetheless. Still, I was seeking that challenge, and so I started honing my observation skills and discovered I had rather a knack for collecting pieces of information and fitting them together to uncover the bigger picture. I started documenting my findings, still interlinked with the odd quip or barb when it felt pertinent,

"I never had intentions to share any of it, not with anyone. I know now, and I knew just as well then, the damage that words can cause to a person."

"Then why would you-" Anthony interjects, but this time the hand that moves to stop him is laid gently upon his forearm, giving a slight squeeze.

"I'm getting there, I promise," she impores. She starts to lean back, intent on taking her hand with her but is stopped when he lays one of his own on top.

"I apologise," he says, returning the reassuring squeeze she had just issued upon him, "please continue."

"Though I had not intended to share my journal, I was also not careful about putting it away when not in use - there was no need, my parents had no interest in whatever I was getting up to and my sisters were sure to suck up all of their available attention, however little of it there was. But one day, Father's attorney had come to hold a meeting with him in our home and came across my notes whilst waiting in the drawing room. I didn't think too much of it when I came upon him reading through the pages, aside from being a little embarrassed. Then, he started laughing! And not just a little chuckle, either, no; he was bent at the waist in his mirth. I was so taken aback by the display I could do little else but stare at him.

"The more he laughed, however, the more embarrassed I started to feel, until he finally stopped for long enough to tell me it was the most brilliant thing he had ever read. We got to talking and he convinced me to compile some of my better writings into a single document for him to take away. I had thought it was simply for his own amusement, until I received correspondence from him that he had shared them with a local printer who agreed with him that there was the possibility for publication,

"I only met with Mr Banks twice after that, once when he took me to meet the printers and again when he helped me to open a bank account under a separate pseudonym."

Penelope's eyes take on a far away look for a moment, so Anthony gives her hand a light pat to bring her back to him.

"He's not involved anymore, then?" He asks.

"Mr Banks died two days before the first issue went to print," there is nothing Penelope can do to keep the wobble from her voice here, "I hear it was consumption that took him, that he only suffered for a couple of days before the end."

Anthony allows her her moment's peace this time, using it to consider all of the information she has given to him so far. He's surprised again with just how forthcoming Penelope has been in sharing her story with him thus far, surprised even further to learn her motivations have been so different than anything he could have predicted. Whilst he knew her to be often overlooked amongst the ladies of the Ton, particularly in the case of the other debutantes, he had not considered that people might have been so outwardly cruel to her, nor that she might face that same cruelty within these very walls.

If Eloise were here she would likely chastise him for his ever present cluelessness when it comes to the plights of women in their society, then subject him to a lengthy lecture to bring her points home. He spares a thought for how Benedict must be faring with her in the country and makes a mental note to pick him up a nice bottle from Whites before he sets off to join the family there in two weeks.

Penelope clears her throat, bringing them both back to the present. Her eyes are still a little glassy, easy to see with the way that the fast approaching noon sun is reflecting off of them, but her lip does not wobble and no tears are allowed to escape. If he were not sitting so close to her, and if he had not just heard her brief recount of the death of a man who had clearly done more for her in such a short space of time than her family had in twenty years, Anthony would likely not have been able to tell at all that there was something wrong.

"That is about the gist of it, really, and I imagine you can put together the rest with what you know of my pamphlets and the information you have garnered from my sheet. I attended events and promenades throughout the season, wrote down my findings and submitted them to my publishers for print twice weekly, then my delivery boys would have them distributed the next day."

"It seems you have created quite the enterprise for yourself, Miss Featherington, and I appreciate your candour in explaining its workings to me. I'm certain I understand the operational side of it quite well now."

"But…?" Penelope prompts, sensing there is more to the man's statement.

"But, whilst I am certainly interested, that is not the part of your endeavour I came here with the intention of discussing." Anthony's countenance all at once becomes more serious, prompting Penelope to finally pull her hand away from his arm as she repositions herself in her chair.

"Of course," she coughs, flicking a loose curl over her shoulder if only for something to do with her hands that isn't reaching back out towards him, "whatever it is you would like to know, I shall tell you - though I will not be disclosing the names or any other such details of my few associates."

"And I would not ask you to. I'd like to discuss-"

"Miss Penelope!" The shout which interrupts him is followed by the sound of a door closing somewhere, causing both parties to startle enough that they each leap to their feet, "it's just me, Miss, are you up?"

Penelope breathes out a sigh as she recognises the voice, responding with a call of her own, "in here, Ida!" Then, quieter to Anthony, "our cook arriving for the day."

"Your cook is just getting here now?" He asks, eyes flitting back to the table. Confused, Penelope follows his gaze back and finds it has landed on her godforsaken plate of eggs.

"Oh! Uhm-"

Ida - beautiful, wonderful, will-be-receiving-a-hefty-bonus Ida - finally makes it into the room then, carrying a small crate, covered over with hessian, blessedly drawing Anthony's attention back to the doorway.

"Oh there you are dear, I was hoping I'd get here before you'd-OH!" The cook is finally able to look up once she and her cargo have made it over the room's threshold, only to end up nearly dropping the whole thing as she finds not just her young charge but Viscount Bridgerton standing before her, "My Lord." She acknowledges, dipping into as much of a curtsey as she can manage whilst still holding her heavy parcel.

"Oh, Ida, please set that thing down, you'll hurt your back. I wish you had come to get me before bringing it in and we might have carried it up together!" Penelope admonishes, rushing forward to assist the other woman, helping to guide her to the nearest available surface.

"Don't be silly, Miss," Ida responds, then casts her appraising eyes over Anthony, "although speaking of silly , do you think it wise to have a gentleman here with you whilst you are alone in the-"

"Alone in the dining room! Yes, I know, but Lord Bridgerton has only stopped by to return something to me and we have left the door wide open, as you can see."

It's somewhat comical, Anthony thinks, that the two ladies do not seem to realise that he can see the silent conversation passing between them as they both arch and wiggle their eyebrows in all sorts of indecipherable movements. More comical, perhaps, that he has no idea exactly what has just been communicated between them and yet they both seem to have reached the same page, turning on him with equally saccharine smiles.

"Lord Bridgerton was just on his way off, Ida. Will you accompany me as I see him out?"

"Certainly, Miss," the cook replies, and Anthony finds himself being ushered by the women back down the still dark hallway in the direction of the front door.

"Miss Featherington, as we have not been able to complete our discussion, perhaps I could invite you for dinner this evening at Bridgerton House?" Anthony asks, having to just about dig his heels into the floorboards as he has found himself once again at the mercy of Penelope's surprising strength, only this time she has help and is trying to maneuver him out rather than in.

"I will have to ask my Mother's permission, of course, perhaps I could send over my response later on." Penelope huffs, finally releasing him as the odd trio have made it to the front door.

"Never mind that, I shall just ask her myself whilst I am here; she is not likely to turn me down." Anthony moves as if to step towards the drawing room, when Ida all but leaps into his path.

"Oh, no, sir, Lady Featherington is still asleep I'm afraid!" She rushes, wringing her hands together in a clear show of her nervousness.

"How can you be so sure? Have you not only just arrived through the kitchens?" Anthony asks, then pulls his timepiece from his coat pocket, "and it is now well past eleven o'clock."

"Right you are, there, sir. However I have been in the Featherington's employ for long enough to know that My Lady always stays in her bed chambers late on a Sunday! And I'm certain that's where the rest of the staff will be as well, probably all up there trying to convince her to rise for the day!" Penelope, now standing mostly behind Anthony as he addresses her cook, begins making wildly exaggerated gesticulations to the other woman, trying to indicate for her to stop talking by waving both hands across her own neck. Ida - who seems to share her trait of barrelling on senselessly and over excusing when put on the spot - ignores her, "I'll go on up and have a crack at it myself, I think! And I'll tell her of your kind invitation for Penelope to join your family for dinner. You'll surely be correct in your assumption that she won't refuse; no need to wait for confirmation!"

By this point, Ida has managed to slowly begin backing herself up towards the staircase, only just catching Penelope mouth 'traitor' to her before she turns and makes a dashing escape to the first floor.

The red head just barely schools her features back into a pleasant smile before Anthony is rounding on her, eyebrows decidedly arched .

"So, I shall see you for dinner later on then, yes?" She asks, managing to get the front door pulled open without breaking eye contact.

"I - yes, the staff usually serve up for around-"

"Seven o'clock, yes, I have attended many meals in your dining room. Don't worry, I am certain I'll be able to find my way there in time!"

"Right, well- Miss Featherington, is there something else going on that-"

"See you later, Anthony!"

For the third time in as many hours, Penelope Featherington takes hold of Anthony Bridgerton's arm, then uses it to propel him over the threshold and onto her front stoop. Anthony, surprised as he is to hear his given name fall from her lips, allows the momentum to take him out into the late morning sun. If he makes any attempt to offer his own farewells, it is lost in the slamming of the door.

"Blimey, Miss!" Ida calls, head poking over the top of the banister, "shall I make up some brunch before I go? I can't stay for long today, I'm afraid."

"Yes, please, Ida," Penelope sighs, then adds, "nothing with eggs."

"Alright, dear. Now, you know already how I feel about your mother and her leaving you here like this, but perhaps it would be wise if we rehash that list of rules she left for you whilst you eat?"

The list, Penelope remembers, feeling that familiar sinking in her gut once again. She passes by Ida on the stairs in a rush up to her bedroom, quickly scanning the space for the reticule she took out with her the day previous. Once located, Penelope opens it up and dumps the contents out onto her bed, spreading the items out so she can better take stock. Her eyes pass over the pile once, twice, three times before reaching her conclusion.

Where she had left the house yesterday with two lists in her bag, now there are decidedly none.

Notes:

Anthony and Penelope individually: smart, competent, capable business people

Anthony and Penelope together: flustered and confused

Three list based cliff hangers in a row? Could never be me!

Story if this wasn't the big confrontation you were hoping for here, but we're building towards bigger things to come. They're gonna be chill for a minute but there'll be time for fire soon!

Thanks for all your lovely comments so far, I'm having a lot of fun mapping this all out :)

Chapter 6

Summary:

Penelope begins the search for her missing list whilst Anthony spends his day staring at clocks.

They reconvene, for the second time that day, at an otherwise empty dining table where tensions run high.

Notes:

A little longer than previous chapters; strap in!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope does not even pretend to entertain the thought of using the back door to exit the house this time - truly, what would be the point?

She had shared some bread and cured meats with Ida at the table (after finally getting discarding of her eggs, plate and all), who had shared the good news that she had found another house able to take her into their employ, then apologised profusely that it would cause her planned check ins to become infrequent if not nonexistent. Penelope had hugged her a little tighter before she left a half hour later.

Alone again, she'd tried to entertain herself once more with books, even going as far as to read them aloud with a variety of heavily accented voices, but there was simply nothing for it. Once her mind had locked onto something, Penelope was much the same as a street dog tracking the scent of a beef steak all the way to the butcher's door. And so off sniffing she went.

As it is the middle of the afternoon, Penelope has donned her lightest cloak over top of her day dress, aiming to appear conspicuously inconspicuous on her way to the Modiste. She wishes to hasten her step as she walks, but knows that might only attract unwanted attention unto her so she tries to keep her gait steady.

By the time she reaches Genevieve's shop, she can feel a thin sheen of sweat has formed upon her brow, but isn't sure whether it is from the midday heat or her nerves. It makes a nice change, however, to be visiting the store during its normal operating hours, as it allows her to simply push open the door and step inside.

The bell above the entrance tinkles pleasantly, surely alerting Genevieve to the presence of a customer as she appears from behind the thick, velvet curtain that separates her design space from the rows of fabric on display in her shop front.

"Bonjour Madam, 'ow may I- oh," the Modiste's lips slide easily from the saccharine grin she uses on her usual clientele and into a genuine, softer smile, "Miss Penelope, I hadn't expected to see you back so soon," Gen glances around, ensuring there is no one else currently lurking who might overhear her slip into her real accent as she continues, "though I am overjoyed to see you, as I was planning to send word that one of your new gowns is complete!"

Penelope finds herself being pulled along through the curtains - karma , a suspiciously male voice whispers in her head - where she spies a freshly packaged box resting on the Modiste's chair (for there is simply no other available surface on which it could have possibly been placed, what with the abundance of fabrics and threads enveloping the space).

"My goodness, Gen, it has been not two full days since I placed my order with you! I do hope you have not overworked yourself for my benefit."

The Modiste's face softens in a way that Penelope has not seen before, with her brows pulled just a smidge closer together, and the corners of her lips downturned yet still somehow in a smile. She reminds the redhead of her words to her during their last visit, that she has long since coveted to be the one who would enact the necessary changes to Penelope's wardrobe, then explains that she has had the patterns for multiple gowns already cut and sewn in her measurements, just awaiting the right time for them to receive their finishing touches.

"You deserve nice things, Miss Penelope," Genevieve implores, reading the utter disbelief on her friend's face correctly, "and you deserve to have people in your life who wish to do nice things for you, and who act upon those wishes."

Penelope accepts the parcel as it is handed to her with grace, if a little misty eyed, offering the seamstress her most sincere thanks, hoping she understands that it is not just the dress for which she is grateful (she does).

"Enough with this, now, I will not see us reduced to a pair of weeping saps in my own shop! Now, tell me why it is you have actually come to visit me today, for you arrived long before I could send word to you about your dress and we are far outside of our usual meeting hours."

"I do fear for the future of my business that I seem to be becoming so transparent," Penelope huffs, "but alas you are correct that I have come here today with an ulterior motive. I seem to have misplaced some notes of mine and was hoping they might have ended up here."

Genevieve allows for Penelope to conduct a rather thorough, even if hurried, search of the personal rooms of her property, hoping to come across her misplaced list. As she soon discovers, it is more of a task than she had considered it would be, as the Modiste has an abundance of designs spread out around her space, with stocks of paper and ink available on most surfaces.

"Perhaps if you might be more specific as to what exactly it is you are looking for then I could be of more assistance to your efforts?" Genevieve prompts, eyeing the shorter woman currently down on her hands and knees, one arm up to her shoulder reaching around beneath a chaise lounge.

"I'm afraid it is a hopeless pursuit," Penelope sighs, ignoring the question, "but it is no matter, I still have one more place to check before I must assume the document to have been swept away by a passing carriage."

Rising to her feet, Penelope uses both hands to dust off her knees - not that there be any need to for, despite the cluttered state of the Modiste's studio, it is by no means unclean. Looking up, she finds said Modiste to be standing much closer to her than she had been in the moment before.

"I hope the writings you have misplaced are not… incriminating," Genevieve murmurs, voice low despite the near total privacy provided to them by the space.

"There is nothing pertaining to the subject you are referencing," Penelope replies, "though there is some sensitive information of a different nature which I would rather not see shared with the wrong party, even if they were not able to link it back to me."

The designer gives an understanding nod of her head, accepting the morsel of information she has been provided and not seeking to attain any more. Penelope adds it to the growing list of reasons she appreciates their unusual acquaintance so much.

"I will allow you your vagueness, Penelope, if only because it amuses me so to watch you try and talk your way around a subject. However, I must beg of you to share with me the location at which you will conclude your search, one way or the other, so that I might know where to send the bow street runners should they end up at my door looking for answers about your sudden and mysterious disappearance." Genevieve places one hand on Penelope's arm and the other over her own chest, painting the look of a distressed maiden onto her face even as her eyes shine with mirth and mischief.

"Oh, such melodrama!" Penelope laughs, "but I assure you, there will be no need to worry. I shall return to you yet with my skin unmarred and my virtue intact - although, there is always the chance I may walk back through your door with a limp if I end up having to chew off my foot from how firmly it will end up lodged in my own mouth. I assure you, the closest thing to danger I am ever to face when having dinner at Bridgerton House is the uncertainty of whatever unfortunate turn of phrase may tumble from my own lips."

"Bridgerton House, are you certain?" Genevieve inquires, dropping her playful needling as she sinks to sit down on the chaise, leaning her head back to peer up at Penelope.

"Quite certain, yes," she huffs in reply, placing her hands on her hips as she, for once, finds herself looking down to meet her friend's gaze "I am a fairly frequent guest there."

"Of that I do not doubt; I have heard each of the family's ladies, from Lady Bridgerton down to the young Miss Hyacinth, sing your praises enough times as I stick them with pins to know how you are treasured by them," (in other circumstances this news might have brought tears to the red head's eyes), "it is only that I was informed at the last such fitting I had with them that they were to leave for the country on a date which has now surely passed us."

"Ah, well, your information is correct as Lady Bridgerton and four of her children have, indeed, made the trip to Aubrey Hall, however there is one still here in the city."

"Don't tell me Miss Eloise has managed to convince them to let her stay behind," Gen all but shrieks, leaning forward in her seat with interest clearly peeked, "I know she is a forward thinker in the ways that a woman should be allowed her independence, but to leave young girl of her standing alone in the city to fend for herself would be abhorrent; the danger that could befall her if any unseemly characters were to catch wind of such a notion, can you imagine?!"

"Not Eloise," Penelope reassures, hoping to move swiftly on from this particular line of conversation and the unease that stirs with having her own situation laid out so plainly by someone else, even if indirectly, "It is the Viscount Bridgerton who remains at the manor, though what for I'm not yet certain."

The expression on Genevieve's face shifts from horror to glee - whizzing also through shock, consideration and something unnamable on the way there so quickly that it makes Penelope feel a touch of motion sickness just from having witnessed it - and at this point she is practically hovering for how on the edge of her seat she is.

"So you are not having dinner at Bridgerton House, but rather you are having dinner with Anthony Bridgerton." The finger she points up towards the other woman's face feels accusatory, though what she is being accused of, Penelope could not say.

"The words may be different but they mean the same thing, Gen," She rolls her eyes, pushing her friend's finger firmly away from her nose.

"They most certainly do not ! I assume, seeing as the rest of the family are spread far and wide from here, the invitation for this dinner came directly from your Lord Bridgerton?"

"He is not my anything," Penelope insists, hating the way she feels her cheeks begin to warm as she follows her friend's insinuations, "but yes, he extended the request for my company during his visit to my home this morning."

"His visit to- Miss Featherington !" Surely, Genevieve would have fallen right onto the floor at this point had she not instead leapt to her feet. Seemingly deciding she needs something to keep her knees from buckling beneath her, she clutches onto Penelope's shoulders as she continues, "he has called on you and now he has invited you to dine with him, and in his own home no less! Have we somehow made it through an hour in each other's company without you disclosing to me that you are being courted by Anthony Bridgerton ?!"

"WHAT?!? No, we-" Penelope tries to interject, but Genevieve is on too fast a roll.

"Good god, I have always laughed at the ways that your society mothers titter about and all but swoon at the sight of an unwed gentleman standing within six feet of their unwed daughters, but now I believe I understand it all! Your Mama must be beside herself at this turn of events, I shall have to restock on all of my most flowery fabrics after all, and we-"

"Anthony knows about Whistledown!" Penelope blurts, finally halting her friend's tirade, "that is why we are to dine together in his home tonight, for he wishes to question me about the matter privately."

"Oh," Genevieve deflates, dropping unceremoniously back onto the chaise, though this time she lets herself sink bonelessly into its cushioned back, "well, that is decidedly rather different than what I was picturing - though no less intriguing, I will give you that."

"Well I am sorry to disappoint, Madame, though how you could have come so far into the conclusion that a Bridgerton - or, truly, any upstanding gentleman - would show willingness to court me is confounding. Nevertheless, I am still expected to be join him and will have to head home if I am to make myself at all presentable in time."

The spark in Genevieve's eyes realights, then, with a hint of scheming that Penelope thinks it wise not to look further into. She reaches out a hand for Penelope to request her assistance in getting back up once again from her seat, then sweeps over to her desk chair, where rests the neatly packaged box they had both near forgotten about.

"How fortuitous, then, that you came to see me first; it is as though the fates have aligned themselves perfectly for you today, my dear," Gen smiles, lifting the package and extending it for Penelope to take, "I must insist that you wear this tonight, if for no other reason than to be able to return to me with your review of my new design that much sooner. And perhaps you'll also be able to share the Viscount's opinion on it as well."

Penelope takes the boxed gown gratefully, offering a fondly exasperated roll of her eyes in return for it. "I highly doubt that Anthony will be taking much notice of what I am wearing."

"You are right," Genevieve replies, taking on an oddly serious tone to deliver her parting line, "I imagine he will spend so much time staring at your breasts in it that he will likely not even realise you are wearing a dress at all."

"Gen!"

It really is quite the gown, Penelope must admit, the cut of it unlike anything she has ever seen before, though the note tucked inside the box written in Genevieve's hand had informed her it was quite the popular style in France. The fabric is soft to the touch and in a dark shade of emerald green, far finer than anything she has worn before for certain.

The dress is blessedly easy to fasten up herself, with ties down the back that need only be pulled and knotted near the base of her spine which Penelope makes quick work of before turning to the mirror.

She had not known what to think of the near off shoulder style neckline upon her first inspection of the dress, but now that it's on she can see how it might be flattering. It scoops lower across her chest than she is used to, revealing quite the view of the top of her breasts where they sit pushed up nicely by the gown's built-in corset.

Penelope turns to one side and then the other, admiring the bell sleeves that end just above her elbows, and feel far less constricting against her arms than the tighter, cap style she is used to. Her hands come up to rest briefly at her waist where the corset pulls in to her natural curves before the skirt of the dress begins, providing a much more satisfying silhouette than the usual empire cut gowns that cut midway across her chest and make her appear much larger than she really is.

The skirts themselves brush lightly along the floor, making a satisfying swish as they move with and around her, and are trimmed at the end with an inch of lace. There are no other embellishments to the gown, not a flower or bow, feather or sequin in sight, allowing the fit and flare style to speak entirely for itself. It's completely perfect.

And she hates it. She hates it because the dress is everything she could have ever dreamed a dress could be, it's elegant and beautiful and everything else that she is most decidedly not. It does not matter how astonishing the dress appears in the mirror's reflection because it is her body it is attached to and she knows that pretty packaging can do nothing when what's inside it is so detestable.

The room around her starts to feel hot and Penelope watches as the flush starts at her chest and spreads outwards until all of her visible skin is tinged a bright red hue. Fortunately she had left her fan atop her dresser and it takes just two steps to reach it and begin attempting to cool herself down. Part of her wants to take of the dress and url it from her window, leave it to shrivel and mold in the bushes below, but she had promised Genevieve to try it out tonight, and the colour really is far more appealing than anything else she might find to change into.

There is nothing else for it now as the hour grows later and the clock she has pilfered from her sister's room reads at half past six. Grabbing her hair brush, Penelope uses it to smooth out her tight curls until they settle into looser waves, adding length to her hair where it comes to rest over her right shoulder, pinned back on the other side. She's not sure why she uses what remains of her time to line her eyes and paint her lips a shade darker, nor why she gives herself an extra spritz of her perfume before she goes in search of her coat.

The sun is half set when she opens her front door and hurries across the square to Bridgerton House

Anthony checks his time piece (for the fifth time in the last quarter hour) and re-ties his cravat (for the sixth time in the last ten minutes). He is seated behind his desk, quill standing in its' ink pot and papers lined up along the surface, attempting to appear every bit the encumbered viscount to the empty chairs and closed door staring back at him. Never mind that he has read this same sentence over and over ( seven times ) and still could not tell you if the document pertains to the renewal of his tenants lease agreements or the ongoing finances associated with his brother's travels.

When his pocket watch turns to five minutes before seven, he allows himself to rise from his seat, buttoning his waistcoat and straightening his jacket overtop. He smooths his hands down over his clothes to rid them of any wrinkles, as if they had not been freshly pressed that afternoon.

Anthony makes for the corridor, turning in the direction of the foyer, but slows his pace as he goes. It wouldn't do for the staff to start thinking their viscount overeager to welcome the Featherington girl into his dining room as if she has not been a regular fixture there for years. Fortunately for all involved, he has not been near enough to the kitchens today to know that whispers are already being traded.

He nears the foyer just as Humboldt is opening the front door, clearly welcoming Penelope over the threshold despite how he is currently blocking her from Anthony's view. He has just enough time to give the clock in the hall a glance - seven o'clock on the dot - whilst his butler takes Penelope's coat.

"Miss Featherington, sir," Humboldt announces formally, stepping back finally to reveal her standing in the entryway.

By God.

Anthony nearly stumbles as his legs fail him mid step, bringing him to an abrupt stop as he all but gawps at the young lady who greets him. She is a vision before him, with flowing locks that he follows down her neck to the tempting swells and dips of her cleavage, then further to the inward curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. She is pure and glowing and soft and she is sin wrapped in the sort of shiny green fabric that he just knows would slide away so easily under his fingers.

A strange sort of sensation takes him, a tingling in the tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes, something familiar and yet entirely new.

And there are no better words to describe her now, he thinks - familiar but new - though for the first time he wishes he held some of Benedict's artistic inclinations, so that he might be able to think of some more. Enchanting, he'd say, or maybe even reference her to one of the many idols framed on the walls of the British Museum. Anthony briefly weighs the merits of commissioning his brother to complete a portrait for himself with Miss Featherington as the subject. He wonders if he'd display it in his study or give it pride of place in his bed chambers.

"Are you quite well, Lord Bridgerton? I will take no offense if you find yourself needing to postpone our convers-"

"Anthony!" He interjects, realising only when Penelope's expression shifts from concerned to startled that he has all but bellowed his own name in her face after having not spoken for at least the first - he glances at the clock - three minutes he has been in her presence.

"I'm sorry?" She asks, glancing over to where Humboldt is still standing against the wall behind her, attempting to hide his snort behind a cough.

Anthony must catch this slip as well for he turns a withering glare on the butler, though the reminder that there is an audience to his humiliation seems to bring him back to himself. Straightening up to his full height, Anthony pushes the hair back from his forehead and clears his throat.

"My apologies, Miss Featherington," he begins, making to close the space between them as he speaks, "I was caught off guard for a moment but that is no excuse for my rudeness to you, particularly as you are a guest in my home. I only meant to express that I believe we are past the use of formal titles, a familiarity I know you share already with the rest of my siblings and see no reason we should not have between us, also. I insist you call me only by my given name from here on out."

He is close enough now to be able to see the light blush appear on her cheeks and fights the urge to glance down and see if the flush has spread to her chest for fear that the sight might turn him back into a bumbling fool.

"You are of course forgiven, my - Anthony " Penelope corrects herself, "on the condition that you share with me what it was that was able to rattle our unshakable viscount."

"Then you shall have to forsake me for a while longer, Miss Featherington, for I am certain that I can not permit myself to share my wandering thoughts aloud with you, lest I give you further reason to believe me an imbecile."

"Penelope," she replies, a teasing lilt to her voice, "and I suppose that is fair, seeing as how it is my secrets you had hoped to uncover this evening, is it not?"

The reminder that there is, in fact a purpose to their dinner plans and that that purpose is to delve further into the fact that she is Lady Whistledown is blessedly enough to stop his mind from taking the thought of uncovering some other things of hers and running away with it.

Clearing his throat (she must think him ill for how many times he has done so in her recent presence), Anthony offers his arm to her, tilting his head in the direction of the dining room, then waits for her to slip her ungloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

Neither sees the knowing grin Humboldt is sporting as he trails them through the house.

The actual eating part of dinner is a fairly quiet affair, though both are relieved to note that the awkward tension that had surrounded them at a different dining table just this morning has dissipated, leaving something else entirely to settle in its place.

They have inadvertently arranged themselves into the same positions as they had taken in her home earlier, with Anthony at the head of the table and her in the chair diagonally to his right, and he is glad to be seated so close when one of the maids whispers her praises of Penelope's new gown to her as she clears away their empty plates. The way the simple compliment seems to light up her whole face has Anthony wondering just how many of his employees he will be having to issue bonuses to this month.

"So," Penelope begins, "you had expressed to me this morning that there is a certain facet of my workings that you would like to discuss and I shall not make you wait any longer for your answers. Please, ask your questions freely."

"Straight to the point, Penelope," he jests, "it is some of your writings in particular for which I would like further clarification."

"Oh?"

"The ones about my family - Daphne, to be specific."

" Oh. " Penelope breathes, instantly straightening in her chair, "of course."

She can not help but begin to fidget with the skirts of her dress, pinching and rolling a small section of the fabric between her fingers and thumb. Mentally, Penelope berates herself for having let her guard down, forgetting that whilst it had been posed as general inquiry, she had truly been called here to be interrogated and chastised for the stress and scandal she had brought to his door this season, and rightly so.

"Are there any… specific turns of phrase or mentions you would like to address?"

Penelope glances around at the two other people in the room - Humboldt and one of the maids, Emma - who are obviously able to hear every word being exchanged, despite their efforts to appear as though their attention is elsewhere. Anthony follows her gaze and must sense her apprehension as in the next moment, both of the staff are being dismissed from the room and the door closes behind them with an echoing click.

Alone once again, the air around them shifts. Penelope turns her attentions back to Anthony to find him taking a long pull from his whiskey glass. He sets it down with a bit more force than is perhaps necessary and Penelope finds that despite all of her self proclaimed skill in emotional and mannerist observations, Anthony is completely unreadable to her at this moment.

"Do you know," he says, eyes settling somewhere over her left shoulder, "the kind of things I thought I'd say to whoever was behind Lady Whistledown if ever I were to meet them? The vitriol I planned to spew at her? At you ?"

There's that heavy tension bleeding back into the room; Penelope swears she sees a candle or two flicker in the suddenly shifting air.

Grappling with her composure, she responds, "I can understand why my pamphlets would cause anger to brew within you, and for that I a-"

" Anger?! " He bursts, leaping from his chair and into the little available space between it and her own seat, towering over her. She is at perfect level to watch his chest heave with laboured breaths, to see the vein pulsing in his neck as he tugs on his cravat, close enough that she fears the fire blazing in his eyes might just burn her .

"Anger is for the men at whites who try and cheat me at the poker table, anger is for brothers who make foolhardy decisions without a thought to how they might affect others, no," he gives a single laugh, though it is devoid of any humour, " anger is certainly not the word I would use for it."

He is practically seething now and despite the fact she knows (or thinks she knows) that Anthony is still a gentleman and would never lay a hand on her, she trembles under his gaze, "your writings sent me into nothing short of unbridled fury , so consumed by my rage that I attempted to duel my best friend."

"You- you what- "

Anthony clearly does not appreciate the interruption and decides to move in closer, one hand resting on each of the armrests at her sides so she is completely caged into her chair. She fights the battle within herself not to lean back into the seat, to maintain some of her composure under his intimidation, and feels a modicum of pride when her strength wins out and she remains with her back straight and shoulders back (even if it means she has to crane her neck even further than usual to look up into his face).

"And shall I tell you what the worst part of it all is? Barely a drop of my rage was ever directed at you, and the parts that were dissipated the moment I uncovered your identity."

Silence weighs heavily on them for a moment, interrupted only by the sound of their breath mixing in the inches separating them. Penelope hesitates to be the one to break it, but even she can bear it even less to fester in this unknown a moment longer.

"I - My Lord, I-"

" Anthony. " He bites, and she gets the distinct impression that he means for it to land as sharply as it does this time around.

"Anthony," she echoes, "I'm afraid I do not know what you wish for me to say, for I am struggling to understand where it is that you insinuate laying your blame and fury if not at my own feet."

He barks out another one of those short, mirthless laughs, head tipping back before he pushes off from her seat's armrests and assumes his full height. She watches as he rounds the table and begins to pace six steps back and forth across the space on its other side. With space between them, Penelope finds she is able to breathe again and yet a part of her feels something in her chest pull tight at the loss of him from within her reach.

"You are the only voice outside of my family who has not shied away from sharing the things I most decidedly have not wanted to hear, and I would despise it if you were to break that pattern now," he spits, though she can see the fight is draining from him as he works his cravat all the way off, laying it far more gently than she might have expected over the back of the nearest chair. He ends his pacing there as well, leaning forward with hands braced on the back of the seat to face her head on, though he maintains his careful distance now.

"It was your voice, your pen, that saved my sister from being trapped into what would have been a loveless at best but more likely cruel marriage to Nigel Berbrooke, arranged and pushed onto her by me. You guided her and Simon - a man who loves her just as deeply as she clearly does him, and a far better suited match by tenfold - closer together whilst I aimed a pistol at his head to keep them apart.

"You celebrated our family so often and with such esteem that when you exposed your cousin's scheme and saved yet another of my siblings from a doomed engagement, the scandal barely touched the sides of our name, whilst the reputation of your own remains in tatters even now that Miss Thompson has left London to become Lady Crane.

"But perhaps most importantly is that it was you , you who has had open access to our families well of secrets for years , and yet you have only chosen to pluck from it when you saw our need for a none so gentle nudge in the right direction."

To say Penelope is awed by Anthony's assessment of the situation would be quite the understatement indeed. She had been braced in her seat awaiting the moments his ire would reach its' peak and Penelope would discover just how proficient he would be in using his silver tongue to tear through her. She is certain he must have learnt some much more colourful insults than any she might hope to know during his days at Eton and Cambridge.

Suffice to say, hearing him describe her actions as though she were somehow the hero in this story and not the villain baffles her completely. Penelope pinches her leg discreetly beneath the table, hoping to ascertain whether this whole day has been a dream or if perhaps she has been driven to mad delusions.

The skin of her thigh stings even through the layers of fabric separating it from her sharp nails. Insanity then, she thinks, then decides to follow that madness and stand from her chair, moving around the table, in a way she hopes does not read as skittishly as it feels, until she stops at an arm's length to his left. Somewhere in his speech, his eyes have strayed away from her, and she is almost certain he has not noticed her approach.

"And that infuriates you?" She breathes, her suspicions confirmed when he whirls around, looking altogether surprised to find her standing so closely, "it infuriates you that I have been careful with your family name where I have tarnished others? That I would never seek to cause any of you pain, not when it is avoidable? If this is what tempts you to fury then I can not imagine what a person might be able to do to bring you joy."

Penelope watches, enraptured, as some of the tension bleeds out of Anthony's shoulders. When he reaches out for her, she is all too quick in placing her hands into his hold, gasping at the feel of their skin meeting for the first time with no barrier between them.

"It infuriates me that you would have to," he sighs, bringing their joined hands up so that they are clasped against his chest, "I am the head of this family, the man of the house, a bloody viscount, and yet I have been failing the people I love at every turn."

"Anthony, you mustn't think like that!" She chastises, freeing one of her hands to slap lightly at his chest in a move she might have thought improper if not for the way he is so quick to recapture it.

"Then how would you describe it, Penelope? I spent half the season pushing Daphne towards the most ungentlemanly of suitors and the rest so absorbed in my personal turmoils that I completely overlooked the trap Colin was falling into until it was almost too late. And that is only to mention two of the eight people who are supposed to be under my care and whom I have neglected most egregiously. Understand, Penelope, that when I speak of my rage it is directed entirely inwards."

Her heart bleeds for him, for the jaded man he is now but also for the boy not-yet-twenty she sees reflected in his eyes, who's shoulders were not yet strong enough to hold up the weight of his father's legacy and had borne it all regardless.

"I'm certain that Colin and Daphne understand, and even more so that your family love you, My- Anthony. You are the things you say you are; a viscount seated at the head of a large family, but you are also a brother and a friend and a man. You are allowed to make mistakes, so long as you continue to take responsibility for and learn from them, but that does not mean you must carry the burden of them alone."

Anthony's eyes flit rapidly between her own and his face softens. The lines on his forehead smooth out and his face reflects, for once, his actual age and not the visage of a man twice his senior that his usual serious countenance displays. She had not thought it possible for him to become more handsome, but she supposes he is determined to surprise her tonight.

Emboldened by his openness, or perhaps hypnotised by their proximity, Penelope reaches one of her hands up towards his face - slowly, so that he might pull away if her touch is not welcome. She is pleasantly surprised when he meets her halfway, leaning his head to the side so his right cheek presses into her palm.

"That is twice now you have called me such," he whispers, so close to her now that he need not speak any louder for his voice to carry to her.

"By your name?" She asks, just as quietly, though she is sure she has used it at least four times throughout the evening, "You permitted me to use it, did you not?"

"No, that is twice you have called me your Anthony."

"Oh! I-" Penelope is beginning to associate the feeling of warmth filling her cheeks with this man, "a slip of the tongue, I assure you. My apologies if I have caused you discomfort with my fumbling."

Embarrassed, Penelope begins to pull back from him, starting with the hand still cradling his cheek. Her attempt at retreat is halted, however, when his hand snaps up to cover her own, and he turns his face to press a featherlight kiss onto her palm.

"No need for reproach, Penelope; in fact - accidental or not - I find I rather like the sound of it."

Absentmindedly, her thumb has begun to brush gently back and forth over his cheekbone, but when it meets the bristled hair of his sharp sideburns the most ridiculous thought enters her mind and she can not help but giggle.

"Pray tell, what have I done to earn your humour?" He asks, meeting her laughter with a charming grin.

"I'm not sure I should say," she replies, making a valiant effort to tamper her ill timed bout of hysteria.

"Come now, we are in the spirit of sharing, are we not? I insist you tell me so that I might share in your amusement, especially if it is at my own expense as I suspect it is."

His eyebrow quirks cheekily and she thinks she would give into any request he might make of her if only to see him remain so at ease.

"Alright, if you insist," she sighs, "I was just thinking how similar your sideburns are to my late Papa's"

Aghast, Anthony tears out of her grasp, springing a whole foot back from where his reaction has reignited her mirth ten fold and she is covering her mouth as she giggles heartily.

"You were thinking of how I remind you of your father?! " He demands, not seeing anything funny about this sudden turn of events whatsoever, " PENELOPE! "

Notes:

(queen of inserting semi-colons into my writing until I figure out how they are actually supposed to be used)

Hope you enjoyed Anthony's turn at starting to open himself up

Chapter 7

Summary:

The staff at Bridgerton house are rather keen to see their Viscount's good spirits continue and they know exactly which direction to push him in to ensure that they do…

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sliding the letter back into its envelope, Penelope considers the contents of the first correspondence she has received from her Mother and sister since their departure just three days prior.

It seems they have settled well into Great Aunt Peggy's modest estate and have managed to acquire invitations to several social gatherings already. Portia Featherington may be many things, but never can it be said that she moves slowly.

There is no inquiry in the letter after her own health or wellbeing, a fact that, whilst stinging, Penelope is grateful for, as she would have no idea how to begin a response. Perhaps she could recreate her mother's list of rules and include detailed descriptors of how she has broken almost each and every one. She could emphasize how she has yet to draw back the curtains on any front facing window, but considers that she likely would have done that, too, had she actually been in the house long enough throughout the day to have any reason to. She also has yet to set foot in Hyde Park, but the sun had been shining rather brightly when Penelope had gone down to the back door to collect the single piece of post, so perhaps she could rectify that today.

She will be needing to make a trip out anyway, she supposes, as her mama had not failed to include their current address with the insistence that Penelope have their recurring checks forwarded to them there in her short letter. Where before she had been able to simply slide the sealed checks into their mail pile before anyone had the chance to check it, Penelope will now have to ensure that her envelopes are properly stamped and posted to their destination. She is grateful for the success her pamphlet has seen through its first season, allowing her more than sufficient funds to provide support for herself and her family through the summer months, but now she must wonder what will come next on the Whistledown front.

In her last publication, Lady Whistledown had made clear that society should not expect to hear from her throughout the off season, barring any particularly juicy happenings that might spur her pen to write, so she has time to consider her standing. All the better, she thinks, for there is much to consider.

There is, of course, the Modiste, who knows of her identity and whom Penelope is confident will not break her trust and reveal the sensitive information, if for no other reason than that Penelope could do an awful lot of revealing of her own in return. She knows that wouldn't be necessary, however, as the two share a mutual respect for each other and seek only to boost each other's endeavours to further heights. Genevieve is also well placed to pick up all sorts of gossip, being regularly surrounded by loose lipped mamas and competing debutantes who take little notice of her throughout their dress fittings. She will certainly be a good ally to have, should Penelope continue her publications in the next social season.

Eloise, however, is a scale that could tip in either direction, and then tip back the other way should the mood take her. Whilst she has always been most approving of Lady Whistledown, naming her an inspiration and a forward thinker, there is always something underlying her praise. Perhaps it is because it is the idea of a successful and independent female author flourishing in their society which Eloise likes so much, as opposed to any of the actual writings she published. Another, smaller part of Penelope believes that undercurrent is born from resentment and jealousy, two emotions the second Bridgerton daughter is not known to handle with particular care or grace. Penelope's own scale is constantly teetering between her hopes of sharing her accomplishments with her dearest friend, and the desperate fear that she might lose that friendship altogether in the process.

(On the subject of maintaining friendships, Penelope reminds herself to pen a letter to Eloise before heading out so she might post it alongside her Mother's check.)

And then there is the Anthony of it all, and isn't it peculiar that she has come to consider him at all when just a few days ago he had been nought but Eloise's older brother, the serious if devastatingly handsome viscount, who was always on the very edge of her associations with the Bridgertons? Peculiar indeed, though admittedly no more so than what had transpired between them in his dining room last night.

To say that she had been taken on a ride of emotions would be an understatement. His initial and uncharacteristic had confused her, his yelling and self belittlement filled her with concern, and then the way he had allowed for her gentle caressing all whilst clutching tightly to her other hand, well… that had stirred something else entirely. Something new and warm and terrifyingly wonderful.

Penelope can not help but wonder what might have happened next had Humboldt not mistaken Anthony's shout of her name for a summoning and reentered the room. Though, that spark rather unhelpfully reminds her of the reason for the viscounts outburst, as well as the way he had jumped away from her as though she'd spontaneously combusted right before him.

She groans, dropping her face into her hands and gives a shake of her head. When will she stop embarrassing herself in front of him?

Not that it matters much, now, she thinks, for there is no reason she should expect to encounter him again until the next season begins and they will inevitably cross paths at societal events. At least then there will be the buffer of not just his family but the rest of the Ton between them, severely limiting her opportunities to make herself any more of a fool to him.

Penelope is also certain he does not hold her missing list in his possession, for it would have been surely apparent last night had he read its contents, so she has no need to seek him out to ask after it.

No matter, she decides, wherever the list is - and it has likely been tarnished or burned away to ash by now - there is little chance of it being linked back to me.

Letting herself into her Father's study, Penelope settles into the chair behind his desk and reaches for two sheets of parchment, determined to focus her mind only on her correspondence.

Anthony tilts his head this way and that as he looks at himself in the mirror, assessing his valet's work.

It's a somewhat strange feeling to smooth his hand over his cheeks - to touch the spot she had brushed so reverently - and find bare skin instead of sharp bristles. He lifts the same hand up to his hair, adjusting to the change there as well, then steps back to take himself in in full.

When he had woken up this morning and insisted that his valet, Adam, forgo tidying up his sideburns to instead shave them away entirely, he had not been expecting the young man to also suggest a trim of his hair. Looking at himself now, he is glad to have agreed.

Instead of flopping over his forehead, the now shorter hair atop his head has been quaffed back away from his face, whilst the sides are cropped a little further still. The new look affords him much more of the appearance of a put together viscount than the capital R Rake he had been previously dubbed. Lady Whistledown - Penelope - would likely give it a passing mention in her next pamphlet, and he imagines she would describe this change as the physical manifestation of his recent decision to take a wife. Perhaps he could even convince her to adjust his moniker to a 'capital G Gentleman', though he is sure her able to think up something far wittier.

He wonders what she - just Penelope - will make of it, though Anthony is not near humble enough to not think she will rather like it.

Making his way down the stairs and to his study, steps decidedly lighter than they had been the day before, the viscount pretends not to notice the conspiratorial giggles coming from the two maids he passes on his way, nor the way Humboldt's eyes light up in an all too knowing way as he greets him. Still, he decides to leave the door open today, allowing for the sound of his staff's light steps to become background noise as he sifts through his latest stack of ledgers.

It is past two o'clock in the afternoon when the first interruption of the day finally arrives - not including the deliveries and later collections of his breakfast and lunch trays. It is his butler, of course, who comes to rap his knuckles against the open door.

"Humboldt," Anthony greets jovially, setting down his papers and leaning back in his chair. His uncharacteristically good mood allows him to overlook the upward twitch at the corner of the other man's lips in response, "come in, good man. What can I do for you?"

"Sir," the butler greets, bobbing his head respectfully, "I had just come to inquire as to whether you might be taking another work today, the weather is most pleasant."

Anthony laughs then, leaning forward towards his papers again. This time when he speaks, he is looking down at his work, though his voice is still amused, "ah, you continue to fulfill the duty my mother has imposed on you, I see? Well, I'm afraid I am on a bit of a roll here and I should not like to quit whilst I'm ahead. I will, however, take my evening meal in the dining room tonight, so you might report that I have at least left this room for a stint."

"Very good, sir," Humboldt replies, "though this has nothing to do with Lady's Bridgerton's concerns, I assure you. I simply did not wish for you to unknowingly miss out on the opportunity to enjoy such a fine day out when our neighbours seem to be taking advantage."

With patience beginning to wane but attention caught nonetheless, Anthony quirks an eyebrow up toward the other man, and with a sigh he says, "speak plainly, man. I have much to do and your riddles are spoiling my good humour."

"Of course, My Lord, I apologise," Humboldt clears his throat, "Mrs Wilson has been commenting on the weather ever since she spotted Miss Featherington heading out at noon and it seems her ramblings have gotten to me. If you will excuse me, sir."

Humboldt takes a half step back and turns to leave the room, counts to three in his head and then, "wait," straightens out his smirk before spinning back to meet his master's gaze.

"Was there something else, sir?"

Anthony has abandoned his work entirely, leant so far forward that Humboldt assumes that if there were not a desk to block his view, he would be looking at the Ninth Viscount Bridgerton teetering on the very edge of his seat.

"When you said Miss Featherington, you were referring to…"

"The youngest, My Lord, Miss Penelope. Unaccompanied by her mother or sister."

Anthony glances down at his desk, considers the pile of papers he had promised himself he would have finalised the workings of by the end of the day. Though, he thinks, the stack of complete documents does look rather larger than those waiting for my attention. And Mother would be so delighted to hear that I've been out on such an apparently bright afternoon.

"Well, I suppose I have made quite the dent in my work," he says, rising from his chair to begin brushing the imaginary lint from his trouser legs.

"Yes, sir," Humboldt agrees, needlessly.

"And it wouldn't do for my wrist to tire or eyes to strain if I were to continue, lest I begin to make mistakes in my calculations," he is walking towards the door.

"Certainly, sir."

Anthony is somewhat embarrassed to admit he had not even realised his butler had been holding his coat over his arm throughout the exchange until it is being offered to him, prompting him to turn his assessing gaze onto him at last. He is not best pleased when he takes note of the smug smile on his butler's face and part of him wants to go and sit back down so as not to grant him further satisfaction. However…

"Did Mrs Wilson happen to notice-"

"Towards Hyde Park, sir," Humboldt supplies, holding open Anthony's lightest jacket so that he might slide his arms into the sleeves.

The viscount casts a sardonic look in the butler's direction, though its effect is rather undercut by the way he stops to recheck his appearance in each reflective surface he passes on his way to the front door.

Humboldt is left to consider whether or not he will be including the reasoning behind her eldest son's latest excursion in his daily report to Lady Bridgerton.

Glad to have forgone her coat in favor of a pale pink parasol, Penelope uses her free hand to fan herself against the afternoon heat. She had forgotten how susceptible she is to the sun, what with her particularly fair complexion and freckle prone skin, as well as the fact that as a woman of her size she naturally retains warmth more so than her peers. Suffice to say, Penelope is quite relieved to have only acquired the one new gown from the modiste thus far as it leaves her wearing one of her older day dresses, which she is far less concerned about marring with the light sheen of sweat gathering upon her arms and chest.

She laments not having gone straight to the nearest post box, dropping off her letters and then returning straight back home to take shelter from the beating sun. She just had to go through the park, spurred to spite her mother's wishes after reading her entirely self-serving correspondence this morning.

Spotting the large willow tree ahead, Penelope lifts the skirts of her dress slightly so as better to hurry along towards it, seeking reprieve where the patch of shaded ground is largest right at the base of the trunk. Feeling immediate relief, Penelope glances around at what appears to be the relatively empty section of park surrounding her, then allows herself to sink down onto the grass so that she might lean back against the trunk and rest a while. She sets her two envelopes down onto the grass beside her knee.

Happy to engage in one of her favourite past times whilst she idols, Penelope takes to observing the few people scattered around. On the other side of the path, there is a group of three women lounging on a gingham blanket, a basket settled between them and each with a glass in hand. One tilts her head back to the sky as she laughs, meanwhile the other two take the opportunity to cast longing glances towards one another, hands clasped together on the blanket in such a position that Penelope is sure the first woman can not see them for the basket blocking her view.

Following the sound of delighted shrieks and laughter, Penelope's gaze turns down to the river bank, where two children - a boy with brown hair and a smaller girl with curly locks as red as her own - are splashing each other and getting soaked in the process. Though their game seems somewhat competitive, they appear to be working together quite well to evade the capture of their exasperated but grinning mother as she attempts to wrangle them to be dried off.

Casting her eyes back to the worn path closest to her, Penelope notes a new gentleman's arrival on the scene, looking somewhat frazzled. She would assume it was the heat getting to him, as he is for whatever reason wearing a coat and high buttoned shirt, but the way his head is whipping back and forth makes her think he is looking for something.

Penelope wonders briefly if perhaps he is father to the two children she has just been observing, coming to join his family in the park, but scratches that idea away instantly as she notes again the fine clothing he wears which easily distinguishes him as being a man of higher society than those frolicking by the serpentine.

The lady on the picnic blanket, still woefully ignorant to her two acquaintances' obvious shared affections for each other, perks up at the sight of the gentleman as he draws closer. Despite her preening, the man does not spare the blonde more than a passing glance, so not here for them either.

Penelope has all but given up on figuring out this mysterious man's mission as he is about to pass by her tree, clearly having not spotted her in its shadows, when she recognises him all at once.

"Anthony?" She calls out, then takes great amusement in watching him stop dead in his tracks, whipping around in all directions in search of the source of her voice. Her laughter must give her position away as his gaze finally settles on her, the most brilliant grin lighting up his face.

Oh, she thinks, surely he hadn't been looking for-

"Penelope!" He greets, "there you are! Wait," his brow furrows, hands settling on his hips as he seems to finally take her in properly, "what are you doing down there?"

The incredulity on his face only gives her cause for further giggling, and she can do nought to respond but wave him over with her hand until at last her laughter subsides.

"I am just enjoying a brief respite in the shade," she replies at last, peering up at him where he has stopped to stand two feet or so away from her. No wonder she hadn't recognised him initially, she thinks, as he is sporting a decidedly new trim than when she had seen him just the night before. The new style makes him appear younger, more like his actual age, and she allows herself to appreciate the change.

"It is quite warm," he says agreeably, "would you mind if I joined you?"

Penelope waves to the space next to her in open invitation, then confirms her affirmation aloud. Anthony rewards her with another sun-rivalingly-bright grin before shucking his coat and laying it out flat on the grass. He settles down on one side of it, then pats on the remaining fabric to indicate she should sit atop it as well.

"To protect your pretty dress from grass stains," he explains, clearly calling upon his infamous charm for some unknown reason if he is complimenting this particular gown. Penelope scoots over to join him nonetheless, making sure she is still concealed in shade, leaving barely a fingers width between their shoulders (or, more realistically, between her shoulder and his elbow, what with their near ten inch difference in height being apparent even when sitting).

"How many of you P. Featheringtons are there?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere. When Penelope's expression turns to one of perplexion, he nods his head to indicate her forgotten letters, "I do not mean to pry, but I saw the envelope marked for Ireland and my intrigue peaked. I assume you have family there?"

Penelope is glad she had decided not to pen her mothers name in full above the letter's delivery address and also feels begrudgingly grateful the banality that is her mothers insistence on sharing the same initials with her children, a habit that one could easily believe would extend outside of their small circle.

"It's addressed to my Great Aunt's home in Dublin," Penelope replies, feeling somewhat guilty for implying this aunt to be the P. Featherington in question, despite her statement being in truth. She's relieved when his queries on the subject end there.

The pair trade further pleasantries for a few minutes before settling into easy conversation. Penelope shares some of her observations from the day with him (though she is careful not to explain the unorthodox relationship she can still see budding across the grass) and is pleasantly surprised by how attentive of a listener he is, throwing in questions and making affirmative noises in all the right places to show he is paying attention.

"It's interesting," he begins, then pauses. By now, her has rolled his shirt sleeves up to rest just above his forearms and loosened the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt, making him quite the picture as he leans sideways to rest on his right elbow, facing her. Penelope twists and bends her legs to the side so that she is also facing his direction.

"What is?" She prompts.

"It's interesting how quickly one's perspective can change," Anthony replies, head tipped back to meet her gaze from his reclined position.

"I assume you do not mean perspective in the sense that it is you having to crane your neck to look up to me, for once?" Penelope jests, pleased when her attempt elicits a laugh from him.

"There is that as well, I suppose," he tilts his head back a little further, which in turn causes his unbuttoned collar to spread wider across his collarbones and Penelope is suddenly glad that her skin is already so flushed from the heat, "however, I refer to the strange phenomena of having one's set judgements suddenly altered. To believe that you know something as a certain truth, only for it to become entirely false in the next instance."

"And what, may I ask, has led you down such an introspective train of thinking this afternoon?"

"Well, you , obviously," Anthony responds, though the look on Penelope's face is telling him that she thinks it decidedly not obvious.

"Me?" She asks, brow furrowed and nose scrunched rather cutely.

"Of course, you!" Anthony insists, pushing himself up from leaning on his elbow to his hand, giving him just enough leverage that their faces are now level, "you, who has gone from being my little sister's quiet companion to a most intelligent and capable conversational partner."

Penelope expects he means for his comment to be flattering, however his words leave her feeling somewhat affronted, and she hastens to defend herself.

"I have always been those things, Anthony." Try as she might to remain steadfast, Penelope can not help but turn her gaze away from him, letting her eyes settle somewhere to the left whilst her arms come up to cross over her stomach indignantly.

Sensing his misstep, Anthony is quick to action. Sitting up properly, he reaches out a hand to lay across her forearm, giving a gentle squeeze until she returns his gaze.

"I know you have; please, forgive me for not being clear," he implores, "what I mean to express is not how you have suddenly changed, but rather how my mind has shifted to accept the parts of you I hadn't seen before,

"It is no secret that I have not spared much time for you throughout your long acquaintance with my family, nor during your many visits to my home, and I find now that I regret for that missing time. I had always known you must be intelligent, of course, to be able to keep Eloise's interest for so long, and brave to follow her into her many ill-advised pursuits. My mother holds no shortage of affection for you and my youngest sister speaks of you endlessly, so I have known, too, that you must be both kind and patient. I have seen my brothers laughing with you when you have shared dances throughout the season's balls, so I knew you must hold at least a modicum of wit or humour about you."

Penelope is rather taken aback, embarrassed to have acted so insulted by his initial attempts to explain and even more so to be the subject of so much unexpected praise. She is rendered completely speechless, though that does not bother Anthony as he is nowhere near finished, and should like to get through the rest of his speech before his nerve fails him.

"That is to say, I have always known you to be all of these things, but there is a difference between knowing and knowing. I knew you clever and brave, but not enough to have ever associated you with the undertaking of an enterprise such as Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. I had not realised how far your kindness and patience could extend until you stood and bore the brunt of my tantrum during dinner last night, and then saw fit to offer me comfort and warmth in return. And as for your wit and humour, well, I have been brought to laughter more times in your company these past days than I have across the last decade."

Flustered does not even begin to cover it.

"You flatter me far too much, Anthony. I am certainly not worthy enough to have entered your thoughts so, nor for those thoughts to have painted me in such pretty a picture. You are kind to overlook my lack of tact and grace, as well as the many transgressions you know me very well to have committed through my literary pursuits alone."

"I do not dismiss the existence of faults in you, Penelope, it is simply that they do not perturb me - in fact, I rather like them. That you do not try to present yourself as the perfect diamond our society expects you to be means that I, too, might shed my outward mask before you, and hope that you can overlook my own shortcomings to see the good man I should like to one day become. My father told me once, just before he passed, that you can not show someone your best without allowing them to see your worst. If we are to continue as we are, it will do neither of us any good to be placing the other on a pedestal."

Other debutantes, Penelope knows, would shriek and pound their fists to hear a gentleman openly dub them as anything but flawless - yet more evidence that Penelope is not like the other debutantes.

Whilst she shares in their aspirations to one day be wed, and clutches at dreams that it might also be to a man who finds her somewhat desirable, Penelope has seen first hand what can become of a union in the long run when the person you have tied yourself to no longer fits into the idea of them you'd been presented prior to reading your vows. Whilst she knew she had little chance of finding a love match, she certainly did not want to end up trapped in a marriage such as her parents'.

So, rather than being upset by it, Penelope very much appreciates Anthony's candour in his assessment of her and the lack of expectations he rests upon her shoulders. She has heard from Eloise that he is determined to begin his hunt for a viscountess soon, and she hopes that he will offer whichever stunning debutantes he decides to court the same opportunity to know and be known by him so openly.

The end of his statement catches in her brain, then, and she brings herself forcibly back into the moment to seek clarification, "continue as we are?"

A light flush spreads across Anthony's perfectly defined cheekbones and he raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck. If he were anyone else, and if the heat were not as stifling as it is, Penelope might use the word sheepish to describe his expression.

"Ah, yes, well that is to say we have spent some time in one another's company, time I have very much enjoyed and-"

A faint buzzing sound distracts them both, heads twisting to find its source. Penelope feels something land lightly on the side of her neck and, thinking it a fallen leaf, she lifts her hand to brush it away. Penelope is startled when she feels a sharp sting in its place and can not contain her reaction.

"Ow!" She yelps, looking down to see the now lifeless bee drop onto her skirts. Poor thing , she thinks, then scoops it up and moves it over to lay beneath a nearby daisy.

When she lifts her head again, it is to find a near hyperventilating viscount, staring at her in nothing short of abject horror.

" Anthony! "

Somewhere through the fog he can hear a voice saying his name, but he can't quite grasp on to it. It sounds like it could be Penelope's concerned call, but it just as easily morphs into the terrified gasping of his Father, then his Mother's wailing pleas, to the distant, fearful cries of his siblings. It all rushes together in his head until there is nothing but white noise ringing in his ears.

Anthony can feel his chest getting tighter as the need for oxygen grows more dire, but his heaving breaths seem to draw no air into his lungs. Two hands land on his shoulders, then, shaking him firmly, and he can see Penelope has moved onto her knees in front of him. Unfortunately in reaching for him she has only served to further expose the red puncture mark on her throat, and even though he can also see the movement there that must indicate she is speaking, her words do not penetrate his panic.

His mind proves itself to be his greatest enemy when it starts to push forward grotesque images of Penelope with hives forming across her pale skin, her face swelling til her eyes can barely open. Unable to separate fact from fiction alone, he finds his hands darting out to clutch at either side of her face - a less than gentle liberty that he will berate himself for taking later on - needing to feel for himself that no such reaction has occurred in her.

Her skin is warm, but not feverish, and it is without the bumps or abrasions he had feared finding there. Her mouth is open, no longer trying to call for him but Anthony thinks he can begin to make out the gentle shushing sounds falling from her lips. When he looks to them, her eyes are wide open and clear.

Relief crashes through him so suddenly that he allows himself to be taken by the feeling and crushes her to his chest, curling his back over her as if to form a shield. His hands slide down from her face to clutch at her waist instead, one arm wrapping all the way around her, enveloping her into his protective hold, whilst his left hand clutches tightly to the fabric of her skirts. Anthony revels in the feeling of her fingers combing up into his hair, happy to follow their guidance as Penelope settles his face down into the crook of her neck, then begins to rock back and forth as though she were soothing a babe.

He nuzzles at the skin there and hopes Penelope will excuse it as an act of his emotional turmoil when he presses the lightest of kisses over the spot where she had been stung just moments before. Her responding gasp, however, brings him hurtling painfully back towards reality.

Anthony clears his throat as he slowly extracts himself from their embrace, then moves to stand. He extends a hand to stop her when it looks like she will follow him up, then takes a step back. Anthony wonders, by the searching look on her face, whether or not she can see the barriers he is erecting between them which encompass more than just physical space.

"My apologies, Miss Featherington," he says primly, gaze settled firmly on the trunk of the willow tree.

"Anthony, there is no need for-"

"There is every need," he interjects, "for I have behaved most erratically in your presence this afternoon. Not only that, I have taken liberties with your kindness time and again, skirted the rules of propriety in a manner not befitting of how a gentleman of my station should act towards a young lady such as yourself."

"What are you-"

"Whilst I thank you for your patience and understanding, I believe it best that I shall take my leave at once and will seek not to disturb your peace again. Good day, Miss Featherington."

Anthony does not dare to wait for a response to his obvious dismissal before he is turning and fleeing the scene, marching back up the path in the direction of Grosvenor Square without so much as a backward glance.

When he reaches home and Humboldt attempts to ask after his missing coat, the only response he receives is the slamming of the study door in his face and the resounding click of its lock.

Notes:

An Anthony Bridgerton who does not throw his walls straight back up at the first sign of having to acknowledge his own feelings? Never heard of him.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Anthony and Penelope both allow themselves to jump to some wildly inaccurate conclusions.

A confrontation occurs.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Letters deposited successfully, Penelope finds herself lingering in front of the post box, unsure of where her feet should take her next.

She had lingered for a while in the park, too startled by the sudden turn of events to fathom venturing away from the refuge provided by her favourite willow tree with any haste. And what a turn of events it had been, played out as if it were a scene plucked straight from one of her beloved novels.

The thought prompts her to picture Anthony as one of the leading men in any of said novels, and finds there is not much she would have to change for him to fit the bill perfectly. The way he had appeared on the path this afternoon, with his freshly quaffed hair and easy smile, and that was all before he'd shed his jacket and sat down so close beside her. Penelope had not thought forearms could be considered attractive, but if anyone was going to prove her wrong it would be Anthony Bridgerton.

A rather burly fellow bumps into her as he passes, calling a hasty " 'scuse me, miss! " over his shoulder and Penelope is abruptly reminded that she is standing in the middle of the pavement at the end of the day's trading hours, surely in the way of more than a handful of people trying to get home for the day. She had clearly dawdled in the park for longer than she had realised.

Time to make a decision, she tells herself, looking in both directions up and down the pavement. Turn left and she will be home in a half hour at most, secure behind closed doors just as the sun will begin to set, but also runs the risk of bumping into another Grosvenor Square occupant who clearly does not wish to see her.

Right will see her through Piccadilly and on her way to Bloomsbury, should she choose to continue on that far. Left is the obvious choice, the smart choice, the only choice. It's nearing six o clock already and, having forgone lunch, she is certainly ready to take her evening meal.

Although… there is that little bistro she has visited before in Piccadilly, the one that serves roast mutton just the way she likes it. And if she were to eat out, it would certainly save her an awful lot of trouble between getting the stove lit, preparing her food and then doing the washing up after as she'd need to if she went straight home now.

A change of scenery would certainly aid in clearing her mind, and if it didn't, then the time it takes to journey there and home again will be more than enough to work through all of her thoughts and feelings from the day. Perhaps most tempting of all, there is no Bridgerton House in Piccadilly for her to set her longing gaze upon.

Decision made, Penelope turns right.

"Damn it all!" Anthony barks, slamming his pen down onto the table in favour of the half empty whiskey glass. He takes a long pull from it, considering the ledgers spread across his desk with no shortage of irritation.

Three hours he has been shut in his study and he has yet to complete the work of a single document in that time, even the ones that required nought more from him than his signature along the bottom line. Focusing on his business matters was supposed to provide him a suitable distraction from his spiraling thoughts surrounding the incident with Pe- with Miss Featherington - in the park. Instead his quiet isolation paired with the restless burning in his chest will not allow for him to think of anything but.

Rubbing at his temples, Anthony feels the tell tale signs of a headache beginning to take route, then reaches to take the last swig from his glass in hopes that the drink will soothe his pain before it arrives in full.

If only he had stayed in here and completed his business as he was supposed to earlier in the day, then he would not have found himself submerged in a mess of his own making. He is twenty-nine, for God's sake! He should not still be so easily swayed to shirk his responsibilities to go chasing after pretty, young women - one pretty, young woman.

He plays through his actions in the park with the awful addition of hindsight, remembering with some embarrassment not only the incident with the bee but the moments leading up to it.

Pene- Miss Featherington had made such a welcoming sight from where she'd seated herself against the trunk of a rather large tree and she'd been gracious in her allowance that he sit so close beside her. She'd been open with him and he could not help but be open with her in return, feeling a sense of ease in her presence that he had not felt before with anyone else, not even with…

Anyway. It was where there shared openness had been leading him that spelled trouble. They'd only shared three conversations up to that point, and yet in each instance she had listened to him, challenged and engaged him, and he had seen a side of not only her but also himself that he had not known existed.

He'd chased that feeling, the warm intimacy of knowing someone and being known in return and almost confused it for something…

That is to say, he had nearly gone and confessed to her that…

Had wanted to ask her if she might consider…

I'm going to need another drink, he thinks, then walks to the trolley to pour himself another glass. Looking back and forward between the bar cart and his desk, Anthony decides he ought bring the whole decanter back with him, for he expects he'd be making many more trips out of his chair otherwise.

The more he drinks, the harder it is to quell the beast that rages somewhere in his chest, furious that he has allowed Penelope to leave their sights so soon after thinking himself so close to losing her. How could he have held onto her so tightly one moment and then fled from her in the next? That part of him wants to storm across the square and crash into her drawing room - propriety be damned - if only to see her whole and breathing before him. Perhaps then he would be able to find some peace at last.

Shaking his head, Anthony dismisses that thought in favour of the next, aiming to land on something not related to the redhead across the road. He considers his efforts only somewhat successful when his mind presents him with the image of her instead.

Siena.

She is the opposite of Penelope in every way except that they have both sat on the receiving end of his recent… affections. And perhaps that is the problem ! Anthony considers, the thought feeling like a Eureka! moment.

It has only been a few weeks, after all, since he had pinned his heart on his sleeve for his opera singer to see, intent on taking her as his wife whether or not the Ton deemed her a suitable match for him. She had broken his heart when she had turned him away at the door during his last attempted visit to her home, the other gentleman standing at the top of her stairs being the final nail in the coffin of their doomed relationship.

But surely those feelings had not simply vanished, he decides, and the affections he has believed himself to be developing for Penelope are simply the result of his unrequited love for Siena needing somewhere to go. He would likely find himself having the same thoughts about whichever young woman he had found himself in close proximity with, and none of it has been to do with Penelope herself at all.

Fool, the beast whispers, but he ignores it. His drink-addled mind is stirring up quite the plan and it requires all of his attention.

He will go to Siena and when he sees her, the feelings will surely overwhelm him, and his heart will catch up with what his mind now knows. He loves Siena and Penelope has been nothing more than a convenient distraction from that.

Glancing at the clock, he sees its hands ticking around to half past nine and decides that, whilst he's not getting any work done anyway, there is no time like the present to tackle his newly self imposed task.

Marching from his study, Anthony pays no mind to Humboldt stationed in the hallway and instead breezes by him to the front door, intent on heading out into the night without another moment's thought .

When the door swings open, however, his gaze lands on the woman already standing on the other side of it. How convenient, his mind crows.

Just as he had hoped they would, the feelings wash over him immediately at the sight of her. There is warmth and protectiveness and a feeling of rightness. There is a healthy dose of desire and there is most certainly love.

Later, Anthony will blame it on the fourth glass of whiskey that it takes him a good ten seconds at least to register the fatal flaw in his execution of his master plan.

Because standing in front of him is not Siena Rosso, but Penelope Featherington. And she looks livid.

As expected, her roast mutton has been delicious , but the second Penelope steps outside the restaurant and back onto the street, she realises her error. Not only has the sun long set, but she is without her coat to shield her from the evening's chill, and she is at least forty minutes away from home by foot.

Checking her purse, Penelope hopes to see enough money left in there to acquire a hack for the journey, however she has not brought much cash out with her today and that which she had has just been spent on her dinner. The meager sum remaining in her reticule would not even cover half her travel fare.

On foot it is, then.

Just as she is about to start walking, the sound of a bell tinkling and a voice calling out to her stops her in her tracks.

One of the wait staff from the restaurant comes hurtling out into the street, brandishing a bundle of brown fabric in her direction.

"You forgot your coat, ma'am," the boy insists, then all but throws it at her in his haste to get back into the bistro behind him. Confused, Penelope assesses the soft cotton in her arms, finding its colouring familiar, then understands why when she shakes it out and it presents itself as Anthony's jacket. She had forgotten she had collected it from the ground before leaving the park, carrying it with her all the way to Piccadilly.

Somewhat hesitantly, though not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Penelope slides her arms into the too long jacket, revelling in the immediate warmth it envelops her in. She fights the urge to take in a lungful of the viscounts scent from where it lingers on the upturned collar.

Casting her eyes around her as she walks, Penelope spots a handful of people milling about. Some are sweeping the cobblestones outside shop fronts and there is a couple sharing an embrace in a darkened alcove. Her eyes meet those of a larger man smoking a cigar, leant back against the wall of a building across the road, and can not help but think him vaguely familiar. Unable to place him, she turns her gaze back to the path ahead and quickens her step.

Further along the road, two men stumble out of a pub, singing and belching and finding themselves right in the middle of her path. Penelope pretends not to hear the foul language they call out to her as she hurries around them, nor the unkind jeering that follows.

In her haste, Penelope fails to notice her dress has snagged on the edge of a merchant's cart until she hears the outer fabric of her skirts rip, then feels the cool breeze against her calf.

Suffice to say, by the time she finally makes it home, Penelope Featherington is not in good spirits.

Her irritation is tampered only by the apprehension she feels when she steps through the gate at the front of the property and sets eyes on the front door, where there is something decidedly not right.

Though it is not easy to make out from this distance, nor in the dismal light, Penelope can see that there is a sheet of parchment tucked under the door's brass knocker. She looks around herself as though she might find indication as to who had delivered it but finds she is startlingly alone, not another soul in sight on the whole square.

Taking a deep breath, she walks slowly up the steps and dislodges the paper, finishing it is not one sheet but two, the first of which she recognises immediately.

With a gasp, Penelope finds herself staring at her Mother's bloody list of rules, the one she had just that morning deemed lost for good.

The other is folded over, though it is clearly meant for her as 'Miss P. Featherington" is penned onto its exposed edge. She opens the sheet and begins to read the short missive there.

Dear Miss Featherington,

How surprised I was to come across your most interesting list of rules in the middle of Oxford Street after you dropped it so clumsily this last Saturday!

It is no secret that a young lady such as yourself should never find herself in the position you are in and yet, here you are. What would Lady Whistledown have to say about a scandal such as this, I wonder?

Certainly, she would have to publish mention of your willingness to spend so much time in the unchaperoned company of a gentleman…

There is more to the note but Penelope stops reading there, the paper crinkling in her clenched fist. Her earlier irritation reclaims its place at the forefront of her thinking and it directs her to come to the instant conclusion that she knows exactly where this missive has materialised from.

The acknowledgement of her embarrassing display outside the bookstore days prior as well as of her time in Anthony's company, the mention of Whistledown, and all of it on the same day that the Viscount has decided to extinguish what she had thought was a mutual friendship burgeoning between them. Those things combined can most certainly not be a coincidence.

Oh! Her mind cries, outraged, the nerve of that man! P. Featherington, he must think himself so funny for that one after pretending to be clueless about my letter to Ireland earlier on.

She looks over to Bridgerton House, then down at herself and the coat of his she is still sporting. Spurred on by her ire, she tears the offending jacket from her shoulders, throws it over her arm and storms across the square to his front door.

"Miss Featherington? What on earth are you doing here?" Anthony demands incredulously, feeling suddenly rather sober, "The hour is late and you should not be crossing the square alone in the dark!"

"Please, sir, don't condescend to me with your plays of concern now!" She spits, causing him to reel back in alarm.

"If this is about my abrupt departure in the park this afternoon, then I apologise that it has caused you such offence, however-" the scoff she interrupts him with irks him greatly and Anthony finds his voice raising as he continues, " however, that does not give you the right to turn up on my property, uninvited , with seemingly no good reason but to shout at me?"

"I assure you, sir, that is not why I am here - in fact, I had hoped not to encounter you whatsoever and have no interest in further burdening you with my presence! Seeing as you could not lower yourself to return my property to me face-to-face, I simply came to return the favour in kind!" She sneers, waving her hand to indicate the brown coat lying on the front doorstep between them, "if I have caught you on the way to one of your midnight trysts then it was hardly intentional."

"I beg your pardon?" He is shocked by her flagrant accusation and not a small amount ashamed of how spot on it actually is.

"Did you think it funny?" Penelope interjects, "did it amuse you, taking advantage of my circumstance to get close to me and have me lay out all of my innermost thoughts for you?"

Anthony's confusion grows and with it comes his ire, his stubborn pride insisting that he must should match the infernal woman's accusatory tone when he addresses her in return.

"And what circumstance would that be, exactly? Your position as Lasy Whistledown? Because I feel I did just as much soul baring during our discussions of that particular topic!"

"Do not play coy, Lord Bridgerton ! I grow tired of your games." She huffs.

" My games? " Anthony laughs, humourlessly, "you have had the whole of the society chasing their tails for your own amusement and you would accuse me of playing games?"

"Well at least I have always been honest in my pursuits, can you make the same claim?" Penelope is proud, if of nothing else, for not stomping her foot here. She does, however, allow her hands to flap about her person in a most undignified manner.

"Everything I have said to you has been in truth, Miss Featherington! But fine, if you intend to take me to task for some invented transgression, then perhaps I shall start to demand honesty from you as well!"

"And what is there left for me to be honest about, what is there left for me to say that you do not already know and mock me for?" She laughs bitterly, tilting her head at him in challenge.

"Perhaps we shall start with how we always seem to encounter each other when you are without chaperone? It did not escape my notice that you were alone in the park this afternoon, and that wasn't the first time either!"

"You mock me still! Knowing full well-"

"Perhaps it has all been by design," he interjects, "you and that scheming mother of your's, creating opportunities for the two of us to be caught alone together and stage an entrapment!"

" How dare- "

"I saw you on the steps of your house that morning, watching my family's carriages pull away for the country. You knew I would be the only Bridgerton left in the city and you seized the chance to get me one-on-one, didn't you? Didn't you?! " Anthony is in no way proud of what he does next, but he has always been a man for action far more than for words. He seizes her just above her elbows and drags her closer, forcing her to meet his gaze when he deals his final blow, "but why should I be surprised, hey, Lady Whistledown ? You are every bit the insipid, cowardly, manipulative villain required to write your useless pamphlets. Tactless and graceless, indeed. "

His cheek stings where her open palm connects with surprising force, the momentum of her swing forcing Anthony to take a staggering step backwards. He swings back around to her, expecting to meet her fury, but is stayed by the very picture of teary eyed brokenness she presents. Her voice wobbles when she speaks again, and this time he has to strain to hear her.

"I know what I am, Lord Bridgerton, but for you to suggest that I would trap you , so? Knowing as you do how I destroyed my own reputation to save your brother from just such a fate but a few weeks ago. And what on earth you think my mama could have to do with such a ploy from all the way in Ireland , I can not discern. She may be scheming, but even she is not cunning enough to pull off such a feat from that distance!"

"Ireland? Your mother is in Ireland?" He is thrown utterly off course by this revelation, confused as to the new course the conversation seems to be taking and how any of it is relevant to him specifically.

"Ah, I assumed you had put the pieces together already but I suppose you thought them to just be off in the country? That would fit much better with the narrative you've decided on!"

"The letter you were carrying today, it was for your mother?" Pieces of a puzzle begin to slide together.

" Yes , I have to get the necessary funds to her and Prudence to see them through the off season somehow!" Penelope rolls her eyes, as though this should all be obvious to him and not as completely baffling as it actually is.

"Funds? You- wait, your sister is not at home either?"

"I-" the last of the fight very quickly drains from Penelope, her anger giving way to confusion of her own, "you are acting as though this is all new information?"

"Because it is! No wonder your staff have been so lax in their chaperoning when your mother is not home to keep them in line! I should like to have words with each and every one of them for failing their duty to care for you in your family's absence." Anthony goes to step forward as if he is going to go and do just that right now, but something halts him and he turns his attention back to her.

"You were so certain I knew about this already," he tilts his head, "and you claim I mocked you for it? What could have led you to that conclusion?"

"I- but- you didn't post these to my door?" She breathes, looking down to the papers still clutched in her hand.

Oh, god , she thinks, OH GOD!

Not only has she stormed over to his home and thrown accusations in Anthony's face, now she has inadvertently revealed far too much information to him in the process. If only she had taken a few minutes to consider the evidence, she would surely have noticed that the penmanship of the note is not even comparable to the viscount's distinctly neat but slanted scrawl.

A cold pool of dread begins to settle in her stomach as Penelope realises the implications that come along with ruling Anthony out of the situation entirely; if he had not found and returned her note, then who had?

Anthony must sense her distraction, for he uses the opportunity to swoop forward and snatch both the papers from her hands, holding them up above his head as he scans them to keep them far out of her reach - not that there is any need, for Penelope finds herself paralyzed by her growing unease and barely registers that the parchment has been removed from her grasp in the first place.

"What is this?" Anthony breathes, though the meaning behind both the list and the attached missive are all too clear, "Penelope, what is this ?"

His words fall on deaf ears, Penelope still very much lost to her own mind and unresponsive to his inquisitions. Anthony paces back and forth a few steps, lifting his free hand to tug at his own hair as he tries to make sense of the situation. He stops an arms length in front of her, stooping slightly to better attempt at catching her downcast gaze.

"This is all a joke, isn't it?" He hedges, hoping for her to confirm it even whilst he knows she won't, "a prank? Payback for my behaviour at the park this afternoon, yes?"

Finally something in her seems to reignite and she lifts her chin. Anthony hates the way her lip trembles and prays to God that he has not played a part in putting that look of fear onto her face

" Penelope ," he begs, needing her to say something, anything . Anthony longs to turn the hand on his pocket watch back, even just by a couple of minutes. He would take trading bitter insults with her over this any day.

"I- the note made reference to my spending time with a gentleman, with you, among other information that you were privy to" she begins finally, her faraway eyes finally returning to his steely gaze, "I assumed- that is, I had not considered that anyone else would have taken notice of our acquaintanceship, but, My Lord, if you truly did not write this then not only is there someone else who knows that I have been left in the city without protection, they have been watching me."

Anthony lets the words wash over him, crashing through him along with an unstoppable wave of emotions. He had thought he had known fear before and certainly, he has; most of all when he watched his Father succumb to his untimely death in his Mother's desperate embrace, and then again, just this afternoon, when he had briefly thought Penelope Featherington about to meet the same fate.

The terror that takes hold of him now, however, is something new and entirely different, and it spurs the beast in him to hide and shelter and protect . He can do nothing but give into the urge.

"Get in the house." He growls , his voice not his own.

"I-"

"If you are correct and there are eyes on you then we can not continue this conversation out here," Anthony steps to the side, stretching his arm out to point to the door behind him without breaking her gaze, "so, get, in, the, house, now. "

Notes:

Not sure if I'm happy with this one (and not least of all because I'm finishing if off hastily at 1:00am). Might come back and edit some parts tomorrow but I will make sure to include a note of any possible changes if I do!

Thanks for reading :)

Chapter 9

Summary:

Things get worse before they get better.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Get. In. The. House. Now."

If Penelope had had an ounce of fight left in her, she'd have raged against his demand. She would have most likely also made a painful attempt to backtrack over the latter half of their… discussion, for if she had not have slipped and revealed her hand to him so easily, then Anthony would certainly be sending her in the much more desirable direction of far away as opposed to inviting her in - though, 'inviting' does not seem the correct word in this case.

Clearly, she has spent too long in her thoughts, for in the next instant she is being hauled through the front door by a firm - but neither tight, nor painful - grip on her upper arm. They do not stop in the foyer as she might have expected, had she the time to consider such things, but instead she is dragged along (at a pace her short legs struggle to keep up with) down a corridor, the length of which she hasn't ventured before.

Humboldt gives a startled cry when he sees them - and who can blame him? To think of the picture the two of them must make; Viscount Bridgerton marching through the house at ten o'clock on a Tuesday evening, pulling the pale white ghost of Penelope Featherington along behind him. The butler takes a step forward, as if to intervene, but whatever he sees on his master's face is enough to stay him and he slips back into position near the wall.

They are nearing the door to the end of the corridor when Anthony finally stops, nearly sending Penelope crashing face first into his shoulder blades as she fights against the sudden change in momentum.

He does not spare a glance in her direction when he looks back over his shoulder to Humboldt, giving instruction for him and the rest of the staff to be dismissed for the night and removed from the floor unless called upon. Penelope does not get to hear how he responds as Anthony's hand moves suddenly from her arm to her lower back and then she is being propelled through the entryway of the room that is clearly his study. She is proud of herself when she does not jump as the door slams shut behind them.

"Sit," he commands, motioning towards one of the two chairs on this side of his desk. As much as she would like to stand in sheer spite, Penelope is not fool enough to ignore his request and finds herself perched uncomfortably in the left seat.

Still unable to get a good look at his expression as Anthony moves immediately to pour himself a drink on the other side of the room, Penelope is left to inspect that which she can see of him. His shoulders are tense, raised so high they may as well be hooked over his ears like a pair of muscular earrings. The freshly trimmed hair on his head is unruly in a way that suggests he had been tugging on it even before their spat. His eyes are- oh!

Even staring at him as she was, Penelope had somehow failed to notice the moment he finally spun around to face her. Seeing the particularly severe expression marring his features, however, she thinks she wouldn't mind too much if he were to twist back the other way.

Perhaps we could sit in chairs facing opposite directions for this conversation, she ponders, for surely it would be a fairly easy undertaking to fix the wall if he glares a hole through it. My head, however…

"How long?" He asks, finally, his half empty glass dangling from his hand rather precariously by his side.

Penelope does not need to ask him for elaboration.

"Just three days," she speaks at last, voice far quieter than it had been out on the stoop of the house and yet it seems to echo in the enclosed space.

"Just?" He laughs bitterly, shaking his head, "there is no just in this, Penelope."

"Ah, so now I am Penelope again? I thought we were back to Miss Featherington." She is sure she'd intended for the words to come out biting and hates how resigned they sound instead.

"We are discussing how your family has abandoned you, I think it hardly matters now what I might call you!"

"Yes, you've made it very clear this evening that you are quite happy to call me an awful lot of things, My Lord," Penelope does not meet his eyes as she says it, and so misses the flash of guilt that briefly softens his expression. When Penelope does face him again, he is just as furrow brow and downturned lips as he had been when she'd last checked, "and I would hardly call myself abandoned."

"Then what would you call this, this-" Anthony crosses towards the desk then, surprising Penelope when he does not round the desk to his rightful seat at its back but rather comes to perch on the chair beside her own.

"This," he insists, pushing her mother's godforsaken list onto the desk beside them, "if this is not an act of desertion, then please, Penelope, explain to me what it is."

It is funny, Penelope thinks, the time - both leading up to and since watching the remaining members of her household disappear from sight a few days ago - she has spent considering the possibility that someone might discover her situation, whilst not sparing herself a moment to plan what might happen if someone actually did.

She expected there'd be scandal, of course - she has orchestrated the exposing of enough of them to know the kind of breaks in conformity that are sure to cause a stir amongst the Ton, and this certainly fits the bill. Her family would be sure to develop permanent bends in their necks from constantly looking up the downturned noses of their peerage.

But that was in the long run, once the gossip had been able to spread through each high society household without Lady Whistledown to hurry the news along as she would through the season and once her mother and sister returned from Ireland to address the issue. The immediate aftermath, where she would be caught out, alone and vulnerable in her confrontation, Penelope had not thought to consider until now.

Will she be able to answer his queries honestly or will she try to deflect? Will Anthony heed a word of what she says either way or shall she find herself packed onto a ship bound for the green isle before first light? Whatever it may be, she should probably say something sooner rather than later.

"It is making the best of a terrible situation," Penelope says at last, twisting her hands together in her lap. She knows it is not enough, but she's not sure where she is supposed to start, nor how she is expected to feel about any of it.

"Now you are being purposefully evasive," Anthony huffs, leaning forwards in his chair, "I would appreciate you ending your endeavours to change the subject and start speaking to me plainly."

Something wells in Penelope as his tone remains as accusatory and disdainful as it has since she arrived at the manor and she realises, with no shortage of personal humiliation, that she is going to respond to the situation with tears.

There is nothing Penelope can do to stay the onslaught of emotions that overtakes her, though she does manage to spare herself a second to enjoy the look of abject horror on his face when she begins to sob in front of him.

Serves him bloody right, she thinks.

Anthony opens and closes his mouth a few times, though whether he is intending to attempt an offer of comfort or chastise her childish hysteria, she isn't able to decipher. Perhaps he has decided now would be a good time to showcase his hidden talent for rather spot on fish impressions in an attempt to lighten the mood?

Regardless, it is of no consequence as Penelope's continued sobs seem to be pushing her formally lodged words up her throat until they spill from her lips in an unfortunately wet and heaving torrent.

"Speak plainly, he says!" She chokes, "fine then! Shall I tell you that my father has left us destitute following his death? That I have not had a moment to mourn him as the burden of supporting my family has fallen to me, or that I am not even sure if I would mourn his loss if given the chance? That I hate myself for not missing him an inch,

"Would you like to hear in detail why mother has deemed Prudence her only remaining eligible daughter? I could list for you the many faults she finds in me which she has recounted to me endlessly to justify such a claim, as if anyone were ever going to rebuke it. Perhaps you'd like to assess my ledgers and see exactly how much of my money has been poured into their current venture, or read over the Modiste's receipts from when mama chose the expense of refitting my sister's wardrobe over booking me passage on the ship with them?"

Her chest heaves under the strain of her laboured breaths and Penelope wishes that Anthony had left the door open, uncaring if the rest of the house's occupants might hear them, if only it might make it feel a little less as though the walls are closing in around her.

"Would you like to know how utterly terrified I am?"

Penelope isn't sure if the ground has started to shake beneath them or if it is her alone being wracked by earth shattering tremors. Black spots dance around the edge of her vision and she blinks hard to try and clear them away. Her hands feel strange and tingly and she gets the strangest feeling as if she is disconnecting from her own body.

Through the fog, she sees Anthony moving towards her from his seat, a hand reaching out to encroach on her already limited space, and the last of her vestiges snap.

"No!" She cries, leaping up from her seat and away from his reach so quickly that the chair tips back and crashes to the floor, "no! I will not have you hold me now just for you to turn around and decide later that it was the fruit of some manipulation on my part! You, who accused me of seeking to entrap you not half an hour ago and has since dragged me into a secluded room and closed the door, all under the witness of your staff! And now you would reach out for me, pretend to offer me comfort, because you have decided it suits you to do so? I am not a toy for you to pick up and drop as you please!"

"And I am not a child in want of playing with you!" He roars, rising too to his feet, though he keeps his distance this time "I am a man who wants to see you safe in my protection and warm in my embrace, is that such a terrible thing?"

"It is you who has deemed it so! You who has named me the villain in this story. Why should I believe you when you try now to claim otherwise? I know how the world works and I know my place in it, Lord Bridgerton, and it is not often that the gallant knight swoops in to save the wicked witch from the dragon's den."

"You are as lacking in wickedness as I am in gallantry - stop looking for metaphors and see me as I am!" He pleads in return, "please, Penelope. You must know that, despite the falsities I have impressed upon you in my anger, you have no reason to be afraid when you are with me, that I will keep you from any force which would seek to harm you, that I would never hope to be that which causes you pain."

"I believe it is a little bit late for that now." She snorts, folding her arms across her stomach as if she might be able to hold herself together that way despite feeling that she could split in two.

This time, when he tries to close the distance between them, he takes the slow approach. Though she is only a few steps away from him, Anthony acts as though she is a deer he has stumbled across on a hunt, holding his palms out placating and inching across the floor at a snail's pace.

His strange display sobers her enough for her sobs to abate, though her eyes still run with crystalline tears, and she is able to draw a steady breath by the time he reaches her. When he reaches out for her, she allows his hands to find purchase on her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the wetness there.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, then has to rush to catch her as she all but falls into his chest, soaking his shirt with the last of her tears but he doesn't care. Penelope clutches at his collar and he holds just as tightly to her waist, assured by each other's presence and content to stand together in silence for a while.

"Why is it that we only seem to end up holding each other like this when one of us is in distress?" She breathes into his shirt, aiming for levity to break up some of the tension.

"Penelope Featherington," Anthony gasps, "whatever other reason could there be for it? Tell me, what are these other circumstances in which you imagine we might have to share such an embrace?"

His words seem to have the desired effect as he can see the pretty blush spreading over her cheeks. Adversely, they also bring the much less welcome consequence of having her pull away from him.

Penelope swipes her hands across her face, clearing away the last of her tears, then smooths a hand down over her wrinkled dress. When she meets Anthony's eyes, it is with a sheepish expression and a barely there smile, but it is enough for him to know that she will be okay.

"I know this conversation is far from finished," she begins, "however, I find I am quite exhausted, and I'm not sure how much sense I will be able to provide if we continue any further now. Might I beg that we reconvene tomorrow? Assuming you would like to discuss the matters any further, that is."

"Tomorrow, then," he agrees reluctantly, unsure about leaving so much both said and unsaid between them for even the few hours it'll be until morning, "we have an awful lot left to unpick. The guest chambers have all been closed down for the off season already, but the staff will not even be halfway through sorting out Eloise's room and I know you have stayed there before; I imagine that is where you would be most comfortable for the night, yes?"

"Comfortable for the night?" Penelope queries, nose scrunching as her head tilts to the left, "in Eloise's room?"

"You can't have thought you would be going back to your house at this hour? I know a lot has unfolded since, but surely you remember the rather ominous missive which brought you here in the first place?"

"Right," she nods, "yes, of course. Thank you."

Penelope begins walking towards the door - now that the thought of rest and the promise of a bed she knows to be far more comfortable than her own, in a house where she will not feel the need to rise every hour throughout the night to double check lock on her door to still be intact, she feels rather dead on her feet. Though she spares a passing acknowledgement for her lack of any personal items, specifically night clothes, Penelope knows that in her current state she will barely be able to get herself out of her day dress before she will be passed out under her friend's soft blue sheets.

"One last thing before you go," Anthony breathes, reaching out a hand to stop her as she passes him "I am a man of many flaws, one of which, I am reluctant to admit, is the way I allow my fears to turn so quickly into anger, and I find that I have a tendency to lash out; push people away when what I want to do is pull them closer. I hope that I might be able to call upon your patience once again, as though I am aware of my abominable behaviour, it is not a habit so easily broken. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Penelope is not entirely sure that she does, but she nods anyway.

"I believe we may both have cause to practice the bounds of our patience, but that is tomorrow's challenge," she allows the tips of her fingers to brush against the back of his hand as she begins once more towards the door, "thank you again for your hospitality. Good night, Lord Bridgerton."

Anthony turns to face her as she leaves, watching her red curls disappearing into the darkened hallway.

"Anthony," he breathes, though it comes a second too late, lost to the light click of the door as it closes behind her.

Notes:

Bit shorter than the last couple to tie up some ends before we move forward. Hope you enjoyed it

Chapter 10

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope is awoken from her fitful sleep rather suddenly by the sound of the door opening, followed shortly by an alarmed cry. She bolts upright in the bed, sheet held to her chest, and turns to face the source of the noise.

"Oh heavens!" The maid in the doorway - Emma, Penelope remembers - gasps, one hand clutching her chest, "I'm awful sorry, Miss, I thought the room empty. I was just comin' to have another crack at organising Miss Eloise's mess, but I'll come back later."

"Oh, no, please, do not let me keep you from your duties, Emma," Penelope says hurriedly, already beginning to slide out from under the covers, "I ought to be getting up for the day anyway, I suppose."

"It's still early yet, Miss," Emma insists, and a glance to the clock confirms it is in fact just past six O'clock, "I'd not have disturbed you had I considered you'd be staying in this room."

"In this room?" Penelope queries, rising from the bed, glad to have her chemise at least to keep her dignity as she begins toeing around Eloise's scattered belongings in search of her discarded dress, "you speak as though you knew I was in the house at all."

"Well of course I did! How could any of us not?" Penelope, startled, whirls around to face the other girl, abandoning her hunt for clothing. Emma, for her part, slaps a hand over her own mouth and stares back at Penelope with wide eyes, "oh, forgive me, Miss! I have spoken out of turn. Shall I help you into your dress?"

Penelope is quite impressed (and only a little bit inwardly annoyed) when the maid takes three steps into the room and immediately identifies her gown on the floor, scooping it up and giving it a shake out.

"Is this all you have with you, Miss?" She asks, barely bothering to try and be subtle about the way she is eyeing the wrinkles littering the fabric, "perhaps I could pull one of my ladies' morning dresses for ya?"

Waving her hand, Penelope dismisses the suggestion. "There won't be anything here to fit me, I'm afraid. Yesterday's dress will do me just fine for crossing the square, I should think."

Though Penelope tries to insist that she can ready herself well enough on her own, Emma makes quick work of helping her step into the worn gown and laces up the ties at the back. She has enjoyed practicing her independence and learning new skills to take care of herself - things that will surely come in handy through the coming years of spinsterhood - but there is a comfortable familiarity about having assistance to complete the task. Back when she still had her own lady's maid, they would share all sorts of idle chatter and gossip through this part of the morning and Penelope yearns for those simple moments. When Emma guides her over to the dressing table, Penelope gladly sinks onto it's stool, glad to extend her time spent in nostalgic bliss a little longer.

"Tell me," she starts, as Emma stands over her shoulder running a brush through her hair, "what did you mean earlier? About knowing I was here?"

"I really think I ought not say, Miss," Emma responds, carefully avoiding Penelope's gaze where she is watching her from the dressing table's mirror.

"Oh, please share it with me - I so hate to know that there is good gossip that I am not privy to, especially when I seem to be the subject matter," Penelope turns then, forcing the maid to set the brush down on the table, "I promise I will not be upset with you, but I will not push any further if you are truly too discomforted by my inquest."

"Forgive me, Miss, but it is not your ire that gives me worry."

Penelope reaches out to give a gentle squeeze to the young woman's hand, then turns back to face the mirror.

"Then think of it no more," she says, "tell me, do you enjoy working for the Bridgertons?"

Assuming the maid would leap to take the opportunity to speak of more proper matters, Penelope is surprised when instead Emma sighs and gives a glance to the closed door before beginning to speak.

"I must beg that you not mention it to his Lordship, Miss, for he wouldn't be best pleased to know we staff were spreading gossip amongst ourselves." She whispers.

"Oh, well, of course, you have my word - though I hope you are not implying that Lord Bridgerton has given you reason to fear he would be cruel to you?"

"No! No, nothing of the sort, it's just- right, this goes no further, yes?" Emma waits for Penelope to nod before she continues, "the word is that there was yelling outside the house last night and then the viscount sequestered himself in his study with a young lady - yourself of course, Miss - slammed the door and sent away the few staff still working on the floor at that hour."

"All of that is correct," Penelope confirms, nodding her head, "though I'm not sure it's quite the interesting news it has been made out to be."

"I assure you that alone would have been enough, however, that wasn't the interesting part," Emma laughs, "it's what came next- or, eh, I suppose, what the staff are assuming came next."

"Oh?" Penelope scrunches her nose, feeling no more clued in as she watches the maid wiggle her eyebrows in the mirror's reflection.

"Well, no one was able to hear anything from the study, of course, as they had all left the area immediately," Emma begins, not at all convincingly, "but there's really not that many reasons that a gentleman and a lady might seek to be very much alone, in a private space, and behind a firmly closed door. Especially a gentleman with Lord Bridgerton'sâ reputation."

The eyebrow wiggling begins anew but this time Penelope is already ahead, having finally caught onto the maid's meaning. She whips around on the stool, just shy of tipping off of it entirely, and meets the other woman's sly grin with a look of shocked horror.

"So when you were not surprised that I was here in the house, but just that I was here in this room, it's because you thought I'd be…" she leaps to her feet, suddenly feeling rather warm, "oh!"

"Not that it's any of our business, of course!" Emma hurries, finally beginning to look appropriately sheepish, "and you are well liked by all here, Miss Featherington. There is not one amongst the household who would use this information to think any ill of you, nor would we share it outside these walls."

"Well, I'm sorry to burst this rather unfathomable bubble, but all that transpired between us in the study was the continuation of our argument in a much more appropriately private setting than the front door step had been." Penelope snipes defensively, then immediately wishes she had taken a gentler tone when the maid's eyes turn downcast and her cheeks flush with reproach.

"I appreciate your assistance this morning, Emma," she says, softer, "and that you offered me your confidence. I assure you, I will not mention our having had this discussion to anyone outside of this room."

"Thank you, Miss," Emma squeaks, then clears her throat, "I shall go and set you a place for breakfast - I'm certain Mrs Wilson will hurry cook along once she hears that you are up and dressed already."

"Oh, no, please don't trouble yourself, I will be heading for home shortly," Penelope sets about slipping her feet into her shoes as she talks, "I'd prefer to cross the square before there are any eyes around to take note. Though, perhaps you could relay a message for me?"

"Of course, Miss," Emma responds quickly, clearly eager to keep herself in the lady's good graces after her earlier faux pas.

"Could you please inform the viscount that I will await word from him that he still wishes to finish our conversation before I make attempt to seek him out again?"

"Certainly, Miss. Though - if I may ask - why will you not stay for breakfast if your business with his Lordship is not finished?"

Penelope sighs, unsure of how she can explain their delicate situation without revealing her cards yet again. Part of her knows she is being irrational; it was Anthony who had confirmed before they parted last night that he did, indeed, intend to see her again today and she is certain he has many questions that he will not easily leave unanswered.

"Lord Bridgerton has come upon some information that I had rather hoped would remain secret and I believe that his misinterpretations of it may have altered his opinion of me. I think it would be best that I leave it up to him to decide once and for all if he should like to continue associating with me, now that we are met by the cold light of day - I will not begrudge him if he lands on the negative."

"Forgive my continued impertinence, Miss, but I think you are being rather foolish," Emma says, though not unkindly, "the viscount is a gentleman, of course, but he wouldn't house an unwanted guest in his home, and certainly not in the family wing."

Feeling somehow chastised, Penelope tucks a piece of hair behind her ear before replying, "an act of kindness which does not signify-"

"And what, then, does it signify," the maid interjects, "when a gentleman spends time unchaperoned with a young lady, or when he abandons his work and sets off for Hyde Park as soon as he hears mention that that same lady might be there?"

Penelope stammers for several moments, feeling the familiar flush begin to warm her cheeks. The tiny, nagging voice in the back of her head (which sounds all too much like her mother) tells her she has every right to scold the girl for speaking out of turn to her and for making assumptions about a situation she knows nothing about, though that has never really been Penelope's style. Besides, the fleeting notion is largely overshadowed by the strange, budding hope that there is some truth behind Emma's words.

"Nevertheless," she says, finally, "if I am to see Lord Bridgerton today, it would be improper to greet him in yesterday's dress. I will have to return home to refresh myself and change, at the very least."

As she is about to leave the room, Penelope hesitates and looks back over her shoulder to face the maid.

"Thank you again for your assistance this morning, Emma, and for your conversation. It has beenâ most enlightening."

Anthony wakes slowly and with no shortage of reluctance. He clings to the final moments of sleep, knowing that when he opens his eyes the pounding in his head will increase tenfold. Turning his face to press firmly into the pillow below him, Anthony can only hope that Mrs Wilson has not been in to draw back the curtains yet, for seeing the bright morning (though it could just as well be afternoon) sun shining through the window would surely finish him off.

It has been a while since he felt the true effects of a hangover quite this severely - though, perhaps not as long as it ought to have been - and he feels a wave of nausea that almost sends him kneeling over the chamber pot before it passes.

Reaching out a hand, Anthony feels around on his bedside table until his fingers finally find the cool metal of his pocket watch. After pulling it under the covers, Anthony finally pries his eyes open and finds that he has just enough light under there to make out the time at a quarter to ten.

Too early, his churning stomach tells him.

Go back to sleep, beats the pulse throbbing in his head.

She'll be waiting for you, pleads his heart, and Anthony suddenly finds he can not throw the sheets back quick enough. (The curtains are blessedly closed.)

He had somehow forgotten the events that had led him to his current state, including the extra two glasses he had indulged in after Penelope had bid him goodnight.

Anthony lifts a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose for though he is now very much awake, his self imposed ailment is no less reduced. Planting his feet on the floor over one side of his bed, he allows himself a moment to lean forward and rest his head between his knees before pushing up to stand. He is relieved when the room around him chooses only to spin for a few seconds, allowing him to keep his balance.

Stretching his arms above his head, Anthony is made all too aware of the rather unpleasant aroma he is emitting and decides that a bath would not go amiss before he gets ready to face the day. It is already late into the morning, anyway, and he is fairly certain Penelope will not mind in the least if their forthcoming conversation is delayed a little bit longer.

Decision made, he rings the bell and calls for his valet, Adam, to have his private bath filled, then spends what is perhaps a tad too long soaking in the water until it becomes lukewarm. It is time enough, at least, for his headache to begin to clear and he feels remarkably fresher when he finally begins to dress himself for the day. A light knock sounds at the door just as he is buttoning his shirt and he calls out for whoever it is to enter.

"Good morning, sir," Humboldt greets, standing to attention just inside the doorway.

Anthony finishes looping the last button through the collar of his shirt and slides his arms into a gray-blue patterned waistcoat before turning to face his butler as he ties his silk cravat.

"Come to ensure I did not succumb to the drink, I suppose?" He asks, finishing off the loose knot.

"Mrs Wilson would like to enquire as to whether she should be preparing you a breakfast meal or skipping straight to lunch, sir."

"That depends, has Miss Featherington eaten already?" Anthony crosses the room and collects his timepiece from the shelf near the door, glancing at it's face; past eleven o'clock already.

Focused as he is on securing the chain of his pocket watch to his breeches before leaving the room, he does not see the look of nervous resignation that passes over his butler's face as the other man follows at a pace behind him.

"Well, um, Miss Featherington has already-" Humboldt starts, adjusting the tie at his own throat as they make their way towards the stairs in rather quick time.

"Ah, well of course she has broken her fast without me - I can not blame her, the morning is almost behind us and I suppose it is I who has kept her waiting through it." Anthony nods, "it is no matter, tell Mrs Wilson to have a tea service brought to the salon and then send someone to fetch Miss Featherington and bring her to meet me there."

Having now reached the bottom of the stairs but hearing no response from his butler, Anthony finally turns to face him, only to find that the other man has stopped altogether, still a few steps up from the bottom. He appears to be taking keen interest in a particular spot on the chandelier above them, if the way his gaze is firmly fixed upon it is anything to go by, and his mouth is moving as though he is chewing over his next words.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Anthony sighs, "I really don't know what has gotten into you lately."

"Forgive me, sir," Humboldt says at last, though he continues looking up and very much away from the viscount, "it's just that-"

"Good morning, Lord Bridgerton," a softer voice interjects, and Anthony turns back around to find the much more welcome sight of Penelope Featherington approaching from the foyer, as well as one of the maids passing by from the same direction with a familiar looking cloak slung over her arm, "I hope I'm not interrupting?"

(Humboldt considers himself very lucky indeed when Lord Bridgerton does not appear to hear him whisper "thank you, God" to the ceiling - though, if her quiet sniggering is anything to go by, Emma certainly catches it as she passes him on her way up the stairs.)

"Certainly not, Penelope," Anthony smiles, feeling a strange sense of relief as he finally sets his eyes on her, "I was just arranging for us to take tea, assuming you are amenable?"

Despite having framed it as a question, Anthony does not wait for a response before he is holding an arm out to guide her to the sitting room. Humboldt makes off in the other direction, presumably to finally make good on his master's requests, and so they find themselves alone once again.

They settle in seats perpendicular to one another at the round table across from the piano and a comfortable quiet settles over them as they both get comfortable. The energy is different between them now than it had been last night, less charged, aided in no small part to the wide open door and the sound of staff constantly passing by, even if none of them are quite brave enough to venture into the room.

As they wait for their tray to arrive, Anthony takes the opportunity to study his companion properly. She looks tired, though he thinks he would not be able to tell if he were not inspecting her so closely, and he wonders for how long she has been up and about already. The dress she is wearing is not entirely dissimilar to the one she had worn last night, however the floral patterning is different and this one boasts an unfortunately contrasting band of black trim and large pink flower across the bust.

"I'm glad to see you were able to find fresh clothes to change into this morning, though I suppose I should not be surprised that you should keep some here given the frequency with which you spend the night with my sister," Anthony says conversationally, waving a hand to indicate her general person.

"I'm not certain anyone should ever claim to be glad to see a dress such as this, though I appreciate the sentiment," Penelope giggles, though there is an undercurrent of self consciousness to her tone, "and I assure you, I have not taken the liberty of assuming I could store any of my personal wares in your home - aside from the books Eloise borrows from my collection, of course."

"I just assumed…" Anthony's brows draw together, "So then where did you get the dress from? I do not remember you carrying even a reticule with you last night, let alone a secondary outfit."

"Well, from my wardrobe, of course," she laughs, though her giggles promptly trail off as she takes a look at his face and gets the sudden and distinct feeling that she is in trouble.

"Penelope," Anthony begins, almost too calmly, "tell me you haven't been back to your house."

"I hardly went far, My Lord," she tries to jest, though it falls flat to even her own ears, "and I returned soon enough that you had not even noticed my absence."

"Penelope," he replies through gritted teeth, "tell me you haven't been back to your house, alone, after a threatening note was attached to the door of said house just last night."

"Oh, well I suppose when you put it like that, it does sound somewhat ill advised."

"Ill adv-" he starts to hiss, then takes a fortifying breath and begins to speak again in a more level tone, "I am taking considerable efforts to remain calm, but you seem determined to make it very difficult for me to do so."

Humboldt chooses that moment to finally enter the room, pushing a silver trolley ahead of him, and Anthony and Penelope both lean back in their seats, looking away from one another. The butler pretends admirably to take no notice of the tension simmering between the pair as he sets about laying the table, first with a white linen cloth and then a plate in front of both parties.

Penelope casts quick glances at Anthony as Humboldt (seemingly in quite a rush to complete the task) unloads selections of cakes and a tea set between them. The viscounts face is fairly neutral, though she has come to recognise the pulsing vein in the side of his neck as a sign that he is displeased.

If she's honest with herself, Penelope knows that her decision to return to her home, however briefly, had been poorly made. She had not been lying last night when she had expressed her fears about her situation, however she had felt so stifled then and even more so when she was so abruptly woken up this morning. In that moment, Penelope had been unable to decide which would be worse; to be completely alone in her own home with the idea that someone may be watching at a distance or to be in another accompanied by people who she could see for herself as they judged her every move. She'd just needed a little time to herself to process, as well as a wash and change of attire, of course.

Looking at Anthony now, she understands that she could have gone about it better. Perhaps she should have requested that Emma attend with her, maybe waited for Anthony to get up to accompany her himself, or at least to tell him where she was going. He had asked for her patience, after all, and there has been more than enough miscommunication between them already for her to continue trying to be anything but completely open with him.

As soon as Humboldt has finished laying out their spread and beat a hasty retreat from the room, Anthony's attention turns back to Penelope, finding her searching gaze already fixed upon his person. She blushes, caught, but does not look away.

Anthony goes to speak then, but she begins before he gets the chance. "I'm sorry, Lord Bridgerton. I wish I could tell you what I had been thinking when I set out this morning, but I'm afraid that, on reflection, it seems I was not really thinking much at all."

"It is done now, I suppose," he sighs, accepting her placation, "but I think we should establish clearly what is to happen next, though I would first like a bit more clarification on some of the finer details of your predicament."

"Of course," Penelope breathes, pleased to have managed to return the earlier calm to the room, "what information in particular would you like me to bestow?"

"How many people know of your mother and sister's leave from England?"

"Only the three of us and the staff, plus yourself, of course."

"And where exactly are the staff? If they are aware of what is happening, why have none of them remained in residence with you at Featherington Manor?"

"Well, they are in Ireland as well," Penelope replies, as if it should be obvious.

Feeling the need to occupy her hands, Penelope reaches for the tea pot and begins to fill their cups, adding in milk and sugars to both according to her own preferred tastes, then takes a sip from hers.

"All of them?" He asks, then reaches for his own cup to take a sip, pleasantly surprised to find it has been made just the way he likes it.

"All is perhaps not the correct word, as there are only five people left in our employ - six if you include the payment I offer Ida in return for her checking in with me during this time."

"That still does not explain why your mother saw fit to book passage for her entire household but not for you - could she not have spared a maid, at least? Either for you to go instead of or to stay behind with you."

Penelope wonders how she can possibly communicate her mama's behaviour to Anthony in a way that he will understand. Coming from such a warm and loving family, with a matriarch who has never been anything short of doting upon all eight of her children, she wonders what he will make of the depths at which her own mother's disdain for her runs.

"I do not fit a purpose in mama's current endeavours, where as being surrounded with as many of her own servants as she can will project an image of continued wealth to those around who may be looking at holes in our family's reputation."

"But you are her daughter," Anthony insists, clearly confused by Lady Featherington's motives, "surely you do not need to be useful to be wanted? If having you accompany them to Ireland was not manageable, why did you not all simply retreat to Kent for the off season as you usually do?"

Penelope chews over her next words thoughtfully, twisting her lips together. She reaches for an eclair from one of the trays to buy herself a little extra thinking time, then diverts to one of the small cakes instead, realising that her old preference does not seem near as enticing as it used to.

"Before I divulge this part, I would like to reaffirm that the assumptions you voiced last night about my supposed intentions to create a scandal between the two of us were entirely incorrect," she waits until he nods his head agreeably before continuing, "however, your assessment of my mother's character was rather spot on.

"She caught wind of some social events occurring in the city not far from my Great Aunt's estate in Ireland and decided to use it as an opportunity to continue shoving Prudence in the direction of eligible bachelors. I believe she intends to see my sister married before the next season, through whatever means necessary."

As Anthony digests the information, Penelope waits with bated breath to see if he will, in fact, decide that the lemon must not fall from the tree and cast her from his home. No such accusations come, though, and she breathes a heavy sigh of relief when his next words confirm his belief in her.

"And I suppose you refused to go along with her scheming, and that is why you did not accompany them?"

"Oh no, I believe it was more to do with the fact that mother wanted to focus all of her attention on pairing up her only marriable daughter."

"Well, if that is the case then why on earth has she taken Miss Prudence and not you?" His genuine incredulity throws her off balance and Anthony must sense her confusion as he continues immediately, "if Lady Featherington truly believes herself to have only one daughter capable of finding success on the marriage mart, then clearly it must be yourself."

"Oh!" She gasps, wanting to argue but Anthony appears to be on a roll.

"I can not claim to have paid your sister much attention - and with good reason - but I know you are more than twice as clever as she is, not to mention a far superior conversationalist and, not that I would ever hope to disparage a young lady's appearance, you are far more appealing to the eye than she is, as well."

"That is very kind of you to say, sir, but I must for once agree with my mother's assessment. Prudence might not have an awful lot to say, but she at least has the confidence to say it and her figure is much more fashionable than my own."

"We are not talking about what is fashionable, we are talking about what a man desires in a wife and I can assure you there is nothing wrong with your - ahem - curves in that regard."

Penelope turns a most delightful shade of crimson at his remark, and Anthony follows the path of it down her neck towards said curves before he catches himself. He shoves a tiny sandwich into his mouth to stop himself from embarking upon what could be a very lengthy tirade about the many benefits he finds in the shape of her body, the image of her in that deep green gown she had worn to dinner two nights ago taking shape at the forefront of his mind.

"I think we might have veered a bit off track," Penelope says, offering a chance to change the subject that Anthony latches onto gratefully.

"Let us stray for now from all that transpired to lead to this situation and focus rather on what we are going to do about it going forward," Anthony sits up a little straighter in his seat, taking on the air of the man in control he is so used to portraying, "I had originally intended to write Lady Featherington a rather strongly worded letter, but now I believe that may not be the right move."

"You would be wise to stay your pen," Penelope agrees, nodding, "whilst she may not see much worth in trying to engineer a match for me, you can be sure that she would latch immediately onto the knowledge that you, too, are in Mayfair without your family, and that there must have been some time spent between us for you to have become aware of my predicament. Mama would try to twist the narrative into something untoward."

"There will be no shipping you off to join her, either; I can find no morality in subjecting you to spending anymore time in her presence than you strictly must."

Another wave of relief passes over Penelope, his words providing a reassurance she hadn't realised she'd been needing. When their discussion ends, she will be able to go back home and continue with her life, with the added comfort of knowing he will be looking out for her from across the square.

"The only thing for it, then, is that you move in here immediately."

Or perhaps not.

"Move in here? My Lord, I could not impose on you in such a way," she insists, frantically shaking her head.

"You can and you will, Penelope, and you are never an imposition," Anthony responds as though the matter has already been long since decided, "I will have Mrs Wilson make up one of the guest rooms for you - of your choosing, of course. Then we shall send two of the maids and a footman to collect the personal belongings you might need for the duration of your stay here."

"Sir, I really must insist that-"

"I have no intention of keeping you under lock and key, of course," he continues as though she has not spoken at all, "though I will ask that you keep me informed directly of any comings and goings, all of which will be appropriately chaperoned, and that you do not leave the grounds under any circumstances after sunset."

Penelope turns his words over in her head, then briefly toys with suggesting that Anthony write down a list of his rules for her, before deciding it may be too soon to make that particular joke.

"Lord Bridgerton-"

"And that!" He cuts in again, though with a bit more volume this time, "that stops immediately."

"I'm sorry, I'm not following My Lord."

"That! All this nonsense of you going back to only using titles in reference to me," Anthony explains, "I have a name and I will implore you again to use it."

Penelope nods her head dutifully, but receives a look that tells her it is not a good enough response.

"I will, Anthony," she says, and is rewarded for her effort when a bright grin spreads across his face.

"Thank you, Penelope," he replies, and though she is not sure what he is thanking her for exactly, she can tell her really means it, "I want you to feel comfortable in my presence and know that you can be relaxed around me. My main concern is for your safety, but I wish to see you happy here as well."

Something warm settles in her chest and Penelope can not help but to offer him a wide smile of her own. They pass the next half hour in relative quiet, finishing off the selection of sandwiches and desserts, before Anthony informs her that he will be retiring to his study to make the necessary arrangements for her stay with the staff and will likely spend the afternoon catching up on his work.

"If it's alright with you, I will head into town whilst it is still light out. I am expecting a missive from Madame Delacroix any day now and I should like to inform her personally that she should redirect it to here, or better yet intercept her before she has need to send it at all."

Anthony glances towards the window and sees the sun is still high in the sky and will be for a long while yet, then nods his head.

"So long as you have one of the maids accompany you, I have find no issue with you continuing to go about your business as you see fit. Though, my opinion on the matter could very easily be changed should I have any reason to think that your safety is compromised."

"Those are terms I can certainly agree with," she rises from her seat, then circles around to stand beside his chair and places a hand on his shoulder, "thank you, Anthony."

Penelope leans down and bestows a featherlight kiss upon the top of his cheekbone, then is gone from the room as if she were never there at all. Anthony lifts a hand to press against his face, feeling a rather ridiculous grin stretching the skin there, and that is the position he remains in when his butler reenters the room to clear the table five minutes later.

"If I may, sir," Humboldt coughs, waiting for the viscount's beseeching wave of a hand before he continues, "the young Miss seems to have quite the effect on you."

"What an astute observation, Humboldt," he grinds through his teeth, though the smile is still present in the shape of his lips, "but perhaps you should turn your efforts to considering how far over the line I am willing to allow you and the rest of the staff to continue treading."

"Very good, sir," Humboldt gulps.

Notes:

Are they… learning how to communicate? (They are, but things aren't perfect yet)

At what point do I have to re-tag this as a Bridgerton Staff fic with secondary Penthony?

Chapter 11

Notes:

This is a chonk of a chapter, get comfy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

When Penelope asks Emma to accompany her to the modiste, she is grateful when the other girl does not ask her why she isn't taking a maid from her own household and instead agrees readily. She isn't sure how much, if any, of her situation has been disclosed to the staff yet, but that they will soon have to be told something in order to explain her sudden residency in Bridgerton Manor.

Emma suggests calling for a driver to ferry them to their destination, but Penelope is not keen on attracting the sort of attention that the any off the opulent blue carriages in the Bridgerton's fleet might attract, and insists that they go by foot with the excuse of wanting to enjoy the pleasant day properly.

She had hoped that having a familiar face walking the high street alongside her would have made her feel more at ease about venturing out today, however, it seems to have had the opposite effect. As much as she enjoys Emma's constant chatter and outspoken candour - she would certainly make a most agreeable lady's maid for Eloise, which is far more than can be said for any who have attempted to take on the role thus far - Penelope fears being distracted from the hyper vigilance she is trying to maintain, scanning each face they pass carefully.

As it has not even been a full day since the note was posted to her door - which, she realises, she is still yet to even read in full - it is too early to know for sure if there will be any follow up from it, or if it is the work of someone hoping to give her a scare. She could name a handful of people who would take humour in playing such a cruel prank on her, were they still residing in London, and Cressida Cowper would top that list easily.

Emma is kind to overlook both her jitteriness and lackluster attempts at contributing to their conversation as they make their way to the modiste, happy to fill in the gaps with her own anecdotes of her time in the Bridgerton's employ. She is just finishing up what Penelope assumes must be a particularly amusing recounting of the events that led to Benedict's valet having to help him scrub marmalade and goose feathers from his hair when they reach the shop front (she will have to ask Emma to recount the story again later so that she can share the details with Genevieve, she thinks).

With the unusual addition of an observer to their interaction, Penelope makes quick work of settling her business with Madame Delacroix at the store's counter rather than one of the back rooms.

It's a testament to the mutual trust and respect that they have built between them that when Penelope does not offer any further clarification on the subject, neither does Genevieve does ask for it - though she knows her curiosity will only be held at bay for so long. The only outward response Penelope can detect from her at all is a quirked eyebrow and pursed lips, though neither give much indication as to her feelings on the matter.

She is pleasantly surprised when Genevieve informs her that she will be able to leave today with three complete dresses, all boxed up together much as her last one had been, and slips her a generous tip for her expediency. With a promise to return soon, Penelope takes leave of the shop with Emma at her side and they turn back towards Mayfair.

The closer they get to Grosvenor Square, the more at ease Penelope begins to feel until finally she is able to engage fully with the maid's seemingly endless well of amusing tales, to the point that she finds herself overcome by terribly unladylike fits of laughter, forcing the pair to stop more than once for her to catch her breath and stabilize herself.

It is a similar bout of humour which strikes Penelope, distracting her completely from the path ahead as they are passing through Berkeley Square, just a few final turns between them and the sight of Bridgerton Manor. So unfocused on her surroundings is she that Penelope is taken completely off guard when they round the corner onto Mount Street and she collides rather harshly with another body, sending her tumbling backwards towards the pavement.

This is becoming a habit, she thinks with a grimace.

"'Scuse me, Miss" says a gruff voice, though when Penelope tries to get a look at the man who had knocked her down she is only able to catch sight of broad shoulders under a dark coat and a plume of smoke trailing behind him as he disappears around the bend without a backwards glance. The incident gives her the strangest sense of déjà vu, though she has no time to dwell on it as Emma comes into focus at her side.

"Oh, Miss!" The maid fusses, kneeling on the ground beside her and fussing over her person, "are ya quite alright? I've half a mind to go after that scoundrel for making off like that!"

Penelope takes stock of herself and finds that, bar a bit of light grazing on her palms and some redness at the tips of her fingers from where they had connected with the cobbles as she tries to catch herself, she seems to be unhurt. Relaying this to Emma, she accepts the hand the other girl stretches out to help her from the floor, then hurriedly brushes over the seat of her skirts.

The maid scoops up the dress box from the ground next - Penelope had insisted she could carry her purchases for herself but she is glad now that she had not been able to crush the parcel in her tumble - and they complete the last short leg of their journey more sedately.

Humboldt greets them at the door and informs her that Anthony is still sequestered in his study, but that her guest quarters have been made up during her absence. They have yet to collect any of her belongings from Featherington Manor, however, as Mrs Wilson had insisted they wait for Penelope's explicit permission before setting foot in her private rooms, regardless of the viscount's instructions. Penelope is pleased by the news, and not a small amount touched by the housekeeper's willingness to disobey her master's orders for the sake of her comfort.

Regardless of whatever amount of information the staff must have been made privy to about her living situation, it would not do for one of them to stumble across a particular section of loose floorboards in her bedroom.

After Humboldt has guided her to her rather impressive guest suite, Penelope busies herself with inspecting her new gowns, pleased for the opportunity to rid herself of her current floral number. Donned in only her chemise, she hangs each dress from the changing screen so as to get a full view of each one and finds herself amazed yet again by Genevieve's work.

There are two day dresses and one more formal gown, all in deep jewel tones that contrast nicely with her pale skin when she holds up a hand to caress the soft fabrics of each skirt. It is the dark teal dress that entices her the most now, boasting a similar shape to the green gown she had worn previously. It has similarly lowered neck and waist lines, but the gauzy mesh sleeves cover her shoulders and are cut in a puff style, tapering in halfway down her upper arms. The dress is lightly embellished with small crystals along the bodice and arms, giving a subtle sparkle when turned towards the light.

She opts to dress herself, glad to find that the similarities with this gown and her other one continue with its easy fastenings, though she can't help but wince as the strings pull against the tender skin on her fingertips. When she pulls her hands back around to her front, she finds they still look rather irritated - echoed by the way they smart when she clenches her fists experimentally - and forgoes looking in the mirror to set off in search of fresh water to wash them properly.

Poking her head out of the door, Penelope finds the corridor deserted - not unusual, as hers is the only room currently open for use in this section of the house - and so she makes her way towards the stairs, hoping to cross paths with someone who might assist her on one of the lower levels. She has made it all the way to the ground floor without sight nor sound of any other persons and has just decided to carry on down to the kitchens when she hears a deep groan from the end of the hallway to her left - the same corridor she had been rather unceremoniously dragged along the night before, so she knows it leads to the study.

Marginally embarrassed by how quickly she abandons her task, Penelope turns and begins towards the sound before she can change her mind, pleasantly surprised to find the door is wide open.

Anthony has clearly not noticed her approach, affording her a rare opportunity to observe him absorbed in his work. He is still wearing the shirt and waistcoat she had seen him in earlier, but his cravat has been removed and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His head is bent over the desk, staring down at a short stack of documents whilst one hand makes occasional marks with a feathered quill. His other hand is occupied with his ever present pocket watch, thumb smoothing over the silver shell repeatedly.

Penelope clears her throat, rapping her knuckles gently against the wood of the doorframe, then has to hide a giggle behind her hand as Anthony near jumps out of his seat. She is gratified to see some of the tension ebb from his shoulders as he looks up to take her in, his straight lips twitching up ever so slightly at the corners.

"Penelope," he greets, resting his quill in its inkwell, "come in."

She edges into the room slowly, suddenly feeling a little silly for having found her way here, coming to stand awkwardly in front of the table.

"My apologies for disturbing you, you're clearly very busy," she says, chewing on her lip as she casts her eyes around the room.

"Honestly, I welcome the distraction; I'm finding my interest in completing financial calculations rather lacking at present," Anthony replies truthfully. He sets his timepiece down on the desk before leaning back in his chair and reaches his arms above his head, then tilts his head thoughtfully as he continues, "I see your trip to the modiste was a rousing success."

Penelope isn't sure if the sudden warmth she feels is caused by the weight of his gaze on her as his eyes sweep up and down over her form or if it's sparked by the rather pleasing way the muscles in his forearms tense as he stretches. When she drags her own eyes back up to his face, there's a knowing grin there which tells her that whatever effect he is having on her, he is eliciting it on purpose.

Bloody smug Bridgertons, she thinks with a huff, rolling her eyes when his grin only seems to stretch wider.

"I ought to leave you to it," she sniffs, not taking much amusement in the situation. Perhaps she should have checked her appearance before she came in here and embarrassed herself, or, better yet, not ventured this way in the first place.

"Stay, please," Anthony says, leaning forward, "if even just to keep me company whilst I try and figure out these numbers."

He waves his hand towards the chairs opposite his desk as he returns his attention to the dossier before him and Penelope can see the crease reappearing in his forehead. The room is silent for several moments with not even the scratch of his quill against the parchment to break it as he makes no move to use it. She thinks for a moment, then ignores his unspoken offer to sit and rounds the desk instead, coming to stop beside his chair.

"If I may say," she begins, waiting until he cranes his neck up to look at her, "you do appear to be having some trouble with your sums. Perhaps I could take a look?"

Penelope is about to make a hurried retraction of her offer, certain that she has become too comfortable in their uncommon acquaintanceship and has now far overstepped the mark when Anthony suddenly pushes his chair backwards, though he remains seated in it. It creates barely a foot of space between him and the edge of the desk and he nods his head into the gap there.

"Be my guest," he says, leaning back in his seat as he watches her curiously.

Penelope stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to hand her the document before she realises that he intends for her to fill the space in front of him and look from there. Narrowing her eyes in his direction, she steps forward and turns to face the desk, bending forward to assess the document in front of her.

~~~

God, I'm an idiot, Anthony thinks, feeling the back of her skirts brush against his thighs.

The wise thing to do - the proper bloody thing to have done in the first place - would be to stand up and move off to the side to allow Penelope space behind the desk, but it's too late for that now as he's trapped himself in rather securely. With the arms of the chair resting at his sides and her… everything pressed up close to his knees, Anthony is well and truly caged in.

Turning his head resolutely to the right, he tasks himself with reading the spine of each of the books lining his shelves, wondering whether it would be best to arrange them alphabetically by title or authors name, or perhaps even by colour! Hyacinth would certainly enjoy seeing them that way, if ever she were to be allowed in his study to view them, that is.

His attempts at diverting his attention seem to be working well until he registers the sound of his own name, bringing him hurtling back to reality and oh, what a reality it is.

God, I'm a genius, he prides himself.

Penelope has twisted her body part way around towards him, though she is still bent slightly at the waist, affording him quite the view down her-

"Anthony," she says again, and his eyes shoot up to meet hers in a move she can't possibly have missed.

"Ah, yes," he clears his throat, "you were saying?" Anthony reaches up to loosen his cravat as he feels the heat in the room rising, only to remember that he is not wearing it and his hand is left to float awkwardly in the space around his throat before he finally settles on using it to scratch at his jaw.

Penelope arches an eyebrow but blessedly does not comment on his odd behaviour, turning back instead to face the desk. "A couple of the decimal points have been misplaced," she says, then shuffles a few inches to the right so he can view the line of numbers she is indicating to, "it's throwing off the rest of your sums."

Interest peaked - though not entirely diverted - Anthony shifts forward towards the desk. It brings their sides close together as he has to lean around her and his knee presses more firmly into the back of her thigh. If he wasn't so intrigued to see how she has seemingly solved what had been an hour long conundrum for him so quickly, Anthony might consider how little effort it would take to tip her backwards into his lap. But he is intrigued, and so he keeps one hand firmly on the arm of his seat whilst the other picks up the document in question.

"That's brilliant," he enthuses, looking first to the spots she points out and then scanning over the rest of the numbers, already seeing how easily they will be corrected with this information. Laying the parchment down on the table, he tilts his head to level her with a grin, finding her face only inches from his own, then asks "how did you figure that out? And so quickly?"

Preening under his praise, Penelope returns his smile with a proud one of her own. "I've always had a certain aptitude for mathematics, and I rather enjoy studying it," she explains, "then when I started Whistledown and after he had taken me to open my bank account, Mr Banks taught me a little about bookkeeping. I've had a lot of practice with arranging for the various back and forth transactions that come with my business, as well as taking over my family's finances since Papa's passing."

The last part of her statement catches in Anthony's brain and he recalls her mention of posting funds to her mother and sister as well as a brief reference to bearing the burden for supporting their expenditures. He wonders why he has not yet enquired further about it, though, he supposes he can not be blamed too harshly for having lost sight of the finer details when they had been disclosed amid the heat of their arguing.

"It's quite impressive," he tells her and finds that he means it, feeling an odd sense of pride to witness her intelligence first hand.

"Oh, well, thank you," Penelope stammers, ever one for humility, "but it really was quite simple, it only took a passing glance to see the issue."

Anthony quirks a brow at that, offering no reply to her claim even as his smile shifts into a humoured smirk and he waits for her words to catch up with her. Any second now, she'll-

"Oh!" She exclaims, turning almost all the way around to face him, cheeks ablaze, "by which I meant- I didn't mean to imply- of course, you are-"

"An idiot, yes, clearly," he tries to inject as much teasing into his voice as he can so she knows he is neither offended nor incensed by her misstep, "what a relief it is that you arrived when you did!"

"Anthony," she whines, still embarrassed (and isn't that quite the sound), "I really didn't mean to imply you weren't clever or capable enough to complete your own workings."

Taking pity on her, Anthony reaches up with one hand to brush an errant curl behind her ear, then allows it to fall onto her shoulder and follow the trail of her arm down to her hand.

"I know, I'm just teasing. However, I fear I really had been staring at the problem for far too long before you came in, and would likely be doing so until dinner had you not figured it out for me. You have saved me from what would certainly have been an egregious headache, for which you have my utmost gratitude."

Seeing her suitably mollified, he lifts her hand toward his face, intending to press a kiss to her knuckles, but halts when she gives a quiet hiss. He drops her hand instantly, immediately pushing his chair back another couple of inches, unsure what had come over him to attempt such a bold move.

(Even in his own mind he has to admit that's a lie. He knows exactly what's driving his actions when it comes to Penelope Featherington in this particular dress. Or any dress really.)

Prepared for either another extended bout of awkward silence or a less likely but still well deserved chastisement, Anthony is in no small part surprised and confused by the next words out of Penelope's mouth.

"Oh, I had forgotten how much they still hurt!' She exclaims, seemingly unaware of his brief turmoil as she stares down at her own digits.

Alarmed, Anthony stands from his chair and reaches out to cradle the backs of her hands gently, inspecting her palms. Cursing his windowless study yet again for affording him no natural lighting, he pulls her gently towards the open door of the study and out into the brighter corridor where he can take a better look at her abrasions.

"How did this happen?" He demands, turning her hands over softly between his own as he takes in the rough, red patches spread across her palms and fingertips, "and why was I not informed immediately that you were injured?"

"I would hardly call it an injury, Anthony, it is but a few small grazes" she laughs, then sobers as she looks up to his decidedly unamused face, his gaze still locked onto her abused skin. "I was not paying attention to my surroundings and knocked into a gentleman, causing me to lose my balance, only his reflexes were not as quick as yours are in such situations and I had to catch myself on the floor when I fell."

She thinks it probably best not to mention that the man had made no attempt to stop her descent at all, and certainly not that he had carried on in the other direction whilst she was still on the ground.

"Regardless, you should have come straight to me," he breathes, finally releasing her hands only to begin steering her by the small of her back along the hallway, "have you had them cleaned yet? A cut of any size can become infected if you don't treat it properly, you know, and I won't have you wincing every time you try to pick up a quill- are you laughing at me?"

The pair stop abruptly as Penelope is indeed trying to muffle a series of quiet giggles into her hand, whilst Anthony struggles to piece together which parts of the situation could possibly be considered amusing.

"Oh, forgive me," she giggles, pressing her hand against her chest as she regains her composure, "your concern is very sweet, I don't mean to make fun. I suppose I am just not used to having any sort of fuss directed my way, especially over something so minor."

"Penelope, if you are in pain of any sort then there is nothing minor about it. You deserve concern and compassion and to be fussed over to the highest degree. I am remiss to know they are not things you are already well accustomed to receiving."

"Not all families dote on one another as yours does, Anthony," she replies with a tight smile, patting her knuckles gently against his chest. She urges them to begin moving again, continuing along the corridor side by side.

"Well they should," he huffs petulantly, "seeing as I now have cause to doubt that you will seek me out when there is something amiss, I hope you realise that I will now be inquire after your wellbeing constantly - and rather pesteringly, I might add, as is the Bridgerton way."

"Whilst I assure you there is no need for any of that," Penelope insists, glancing at him through the corner of her eye, "perhaps we could come to an agreement."

"I'm listening," he replies, bringing them to another pause at the bottom of the main staircase. He leans against the banister with his crooked elbow, propping one foot up on the bottom step as he leans down in her direction.

"I will come to you when I need help - without hesitation and for even the most minuscule of inconvenience - and you will do the same with me," she suggests, then goes on to elaborate "if I am to endure your hovering each time I acquire a paper cut whilst reading one of my books, then you must, in turn, suffer my presence at your desk when you find yourself buried under a pile of work that could surely be completed much faster if we dig through it together."

She sticks her hand out between them then, as though they're actually closing a deal and she expects him to shake on it. There's a mischievous twinkle in her eye that makes him understand all the more why she fits in so well with his family, and paired with her pursed pink lips and the resolute set of her shoulders, Anthony imagines he would sign any contract she put in front of him with nary a glance.

There's that niggling little voice in the back of his head that tells him to deny her. It wants him to walk away from her now and spend the remainder of his time in shared residency with Penelope holed away in his study with the door firmly shut between them. Insists that there are ulterior motives to her request and there is no reason for her to want to give her time to him so selflessly. It's scared that she will carve out a place for herself in his heart and leave it an unfillable cavern when she leaves.

Don't get attached again, it begs.

It's too late, he whispers back.

Anthony clasps her hand in his own and gives it two slow shakes, though he's mindful of her tender skin and keeps his grip gentle. The grin she gives him is blinding and he can't help but tip a little more towards her, endlessly endeared by her.

"You've got yourself a deal."

They finally come across some of the staff in the kitchen (and quite the collection of them, who all seem to jump into the action of appearing busy just a hair too late as their master and guest enter) but Anthony still insists on being the one to clean her hands. Penelope allows him to apply a light salve - which she believes Mrs Wilson to have pulled from thin air, before the older lady kindly informs her that most of the staff have become accustomed to carrying basic first aid necessities on their person whenever there is at least one Bridgerton in residence - but draws the line when he attempts to bind her fingers in bandages.

"How do you expect me to do anything if all of my fingers are wrapped together?" She demands, rolling her eyes when he makes another attempt to approach her with the strips of white linen.

"What could you possibly need to do that I can not do for you?" He rebuttals, but even some of the staff have to shake their heads at that one. His behaviour has them shooed away from the kitchens - bandages fortunately confiscated by Mrs Wilson - and Penelope is sure she hears Anthony mumbling something rather childishly about who is really in charge of his house.

They end up back in his study, though this time he carries one of the chairs around the desk to rest beside his own so that they may sit side by side as they go through his ledgers. Anthony is pleased when her assumptions that working together would speed up the process, even when he does not allow her to wield a quill for fear of straining her hands and instead has her dictate to him.

Every now and then, they'll bump their shoulders together as they both lean over the documents, or one will tease the other good naturedly when they make an error. It is the most pleasant afternoon he has ever spent at his desk, not having realised that his mundane tasks could be made quite so enjoyable.

They pass a few hours that way until finally it must come to an end with Humboldt's knuckles rapping against the open door to inform them dinner is ready. As they both move to follow him to the dining room, the butler extends a small stack of envelopes in Anthony's direction.

"Post from Aubrey Hall, sir," he explains, then nods his head towards Penelope, "I believe I also saw the postman crossing to your door, Miss Featherington, and I imagine there will be a similar missive from Miss Eloise awaiting you at home. Shall I go and fetch it for you whilst you take your meal?"

"Oh no, thank you, Humboldt. I think I should like to go over myself. I could do with collecting a few things if I am to avoid crossing constantly back and forth during my stay here. Perhaps you could inquire as to whether any of the staff might be available to accompany me after dinner?"

Humboldt nods his head, then opens his mouth to respond but Anthony beats him to it. "No need," he states, "I will escort you home and wait for you there whilst you put a bag together. But let us leave it 'til the morning, when the sun is up and we will not have to pass the halls by candlelight."

"Oh, but I have monopolised so much of your time today, I'm sure you will have much better things to-" her next words die in her throat when Anthony tilts a stern brow in her direction, "well, I suppose I will be needing someone with your… physical attributes to carry my belongings back over the road for me."

"Quite right," Anthony agrees, puffing his chest out a little as he does. He extends his left arm to her for her to slip her hand into, then clasps his right hand over top of it. "Lead on, Humboldt."

Leaving Bridgerton House to approach her own home should not feel as strange as it does, Penelope considers, especially since she has only been away from it for two nights. Where before she had been in such a rush to find herself tucked safe within its walls, it looks almost imposing to her now. The curtains in each front window are still drawn tight, of course.

Once they're through the door and standing in the foyer, Penelope stoops down and collects two envelopes from the floor. She shoots back up, however, as a loud clattering sounds from further into the home. Rather suddenly she finds herself looking at Anthony's back, clearly having been tucked in behind him as he scans their surroundings.

"Show yourself!" He bellows, inching backwards to crowd Penelope between himself and the door, leaving just enough space that she should be able to swing it open and run back across the square if the need arises.

"I'm armed!" Cries back a feminine voice, and then there is some sort of metal rod being waved around in the open doorway at the end of the hallway, "stay back!"

As her initial alarm fades, Penelope is struck by how familiar the voice is and quickly puts the pieces together in her mind. Placing a hand on Anthony's arm to stay him, she peers around him to call out, "Ida?"

A head pokes around the doorframe, getting a good look at the pair of them before the cook steps out in full, still gripping what now appears to be an iron fire poker in her hands.

"Oh, Miss Penelope!" She cries, her would-be-weapon clashing against the floor as she rushes forward, "thank goodness!"

"I'm sorry, Ida, I should have found a way to get word to you that I would not be home - I hope my absence this morning did not worry you too terribly," Penelope says, finally stepping out from behind Anthony to embrace her friend.

"Gosh, Miss, do not apologise! It is such a relief to know you have been occupied elsewhere. Blimey, I dread to think what could have happened had you been here, all by yourself." Ida rushes, holding Penelope at an arms length as she assesses hee form from top to body.

"Has something occurred here to cause you such concern, Miss Ida?" Anthony asks, reminding both women of his presence.

"Oh, it's terrible, Miss," Ida starts, till addressing Penelope, "I came by this morning to see you, but you weren't downstairs so I went up to your room and- Miss, the state it's in! The drawers have all been emptied onto the floor and there is ink spilled everywhere!"

A cold dread settles in Penelope's chest as her gaze turns towards the shadows at the top of the stairs, feeling a shiver pass through her from head to toe. A hand on her waist and a solid presence at her back come to steady her, and when she tips her head up it's to find Anthony's concerned eyes watching her. Settling her own hand over his, Penelope uses it to draw his arm further around her middle, encasing herself in the security of his hold.

"Is it- is my room the only one affected?" She chokes out, unsure if she wants to know the answer.

"Just yours and the study. Nothing else appears touched, except that the lock on the back door had been broken before I arrived - it looked as though someone may have kicked it in, Miss."

"Goodness, I-" her knees buckle under her and Penelope is certain she would be making acquaintance with the floor if not for Anthony's continued presence at her back, "I think I might need to sit down."

Ida pushes through the nearest door, revealing the main drawing room, and Anthony guides himself and Penelope to one of the cloth covered sofas. He settles her onto the seat, then crouches on the floor before her and takes both of her hands into his own.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he says, bringing their joined hands to press against his chest as he begins to take over exaggerated deep breaths of his own, "copy me, that's right. In and out."

Allowing her overwhelming need for comfort to guide her actions, Penelope tilts forward until her forehead is pressing against his, and they stay that way as the clock on the mantle ticks over.

"Okay, I'm okay," she manages at last, leaning back an inch. Anthony leans up to press a kiss to the crown of her head, then rises to his full height.

"Stay with her," he instructs, causing Penelope to look over and register poor Ida hovering near the wall and gaping at them, "I'm going to go and take a look for myself."

Ida nods hurriedly, rushing forward to fill the space on the seat at Penelope's left side. "Tread careful, sir," she advises, "the mirror has been tipped over and there is broken glass all over the floor up there."

Thankful for the tip, Anthony inclines his head in her direction before going to step back. His movement is halted as Penelope's grip on his hands tightens, keeping him from progressing any farther than their arms' length away from her.

Everything around her seems to be moving in slow motion. The five minutes since entering the house have felt like hours and the time only continues to drag as she feels Anthony try to pull away from her. If she had thought she was panicked before, the feeling only increases by tenfold at the prospect of being without him for even a second. Eloise would surely give her a lecture about male dependency or her capacity for rational thinking, but Eloise isn't here and Penelope doesn't think it would make much difference if she were. She just wants Anthony.

"I'll be right back," he promises, "I'm just going to take stock of the damage. Once I've got you back home safe, I'll come back later with a couple of footmen to collect your things."

Somewhat appeased by his reassurances, Penelope allows her grip to loosen but leaves it for him to pull away. He looks so sure of himself, not a trace of apprehension in the hard set of his shoulders, and Penelope tries to absorb some of his confidence into her own being. She watches his movements closely as he takes leave from the room, closing the door securely behind him.

~~~

Out of view from the ladies, Anthony heaves a shuddering breath before he makes for the stairs. He ascends them wearily, constantly trying to get a better look over the top banister so that he can't be surprised when he reaches the top.

From the landing it is not difficult to identify Penelope's room as her's is the only door left wide open. Apprehension slows his approach and lightens his footfalls, all too aware that he could come face to face with any number of intruders if they have not yet absconded from the property.

Glass crunches under his boots as he finally enters the bedroom, though it is difficult to recognise that that is what the space is supposed to be. He had thought Ida's description of the room had been bad enough, but it turns out she had been wildly under-exaggerating.

The mattress has been tipped off of the bed, along with all of its sheets and pillows, leaving a haphazard assortment of soft furnishings littered around the room. There are books on the floor beneath her writing desk, already ruined by the tipped ink pot resting on the surface directly above them, as well as various correspondences. A crumpled pile of brightly coloured dresses, mixed with white bodices and cotton nightgowns rests at the foot of the wardrobe. Anthony sees a flash of green amongst the fabrics and bends to pull at it, revealing the beautiful gown Penelope had worn to have dinner with him just a few nights ago. He lifts it up carefully and hangs it back up in the wardrobe, deciding it will be the first thing he collects when he comes back for her belongings.

Her large floor length mirror is a total lost cause. Even laying face down he can tell from the amount of shards surrounding it that the entirety of the glass must have been smashed and removed from its casing. Curiously, the paper lining the back of the mirror has been slashed, as if someone were looking for something hidden in the lining. Looking around the room, he sees two framed pictures in similar states.

A creak behind him has him whirling around, fists already raised to protect himself, only to find a visibly shaken Penelope standing in the doorway.

"You were supposed to stay with Ida," he growls, moving forward intent on herding her back to the stairs.

"There's something I need," she whispers in response, eyes flashing around the destruction that was once her safe haven, "I'm sorry, it can't wait."

She lifts a foot to step into the room but he throws up a hand to stop her. "No, you stay right there," he commands, then gentles his tone as he sees her flinch, "the floor is covered in glass that'll go right through your shoes if you catch a sharp point. Tell me what it is you need and I'll set about finding it for you, just, please don't move,"

Drawing a shaky breath, she nods her head then scans the room again. "Over by the desk, there are two loose boards where that stack of books is resting. I need the box that's under there."

Following her instructions, Anthony toes carefully back towards the writing desk then moves the aforementioned books over using his boot, hoping to avoid getting ink on his hands. The floorboard underneath lifts way easily enough and he hears Penelope's relieved sigh when he pulls out a rectangular wooden box, not much bigger in size than a standard novel would be.

"Right, I want to take a glance at the study and then we're going home. You can tell me if anything looks to be missing from in there." As he is about to lead her away from the room, Penelope releases a short, breathy laugh. Anthony stares at her incredulously until she stops, tilting her head up with a downturned smile on her lips.

"I was just thinking how alike this looks to Eloise's room," she explains, "I think she would be very happy in here."

He continues to stare at her until she becomes self conscious under the weight of his gaze, and then he pulls her in close to his side to breathe his next sentiments into her against the top of her head, "you are the bravest person I have ever met, and I've seen Hyacinth try and snatch a biscuit from Colin's plate before."

The statement draws another short laugh from her lips and Anthony is relieved to see the colour starting to leak back into her complexion, and a dwindling fire on the precipice of reigniting in her eyes.

"Come on," he says, keeping his arm around her as they make for the stairs that will lead them down to the study, "let's get this over with and then we're getting you home for a long, hot bath."

Her father's office is much the same as her room had been, with every cupboard and drawer left hanging open and various pieces of furniture upturned. His desk, in particular, has been ransacked, littered with torn documents and a wide variety of random junk clearly pulled from it's drawers. Every bookshelf is bare, leaving novels spread across the floor in various states of disrepair. He hears Penelope's whimper when she picks up a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, now missing a good chunk of its pages.

Knowing there is nothing he can do with any of it now, Anthony guides Penelope back to the drawing room, where Ida leaps up from the sofa as soon as she sees them enter the room pressed so tightly together.

"Miss Ida, one of my carriages will see you safely to your home at once. Whilst I appreciate the care you have shown for Penelope in visiting her here, I think it would be for the best that you not set foot back into the house until we have this situation dealt with." Anthony appears every bit the Viscount that he is in that moment and Penelope is grateful, all too willing to allow him to take the reigns as she focuses her energy into staying grounded at his side.

"My Lord, you can not expect that I will leave Miss Penelope here unattended any longer!," Ida seethes, waving one hand around whilst she points one finger of the other at him accusingly, "I had my reservations about her mother's plan from the beginning, but this is no longer a manageable risk - her safety is in immediate danger!"

"I am well aware," he responds calmly, "and I have already made arrangements for Penelope to stay in my home where she will be under my protection."

"Sir, I-" Ida stutters, clearly taken aback by his conviction, "I'm not sure that is proper-"

"With all due respect, Miss Ida," Anthony interrupts, and the look he sets on her is fierce and cutting, "whilst I reiterate that I am grateful for the care you continue to show Penelope, I have not forgotten that you aided in concealing her predicament from me just a few days ago. Perhaps if you had alerted me to Lady Featherington's scheming then, I could have stepped in sooner and we might have avoided giving anyone the opportunity to pose threats at Penelope."

"Anthony," the woman herself interjects, "there is no need to start placing blame where it is not due."

"No, Miss, your Lord Bridgerton is quite right," Ida responds quietly, "I've done a terrible disservice to you in not speaking up about your mother's actions - and not just in this instance. I hope you'll send me the odd missive to let me know you're safe, though, ya hear? If your kind offer still stands, I think I would like to take that carriage now, sir."

"Ida ," Penelope sighs, reaching out a hand towards the other woman, but she is already turning to take her leave.

"Come on, Penelope, it's time to go home."

Notes:

The staff at Bridgerton house weren't trained in what to do if their unmarried viscount moves an equally unmarried young woman into one of the guest rooms and started spending lots of inappropriately unchaperoned time with her. They assume the protocol must be to hide in the kitchen and give them as much alone time as they like. Seems logical, right?

Please share your thoughts with me, they feed my soul

Chapter 12

Summary:

The tipping point.

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING for short but somewhat graphic description of extensive bodily harm and death. Content spans two to three paragraphs and is clearly marked. Please skip over this section if it is not right for you - the rest will make sense without it

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope has been quiet since they got back to the house, clearly shaken by the day's tumultuous start. Breakfast is a near silent affair, with only the occasional clink of cutlery on fine china permeating their bubble. When Penelope declares herself finished only a few minutes into the meal, the food on her plate is barely touched, but she carries herself to a nearby settee before Anthony can think to call her on it.

Anthony can not fault her behaviour, though, for he has been withdrawn himself, and with far less reason than she.

The rest of the morning passes in similar fashion, floating around each other as they go about the day without ever drawing too close. When she sits in the drawing room pressing gently at the keys of Francesca's beloved pianoforte, he focuses his attention on a solo game at the chess table. When he makes for his office to stare blankly at his work without ever picking up his quill, she settles on the sofa and pretends to be absorbed in a book that she neglects to turn a page of for forty five minutes.

Anthony wars with the growling beast in his chest that wants to scoop her up and lock her away somewhere safe and warm and his, whilst another part of him is screaming that he should ship her off to Ireland immediately and hope never to set eyes on her again, far away from him and the all too possible future where he fails to protect her. Try as he might, he can not seem to find a middle ground between the two.

Penelope's mind is in similar disarray, except that she knows exactly what she wants, but isn't sure that she can take it. She is overwhelmed with the need to be close to Anthony and not just physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. She's desperate to tell him about every single one of her fears and insecurities and have him chase them all away with his silver tongue and charming grin. She longs to crawl into the refuge of his strong arms and then go further until she has carved out a place for herself to burrow between his ribs and never come out again. The thoughts are all too much and not enough at once, her feelings seeming rushed in their intensity and yet also as though they are falling behind.

Their combined spiraling leaves them where they are now, surrounded by thick tension that keeps even the nosiest of staff away. They're at the edge of each others' periphery constantly, both unwilling to part from the other completely but neither able to take the necessary step that would bring them together. How much easier it would be if they could see how their own longing for the other is being mirrored back to them with equal fervour.

They are finally forced to separate late in the afternoon, when the setting of the sun is fast approaching and the task of retrieving Penelope's essentials from her home can be put off no longer. He promises to bring back as many of her intact belongings as he and his accompanying two footmen can, but asks that she write down any specifics he should prioritise.

"I hope this is the last list I ever have to write," she says, going for levity but her tone falls flat. Anthony squeezes her hand before he goes.

He had wanted to stay back with her and have some of his more than capable staff go to complete the job without him, but something about sending them into what was in every definable way a crime scene while he stayed safely tucked away felt wrong. What if the assailant were to return and catch them unprepared for a fight? Anthony would be remiss to see any of his staff hurt while following his instructions.

(Never mind the part of him that goes hoping that the menace will make an appearance. He would take no small amount of satisfaction in teaching them a lesson or two about harassing a young lady, especially when it comes to one young lady in particular.)

Every step he takes away from her makes the aching in his chest feel more consuming than the last and he reaffirms to his footmen that he wants to be in and out as quickly as they can manage. They leave the study untouched, as another glance confirms that there really is nothing visibly salvageable nor worth their time in there, and focus instead on packing clothes, books and a few trinkets into two large trunks. Anthony is unsure at first about how they should go about gathering up her more delicate items, but ultimately assigns the task to himself, hurriedly filling a bag with corsets, chemises and nightgowns.

On their way back out of the bedroom, Anthony takes a coin from his pocket and sets it on top of the door before pulling it closed into it's frame. Should anyone open this door again, he will know by whether or not the coin has dropped onto the carpet. He employs this trick on the front and back entrances of the house as well before they take their leave.

If anyone takes note of the viscount and his staff hauling luggage across the square from the Featheringtons' house to his own homel they have enough self preservation not to mention it.

As soon as they return and the footmen have delivered the bags and trunks to Penelope's guest room, she and Emma set about unpacking and organising her belongings, leaving Anthony at a loss as to what to do. He can hardly go and park himself at her dressing table while the ladies sort through her underthings - despite the mockery they have already made of society's rules, he does know where the line is.

Anthony watches the hands of his pocket watch anxiously as he awaits diner time, feeling only somewhat embarrassed by the apparent dependence he is developing for Penelope's constant presence. At six fifty-seven, he walks as casually as he can manage into the dining room, then stops dead just two steps in from the doorway when he sees only one place setting at the table.

Humboldt must hear his unasked question and clears his throat, explaining that Penelope has opted to take a light meal in her room before turning into bed early. It is reasonable, Anthony tells himself, that she should choose to seek rest and privacy after her tiring experience and he does not begrudge her for it, though that does not stop him from missing her at his side. He spends the meal staring at the empty chair that has so quickly become hers. The food, a mix of his favourite roast meats and vegetables, tastes like ash on his tongue.

After dinner, he loiters around in the sitting room for a while, waiting up in case Penelope might have need for him after all. There is only so long, however, that he can bear the condescending ticking of the clock and the pitying stares of passing staff before he, too, retires for the night.

It can't be more than an hour of restless tossing and turning before there is a series of hurried knocks at his door. Grumbling, he rises out of bed and crosses the room to open it, only to come face to face with one of the maids. Through the tired fog in his brain he can't place her name, but he recognises her as the staff member who has been present most frequently around Penelope. He thinks it strange that she has come to him herself as opposed to sending Humboldt or his valet, as would be better protocol especially given the late hour, but the look of panic on her face stops him from questioning it.

"I'm sorry to wake you, My Lord, but the matter is urgent," she says frantically, "I went to check in with Miss Penelope but her bed is empty. I was on my way to the kitchens to look for her there when I saw the front door was wide open and now there is no trace of her in the house."

Suddenly alert, Anthony all but pushes past her into the hallway and sets off towards the stairs - he must be moving faster than he thought because he reaches them much quicker than he'd expected to - and hurries down them, all whilst tying his dressing gown into place. He must have grabbed it on his way out the door, and he barely remembers having put it on at all, but he's glad nonetheless for the extra layer as he heads out into the cool night.

Immediately he locks onto Featherington Manor, noticing even from this distance across the square that the front door there, too, is wide open and he quickens his step. Standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance, he can see that the door is not only open but hanging from its hinges, as if a considerable force had connected with it. He takes the stairs three at a time.

"Penelope!' He calls into the shadows. His voice bounces back against the walls and returns to him in a strange reverberation, the echoes twisted and distorted.

Anthony looks to the staircase and sees a faint, flickering glow seeping over from the top of the landing, as though someone has lit a candle and he bounds up towards it, barely registering the creaks and groans of each step beneath the weight of his boots.

"Penelope, where are you?" He calls again, single minded in his pursuit of her. As he reaches the first floor, Anthony begins to register a strange buzzing sound, the intensity of which grows stronger as he makes towards her closed bedroom door. It sets him on edge, prompting him to look around for some sort of weapon before he follows the sound into the room.

Spying an oddly placed but no less convenient pall mall set at the end of the hallway, he crosses over to collect himself a mallet. The weight of the black handled club feels both heavy and familiar in his hold and he knows instantly he will be able to swing it just right to deliver maximum impact should the need arise.

He takes a fortifying breath when he returns to the door, that buzzing sound becoming almost deafening from so close, but knowing Penelope must be on the other side is enough to have him twisting the handle and pushing his way in.

The first thing he sees is the looming figure of a tall, broad shouldered man, turned away from him and staring down at something on the floor at his feet. The stranger turns to face him as he hears him enter and Anthony feels as though his boots have been filled with lead, keeping him trapped in place as he takes in the intruder.

His face is concealed completely in shadow, aided by the tall upturned collar of his strange coat - strange in that it is patterned with horizontal black and yellow stripes, matching with the waistcoat he wears underneath. Odder still is the way his whole form seems to be vibrating and Anthony realises with horror that the incessant buzzing is coming from him.

A whimper from behind the odd being shatters Anthony's stupor, filling him instead with a desperate need to get to the source of the new sound. Hauling the mallet over his shoulder, he swings it around in a tight arch, on path to connect with the intruder's head. With impossible speed the man side steps the attack, sending Anthony reeling forward with the momentum of his swing and revealing a yellow shape on the floor.

Finding his footing, he twists back around, intent on dealing out a connecting blow this time, but he finds only air in the surrounding space. Before he can give chase, another quiet cry cuts through the now silent room and he suddenly remembers what he had come here for in the first place.

"Penelope," he gasps, finding himself crouching by her waist on the ground, mallet gone from his hand. She is laying on her side, turned away from him, but even from this angle he can see how her chest is heaving with desperate breaths. Anthony reaches out to grasp her shoulder and pulls her over onto her back so he can see her face, then recoils from her in abject horror, landing on his ass two feet away.

TW - see notes at top of chapter*

She is near unrecognisable; her face disfigured terribly, eyes and lips and cheeks swollen and blue. Blistering hives and boils litter the exposed skin of her neck and arms, appearing irritated as if she has been scratching at them through her agony. There's a nauseating gurgling sound coming from her throat underlined by the desperate wheeze that signifies her uneven breaths. If not for her striking red hair or glaring yellow gown, Anthony would vehemently deny that the form in front of him belonged to his Penelope - unfortunately, he knows with an awful and unexplainable certainty that it is her.

Through her wheezing he thinks Penelope is trying to form words, one of her hands reaching out in his direction, but he can't bring himself to approach even as her blind search for him continues. Unable to find purchase she begins to panic, thrashing from side to side on the ground, until her back arches up from the floor and she suddenly drops back down, completely still. Anthony stares at her chest, waiting to see it resume the uneven rise and fall of her laboured breaths, but the movement never comes.

MOVE, the voice in his head screams, and finally he does.

Lurching forward, Anthony's hands claw desperately over her prone form, seeking any inch of unblemished skin and coming up short. Someone starts to scream, deep and wailing, and he buries his face in her skirts, pressing the fabric over his ears to try and block out the awful sound. If anything, it only seems to get louder, splitting through his skull until he doesn't see or feel or know anything else and the only certainty left is that she's gone.

TW End*

Anthony bolts up with a roar, heart pounding and sweat dripping over his brow. His terror gives way to confusion for just the amount of time takes him to realise he is in his bedroom and then he is moving. It takes him too long to get out from the tangled bed sheets and by the time he is headed for the door he has mixed frustration into his swirling pot of emotions.

The hallways are silent and near pitch black, but he has not needed the assistance of candle light to find his way around Bridgerton House in over two decades and so he does not hesitate to break into a near sprint down the corridor and out of the family wing. The guest chambers seem entirely too far away even as Anthony eats up the distance between him and them in record time, leaving him panting when he finally reaches the door he's looking for.

Bursting into her room, Anthony heads straight for the bed only to find it empty, the sheets rumpled but cool to the touch.

God, no, he thinks, gripping at the ends of his hair as he whips around, taking in every inch of the room as if he will find her sequestered instead on the armchair in the corner, somehow undisturbed by his noisy entrance.

Unsuccessful, he tears from the room at a run. There is no rationality or order to his search from there and he begins to feel feral the longer he goes without sight of Penelope.

He is about to make for the front door, half convinced that his dream had been some sort of awful premonition, when he sees the glow emanating from beneath the library door. He is just short of knocking the door down entirely in his frenzied haste to get into the room.

~~~

Penelope isn't sure how long she had spent trying to fall asleep before she had given up entirely and gotten back out of bed - it must have been a good while, though, she surmises, as the hallways are dark and quiet when she steps out into them with a lit candle.

Unsure of where she intends to go from here, she finds herself wandering the halls leisurely, admiring the various framed paintings lining the walls around her. Some are familiar to her, presenting landscapes of Hyde Park in winter or portraits of Bridgerton siblings at various stages of growth, and she lingers the longest to admire them.

Eventually she finds herself in the library, lighting only of the room's candles before approaching the bookshelves. Her fingers and along the spines of various novels, skipping purposefully over what looks like an untouched copy of Pride and Prejudice, before settling on Romeo and Juliet.

She carries the heavy tome with her to a chaise, collecting a soft blanket on the way to drape over her lap whilst she reads.

Penelope wouldn't be able to pinpoint the moment she falls asleep, only that when she is startled awake sometime later the book in her lap is still open to a page somewhere in the first chapter. Looking around the room quickly, she tries to identify what had disturbed her when she hears the pounding of footsteps fast approaching her location.

"Anthony!" She yelps, jumping in alarm at his sudden appearance, book slipping from her fingers, "goodness, what has happened?"

If Penelope was surprised to see Anthony come crashing into the library then there is nothing that could have prepared her for the sight of him dropping to his knees at her feet, nor the way his arms come up to wrap around her hips like steel bands. Their substantial height difference means that, even kneeling as he is, Anthony's head could come up to her chest but his spine curves just enough that his face presses into her belly, just below her bosom.

Wetness seeps through the thin fabric of her night gown and she realises that it is his tears soaking through to her skin. She clutches at his shaking shoulders, feeling her heart break a little more with each heaving sob that wracks through his form. One of her hands slides up into his hair and she tries to use it to turn his face up towards her own but he refuses to be moved, responding only by gripping at her tighter until he is holding onto not just the bunched material of her skirt but also handfuls of the pillowy flesh beneath.

A gasp from the doorway alerts her to Humboldt's presence, clad also in his nightwear and likely having been broken from his rest by Anthony's great commotion through the house. He stares at the pair of them for a moment, settling on his master shaking on the floor, then opens his mouth as if to speak. Penelope, knowing it is a miracle that Anthony has not noticed the other man's presence already sends the butler a cutting glare and a sharp shake of her head, then tilts her head to indicate he should take his leave. Humboldt looks hesitant to comply, but ultimately slips quietly back into the dark hallway, though Penelope doubts he will be returning to his bed.

With him out of sight, Penelope can return her full attention to the man at her feet whose weeping has not abated in the slightest, nor does there appear to be an end in sight. Feeling a growing sense of unease and fearing that he will soon make himself sick, Penelope decides she must intervene.

"Anthony," she calls to him, combing her hands firmly through his hair, though he gives no outward indication that he has heard her. "Anthony," she tries again.

Heaving a sigh and unsure of what else to do, Penelope reaches to her sides and takes hold of his hands, attempting to prise his fingers away from her hips.

"No," he sobs, voice warbling and scratchy, but it is a response nonetheless, "No, please no."

Changing course, she moves both hands to his shoulders, gripping at the fabric there and trying desperately to pull him upwards, however she is no match for his resolve. A different approach, then.

"Anthony," Penelope says loudly, "you're scaring me."

His sobs slowly lessen in volume and she knows he is listening, even if he does not otherwise acknowledge her statement.

"Please, come up here," she begs, giving another tug at the collar of his shirt, "I need you."

Those were seemingly the right words because something snaps in him, going completely rigid for a passing second before Anthony is surging to his feet, engulfing her completely in his renewed hold.

"I lost you," he gasps into her neck, "you were on the floor and you were gone."

It's not a lot to go on, but Penelope is fortunately very skilled in making sense of tiny pieces of information and she understands the problem instantly.

"It was just a dream, Anthony," she assures, sliding her fingers up and down the expanse of his back, "I'm here, see?"

"Went to find you- had to see you but you weren't there, you were still lost." Anthony continues to draw shuddering breaths between every few words but his shaking has finally begun to ease off.

"You went looking for me in my room?" She guesses, then feels more than she sees him nod into her throat. A deep well of guilt pools in her gut as she realises the part she has played in causing his state of distress. "I couldn't sleep so I came down here to read for a while. I'm so sorry, I didn't think anyone would notice my absence at this hour."

"Always notice," he breathes, burrowing somehow closer "I always know when you're not there."

That is what finally sparks the tears gathering in her own eyes to spill over onto her cheeks. How could this man be shattering her heart in one breath and piecing it back together in the next? Somehow, he manages to make it feel more as though it's complete than it had been in the first place.

Some of her tears must drip onto his skin because his head finally jerks up and he reclaims his rightful position of towering over her. Her wet eyes meet his red rimmed ones, both existing for a moment only in the breaths that pass between them and the stretch of fingers over soft cotton.

Slowly, so slowly, his left hand trails up from her back, curving over the swell of her belly and past the curve of her breast, leaving a trail of goosebumps up the length of her neck. It settles on her face, engulfing her whole cheek in his palm while his thumb draws a line down her nose and down further still, resting for a moment to feel the breath puff over her lower lip before dropping to her chin. It's as if he's memorising her features, she thinks, mapping out each plane by touch.

"You're so beautiful," Anthony whispers, then tilts his forehead to connect gently with her own before adding, "you are everything."

Penelope Featherington's first kiss is fleeting and soft. The lips that brush just barely against her own are chapped and dry and belonging to an entirely different Bridgerton brother than the one she had once imagined bestowing all of her firsts to and they are perfect.

They are gone as quickly as they had arrived and she feels herself tip forward to chase after them. Her eyes flutter open slowly, finding Anthony Bridgerton with his disheveled hair and his silly, wrinkled night shirt and his whole heart laid bare before her. His own gaze flits from her own eyes to her lips and back, and she wonders what he finds in his assessment. Whatever it is, it must be enough, because in the next breath he is on her.

Penelope Featherington's second kiss is earth shattering.

There's a hand at her jaw, tilting her head back to afford Anthony better access to ravage her lips. His other hand slides up to press firmly into the space between her shoulder blades, drawing her forward to fill the remaining space between them that she hadn't thought existed.

Instinct (and the memory of Genevieve's detailed descriptions) kicks in at last, taking over Penelope's movements as she slants her lips, hoping to provide Anthony with even half of the trill he is stirring in her. She hopes that the deep noise that rumbles from his chest is an affirmative that she is successful.

Christ, if she is everything, then he is even more than that; all consuming in the most delicious way. Everything Penelope thought she had known crumbles and then reformed around the shape of his lips and the feel of his muscles tensing under her own wandering hands.

When she gets to his biceps and gives an experimental squeeze to the firm flesh, her knees actually buckle, causing them both to break away from each other. Anthony's grip around her tightens and they both fight to catch their breath as the feeling slowly returns to Penelope's legs.

"Come to bed with me," he pleads, brain not quite functioning in tandem with his swollen lips. Realising what he has suggested, he hurries to correct himself, "to sleep. Come and sleep in my bed with me, please."

"Oh, I- are you sure?" She asks quietly, scared that if she raises her voice she will shatter the spell surrounding them.

"I'm exhausted and I know you must be as well," he explains, bumping his nose gently against her own, "but I won't be able to settle if you're out of my sight a moment longer and you're much too far away in the guest wing - I'm worried that I won't hear you if you call for me, and that even if I do I won't get to you in time."

Sensing that Anthony could easily continue listing off reasons that sharing a bed is a good idea (despite the fact that she needs absolutely no convincing of the fact) Penelope presses her finger against his lips, forcing them to close under her digit.

"Okay," she breathes, waiting for his eyes to light up in understanding before she withdraws her finger.

"Okay."

"Let's go to bed," she says, planning to draw back from him to make for the doorway, however she doesn't get far, "Anthony?"

"I don't want to let go yet," he explains, tucking her back in against his chest.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to," Penelope huffs a laugh, patting at his chest, "unless you are planning on carrying me up the stairs."

Silence passes between them for several moments as the weight of Penelope's mistake settles in her mind, causing her to look up at him in alarm. She only gets a second to register the twinkle in his eye before the world around her is flipped upside down.

"Anthony!" She yelps, slapping her palms against his back.

Every step he takes jostles her in her place slung over his shoulder, especially when he starts up the steps to the first floor. Penelope is about to make a rather loud proclamation outlining her displeasure with the situation when she pauses, taking in the actually rather pleasant view her new position has afforded her.

The next smack she delivers does not land on his back. His answering yelp makes her laugh for only a second before he is returning the slap in kind and she chokes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She whispers, peering up at his face.

"Which part?" He rumbles.

Anthony's voice vibrates pleasantly through his chest and into Penelope's ear where it's pressed against his chest. They'd woken up like this a while ago; him on his back in the middle of the bed while she is curled into his side, his arm wound beneath and around her waist keeping her in place. Her left calf is curved around his own, foot occasionally rubbing up and down the exposed skin of his shin where the cuffs of his sleep trousers have pushed up in his sleep.

Penelope's shifts her gaze back down to watch her own fingers trace patterns over his pectoral, swirling in circles and squiggles and occasionally spelling out all of the words trapped in her throat. She's not sure where they stand this morning; after their explosive encounter in the library and subsequent bed sharing she has no doubt that a line has been crossed, but isn't sure if he will want to keep pushing forward or step back over it. Penelope doesn't know how she will cope with either outcome.

"Any of it," she says, "all of it."

Anthony's fingers appear in her line of sight, palm coming to rest over the back of her own hand. He lifts them towards his face and she tracks the movement, breathing a soft gasp when he presses a kiss into her knuckles, then brings them back down to rest together against his collar bone. Her eyes stay fixed on his lips.

"Where do you suggest we start?" He asks.

What she should really want to do is jump straight into discussing the rather passionate lip-locking they'd engaged in at the end of the night (or beginning of the morning? It had been terribly late) but she can't quite bring herself to mention it yet. The insecure voice in her head - the one that takes great satisfaction in providing her a constant stream of worst case scenarios and which sounds an awful lot like her mother - insists that the whole thing had been spur of the moment, the crescendo at the end of his emotional swell, and that in the sobering light of day he will deem it a mistake. What if he doesn't want to mention it at all and is assuming that she will be happy to forget all about the taste of his lips and move on? It's too big of a risk, too likely to cave in the section her heart has already started carving out for him. Penelope can't be the one to bring it up, not right now.

Fortunately, their list of possible conversation topics is vast and they have plenty more to unpick from not just the last twenty four hours but also the days leading up to them. She chews on her lip as she considers her options, settling on the one that tugs at her curiosity the most, even if she's not sure it is the safest route to take. Decision made, Penelope can only hope she isn't about to send this soft and open Anthony back into hiding before she takes the leap.

"Tell me about your dream?" She requests, watching his face carefully. She is angled perfectly to watch his jaw tense and she worries she has indeed taken the wrong path as he stares up at the beds deep blue canopy above them.

"It wasn't nice," he says to the heavy draped fabric, "you will not like to hear it."

"Tell me anyway." Using his chest as leverage, Penelope pushes herself up the bed, toes sliding along the length of his leg, then presses a firm kiss to the underside of his jaw, followed by another on the curve of his cheekbone, before she settles her head onto the pillow beside his.

Anthony's eyes remain fixed straight forward, his brief squeeze of her hand the only acknowledgment to her shifting. She doesn't press him to speak nor does she make any attempt to meet his gaze. She just waits, content to let the time pass by until he is ready, or until he decides that he is not.

"It was so dark," he begins after several long minutes, then recounts the tale aloud to her, skipping over some of the details in his rush to get through it until he reaches the part where he had come across the intruder in her room.

"It was a man, but it wasn't at the same time. It had the shape of one but the mannerisms were all wrong, like it was trying to play a part it hadn't rehearsed for," Penelope shudders at the mere thought of having been caught unawares by such a thing, "it didn't speak, but neither was it without sound - that was its most unsettling feature. The thing's chest rattled and made this constant sort of buzzing that made me feel more ill at ease than any wretched words it could have spoken. It made me think- well, it was like-"

"Like a bee." She finishes for him, watching his profile as he nods his head.

"I think that's why you looked as you did; not as though you had been beaten or bruised, but like it had stung you. It had stung you and you reacted to it as- as father did and-" he cuts himself off as he begins to choke on the words, throat bobbing with the effort of swallowing them back down.

Penelope knows, of course, about the passing of Edmund Bridgerton. Eloise had recounted the events to her once many years ago when she had begged Penelope to let her spend the night in her rooms at Featherington Manor. She remembers how tense her friend had been, how peculiar it was to see the ever confident girl jitter as she did. It had taken until the wee hours of the next morning, when they were both lying side by side in Penelope's bed, before she finally disclosed that it had been the anniversary of her father's death, and that the thick cloud of her family's shared grief had been suffocating her at every turn in her own home. Penelope had held her close until the sun came up and her sobs became snores.

Looking at the hard set of his jaw, Penelope wonders how differently the scene plays in Anthony's mind than it did in Eloise's recollection. She had been just nine years old and standing at a distance, held back at the waist by one of her brothers and only able to make out the silhouettes of her father lying on the floor in the arms of her mother against the sun, and her older brother at their side. Anthony, however, had been grown at nine and ten - though, still just a boy nonetheless - and had had to watch the event unfold from start to finish from within arms reach. Though it is not a detail she has been informed of, Penelope knows he must have been the one to call for help, screaming for his mother as all scared little boys are wont to do. Her heart bleeds for him as she wonders how long it took for him to be heard; how many long seconds were passed alone and helpless?

"You don't have to tell me anymore, we can stop here if it is too much." Penelope reassures him, detangling her hand from his grip to rub firmly over his torso, hoping to offer both comfort and something physical for him to ground himself to.

"No, no, it's nearly - I need to finish. I think I could so easily let the fear swallow me if I do not address it but I don't want that to happen, not this time."

"Tell me how I can make it easier, please. Let me help," Penelope begs, then gasps when his face finally turns her way. There's a telling sheen to his eyes but also such an open vulnerability in them that she would never have expected to see from him.

"You are helping," Anthony tells her, patting first against the back of her hand on his middle before he settles a loose grip over the thigh she doesn't remember having tucked up across his waist. He pulls at the back of her knee gently, guiding her to slide closer until she is settled half on top of him from chest to toe. The position is intimate, more so than any embrace she had ever dared imagine herself sharing with a man, and she can feel the heat of his palm burning her thigh through her nightgown. Part of her remembers that she should be feeling thoroughly scandalised, but just as quickly as the thought appears she tramples it. There is nothing overt or offensive in his actions; he is simply a man seeking the comfort that she is more than willing to offer him.

This time, he keeps his gaze firmly locked on hers as he talks.

"I - the me in the dream, he did nothing to aid you even in your anguish. I knelt on the ground beside you but I was too afraid to come within your reach. I don't think there could have been anything done to save you by then, but he- I should have held you and reassured you anyway. I don't want to become that version of me, someone who could sit back and watch the people I care about suffer alone. I don't want to keep letting my own selfish fears drive me in the wrong direction."

"Well, I think that just your saying that aloud is a fairly definitive indicator that you have no reason to worry over the will and courage that will reside in your future self. Besides, you are Anthony Bridgerton and that means you are and that you can be whatever you want yourself to be, irrespective of titles and duties. You are allowed to want a life for yourself and you are allowed to shape yourself into whatever kind of man you feel you need to be to take it."

Silence stretches between them for a long while after that. Enough time passes that bright sunlight begins to filter through the bottom of the still closed curtains, indicating how late into the morning, if not early in the afternoon, it must be - though, neither of them feel any inclination to find out the actual time. Penelope considers it a little odd that no one has come to rouse them yet (although there is every chance they had already been to the guest wing to try and wake her) but then she remembers Humboldt's brief appearance last night and wonders if he is responsible for keeping the other nosey staff at bay. Regardless of how it has come about, she is grateful for their undisturbed peace.

"We have a lot more to talk about," she sighs, muffled into the space beneath his ear.

"I know," he grunts back, "but later. For now, will you tell me something good?"

"I'm not sure how much good there's been to share recently," Penelope laughs softly.

"I can think of at least one thing," Anthony says, glancing down at her lips. His gaze drops a little lower to where their bodies are still pressed together and he smirks, adding, "and two more."

Penelope's cheeks flush at his obvious leering, though she is still hesitant to go down the path of conversation that will lead to discussing their shared kisses from the night before, and so she ignores his bait.

"As you seem to be the one so abound with pleasant thoughts then perhaps it should be you that shares some of them with me?" She prompts, tipping her head up so that her chin rests against his sternum.

"Has there truly been not a single thing at all recently with which you have found… pleasure of any kind?" He asks it in a teasing tone, but Penelope thinks she may detect a hint of insecurity in Anthony's words.

She recognises that he is fishing for her to share her thoughts on their kisses and whilst the memory stirs a pleasant sort of bubbling in her gut, she can still not help but feel wary at the idea of putting that feeling into words. Emotions had been running high when the kiss occurred and Penelope is not sure that she wants to know what those feelings may fester into when they leave this bed to face the cold light of day and the reality of their situation. She is scared that Anthony will withdraw from her again, that she will never get to have him as close as this - it is a wonder someone like him has ended up in this position with someone like her in the first place.

Whilst Penelope can certainly make no claim to to be a woman experienced in the arts of flirtation or physical intimacy at any level, her long season spent observing the other members of the Ton engage in their own romantic affairs had left her far from naive to the subjects. Particularly, she likes to think, when it comes to the all too common behavioural patterns of society's so called 'gentlemen'.

Firstly, she has come to learn that all men are fools - even the terribly clever and insightful ones. Fools especially when it comes to simpering young ladies with trim waists and a perfected eyelash batting technique. Fools because they are as competitive as they are prideful, eager to play games wherein women are both the pawns and the prizes, and the men desperate to become victors. Publically, they would declare that no greater reward existed than that of earning the marriage hand of a beautiful woman. Penelope knows that the true trophy that many of them are in fact seeking lies not in placing their ring upon a ladies finger but rather their hand beneath her skirt - if they can manage the latter without the first, even better.

Of course, she knows there are men who hope and sometimes even succeed in finding love on the marriage mart - take her own sister's relationship with the utterly besotted Mr. Finch, for one - however, they seem to become fewer and further in between as time passes. Mundane and totally unimportant things such as liking the person you are to spend every day of the rest of your life with have become far less fashionable than seeking out an attractive figure in the crowd upon which any man could easily paint the image of his most base desires. They thrill far more in the chase than what comes after the capture.

Let it be known that Penelope pays just as much attention to the prey as to the predators, and as such she thinks she could perhaps give Benedict a run for his money in sketching out a most ideal feminine form, for the image of it is ingrained so firmly in her mind's eye. A desirable woman is lithe and tall - though, never taller than her pursuing gentleman, lest his fragile masculinity shatter in the face of any minor perceived inferiority. Her breasts should be noticable, but of a size to fit nicely into the palm, if a man find would himself lucky enough to take hold of one.

These are the simple, if egregiously depressing truths that Penelope knows to be true as much for men and women in general as for Anthony and herself. Perhaps for them especially, as she has been the one to cement their reputations in ink. Anthony, who is renowned throughout London for having charmed his way into the beds of many an alluring woman and is known by those closest to him to allow his intense emotions to drive him towards sometimes rash decisions. Decisions such as planting his lips on those of Penelope Featherington, who toes over the line of being too much shorter than him, with a round waist and even rounder chest. Large as his hands may be, she is certain that not even they would be able to contain the vastness of her breasts and he would see her flesh spilling rather embarrassingly over his fingers. As a courting pair they would appear ridiculous and the image of them sharing in amorous relations of any kind would be considered completely inconceivable.

The Capital R Rake and the Overripe Citrus Fruit do not a match make.

"There has been more enjoyment to count than I had perhaps thought possible given all that looms over my head at present," she replies carefully, not wanting to lay all of her cards on the table in one go - Penelope is her father's daughter after all; she has seen first hand the risks that come with taking a big gamble without first obtaining all of the facts, "considering the circumstances, this has been a far more pleasant start to the off season than I had expected to face - certainly more so than if I had actually ended up in the country with my mother and sister."

"But there is no occurrence that stands out in your mind as most pleasant among them?" Anthony pushes, though how he expects her to formulate proper response to his none too subtle nudging whilst he draws terribly distracting patterns on her thigh is beyond her.

"Anthony," she sighs, unable to articulate any other response.

He must pick up on something in her tone because he decides to carry on the conversation himself and save her from whatever humiliating form of beating around the bush she was going to attempt.

"Perhaps I shall ease the way and share some of my own enjoyments with you so that you might feel more comfortable indulging yours to me. Or you could confirm for me the ones we might have in common, if you are agreeable? Unless, that is, you have grown bored of the sound of my voice; I fear I have used it more this morning than I have altogether since last season Christmas."

"I enjoy listening to you very much and I am grateful for any and all thoughts that you may choose to bestow onto me. I shall take great pride in being allowed to know more of your mind, knowing, as I do, that its doors are so often tightly sealed." Penelope replies, hoping she has not been so bogged in her own insecurities that she has begun to inadvertently feed into his own.

"Well, if that is the case, perhaps I shall change tactics and instead make a series of self-effacing comments and you can rebuke each of them with your opinions regarding my delightful nature and, if you like, impeccable form. I should think that would be enjoyable for us both, no?" Anthony wiggles his eyebrows and dons a most roguish grin, pleased when his teasing startles a laugh from her, even if it's accompanied by the roll of her eyes.

"Shall we start with my favourite of your many agreeable qualities?" Penelope asks, a touch of mischief now painting her own tone.

She takes a moment to let her eyes drag slowly over his features, then moves her left hand to slowly kneed at the muscles of his covered bicep in a move that she has seen some of the bolder debutantes use whilst dancing with potential suitors. Not having expected much of a reaction, Penelope is delighted when Anthony seems to preen under her actions. The rhythm of his breaths changes - noticeable by how his chest moves beneath her own - and his pupils suddenly seem to take up more space than the browns of his eyes. Deciding to pull again from her endless log of observed flirtations, Penelope pushes herself up, braced with a hand against his chest, then leans down to his ear to finish in a breathy whisper, "your boundless humility."

Bursting into giggles, Penelope struggles to keep herself balanced on her one arm whilst she takes her fill of the utterly flabbergasted look on his face. Anthony narrows his eyes as her laughter continues, wondering how on earth she managed to get the upper hand in what should surely be his game to win. How does she even know the rules? Although, he supposes, if anyone is going to outfox him, he's glad for it to be Penelope.

That does not, however, mean that he particularly enjoys being at the butt of her joke as she is still guffawing over him (even if it does make her gelatine body jiggle most deliciously when she does).

I'll give her something to laugh about, he thinks.

Anthony bends one knee for leverage then tips them quickly, keeping his arm locked around her middle as he rolls their bodies to his left. Penelope yelps at the sudden movement, then makes a quiet 'oof' as she lands flat on her back with Anthony laying on his side next to her, his upper body leaning over her own. She has no time to come to terms with their new positioning before his onslaught begins.

Fingers dig into the flesh at her sides relentlessly, curling in just the right way to draw her back into uncontrollable laughter and Penelope finally realises how absurd her life has become because she is somehow lying in Anthony Bridgerton's bed and he is tickling her as if they are his rambunctious youngest siblings and not two people at the respective beginnings and ends of their third decade of life.

"Mercy!" She cries, batting at his hands uselessly as the sound of his laughter joins her own, "Anthony!"

"I will relent when you succumb to my requests and tell me something you have enjoyed about these past few days," he insists, ignoring her pleas that he stop so long as there is still a breathless smile on her lips.

"How am I- ah! How am I to do that when you will not allow me to ooh - breathe?" She wheezes and finally his fingers begin to slow, though he continues tracing light patterns over her sensitive waist, not allowing her to settle entirely.

"Tell me now, then, or I shall have to begin anew."

Following his warning, the humour vanishes from Anthony so suddenly that Penelope could be easily convinced that she had imagined the last few moments after all. The air around them shifts and Penelope is sure she has never been under the weight of such an intense stare before. It makes her nervous and excited and causes the fluttering in her stomach to grow more persistent.

"I- I have enjoyed beginning to take control of my wardrobe," she offers, knowing it is not the answer he is likely hoping for but proud of herself nonetheless for pushing the words past her lips.

"I dare say I have been enjoying that change, too," he replies, nodding in affirmation of her response, "what else?"

"The, erm- the weather! Has been most agreeable. I do so relish in being outdoors." Even Penelope cringes at that one. The weather? Really?

"And what of your time spent in my company?" He pushes, the hand at her waist stopping its gentle tracing to begin needing the soft flesh there instead.

"The meals we have shared have been pleasant," she says, "and you make for an excellent conversational partner."

"Last night, Penelope," Anthony prompts, finally realising how determined she is to evade his needling. There is a reason he generally prefers to be direct. "What did you enjoy about last night, Penelope?"

"I liked being held by you," she whispers, "in the library and in your bed."

"And before we left the library...?" He seems to be getting closer to her now, though Penelope can't quite determine whether he is the one leaning down or if she is pressing up. Perhaps both.

"I enjoyed it when you- when we…"

He is so close now, barely an inch between their faces so that his breath ghosts over her lips with each pass of air from his lips. "Say it."

"When you kissed me," her voice breaks as the words finally come, but she barely notices, "I really, really liked it when you kissed me."

"Would you allow me to do it again? Will you like it just as much?" He asks, eyes focused resolutely on her plush, bitten lips. Anthony feels as though every inch of his skin is alight waiting for her reponse, but he will not make the next move without her explicit go ahead. Then, blessedly, she gives it.

"Even more so."

His descent onto her could be startling in its speed if she wasn't so filled up with exhilaration that there is no room left for any of her usual nerves. The feel of Anthony's lips slanting over hers is both wonderfully familiar and heart stoppingly new, and Penelope begins moving her own mouth in tandem, determined to be an active participator even if she has to make it up as she goes.

For his part, Anthony is unable to lose himself quite so thoroughly into their kiss as he is forced to dedicate part of his focus to maintaining hold on his already short thread of control. The Anthony of a few weeks ago would be hurrying things along, and the beautiful woman sharing his bed - his own bed, where he has never dared bring any partner before - and openly accepting his kisses would already be pinned and writhing beneath him. Or on top of him. Maybe with her thick thighs on either side of his head. (A mental image that he will certainly be revisiting later on.)

Now, though, said beautiful woman in his bed is Penelope Featherington, who does not deserve to feel his quickly filling cock poking at her hip during what he knows to be only the third kiss she has ever experienced. Still, that doesn't mean that he can't apply himself to making it as good as he can for both of them, so he moves to hover his upper body further over hers, bracketing her between his arms whilst keeping his hips pressed into the mattress.

All of that careful consideration almost goes flying out the window when Penelope's hands sink into his hair and pull at the short strands there, causing him to break away from her lips to gasp as the sensation shoots down to his crotch.

"I'm sorry!" Penelope says quickly and Anthony prises his eyes open to look at her, wondering what she could possibly have to apologise for, and God is he glad he does because he would not trade this view of her for anything in the world.

Red curls spill in all directions over his pillows, creating the most incredibly stark contrast to the bed's pale blue covers. Her lips are even redder still and swollen from his onslaught. There's a rumbling feeling in his chest that he thinks might be that beastial part of him purring, gratified by the sight of Penelope enveloped by so much that is his, as though she belonged to him as well.

No, he corrects himself, it is I that belongs entirely to her.

Her eyes, however, look apprehensive and as she starts to pull her fingers away from his scalp he realises why. Latching onto one of her wrists he puts a quick end to her retreat, then pushes her hand to rest at the back of his head and makes a fist of with their combined fingers so she is holding a handful of his brown locks.

"Again," he tells her, guiding their joined hands into a gentle tug.

"Oh! Are you sure, I-"

"Again," he growls, tipping his head forward against the motion as Penelope complies with his command and pulls his hair tight. The feeling of both her physical actions and beautiful compliance is so overwhelming that he does not waste another second before diving back down to reclaim her mouth with renewed hunger.

It makes her gasp to have him respond to her like this, as though she somehow has yet to realise just how desirable she is, and Anthony takes full advantage of her parted lips to slide his tongue into the mess of their kisses. He explores the cavern of Penelope's mouth, delighting when her own tongue begins to tentatively dance with his, until her uneven breaths relay her need for air.

Anthony pulls back by just the inch he needs to move onto her jaw. He starts by nuzzling at the soft skin below her ear before trailing the tip of his nose along the path to her chin, then begins to press open mouthed kisses back up along the line of goosebumps he has just created.

"Anthony," she groans, her back arching up from the bed to press their bodies together before she collapses back down a moment later. Even the briefest press of her breasts to his chest is enough to have him pressing his hips down further into the sheets. She says his name again and it's that combined with the way her fingers curl to scratch long nails against his scalp, that has Anthony helpless against the urge to begin grinding his hips down in search of friction.

The action is what (regrettably) brings him back to himself and he realises it's time to slow things down. Anthony allows himself to press three more slow, lingering kisses against her lips before retreating. He situates himself so he's laying flat on his belly against the mattress with their sides pressed close together and his right arm slung over her middle. With his face turned towards her Anthony is afforded an unobstructed view of Penelope as she recovers from their activities.

Her tongue pokes out to wet her abused lips, though her eyes are still closed when she speaks. "Please don't ask me to try and articulate my current level of enjoyment to you right now," she breathes, feeling his answering laugh fan over her cheek, "I'm afraid my brain is rather scrambled at present."

"And yet that tells me all I need to know."

Penelope finally opens her eyes and turns to look for the smug grin she knows Anthony will be sporting, though she isn't prepared for it to be quite as bright and beaming as it is. He surprises her again when he leans forward to rub his nose over hers softly, planting a final light peck on her lips, and she realises she has a few assumptions to reevaluate - the first being that there was not enough gaps between Anthony's hard edges for such soft affection to shine through. She doesn't get nearly as long to bask in the glow of his sweet attentions as she might have liked, however, as her stomach chooses that moment to release an embarrassingly loud rumble.

"It seems I am not fulfilling my duties as your host, keeping you in here for so long without proper nourishment," Anthony throws the covers back from his person and rises from his side of the bed, secretly pleased by the pout he sees form on Penelope's lips as he goes. "Shall we go and secure ourselves some breakfast?"

"Breakfast?" Penelope laughs, propping herself up on one elbow but making no further effort to rise, "I believe we are far past that. We may even be bordering on too late for lunch."

"Ah," Anthony reaches for his time piece, ignoring the perfectly good clock sitting just to his right, "well, we shall certainly not be down in time if you refuse to leave the bed."

Penelope rolls her eyes at his impatience and still makes no move to leave the safe haven of his blue sheets. Over the course of the morning (and early afternoon) they have created quite the little bubble for themselves in his room and Penelope is more than a little hesitant to find out whether or not it will pop when they cross the threshold. Fingers itching for purchase as they always do when her nerves begin to creep in, Penelope takes to tracing the swirling embroidery at the edge of the duvet cover.

"Penelope?" Anthony prompts, having at some point made the decision to slide into one of his robes rather than donning any actual clothing. The colour of it matches the hue of his sheets almost exactly and Penelope distracts herself a moment longer by pondering whether or not he somehow purchased the whole lot as a set - perhaps there is a pair of equally blue slippers tucked away somewhere.

"We still have a lot to talk about," she says at last.

"We do," he agrees, nodding his head, "after breakfast."

Penelope huffs a laugh. "Lunch," she reminds him, shaking her head fondly.

"And it will be dinner soon enough," he retorts, planting his hands on his hips as she still refuses to get up. He must sense her discomfort, however, as in the next instant he is rounding the bed and crouching at the floor on her side. Prying the fingers of her left hand from his sheets, Anthony gives them an encouraging squeeze before continuing seriously, "I promise you, we will talk about this. About everything. But we have plenty of time and I am not going anywhere. Are you?"

"No," she breathes, resituating her hand in his so their fingers can interlock.

"Good. Now, if you will not rise on your own terms, I will be forced to throw you over my shoulder as I did last night and carry you down the stairs myself." His supposed threat draws a smile from her and Anthony is pleased to see it.

"I'm sorry, Anthony," she says, shaking her head "but that really isn't the deterrent you think it is."

Notes:

Sorry for the longer than usual break between updates - this chapter just did not want to come together!

(Double apologies to the people who i know are really just here for Humboldt & co. that they did not make an appearance this time round)

Chapter 14

Summary:

The Bridgerton Staff help to guide some missing pieces into place.

Notes:

FIXED A QUICK FORMATTING ISSUE! Sorry if you got the notification for this one twice!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The sight of their viscount and the young Miss Featherington finally appearing in the dining room at two o'clock in the afternoon, both still clad in their night wear and joined by interlocked fingers, should really come as much more of a surprise to the staff of Bridgerton House than it does. Word travels fast regardless and there is not a soul in the house who has not heard about the occurrence before their late luncheon is served.

Throughout their meal, the dining room is a high traffic zone, with most of the servants finding one reason or another to pass through the space whilst carrying out their daily duties - duties which are far lighter in load than they would usually be with only one Bridgerton and his guest in residence at the manor, leaving them all rather bored and in need of entertainment. Fortunately, Anthony and Penelope are providing it to them in droves, however unknowingly.

So absorbed as they are in one another, the pair seated close at the table do not seem to notice any of the sly glances or eager whispers being passed around them. The maids titter and giggle about their state of undress, gushing over how adorably the dressing gown Penelope has borrowed from their master had dragged along the floor when she walked in, whereas his stops at midcalf. Footmen hide their amusement behind horrendously fake coughs and sidelong looks. Anyone who walks into the kitchen might think they have taken a wrong turn into a gambling den for the way Mrs Wilson is loudly going over the finer details of a betting pool with all the seriousness of a general discussing war tactics with their troops.

One long suffering butler stands at the edge of it all with rather mixed emotions.

Humboldt had been quite pleased to see the hard edges of Viscount Bridgerton begin to soften under Miss Featherington's gentle ministrations and, he can admit, he had also been a tad overenthusiastic in his efforts to push his master in her direction because of it. Had he known his actions would bring them here, however, he might have taken a different approach.

So, as glad as he is to see the eldest of the Bridgerton brood so happy, he can't help but wonder if he has made space in his brain for the new emotion by ridding himself of both common sense and knowledge of propriety. When Humboldt noticed the opportunity for something more to bloom between the two, he had hoped a few things would happen, and in this order:

They would form a friendship and begin spending time together,

Anthony would realise how lovely and clever the unassuming Miss was,

He would declare his intentions to court her and begin purchasing appropriate gifts to take along to his daily chaperoned calls, during visiting hours, to Featherington Manor,

The viscount would woo her thoroughly through their short but respectfully long enough courtship before proposing marriage and, finally,

They would be wed and Miss Featherington would take on the roles of viscountess and mistress of the house.

Clearly, he had put far too much faith into the rake, for his not very carefully crafted plans have gone completely awry and instead the events thus far have played out like this:

Anthony begins going out of his way to seek out Penelope Featherington (so far so good),

Humboldt manages to convince him to look for her in Hyde Park (promising),

The viscount returns from said trip out in a sour mood and begins drinking himself into a stupor (a disappointing but manageable hump in the road)

Miss Featherington shows up on the doorstep, unaccompanied, that same night and sparks a fight with Lord Bridgerton (wholly unexpected),

After an undignifiable length of time alone in his study with her, Anthony later declares to his household that she will be taking up residence with them (more than a tad earlier than expected, but at least it put them under the presence of constant chaperones),

Humboldt finds the viscount on his knees at Miss Featherington's feet in the middle of the night (sigh),

The two spend the rest of that night and all of the following morning shut away in the master bedroom.

The most important things to note in this list are unfortunately the things that is lacking, namely any sign of an official suit having been made and their being no appearance of a ring on Miss Penelope's finger now that they have emerged into the house.

Someone will have to take the Viscount aside for a word and, looking around at the rest of the ridiculously obvious staff, Humboldt knows it will have to be him.

The bubble, Penelope is pleased to discover, does not burst when they leave Anthony's bedchambers, nor when they walk hand in hand through the hallways and down the stairs, and not even when they are greeted by a plethora of staff in the dining room.

She had been initially concerned about stepping out into the hallways in her night clothes, though there had not been much choice with her belongings tucked away in her own room across the manor, but the weight of Anthony's house coat had felt an awful lot like the security blanket she used to cart around as a toddler when he had wrapped it around her shoulders and her worries had eased immensely. It had been her intention to slip back to the guest wing and dress for the day before meeting Anthony downstairs, but then he had stepped out of the room with her, also in his sleep wear, and led her straight to the dining room with his disarming grin.

Her hand is only released from his firm grasp when they approach the table, at which point he all but bounds around to her usual chair and picks it up, depositing it beside his own at the head of the table. Anthony spends a few moments rearranging both seats so that they are pushed as tightly together as they can be with their widely set arm rests. Pleased with his work, Anthony turns to face Penelope with a triumphant grin, then holds his hand out towards her, eager to guide the both of them into their newly arranged seats.

Once they are settled at the table and not nearly as squashed as Penelope had worried they'd be, the pair begin to fill their plates high, making quick work of the long overdue breaking of their fast.

"We shall take all of our meals like this, if you are amenable," Anthony says, smiling down at Penelope as he leans across the arms of both their chairs, taking one of her hands into his own, "you were much too far away in your old spot."

"My seat was barely a foot away from your own," Penelope laughs, raising her eyebrow teasingly.

"Exactly," Anthony responds, moving in even closer still until his mouth is by her ear, "much too far."

A shiver runs through her from the spot on her neck where she can feel his breath down to her curled toes. Anthony leans back just enough that she can see how his smile has become roguish before his smug lips are descending towards hers.

A throat clearing interrupts them and Penelope leans back, startled. Anthony however looks peeved, though he keeps his firm grip on her hand so she knows his ire is not directed towards her.

"Yes, Humboldt?" He grits, not taking his eyes away from Penelope's.

"Emma has offered to help ready Miss Featherington for what is left of the day, sir," the butler replies coolly, finally causing Anthony to turn his full attention onto him, surprised by his tone, "now that you both appear to be finished with your meal, perhaps Emma could escort her to her guest suite whilst you go and dress in your own rooms." a tense beat passes, "sir."

The two men stare at each other for a several long moments (time enough for Humboldt to start considering what his future employment options will look like when he is turfed out with a far from glowing reference), until Penelope breaks the silence.

"How very kind of Emma to offer her assistance, I shall be glad to take her up on it," she says, extracting her hand from Anthony's to rise from her seat. Looking down at herself she flushes, seemingly just realising the terribly improper state of undress the staff have borne witness to her in and she tightens the tie of her robe self consciously, "I hope you can forgive my extreme lack of manners in appearing this way, Humboldt, I must have suffered a knock to my better judgment. I assure you it will not happen again."

The butlers voice softens when he addresses Penelope, though his judgemental gaze stays fixed on his master. "No need for your apologies, Miss. You are our guest and you should feel comfortable to go about your business in the house as you please," he then waves a hand towards a trio of maids huddled by the door, "Emma, are you quite ready to accompany Miss Featherington upstairs?"

"Oh, erm-" the maid fumbles, clearly not having been prepared to be pulled from the audience and into the performance, "yes, of course! Shall we head up, Miss?"

Penelope nods with a strained but friendly smile, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Anthony's cheek before rounding the table and linking arms with Emma. It makes the two maids still loitering in the doorway giggle as they pass, though they quickly smother their amusement when Penelope casts a sheepish look in their direction, not wanting to embarrass the Miss further.

"Penelope," Anthony calls, stopping her just before she could venture out of his eyeline, "come and find me when you are finished?"

The smile she responds with is soft and far more genuine than her last, and Penelope nods her head before turning away to continue on once again. "Emma," she whispers as soon as they are out of earshot, peering over her shoulder for a final glance into the dining room before they round the corner to the stairs, "Is that behaviour usual for Humboldt? Not that I have any issue with staff speaking their minds, of course," she hurries to add.

"No Miss, that was quite strange," the other girl replies, "from what I hear, Mr Humboldt has been head butler since before even Lord Bridgerton was in leading strings, and that's always afforded him a certain level of respect and polite familiarity with the family, but in my few years here I have never known him to speak so out of turn."

"Goodness, I wonder what has sparked such out of character action in him," Penelope says, then brings them to a halt as they are nearing the guest wing, "you don't think Anthony- um, Lord Bridgerton will be too hard on him, do you? He can have quite a short temper. Perhaps we should go back to mediate."

She is half turned to go back the way they had come when Emma giggles, placing a hand on Penelope's arm to stay her, "I think it would upset Humboldt more to have us undo his rather blatant efforts to rid us from the scene and return to bear witness to what is bound to be quite the dressing down."

"Oh dear. You know him better than I; do you believe Humboldt can withstand it?"

"I think that will be entirely up to your Lord Bridgerton, Miss, though I reckon Mr Humboldt has a thing or two to say himself."

"I dearly hope there is a reason for you interrupting what was shaping up to be a pleasant afternoon, following a very pleasant morning." Anthony states, leaning back into his seat at the head of the table.

"Sir, perhaps if you were to go and dress, we could reconvene shortly," the butler suggests, determined to remain steady in his resolve even under the weight of his master's glare.

"Clearly the matter is urgent, otherwise I know you would not have comported yourself as you did to bring this conversation about, and so we shall not waste anymore time. Talk."

Humboldt looks around the room warily and Anthony follows his gaze, watching as a plethora of heads snap in different directions from servants trying to appear busy and not as though they had been shamelessly gawping at their master. Until now, he'd not noticed there were so many people in the room and has to wonder when his control of the household had started to slip enough that they were all becoming so damn impertinent.

"Out." He orders, then again, louder, when no one moves, "out."

Stumbling feet scurry around them, quickly clearing out of the room and only stopping to offer quick bows and curtsies before leaving the room (though Humboldt knows they haven't simply forgotten to close the door in their rush).

The reality of the predicament Humboldt has walked himself into catches up with him quickly and he wishes he could go back and add a little bit (a lot) more detail into his recent correspondence with Lady Bridgerton, knowing that she would be much better suited to be standing in his place. For him to take up the task is highly improper for many reasons, but then the same could be said for much of his recent conduct, and doubly so for that of his master. Considering the part he has played in bringing them this far, it should also be his duty to see it through and attempt at least to minimise the reputational damage that will occur if Lord Bridgerton's recent behaviour carries on unchecked.

"Humboldt," Anthony snaps, bringing the butler immediately to attention, "there really are much better things I could be doing than sitting here waiting on you. I'm sure I do not need to remind you of how much of my patience you have been afforded, nor how close you may be to reaching its limits."

Taking a deep breath, Humboldt reminds himself that he is a man of decent education, who has worked hard to achieve his position in this household. Diligent in his duties, well respected by his underlings and more than capable of articulating his points cleverly and clearly. He clears his throat "What are your intentions with Miss Featherington?" He blurts.

"I beg your pardon?" Anthony responds incredulously.

Sweat begins to pool in the palms of Humboldt's hands and at the back of his neck, and he closes his eyes briefly against facing his humiliation over his own tactlessness. He focuses on the fact that the viscount's cup is still resting on the table in front of him, meaning it hasn't yet been hurled towards his head.

Pushing his shoulders back, Humboldt lifts his chin before continuing, "You have been dedicating a lot of your time and attention to the young Miss of late, which is not in itself a bad thing, however I fear you are now acting in a way that is quite far out of the bounds of what is proper and whilst she has always been close to your family, it is my understanding that you have never paid much mind to her before."

Anthony's eyes narrow and his voice is low and rumbling when he says, "If you are going to suggest that Miss Featherington is somehow unworthy of receiving said attentions, then it would be in your best interest to turn and walk away whilst you are still an employed man."

"Certainly not, sir, I-"

"And I will remind you that up until now you have voiced no such concerns, despite having had plenty of opportunities - rather astutely at that, as it is not your place to do so, nor do your opinions hold any impact towards my actions." He continues, fists clenching tightly atop the table cloth.

"Of course, My Lord."

"In fact, I would say that you could be accused of having been overly accommodating in facilitating our improper encounters, perhaps of even orchestrating one or two of them. Whilst I am glad for your discretion, you'd do well to remember that it is in your job description to be discreet, and not to question your master. Is that understood?"

Thoroughly cowed, Humboldt swallows thickly and can only nod in response. Whilst it is not uncommon for the viscount to make his displeasures known and to call his staff on their shortcomings - though, never unfairly and without careful consideration - this is the first time in his long standing service that the Lord's ire has been directed at him. Clearly he has struck on quite the nerve with just one poorly delivered sentence.

"With that being said," Anthony begins again, tone remarkably calmer but still with its firm edge, "why don't you come and sit down so that we might have this discussion properly - you must have been quite anxious to do so for you to have broached the subject as you did."

"Thank you, sir, but that is not necessary." Humboldt tries to insist, eager to be done and gone from the room.

"I'm saying it is," Anthony states, then tilts his head towards the many vacant seats, "sit."

The butler has never had cause to sit at the dining table, nor on any of the Bridgerton's fine furniture as his duty dictates that he remain standing at the room's edge when in the presence of any number of family members, always ready and waiting to fulfill their requirements. How unfortunate, then, that he is far too tense to sit back and take advantage of it - he doubts another opportunity to enjoy such well padded and softly lined cushioning will soon be coming his way.

"Speak, then." Anthony prompts, turning his hand in a 'hurry up' motion as if he has grown bored of the conversation now that his own piece has been said. When the butler does not immediately begin to talk - taking a moment to centre himself whilst attempting to remember any of the many points he had hoped to cover during his once meticulously planned speech - Anthony continues, "You can start with your concerns about my intentions."

"Right, well," Humboldt shifts in the almost-too-soft chair, "it is inappropriate to spend as much time as you have in the company of any unwed lady without chaperone, and since you have divulged some of the details of Miss Featherington's current predicament, I am concerned that you have taken advantage of her not having anyone around to look out for her."

"And as I explained to you the timeline in which Miss Featherington's familial situation unfolded, then you know that we were already becoming more acquainted before I could have had such knowledge to take advantage of," Anthony rebutts, but stops himself from saying any more and indicates for the other man to go on.

"Yet you have made no attempts to contact her mother or to reunite the Miss with her family - or even with your own. Lady Bridgerton and Miss Eloise would be overjoyed to house her in Aubrey Hall. It would take but a click of your fingers to put Miss Featherington into a carriage and have her sent to the country to join them." Humboldt is proud that he has managed to thread his words together so coherently this far and even more so that his analysis has clearly begun to unsettle the viscount who takes several moments to form his next response.

"Perhaps if the revelation of her solitude had not come along with the knowledge that someone is actively posing threats of danger towards Penelope, then I might have done just that," he hisses, eyes narrowing, "but as those two pieces of information did come hand in hand, I made the decision that she was best kept under my personal protection and I stand by that choice - Penelope's safety comes first before anything, and far above societal guidelines upheld by people who are miles away and whom I care very little for the opinions of."

Humboldt does not think his master has realised that he had begun referring to Miss Featherington by her Christian name - as though the whole household was not already well aware that he used it.

"Was she not safe enough in the guest suite?" Humboldt asks, inwardly cringing at his own surprising boldness, but he forges ahead anyway, feeling once again resolved in his mission, "when Emma informed me that she could not locate Miss Featherington this morning I was initially concerned that she had left the property unaccompanied, until I realised that there was only one place she could be - a fact which was confirmed by the state in which you both finally emerged this afternoon. Knowing you as I do, sir, and in light of Miss Featherington having no male relatives to address the situation, I must inquire as to why she appeared in the dining room wearing your house robe so brazenly, but not your mother's ring on her finger? In fact, it has been noted that there have been no deliveries of jewelry of any kind from yourself to the girl, nor flowers or flowery poetry - have you been courting her at all? Did you ask for the opportunity to do so, before taking her into your bed?"

The rise and fall of Humboldt's chest has quickened considerably, beholden to his nerves as well as his righteous anger. The viscount is staring at him with wide eyes and an otherwise unreadable expression, rubbing his thumb and forefingers together in quiet consideration. The silence stretches, enveloping the room in a thick band of tension, giving the butler plenty of time to cast his eyes over the table and wonder which of the items resting upon it his master might use to bludgeon him.

Quite suddenly, Anthony starts to laugh, tilting his head back and slapping his hand twice against the table, startling Humboldt even as the action is quite clearly one of amusement. "Sir?" He asks warily, staring at his master.

"Forgive me, Humboldt," Anthony chuckles, pushing himself and his chair away from the table - the butler quick to do the same, "but it is rather ironic. You have come to give me your strange version of the shovel talk on Penelope's behalf, concerned that I have not yet expressed my intentions to court her, and in doing so you have delayed me from doing just that."

"You- apologies, sir, I do not follow," Humboldt stutters, flabbergasted by his master's sudden change in countenance p.

"I have every intent on discussing the current and further developments in my and Miss Featherington's relationship with her - something which would likely be happening now if you had not seen fit to interfere," Anthony explains with a sigh, casting his eyes up to the ceiling, "Whilst I can not say I'm particularly pleased to learn of your considerations of my character, nor your presumptions as to how I would choose to act towards any young lady because of it, I must respect that you had my Penelope's best interests at heart and that you have been driven by care and concern for her. Her safety is and always will be of highest priority to me, especially with her current predicaments in mind, and it is a comfort to know that there are others here who will act in her defence."

"Oh, well, thank you, sir," Humboldt replies, trying to retain a shred of dignity and not preen under the praise, "Miss Featherington is regarded rather highly amongst staff in many households throughout Mayfair, and further afield. If ever you are looking to find people willing to stand in her corner, I assure you, you will not be in short supply."

"That is… good to know - surprising, but also very much not," Anthony says, considering this new piece of information, "that'll be all, Humboldt."

He should take the out, turn and run whilst the viscount is in good enough humour to allow it, but he just can't help himself and stays a moment longer.

"Sir," he starts, "if I might extend your patience just once more…"

Sigh. "Get on with it."

"It is courtship which you intend to propose to Miss Featherington?" He fishes, "not anything more… permanent?" Humboldt closes his eyes, hoping to shield them from the shards of mug that are surely headed in his direction.

"I know you likely did not have to jump through quite the same hoops to secure your own marriage, but there is an order to these things, Humboldt."

The butler responds with an incredulously raised brow and tilted head.

Anthony lifts his mug and prepares to hurl it across the room.

The sound of feet descending the main stairwell along with two feminine voices stays his hand and Anthony's attention snaps immediately in that direction. Humboldt, relieved that he may in fact live to see dinner, makes a quick escape through another door, unsurprised when his master does not seem to take note of his hasty retreat.

Penelope descends the stairs in one of her older gowns of pale yellow, with white appliquéd flowers and beading across the bust. Her focus is on Emma as the maid follows at a step behind her, chatting away, meaning it takes her several moments to realise Anthony is waiting at the bottom. When she does spot him, Penelope has to stifle a giggle into her gloved hand.

"Anthony, how are you still not dressed?" She asks, fiddling with the lapels of his dressing gown, "one could think you are intending to go straight back to bed."

"Perhaps I am," he grins, leaning in close to her, "but only if you will agree to join me." He reaches for both of her hands and brings them the short distance up to his lips without breaking eye contact, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Penelope laughs aloud this time, amused as if Anthony immediately adopts a pout upon noticing the barrier between his kiss and her skin. He tugs on the fabric of one of her gloves petulantly, whining, "why are you wearing these?"

Penelope rolls her eyes good naturedly, ignoring his question. "Charming as you are, Anthony, we are already well into the afternoon and I have far too much to accomplish today to spend anymore of it sleeping."

"Sleeping? I did not say anything about sleeping," he replies, voice low and just for her in a way that makes Penelope feel as though the heat radiating across her skin could cause her to melt into the floor, "perhaps if I asked you very, very nicely you might be swayed to reconsider?"

"Anthony," she sighs, swaying towards him. He offers her a smirk in return, then makes quick work of sliding the gloves from her fingers, leaning down to press a kiss into the tender skin of her inner wrist. Unfortunately for him, the action sparks Penelope back into the present and she pushes him back lightly by his chest. "A note arrived from the modiste whilst you were otherwise engaged, I am to go and meet with her so that I might continue ending myself of these awful gowns. Now that I have told you, Emma and I are about to set off."

"Wait for me and I will accompany you both there," Anthony insists, pressing a last kiss to the exposed skin of her hands before maneuvering around her and starting up the stairs, "Emma, have a carriage called around for us while I dress."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, there really is no need - we have been cooped up inside for so long, I would quite enjoy the walk," Penelope says, laying a hand on the maid's arm to prevent her leaving the room to fulfill her master's orders.

"Miss, I think after last time it would not be unwise to forgo traveling on foot," Emma responds, patting Penelope's arm gently.

Anthony's progress to the first floor halts near the landing and he turns back to face them before asking, with a concerned look on his face, "what happened last time?" Penelope holds up her hands, palms facing him in answer, and he nods his understanding, relaxing instantly. "Ah yes, your unfortunate tumble. Miss Emma is quite right, we should not like a repeat of that occurrence. The carriage it is."

Emma, however, snorts at his casual tone, quickly becoming affronted on Penelope's behalf, "I'd call it more than a tumble, My Lord!" She says, hands planted on her hips, "the way that toad of a man knocked down the poor miss and left her on the ground - why, I wish I had gone after him when I had the chance! How such an unsavoury and ungentlemanly character could have found themself in Mayfair… though, I reckon that is likely why he was beatin' such a hasty retreat from the area."

"Forgive me, Emma," Anthony starts calmly, "it seems your summary of the events differs somewhat to the one I received from Miss Penelope."

"Oh! Um, I-"

"Penelope," he continues, firmer, "you implied to me that you had been at fault for having collided with a gentleman, who had in turn attempted to slow your fall." His brows furrow further as a look of understanding dawns over his features. "Is this why you attempted to conceal your injuries from me?"

Recognising the signs of Anthony's thinning patience and rising ire, Penelope turns momentarily from his gaze and towards Emma, reissuing the instruction for her to go and call a driver around for them. She waits until the maid has scurried from the room before taking her turn to speak, soft and placating as she can manage, "Anthony, I did not conceal anything because there was nothing to conceal; my hands were barely scraped and I am quite well. What does it matter whether or not the unfortunate man stuck around to confirm it for himself?"

"It matters because you are far too good at hiding things from me, and too comfortable with it, as well. How can you watch me trying to be open with you whilst you continue to speak to me in half truths?" His irritation carries through his tone though it gives way at the end to reveal the slightest hint of resignation behind his words, amplifying Penelope's guilt instantly.

"I'm sorry, Anthony, I had not looked at it that way but you are right," Penelope lifts her skirts to make her way up the stairs towards him, hoping to put them on more even footing, though she stops whilst she is still two steps below him. "You were already so distressed about my hands, and with that on top of everything else that had occurred, I did not want to upset you further with what I truly thought to be an unimportant detail."

"Penelope," he breathes, "every detail is important when it pertains to you. If you decide to have pork instead of chicken for dinner, or you receive a missive from your mother claiming to have discovered a new shade of yellow in the Irish hills, then I want to hear about it. If your last quill snaps or your ink pot runs dry whilst you are penning your next pamphlet, then I want to know how many more I need to buy you so that you will never go without again. If the detail is that some rotten cad has caused you harm and absconded from the scene, then it is not a want but a need that I be informed." He reaches out for her hands, pulling her forwards until they are standing on the same step, then tucks his fingers beneath her chin to keep her gaze fixed up towards his own. "I want to know everything there is to know about you, Penelope - all the parts that you are willing to share with me."

His declaration sparks a rather embarrassing well of emotion to swell within Penelope, forcing her to blink away the moisture threatening to spill over from her eyes. His earnestness knocks the air from her lungs and the sense from her head, leaving her staring up at him with parted lips. She feels disoriented and overwhelmed, so used to being overlooked that she does not know quite how to respond to holding Anthony's undivided and dedicated attention.

Women are made to be seen and not heard, her mother had told her once, but I am afraid you may have been created for neither, Penelope. The best that we can hope for you to be is useful and obedient. Her whole life, she has been conditioned to play the role of background character that no one had ever trained her to take centre stage - even in her own story, she had never anticipated that she would become the leading lady, and nor had anyone else ever expected it for her.

"I-" she stammers, searching for the right words to encompass everything she is feeling. "I am/ sorry, I am not accustomed to having someone willing to listen to my ramblings, let alone wanting to hear them. Speaking only when and what is necessary is a long formed habit, but one that I will learn to break. I promise you, you will have nothing but complete honesty from me, and there will be no stone left unturned in our conversations."

"Good." He says, then loops an arm around her waist to tug her firmly against his chest, bending at the knees to plant a quick but firm kiss onto her lips. Thrilling as the sudden display of affection is, Penelope thinks that it is another form of his attentions that will take some getting used to on her part, and perhaps a bit further away from the top of the stairs, if the way her legs wobble is any indication of the possible hazard their current location could become for her.

"Now," he begins, pulling back up to his full height so they are again both craning their necks to meet the others gaze, neither willing to put the space between them that could make it easier, "in the interest of breaking this habit of yours, I suggest we begin right away with you listing everything you remember about the scoundrel who saw fit to leave you lying in the dust - I would like to be able to recognise him if ever our paths cross."

Penelope shakes her head slowly but acquiesces nonetheless, "well, I did not get a good look at him, but he was tall - perhaps even an inch or so more than you," (she pretends not to notice the way Anthony straightens his spine and lifts his chin just slightly, rather obvious in his attempts to make himself appear larger as though he is not already a giant to her,) "he was wearing rather dark clothes for the season and he left the smell of tobacco smoke behind him. He passed by so quickly, though he did call out something of an acknowledgement before he disappeared towards Berkely Square." Penelope's brows pinch together as she pictures the scene, recalling things that she hadn't thought to focus on before. "It was strange, he was…" she trails off.

"Go on," Anthony prompts, rubbing his thumb soothingly over the side of her waist, "he was what?"

"Familiar." Penelope finishes, feeling a strange shudder pass through her as she says it, beginning to fall into a growing well of unease. Her mind is rushing with thoughts almost too quickly for her to keep up, working hard to recall and piece together more overlooked observations.

Pressed as closely to her as he is, it is impossible for Anthony to miss the way her body shakes briefly against his own, nor the glazed look that takes over her eyes - the one he has come to learn means she is deep in thought. "Familiar, how?" He asks, then gives her waist a light tap when she doesn't respond. "Come back to me, Penelope. Familiar, how?"

"He'd been coming off Mount Street," she says, not answering his question and still looking as though she were somewhere far away, "coming from Grosvenor Square."

"So?" Anthony urges, concern beginning to grow, especially as he begins to feel somewhat left in the dark from her puzzling.

"It was on Tuesday, in the afternoon, and he'd been hurrying away from Grosvenor Square," Penelope's focus snaps suddenly back up to Anthony, her eyes startlingly clear, enough to reveal the panic festering behind them. Her voice wobbles when she tries to continue, "and then on Wednesday morning-"

"On Wednesday morning, we found Featherington House having been broken into." Anthony finishes, taking no ounce of satisfaction in catching onto her meaning, "you think the man who knocked you down and the assailant who broke into your house are one in the same. That he was leaving the scene of the crime."

Penelope nods her head, glancing around frantically as if expecting the vagrant to appear from around one of the home's many doors and pillars. Anthony stoops to wrap his arm around her more securely, then lifts his other hand from her chin to cup the side of her face, using it to bring her gaze back to his.

"Look at me, darling, look at me," he encourages her, rubbing the thumbs of both his hands into the flesh of her cheek and stomach, hoping to groundher to him, "I know you are frightened, that that clever head of yours is still piecing the puzzle together, but I need to know; he was familiar, had you seen him before?" Penelope nods again, unable to verbalise her response as her breaths begin to quicken in her chest. "Good girl, alright - I need you to focus just a moment longer and then we can go somewhere to rest, okay?" Another nod, "think, darling, when have you seen him? Where do you know him from?"

"Twice," she gasps, clutching with shaking hands around the tensed muscle of his biceps, "twice the day before. Af-after Hyde Park, I was posting my-my letters when someone bumped into me on the pavement - he hurried away just as quickly then and his voice was the same when he called back to me."

"And the second time?" He prompts.

"The same night, in Bloom- Bloomsbury. I passed a man smoking in the- in the street. He was in the shadows by the walls but I knew he was looking at me, watching me. That was when I returned home to find the note on my door." The note which had eluded quite blatantly to the fact that its sender had indeed been observing Penelope's movements.

Anthony inhales deeply through his nose and bites his tongue, knowing now is not the time to question what exactly she'd been doing alone in Bloomsbury of all places and at night. He recalls how she had arrived to him that same night, clad in only her light day dress, and can not help but think of how vulnerable a picture she'd have made shivering through the streets without any means of protection.

"There was-" she starts again, eyes screwing together tightly as she tries to make her racing thoughts coalesce in her favour, "there were times before, too. Before Father passed."

"What do you mean?"

"His voice, the smell of smoke, I remember both being present in my home. First, the day I met Mr Banks - it was the reason he had been in the drawing room and not father's study, because he was already engaged in a meeting with someone else; the sort that even his solicitor could not sit in on. I'd heard whoever was in there with Father speaking rather loudly as I passed but I was quickly distracted by Mr Banks' discovery of my journal. The voice was the same though, I'm certain, and I heard it at least twice more in the weeks before Father's sudden demise." Her eyes snap open, meeting Anthony's before she states, "I heard it the day he died."

He does not need to ask if she is certain, for he can read it plainly in every inch of her being - from her wide, watery eyes to the tremble in her knees.

"Anthony," she whispers, "if he- if this man was with my Father on his final day, then it's possible he had something to do with his death, and… if he has now set his sights on me, do you think he intends to-"

"No," Anthony barks, "don't say it, don't even think it, do you hear me?" He stoops down to push his forehead against hers, "he will never get the chance, I swear it to you. He has looked upon you for the last time."

"Sir, the carriage is- oh!" A startled squeak interrupts them, though neither Anthony or Penelope show any inclination towards separating from the other's close embrace, nor do they look in Emma's direction as she comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

"There has been a change of plans," Anthony grits out, gaze still firmly locked with Penelope's, "we will not be going out today."

"Oh. Of course, My Lord."

"Have our dinner sent to my chambers this evening, Emma. And bring some of Penelope's clothes there as well." Anthony assumes the maid must nod her agreement, as she says nothing before he hears her footsteps hurrying towards the kitchens.

"Anthony, what-?" Penelope begins.

"We are going back to bed," he tells her, "and that is where I intend to keep you until I have got this mess figured out." Expecting her to put up at least a token protest against his decision, Anthony is surprised when Penelope instead nods her head against his own, whispering a breathy 'okay' into the space between them.

He does not pretend to entertain the idea of simply guiding her towards his rooms, nor does Penelope act shocked when her feet are swept out from under her and she finds herself held aloft by one arm beneath her knees and another curved around her back. Pressing her cheek to Anthony's chest, Penelope hears a deep rumble emanating from within him, caught somewhere between a purr and a growl, and the feel of it reverberating into her own skin makes her shiver.

Anthony's long strides carry them to his door quickly and Penelope leans out to twist the handle, allowing Anthony to maintain his hold on her. When they pass over the threshold he kicks the door closed behind them, then tells her, "hold on, around my neck," and waits until she has obeyed before removing the arm from her back to turn the key in the door, effectively locking them in and the rest of the world out.

Notes:

This chapter underwent so many rewrites in the last week that even now that I'm posting it I'm not entirely sure what has made the final cut may be subject to some editing when I reread it in the morning.

I deleted the section of Humboldt talking to Anthony several times but ultimately realised that the Humboldt Stans needed to be fed after the last chapter

Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading even if you didn't

Chapter 15

Summary:

Penelope still isn't sure what role she falls into in Anthony's life, whilst he becomes completely certain of her place at his side.

If only he would remember that where he is all action, Penelope is a woman of words.

Notes:

Mildish smut from the get go here! If that's not your bag, skip past to the first line break, but there is further references to it through out.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope isn't sure what she'd been expecting to happen when they got to Anthony's rooms, but it wasn't for him to bypass the bed entirely in favour of the wide arm chair set in the corner of the room, nor for him to sink into it with her still cradled in his arms.

He settles her across his lap with her legs bent at the knees, feet dangling just over the arm of the chair. It makes her feel small in a way she never has before, even despite her height. She feels like she fits with him, as though she is just the right size. It's a nice feeling, especially amongst all the other terrible ones.

Their position leaves little space between any part of them, but most noteworthy is that their faces are almost level, with neither having to bend down or stretch up to achieve such closeness as they usually would.

"Penelope," Anthony breathes, "I know we should talk now, but I-" He swallows, allowing his gaze to stray from her eyes and down to her lips, lingering there, "I need…"

Somehow she knows exactly what he's asking her for, as much as she knows that she needs it, too. Needs to be close to him and have him erase everything from her mind that isn't his voice and his eyes and his lips. "Me too," she says quietly, "please, Anthony."

"I'm going to kiss you," he tells her needlessly, pressing in close so that his nose rests against her cheek, "okay?"

"Okay," she nods, then tips her head up, easing the way for him to slide his lips against her own.

He slants his mouth over hers slowly, reverently, until he feels her lips respond in kind to his movements and then he deepens their kiss. His hand slides up into her hair, palm flat against the back of her head neither pushing nor pulling at her but just keeping her steady. The kiss is sweet and it makes her stomach flutter wonderfully, but it is somehow… not quite enough.

"Anthony," she breathes, pulling back from him by an inch, "I think I want…"

"Tell me," he commands her, not being able to resist pressing another peck onto her mouth, "Whatever it is, if it is in my power to give it to you then it's yours."

"I want more," Penelope answers, feeling her cheeks pink at her own boldness, hoping she is not overstepping even as she herself is not entirely sure what she is hoping for in return of her request.

"More?" Anthony asks, voice dripping in something she can't quite name but which sends a shiver down her spine nonetheless. The hand he'd had resting on her knee slides up slowly to rest on the outside of her thigh, feeling warm and heavy even through the layers of skirts she's wearing as he begins to kneed his fingers into her pillowy flesh trapped under the fabric. His lips start to blaze a trail towards her neck, leaving room for her to continue speaking, though if anything it only makes it harder for her to force the words out, as they get caught between a series of gasps and sighs.

"It is only… you need not be so gentle with me," she whispers, gasping when he rewards her admission with a firmer squeeze to her thigh, "you can- can kiss me firmly, if you'd like. You can… touch me."

"Where, sweetheart?" He demands, sliding up the column of her throat so that he's speaking the words right into her ear, "where can I touch you?"

"Anywhere," she responds,

The hand that's in her hair starts to move, leaving a trail of hot, flushed skin behind as it comes around to rest over one side of her chest, cupping her. "Here?"

"Yes," Penelope whimpers, arching her back to push her breast more firmly into his palm. She'd heard about this from Genevieve, of course; that a woman could take pleasure from a touch to her chest, but she never could have imagined that just the feel of Anthony's hand resting over her there could feel so intense, especially through the layers of her dress and chemise. It had never been like this when she tried to do it to herself and she wonders if it would feel the same were if anyone but him.

"Here?" He asks again, and though the palm of his hand doesn't move, she feels the shift as his thumb darts out, rubbing firm circles through her bodice right over her stiffened nipple. Anthony's face is still buried under her jaw so he feels more than he sees her frantic nod, encouraged further by the needy moan that reverberates through her throat.

"You can-" she gasps, tilting her head back when Anthony finds a particularly sensitive spot to work at just below her ear, "under my skirts. You can touch me there, too."

He stiffens beneath her and she worries again that she has said the wrong thing, beginning to curl into herself as much as she can in his hold, but then the hand at her thigh becomes a fist, bunching the folds of her skirts in his grip. The growl that passes his lips is near feral and the sound of it gratifies her just as much as his touch. He surges up towards her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth the moment the heated kiss begins.

"God, Penelope, do you even know what you are asking me for?" He pants, pulling back far enough the search her eyes. Even as he asks it, though, he is tugging at the yellow fabric in his way until the hem of her skirt settles high enough above her knees that he can slip his fingers underneath.

"Yes," she says, certain, though in answer to what she's not entirely sure anymore. If she'd thought his touch had been hot over her dress, then against bare skin, his palm is a brand. Penelope wouldn't be surprised to be left with the perfect red imprint of his hand on her thigh for days to come - a strange part of her hopes for it. Lasting proof to remember the time she's spent as the recipient of the viscount's affection.

It's the last coherent thought she has for a while because Anthony's are crawling towards her centre and he's whispering sweet praises in her ear. Her legs part wider on instinct, easing the way for him to press his fingers against the engorged bundle of nerves at her apex, drawing tight circles in time with the hand still fondling her clothed breast.

Penelope keens, squeezing her thighs together as the sensations begin to overwhelm her, but the move only results in Anthony's touch being pressed more firmly against her, hand trapped in her folds. There's a throbbing starting in her core like nothing she's ever felt before and sparks of pleasure shoot out from that point, racing along her arms and legs to create a pleasant tingling in her fingers and toes. It's all too much and not nearly enough and it makes her writhe, desperate for release from the delicious torture.

"Let go, Penelope," Anthony urges, purring in her ear. Her hand grips onto his forearm, keeping it anchored beneath her skirts as his ministrations speed up, sending her hurtling towards her peak. Control snapped, she tips her head all the way back and screams, barely registering the way her legs shake and moisture gushes between her thighs as her whole world turns white.

It's several long moments before Penelope's soul returns to her body, finding her physical form still panting heavily in exertion. Unable to open her eyes yet, she is startled when the first thing she becomes aware of is a quick jolt of discomfort stemming from the sensitive flesh between her legs. It makes her whimper and squirm, flinching against the overstimulation, but a strong arm around her middle holds her steady.

"Shhh, sweetheart," Anthony's soft voice coaxes, "I'm just getting you cleaned up and then we can go lie down."

Peeling her eyes open, Penelope sees his hand retreating from under her skirts holding a handkerchief, clearly having been used to wipe away the cooling moisture from her skin. She blushes bright pink as she watches him fold up the square of cloth, then gasps when he tucks it into the pocket of his robe instead of discarding it.

"Anthony," she slaps his chest, scandalized, earning an amused laugh from him. Before she can continue her embarrassed admonishment, a yawn interrupts her and she suddenly feels completely boneless in her exhaustion, sagging against him.

"You okay?" He asks quietly, pressing his lips to the crown of her head where it rests beneath his chin. It makes her giggle, turning her face into his neck and planting a quick peck to the corded vein there before tipping her head back to meet his shining eyes.

"Mhmm," she answers, smiling up at him blearily, "'m just tired."

Anthony tilts his head indulgently, "too tired to stand on your own, I imagine?" He slides his arm under her knees, the other adjusting its grip on her waist.

"Mmm," Penelope hums again, "you can blame yourself for making my legs feel all wobbly."

Even in her post bliss haze, she's certain she does not imagine the way his chest puffs out beneath her chin, nor the proud twinkle in his eyes, and her brain in its current state would definitely not be able to conjure up the image of such a roguish smirk.

"Right, up we go then," Anthony says, her only warning before she's being pulled tight against his torso and he stands up with her in his arms. She yelps giddily, throwing her arms as far as she can reach about his shoulders, but her smile quickly becomes a pout when he sets her down on her feet, keeping her upright with an arm around her waist. "Enough of that," he tsks, nudging his nose against hers before turning her around, her back now facing his chest, "you can't sleep in this dress and I need you up so we can get it off."

He gathers her hair together then arranges the curls to lay over one shoulder, clearing the way for him to begin working on the laces holding her gown in place. For all that he has just done to her on the armchair, the act of being undressed by him should feel far more sexually charged than it does, but instead it carries a sort of quiet, domestic intimacy that makes her feel fuzzy in a different but no less pleasant way. How easy it is to picture him helping her out of her gown after they've return home from attending a ball together, or having him help to pick out each pesky hair pin from her carefully crafted updos. It's the sort of thing a wallflower like her doesn't usually get to have a taste of and she savours every second at the heart of his focus.

He is slow and meticulous as he unloops crossing strings from their rivets, removing them entirely instead of simply loosening them as she usually would, so that by the time he has made his final pull, the dress pools at her feet with no further encouragement, Penelope having already pulled her arms from the sleeves. Her stays receive the same treatment and she is left in just her chemise.

Just when she thought he was finished, Anthony reaches around for her hair, combing his fingers through it as he settles it back into place down her back. His knuckles brush down through the curls, then continue after they've reached the ends, skimming along her back under the guise of smoothing out the fabric there. The quiet moment can not last forever, though, no matter how much she wants it to, and soon Anthony is clearing his throat, pulling his hands back to his own sides.

"I will go and have someone fetch you a night gown," Anthony tells her, stepping around her towards the door but he is stopped by Penelope's hand shooting out to grasp his before he can get very far.

"No, no, this is fine," she says hurriedly. The fog of euphoria has ebbed away and now she is once again anxious to keep him within her sights. She waves a hand over her loose white underdress as if to underline her words, then adds, quieter, "please don't go."

"I did not mean that I was leaving," he reassures her, lifting a hand to pull her bottom lip free from her worrying teeth, "only that I would see if there is anyone in the hallway, or ring the bell by the door. It will take just a moment."

"I don't need one, really, Anthony. Please, I am tired; let's go to bed like you promised." She reaffirms her grip on his hand, tangling their fingers together, and uses it to pull him towards the mattress, letting go only so that he can remove his robe before sliding under the covers.

She blinks heavily as her head meets the pillow, feeling secure with the heavy weight of his arm pulling her closer under the cocoon of the blue duvet. She thinks he tries to say something, her name perhaps, but her eyes stay closed after the next blink and she slips into a dreamless sleep.

"Penelope," he says again, quietly, but her repeated lack of response confirms to him that she is asleep already. With a sigh, Anthony leans forward to plant a barely there kiss onto her temple, careful not to disturb her much needed rest, then settles his own head onto the pillow behind hers.

He watches over her for a while, listening to the sound of her steady breaths in the otherwise silent room, and finally takes a moment to absorb the events of the last hour.

There was an awful lot to think about with the increasingly real threat to her safety, knowing now that she had likely directly encountered the man responsible for breaking into her home more than once. To think that if she had lingered there any longer the morning after their explosive argument, she might have been present when he entered the house… it is not a thought he can stomach dwelling on for long.

Then, there is the matter of their most recent endeavours on the arm chair across the room. Looking back, he thinks the two of them had likely been teetering on a knife's edge for several days already - on course for collision, perhaps, since the moment Penelope had fallen into his arms outside of the book shop in town just a week ago - and so it shouldn't surprise him that they finally moved onto the next step in their explorations of each other (though, more so of him exploring her, in this case).

Whilst Anthony had never considered himself a selfish lover, he had also never been quite so content to bring his partner to completion without earning the same satisfaction for himself, where as with Penelope he had been eager to allow the majority of their shared pleasure to fall onto her - and oh how easy she had made it to do just that. So pent up and sensitive that he had not had to put a single digit inside of her to elicit the most glorious reactions, finishing with only one hand over her dress and his fingers rubbing against her little pearl. If he were never to be allowed to touch any woman again, the memory of the sounds she'd made would be enough to tide Anthony over for the rest of his life.

Still, he admonishes himself for taking such liberties with her, having not yet rendered any vocal indication of his intentions towards her (the voice in his head, annoyingly, sounds an awful lot like a particular butler), even if he had managed to come out of the encounter with his wick still dry and her maidenhood very much intact.

He wonders briefly what his mother might have to say, if she were home to stumble upon them now or if Humboldt included even half the details of recent events in the missives Anthony knows he sends to Aubrey Hall. They'd likely be frog marched down the aisle with not even a moment to dress and she'd have his ring on her finger before the morning sun was up. It's not at all the nerve wracking picture it should be and he has to wonder if there is some merit to the butler's not so subtle nudging that he should skip over the courting phase of an official relationship entirely and drop straight down onto one knee in a bid for her hand, instead.

It's a nice final thought before he follows her into sleep.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before they are roused by the sound of approaching footsteps, putting Anthony instantly on alert as he sits up. What follows, however, is a light knock at the door, then the brief clink of something being set down in the hallway followed by the same footfalls beating a hasty retreat.

Slipping from the bed, Anthony approaches the door cautiously, but finds only a metal tray on the other side with an envelope marked for him and a smaller note laid on top, stating that their breakfast will be delivered shortly. There is also a bundle of pink fabric folded neatly on the floor - clearly one of Penelope's dresses - but with a quick glance back at her sitting up in his bed, he decides to leave it where it is for a little longer and returns to the room with only the letter.

He flashes the envelope in her direction briefly before carrying onto his small writing desk, looking for a letter opener in its top drawer. The seal gives way easily and he scans the contents of the sheet, an amused smile overtaking his features as he reads.

"It is from Benedict," he explains, still scanning over the missive, "he is reminding me that a week has passed since they departed for Aubrey Hall and that he expects to find me there by the time this one is up."

"Oh," Penelope breathes, suddenly feeling very awake, not having considered that he would have plans to join his family, although it should have been a given, "oh." The implications of his simple statement set her brain into motion immediately. She had grown quite comfortable being in his constant presence, perhaps having become, admittedly, even a little bit dependent on it, and though she always knew she would have to give him up eventually, she had not considered that the time would come quite so soon. "I am sure they are all anxious to receive you."

Anthony snorts, unaware of Penelope's inner turmoil as he reaches across his desk for a sheet of parchment to begin crafting a response. "None of them anymore so than Ben," he laughs, dipping quill into ink, "he is not so much a fan of being left in charge, even if we both know it is Mother who will be pulling the strings in my absence."

"And just as much when you are present, I would imagine," Penelope tries to jest, but her tone falls flat even to her own ears. Anthony does not seem to notice however, and laughs again as he continues to write.

"Yes, well, I'm sure the both of them will be overjoyed to hear that I intend to push up the timeline. I should like to be on the road by Tuesday."

"Tuesday," Penelope breathes, taking fistfuls of blanket and beginning to twist the fabric in her hands. "that is not very long."

Not very long at all, she thinks, worrying at her bottom lip. She wonders what arrangements she will be able to make for herself within the next four days; she will not be able to continue imposing on Anthony's hospitality once he is no longer in residence and Bridgerton House has been properly closed for the remainder of the off season, but to return home now could very well be the signing of her own death sentence. She could attempt to arrange passage for herself to Ireland and seek refuge there with her own family, but that would likely take time that she does not have and induce a level of ire from her mother that she's not sure she is prepared to handle on top of everything else going on in her life. Perhaps some sort of arrangement could be made with Genevieve, or her friend may be able to recommend safe lodgings for her to rent a room in? Somewhere nondescript and far removed from Mayfair.

"I know it is not a lot of time to prepare," Anthony says, folding his paper neatly to fit into a waiting envelope, "but most of my things are already packed away and ready to be loaded onto the carriage at a moment's notice - I imagine most of your own belongings are still tucked into your trunks since they were moved here as well, yes?"

"Yes, it won't take much for me to be ready to leave," Penelope replies, swallowing against the lump forming in her throat.

"It's settled then, we will set off early on Tuesday to give us as much time traveling that day as we can manage. Eloise will be delighted to be reunited with you, of course, as will the rest of my family - do you think they will even remember I am there once they see you coming out of the carriage?"

Penelope's brain screeches to a halt and she stares at Anthony with open mouth for several seconds. "What?" She wheezes out eventually.

"Come now, Penelope, there is no need to pretend to be surprised to spare my feelings. I am quite content in the knowledge that you are favoured so highly by my family, more so than their boring older brother - in fact, I rather rejoice in it." Finally, having closed his letter with the customary wax seal, Anthony looks up to meet her gaze. The lopsided grin on his face falls away the moment he takes in her watery eyes and bitten red lips. His chair screeches horribly against the wood floors as he rushes to his feet, then all but dives onto the bed in his hurry, landing beside her on his knees with the mattress bouncing under them. "Sweetheart, what ever is the matter?"

Penelope shakes her head, too overwhelmed to try and form a response, not that she'd be able to push the words past her clogged throat even if she could find the right ones. Anthony reaches for her, prising her fingers from the sheets carefully, then holds both of her hands together in one of his own whilst the other goes to cup her cheek. She releases the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding at his touch, tipping her head to press her clammy skin further into the heat of his palm.

"Are you worried about leaving the house?" He asks her, voice soft and searching, "I assure you, the roads between here and there are well traveled and as safe as any others, and I will be with you the whole time. Aubrey Hall itself will be the perfect sanctuary, filled only with people who care for you dearly." Anthony's brows pinch together in worry when she still does not speak and he begins to offer her alternatives, "we could stay here if you'd prefer? Benedict will get over it and it won't be difficult to arrange for us to stay-"

"No," Penelope interjects at last, near choking on the word, "no, Aubrey Hall sounds lovely, I was just surprised."

"Surprised?" Anthony queries, rubbing his thumb gently back and forth over her cheek, "I know it is not an awful lot of notice, but I thought four days would be enough with how little there is to prepare. We could leave on Saturday as I had originally planned if you need more time?"

"It's not that, I-" Penelope feels her cheeks begin to blush and rises her eyes on the bed sheets across her lap, feeling embarrassed now for the path her thoughts had taken her down, "it seems rather silly now, in hindsight, for I know, of course, that you would not leave any young lady in my position to fend for herself, but-"

"But you thought I was implying that I would be departing without you," Anthony finishes for her, feeling as much as seeing her nod against his hand. "Look at me, Penelope," he commands, waiting until her gaze drags back up to meet his own before he continues, "I am not your mother."

Penelope gasps, surprised to hear him hit the nail of her insecurities straight on the head. "Of course not," she says quickly.

"I would not leave you here, in the mess she has made for you, and nor would I subject you to returning to the trials of her care," he assures her, leaving no room for uncertainty in his voice, "I will not leave you."

"You are sure that I will not be an imposition on your family? I know we get along well during time spent in the city, but it is something entirely different for me to encroach on their private time through the off season."

"Darling," he laughs, and his use of yet another endearment makes her feel all warm and squiggly inside, briefly belaying her anxieties, "I know you think I jest, but please believe that I am in earnest when I tell you that if my mother or siblings were to learn that I had had the opportunity to bring you to them and had not taken it, I would be cast out from both the house and their good graces until such a time as I had successfully retrieved you, and even then they would likely take you in and slam the door in my face for having needlessly made them wait so long."

The image his words paint in her head makes her giggle softly, answered by his pleased grin, and she pulls one of her hands free from his grasp to pat lightly against his chest. "In that case, I would be most pleased to make the journey to Aubrey Hall with you, and I promise to put in a good word in favour of permitting your entry to the estate when we arrive."

"How gracious you are, My Lady."

Penelope's laughter turns into a delighted shriek when Anthony swoops down to capture her lips in a quick but firm kiss, using his hand on her cheek to angle her head just right for his attentions. "I think I should like to make good use of the little time we have left alone together," he tells her, his smirk making him look every bit the rake he is known to be as he starts to tip her back towards the cushions. He follows her descent so he is hovering over her, bracketing her with his forearms pressed into the mattress.

"As nice as I'm sure whatever you have in mind might be…" Penelope starts, planting a hand on Anthony's chest to halt his progress, "I'm afraid it will have to wait." His smile drops away instantly and he groans, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder. He is clearly not much deterred, however, as he uses the opportunity to start peppering soft pecks over her collar bone.

"What could possibly be so pressing that it can not be put off a little while longer?" He asks between presses of his lips to her skin, an obvious whine to his voice.

Huffing a laugh, Penelope reaches her hands into his hair and takes advantage of her previously acquired knowledge by pulling at the short strands. Anthony, thinking she is guiding him up for a kiss, follows her direction happily until he is looking into her eyes, only to groan again when he finds only amusement in place of the desire he'd been expecting to find in her gaze.

"I need to go to The Modiste," she tells him, scratching behind his ears as though placating a dog and not refusing his advances in favour of going shopping. As if there is any chance he will be seeing her leave the house for even a moment before they are set to depart for the country.

"You're joking," Anthony deadpans, pushing up from his elbows to his hands, "absolutely not."

"Genevieve was expecting to see me yesterday, Anthony," Penelope replies, patting his forearm until he moves back to his own side of the bed, giving her space to sit up beside him, "she will not think too much of one day's delay, but any more and she will become concerned. I need to update her on a few things, let her know that I'll be leaving the city."

Anthony quirks an unimpressed eyebrow in her direction. "Well, that is easily remedied," he says flippantly, "I'll send someone along to convey your message and collect any wares the Madame might have waiting for you."

Penelope is shaking her head however, dismissing the idea. "Genevieve will not recognise any of your footmen and will have no reason to trust them," she explains, "she knows very little about how I have come to be in residence here, but she is not fool enough to think it is without good reason. If a stranger shows up and claims that I am taking sudden leave from London without informing her myself, she will likely take matters into her own hands to assure herself of my wellbeing."

"I will handle it for you myself, then," Anthony decides, nodding as if in agreement with his own directive, "you can pen a message for her as well, to further assuage any concerns she may have of your absence. She knows of our acquaintance and that you are under my protection so my presence should be enough to placate her."

"I'm still not sure she will accept it," Penelope sighs, knowing that his suggestion is likely the best course of action available, but secretly reluctant to give up the last opportunity she will have to see her friend for several months.

"She will have to," Anthony replies sternly, "there is no alternative to this plan that sees you out in the open, exposed to any kind of unwanted attention. It is me or the footman."

"I'll pen that note for her now, then," Penelope acquiesces, reaching over to squeeze his leg once before sliding out of the bed and heading over to take up his abandoned seat at the writing desk.

Anthony watches her go, the warm glow seeping through the curtains making the thin cotton of her chemise appear almost translucent, revealing the lovely curves of her silhouette beneath. He soaks in the vision until she is tucked behind the table, concealed further by a sheet of parchment held in front of her chest.

Groaning heavily, he flops back onto the sheets and thinks of England.

Anthony feels wholly out of place to be approaching the Modiste Shop. For all of the money of his that has been spent here, he has never actually been inside the building himself, same as every other gentleman he knows.

There are gowns of green and gold on display in the windows, along with a small selection of matching reticules and bonnets, adorned with ribbons that would make his youngest sister coo in delight. If Hyacinth were here, Anthony imagines he would be receiving her most persuasive pitiful pout and wide eyes combination, and he would be headed home with considerably lighter pockets. Perhaps he should collect a token of some sorts for her anyway, he thinks, to give to her when he and Penelope get to Aubrey Hall. Although, that would mean having to collect something for each of his other sisters as well, and likely his mother, too, to be safe. This could very easily become a much more taxing visit than he had originally planned.

The bell above the door tinkles when he enters, loud in the otherwise quiet space. There is seemingly only one other patron in the shop, speaking familiarly with Madame Delacroix by the counter, both with their backs to him.

"One moment, madam," the modiste calls, clearly having not yet looked back to see who is standing in her doorway. Her companion, however, glances in his direction quickly, looks away again, then seemingly double takes as if it takes her a moment to recognise him.

Her moment of confusion allows Anthony time enough to study her. Her dark hair is curled in ringlets, with half of it pinned up into a bun at the back of her head whilst the rest cascades down over her shoulders invitingly. Her long dress is simple and black, with touches of red accents evident in the velvet skirt that flows down from her lithe waist. She looks just as beautiful and artfully enticing as she always has, but there's something different. He'd know her anywhere and yet she is completely unfamiliar, and it takes Anthony several moments to ponder how both things can possibly be true at once until it clicks. The appearance is the same, but the feelings are entirely different.

"Anthony," she breathes, taking a step and then another in his direction.

"Siena." He nods in return, pasting on a polite smile that seems to stop her in her tracks.

"Oh, Lord Bridgerton!" The Modiste gasps behind her, hurrying forward to greet the gentleman, bypassing her frozen friend. "Forgive me, sir, I had not realised you were-"

"Anthony, what are you doing here?" Siena interjects, having regained use of her faculties. The stare she levels him with now is accusing as she continues, "did you follow me?"

"I assure you I did not, Miss Rosso; I am just as surprised to find you here as I imagine you are to see me," he replies firmly, wedging a clear barrier between them with his tone, "I have business to discuss with Madame Delacroix."

"What business could a man such as yourself have with a dressmaker?" Siena demands, refusing to be dismissed so easily.

"Miss Siena, perhaps it would be prudent for you and I to continue our conversation later on, non? I am sure you have much to attend to before your next grand performance," Genevieve cuts in, coming to stand beside her friend with a gentle hand on her arm before turning to address Anthony, "My Lord, I must admit, I too am curious; what do I owe for your surprising but no less welcome patronage today?"

"I am hear on behalf of a… mutual friend of ours," he tells her, glancing briefly in Siena's direction, unsure about speaking openly of Penelope in front of her, "I believe she informed you during her last visit that any further correspondence between the two of you should be directed to my address? I come to you now with word from her."

Understanding alights immediately in the Modiste and she nods her head quickly before turning back to Siena, attempting to usher the singer towards the door but she digs her feet into the floor, not pleased with the half pieces of information she is being expected to leave with.

"You have a woman living in your house?" She asks, aghast, then turns to Genevieve, looking betrayed, "and you know about it, know her? What is going on here?"

"The situation is delicate, mon cherrie," the modiste replies gently, "but yes, I am acquainted with the Miss currently in residence at Bridgerton Manor; I supply her gowns, as I do for many societal women."

"You have found yourself a proper young lady to fill your need for a viscountess then, My Lord?" Siena asks with a scoff, but there is also a sad twinge to her tone that Anthony thinks has no real right to be there, seeing as she had been the one to turn him away when he had been prepared to offer her a life with him.

"I have." He replies, shocking even himself with how resolutely he says it and how in earnest he finds the words to be. Siena nods her head once, offering him a tremulous smile before turning to bid a hasty farewell to Genevieve. Anthony does not turn to watch her leave, listening to the bell above the door ring as it opens and the subsequent click as it closes behind her. It feels as though she has carried a weight from his shoulders away with her and for the first time in many months his lungs feel full when he takes in a breath.

"Lord Bridgerton," the Modiste starts, laying a hand over her chest and drawing Anthony's attention back to her, "you intend to marry Miss Penelope?"

"I do, Madame" he tells her, nodding his head once, "I would be glad to call her my wife - if she sees fit to have me for a husband, of course."

"Only glad, sir?" Genevieve presses, quirking her eyebrow at him in what Anthony correctly perceives as a challenge of sorts. It makes him stand up a little straighter, adjusting his cravat whilst pushing his shoulders back. He is a Bridgerton, after all.

"As glad as I could ever hope to be," he responds, "glad for every one of her smiles as much as every sharp barb from her tongue, for every moment spent with her and the family we would build together. Glad even if she wakes up one day and decides she really had liked her yellow dresses all along, and wears no other colour for the rest of our lives. Gladder then to buy out all of your most fluorescent fabrics so that I might have the cravats to match."

"Glad indeed, then," the modiste states, and there's a twinkle in her eye that Anthony would not quite call approval but perhaps acceptance. Understanding with a touch of camaraderie, as two people united by their care for one woman. "Whilst I will not be accepting any commissions for daffodil gowns, you can tell Miss Penelope that I expect to find her at my door when the time comes to begin work on her trousseau, whether or not you are to be the man fortunate enough to see her wearing it."

"I am certain she would have it no other way," Anthony affirms, earning him a proper smile at last. While he does not imagine ever having anything close to a friendship with the modiste, he hopes he is not imagining the undercurrent of mutual respect he now feels with her, eager to be in good standing with anyone Penelope holds in such high regard. "On the subject of commissioning gowns, I would like to inquire as to the possibility of having a rather sizable order delivered to Aubrey Hall," Anthony watches her eyes narrow skeptically and tilts his lead to the side, laying on his most charming grin, "paid at double your usual rate to undertake such a task during the off season, and entirely at my own expense, of course."

The modiste dons a sly grin of her own, born no doubt from the mention of his vast fortune. "I'm sure we can make the necessary arrangements," she responds, "but first, you must tell me what was so important that Miss Penelope saw fit to throw you into the lion's den?"

Notes:

Anyone else feel like 'glad' isn't a real word anymore?

My mind is working too fast at the moment and I can not focus on one thing at a time, so I've ended up with the beginnings and general outlines of at least three more Penthony stories in my drafts and this one has not been getting the attention it needs recently. Sorry for the slower updates!

Hope you enjoyed

(We will be pulling away from miscommunication station very soon)

Chapter 16

Summary:

Sights align

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, they develop a sort of routine.

They wake slowly, always waiting for the other to rouse before one gets up to call for a tray - they've grown quite fond of enjoying their breakfast in Anthony's bed (much to Mrs Wilson's annoyance, as she has to arrange for the crumb filled sheets to be changed and laundered far more often than usual. Penelope always feels terribly sheepish whenever their paths cross, but not enough that she'd suggest they proceed any differently).

Once they've finished eating, Penelope will wander over to the guest wing where Emma waits to assist in her dressing for the day, though the string around the box Anthony had returned with from The Modiste remains tied. As tempting as it has been to delve into the last of her new gowns, she had decided to keep them fresh and ready to wear at Aubrey Hall, choosing instead to stick with her old citrus designs for the time being. The rest of the dresses she had acquired earlier in the last week have already been pressed and folded into her trunk.

Only once properly dressed (as Humboldt had given them quite the scathing look when they tried to come out in their night clothes a second time), she and Anthony will reconvene in either his study or the library, depending on who gets downstairs first. Sometimes, Penelope will settle onto a settee with a book, or pen correspondence to Eloise, but more often she joins Anthony in working through his ledgers. She'd been nervous at first about overstepping, but Anthony insists every time that he is glad for her help, and they do get through each document much faster when they are working in tandem. Where many would find tedium in the task, Penelope welcomes the opportunity to keep her brain active without Whistledown to pour her energy into. She is grateful, too, to partake as she knows most men would laugh in a lady's face if she were to try and offer corrections to his mathematics, whereas Anthony near enough begs her to take over the calculations altogether.

They eat lunch and dinner at the formal dining table, even though they are exceedingly informal about it. Every time they enter, Penelope's chair will have been moved back to its proper place along the table's length, and every time Anthony will pick it up and move it back to the head beside his own. Penelope thinks it has become something of a game for the staff, as they still set her place right next to Anthony's on the table even though they move her seat, but she never mentions her suspicions aloud. She quite likes watching him engage in a little bit of heavy lifting, after all, as much as he seems to enjoy preening under her praise each time he does it.

Their meals are rarely quiet, even though it is just the two of them, and they seem never to run out of topics to discuss. Anthony shares anecdotes from his childhood and Penelope tells him more about her entrepreneurial efforts. Sometimes they veer towards melancholy, leaning on each other as they put the grief of their fathers into words and explain the insecurities born from the different kinds of absences the men had in their lives. These particular chats of theirs can be uncomfortable, but never awkward, and always liberating at their end.

Often they must turn serious and give in to the need to address the air of danger surrounding Penelope. They lay out careful plans, make detailed notes about what little she remembers of the man they both suspect to be watching her and try to piece together the motive behind his unwanted attention. Anthony has made it very clear that, while he has no intention of trapping her, he is not comfortable with the idea of Penelope venturing away from the property, even under his own protection - a sentiment that she is fortunately in agreement with, knowing how close they are to absconding to the country where the restrictions she allows to be placed on her person will be loosened.

Every night, they retire to Anthony's room and take rest together in his bed. They curl close, indulging in quiet kisses and wandering hands, but they succumb to sleep before it can go any further.

She almost wants to call the whole setup mundane, except that might imply that she's bored and that couldn't be further from the truth. With everything that has gone on recently, over the last week - and in the months and years prior, as well - she welcomes mundane, relishes it. Penelope grabs onto monotony with both hands with no interest in letting go. Domesticity, as it turns out, is not half the trap that Eloise is determined to convince the whole of society it is.

There is safety and warmth inside these walls, in their routine, whilst the world outside is unpredictable and dangerous, and she knows it is only a matter of time until she will be thrust back into it. Penelope reminds herself regularly to savour each remaining moment she has, tucked away in Bridgerton House with the man she has grown… so fond of. Tomorrow morning they will board their carriage for the country and will have to make space in their bubble for his family - something Penelope is, of course, more than willing to do, but she knows their doting nature combined with the expectations laid upon her as a guest in their polite company will force the nature of her relationship with the eldest son to change. There will not be ample opportunity for quiet moments or intimacies, though perhaps it is for the better that she be weaned off of Anthony's attentions in Aubrey Hall rather than before the Ton's prying eyes next season.

For now, though, she is determined to relish in it.

Odd, then, that Penelope is spending their Tuesday night dinner clouded by melancholy and barely touching the food on her plate, despite the fact she is quite unable to lift her gaze away from it. Anthony had made his usual gallant display with the chairs when they entered the dining room, but the smile she'd offered in return for his efforts had been half hearted at best and he has been trying to subtly pull her into better humour since they sat down.

"Is there something troubling you, Penelope?" He asks finally, drawing her from her reverie, "you seem far away."

How ironic, she thinks, when I am so desperate to remain right here.

"Apologies, Anthony, I have been rather overcome by my racing thoughts to the point that I fear I have not been pleasant company for you this evening."

"Nonsense," he dismisses the notion, waving his hand airily, "you could join a convent and commit the rest of your days to a vow of silence and still be my favourite companion."

"I'm not sure convents allow gentlemen in to spend time with the nuns, Anthony," she retorts, finally looking up to see his amused smile, "nor do I imagine garnering your approval if I were to see through my days in celibacy."

He looks almost aghast at her teasing, taking a pull from his lemonade before adopting a far too serious look. "In that case, I would don a habit so as to find my way past the doors and remove you from the establishment post haste."

The mental image alone of Anthony in full smock and head dress, trying to charm his way by a stern mother superior, is enough to send her suddenly into a fit of uninhabited laughter; the sort that turns her cheeks pink and her eyes wet with mirthful tears. By the satisfied smile on Anthony's lips, it's clearly the reaction he had been hoping to ascertain.

The silliness of the moment should perhaps not grant Penelope as much a feeling of comforting warmth as it does, but his efforts provide it nonetheless. Anthony has been a consistently steady shoulder for her to lean on throughout their time together, eager to share her many burdens in a way she has never experienced before.

Whilst Penelope has always had Eloise in her corner, her friend is often quicker to add her own plights onto the pile rather than try to lighten the load or lift her spirits. She is well meaning, of course, and there is a sort of liberation that comes with trading everything from mild annoyances to the deepest sorrows with her dearest confidante, but it is nice to have someone willing not just to follow her into murky waters, but also to hold her hand as she wades her way out of them and there still to hold out the towel for her at the end.

"Come, sweet Pen," Anthony calls to her softly, tapping gently on the back of her hand where it rests on the table between them, "tell me what ails you, so that I might hope to assist in finding the cure."

"It is nothing nearly so sinister as you seem to be imagining," Penelope tells him in a tone that she hopes comes across as reassuring as she intends it to, considering how uncertain she still feels in her own head, "I was simply pondering the journey we are to embark on in the morning and what the next months will entail with our arrival to Aubrey Hall."

Anthony tilts his head, curious and concerned for her in a way he seems to be far too often. It makes her feel guilty to be the cause of his consternation, and even more so that it selfishly pleases her, just slightly, to have continued signs of the care he has developed for her whilst her mind is determined to convince her that the otherwise will soon be proven true.

"You are worried about it?" He queries, brows furrowed, "I had hoped I had satisfied your concerns regarding the reception you are certain to receive upon our arrival and the subsequent efforts my family are sure to make, alongside myself, to ensure your comfort during the stay."

For once it is Penelope initiating contact between them, reaching forward to smooth her hand over the front of his waist coat before allowing it to rest on the shirtsleeve covering his forearm after giving two soft squeezes there.

"Rest assured, you have done a marvelous job of talking up the many virtues of your country estate; in fact, I am rather excited to spend the rest of the off season there," she tells him honestly, "It is not so much the thought of what is to come that brings me pause, but rather what is being left behind."

"If you refer to the rather precarious position your mama created for you or the still uncovered threat of danger looming over your head here in Mayfair, then I can not say I share your hesitation to be away from London," Penelope purses her lips and tilts her head, looking unimpressed by his response, and he acquiesces quickly, "however, it is clearly neither of those things that plague you in this instance so, please, tell me what it is that you will miss about the city so dearly that it is causing you such dismay."

"Well, it's you." She says simply, as if those three words are all the explanation needed to surmise her feelings.

Unfortunately, they are not.

"Me?" Anthony asks incredulously, "you are aware that we are to travel to Aubrey Hall together, no? Unless you have decided to bring an extra trunk along and there is no longer room for me in the carriage."

"I mean, this version of you; here in Bridgerton House, without onlookers for whom you feel the need to perform the part of the pragmatic viscount," Penelope explains, "I was thinking that this is the last meal you and I will share - just the two of us, at this table - and I know it is selfish of me to want to monopolise you so, when I have already had so much, but I think I shall rather miss this time we have had here."

Anthony's face flickers quickly between consideration and understanding, having not thought about the dynamic shift that would be expected to occur between them as an unwed pair under the scrutiny of his mother's ever watchful eye and his nosy siblings. He has been rather foolishly expecting to merely continue on as they are in the country estate and has been eager, even, to personally show her all of the many wonders of his family's ancestral seat. Suddenly, the timeline he has spent the last few days carefully laying out in his head feels as though it may need to be moved up, lest his mother decide that there be no room left suitably unchaperoned for him to pull Penelope away to.

Nudging his chair back slightly allows Anthony to twist his body towards her so that he is facing her fully, without jostling her grip on his arm. He keeps his body as loose and open as he is able, hoping she can read the sincerity he hopes to convey in his countenance as well as his next words.

"Whilst I, too, do not relish in the dreadful reality that I will spend the next two months sharing your attention with the plethora of other Bridgertons who will be vying for it, I am sure we will manage to steal some time together, especially if the rest of the staff already stationed there are as liberally inclined towards our interactions as the ones here seem to be," he tries to inject some levity into his musing, and though it is clear that it falls on deaf ears he plows on, "If that fails, then no matter - we must simply trust that we will share many more evenings in these chairs when we return in the fall."

"Things will be different then, too, Anthony," she replies, not surprised, but somewhat embarrassed, to feel tears stinging at her eyes, "even more so. I can not lie and say that it will not be vexing to catch mere glimpses of you from across crowded ballrooms, knowing that to engage in anything more than passing pleasantries before the Ton could so easily become ruinous for us both."

"Penelope," he starts seriously, pulling her hand from his forearm to trap it between both of his own, "when I speak of our return, I do not refer just to Mayfair, but to Bridgerton House."

"Anthony, be serious; whilst I wish that it could be the case, there will be no reason for my residency here to resume once the season does. My mother and sister will have surely returned - unless Prudence manages to snare herself a husband in Ireland and takes up home with him there. Either way, I will be expected to be just where they left me, across the street in Featherington House."

"I should think that your position as my wife and therefore Viscountess Bridgerton should be plenty reason enough for your residency here to be marked indefinite," he retorts, appearing confused as if she is the one speaking in tongues, "I know that it is fashionable for a man and wife to take their own bedrooms - something I am very much hoping not to partake in - but, surely you do not wish for us to spend our marriage residing in separate homes entirely, no matter the short distance between them."

"Our marriage?" Penelope sputters, releasing his arm in favour of reaching for her glass. She gulps its contents down in one go, throat all of a sudden feeling exceedingly dry.

"Ah, have I not proposed to you yet?" Anthony asks flippantly, as though this isn't the first time he has broached the subject of betrothal to her, and with no proper courtship to precede it. Penelope coughs, patting against the flushed skin of her chest as she tries to make heads or tails of his words.

"Propose- Anthony, you can not be serious?" She laughs unconvincingly, reaching up to swipe surreptitiously at the wetness on her cheek under the guise of tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "I appreciate your attempts to liven the mood with jests, but I'm not sure I appreciate the subject matter." She thinks it a rather cruel thing to joke about, in fact, especially when she has only just laid her tumultuous feelings about the forthcoming end to their relationship on the table before him.

"Of course I'm serious, Penelope! How can you think I-" he pauses, considering, then adopts a sort of pinched look, and winces before he sighs. "I fear Humboldt may have had a point," he mutters, rubbing his thumb and forefinger across his brow.

"Humboldt? What-"

"Never mind that, the point is, I am in earnest when I tell you that I want to marry you, have been certain of it for several days and should have told you of my intentions then. The only question is whether or not you share in that desire?"

"There is not just desire to think about, Anthony," she replies on a shaky breath, clinging to her resolve, "you Bridgertons, you strive for more than that, we can't-"

"We most certainly can!" He interjects fiercely, cupping both her cheeks to keep her from turning away from him, "the only thing stopping us is that you are yet to yes."

"Even if you were to have actually asked me anything, it would not be right for me to accept," she huffs, trying to shake her head and pull away but his grip remains steadfast, leaving her able only to shut her eyes for a brief reprieve from highs intensity of his stare.

"And why is that?"

"Because I would be taking advantage of you!" she exclaims, making use of Anthony's shock at her loud outburst to finally withdraw from him, taking to fiddling with a napkin to ground herself without his burning touch. "Clearly what you are experiencing must be… confusion, of a kind, caused by our peculiar situation." The way she says it is as though she is trying to convince herself as much as him. Anthony opens his mouth, ready to voice his vehement disagreement with her assessment, but Penelope doesn't give him the chance, "being in such close proximity with me in a highly emotional state is sure to have stirred things in both of us, but your feelings will soon fade. When we are back under public scrutiny, you will be reminded of our proper places in this world and there will be queues of people prepared to list all the reasons I would not make a good wife for you."

"And I will take great pride in extolling your many virtues to anyone who tries to interfere, until even the Queen herself is assured that your place is at my side, as mine is at yours. Heavens, Penelope, you are already as good as my wife in everything but name!"

"I know, Anthony, I know the way we have been comporting ourselves would usually suggest something more than what we share," she says quietly, staring at his heaving chest in lieu of meeting his eyes, "it feels like that for me, too, but look at how we got here. You brought me into your home because even my own family has deemed me unworthy and unmarriable and I will never be able to thank you enough for doing so-"

"I do not want your thanks, Penelope." he scoffs, leaning back into his chair with arms crossed petulantly over his chest.

"-but you have publicly professed your wants to find a suitable wife in the upcoming season, and-"

"And now there is no need for that-"

"And if you shackle yourself to me now and deny yourself the opportunity, the season will come and with it a far more appealing crop of debutantes than I. You will grow to resent me for depriving you the opportunity to get to know them instead."

"Deprive me- more appealing?" Anthony's tone is far harsher than he intends it to be, but the anger he feels is directed inwardly.

He casts his eyes over her, wondering where he has gone so wrong that she still thinks herself lacking, or that he could possibly want for anything other than what she has to offer. Penelope is smart and well studied, enough so that he allows her to aid in his paperwork. He has enjoyed her sharp wit and humour in the light jests and teasing barbs they have traded, as well as her soft spoken sweetness in their quieter moments. She can be brave and strong and frightened and vulnerable all in the same breath. Surely, the way he has held her, kissed her, touched her is evidence enough that he is as attracted to her body as he is her heart and mind. His lush temptress, his gorgeous Pen.

Clearly, he has not been doing as good a job of showering her in his affections as he had thought and that would need to change going forward. First, however, there was the matter of convincing her to accept his proposal, and for that he would need to make quick work of assuring her of his earnestness. Anthony takes a deep breath, settling his nerves.

"Fine," he says calmly, nodding his head to her, "let us entertain your ideation of our proceedings, then. Seeing as you think yourself the expert in my tastes and requirements, tell me what it is I must look for in the woman I should seek to marry."

Penelope looks briefly taken aback by his sudden change in mood and tone, then sags in bittersweet relief as she assumes she has earned his acquiescence on the matter. The status quo will remain as it always has after all, and she will not be fooled into setting her hopes at heights that she has no real chance of reaching. She knows that she would not survive such a fall were she to dare attempt the climb.

"You will need someone beautiful, of course," she begins, forcing a smile onto her lips.

"Of course," he agrees seriously.

"And she must possess the grace and intelligence required to keep up with her duties as viscountess, and the sharp wit required to keep up with you."

"Sounds perfectly reasonable," he nods, "what else?"

"She'll have to get along well with your family." This one hurts Penelope most to say aloud, as she had always held the Bridgertons in highest esteem, often daydreaming of what her life would look like amongst their ranks. It would be warm and joyous, she imagines; secure. "There'll have to be clear understanding that your mother and siblings will always be the most important thing in your life, as they deserve to be."

"Perhaps not the most important, but I take your point," he waits for her to go on but Penelope only swallows before nodding her head, indicating the end to her list, so Anthony continues, "I imagine that when I meet the perfect woman, who possesses all of these necessary qualities, I should get down on one knee and propose to her right then and there?"

"Well, once you've gotten to know her well enough to be certain, I should think asking for her hand will be a fairly important step towards actually marrying her, yes."

"Do you think she'll say yes?" He asks, knowing he's likely pushing his luck too far now, but he needs the extra bit of assurance for himself before he makes his final move.

"I know she will," Penelope whispers, a twinge of sadness finally leaking into her voice, "she'd be fool not to."

"Good, then we're on the same page."

His chair scrapes back noisily as Anthony drops onto his right knee at her feet, back straight and gaze firm. He reaches for the hands fisted in her skirts, allowing no retreat as he snatches them both up, but his hold is gentle as he finally asks the question. "Penelope Featherington, will you marry me?"

"Anthony," she sighs, frustrated and overwhelmed and just the tiniest bit sanguine. She loses the battle against her tears as one spills over her cheek, "Did you just ignore everything I said?"

"No, I listened - very patiently I might add. Now will you please stop ignoring me and accept my very real proposal so that I can get off the floor?"

"Anthony," she sniffs. The way she clutches tightly to his hands lets him know that her resolve is at its breaking point and he hopes it will only take a little more nudging for her to finally allow them both their happiness.

"Penelope," he drags her name out, desperate and longing, then presses his lips to her knuckles in long, soft kisses, "you are beautiful and intelligent and witty and all of the other things you listed and more. By your own parameters, you are the perfect candidate to be my wife and the only one I will accept. I see you truly, Penelope, for all that you are and I know for certain that I want only you; I love only you. Marry me."

"You love me?" she gasps, sliding forward til she is sat only on the very edge of her seat, staring down at him in awe.

"I love you. Marry me."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, yes, I'll marry yo-OOH!" Her response turns into a yelp as she feels the sweet disappearing from under her, replaced by strong arms around her waist, and then she's being swung around wildly in Anthony's embrace. Distantly she hears her own chair meeting the floor as he maneuvers them into the more open space away from the table, but it bears little consequence to her. Penelope feels completely weightless as Anthony turns them, dizzy with the rush of emotions as much as from their vigorous spinning.

When he finally sets her on her feet the real onslaught begins as he peppers kisses all over her face, then along her jaw and neck and back up again. His pecks stay light but even with only the briefest press of his lips, she can feel Anthony's smile against every inch of her skin.

"Anthony," she giggles, attempting to pull back to look at him but he doesn't allow her retreat, using his hands to anchor her head as he continues his ministrations, "Anthony, my Anthony."

"My Penelope," he echoes reverently, nuzzling his nose against her cheek.

"I love you," she tells him, beaming. She feels somehow even giddier to be saying it aloud herself than she had been hearing the words from him.

Anthony stills against her then finally moves back far enough that Penelope can see his face. He doesn't look surprised, per se, but searching, eyes flicking back and forth between her own. Whatever he finds must please him as the wide grin on his face stretches impossibly further and he dips down to press his lips firmly against her own.

Neither can squash their smiles and so their teeth clash together dreadfully throughout their kiss, but if either is bothered by it they do not show it, nor do they make any attempt to pull away from one another. They huff and giggle into each other's mouths, overcome by their shared mirth, and despite its awkwardness Penelope is sure this is her very favourite of all of the kisses they have shared so far.

Their previous embraces had been nothing to sneer at, of course - hot in their intensity or heaped with teasing and flirtation - but this one is like tasting sunshine. Carefree and fun and silly in a way she never thought a kiss could be. It defies everything Penelope has been taught to expect for herself and she clings to the feeling, relishing it as the final confirmation she had so desperately needed to know that what had been transpiring between them has surpassed desire for Anthony, too, as it has for her.

"I know I have gone about this the wrong way," he begins when they're finally able to keep an inch of space between their lips, "there are things I should have said and done long before we got to this point, but somehow I feel as though it has already taken me too long to ask for your hand - like anything else would have been merely delaying the inevitable."

"I suppose I could be convinced to overlook the path we took to get here, given how pleasing the destination is," Penelope teases, tracing a wandering finger over his brow and down his cheek til it meets his chin, "though there is time enough for bouquets and flatteries yet, I'm sure."

"Hmm," Anthony hums his agreement, planting a quick peck on the top of her head before tilting forward again to rest his forehead there, "do you think the rest of our lives should be enough time for me to properly woo you?"

"I think that will suffice, assuming you see fit to get on with it sooner rather than later."

Anthony tips his head back as he laughs. He keeps Penelope held firmly against his chest, then begins to rock them slowly from foot to foot, too pent up with energy to keep still.

"Well then, my efforts shall commence the moment we arrive at Aubrey Hall," he says solemnly, that twinkle in his eye that is so familiar to her but now seems heaped with all new meaning, "My first mission will be to collect the ring that awaits you there and see it placed upon your finger."

"And until then?" She asks.

"Until then, I am going to show you just how pleased I am to be trading in the title of Rake for Husband." The grin on his face transitions seamlessly into a smirk as his hand slides down her back to rest on her bottom. Penelope yelps when he cups and squeezes her there, drawing her somehow closer so that her hips press flush with the thigh he pushes between her knees and her cry turns into a high pitched moan. "If you would allow me the honour, that is."

Penelope takes several moments to study him, allowing him to think she actually needs to consider his suggestion rather than the truth that she is giving herself the chance to collect up all of her nerve so that she can respond with a sultry smile of her own, peeking up at him through her lashes.

"Show this wallflower what it is to be your wife. "

Notes:

Ive been so absorbed by promos recently that I could focus on nothing else, but now that I have rewatched season 3 twice and then some, I am back to it. I have finally scrubbed and revived my twitter so if anyone wants to chat about the first four episodes, come and find me there

Hope you enjoyed!

Chapter 17

Summary:

The Passionate Pursuit of Penelope's Pleasure

or

Anthony gets Penelope off on the dinner table.

Notes:

Here's 4000 words of plotless smut whilst I edit the actual next chapter. If that's not for you, skip this one, there is zero story progression to be found here!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The staff of Bridgerton house were occupied entirely with readying the final travel preparations and home closures needed for the next day's departure, which meant Anthony and Penelope had, for once, been left to their own devices after dinner had been served. Penelope spares a moment to be immeasurably glad that the rest of the house's inhabitants are occupied elsewhere as she is all but launched onto the table.

Anthony's hands are too busy clutching at her hips and roving over her back to bother making any attempt at catching the plates and glasses that go crashing to the ground as he drags Penelope and, subsequently, the table cloth towards himself. The mess they leave behind will at least give his staff - to all of whom he pays very generous salaries - something to do other than gawp and gossip.

(Part of him feels a bit smug picturing Humboldt, in particular, coming across the scattered pieces of freshly polished china - and polished by his own hand, most likely - and knowing exactly what has taken place on the dining room table, if only because he doesn't want his butler claiming too much satisfaction when Anthony announces his engagement.)

He hikes Penelope's skirts up to her waist and before he can slide his hands back down to spread her legs, her knees are already parting naturally to bracket his hips, welcoming Anthony into the perfectly snug space between them. Pleased with her actions, his fingertips glide over the newly exposed skin, squeezing her skin appreciatively as he goes, which earns him soft sighs and eager gasps in response.

He halts for just a moment, with his hand on the underside of her thigh and his hips pressed into hers, just taking her in. She's panting already and painted with a pretty pink flush that travels from her cheeks all the way down to the neckline of her dress. Anthony is desperate to see just how far it stretches and it hits him all at once that she might soon let him. He grunts as his cock swells against the seam of his breaches, hard and aching for just the thought of her. God, the thoughts he has of her.

He intends to map every inch of her, to commit the sounds she makes and the places he needs to touch to draw them out of her to memory, to carve out a place in his brain dedicated only to uncovering each and every last secret concealed in the curves of Penelope Featherington's glorious body.

He reckons with enough study he could pen an essay on the topic, or a novel, or perhaps a twelve book saga. The Passionate Pursuit of Penelope's Pleasure, he would call it, if only he had his third brother's ability to turn a phrase or his second's prowess for illustration. Nevertheless, let it not be said that Anthony Bridgerton has ever been anything but diligent in his studies.

He dallies a few moments too long, it seems, as Penelope begins to feel a touch of familiar nervousness as Anthony continues to stare down at her, unmoving, with heat in his gaze but seemingly no intent to actually do anything.

Fortunately, his earlier declarations and multiple proposals had done wonders in beginning the process of squashing some of her harsher insecurities and so, instead of succumbing to the infamous 'Penelope Doom Spiral' (dubbed so by Eloise), her feelings shift quickly from anxiety to impatience. It helps, too, to recall the part of Genevieve's teachings where she'd learnt that the poking she currently feels against her maidenhood is a clear sign of her fiancée's interest in taking their activities further.

Despite said interest, it is quite clear she will have to get things moving herself.

"Anthony," she breathes, tilting her head back to bare her neck to him, remembering the time he had spent devoting his attention to it when they'd been tucked together in his armchair, "come down here."

He blinks once, twice, three times, before a wicked smirk takes over his face and his whole facade shifts suddenly from doting admirer to starved predator. He appears to her as though he is a great lion, proud and lethal, and she, the cornered gazelle; his all too willing prey. And like a lion, he pounces.

It's not her throat he goes for first, however, but her mouth. His kiss is fierce and full of burning passion. The scrape of his teeth is sharp and possessive, and it makes her tingle from her lips down to her toes. His hand sliding up her bodice is firm when it pulls down the sleeves of her dress and then the neckline, until her pert nipples spill over top. Penelope had no idea that such forceful handling could be oh so pleasurable, though she supposes there is a reason they call acts such as these ruinous.

Anthony pulls away from her lips to stare down at her exposed bosom and they watch together as the pillowy flesh of her left breast ripples under his rolling fingers. As she suspected, she is far larger than even a hand such as his could hope to contain, but when her eyes flit up to see his reaction, she is pleasantly surprised to find not a trace of disappointment on his face, but rather something she is tentative to call awe.

"You-" she gasps, words stuttering in her throat when his thumb flicks over her hardened nipple, "you like them?"

His eyes are almost black when he looks up to meet her gaze and the expression on his face is one of deep, yearning hunger. Anthony drags his left hand up from her thigh until he is cupping both of her breasts, pushing them together, presented for his attention.

"Forgive me, but your tits are fucking magnificent, Penelope," he says vehemently, spreading his fingers wide to encompass as much of them as he can, "so full, so much softer than I imagined and God have I imagined." She gasps both for his vulgar words and for the way he tweaks both her nipples at once, sending jolts of pleasure from the stiff peaks to her pulsing core. She can feel herself clenching around nothing, desperate to feel his fingers breach inside of her, but Anthony seems quite happy to keep his digits firmly occupied with her breasts.

"The money I would pay to have them sculpted, so that I might display them on my desk and play with your marble nipples whenever I so desire, remembering how wonderfully hard the real things are for me. God, I'd commission Benedict to paint and sketch them across a thousand canvases if I would not have to duel him for the impure thoughts he'd surely have of you."

Penelope gapes up at him, her mind filtering quickly through the many statues and paintings she has seen in the London galleries depicting a woman's form and tries to imagine her own body in their place, being praised and admired by her peers, viewed for leisure by the whole of the English gentry… the thought could be nothing short of preposterous, to be sure, if not for the way Anthony is looking at her with earnest desire in his eyes, for that there is not a trickle of jest or doubt in his voice when he speaks of his appreciation of her features, steadfast in his belief that she is something worth being seen.

If he continues to look at her like that, Penelope thinks she could be convinced that he truly does find her, all of her, beautiful. That it could be something she may one day believe about herself, too.

"Can I taste them, my love?" Anthony asks suddenly, his voice like silk in the smooth way the words roll off his tongue. He chuckles when her eyes bulge wide open in response. He abandons one of her breasts - and delights in watching it bounce before settling into place - to slide a hand across her warm cheek, tucking a curl behind her ear. "I want to suckle on your lovely peaks while my fingers curl into your quim, until I have made the skin of your chest as wet with my tongue as I already know you will be between your legs. Will you let me?"

Her womanhood - or quim, as he has called it - pulses in anticipation to his words. Though Anthony had not slipped his fingers inside of her during their last tryst, having brought her to her peak through her sensitive pearl alone, Genevieve has described the act to her in great detail. She knows it can be pleasurable when done right - and she is quite certain that Anthony will do it right - as well as its importance in preparing a lady's quim for the stretch of a gentleman's member when performing the marital act.

(Her friend had preferred the term 'cunt' or even 'pussy' in their discussions. Penelope isn't sure why there are so many words for that part of her body, nor how she's meant to keep track of them all, and that is not to begin on the many, many synonyms she had for a man's appendage.)

With images of what is to come flashing before her eyes, Penelope can not help but shift her hips against the table, pressing herself forward in search of some sort of friction to relieve the desperate ache growing stronger between her legs. She finds what she is looking for against the seam of Anthony's breaches, rolling her hips experimentally once, twice, then glances down to see the wet stain she has left against the tight fabric poorly concealing his crotch. Looking back up, Penelope's eyes lock onto Anthony's where he is still waiting patiently for her response to his request, resolute to keep himself still until he has gained her express permission to venture further. He does, however, quirk an eyebrow and tilt his head in that way that makes him look both boyish and full of rakish charm all at once.

Deciding quickly that they have both waited long enough, Penelope nods her head frantically, then breathes a "yes, please," and barely has time to register Anthony's head swooping down towards her breast before her nipple is trapped between his lips. She writhes as he sucks on the sensitive point, clutching desperately at the back of his neck as her spine arches up, pushing her breasts further into his mouth and hands. Anthony's fingers work in tandem with his tongue, flicking over her other nipple and squeezing the abundance of surrounding flesh in his palm.

Penelope cries out when his teeth graze over her sensitive point, then again when he laves his tongue over the same spot, sweeping around her areola in wet circles.

"Good?" He pulls back to ask, the single word falling past his swollen lips.

"Good?" She parrots, dazed, her brows knitting together, "do you even need to ask?"

"How else will I know how best to please you, Penelope?" Anthony chuckles, though there is a particular firmness underlying his voice.

"I'm- ah!" Penelope tips her head back as Anthony dips his clever mouth down to the curve of her collarbone, dipping his tongue into the hollow there as his blunt fingernails trail teasingly around the tips of her breasts. "I'm quite certain you are well versed in pleasuring women, Anthony. You ha-hah-rdly need my direction in the matter."

"Women, yes. You, however," he responds, leaning away from her and hooking a finger under her chin so that she is forced to meet his blazing stare head on, "you are far more than just 'a woman', you're Penelope. I want you to tell me everything you like and even more so anything that you don't. I want you to write verses into my skin so that when I get on my knees to worship you, I know that my tribute to your flesh will be worthy of your divinity."

"You speak as if I am some sort of deity," Penelope breathes, sliding her own hands up and down over his shirt sleeves, then bunches the fabric there tightly in her fists when the heat in his eyes seems to burn somehow impossibly brighter.

"You are a goddess among men, my Penelope. Your body is an altar, your eyes brighter than any holy light could be. And your voice; my bride, I would renounce all other faith if you asked it of me, beg for salvation at your feet and yours alone, just to hear you say my name," Anthony punctuates his words with a soft kiss to his fiancées lips, surprising even himself with the sudden affinity for prose she has stirred within him. "Above all else, you are a woman of words; such clever, cunning words. Use them for me now, my love, tell me what you want."

"I want," she starts, whispering the words into the scant space between them, "I want you to touch me like you said, like you did in your room-"

"Our room," he interjects, unable to help the smile that comes over his lips, nor the way his heart skips a beat when she answers it with a brilliant beam of her own.

"Our room," she affirms, bringing a hand up to slide into his hair so she can pull him the final few inches back down to her, their foreheads knocking together gently. Her other hand searches for his, then begins to guide his fingers slowly down the line of her body, until she settles them on the soft skin of her inner thigh. "I want you to touch me like you did in our room. And I want you to put your fingers in my- in my cunt."

The word feels funny on her tongue, as though it would are her blush if her cheeks were capable of burning any hotter than they already are, but she is rewarded for her use of it when Anthony slides his right hand into the space between their bodies and puts his clever fingers to work.

"Just as I suspected, you're positively dripping for me," he hisses, easily gliding back and forth through her silken folds. "How lucky I am that you are so responsive to me, my perfect little wife."

If Anthony's choice of address for her wasn't enough to turn her into a puddle of goo on the tabletop, the fact that his fingertips graze over the engorged bundle of nerves at her apex on the same breath certainly does the trick. The feeling is familiar as he uses the tips of two fingers to apply just the right amount of pressure to her clitoris, moving in circles of varying speed until his thumb takes over the job and his fingers sink lower.

Anthony slides one digit into her first, groaning when he finds her cunt hot and tight and wet beyond anything he's ever felt before. Listening to her surprised gasp, he reminds himself that she has never been touched this way before and resolves to go gentle as he works his finger in and out of her slowly, curling inwards on each downward stroke, until he's certain she's ready for a second.

"Oh," Penelope breathes as the two fingers stretch her core. She has tried this herself before, but she had been filled with nerves and dipped in tentatively with just one of her own small fingers, tentative to the point that she had briefly considered that perhaps it just wasn't for her. Now, clearly, she has been proven wrong.

Her hips jolt uncontrollably forward and she realises Anthony has hit that special spot inside of her - the one she hadn't been able to reach on her own, but that he seems to have located with ease - and he takes advantage of it with every pull of his thick fingers to turn her into a squirming mess on the table.

"Is that a good 'oh'?" He grins, and though she knows he asks in earnest, there's a smugness to his voice that tells her he already has his answer. Fortunately for him, her mind is too far gone for her to worry about admonishing his arrogance and instead all she can do is nod.

As promised, Anthony's mouth returns to her breasts, though this time he wastes no time in latching onto her nipples with tongue and teeth. Penelope's back curves into a deep arch at the sensation, feeling somehow even more sensitive than she had just moments ago, and her hand shoots up unbidden to grip the back of his head, keeping him firmly in place. She twists her fingers into his hair and he groans, sending the most delicious vibrations through her chest, and the feeling zings through her body.

A third finger slides into her cunt at the same time as Anthony picks up the pace of his thumb over her clit, timing his ministrations with the patterns his tongue traces around her breast and suddenly the crest Penelope had felt herself drifting towards is hurtling closer and closer, until she can think of nothing but her need for release.

It's overwhelming in the best way possible to be so consumed by him, surrounded by Anthony's heat and scent and touch. She forgets that her dress is still pooled around her middle, dismisses any thoughts of the table cloth she's surely ruining - dash it, if you asked her right now, she probably wouldn't be able to tell you her own name for how lost she is to anything that isn't Anthony Bridgerton. It's maddening and terrifying and glorious and she's going to get to relive it over and over again for the rest of her life.

Desperate to cling onto her last vestiges of control, her hands tighten in Anthony's hair, only instead of pressing him further into her chest as intended, her fingers seem to have their own ideas and Penelope tugs him up until she can crush their lips together. He grunts into her mouth and she moans into his, then someone's tongue is sliding past the other's lips and her tipping point is right. there.

Anthony abandons her breast to slide his free hand around her waist, encircling her completely and tugging her up so that they're pressed together, and it's the sudden contrast of her sensitive nipples dragging over the fabric of his waistcoat that finally sends her careening into her bliss.

Penelope's toes curl and her legs tense as she comes for what feels like hours, head tipped back and mouth open on a soundless scream. Anthony diverts his attentions to her neck, peppering wet kisses over the flesh from her chin to her collar land and back, still working her over with his fingers in her cunt even as she shakes in his arms.

When her hips start to spasm in uneven jolts and her breathy moans become pained mewls, he eases his fingers away from her centre, and instead begins moving the hand on her back in slow, soothing circles, giving her a grounding point to come back down to. Whilst she's still distracted, Anthony slips the tips of his fingers into his mouth for a taste of her, but Penelope regains higher motor functions just in time to catch him wiping the backs of them off on the table cloth.

"Anthony!" She admonishes, smacking his shoulder lightly, though her barely stern expression quickly gives way to giggles as she considers the ludicrousy of their situation.

"What?" He responds, that boyish grin she loves back in place, though somehow she finds she likes it even more now, with his kiss swollen lips and blown out pupils, hair standing in all sorts of directions thanks to her desperate tugging. "It was ruined anyway… although, the more I think about it…" his head tilts to the side in thought, that infamous Bridgerton gleam in his eye that can only mean trouble, "how difficult do you think it would be to convince Humboldt to cut the material down to size and have it framed for my study?"

"Anthony!"

"Fine, for our bedchamber, then."

"Absolutely not, you impossible man," Penelope laughs, shaking her head. Perhaps if she weren't still riding the high of her post orgasm bliss, she'd be a little bit more concerned about how seriously he seems to be considering the idea, but she's easily distracted by his deep chuckle and the kiss he leans down to press upon her smiling lips.

"You are going to run quite the tight ship when we are wed, Miss Featherington, I can tell already," he quips, pulling her forward again so that her chin rests on his chest while she looks up at him, "though it is my estimation that you are entirely to coherent right now for me to have done my job properly, a fact which I must rectify posthaste."

Anthony takes two small steps away from her, and Penelope shivers at the rush of cold air that fills the space between them, particularly as it chills the still damp patches of her exposed flesh.

"Wh-what are you doing?" She asks, attempting to hold onto him by the fabric covering his shoulders - and isn't it a tad unfair that he is still so put together whilst all her most intimate places are laid bare and exposed on the dining room table - "where are you going?"

Not far, it turns out, as Anthony does not step any further away from her, but drops into the chair at his back - his own usual seat at the head of the table.

"I suddenly find I am remiss that we did not indulge in any kind of dessert after our meal,"

"You- you want to eat?" She asks incredulously, panting heavily through the fog of confusion trying to overpower the dizzying pleasure she had just been feeling, "you are hungry, now?

"Oh, Penelope," Anthony chuckles, smoothing his hands around the skin of her knees where they rest over the table's edge, "I am absolutely ravenous."

"Right, well," she clears her throat, smoothing her hands first through the ends of her hair and then attempts, in vain, to begin righting her dress, "I suppose I should get down."

Anthony reaches forward to halt her movements, keeping her from adjusting her gown or sliding off the table's edge. Instead, he pushes her skirts up even higher, til Penelope takes her cue to hold onto the folds of fabric, keeping them in place around her middle.

"My Lady, you are exactly where you need to be," he assures her, then grins as he watches Penelope's nose scrunch up to meet her furrowed brows in a look that he finds far too adorable for what he has planned. "You are to be my meal."

Anthony's hands glide down over her thighs and past her calves until he has hooked a hand under the arch of each foot. He lifts one and then the other, bringing them up to lay flat against the armrests of his chair, forcing Penelope to bend her knees, lush thighs bracketing him in his seat. The result is even better than he'd envisioned; with her legs spread on either side of him, her glistening quim exposed to him completely, pink and puffy from his earlier ministrations but still throbbing in search of more.

"Just perfect," he praises, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the skin of her inner thigh. "I'm going to put my mouth on you now and, whilst I assure you that I will take great personal pleasure in performing this act for you, you must tell me if I do something that you do not enjoy. Alright?"

"Alright," Penelope nods.

Anthony maintains eye contact with her as he slowly leans forward, taking his time in sliding his hands up her legs and around to the outside of her thigh, squeezing and moulding the flesh there. His touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake and a shiver of anticipation runs through Penelope. He's not even near her quim yet and somehow her whole body feels electrified from proximity alone.

When he is barely an inch away, Anthony lifts his eyebrows in one final question, waiting for her answering nod before he closes up the last bit of space between him and his feast. He presses three featherlight kisses to her clit, feeling a thrill of smug satisfaction when that alone has her arching forward and clawing her nails through his hair and down to his shoulders where she latches onto him yet again with tightly clenched fists.

The rest of the evening is a blur of curling fingers and clever tongues and - perhaps, most memorably - the feeling of Penelope's thighs closing in on either side of his head. When he carries his exhausted fiancée up to their shared bed and lays down beside her, Anthony ponders whether she might allow him to maneuver her to straddle his head and sit on his face.

Not immediately, of course, when she is surely over sensitive and in need of her rest.

Which is fine. First thing in the morning will do just nicely

Notes:

Not me rocking up two months later with some questionable smut

Aubrey Hall Arrival incoming.

Chapter 18

Summary:

The Anthony that arrives at Aubrey Hall is not quite the one his family remember.

Or, rather, not the one they have seen very much of over the last decade.

Still, they are as determined as ever to make things difficult for him.

Notes:

Nearly 50k hits is insane. Thank you so much

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

They ride alone in the carriage to Aubrey Hall and share a room together in the inn where they stop for the night to break up their day and a half of traveling. Emma, who has essentially adopted the role of Penelope's lady's maid, two footmen and Anthony's valet make the journey with them in a separate vehicle, trailed by their luggage, whilst the rest of the staff stay behind to finish closing down Bridgerton House in the wake of their Master's departure.

Penelope is quite glad for the solitude, not only due to the time it affords her with her fiancée, but because none of the servants had quite managed to make eye contact with her the morning they left Mayfair - bar Emma, who did a terrible job of concealing her knowing grins in the collar of her uniform - and Penelope spent the remainder of her time in Bridgerton house trying to avoid bumping into anyone besides the viscount himself.

She had had to be present for breakfast, however, as Anthony insisted they needed to be well nourished before setting off. He'd winked as he said it, wiggling his eyebrows and making sly comments in her ear about the appetite they had built up together the night before, and it became very clear that she was the only one in their pair feeling any kind of embarrassment over the state they'd surely left the dining room in. Where she had flushed and stuttered upon seeing the pointedly bare table, Anthony had loudly lamented the absence of his "favourite tablecloth" and all the while Humboldt stood in the doorway, silent and stoic. The throbbing vein on his forehead, however, spoke volumes enough of his thoughts on the matter.

That is, however, until Anthony excused himself as she was finishing her plate, then rather oddly disappeared into the hallway with his butler for near a half hour. He'd returned alone, smile just as smug, but when they made their departure from the manor soon after, Humboldt had been waiting by the front door to see them off. In what she thought to be an incredibly uncharacteristically bold display, he broke proper protocol to step forward and pat Penelope's hand twice as they went, offering her a warm smile and kind nod. She wondered if the other ladies of the Ton would find it odd to take such comfort in the approval of the household staff, but it warms her nonetheless.

Now, on their second and final day of travel, they are tucked snugly together on one bench of the carriage. They roll along bumpier roads and past lush green fields, with each rock they roll shakily over top of marking them closer to the end of their journey.

It has been a quite while since Penelope last made it to the Bridgertons' country estate, especially given that her own family's seat lay more than ten miles west of it, and they often did not employ enough staff through the off season that her Father could spare sending anyone along with her to pay a visit. The memories she has of Aubrey Hall are vivid nonetheless, though she often remembers the feel of the place more than its many striking features. It is a place of majesty, to be sure, but more than that it has always been warm and open, filled to the brim with evidence of the loving family who adore it so much, strong and reliable in spite of the great tragedies that have befallen them there.

Even knowing all of this, she still feels nerves bubbling in her stomach. Leaning against the window, she can see high stone posts and iron gates up ahead, cutting an imposing figure against the landscape, and she wonders where her place will be when she becomes a permanent figure amongst her most beloved Bridgertons.

Anthony must sense her discomfort as he bends down to press a soft kiss to her covered shoulder, then, still leaning over her collarbone, tilts his chin up to her in question. Penelope smiles softly in answer, eased by his gesture.

At his side, she thinks, that will be my place.

As they make their final approach and the horses at their front begin to slow, Anthony reaches around to hastily draw the thin curtains over the windows on either side of the carriage.

"Anthony, I believe it is a tad late for you to attempt to re-engage in any-"

"As interested as I am in hearing more about whatever illicit acts you are picturing," he interrupts, wagging his eyebrows until Penelope swats his arm gently, "I assure you that my intentions are nought but pure and whimsical. Although, should you like me to instruct the driver to simply carry on past my awaiting family and take a few laps around the estate, I would be all too pleased to oblige."

"Pure and whimsical," she parrots, huffing a disbelieving laugh, "I am not sure those are words that I have ever heard anyone use to describe you, my love." Penelope pats his arm as if to placate her fiancée, who only tilts his head to the side, eyes fixed on the drawn curtains as if seeing right through them to the rapidly approaching Aubrey Hall.

"They used to," he replies, voice so close to her ear yet somehow a hundred miles away all at once. The sudden shift in atmosphere startles Penelope and she fears that she has made a terrible misstep in what she had thought to be a shared bout of light hearted teasing; after all, if there was but one person who understood the difference between intent and impact, it would be her.

"Anthony?" She calls to him softly, laying her hand flat against the side of his cheek. Before she can press further, though, they are jolted to a stop and the driver is tapping his foot against the roof above them to indicate their arrival.

Anthony sucks in a long breath through his nose, eyes closing as he does, then turns his head to press a lingering kiss against her palm. When he opens his eyes and meets hers, Penelope is surprised to find them shining with moisture and she gasps as her thumb strokes across the top of his cheekbone as if to wipe away his tears, even though none fall.

He blinks and the moment passes so quickly that Penelope is of half a mind to believe she imagined the whole thing, for the feel of his skin has vanished from her hand and Anthony is grinning widely at her over his shoulder as he throws open the carriage door and all but leaps onto the pebbled ground below.

"Family!" Anthony calls, pacing towards them with long strides and open arms, ready to catch Hyacinth as she chirps loudly in response, then takes a running start to leap at him. As he hoists her into the air with his left arm, Gregory is quick to take up the space under the right, allowing his older brother to ruffle his hair with only some half hearted huffing and cringing.

"Children, do try not to damage your brother before the rest of us have had the chance to greet him," their mother admonishes, though she is smiling broadly as she approaches, Benedict and Eloise following two steps behind. Anthony has not an arm free to embrace his mother, but he accepts the kisses she plants on his cheeks and returns the action in kind to her. "I am so pleased you have finally joined us, dearest, and earlier than anticipated!"

"I would have been remiss to leave you worrying over me for a moment longer, Mother, with or without the updates I'm certain you have been commissioning from Humboldt."

Violet spares him only a bemused smile for his comment, neither denying the claim nor bothering to feign a guilt she does not feel for being ever vigilant over her children's wellbeing. She pats his cheek then steps to the side, pulling Gregory and Hyacinth with her.

"I, too, am quite glad of your expediency, brother," Benedict says merrily, stepping forth to claim a short, one armed hug from the viscount, "had you dallied any longer, I fear you may have arrived to nought more than ash and ruin."

"And would it have been Hyacinth or Eloise with lit torch in hand, standing atop the rubble?" Anthony quips back, drawing a startled chortle from his brother that dissolves into a curious turn of his lip and just slightly narrowed eyes.

"What, no stern remark about how I had an easy ride here whilst you were doing all the hard work back in Mayfair?"

"I'm sure you've had your challenges; I certainly do not envy you for any squabbles you have had to step between," Anthony replies, patting his brother's shoulder, "and my time in London was not as unpleasant as I might have expected, nor as dull."

Benedict quirks his brow in obvious question but maintains his easy smile, in no hurry to say anything that may bring a sudden end to his brother's decidedly good mood.

Unfortunately - and unsurprisingly - Eloise does not share the same sentiment.

"Right, well, it seems we have established that none among us have managed to misplace any limbs in the very short time since we all last shared breathing space, unless we are to address Anthony's decision to finally lose his unruly mutton chops. Might we go back inside now?" She huffs, making no move to move any closer to her family - and thus, further from the manor - as she waves a worn copy of Frankenstein around, forgetting briefly about the argument she had had with her mother earlier on about the 'inappropriate nature of the book's content for a young lady'. "I am nearly finished with my reading and I wish to have a missive sent to Penelope with my thoughts before dark."

She does not wait for an answer before she turns away, feet crunching along the ground noisily as she makes for the house, already turning the pages of her book as she walks. The rest of the family sigh but make to follow her anyway, only to be halted when Anthony bellows out a loud laugh.

"Eloise, you could at least pretend to be pleased to see me," he calls to her retreating form, "especially seeing as I have brought you a gift."

That stops her in her tracks, though she does not rejoin the group gathered near the carriage, but rather turns slowly on the spot, eyeing her brother suspiciously. Her curiosity is peaked enough, at least, that she slides the ribbon into place in her book, marking her page, before closing it and tucking it under her folded arms.

"A gift? For what occasion?" Eloise asks, glancing towards her mother and siblings as if they might hold the answer as to why her brother - if this strange, jolly, clean shaven man truly is her brother - is acting so out of character. Irritatingly, they all look as equally baffled as she, though clearly more open in their excitement at the prospect of a surprise.

"Does a brother need an occasion to treat his sister?" Anthony responds, tilting his head with a wide grin. Benedict raises his eyebrows as he observes the open display of mirth on his brother's face, whilst their mother's confusion melts away, leaving her looking nothing short of utterly delighted by it.

"Why does she get a gift and I do not?" Hyacinth demands, crossing her arms over her chest and ignoring her mother's hissed admonishments.

"Do not worry, Hyacinth, I believe that if Eloise can be convinced to share, you will be quite pleased with this as well," Anthony laughs, turning back to face towards the wide open door of the carriage. His hand extends up into the opening, clearly reaching out for something, though the family's view of what it could be is obstructed by the drawn curtains over its window.

"Come on, Anthony," Gregory whines, trying to peer around to get a better look at what is to come, "whatever it is, must you be so slow about it?"

"Now, Gregory, have we not taught you better than to rush a lady?" Anthony retorts, proving determined to leave all of their questions unanswered, though the expected bite in his voice is missing, replaced by a teasing lilt that has the whole group taking an intrigued step closer.

"What? That makes no sense! You are not a lady and so-" the youngest brother's response cuts off abruptly as Anthony takes a half step back, bringing with him a gloved hand, then a pale arm, followed by the skirts of a lemon yellow dress and the curled ends of fiery red hair until, finally, his surprise has descended carefully onto the gravel below.

A collective breath is drawn, then a moment of still and quiet, until;

"Pen!" Eloise cries, letting her book fall to the ground as she throws her arms wide open, rushing forward to embrace her friend in a crushing hug. The rest of the family echo her outburst in various calls of elated greeting, though they all know well enough to give Eloise her moment with the other young woman before moving to welcome her themselves. Anthony's quip regarding her ability to share had not been made entirely in jest, after all.

"Hello, El," Penelope replies, muffled into the other's shoulder as she holds onto her with equal fervour. Glancing up, she can see the assembled Bridgertons watching their exchange over Eloise's shoulder and she feels her cheeks warm under their scrutiny before she quickly ducks her head and buries her face out of view - not, however, before she sees the broad, pleased smile Anthony is wearing from the edge of the group.

"I've missed you so much," Eloise tells her, finally pulling back whilst keeping her hands planted on Penelope's shoulders, "I am so glad you are here! Are you staying for long? Goodness, tell me you are not just here for one day. I have been starved for intelligent conversation and I fear we will not have nearly enough time to make up for it before nightfall." Penelope opens her mouth to reassure her friend that she needn't worry, but on the next breath Eloise is going again, "I have been reading the most interesting pamphlet that Frannie has sent from Scotland and it details…"

Penelope nods along, listening as intently as she can to the other girl's ramblings, but she is wearier than she had realised from the days' travelling and finds it difficult to keep track of her friend's enthused monologue. She'd spent so long worrying about how her reunion with the Bridgertons would play out after everything that has shifted in her life over the last two weeks, convinced that they would be able to see straight through her and Anthony's new relationship before they could announce it for themselves, that to be greeted with such normality is almost more overwhelming than if any of her wild imaginings had come to fruition.

"Perhaps allow the rest of us to greet Miss Penelope before you subject her to any more of your radical lectures, El," Benedict cuts in, placing a hand on his sister's shoulder whilst smiling down at Penelope. Neither had noticed his approach, obvious in the way Eloise jumps when he touches her, then glares up at him with a huff. He is nonplussed, however, and simply ruffles her fringe (and ignores her indignant squawking for it) before turning fully towards the redhead.

Penelope smiles gratefully at Benedict as he offers her a friendly wink, placing her hand into his outstretched one so he can guide her the few steps closer towards his mother and youngest siblings, who welcome her with broad grins and open arms. If Violet clings to her a tad tighter - and certainly longer than polite society would usually allow - Penelope can find no issue with it and is all too pleased to return the warm embrace.

"Lady Bridgerton," she begins, pulling back until they are holding each other by the elbows so she can bob into a shallow, informal sort of curtsey, "thank you for accepting me here without notice. I understand how important this time is with your family and I assure you I do not intend to be underfoot during my stay, though, I must admit, I fear I am almost too comfortable in your presence and so you must tell me if I overstep or you seek reprieve from my company."

"Now, I will not hear another such word, Penelope," Violet tsks, lifting one of her hands to lightly pat the younger's flushed cheek. It is such a maternal gesture that Penelope only just manages to stop herself from leaning into her palm and prolonging the moment, desperate as she is to bask in the glow of motherly affection she has only ever felt in the presence of the dowager viscountess. "I- we are all thrilled to have you, dear girl. It will be a pleasure to share in your company for as long as you are here to give it."

She glances then between Penelope and Anthony, the question clear in her meaningful gaze, and he steps forward to answer it, "Penelope is to stay with us through the entirety of the off season."

"Oh, my!" Violet breathes, placing a hand over her chest, having to step back as her youngest son and daughter take the proclamation as a cue to skip and bounce excitedly around Penelope. They talk hastily over each other about all of the games and hykinks they are going to include her in throughout her stay, whilst Eloise tries to make clear to them that her plans with Pen will take precedence.

Anthony moves as if to intervene, expecting Penelope to become overwhelmed by his boisterous siblings, but quickly realises his aid is neither sought nor required. She is handling the three with clearly practiced ease, indulging Greg and Hy's whims with nods and tinkling laughter whilst appeasing Eloise by looping their arms together and tipping her head onto the taller's shoulder. His sister's look of irritated exasperation melts into an amused smile, her ire washed away quicker than Anthony can remember ever seeing. It would almost be mesmerising to watch, and it certainly is a relief to see his reassurances to Penelope about the warm reception she would receive here have come to fruition past what even he had imagined, however there is a twinge of bitterness that he feels along with no small ounce of shame when he realises just how close her relationship with his entire family is and that he is the one who is now going to have to share her.

His thoughts have him hesitating too long to take place at her side and so he stands and watches helplessly as Violet begins herding the four towards the house, doing her best to ensure Gregory doesn't end up tripping one of the ladies as he repeatedly skitters dangerously close to the ends of their skirts in his refusal to walk in a straight line - he has clearly decided to take advantage of his mother's good mood and subsequently looser boundaries.

Anthony and Benedict watch on with amusement, the former making to follow them before he is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. He turns to face his brother, who looks back at him with an expectant raise of his brow, and he supposes he has not yet greeted him properly. They share a quick hug - both arms this time, but just as manly as they trade firm pats on the others back. Anthony huffs a laugh when Benedict pretends to pick a piece of lint from his sleeve before throwing an arm around his shoulders and steering him towards the house.

"Quite surprising of you, brother, bringing Miss Featherington all the way here to entertain the family," Benedict says, eyes fixed forward on the rest of the group as they head up the steps of their ancestral home.

"She is not here to entertain anyone," Anthony retorts, a hard edge to his voice that only seems to amuse his brother, "she is a dear friend of the whole family, practically one of us already. It should only be surprising that I was the first to consider extending the invitation."

"I can not fault you there, I suppose," Benedict says on a hum, though his deferential tone does nothing to appease Anthony when he still has that far too familiar twinkle in his eye, "apologies, brother, it seems I have taken leave of some of my better senses this afternoon. Listen to this; just a few minutes ago, I would have sworn that your accompanying staff had all exited from the second carriage, but that would have left you and Penelope completely unchaperoned. Her maid must have slipped out from the other side, I presume? When we were all making such a fuss over Penelope, perhaps."

"Must have." Anthony responds, looking pointedly away from his brother's wide grin, though he can feel the corner of his own lip tugging against his will, "or perhaps you are simply not as observant as you like to think yourself to be. And I thought you artistic types were meant to have an 'eye for detail', or does that only apply when you're looking at bowls of fruit?"

Whatever clever retort Benedict had surely whipped up is trapped on the end of his tongue as they are interrupted by the distinct sound of porcelain scattering across hard floor, followed by the yelp of their brother and the answering cry of their mama.

Anthony hurries his pace up the steps, ignoring the sounds of his brother's amused laughter behind him.

"You must tell me, dearest," Violet begins, having managed to secure the place at Penelope's side as her two youngest scamper off ahead, "if my son has been at all boorish through your journey here. I am afraid he is not one to be confined within a carriage for too long, often choosing to break up the miles by switching to horseback along the more open stretches of road, even when it means he has to wait for the rest of us to catch up."

Penelope feels the tips of her ears begin to burn as she considers how decidedly unboorish Anthony had been throughout their hours of travel - though, she supposes, Lady Bridgerton may be of a different mind were she to know how her eldest had filled the time with wandering lips and reverent hands and whispered words of sordid delights.

She thinks, too, briefly of the footman who had ridden just behind the carriages and realises he had likely been upon one of Anthony's preferred steeds, ready for his master to take the reigns at any point whilst he would be relegated to the seat atop the carriage alongside the driver. It warms her in a different way entirely to note that Anthony had been content enough in her presence to dismiss the notion of a ride to instead remain at her side, though she spares a grimace for the footman who she is sure is feeling the physical effects of his hours spent on horseback.

"The viscount has been a perfectly satisfy-...actory travel companion," Penelope tells Violet, willing the flush upon her cheeks not to darken any further than could be excused by her being woman of fair complexion having spent time out in the afternoon sun, even as they pass over Aubrey Hall's threshold and into its forgiving shade.

"I am pleased to hear that. It would do for him to have scared you off into detouring toward your own family's estate before we had even known of your planned arrival."

There is a loud crash somewhere ahead of them, followed immediately by scurrying feet and loud voices, and Penelope feels a flash of guilt for how relieved she is to bring the conversation with Lady Bridgerton to an end, lest she divulge the going ons within her own family's estate that have led to her presence here in Aubrey Hall. That, she feels, is not a discussion to be had five steps from the front door and surrounded by the eyes and ears of the Bridgerton household, staff and family alike.

Violet squeezes her forearm before releasing it, relinquishing her into Eloise's care instead, who is all too happy to loop her arm through her dearest friend's elbow and begin guiding her away from the forthcoming chaos.

"Eloise, dear, please see to it that Penelope is properly settled whilst I deal with your siblings' over exuberance," Violet says, though her eyes are already trained on the pieces of a tall and very old looking vase now scattered across the floor.

As they move away, Penelope chances a look over her shoulder towards the entryway, hoping to catch even a glimpse of her fiancée, and is rewarded when he hurries through the door, clearly scanning the room for the cause of his mother's distress. His eyes land on her briefly and he smiles softly, the tense line of his shoulders softening before his usual stern countenance appears and he is pulled into the ongoing 'he said, she said' between his brother and sister at the opposite end of the foyer.

Despite her best efforts, Penelope loses sight of Anthony quickly as Eloise begins guiding her upstairs, talking a mile a minute in her ear as she insists that a room will be made up for her in the family wing.

"What are you doing, brother?" Hyacinth asks, nose scrunched up towards her eyebrows.

Anthony lifts his head to see which brother she's referring to, only to find all eyes turned in his direction. He looks down at himself, seeking the source of his family's interest, and realises he is holding a chair - the one angled to the left of his own - aloft, ready to be moved to the head of the table as has become his routine at Bridgerton House.

Only, he is not at Bridgerton House, but at Aubrey Hall, surrounded by his mother and siblings who are still staring at him with various degrees of confusion and amusement on their faces and a glance in her direction finds Penelope already having been pulled towards the seat between Eloise and Hyacinth. There's a telling flush spreading over her cheeks, though, and she offers him a small smile and helpless shrug, acknowledging his halted actions.

"Oh, well," he clears his throat, setting the chair back down in its original space with a soft thud, "I thought I saw a… a spider! On the cushion, and I…"

"Wanted a closer look?" Benedict finishes for him, dropping down into the seat, "I suppose the creature should be grateful that you've saved it from being squashed beneath my breaches, for I certainly don't pay the dining chairs nearly as close attention before I sit."

"Saving the family from your girlish shrieking if you had spotted it, more like," Gregory interjects, smiling proudly when the rest of the table's occupants respond to his jibe with unabashed laughter, bar Benedict who squawks back indignantly.

A playful round of verbal sparring breaks out around the table between the siblings, much to the fond exasperation of their mother who shakes her head from her seat at Anthony's right - having forgone taking the other end of the table so as not to leave empty seats between them in lieu of her absent children - though he can see the smile she hides behind her wine glass.

Sliding his gaze to the right, his eyes catch Penelope's - though his view of her is woefully obstructed every few seconds when Eloise lifts her hands to flap around in front of her as she fires quips at their brothers - and he tilts his head to the side, rolling his eyes. Her answering giggle is smothered by the increasing volume of his family's squabbling, but he hears the sound of it so clearly anyway, as if she were sitting in her rightful place at his side with her lips pressed right below his ear and not a whole two chairs away.

He glances to what he has already come to think of as her usual seat and locks eyes with Benedict - who gives him a wide toothy grin, despite the forkful of roast potatoes he's just shoved into his mouth - and huffs. Perhaps he should have had the carriage take them up to Scotland, instead, stopping only in Bath where he would have collected the most tolerable of his siblings from their Aunt and had her witness his and Penelope's nuptials in Gretna Green. Arriving at Aubrey Hall already wed would certainly have afforded them the liberty of being seated together for dinner, amongst many other very lovely things, and, watching Benedict continue to chew his food with a wide open mouth, Anthony is beginning to think that facing his Mother's ire would have been more than worth it.

Engaged couples, though, are still surely allowed to share in each other's space, especially when surrounded by so many nosy chaperones. If they were in a courting phase - which, he supposes, they somewhat are, if he is to make good on his promise to properly woo his bride before the banns are read - it would be expected and encouraged, even, especially if his meddling mama thought them a worthy match. Just last season he'd had to endure many a family meal or tea time wherein his sister and best-friend-turned-brother-in-law made eyes at one another.

That would, of course, mean actually sharing the news of their betrothal; something he very much intends to do before the evening is seen through. There is a niggling voice in his head that warns him that, no matter how deeply her obsession with true love stories runs, his mother sees herself as a paragon for propriety and may immediately rule that his intention to reside beneath the same roof as Penelope borders on a line of scandal that even she is not willing to tread over in the name of romance.

He pushes down that voice in favour of recalling the many, many lectures he has suffered through at length of the dowager viscountess' wishes to see him to take a wife, as well as the longing she has always held to have Penelope for her own daughter. Anthony suspects (read: hopes) that they are no more likely to be separated as they are to find nary a moment where the two of them are not being pushed together, especially out here in the relative privacy of the country.

Pleased with his conclusions and more than willing to overlook the part of his brain trying to feed him any less than positive thoughts, he resolves that this will be the last meal he will spend without his love beside him. The last few hours with not so much as a glance of her person has been quite enough for a lifetime.

Silverware clinks against empty plates as the food is finished off, signaling the end of their meal. Anthony clears his throat, quieting the three separate-but-somehow-intertwining conversations that had just been taking place around him, then slides his chair back to stand before his gathered family.

"Oh, are we excused already? Excellent!" Eloise chirps, jumping to her own feet and hauling a startled Penelope up with her, "I'm going to take Pen to the library so we can decide which novel we are to read together first - and, before you offer Benedict, no, we are not interested in perusing your attempts at poetry instead."

"Oh, well actually, I-" Penelope interjects, looking helplessly at Anthony, clearly having guessed at what he'd been about to do before his sister's interruption. Said sister seems to misinterpret her friend's attempted rebuttal as indignation on Benedict's behalf, however, and steams on anyway.

"Don't humour him, Pen, truly. He once tried to recite to me a sonnet he had crafted largely focused on the frayed bristles at the end of a used paint brush," she pats Penelope's shoulder kindly, as if she is the one in need of placating and not the spluttering artist still seated across from where they stand, "I know how you like to indulge the whims of society's most talentless underdogs, but I can wholeheartedly assure you that my brother's poetic stylings are even harder on the ears than the Smythe-Smith sisters' musical endeavors."

Benedict lifts both his hands in front of him, turns down the corners of his lips and furrows his brows with a quick shake of his head, confused as to how he has found himself under fire from his sister's harsh critique. He opens his mouth to offer some form of self-defence when a sudden sharp pain in his shin turns whatever he'd been about to say into a yelp. Swinging his gaze to his right, his eyes lock with Anthony's - who has very clearly just kicked him under the table, for seemingly no reason whatsoever - and his older brother has the gall to look irritated.

"Actually, Eloise," Anthony begins again, pretending not to feel the burning hole Benedict seems to be trying to glare into the side of his head, "I had some news I hoped to share with you all."

"Oh, God," Eloise groans, earning her a hiss from their mother about blasphemy at the dinner table, though she only waves the chastisement away, "Anthony's speeches are almost as bad as Ben's prose, and twice as needless in length. Really, Pen, we must get out of here whilst we still can."

Anthony opens and closes his mouth for a moment, then drops back into his seat looking decidedly displeased.

"Now hang on a moment," Benedict interrupts, looking terribly affronted. "Have I done something to upset you all? If I am to be the family's favourite target for the evening, I would like to have at least done something to earn the position, otherwise it is no fun for me whatsoever!"

"Children, please, must you squabble in front of our guest?" Violet sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, then takes a generous sip from her wine glass. "Penelope, dear, I hope you can forgive our-"

"Penelope is not just some guest, Mother," Hyacinth calls over her, leaning forward in her seat to be seen around the two women, "she is family and so she is used to our 'unfashionable table manners'." She says the last part with her nose stuck in the air and her voice pitched into a startlingly good impression of her mother.

"Hyacinth Bridgerton!' Violet scorns her, setting her glass down with a touch more force than she intends, effectively stifling the laughter threatening to spill from her second, fifth and seventh children. Even her eldest looks a touch too pleased with his sister's assessment, forgoing any chastisements of his own.

"Oh, she is right, I truly do not mind," Penelope says kindly, earning her a wide grin from the youngest, "though there is perhaps something to be desired in her delivery." Violet raises an eyebrow in Hyacinth's direction. "However, to get back to the matter at hand, I believe Anthony had something he wanted to…"

Her voice trails off as she turns her head meaningfully to her fiancée, imploring him with her eyes to take the opportunity and speak already. It is just the line Anthony has been needing and he is quick to bite the hook, launching to his feet once again with glass in hand.

"Yes, thank you, Penelope," he says, sending a wide grin her way. He casts a sweeping look around the table, wishing that at least four more of the seats might have been filled, remiss that his wayward siblings and dearest friend turned brother in law are not present for his announcement. Nevertheless, he finds he has no desire to hold the information in a moment longer, and so he says, "I'm exceedingly proud to share with you all that I have asked-"

"Actually, dearest," his mother interjects and it is all Anthony can do not to bare his teeth and growl in her direction, "I think there has perhaps been enough excitement for your younger siblings for one day. Gregory, Hyacinth, off to bed with the both of you," Violet stands from her seat, folding the linen napkin from her lap onto the table before waving her hand towards the door.

"But Mama!" and "Oh, Mother, please!" they cry, but their pleas do nothing to stop Violet from ushering them towards the door.

"Mother, before you go, I was truly hoping to-" Anthony tries again, but it seems his family at large are set entirely against him this evening.

"I, too, feel quite overcome with exhaustion!" Eloise says, "as, I'm sure, is Penelope, after her long journey here."

"How sudden, sister," Benedict remarks, raising a brow in her direction, "Anthony here made that same journey and yet he seems quite energised."

"Yes, well, Anthony was able to enjoy Penelope's presence throughout the trip whilst Penelope was forced to endure his," she quips back just as quickly, pleased when Benedict laughs at her jibe even as Penelope nudges an elbow into her side.

"Eloise, I would not say-"

"Oh, of course you would not, Pen; you are far too polite to voice such thoughts. Fortunately, I am here to act indecorously before my family on your behalf." The grin Eloise casts her way is completely unabashed despite her mother's obvious distaste for her statements. Penelope attempts a smile in return, though she can feel that it does not reach her eyes. She suddenly does feel quite tired.

"I wonder if Mother believes your lack of tact to be fortunate," Benedict interjects, leaving no room for Penelope to find the suitable words to reject Eloise's misguided opinions when it comes to the time she spent in the Viscount's presence. Likely for the best for now, she ponders, as an amused Benedict turns his wiggling eyebrows on his mother. "What say you, Mama?"

"Mama says that the clock is ticking on and yet her two youngest children are still standing before her and not in their beds." The matriarch plants two firm hands upon her hips as her eyes cast appraisingly over the group, causing even the eldest amongst them to squirm.

"Anthony, you will come and read to me tonight, won't you?" His youngest sister pleads, rounding the table to loop herself around his forearm and swing from side to side, her doe eyes wide and shining up at him.

"If that is as you wish it, Hyacinth," Anthony replies, patting one of her hands with his own, pleased smile tugging his lips from their disappointed frown. Begrudged as he feels to have had the opportunity to share his news trampled on, there is little that lifts his spirits or sways his mind with quite as much ease as Hyacinth does. Gregory, too, in many ways, but having stepped into the role of patriarch before his sister's birth - and for said birth to have been as traumatic for him and his then despondent mother as it was - Hyacinth is and always has been his baby. There is little he can refuse her and he fears she knows it quite well; dreads the day she uses her power over him for evil, for already she is gaining speed on Eloise as the most sharp and headstrong amongst their ranks, as well as the most conniving in her schemes.

The thought sends a shudder through him and so he quickly dismisses it, choosing instead to tuck a loose lock of chestnut hair behind his sister's ear and commit the picture of her, young and vibrant and carefree as she is now, to memory.

"Wait, if she is getting a story then I want one, too!" Gregory whines - never one to be outdone by his sister - then turns on Penelope with his hands clasped in front of him, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels as if he were still a boy of five and not a near young man approaching his twelfth year. "Penelope?" he asks, jutting out his bottom lip for good measure, "will you come and read to me?"

"Gregory, dearest, do remember your manners," Violet admonishes, breathing a disappointed but not at all surprised sounding sigh, "there is no use trying to delay your bedtime any further by attempting to commandeer our guest."

"Forgive me, Mother, I shall rephrase," he responds, nodding deferentially to her, in both a display of his appeasement and to hide the mischievous turn of at the corner of his lip. Then, he shakes his shoulders out, puffs up his chest and clears his throat, turning back to Penelope with just the kind of sparkling grin that would assuage any doubts she may have had about his inheritance of The Bridgerton Charm. "Miss Featherington, would you be kind enough to share a story with me this evening? Please?"

At least two Bridgertons huff somewhere off to the left, in what could be exasperation or amusement, though more likely a mix of both. Hyacinth's scoff, however, expresses her opinion of her brother's theatrics quite blatantly (a response Anthony secretly hopes she will only improve upon to use against what will surely be an unworthy crop of calling lords and gentleman following her debut in the very, very distant future. When she is forty, perhaps).

Penelope, it seems, is thoroughly charmed by Gregory's display and smiles demurely, dipping her knees into a shallow curtsey. "I would be quite delighted to, Master Bridgerton," she says, almost wishing she had a fan at hand so she could bat it for the sake of continuing the bit, or perhaps something akin to a dance card for Gregory to sign his name to, claiming her first and last stories of the night. "Might I suggest that you accompany Eloise and I to the library to select a book and then I shall come up to join you once you're settled for bed. If that is alright with your mama, of course?"

"I suppose I could not possibly expect you to refuse a request from a gentleman, especially when it has been put forth with such uncharacteristic decorum. That is, of course, so long as said gentleman remembers to wash behind his ears before turning in," Violet replies, drawing a petulant "Mama", from her embarrassed son and a round of snickers from the rest of her gathered children.

Penelope, however, draws her brows together in sympathy as the flush on the young boy's face spreads out to the tips of his ears, all too familiar with the plight of being young and on the receiving end of one's elder siblings' teasing. She tries to catch his eye, but when his cheeks seem to only burn hotter under her watch, Penelope instead tilts her head discreetly in Anthony's direction with a beseeching look, nodding meaningfully towards his brother.

Taking her hint quite quickly, Anthony straightens his spine and turns back to his youngest sister with an overly flourished bow, lingering in the pose long enough to hear her surprised giggle before he holds out his bent arm for her to take. "Brothers, I do believe that we have dallied quite enough and it is time that we escort the ladies to the library. Benedict, can I trust you to see Eloise there without either of you succumbing to some form of bodily harm or getting lost along the way?"

"Really, what have I done?" Benedict grumbles, but offers his arm out to a guffawing Eloise nonetheless, who forgoes his elbow to wind both arms around his bicep and lean against his shoulder as they trail their siblings and Penelope from the room. "And, moreover, what on earth has happened to our brother?" he asks her, receiving only a shrug against his arm in response and gentle tutting from their mother who brings up the rear of their oddly arranged party.

Anthony, hearing but paying little mind to Benedict's question, turns his head just enough to instead glance back at Penelope, pleased to see her smile and nod in obvious approval of his redirection from Gregory's short lived humiliation. He dares to look at her a moment longer, allowing his gaze to drop down along the line of her bodice and over her skirts before trailing back up to her eyes, where he sees that twinkle; the one that is quickly becoming familiar, but no less exhilarating to find there when she looks up at him. It makes him feel warm all over, especially when he notices Penelope's eyes beginning a journey of their own over his form as he turns his head forward.

Anthony decides that while this evening has proven to be less than fruitful thus far, there is still plenty of time for improvement.

"Is this supposed to be-ah-a part of your promised wooing?" Penelope asks him, chastising in her words even as she smiles into the hair at his temple and gasps when his teeth pull at the lobe of her ear. Something metal clinks on one of the bookshelves behind her as she tosses her head back but she has no thoughts to spare in consideration for the fragility of anything except for the skin of her own neck where Anthony is worrying away at it with his teeth.

"If it pleases my lady, then yes, and I do believe it does," he hums in return, the words coasting over the shell of her ear and sending spine tingling, toe curling, lip biting currents racing through her veins.

Their duties as bedtime story narrators had taken up a surprisingly short amount of time, thanks to the excitement of the day having worn down both of the youngest Bridgertons far more than either had been willing to let on until they were tucked chin high into their sheets and blinking futilely against the pull of sleep. Neither had made it through more than a chapter of their respective books before Anthony and Penelope were slipping quietly from the nursery, meeting in the otherwise empty hallway.

The pair had stood for several seconds in the quiet space, simply gazing at one another, before Penelope had grazed her teeth along her bottom lip, followed shortly by a quick swipe of her tongue and then Anthony was pulling her by the hand along the corridor and away from the occupied rooms of the family wing.

Though they had all seemingly returned to their own bedchambers, there was no way for Anthony to be sure that the rest of his relatives were yet asleep and so he had guided Penelope to the only other space he could claim relative privacy over aside from his far too nearby viscount suite of rooms; his study.

They'd spent a few moments locked in a tight embrace just a few steps into the room, breathing in the same air with their noses and foreheads pressed close together, she on her toes and him with knees bent.

Then he was walking her backwards, bypassing the very tempting surface of his wide topped desk to press her against the bookshelves against the wall, lifting her just enough so their chests are pressed together and she's sandwiched snugly between the press of his hips and the wood at her back.

With her skirts trapped between them, he can't lift her legs to wrap around his waist as he would like to without stepping away from her - a sacrifice he is not willing to make, even for a passing moment - but he manages to push a knee between her thighs, granting them both some much needed pressure against their groins, even through the thick layers of their clothing.

Penelope clutches at his bicep with one hand whilst the other trails up towards the back of his head, twisting into the hair at his crown as she finds the leverage she needs to grind down onto his leg.

Anthony groans throatily into her mouth, pushing his hips more firmly into hers and his tongue practically down her throat.

There's a soft, repetitive padding sound coming from somewhere not so distant, increasing steadily in volume, but they ignore it easily, drowning it out with the echoes of their coupling.

She moans.

A mechanical click.

He gasps.

The creek of a hinge.

She cries out.

The door opens.

Notes:

Back from lurking in the comments of every other Penthony fic to finally update this one three months later, so here was 8000 words of I'm not sure what because I cannot write chapters of reasonable or consistent length.

Based on the comments, I know there were people hoping for an immediate engagement announcement and reaction, especially because of Ben & Eloise's very early foreshadowing of it, but I wanted to keep Anthony and Penelope in their own little bubble for just a bit longer. I hope you found something to enjoy in here anyway!

Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with me on this one so far. I am always so surprised when I continue getting comments on chapters I posted in July or even earlier, but it's the best feeling.

The next, much shorter (I think) chapter is pretty much written but we will have to see how long I can worry about posting it this time around.

See you (hopefully) soon!

Chapter 19

Summary:

Anthony attempts to put off engaging in a serious conversation by immediately engaging in a serious conversation.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Ho, ho, ho!" Benedict chortles, rubbing his hands together in open delight, "my, my, brother! Here I thought I was coming to find out what had gotten into you when I should have been asking what you've been getting into - or rather, whom."

Anthony freezes for a moment, moving only his head to look back and forth between his brother and Penelope, whilst the latter is attempting to look anywhere but at either man.

Benedict will admit, in the privacy of his own mind, to feeling more than a touch of guilt for causing the poor girl such obvious embarrassment, but not nearly enough that he's going to give up the golden opportunity to rile up his brother that has been laid before him - or, pressed up against the bookshelves before him.

Besides that, in the last five seconds or so, Penelope has proven herself to be much less the blushing wallflower Benedict had always presumed her to be, so he decides she can handle a little bit of light hearted ribbing (and that is not to mention the fact that, had he been anyone else bursting into the room, the pair would already be having their wedding banns read, and that is not to mention what the outcome might have been had Eloise stumbled upon the scene).

Truly, this moment has been heaven sent, if only for the long stretching blackmail material it has provided him with already. Although, he ponders, perhaps he should not be tying either the image of his brother defiling a young maiden outside of the bounds of marriage, nor his own urge to indulge in copious amounts of extortion to divine intervention from the man in the sky. Regardless, whoever drew these last few minutes - and, truly, the rest of the day leading up to them, now that he is able to better connect a few dots - into their grand plan, Benedict tips his hat to them.

The grin on his face is nothing short of gleeful as he patiently awaits his brother's response to the intrusion, foot tapping in excited anticipation against the floor. He wonders if Anthony will jump on the defensive, so eager as he is to maintain his image as the model Viscount, and somehow try to convince Benedict that he has not just seen him with his nose buried in the youngest Featherington girl's bosom. Perhaps his infamous temper will rear its head and he will yell so loudly that Lady Whistledown will hear him all the way in Mayfair and his ensuing tantrum will be spread across the front page of her pamphlet before first light. There is also, he must remind himself, the unfortunately real possibility that he'll skip words altogether and put to use some of that boxing training he'd been doing with Simon.

Anthony opens his mouth to speak.

Benedict rocks forwards on his heels.

And then his brother says,

"You're doing it all wrong, Benedict."

Which is…

Not what he had been hoping for.

"You-wh-I'm doing something wrong?" Benedict splutters indignantly, thrown so quickly from the heights of jubilation into crushing bewilderment that it almost knocks him off balance, dizzy as the sensation makes him feel. "You've got Penelope Featherington pinned up against the wall, you're-"

"Exactly!" Anthony interrupts, finally removing his hand from Penelope's waist to point an accusatory finger at Benedict, "you have just walked in on a renowned rake," he turns the finger on himself," clearly ravishing an unwed lady-" Penelope slaps his hand away when he tries to twist it in her direction, hissing his name just loud enough that the sound carries across the room. Anthony plows on regardless, "and yet your only response is to laugh! If you were a proper gentleman, you would be furious on Miss Featherington's behalf and scold me thoroughly for my behaviour. Given the nature of our family's long standing friendship with her, I'd say even issuing a duel might be appropriate in this case."

"You wish for me… to scold you." Benedict says slowly, not quite a statement, nor a question, as though he is only speaking the words aloud to give his poor, confused brain the chance to make sense of them. His brows furrow and his head tilts, making him look like a particularly perplexed puppy, and the image of him is made even more pitiful when his bottom lip juts out just a touch.

Unfortunately, his brother is not a man known to back down for pity's sake.

"Yes," Anthony responds, nodding seriously. "Go on out and give it another go."

"Another go? Are you feeling unwell, brother?"

Finally, the viscount sees fit to remove himself from Penelope, which Benedict thinks ought to make this whole conversation at least a tad less awkward. That is until Anthony starts moving towards him instead and Benedict is suddenly wishing he would go back and take the woman into his arms again in whatever manner he likes, for the viscount certainly looked a wealth less irritated when Miss Featherington's hands were still on him.

"I need to know that if you are ever to uncover any of our dear sisters, unchaperoned with some honourless cad, or being compromised to any degree, that you will respond accordingly! Imagine if I ever have need to leave you in charge again during a season, I must be able to trust you." Anthony stomps right around him, throwing the door open in a most dramatic swing, then points into the dimly lit hallway, all without breaking eye contact with Benedict. "Now out and try again."

"Are you the honourless cad in this scenario?" Penelope pipes up at last, though her voice is quiet despite her bold jest and only serves to earn her an unimpressed side-eye from Anthony. Benedict thinks he'd be amused by her quip if he weren't still so thoroughly bewildered, nor so grateful for the brief reprieve from his brother's glare.

"Although, she continues, "I suppose that would make me your sister…" her voice trails off as she cringes, tilting her head with an apologetic half-smile-half-grimace when Anthony's already soured expression morphs into one of pure horror.

Penelope decides it best, from here out, to remain quiet.

"That is quite enough of that line of thinking," Anthony says, shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of her words, then turns his narrowed eyes back on his brother. "Why are you still standing there?" He asks, "Try. Again."

"This is preposterous, you and Penelope were just-" Benedict waves his hand around, casting circles in their direction, "and you want me to come in again and pretend that I have only just discovered you, so that you can deem me worthy of protecting our sisters' virtues?"

"Precisely."

And to think that I have counted down the days til his arrival, Benedict muses bitterly, to imagine I missed him. I will certainly not be so quick to hurry him along in future.

"Brother, I still hardly think it fair for you to suggest it is my behaviour that is in need of assessing," he huffs, then looks towards the woman seemingly trying to will herself to melt into the wall across the room, "Penelope, have you perhaps clobbered Anthony here over the head for his indiscretions? You can be honest with me; no one would be upset by your actions, only that you did not use a heavier object or deliver a more solid hit."

Unfortunately, his attempts to normalise the proceedings by injecting a bit of humour into the bizarre conversation fall flat on the viscount's clearly immune ears.

"You see, this is the problem! You have stumbled across a situation clearly fraught with scandal and ruin and yet you still make jokes!" (Penelope's lips twitch, at least, when he grumbles "not a joke" in response, which Benedict will count as a minor and much needed win.) "You are not proving to me your ability to take a circumstance such as this seriously at all, Benedict. Now, Penelope and I will resume our activities and you will walk in and react accordingly."

"If that is what will appease you enough to properly address this situation," Benedict sighs, finally at his wits end with this whole scenario. He turns to walk back out the door with a roll of his eyes and gritted teeth. Perhaps if he indulges his brother's delusions, he will be more amenable and thus much easier to guide into a carriage and off to Bedlam.

He pauses for two beats in the hallway, giving himself a moment alone to try and process the ludicrously of the predicament he's found himself in, and to weigh the merits of simply going to fetch their mother so that she may deal with her son instead, then goes to turn the handle.

Only, the door doesn't open.

No matter how many times he twists the knob or pushes against the woodwork, the door does not budge an inch.

"Anthony!" he calls, rapping his knuckles against the wood, "the door is stuck, I can't-"

A muffled chuckle reaches his ears, cutting him off, and he drops his head into his hands, bemoaning his own foolishness. Resume our activities, his brother had said, and Benedict had obliged and walked right back out into the hallway, so easily providing the space for them to do so.

Hook, line and bloody sinker.

"Brother, did you just lock the door behind me?" He asks glumly, though they both know it is a question he already knows the answer to.

"Very good, Benedict!" comes the answering shout, "your aptitude for situational awareness grows stronger every day."

His aptitude for fratricide is also likely to see a sudden upward spike.

"Open the door, Ant!" He hisses, futilely trying the handle again while sparing a thought for just how ridiculous he will look if anyone were to pass him by now.

"See you at breakfast, Ben!"

And Benedict really does think that will be it, that he will have to sulk off somewhere to wait out his brother and Penelope - for he is not going to out their activities to the rest of the family, despite his deep, deep irritation, and he is certainly not going to hover outside the door and risk hearing any more of said activities for himself - when there is the sound of frustrated cursing and rustling fabric from inside the study before suddenly there's the sound of a lock clicking and the door is being pulled open.

Benedict watches with wide eyes as a flustered Penelope emerges, still smoothing her hands over her hair and dress as she steps out of the room. Her cheeks somehow become an even darker pink when her eyes meet his briefly, before they quickly turn back to the floor as she hurries past him.

"Good evening, Benedict," she squeaks, ever polite, whilst retreating hastily along the corridor. He can hear his brother's grumbling begin anew from beyond the open door and just like that his good humour has returned in full force.

"For you, at least, it seems so," he says cheekily, delighting in Penelope's answering 'eep!' as she disappears around the corner.

"Satisfied?" Anthony huffs, startling Benedict, who swings his gaze back towards the study to find his brother leaning against the doorframe looking somehow even more frustrated with him.

Well, he thinks, this is what happens when you kick your siblings under the dinner table.

"More so than you, I would wager." Benedict has the good sense to duck under the open palm that swings round towards the side of his head and uses that momentum to carry him all the way under his brother's arm and into the study. Anthony glances both ways up and down the corridor before pushing the door shut - the loud click of the lock feeling somewhat pointed - then gestures towards the two armchairs closest to the fire. Benedict pours them both a glass of amber whiskey before joining him there.

"Let's get this over with," Anthony sighs, finishing off the entirety of his drink in two short gulps. "What was so pressing that you could not wait to seek me out until morning, Benedict?

"Somewhere better to be, brother?" Benedict needles, sinking into the leather wingback opposite, taking his time in shifting around to make himself comfortable. After what he has just been put through, he intends to milk this conversation for all it's worth, long as that may take.

"Much better," Anthony hisses, narrowing his eyes, but his expression quickly softens as he seems to get lost in his thoughts, gaze fixed on the bookshelves over Benedict's shoulder. "So much better," he breathes. The fingers that start to trace circles around the rim of his empty glass are the only outward sign of his continued consciousness as he seems to get sucked into a trance-like state, coupled briefly by his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Benedict's head whips back and forth, looking between his dazed brother and said bookshelf where he notices several gaps that he was sure were filled when he was last in here this morning, then a small selection of novels scattered on the floor that have clearly been knocked from their place. He is as horrified as he is thrilled to see the proud grin slowly starting to stretch over Anthony's face, smoothing out the hard earned lines in his features, if only because he can not remember the last time he saw him wear such a look.

He wonders whether he ever has.

"My God," he says, snapping Anthony back to himself with a start. "She has you positively bewitched. This is not the work of a single dalliance, is it?"

Anthony clears his throat, straightening up in his seat and meeting his brother's awestruck look head on. "No, it is not," he states, leaving no room for uncertainty in his voice.

"So I was not incorrect to assume that the pair of you were unchaperoned in your carriage when you arrived. You and Penelope, you share a… physical relationship?" Benedict ventures, but despite his tentative questioning, there is a new, harder edge leaking into his voice and a tick in his jaw that so rarely makes an appearance.

Hmm, Anthony thinks, at last. Perhaps he will prove capable of defending a lady's honour after all.

"We do," Anthony replies with a nod, then sees his brother's eyes flash dangerously and is quick to continue, "but it is not just physical. We have established an emotional connection and our physicalities have grown from there, as well as our… romantic intentions towards one another."

"Intentions?" Benedict laughs, though there is suddenly very little amusement in it, "given the incredibly short amount of time it took for me to uncover the two of you, I do hope one of those intentions is a hasty wedding, for that is what you will find yourself in if you plan to continue comporting yourselves like this beneath the same roof as our mother."

His brother, at least, has the good sense to cringe.

"Perhaps not too hasty, for I really would like to try and save our family the whispers, however-"

"Hold on, you are truly set on marrying her?" His voice is half gasp, half surprised laugh, "Penelope Featherington?"

Anthony's face goes from bashful - or as close to it as he can get - to affronted impressively fast, and despite the fact he is not sure he is deserving of quite such a distainful look, Benedict realises quickly the error in his tone and phrasing. He hopes, for the sake of his future self ever being able to sire children, that his brother will be forgiving and attribute it to shock, as he fears he may be one wrong word away from finding himself under threat of castration.

"Yes, Penelope Featherington. Given the state you yourself have found us in this evening, I should like to think that that our intent to marry would be obvious," Anthony scoffs, though the look that Benedict gives him in response does not seem to indicate his agreement with the sound reasoning.

"I meant no slight against her, brother; you know that I hold her in as high regard as any other Bridgerton. It is your character I call into question. You must forgive me for making assumptions, Anthony, for despite any recent declarations you have made regarding your intentions to properly entertain the marriage mart, your past behaviours have hardly given any of us reason to believe you ready to take a wife and settle down, and then I walk in here and discover you are on the precipice of doing just that," Benedict responds in a tone that is only half as placating as the words seem intended to be, what with the way one of his eyebrows is still arched high on his forehead. "A brief dalliance with a young lady would perhaps not be entirely out of the norm, even if the young lady in question is not of your usual variety."

Even as he says the words, Benedict winces, wondering if it's possible to shove his foot far enough into his mouth that he will simply cease being able to speak at all.

God, if you are up there, strike me down where I sit.

"And just what does that mean?" Anthony demands with a snap of his teeth, perched on the edge of his seat as though ready to pounce. "Do enlighten me as to what variety of woman you have categorised Miss Featherington as, and know that the next words past your tongue-"

"In that she is a gently bred young woman," Benedict cuts in quickly, holding his hands out placatingly. He waits until his brother has sunk back into the cushioned back of his chair - though he is clearly still unsatisfied - before carrying on, "as fair and lovely as any of your past… acquaintances, I'm sure, if not more by tenfold. However, she is positioned much more precariously in the bounds of our society. Third daughter of a disgraced family she may be, but our Penelope is a lady, not a mistress."

"And I do not intend to make her one, as I have already rendered a proposal and she has accepted," Anthony replies, lifting his glass again to his lips and sighing when he finds it empty. Benedict replaces it with his own drink, still full, and Anthony tips it in thanks before taking a short sip, accepting the olive branch easily. "At my side, she will be a Lady in name as well as character. Lady Penelope Bridgerton, my Viscountess. "

Benedict watches as his brother's chest puffs up as he tries out the moniker, clearly relishing in the way the words roll off his tongue, and has to wonder if it's the first time Anthony has spoken his bride's forthcoming title aloud in its entirety. 'Besotted fool' has never been a moniker Benedict has imagined pinning to his elder brother - fool, yes, but not of the romantic sort - but now he can not help but think it suits him very well. What wonders love can do for a man.

"You know," Anthony begins again, softer, "you are not the first to question my relationship with Penelope, nor the rather… unconventional way it has taken shape."

"Ah, so others have discovered you already, then? You truly have lost your edge, Ant," Benedict teases, relieved when his brother huffs a laugh and the tension in the room is finally broken. He rises from his chair to cross the room, taking both their glasses with him for a refill. "You must tell me who beat me to the information. It can't have been Eloise or the news would have reached even Colin's ears by now, off in whichever corner of the globe he is currently trotting around."

"It was Humboldt, actually."

"Pardon?" Benedict splutters, sloshing a generous measure of Anthony's good brandy over the back of his hand. He glances at the back of his brother's head and wipes his wet knuckles off on the leg of his trousers, then rounds their chairs to drop back into his own. "Humboldt? The butler?"

"Do we know another?" Anthony asks, raising an amused brow as he accepts his drink, clinking the glass against Benedict's before taking a swig. "Trust me, I was just as surprised when he sat me down for a good talking to."

"You allowed a member of your staff to give you a 'talking to'?" Benedict laughs incredulously, not for the first time wondering whether the brain currently occupying his brother's body is indeed his own, or if someone else has somehow taken control of his faculties.

"Well, I let him have a crack at it; it seemed he'd spent good time working himself up for it - time I was likely paying him for. It seemed a waste on multiple counts not to hear him out, if only for the entertainment value," Anthony smirks into his next sip, amused in equal measure by the memory and the look of perplexed awe portrayed by his brother's narrowed eyes and slackened jaw. "I rather think he left feeling much more chastened than I did, poor fellow, though he certainly earned his tenure with the display of respect and loyalty to my bride."

"And I can be assured that you, too, intend to grant her your own respect and loyalty?" Benedict asks carefully, promising himself that this will be the very last serious conversation he has for a good while about anything other than fine art or tobacco.

"In its entirety," Anthony replies with a soft smile, pleased when Benedict lifts his drink so they might briefly clink their glasses together, knowing that it signals his brother's trust and support in the matter.

"Then I think we should leave this discussion here, though I'm sure there is much more to tell that I should eventually like to hear," Benedict says, rising from his chair with clear intent to head back to his own rooms, though Anthony remains seated. "And if sometime in the near future you make further attempt to share happy news with the family, I shall endeavor to ensure you are not interrupted, for I have a feeling this last hour could have been avoided entirely had you been allowed to speak at dinner?"

"Quite so," Anthony responds, draining the last of his drink before setting the glass down with a soft thunk on the side table.

With the potential projectile now gone from his brother's hand and feeling fairly confident that he won't find something else to launch at his head, Benedict can not help but make one final quip before making for the door. "You could also have used the lock from the beginning, seeing as you clearly know how it works."

Fortunately, all that follows is an acquiescing nod and a huff of laughter, so he takes his leave, making it all the way to the corridor before his brother speaks up, never one to miss out on having the last word.

"Benedict," Anthony calls, forcing him to poke his head back around the door frame,for he is certainly not setting foot back in the room for a while, "it is clear that our mother and sisters have been in very safe hands during my absence. Gregory, too, of course. You do not give yourself near enough credit for how clever and capable you are. Nor, I suppose, have I."

"Goodness, I never intended for you to start associating me with words like that; I have no interest in being further 'entrusted' with any level of responsibility and am quite happy to retain my role as the careless spade," Benedict scoffs playfully, though there is a soft twinkle in his eye that gives away his pride. "However, I could, perhaps, make an exception when you and your bride embark upon your honeymoon."

"Oh, I do not know if we will-"

Benedict rolls his eyes good naturedly and lifts his hand, palm flat towards his brother, effectively cutting him off.

"Just say thank you, brother."

"Thank you, brother."

Notes:

Challenge: write a chapter of this without shouting out Humboldt, level impossible.

Ridiculous and more than a touch ooc? Yes, but thats my brand

Weird how I thought posting another Penthony fic would keep me from working on this one but instead I am now relentlessly writing both.

Hope you enjoyed

Chapter 20

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Penelope Featherington is a woman intimately familiar with shame.

It is something she believes all born Featheringtons must inherit, though it seems her Father chose only to dust it over her older sisters and saved the rest to pour into every crevice of Penelope's very being.

She feels ashamed of her family's lack of decorum, their tasteless decor and dress sense which she, too, has been forced to bear. She has felt it whilst sitting in the study, bent over the desk for long hours reviewing their finances and trying not to imagine her late father in the very same seat, pondering how next to gamble away every last shred of income his lands afforded them. Shame when she pens something particularly damning and publishes it for all the ton to see, wondering whether she can truly claim to be any better than the baron, for how different are the sins she has committed to serve her own interests than his?

She has known pride, too, of course. Pride in her accomplishments as Lady Whistledown, pride in a particularly cunning turn of phrase and of the power she wields with her quill. If she thinks about it too much, however, then she begins to feel ashamed of her pride, too.

Suffice to say, in the wake of her clandestine meeting with Anthony in his study last night, and its abrupt end, Penelope is feeling tumultuous as the family convene for breakfast, slowly trickling into the morning room in their daywear.

Benedict is already seated when she arrives and Penelope is glad when Eloise appears at her elbow and pulls her into a chair beside her, on the other side of the table and further down from where her brother sits. She listens attentively as Eloise speaks, responding accordingly to each of her quips and questions, but she can not seem to allow herself to sink into the conversation enough that she does not feel eyes burning into the side of her head.

Still, she forces herself to focus on her friend, breaking her gaze only to greet Hyacinth as she skips into the room, then Gregory and their mother soon after that. They chatter informally between bites of food - except Greg, who is quite content to speak with his mouth entirely full, something Lady Bridgerton repeatedly chastises him for to absolutely no avail - but still Penelope feels the weight of eyes on her.

She glances to the door several times - to busy her eyes whenever she feels herself about to slip and look in Benedict's direction - in hopes that Anthony might appear and distract his brother, but their meal is soon wrapped up and he does not appear.

In her distraction, Penelope is too slow to realise that the three younger Bridgertons have adjourned from the table and are being herded out of the french doors by Violet to "enjoy some fresh air in the gardens. No, Eloise, you may not go and fetch your book," and in her haste to rise and follow them, she finally makes eye contact with Benedict.

He grins widely at her, lopsided and toothy and knowing. In the absence of his mother, he has leant back in his chair and kicked his feet up onto the table, boots and all, heedless of the tuts from the staff as they are forced to go around him to clear the plates.

Penelope feels her skin heat from the inside out, that all too familiar but no less bothersome mill of shame and embarrassment beginning to spin around her stomach, churning up the food she has just eaten until she feels her discomfort from head to toe. Benedict's grin only seems to widen as her cheeks and ears and neck flush, clearly delighting in making her squirm.

"Penelope, I trust you had a pleasant night's rest," he says, tilting his head to the side in the same charming way Anthony does, only she doesn't find it nearly so endearing on him - likely due to knowing that he does it to heighten her discomfort and, in turn, his own amusement. "I had hoped to catch you this morning - how fortunate that we have found ourselves this opportunity to chat."

She flounders for a moment, wondering if her best course of action would be to respond verbally or to flee as she had done last night. Then, with a deep breath, she catches up to herself and her decision is made. Her spine straightens, her skin cools and she raises her chin so she is looking down her nose at her future brother in law.

Penelope Featherington is a woman intimately familiar with shame, and that means she has become rather adept at pulling herself out of it gracefully, or - she thinks of harsh words traded with her now fiancé the night she'd turned up at his door just two weeks ago - plowing right through it when that fails.

"I, too, am always pleased for the chance to converse with you, Benedict," she says, forcing herself to continue meeting his eyes rather than letting her gaze drift to a more comfortable spot on the wall beyond his left ear, "what should you like to discuss? Needlework, perhaps?"

Benedict quirks a brow, clearly not expecting her to reign in her usual shyness enough to respond so smoothly to his obvious bait. His smile remains intact, however, relishing the moment nonetheless, and he shuffles further into his seat to make a show of settling in for the long haul.

"Scintillating as I am sure that would be, I thought we might pick up where we left off last," he replies, moving his clasped hands from his stomach to tuck them comfortably behind his head, "in the study."

"Outside of the study," Penelope corrects, mindful of their public setting as the housekeeper, Mrs Wilson, passes briefly through the room, "in the hallway."

"And yet I am more interested in discussing what went on behind closed doors."

Penelope tucks her hands behind her back to hide the way they wring together, her fingers tangling and twitching for want of something to hold on to.

"I imagine you discussed it plenty enough with your brother after I retired," she responds, finally allowing herself to break his gaze, casting her eyes instead towards the windows. She can see Gregory and Hyacinth on the grass, charging ahead of their mother and sister, and berates herself for not having joined them when she had the chance.

Benedict sees her demeanor shift, the way her set shoulders curl just slightly inward - sees an even tinier version of her, with mud caked around the hem of her yellow skirts and being pulled into Bridgerton house for the first time by his rambunctious younger sister, stumbling over her words to aplogise to his parents for her intrusion in their home as if she'd been given any choice in the matter - and seems finally to take pity on her.

"You ought to know," he begins, pushing both feet off the table so he can lean forwards instead, resting his elbows on the hardwood and his chin on his knuckles, "that Anthony and I did have a conversation last night, in which he did not divulge a single detail about any of the time you may have spent together and rebuked all of my attempts to needle him. He spoke of you only as a perfect gentleman would. A perfectly besotted gentleman, at that."

Penelope eyes him warily, chewing on the inside of her cheek, then nods once.

"That is good to hear," she says, "I had not much doubted that to be the case, but it is good to hear."

"If that is true, why is it that you are suddenly so unnerved to be in my presence this morning?" Benedict asks, "could it be, perhaps, that you have come to your senses in the cold light of day and realised that you have chosen the far less attractive and ultimately inferior brother?"

She snorts, she cannot help it, quick to pull her hand round to place her palm over her mouth, fingers curled over her nose. Penelope giggles, somewhat self consciously, though her laughter becomes far more genuine when Benedict joins her in it.

"You laugh, but I can tell it is to hide that you are reconsidering your options," Benedict jests, "though, I suppose I understand why he might have won you over. Anthony has always been the most scholarly amongst us and, from what little I saw last evening, it seems he is sharing his worldly wisdom with you already. However, if you ever find yourself in want of additional tutoring-"

"A kind offer, I'm sure," Penelope rolls her eyes, allowing herself only a moment of surprise that Benedict is speaking so brazenly to her, but she knows his outrageous flirtations are meant as harmless teasing and she takes them as such, though she refuses to provide the entertainment of reacting as he surely hopes she will. "One I can most confidently refuse for, as it turns out, a woman does not need any man to teach her such things."

"Miss Featherington," he gasps, placing his hand flat against his chest to make himself the picture of a scandalised mama, "whatever do you mean by that?"

"Well," she begins, "I have been fortunate enough to have made a friend in the Modiste, who was more than happy to educate me on the subject when she discovered just how lacking my knowledge was. Genevieve is far more… studied than I in the subject and was able to pull from her own personal experience to provide me with all sorts of interesting bits of information."

Benedict's eyes widen at her implication and he begins to cough sharply, patting himself on the chest as he appears to choke on air. Bent over, he saves himself from tipping out of his chair and onto the floor only by gripping onto the edge of the table. When the fit ends, he lifts his head to stare at her in shock and, Penelope is delighted to note, with his cheeks tinted a dark shade of red.

"She sends her regards, by the way."

Benedict's mouth is still flapping open and closed like a fish moments later when they hear the sound of approaching footsteps, saving him from having to think up a witty retort and bringing an end to their current topic of conversation.

Looking to the door, they both watch as Anthony sweeps into the room, accepting the newspaper held out to him by a butler on his way in. Penelope's stomach goes all flutter at the sight of him and her cheeks stretch into a fond smile as he tuts at something he reads in the paper. Benedict clears his throat playfully, which might have embarrassed her if not for the fact that when she looks at him out of the corner of her eye the tips of his ears are still tinted pink.

"Good morning, family," Anthony greets, head still turned down as he scans the pages in his hands. He looks up with a smile when he has neared the table, then falters, registering the empty chairs and missing plates. "Ah," he says, "I see my loving family have chosen not to wait for me before finishing off breakfast. And on my first morning here."

"Perhaps if you had chosen to join us at a reasonable hour, you might have had better luck," Benedict quips, having reacquainted himself with his composure, "what on Earth do you carry that pocket watch around for if not to keep time, brother?"

Anthony ignores him, choosing instead to turn towards his fiancée.

"Penelope, is this man bothering you?" He asks, tilting his head towards Benedict as if he were an overindulged cad harassing her at a ball and not his own brother, merely teasing them across the breakfast table. "I would be glad to have one of the footmen remove him."

"Not to worry, dear brother, I can see myself out," Benedict answers for her, rolling his eyes as he gets to his feet, "I doubt I'd be able to enjoy Penelope's company quite so much now that you are here to skulk around her person."

He rounds the table with that same easy grin that he wears like it's his favourite accessory, swiping an apple from a fruit bowl on his way. He takes a bite out of it, chewing it loudly with his mouth open and uncaring for the juice that drips down to his chin. Anthony huffs at his display, which only encourages Benedict to attack the fruit with more vigor, confirming Penelope's suspicion that he is doing it with the intention of riling up his brother, and not solely because he is lacking in proper housetraining.

"A pleasure talking to you, Penny," he says, which - absolutely will not do.

"A sentiment shared, Benny," she replies, smiling back falsely with her lips turned in.

Benedict's lips twist sourly at the name, almost shuddering, and yet Penelope feels as though the very last vestiges of awkward tension in the room have finally fizzled out. He tilts his head, assessing her, then says,

"Pen?"

She nods,

"Pen. Ben?"

"Ben."

He reaches out to pat her shoulder as he passes her, bookending their odd interaction, then heads off out the door to God knows where whilst Penelope walks towards her bemused fiancée.

"An interesting way of handling my brother's antics," he muses, taking a quick glance about the room before looping an arm around her waist to pull her into his front.

"Benedict is hardly in need of handling, Anthony," she laughs, patting his chest with the palm of her hand, "I might even go as far to say that he is the most level headed of your siblings - bar Francesca, of course."

"He does seem to possess the longest fuse, I will give him that," Anthony says with a fond chuckle, "I imagine we were quite fortunate that it was he who stumbled upon us last night, for who knows how any other member of my family might have reacted to such a scene."

His comment makes Penelope pause, drawing back from him as far as his hold will allow.

"We were, weren't we?" She breathes thoughtfully, her brows knitting together.

"It will not hurt to have him already on side when we announce ourselves properly," Anthony adds, seemingly unaware of Penelope's pensiveness, "not that I expect the family to respond with anything short of jubilation, of course, but the news will surely be quite the surprise."

"A big surprise, completely out of nowhere," she pauses, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she thinks. "Perhaps, it might be best that we ensure the rest of your family receive a… gentler introduction to the new state of our relationship."

"What are you suggesting?" Anthony asks, unsure he likes the direction her thoughts are taking them. Just last night he had stood before his family, prepared to share his good fortune with them, and he had thought Penelope was just as excited to do so.

"It may be beneficial for us to provide them with a transition period of sorts," she replies, rubbing her hands up and down his chest, soothing the tension she can feel gathering beneath her palms even through his shirt and waistcoat, "ease them into the idea of us as a pair before springing an engagement on them."

"You would have us present as a couple in courtship?"

"I worry that even that might be too sudden a revelation, given what they know of our history, or lack thereof."

"More sudden than anything we have done up till now? We are the very embodiment of sudden," he reminds her, lifting a hand to catch the fingers of one of hers, trapping them against his chest. "Sudden is what we do best, I'd say."

"Even so, l think this is what I need from you right now," she says, looking up at him with insecure eyes but a sure set to her shoulders. "We have both spent our lives being well instructed in manners and propriety. It should not be difficult for us to maintain a respectable distance whilst we ease your family into the idea of our shared affections."

Anthony thinks her words over carefully, conceding that there is logic to what she suggests, despite his own eagerness to do otherwise. Perhaps it would be easier to dismiss her worries if not for the conversation he had had with Benedict just last night, still fresh at the forefront of his mind, where he had made quick - and fair - assumptions. Though his brother was swayed without much fanfare, Anthony can not claim that he feels any particular desire to rehash it all before his mother and siblings. He could also use the extra time to come up with a better proposal story for when his mother surely asks; one that doesn't involve Penelope denying him several times before they defile her tablecloths together.

However, whilst it is not without its merits, there is still one real issue with Penelope's plan and it is this;

Anthony Bridgerton is a proud man.

He is proud of his family, of the people his siblings are becoming and the part he played in raising and shaping them into those people.

He is proud of his own accomplishments, of his unquestionable skill on horseback and of the legacy he is building as Viscount. He takes pride in his appearance, in maintaining his good standing as a gentleman and the positive connotations attached to his family name.

He is proud to love a woman as witty and clever and charming and beautiful as his Penelope. Prouder still that she loves him, too.

The idea of hiding his affections, as if he could possibly be ashamed to feel them, does not sit well with him, even frustrates him to a small degree. But, he can not ignore that this is Penelope communicating with him, telling him what she needs and trusting him enough to ask for his help, and that in itself sparks a swell of pride in him for her and for himself. How can he possibly refuse her now, when she is granting him the opportunity to prove himself worthy of providing for her in any and every capacity?

"I would not go so far as to say that it will be easy to stand apart from you," Anthony huffs gently, pushing his bottom lip out for added effect until she giggles lightly, "but there is no task I would not undertake to bring you comfort."

"Thank you," she sighs. Anthony feels it when she relaxes, sees the creases in her face melt away and, though he has his reservations, he knows he has made the right decision to follow her lead on this.